December 1929: Lawrence and Frieda are staying at the Villa Beau-Soleil in the South of France; nothing too grand, just a little house with six rooms and a bath, but with central-heating and overlooking the sea.
It will be Lawrence's last Christmas. His sisters have kindly sent a plum pudding, a cake, and some mincemeat, but he's not in the festive spirit: "Why make merry when one doesn't feel merry?"
Besides, the cat has attacked the goldfish and the madness of the world is "worse than ever".
By the 23rd, the weather is "grey and sulky" following a great storm and Lawrence has taken to his sick bed. His bronchials have been "behaving very badly" all winter making him tired and irritable.
Although Frieda is determined to enjoy "a certain amount of Christmas fun", Lawrence insists he wants nothing to do with it. In fact, he wishes the baby Jesus had been born a turnip and eaten by one of the animals standing by the manager.
Besides, "there is nothing new in the world", so what's to celebrate.
In one letter, written just before this, his final Christmas, Lawrence sadly informs Aldous Huxley that the cat has now killed and eaten the goldfish, leaving nothing but a few scales floating in the bowl. It is, says Lawrence, "nothing less than a tragedy".
On that note, all that remains for me to do is send warm seasonal greetings to Catherine Brown and David Brock. And, despite all his mock-tragic humbuggery, I'd also like to say ... Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence!
Note: Quotations are from The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, vol. VII, edited by Keith Sagar and James T. Boulton (Cambridge University Press, 1993).
