9 February 1921

9 February 1921

Villa Isola Bella, Menton, France

I shall never live in England again. I recognise Englands admirable qualities, but we simply don't get on. We have nothing to say to each other; we are always meeting as strangers. Murry, on the other hand is made for England and I am certain he will not remain abroad for long. I understand that very well in him. No, Ill go finally to some place like Yalta & build a little house at Oreanda - if I do succeed in keeping the coffin from the door for so long.

What are you going to do in the immediate future, I wonder. Where are you going to live. And I wonder if you are happy and what you really think about Life & if you have friends - real friends.

I am sitting up in bed in an ugly little room with a huge dead clock in it & a pink screen worked with a needlework picture. Scène: Game of billiards sur l'herbe fraiche. Lady with die-away look being kissed by military party & very impertinent dog looking on. At moments it seems to me that ALL France, ALL French literature is in that picture. The wind is blowing. Strange shadows fly over the walls & ceiling from the palm outside, and these quick shadows are awfully beautiful . . .

Lebe wohl

With love from


[Letter to Sydney Waterlow in Collected Letters, 9 February 1921.]