21 December 1922

La Prieuré, Fontainebleau, Avon

We had a fire here the other night. A real one. Two beautiful rooms burnt out & a real fear the whole place would go. Cries of "Vode! Vode!" (water), people rushing past all black & snatching at jugs & basins, Mr Gurdjieff with a hammer knocking down the wall. The real thing, in fact.
   What is the weather like with you. Its so soft & spring like here that actually primroses are out. So are the Christmas roses under the espalier pear trees. I love Christmas; I shall always feel it is a holy time. I wonder if dear old Hardy will write a poem this year.
   God bless you my darling precious
                    Ever your
                             Wig. [To J. M. Murry, c.17-20 December 1922.]