24 January 1922

Chalet des Sapins, Montana-sur-Sierre, Switzerland

My dearest Ottoline,
   That is one thing about our solitary existence. When such a letter as your letter today comes it is done the very fullest justice to. It is reread and read. But oh, how I should love a long talk - anywhere, anywhere out of the silly world of London and the white one of Switzerland.
   Its intolerable that you should have had pleurisy! I tremble to think of the time we spend in bed unhappily. It is out of all proportion. I am fleeing to Paris on Monday next to see if that Russian can bake me or boil me or serve me up in some more satisfying way - I suppose the snow is very good for one. But its horrid stuff to take and there's far too much of it. Immense fringes of icicles hang at our windows. Awful looking things like teeth - And every Sunday the Swiss fly into the forest on little sledges shrieking Ho-jé! Ho-jé positively makes my blood curdle. So off I go on Monday with the Mountain very breathless carrying two large suitcases & begging the suitcases pardon when she bumps them into things. I shall only go to spy out the land and buy some flowers and wallow in a hot bath. But if the Russian says he can cure me M. and I shall go to Paris in the spring and live there for a time. One writes the word ‘cure' - but - - but I don't know. [To Ottoline Morrell, c.24 January 1922.]