Autograph Letter Signed

  

On a sheet measuring 20.5 × 27 cm, written on both sides.

This is not a proper letter, my dear, for I am ill with the flu. A sore throat, an aching head, and a fever. But I feel your verses falling upon me—the refreshing touch of a reward, the best kind, one I have not earned.

I look at you; I never see you any other way than “with your lively step and your great dark eyes.” I even see your braid wound around your head, as though you had never cut it off. We owe many visions to illness. I see you between your three shining poles.

But I never see you old, or growing old—I, who have just celebrated my seventy-first birthday!

I wish, I wish I knew how your hands are. They are the only part of your body I can imagine afflicted, perhaps because I have given up hope of ever healing this arthritic hip.

I shall say no more. I am tired because of the flu, and I cannot bear to see myself writing such wavering lines.

Just imagine: in a short story that will appear—who knows when?—I have slipped in a word just for you, to tease you and earn myself a scolding!

Thank you, my dear, for thinking of me and sending me the flowers of your verse. I kiss your cheek and, gently, your hand.

Where are Natalie and Romaine? Here, I have no shortage of things to worry about.

Your friend,
Colette

My companion sends you his respectful and affectionate regards.