18 Mar
18 Mar
18 March 1920
Dearest Brett
There is no question of ‘forgiving'. If there were it is I who should ask it of you for having written to you so unpardonably ‘frankly'. Of course you couldn't reply! I shouldn't have shown my wounds: I should have shown you only bandages but at that moment there seemed to be no bandages to show. But you must forget the letter: I am so deeply ashamed of it. If it does still exist, tucked in your desk somewhere - will you please burn it.
I am going back to England at the end of next month & staying until the end of October when I return here. Here is a villa owned by relatives of mine: its an exquisite house with an enchanted garden and we are very very happy. We bask in the sun, picnic on mountain tops, go for long long drives. And the country is in its full beauty - flashing white cherry trees among the silver olives, the orange & lemon groves in perfection - the pink & white almond & blue rosemary still in flower and all the little flowers and plants - myriads of hosts. Sometimes we drive to Monte Carlo and shop and eat ices and look at the poor gay world at the Casino, or we buy hats - spring hats - this villa seems to have a hat complex at the moment. All this is so far away from London. I confess, Brett, that I hate the ‘orgies' and gossip. But then I have been away for at least 8 YEARS and in that time I have seen and felt so much else.
This is the place for working. My lovely room, full of sunshine looks over the broad gardens ablaze with cinerarias today - over to the sea. It is so wonderful to think I shall come back here next Autumn. [To Dorothy Brett in Collected Letters]