Olga Rudge & Ezra Pound: "What Thou Lovest Well..."

220 A Piece of Ginger
tive students, she noted that the enrollment fee had increased to over ten
thousand lire, but inexpensive lodgings were still available at the Casa
degli Studenti on the via del Porrione. She wrote again to Ezra, in the
chatty tone she used to report her activities: ‘‘Vanni [Scheiwiller, Pound’s
publisher in Milan] sent in Mauberly, with M. Jean’s Incoronazione—all
your ole monstres sacrés. . . . What I ain’t learned about monstres sacrés!
Cortôt and Casals—83 and 84! The antics of the octogenarians show
considerable joie de vivre, so cheer up, you haven’t got there yet.’’ She
noted that Bernard Berenson had died at ninety-three, ‘‘owing to culpable
negligence in not taking the Duck-egg’s [Duchess’s] advice in going to her
dentist, hence a poisoned jaw.’’
Pound’s life at Brunnenburg was no longer idyllic. After the first euphoria
dissipated, he felt confined in the mountain retreat; it was hard to
keep warm after winter set in. There were di≈culties with Marcella Spann,
almost the same age as his daughter. ‘‘I grew jealous and I grew angry,’’
Mary admitted. The Pounds, accompanied by Marcella, fled to Rapallo
and settled into rooms at the Albergo Grande Italia.
Olga wrote again to Ezra in October: ‘‘Where has He got this idea that
He is responsible for other people’s happiness? You used to rub into me
that if I su√ered, it was on account of my own imperfections, not to blame
it on someone else. . . . As I remember my catechism (Roman Catholic),
despair is one of the three worst sins, i.e., sins against the Holy Ghost, the
other two being presumption and sodomy (which last [is] not your trouble).
. . . It seems quite Confucian, the middle way, between presumption
and despair.’’
Pound’s answer: ‘‘deespair / the Possum says it in After Strange Gods /
didn’t seem to be my trouble, ’cause I had presumption, pride, vanity,
baldanza [arrogance], & got used to bein’ the life of the party, or thinkin’ I
was, and having worn out everyone’s indulgence, I ain’t blaming anybody
else for the defects of my kerr-akter.’’
Early in 1960, Olga let the Venice house for one year (with an option to
renew) to Lester Littlefield, a highly cultivated Dartmouth graduate with
roots in Ogunquit, Maine, then living in Paris. An admirer of Pound, he
had visited St. Elizabeth’s in 1956 and continued to correspond with him.