I must write to you once again, darling woman, while you are in Paris. Anne, if I were not to hear from you again ever I could live on your last letter. To have taken the trouble—I know what writing means—to have sent me that whole great piece of Paris—complete, with yourself and the traffic (I'd love to be somewhere where taxis ran one over) and marble tops and Louise avec son plumeau, and the shops with the flowery saucissons, and that getting le petit déjeuner, and Wyndham Lewis and—well—I walked through your letter once and then I just idled through it again and took my time and stopped to look and admire and love and smell and hear it all. It was a great gift, my dearest Anne—it was un cadeau superbe pour moi. How I love you for doing just that! Do you feel I do? You must. Now I've been to Paris—and even to St. Cloud. For your idea of a house there started me dreaming of the house next door. Charming houses— two storied with lilac bushes at the gate. I made a hole in my fence big enough for an eye to flash through—and in the morning I spied through and called to the petit who was gardening, “David,” and he said, rather off hand, “Quoi?” And I said, “Will you come to tea with me to-day?” And he turned his back on me and shouted up at his own house, “She wants me to go to tea.” At that your head appeared at a window and you said: “Well, do you want to go?” David replied: “Well, page 111 what have we got for tea here?”… It was an awfully sweet dream. I wish it would come true. What fun we should have! In the evening there would be a lamp on the garden table. I see a whole, lovely life—and more my life than cafés nowadays.

All the same, Paris and London have their appeal. It's very good to talk at times and I love watching and listening. These mountains are crushing table companions. But all the same I lie all day looking at them and they are pretty terrific… If you could get them into the story, you know—get them “placé.”

I saw the biggest specialist in Switzerland on Saturday, Anne. That's what made your letter so wonderfully good just at the moment. It seemed to bring Life so near again. After I'd seen this man it was just as if the landscape—everything—changed a little—moved a little further off. I always expect these doctor men to say: “Get better? Of course you will. Will put you right in no time. Six months at the very most and you'll be fit as a fiddle again.” But though this man was extremely nice he would not say more than “I still had a chance.” That was all. I tried to get the word “Guéri” but it was no good. All I could wangle out of him was “If your digestion continues good, you still have a chance.”

It's an infernal nuisance to love life as I do. I seem to love it more as time goes on rather than less. It never becomes a habit to me—it's always a marvel. I do hope I'll be able to keep in it long enough to do some really good work. I'm sick of people dying who promise well. One doesn't want to join that crowd at all. So I shall go on lapping up jaunes d'oeufs and de la crême…

It's evening now. I expect the lights are just out in the streets. I see the round shadows of the trees, the warm white of the pavement. I see the people flitting by. And here in the lake the mountains are bluish—cold. Only on the high tops the snow is a faint apricot colour. Beautiful Life! “To be alive and that is enough.” I could almost say that, but not quite.