One can't be really happy if one's body refuses to ‘join in,’ if it persists in going its own way and never letting one forget it. But how is one to get cured? As to doctors— there aren't any. I have just paid little B. 2,000 francs for looking after me and I'm 50 times worse than I was at Christmas. They know nothing. I had two really deadly experiences here with perfect fools and after all this long time they depressed me so much that I felt desperate and I motored off to Montana to see the specialist there. He's supposed to be the best man in Switzerland for lungs. He was better than the others and I am going to be under him in future. I don't know for how long. It's very vague. He would not say I can get better. All he would say was I still have a chance and he has known patients with lungs as far gone as mine who have recovered. I really don't mind a straw. It was a divine day—the day I met page 116 him—and the strange ancient room in an old hotel where we talked was so beautiful that the moment was enough. One must live for the moment, that is all I feel now. When he explained how the left lung was deeply engaged but the right was really the dangerous one I wanted to say: “Yes, but do listen to the bees outside. I've never heard such bees. And there's some delicious plant growing outside the window. It reminds me of Africa—”

But my health is such a frightfully boring subject that I won't talk about it.

Life in this hotel is a queer experience. I have two rooms and a balcony—so I am—thank Heaven—quite cut off. They are corner rooms, too. But I descend for the meals—step into the whirlpool—and really one sees enough, hears enough at them, to last one for ever. I have never imagined such people. I think they are chiefly composed of Tours—they are one composite person, being taken round for so much a week. It's hard to refrain from writing about them. But my balcony looks over Montreux and Clarens. Anything more hideous!! I think Switzerland has the very ugliest houses, people, food, furniture, in the whole world. There's something incredible in the solid ugliness of the people. The very newspapers full of advertisements for a “magnificent porc” or a batterie de cuisine comprising 75 pieces are typical. And the grossness of everything. I can't stand the narcissi even. I feel there are too many and the scent is too cheap. Yesterday L. M. who is staying at a place called Blonay brought me a bunch of lilies of the valley—an immense cauliflower it looked like, and smelt like.

But I must say the country round Sierre is simply wonderful. That's where I'd like to be. It's so unspoilt, too. I mean there are no Casinos, no tea shops and as far as I could see from my glimpse not a tourist to be seen. I shall go there at the end of June when Murry has joined me. I feel so remote, so cut off from everything here… . I can't walk at all. I lie all day in the shade and write or page 117 read and that's all. Work is the only thing that never fails. Even if people don't like my stories I don't mind. Perhaps they will one day—or the stories will be better. I've been reading Chaucer. Have you read his Troilus and Cressid lately? It is simply perfect. I have a passion for Chaucer just now. But England seems to think Miss Romer Wilson is so much the greatest writer that ever was born. She does sound wonderful, I must say. Is it all true?