27 Nov 1921

27 November 1921

Chalet des Sapins, Montana-sur-Sierre, Switzerland

Dear Richard,
   I have been on the point of writing to you all this week. But the week seems to have walked away with us as usual. Here it is - Sunday - Im alone in the house. Its afternoon. Jack has gone off as usual to the big lake where he skates every afternoon. I went to see him one day. He's like a very alert careless bird swinging up and down. The lake is beautiful, with lawny slopes on the sides and clumps of dark firs. Snow lies on the grass but thin, in patches, like linen drying. And in the distance there are these huge, high peaks. I like awfully to see these little figures sliding on the ice, it reminds me of very ancient pictures, 14th century in a Munich gallery which I saw one year.
   We are still waiting for Big Snow who tarries out of sight. Its fine every single day. The sun burns in a brilliant, transparent sky. In the shade there is a film of frost over everything and all pools and streams are ice. But from 8.30 until 3.30 you can bask as if it were summer. Pretty good for a climate - dont you think?
   I suppose one would say our Life goes on much the same. We work and want to work more; we read aloud, we both knit. While Jack skates I sit on my balcony & go for my walk through a pair of field glasses. There is only one real trouble & that is - never enough time. Is there any remedy for that? Its awful! [To Richard Murry, 27 November 1921.]