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Monday

March 8, 1915

I HAVE wanted to write to you; you have been in my mind several days. I am in bed. I am not at all well. Some mysterious pains seem to like me so well that they will not leave me…. All the same I am grateful to your Ancestral Grandfathers—for, for some reason I can work. I am writing quite quickly—and it's good. Send me a little letter when you have the time. It is very cold here. It is winter and the sky from my window looks like ashes. I hear my little maid go thumping about in the kitchen and when she is quiet I listen to the wind. My God, what poverty! So I write about hot weather and happy love and broad bands of sunlight and cafés—all the things that make life to me. Yes, you are quite right. I am wicked. Would it be very rude if I asked you to send me a few cigarettes? If it would—do not send them.

To-day I had a most lovely postcard sent me from my concierge in Paris—hand painted roses as big as cabbages—and so many of them they simply fall out of the vase!