21 March 1922

Victoria Palace Hotel, Paris

Dear Ida,
   I have been waiting for an answer to my last letter, I think, before I wrote to you. It happened on the night I sent it I had a peculiarly odious and typical dream about ‘us', and though that did not change my feelings, au fond, it made me feel that perhaps I had been premature in speaking so definitely about the future. You felt that too? Rather you were wiser than I and simply did not look so far. I think that is right. I think its best to leave the earth alone for a bit, i.e. plant nothing and try to stop cultivating anything. Let it rest as it is and let what is there either grow or die down or be scattered or flourish. By the earth I mean the basis the foundation of our relationship - the stable thing. Let it rest! Depend on me, though even when I don't write. Don't get fancies, will you? I am just the same whatever is happening.
   In the host of indefinite things there is one that is definite. There is nothing to be done for me at present. And whenever we do meet again let it be in freedom - don't do things for me! I have a horror of personal lack of freedom. I am a secretive creature to my last bones. Whether that is compatible with asking you to make me some pantaloons in April I don't quite know. Brett asked me what Id like for April - Easter and I said some fine linen. But if you feel it is not part of our compact for you to sew for me from afar I must go about with a paper ham frill on each leg instead. [To Ida Baker, 21 March 1922.]