2

Tarragona,
15 (or 16) March ’38

Sis,

I’m too weak to write much, so this has to be brief. I’ve been going downhill for several days now. Blood poisoning seems the problem. Not surprising, really. The Spaniards are stronger on honour than hygiene. Where there’s life, etc., so don’t despair yet, unless— Well, you know. What I want to say is this. I’m sending you a document I’ve been keeping for a friend. I promised him I’d pass it on to his relatives if I could find them, anyway keep it safe in case he managed to get out too. He thought I’d soon be on my way back to England, you see. So did I. Now I’m not so sure. And I must do my best to keep my word while I still have the strength. From what I hear, he’s probably already dead. Maybe you can find out. I don’t know. Anyway, I’m sending you my translation of the document as well. So decide what’s best when you’ve read it. I know I can trust you to do that. I always could. The poems were your only real misjudgement, I reckon. We should never have let the world think I wrote them. Not when every word was yours. You should have had the credit. Maybe you will now. Claim it with my blessing, Sis. It all seems pointless now. Such a foolish conceit, in both senses, eh? If this is my last word on the subject, I’m sorry it has to be so close to bathos, but that’s how I feel. Maybe hubris is nearer the mark. I don’t know. And I’m too tired to write any more.

All my love,

Tristram.