Who you may ask but should not is “we”? Bob is coming too, all being well. He is wild about it, it is his suggestion, and all that remains now is to get some one to sign an affidavit to support him in the U.S.A. I have asked Bill Roehrick, what if it is not convenient to him shall approach Lincoln.
We shall have plenty of money as soon as we land in New York, so the guar-antor shouldn’t be called upon. (We didn’t write to you, since a N.Y. guar-antor seemed best.) My own permit to travel will have to be through the Bank of England, and probably forthcoming. Bob could only stay about 10
days. I should rather like to return with him, but this is not yet decided. We shall be flying.
I have a good deal of news and all good. I have been for the last 3 weeks in Aldeburgh composing (with Eric Crozier’s help) a libretto for Ben’s next opera, “Billy Budd.” The work went wonderfully well. I am amazed at it and at myself. I have so far only written a sort of play, but think we shall be able to break it down into libretto form. (What does break down mean and why is it so often used?) Crozier plans the thing and stuffs it with naval oddments. We are a lucky combination. I do hope it goes through. We have another session in August.
All the above PRIVATE for the moment. Ben is issuing a statement for his agents shortly.
(N.B. Peter would play Vere, not Billy)11
Today is Boat Race day, and 19 years ago did I meet Bob. He had a lot of duty, but I managed to see him, and he treated me, Robin, and two New Zealand women to seats at the Race itself. Hot sunshine and all very gay, and Cambridge won by 1/4 of a length. Robin is going to France.
I go to Cambridge tomorrow to write the lecture. They only want about 1/2 an hour.
Bob has just had a long and interesting letter from Heinz[,] [w]ho has received 4 C.A.R.E. parcels from you this year. He would 1/2 starve without them.
Besides love to Bill, would he send me the photos of me which he took at Aldeburgh. They are said to be so good but not a glint of them have I seen.
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Love to you, and I never thanked you for your birthday letter and cable Your health was drunk, and Bill’s.
Morgan’s Love
* * *
January 16th [1950]
31152 Monterey Street. South Laguna.
California.
Dearest Morgan,
I hope you got the letter I wrote a short while ago, and I hope you had a nice birthday? I’m writing again because I’ve been asked to, for the following reason—
It is said, I don’t know how truly, that you were “approached” recently by some Hollywood representative or agent, asking if you would consider letting them make a movie out of Passage to India. Your answer, allegedly, was No; because enough novels had been ruined already and you didn’t see why Passage should be added to the list.
All right—
Now I have a friend named Frank Taylor, who used to be in publishing and has now come out here and become a film-producer. He works at 20th century Fox. When I describe him as a friend, I hope I sufficiently indicate that he is unlike the usual sort of producer. He is, in fact, a civilized person.
And the Passage to India means to him what it means to people who care about novels, not movies. At the same time, he would like to make a film out of it, if he could do the film just exactly the way you wanted it done.
What is more, his boss, Darryl Zanuck (the head of the Studio) is also interested in making a film of the Passage, and would therefore be very likely to let Frank go ahead and make the picture if Frank could get you to agree to it.
So Frank has asked me to ask you if your No was an unqualified No. Or if you would consider any kind of arrangement. He would suggest that you should come out here personally, and that you and I—or you and anybody you wanted—should write the film together; and that you should have absolute Last Word on how it was done. This is, of course, not an offer; because no offer can be made until Frank knows whether or not you will accept one. If you agreed in principle, then he could go to Zanuck with the idea and try to get it through.
Morgan dear, I hate even to bother you with all this; but obviously I have no right to decide without asking you that you would or wouldn’t be interested. So I pass it on to you. I feel almost unwilling even to add how pal-zeik-03 4/14/08 2:57 PM Page 147
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much I would love you to come. You know that. You would stay with us, of course, in our dear little house overlooking the ocean and Billy would make you very snug, and we’d just pop into the Studio maybe once a week, and Frank would come out to see you here, and you would be treated like a priceless jewel. Of course, I just want to get you here, no matter how. My attitude toward the project is frankly prejudiced for that reason; and now I won’t say another word about it.
Our life here (since moving down to this place) has entered a phase in which everything immediately visible is perfect, and everything and everyone not here is a cause for anxiety and fear. Now we’re told that everybody in England is threatened by flu. . .Oh dear. . .This certainly wouldn’t stop us coming to see you all, if we had the money. But we have to live very quietly at present. I review books. Bill is taking a job with a potter.
Please write sometimes, Morgan dear. We both love you very much.
* * *
Kings College Cambridge Jan. 4, 1951
Dearest Christopher,
Is not that nice! Shall expect you Tuesday, let me know when, also whether you would like to dine in hall that night—cosy but tires one if bossy Professor Adcock presides.
Generally speaking you must organise, for though Ian and I get on nicely, I don’t know him well, so that there is no point in the three of us going about together. There’ll be my room here if you want to talk to him.
Must conclude, as I am wearing two spectacles which makes writing difficult. Can’t get over that picture.
Morgan’s gratitude and love.
Going to Aldeburgh late in month
Epigram for 1952: Women are not mysterious, merely incalculable
* * *
[At] Bob’s [London]
Jan. 23[,] 1951
Dearest Christopher,
Here is your letter, here was your letter, and I love them both and was about to answer the first one.12 Oh how I would like to be with you and Bill and sun, and have all three of you waiting on me! Dear human [?] friends do wait on me here, but where oh where is the sun warmth and sunlight?
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All so grey, and I am weary of the modulations, delicate though they may be, inside that grey.—I fear though that I mustn’t consider travel. Not quite robust enough for export yet, and more easily tired and muddled than in the past.
Now for the film. I fear my answer must be a paregoric NO. As I told 20th Century Fox when they were rushing after A Room with a View in 1947. I like films, I like novels, but I don’t believe that a novel can be turned into a film without transforming its character. I gave this same answer to the man who wrote pleasantly recently to me: name forgotten, had a Roger in it I fancy, and said I had met him with you; firm called Mann. I added (to him), that sooner or later an author’s name disappears from the bills: instance, Henry James’ from The Heiress, which is now written by someone else. I wouldn’t at all mind writing for the films—have indeed done so, and enjoyed yielding and cooperating and fitting in, as I enjoy it over the Billy Budd libretto. But I won’t hand over what was written as a novel to an unknown number of cooks. The nearest (and dearest!) cooks I could control, should indeed be in complete sympathy with, but what of the cooks who would be unexpectedly called in—the vegetable cooks, the curry-experts, the continuation kitchen maids, the overall-contractors, the contractors in overalls? How could I control all [of] them? More grit and vigilance than I possess would be required. Bob says Bernard Shaw did successfully control. Muddled, I acquiesce, and then remember Caesar and Cleopatra.13 With the film industry as at present constituted, I don’t see an author can be guaranteed to have the last word. I am sad about the films, but that is another matter.