25 September

25 September 1920

Travelling to Menton, France

Samedi soir.
My own precious Bogey
I am beginning my Sunday letter. I can't resist the hour. Its 6.30 just on sunset - the sea a deep hyacinth blue - silver clouds floating by like sails and the air smells of the pine and the bay and of charcoal fires.
Divine evening! Heavenly fair place! The great RAIN has brought a thousand green spears up in every corner of the garden. Oh, you'll be met by such Flowers on Parade at Christmas Time. There's a winey smell at the corner of the terrace where a huge fig tree drops its great purple fruits. At the other the magnolia flashes leaves; it has great buds brushed over with pink. Marie[The maid.] has just brought in my chaise longue & the green chair which is yours to escape l'humidité du soir . . . Do these details bore my darling in London? Oh, I could go on for ever. But I do think this place, villa, climate, maid, all are as perfect as can be. Marie's cooking infuriates me. Why don't I help you to her escaloppes aux tomates, with real purée de p. de terre, deux feuilles de salade and des oeufs en neige. And her Black Coffee!!
Sharing her return from market tho' is my delight. I go into the kitchen & am given my glass of milk & then she suddenly rushes into the scullery comes back with the laden basket and (privately exulting over her purchases) [. . .] Theres a mouse in the cupboard. When she brought my bregchick this morn¬ing . . . ‘le p'tit Monsieur nous a visité pendant la nuit, Madame. Il a mangè presque toute une serviette. Mais pensez-vous - quelles dents. Allez-allez! C'est un maitre!!' I don't know. I wont bore you with any more of her - but it seems to me that this is the way people like her ought to talk. [Letter to J. M. Murry in Collected Letters]