It is such a Heavenly Day that I hardly know how to celebrate it—or rather I keep on celebrating it—having a kind of glorified Mass with full Choir. (But à bas the Roman Catholics!) It's just blue and gold. In the valley two workmen are singing—their voices come pressing up, expanding, scattering in the light—you know those Italian voices! I think from the sound they are building a house: I am sure the walls will hold this singing page 53 for ever, and on every fine day, put your hand there on that curve or that arch, and there'll be a warmth, a faint vibration… The sun woke me at 7 o'clock—sitting sur mes pieds comme un chat d'or mais c'etait moi qui a fait ron-ron. And at 7.15 Marie brought déjeuner— petits pains with miel des Alpes and hot coffee on a fringèd tray. Her old bones were fairly singing, too. I said, “Vous allez au marché, Marie?” She said, rather aggrieved—“Mais comme vous voyez, Madame, je suis en train d'y aller” —and then I noticed she was ‘dressed’ for the occasion, i.e., she had flung on her shoulders a most minute black shawl with a tiny bobble fringe. This she always holds over her mouth to guard against le frais du matin when she scuttles off with her panier and filet. She really is a superb type.

Good God! There are two lizards rushing up the palm tree! Lizards glister, Heaven bless them. In the trunk of the palm high up some tiny sweet peas are growing and some frail dandelions. I love to see them. As I wrote that, one lizard fell—simply fell with a crash (about 5000 feet) on to the terrace—and the other looked over one of those palm chunks—really it did. I've never seen such an affair. It was Wig that fell—of course. Now she's picked herself up and is flying back. She seems as good as new—but it's a mad thing to do.