25

CHAPTER XXV

Quai Voltaire.
The air was rough, I forgot the Quiés for my ears and was in a Hell of Noise for 2 1/2 hours. Feeling very tired and consequently, sweet Walter, rather sentimental and sola sola. Why aren't you here to console me for the unbearable sadness of this lovely evening outside my window? The Louvre, the river, the green glass sky, the sunlight and those velvet shadows -- they make me feel like bursting into tears. And not the scenery only. My arms in the sleeves of my dressing gown, my handwriting, even my bare toes, now that I've dropped my slippers -- terrible, terrible. And as for my face in the glass, and my shoulders, and the orange roses and the Chinese goldfish to match, and the Dufy curtains and all the rest -- yes, all, because everything's equally beautiful and extraordinary, even the things that are dull and ugly -- they're too much to be borne. Too much. I can't stand it and what's more, I won't. Interval of 5 minutes. That's why I've telephoned to René Tallemant to come and have a cocktail and take me out somewhere amusing, malgré my headache. I simply won't let myself be bullied by the universe. Do you know René? Rather a divine little man. But I wish it were you, all the same. Must go and put on a few clothes. À toi.
Lucy.

Quai Voltaire.
Your letter was tiresome. Such yammering. And it isn't flattering to be called a poison in the blood. It's the equivalent of being called a stomach ache. If you can't write more sensibly, don't write at all. Quant à moi, je m'amuse. Pas follement. But sufficiently, sufficiently. Theatres: mostly bad, but I like them; I'm still childish enough to feel involved in the imbecile plots. And buying clothes; such ravishments! I simply adored myself in Lanvin's looking-glasses. Looking at pictures, on the other hand, is an overrated sport. Not dancing, though. There'd be some point, if life were always like dancing with a professional. But it ain't. And if it were, I dare say one would long to walk. In the evenings a little pub-crawling in Mont Parnasse through hordes of Americans, Poles, Estonians, Romanians, Finns, Letts, Lapps, Wends, etcetera, and all of them (God help us! ) artists. Shall we found a league for the suppression of art? Paris makes me long to. Also, I wish one met a few more heterosexuals for a change. I don't really like ni les tapettes ni les gousses. And since Proust and Gide made them fashionable, one sees nothing else in this tiresome town. All my English respectability breaks out!
Yours, L.