Came to the French Hospital for hand problems several days ago, and May's Christmas wreath has been next to her bed since Christmas Eve. Though she told everyone not to send flowers, a few did come, and they were just right. Thoroughly enjoyed the Christmas Eve Midnight Mass in the chapel. This is the second time at the French Hospital and, to her surprise, is even more pleasant than the first. Is fortunate to be able to come to this hospital instead of going to a common New York hospital. Hears French spoken all daylong, which is sustaining in itself. Though the hospital is Catholic, the nuns do not do medical care. The nurses are Irish, French, and Italian women, and the head nurse is a Canadian Scotch Presbyterian. An Italian girl, Olympia Fumagalli, the nurse she sees the most, once flew to Chile with the Chilean President's wife on a military plane, then spent many weeks in Chile. All the women speak English. Especially likes the Irish nuns who were taught at a French convent and who bungle the French language as badly as she does. Will go home January 4, as Sigrid Undset is visiting January 11 and does not want to miss it. Will regret leaving the lovely, peaceful isolation of this place for the modern city. Hand is improving well, though mind is even better. The world of Hitler is erased in this lovely atmosphere of old and sustainable practices. Apologize for what is probably a confusing letter, one which she will not be able to revise, but the profound satisfaction of this quiet Christmas is hard to articulate. Happy New Year. Willa Cather, per S. J. Bloom
