I must begin a Service of Thanks. First for your letter and then for the little photograph which is the spit of you, and then for t'other photograph in the cape and cap. How well I remember those caps, especially pinned down at the back on to one's wad of hair. I had a pale blue one for one of my journeys to New Zealand and, draped with a pale blue gossamer veil, I felt fearfully chic and dashing. Human flesh and blood doesn't dare to think what it really looked like… My sister has an immense book full of photographs from the age of six months. It is the most chastening book I know. Really, one's hats, one's waists, and a small black round cap with wings I used to affect, which I called always my Wooza. It was rather a good name for it. But worn in conjunction with a linen collar and large tie… I shall never let M. see that book. It is too shattering.

Thanks again for the Mercury which arrived gummed to its eyebrows. I tore my way into it, at last. But a harder roll has never entered Switzerland. That blue paper of yours for one thing is a kind of very superior rag-book paper. If you drew a crocodile on a piece and gave it to an infant the crocodile would live forever. I have preserved a small portion to be used as a patch when M. starts learning to ski… I wish people would not write that kind of article for another five years at least. Though I was very glad the man liked my Daughters of the Late Colonel. For I put my all into that story and hardly anyone saw what I was getting at. Even dear old Hardy told me to write more about those sisters. As if there was any more to say! But, speaking dead seriously, I could do with a great deal less praise than I get. It's … frightening, and I feel with all my heart I want to have another two years' work done at least before I am worth page 151 talking about. However, I am certain my new book will be a failure. There will be reactions against it. I count on that, so I mean to make the next one really as good as I can…

The attitude to Art—all Art—of the rich and great in London is odious—isn't it? It always reminds me of the story of Tchehov where the man wants to say, longs to say, “Paws off!” to the plebeian. I'd like to say it to not only Lady——et Cie…

Words cannot describe the cold here. We have central heating which never goes out, but even then on my balcony I freeze absolutely hard. The Mountain sends up all the food buttoned into tight little suet jackets and we both wear red indian boots, fur lined. They are so nice. One's feet feel like small animals, you discover them playing together all on their own. But what shall we do if it gets colder? At present the Big Snow hasn't fallen. All is frozen hard, and each tree has a little mat of white before it. Oh dear, it is so beautiful. The mountains are so noble and this snowy cover makes one see their shapes—every hollow, every peak is modelled. But all agree the snow is not serious yet. It falls, small and light like confetti, or it swarms like white bees—M. comes back from his walks hung with real icicles …

I had to break off there, for I was absolutely pursued by birds. They were flying right inside the balcony, the lovely creatures, a bright salmon pink with silvery heads and beaks. I am afraid they must have been left behind. So now I have begged a great slice of bread from Ernestine and my balcony rail is a very nice restaurant. If only they'd come and eat. Precious little creatures—how I love them. Have I told you about my balcony? It is as big as a small room, the sides are enclosed and big double doors lead from it to my workroom. Three superb geraniums still stand on the ledge when it's fine, and their rosy masses of flowers against blue space are wonderful. It is so high up here that one only sees the tops and half way down of the enormous mountains opposite, and there's a page 152 great sweep of sky as one only gets at sea—on a ship—anchored before a new, undiscovered country. At sunset, when all the clouds are really too much to bear alone I call out, “Mountains on your right a deep blue,” and M. shouts from below, “Right!” and I hear him go out on his balcony to observe. But it's most beautiful at night. Last night, for instance, at about 10 o'clock, I wound myself up in wool and I came out here and sat watching. The world was like a huge ball of ice. There wasn't a sound. It might have been ages before man…

Tchehov said over and over again, he protested, he begged, that he had no problem. In fact, you know, he thought it was his weakness as an artist. It worried him, but he always said the same. No problem. And when you come to think of it, what was Chaucer's problem or Shakespeare's? The ‘problem’ is the invention of the 19th Century. The artist takes a long look at life. He says softly, “So this is what life is, is it?” And he proceeds to express that. All the rest he leaves. Tolstoi even had no problem. What he had was a propaganda and he is a great artist in spite of it.