Walpole's novel which I mean to do for next week ought to be a very good prop to hang those very ideas on that I tried to communicate to you. I want to take it seriously and really say why it fails—for, of course, it does fail. But page 49 his ‘intention’ was serious. I hope I'll be able to say what I do mean. I am no critic of the homely kind. “If you would only explain quietly in simple language,” as L. M. said to me yesterday. Good Heavens, that is out of my power.

The garden menagerie includes snakes—a big chap as thick as my wrist, as long as my arm, slithered along the path this morning and melted into the bushes. It wasn't horrid or fearful, however. As to the mice—Marie's piège seems to snap in the most revolting way. A fat one was offered to a marauding cat at the back door yesterday, but it refused it. “Polisson! Tu veux un morceau de sucre avec?” I heard Marie scold. She is very down on the cats here; she says they are malgracieux. Yes, she is a most remarkable type. Yesterday afternoon, it was terribly gloomy and triste outside and she came in for the coffee tray, and said how she bated Mentone. She had lived here 8 years with her pauvre mari and then they lived 2 years in Nice where he died and was buried. She said she could bear Nice because “il se repose là-bas mais ici—Madame—il se promenait avec moi—partout partout—” and then she beat her little black crepe bodice and cried “trop de souvenirs, Madame—trop de souvenirs.” Oh, how I love people who feel deeply. How restful it is to live with them even in their ‘excitement.’ I think for writers, it is right to be with them—but the feeling must be true—not a hair's breadth assumed—or I hate it as much as I love the other. As I write that I don't believe it any more. I could live with you and not care two pins if people “felt' anything at all—in fact, I could draw away and be very aloof and cold if they did—I don't know. It's too difficult…

I feel this letter is cold and poor; the fruit is not good to eat. It's rather like that withered fig-tree. Do you know there is a kind of fig-tree which is supposed to be of the family of that unfortunate one—it is dark stemmed and its leaves are black, they flap on the blackened boughs, they are like leaves that a flame has passed over. Terrible. page 50 I saw one once in a valley, a beautiful valley with a river flowing through it. There was linen drying on the banks and the women were beating the water and calling to one another—gaily—and there was this sad tree. L. M. who was with me said “of course the explanation is that one must never cease from giving.” The fig-tree had no figs—so Christ cursed it. Did you ever! There's such a story buried under the whole thing—isn't there?— if only one could dig it out.