I got back from Sierre at about 7.30 last night. I rather wish I hadn't sent you that little note from there. It was so confuged. Tear it up… While I write a man is playing the zither so sweetly and gaily that one's heart dances to hear. It's a very warm, still day.

Will you please look at this picture of the lake at Sierre? Do you like it? It's lovely—really it is. If we spend a year here in Switzerland I don't think you will regret it. Yesterday gave me such a wonderful idea of it all. I feel I have been through and through Switzerland. And up there, at Sierre, and in the tiny mountain towns on the way to Sierre it is absolutely unspoilt. I mean it's so unlike—so remote from—the Riviera in that sense. page 108 There are no tourists to be seen. It is a whole complete life. The only person I could think of meeting was Lawrence before the war. The only thing which is modern (and this makes me feel the Lord is on our side) is the postal service: it is excellent everywhere in Switzerland, even in the villages. There are two posts a day everywhere. As to telegrams, they simply fly—and your letter posted 8.30 p.m. on May 12th arrived here 9.30 a.m. May 14th. All these remarks are, again, of the carrot family. I heard there are any number of small chalêts to be had in Sierre and in Montana. We should take one— don't you think? and have a Swiss bonne. As to creamcows, they abound. And the whole country side is full of fruit and of vines. It's famous for its small grapes, and for a wine which the peasants make. The father brews for his sons, and the sons for their sons. It's drunk when it's about 20 years old, and I believe it is superb.

Queer thing is that all the country near Sierre is like the Middle Ages. There are ancient tiny castles and small round wooded knolls, and the towns are solid, built round a square. Yesterday as we came to one part of the valley— it was a road with a solid avenue of poplars, a green wall on either side—little wooden carts came spanking towards us. The man sat on the shafts. The woman, in black, with a flat black hat, earrings and a white kerchief, sat in front with the children. Nearly all the women carried huge bunches of crimson peonies, flashing bright. A stream of these little carts passed, and then we came to a town and there was a huge fair going on in the market square. In the middle people were dancing, round the sides they were buying pigs and lemonade, in the cafés under the white and pink flowering chestnut trees there were more people, and at the windows of the houses there were set pots of white narcissi and girls looked out. They had orange and cherry handkerchiefs on their heads. It was beyond words gay and delightful. Then further on we came to a village where some fête was being arranged. The square was hung with garlands and there were cherry-coloured page 109 masts with flags flying from them and each mast had a motto framed in leaves—Amitie—Travail—Honneur—Devoir. All the men of the village in white shirts and breeches were stringing more flags across and a very old man sat on a heap of logs plaiting green branches. He had a huge pipe with brass fittings.

Oh dear—in some parts of the Rhone valley there are deep, deep meadows. Little herd boys lie on their backs or their bellies and their tiny white goats spring about on the mountain slopes. These mountains have little lawns set with trees, little glades and miniature woods and torrents on the lower slopes, and all kinds of different trees are there in their beauty. Then come the pines and the firs, then the undergrowth, then the rock and the snow. You meet tiny girls all alone with flocks of black sheep or herds of huge yellow cows. Perhaps they are sitting on the bank of a stream with their feet in the water, or peeling a wand. And the houses are so few, so remote. I don't know what it is, but I think you would feel as I did, deeply pleased at all this. I like to imagine (am I right?) that you will muse as you read: Yes, I could do with a year there… And you must know that from Sierre we can go far and wide—in no time. I believe the flowers are in their perfection in June and July, and again the Alpine flora in September and October.

I see a small white chalêt with a garden near the pine forests. I see it all very simple, with big white china stoves and a very pleasant woman with a tanned face and sun-bleached hair bringing in the coffee. I see winter— snow and a load of wood arriving at our door. I see us going off in a little sleigh—with huge fur gloves on, and having a picnic in the forest and eating ham and fur sandwiches. Then there is a lamp—très important— there are our books. It's very still. The frost is on the pane. You are in your room writing. I in mine. Outside the Stars are shining and the pine trees are dark like velvet.

I was not surprised at ——. He's so uncertain at page 110 present, I mean in his own being, that it will come natural to him to pose. I don't know how far you realise that you make him what he is with you—or how different he is with others. Also at present he has no real self-respect and that makes him boast. Like all of us he wants to feel important and that's a right feeling—we ought to feel important— but while he remains undisciplined and dans le vague he can't be important. So he has to boast. I mustn't go on. You are calling me a schoolmistress…