T. E. Lawrence to his mother

Montoire. Near Vendôme

Sun. August 23rd 1908

Dear Mother,

Here goes for one more Sunday letter: I don't suppose there'll be another one this trip: however I can't quite make out how long I'm going to be: the last three days have upset all calculations.

I wrote from Chalus, and next morning I rode to Montbrun, a most charming little castle with xii cent. keep: it is really, architecturally a most important place. Thence with a disappointment or two (this sounds nothing but it meant 30 miles wasted) I reached Angoulême and passed on down the Charente to Cognac, near Saintes: being Monday I rode powerfully: on Saturday there are always hills and a wind against: funny, isn't it? At Saintes next morning I got your p.c.'s visited Taillebourg (a great failure), Tonnay Boutonne (worse) and so through to Niort which was magnificent; nothing could possibly have been more opportune or more interesting for my thesis. The castle is composed of two Norman keeps, each square, and quite ordinary inside, but outside each has a tower at each corner, and a little turret in between; so- [plan 1]

The corner towers are quite solid: in fact as I learnt at Loches, they are only buttresses. Loches is so— [plan 2] regular flat Norman buttresses, but with a semicircular projection down the middle of each: and at Montbazon where we have the second stage so— [plan 3].

The Niort people simply ran the two corner buttresses into one: I think this will interest Father, and so give it contrary to usual habit: you'll excuse it I know though it is talking "shop". From Niort I rode towards Poitiers, turning aside at Montreuil Bellay, which castle Richard I is supposed to have built. The doorway bears an inscription in, I think, Arabic characters:- it has never been translated: I hope my photo will be clear enough to be read, but it was in a very difficult place. From Montreuil I worked into Parthenay (head wind, hills every kilometre etc. etc.) which is a charmingly quaint place, and the home of the romance of Melusine: the beautiful lady who turned into a snake every now and then. Unhappily the castle which her spirit used to haunt has been most barbarously destroyed: therefore the "roman de Partheney" must remain unillustrated. From Parthenay I rode to Bressiure but found nothing worth study, either there or at Cerizay: result I found myself that evening Thursday, near Thouars, and next day reached Chinon about 12. Chinon is very fine indeed, (the French Windsor for its associations and place in history) but much destroyed. What there is, is mostly of the xiii and xiv cents.: as it was therefore useful to me I proceeded to Loches, arriving on Friday evening, six days before I had thought possible! I can't imagine how I did it: the result may be my reaching you a little earlier, or my doing a little more out here. At Loches I found letters from Will and Scroggs, and p.c.'s from you: the last was dated the 18th just after my p.c. had come asking for money I expect. If you sent it to Loches it will follow me to Falaise: if not I'll get it there direct from you. Falaise pretty quick in about four days or five I expect, but cannot really say, lately I have quite outrun all my designs. The 5 or 6 castles to come, if important as they sound, should delay me four days at least. Loches to continue was splendid, a huge Norman keep in excellent preservation, and its corner buttresses with little colonettes as per plan. There is also a church with very fine Romanesque W. door and narthex. Yesterday I left Loches which by the way, Chimp, should be celebrated as the residence of Rupert Holliday, and rode through Montbazon, the second keep with round buttresses, to Tours. Here I would not stop, even for the shrine of the blessed Martin over whom Gregory waxes so triumphant, but came right on to Montoire where I am writing at the present moment in the cheapest bedroom of the only hotel in the place. This may conjure up visions of distressful poverty and wretchedness in your mind but cheer up: I'm paying 3 francs a night for it, and it contains two or three tables half a dozen chairs, wardrobes etc. etc. Bed has spring mattress (box spring) and all "modern comforts" as the advts. say: still I prefer polished boards of the "midi" to extra pile carpets, and extra piled bills. No mosquitoes, thank goodness, but alas no cicalas! Montoire has a rebuilt church (which has the impudence to call itself restored), a Norman keep unrestored but also uninteresting, and two kilometres off the finest fedual ruins in the valleys of the Loire, Loir, Indre, and Cher, or so the prospectus says. They really are very good.

Tomorrow I run up and about in a very small compass of land, seeing castles: then I take a lively sprint through Orleans to the gates of Paris (or Etampes απλω λοуω), and so worm my way against what I hope will be a less furious W. wind to Falaise and Grandville. If you're in any doubt about what to do with your money, send it to Dinard: with a speed leg such as I unearthed last week I could be in Jersey tomorrow. I have not a ghost of an idea how long I'll take. Do you know I am among my own people at last? There are English servants at the hotels, English notices in all show places, all the world takes tea at 5 or 4 p.m., English visitors in every ruin, English goods in every shop? 'Tis worse with Americans than at Stratford on Avon: at Chinon a party of 13 looking round the castle was composed of 12 twangs and myself: it is an awful state of affairs, for as each twang bowed to the guide at the exit, he left l fr. in his "itching palm". Could I have done less? (I didn't so the question has only an academic interest:- yet such proceedings are not productive of economy). By the way did the "old age pension" scheme get through? If the English nation has accepted such an impudent pauperisation of all its old wasters, and penalisation of all its old workers, then... I'll become a young Turk. Really with the facts of history and political economy staring him in the face no man above vote-catching tactics should have hesitated about it for a moment. I have bought a copy of Hérédia’s Trophées, really fairly printed and produced, though of course unbound for 3 fr. Hérédia is a living French poet, and a great one, almost the only man today whose works will survive him and really they are wonderfully good. At present in about seven years they have run through 38 editions, and he refuses to print any more! Really he must be a man well worth knowing. What do you think of this

From a description of the present state of a temple in Greece.

La Terre maternelle et douce aux anciens Dieux
Fait à chaque printemps, vainement éleoquente
Au chapiteau bris‚ verdir une autre acanthe
Mais l’Homme indifférent au rêve des aeïux
Ecoute sans frémir, du fond des nuits sereines
La Mer qui se lamente en pleurant les Sirènes.

Could anything be more perfect artistically? This is half of the first piece, and the others seem as good. I am promising myself great pleasure in reading them, since the Bodleian has no copy, and the Union has had its stolen. Well now Mother dear once more my 2½d. worth of paper is filled up, and I have such heaps and heaps more to tell you of all the beautiful rivers and the sunsets and the buildings I have lately seen. But the bell is going for dinner (3f. this is not starvation at any rate) and I must hop off or I won’t get two helpings of soup and haricots. 

                               —-M——T——W——Th.——S——Sunday——Mon.——Tues.——Wed.

Ned.