14 January 1922

Chalet des Sapins, Montana-sur-Sierre, Switzerland

   Elizabeth has returned to her chalet. In minute black breeches and gaiters she looks like an infant bishop. When she has talked about London and the literary ‘successes' I am thankful to be out of it. I dont want to hear what Hugh Walpole thinks of Clemence Dane. But Elizabeth "fascinates" me, and I admire her for working as she is working now, all alone in her big chalet. She is courageous, very. And for some reason the mechanism of life hardly seems to touch her. She refuses to be ruffled and she is not ruffled. This is incomprehensible to me. I find it devilish, devilish, devilish. Doors that bang, voices raised, smells of cooking, even steps on the stairs are nothing short of anguish to me at times. There is an inner calm necessary to writing, a sense of equilibrium which is impossible to reach if it hasn't its outward semblance. But I dont know. Perhaps I am asking for what cannot be.
   I must end this letter. The sun has been out today and yesterday, and although there is about seven feet of snow and great icicles hang from the window frames it is warm, still, delicious. I got up today and I feel I never want to go to bed again. This air, this radiance gives one a faint idea of what spring must be here - early spring. They say that by April the snows have melted and even before all is quite gone the flowers begin. . .
   With warm love to you both,
   I press your hands
                          Katherine.[To Sydney Schiff, 12 January 1922.]