I have been walking round and round this letter, treading on my toes and waving my tail and wondering where to settle. There's too much to say! Also, the least postcard or letter penned within view of these mountains is like presenting one's true account to one's Maker. Perhaps their effect will wear off. But at present … one keeps murmuring that about cats looking at Kings, but one feels a very small cat, sneezing, licking one's paw, making a dab or two at one's tail in the eye of Solemn Immensities. However, the peasants don't mind, so why should I? They are cutting the long brilliant grass; they are wading waist high through the field with silver stars—their scythes, winking bright in the sun—over their shoulders. A cart drawn by a cow (I'm sure it is a cow) drags over a little bridge, and the boy driver, lying like a drunken bee on his fresh green bed, doesn't even try to drive. It's a perfect, windless day. I'm, as you have gathered, sitting on the balcony outside my room. The sun is wonderfully warm, but the air is just a little too clean not to be chill. The cleanliness of Switzerland! It is frightening. The chastity of my lily-white bed! The waxy-fine floors! The huge bouquet of white lilac, fresh, crisp from the laundry, in my little salon! Every daisy in the grass below has a starched frill—the very bird-droppings are dazzling.

“But … this is all jolly fine, but why don't you tell me things? Get down to it!”

I'm sorry; I'll have another try. You got my telegram? The journey was excellent. The lits salons were horrid—when they unfolded they were covered thickly page 99 with buttons so that one felt like a very sensitive bun having its currants put in. But it was soon morning, and my mountains appeared as of yore with snow, like silver light, on their tops, and beautiful clouds above, rolling solid white masses. We passed little watery villages clinging to the banks of rivers, it was raining, the trees dripped, and everybody carried a gleaming umbrella. Even the fishers fished under umbrellas, their line looked like the huge feeler of a large water beetle. And then the rain stopped, the cows began to fatten, the houses had broad eaves, the women at the bookstalls got broader and broader, and it was Switzerland.

I sat on a neat green velvet chair in Geneva for three hours. L. M. brought tea on a tray. Do you see her, coming from afar, holding the tray high, her head bent, a kind of reverent beam on her face, and the smoke of the teapot rising like the smoke of sacrifiges?

Then we mounted an omnibus train and bummelted round the Lake. The carriage was full of Germans; I was imbedded in huge ones. When they saw a lilac bush, Vater und die Mamma and even little Hänse all cried: “Schön.” It was very old-world. Also they each and all read aloud the notice in the carriage that a cabinet was provided for the convenience of passengers! (What other earthly reason would it have been there for?) We reached Clarens at 7. The station clock was chiming. It was a cuckoo clock. Touching—don't you think? I was very touched. But I didn't cry. And then a motor car, like a coffee-mill, flew round and round the fields to Baugy. The manager, who is very like a goldfish, flashed through the glass doors and our journey was over…

This hotel is admirable. The food is prodigious. At breakfast one eats little white rolls with butter and fresh plum jam and cream. At lunch one eats—but no, I can't describe it. It could not be better though. I suppose, in the fullness of time, I shall take soup at midday, too. But at present I can only watch and listen… My rooms are like a small appartement. They are quite cut page 100 off and my balcony is as big as another room. The sun rises in the morning vers les sept heures, and it sets, or it begins to set (for it takes its setting immensely seriously here) at seven in the evening. It has no connection whatever with the South of France sun. This is le soleil père—and she's a wanton daughter whose name is never mentioned here.

The air is all they say. I am posing here as a lady with a weak heart and lungs of Spanish leather-o. And so far, I confess I hardly cough except in the morning. One mustn't be too enthusiastic though. Perhaps it is the hypnotic effect of knowing one is so high up. But the air is amazing!

It's all very German. Early German. Fat little birds, tame as can be—they look as though their heads unscrewed and revealed marzipan tummies—fat little children, peasants, and—I regret to say—ugly women. In fact, everybody seems to me awfully ugly. Young men with red noses and stuffy check suits and feathers in their hats ogling young females in mackintoshes with hats tied with ribbon under the chin! Oh weh! Oh weh! And if they try to be ‘chic’—to be French—it's worse still. Legs—but legs of mutton in silk stockings and powder which one feels sure is die Mamma's icing sugar.

Of course, I quite see the difficulty of being chic in this landscape. I can't quite see … yet. Perhaps a white woollen dress, a Saint Bernard, a woollen Viking helmet with snowy wings. And for your …? More wool, with your knees bare, and boots with fringèd tongues… But I don't know—I don't know…

I am sure you will like Switzerland. I want to tell you nicer things. What shall I tell you? I should like to dangle some very fascinating and compelling young carrots before your eminent nose… The furniture of my salon is green velvet inlaid with flesh pink satin, and the picture on the wall is Jugendidylle. There is also an immense copper jug with lovely hearts ofimitation verdigris…