24 Dec 1921

24 December 1921

Chalet des Sapins, Montana-sur-Sierre, Switzerland

   About Paris. I have now received the doctor's address from the secretary of the Institute & have written him again today. If I hear I will let you know. It seems more hopeful now that I send direct. I am still in bed and dear knows when I shall be out. A reply from Manouhkin would be the only thing, I think. (I am a bit disheartened to be back here again with all the old paraphenalia of trays and hot bottils. Accurséd disease!)
I am so glad to know what you are doing at Christmas. I hope you will be happy. I shall see you all in my mind's eye & wish I were there. Good Heavens! Is it really warm? Why is it my fate to always find the cold corner. If I go to a hot climate it freezes, if to a cold it becomes an arctic zone. I read of primroses in the paper. Primroses! Oh, what wouldn't I give for some flowers. Oh Brett - this longing for flowers. I crave them. I think of them - of the feeling of tulips stems and petals, of the touch of violets and the light on marigolds & the smell of wall flowers. No, it does not bear writing about. I could kiss the earth that bears flowers. Alas, I love them far TOO much!
It is ages since I have heard of Virginia. I thought she would have a new book out this winter. Perhaps it will come in the spring. I can see her in that dress. She is a lovely creature in her way.
I had a laugh over Sullivan's Canadian. Did he stipulate she must be a "fighting" woman - guaranteed to have fought Red Indians? I am sure she will expect Sullivan to provide her with a Red Indian or two from time to time. But perhaps it won't be too difficult. But its very funny.
Goodbye for now. I send my loves to all who are at your hearth.
Ever
Tig  [To Dorothy Brett, 22 December 1921.]

Christmas Eve.
   This is serious, though. I wanted to send you a Christmas present. I cant. In the first place I am au lit with an attack of congestion and Murry swerves past all shops even if there were shops to swerve by here. So I must put it off & content myself with a cuckoo bird for David. It is only postponed. And will you give my love to Drey. It is so long since I heard from him that he may have forgotten me. Recall me - will you, Anne! "Cette petite personne avec les yeux comme les boutons de bottines . . . tu sais" - That will bring me back. Id awfully like to see Drey again. Je lui serre la main bien cordialement.
  For the rest - when you have the time can I have un mot to know you are well and that all goes? Oh, Anne, do you see Horace Holley's great Tome on Bahaism is produced. I expect it is very powerful! I note that Bertha sells slips, tuniques and cossaques at a li'l shop in New York. It being the pantomine season I shall make the joke . . . I expect they are all slips.
  Have you heard how brulee Lascelles was to the Queen? Pinched her little Mary. Perhaps that joke is tres vieux in London. Ones sense of humour gets very keen on mountain tops.
   Fare well, dear precious Anne. May good fortune fall ever deeper in love with thee. 
   I am always your devoted
                Katherine. [To Anne Drey, 24 December 1921.]

Dear Elizabeth,
   I must catch at the flying heels of this old year and wish you a Happy New One. I do, with all my heart. May it be rich in Blessings. Do you like to know you are loved, Elizabeth. If you do, think of me as a small fire, glowing, at a distance. But a self-feeding fire that needs no attenfion, even though it does leap for joy when you stretch forth your small, supple hand.
   Your letter came this afternoon. There is something wrong with life that a man like Sydney should die and others be left to go their useless ways. If only one could believe in a kind God who moved in a mysterious way - on purpose! It does not bear writing about . . . But one thinks and feels, all the same.
   It is no longer so dreadfully cold. Snow has fallen to-day, but only a sprinkle. We are longing for it to really begin. The F .O., [Faithful One] is positive all will be white for Christmas. But she has of course, a Christmas complex. She is a living tree already and never comes into my room without another candle or coloured ball or glass bird to show me. She still believes in Santa Claus firmly and the whole house rustles with tissue paper and I suspect even the gentle Ernestine of gambolling on the ground floor. It's awfully difficult to be adequate; my sentimental part is for her. I know she will have crackers for John to pull with her at dinner. They will dine téte-a-téte for I am cast away again, prone in my cursed bed with a touch of congestion. I don't mind for myself as much as I do for John. I am no sort of a woman for a young man of 33 to be tied to. It is devilish luck for him. [To Elizabeth, Countess Russell, 24 December 1921.]