28 Dec 1921

28 December 1921

Chalet des Sapins, Montana-sur-Sierre, Switzerland

My dear Drey,
   I cant say what a pleasure it was to receive on Xmas day its very self a letter from you with the perfectly delightful enclosures. I had written to Anne just the day before; it seemed as though my letter had got there by carrier pigeon and brought the answer back. The little case is most precious for what it contained - the picture of David. My dear Drey what a shockingly proud man you must be! I should do no more work. I should just look at him, puff out my ches' and say to the passers by "il est ànous."
   The butler impressed me terribly. At this height and among these mountains one scarcely dare think of butlers. My one domestic, the gentle Ernestine, who weighs about 14 stone, bounds up and down the stairs like a playful heifer and bursts into a strange terrible singing whenever she hears a pig being killed, is civilizations away from butlers. When I come to see you I expect the second footman to take my umbrella and I shall curtsy to Anne and present a bouquet. You are very grand but not as grand as Willy. His party must have been a very powerful affair, Drey. Talk about numbered cloakroom tickets. Willy will have to have them for his wives, next time. He will be a terribly busy man in Heaven. I am sure the restitution of conjugal rights is a specialite de la maison, there. [To Raymond Drey, 27 December 1921.]

Dearest Ottoline, I think of you in your little room. How well I know that rapture that comes sometimes when one is alone. I think perhaps it is the greatest joy of all. If only it would stay - if only one might live like that, always. I sometimes think that if one were well there is no reason why it should ever go. But that is nonsense. The feeling I mean is . . . its as though the barriers were down and you stepped into another world where even the silence lives and you are accepted, you are received as part of everything. Nothing is hidden. And there is that precious sense of awareness . . . But speaking of this reminds me instantly of DeLaMare, who understands it so perfectly. Have you see his new book of poems The Veil? I have just ordered it. I do hope you will see it. Do you know him? He is one of the people whom I have most enjoyed meeting in Life. There is no one like him.
   The snow has fallen at last, here. It looks beautiful. It feels desperately cold. I have been in bed . . . lately . . . and only see the world from my window. As soon as I can get up I am going to Paris to see a new man there - a Russian who claims to completely cure this disease with applications of X rays. I believe him, absolutely, (as one does, you know) and I dream at night that I am climbing hills covered with little rose bushes and jumping across streams. Will it all come true, I wonder? [To Ottoline Morell, 27 December 1921.]