Katherine Mansfield, The Woman Behind The Books (Including Letters, Journals, Essays & Articles). Katherine Mansfield
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of heads and bodies turning upwards as the Ultimate Fish (see The Critic in Judgment) passed by, flying high with fins of silky grey. It is absurd to say that romance is dead when things like this happen. And the noise it made, almost soothing, you know,—steady and clear, doo-da-doo-da, like a horn. I longed to go out and follow it, but instead I waited, and still the trumpets blared—and finally when it was over I made some more tea and felt that a great danger was past and longed to throw my arms round some one. It gave one a feeling of boundless physical relief, like the aftermath of an earthquake.
B.'s flat is really very jolly. She only takes it by the quarter at 900 francs a year—four rooms and a kitchen, a big hall, a cabinet and a conservatory. Two rooms open on to the garden. A big china stove in the salle à manger heats the place. All her furniture is second-hand and rather nice. The faithful J. conducts her shopping. Her own rooms, with a grey self-colour carpet, lamps in bowls with chinese shades, a piano, 2 divans 2 armchairs, books, flowers, a bright fire, was very unlike Paris, really very charming. But the house I think detestable; one creeps up and down stairs. She has dismissed D. and transferred her virgin heart to P. Strange and really beautiful though she is still, with the fairy air about her and her pretty little head still so fine—she is ruined. There is no doubt of it. I love her, but I take an intense, cold interest in noting the signs. She says, “It's no good my having a crowd of people. If there are more than you I go to the cupboard and nip cognacs until it's all over for me, my dear …” or, “Last Sunday I had a fearful crise. I got drunk on rhum by myself at the Rotonde and ran up and down this street crying and ringing the bells and saying, ‘Save me from this man!’ There wasn't anybody there at all.” And then she says with a faint show of importance, “Of course the people here simply love me for it. There hasn't been a real woman of feeling here since the war. But now I am going to be careful.”
Myself, I am dead off drink—I mean, the idea of being drunk revolts me horribly. Last time I was drunk was with B. here, and the memory stays and shames me even now. We were drunk with the wrong people. Not that I committed any sottise, but I hate to think of their faces and—ugh! no, I shall not drink again like that—never, never.
As I write to you the concierge is doing the flat, and she will persist in talking. Do I like flowers? Cold or heat? Birds or beasts? She is one of those women who can't lift or replace a thing without giving it its ticket. But she's a good soul and looks after me and fills the lamp without being told. Of course everybody she ever knew has died a grisly death in this war. The fact that C. is going to Turkey seems to delight her beyond measure. “II ne reviendra jamais!”
To-day everywhere they are crying “Voici les jolies violettes de parme,” and the day is like that. Under the bridges floats a purple shadow.
I must start working. I believe now she is dusting simply to spite me and to keep me off my work. What a bore these women are!
March 22, 1915 —
March 22, 1915
To S. S. Koteliansky
WRITE me a letter when you feel inclined to—will you? I am staying here for a while instead of at the rooms in London. I understood you that week-end at the Lawrences' for I have been like that myself. It is a kind of paralysis that comes of living alone and to oneself and it is really painful…. I was silly and unsympathetic, for Lawrence could not understand it because he has never felt it and I should have been wiser. But come quite alive again this Spring—will you? I do not know how it is in London just now but here the very fact of walking about in the air makes one feel that flowers and leaves are dropping from your hair and from your fingers. I could write you a long letter but I am afraid you cannot read my handwriting. Tell me if you can and then I will. Yes, write to me here.
The nights are full of stars and little moons and big Zeppelins—very exciting. But England feels far far away—just a little island with a cloud resting on it. Is it still there?
Monday night — March 22, 1915 —
Monday night
March 22, 1915
To J. M. Murry
I AM sitting writing to you by the light of a candil, with the whole house so quiet and closed and all the people in the cellars. The trumpets sounded about an hour ago. All the lights are out, except one on the bridge, very far, and one by the police station at the corner. I have been standing at the open window. Searchlights sweep the sky; they are very lovely, lighting up one by one the white clouds. Now and then some one passes, or a cart all dark gallops by. When the alarm sounded, the sirens and fire-whistles and motors all answered. I was in the street and in a moment or two it was almost pitch dark—just here and there a flicker as someone lighted a cigarette. When I arrived at the Quai aux Fleurs and saw all the people grouped in the doorways, and when people called out, “N'allez pas comme ça dans la rue!” I was really rather thrilled. The concierge, all the house, and an obscure little old man who is always on the scene on every occasion, asked me if I would ‘descendre’ but I hated the idea and I came up—of course all the gas was turned off—and hung out of the window. It was extremely terrifying suddenly; in fact (prosaic !) I was nearly sick! But after that the wonderful things happening, and especially a conversation between a man at a fifth floor window and a thin man on the Quai got me over my mal d'estomac. Those two men talking—their voices in the dark and the things they said—are unforgettable. Also a fool who came along the Quai whistling, his hands in his pockets, and as big drops of rain fell shouted with a laugh “Mais ils seront mouillés—ces canailles d'oiseaux!” The rain—the dark—the silence—the voices of the two men—the beauty of the river and the houses that seemed to be floating on the water … Ah, Jack!
As I wrote that more bugles sounded. Again I ran into the bedroom with the lamp and again opened the window. A big motor passed, a man in front blowing a trumpet. You heard from far and near the voices raised. “C'est fini?” “Fini, alors?” The few people in the street ran blindly after the motor and then stopped.
I went on the landing with my big rusty key to put on the gas again, because it's cold and I wanted a fire. The little man came up the stairs, and of course, I couldn't find the letter or the number, and of course he knew all about it. “Attendez, attendez! Voulez-vous aller voir si le gaz prend?” He was a far greater fool than I. But I mercied him bien and managed it myself.
These raids after all are not funny. They are extremely terrifying, and one feels such a horror of the whole idea of the thing. It seems so cruel and senseless. And then to glide out into the sky like that and hurl a bomb n'importe oú is diabolic and doesn't bear thinking about. (There go the trumpets again and the sirens and the whistles. Another scare! All over, again.) At B.'s this afternoon there arrived “du monde” including a very lovely young woman, married, and curious, blonde …(Oh God, it's all off again! I opened the shutters; the motors flew by sounding the alarm.) I can't talk about the tea-party to-night. At any rate, it isn't worth it really. It ended in a great row. I enjoyed it in a way, but B. was very impossible; she must have drunk nearly a bottle of brandy, and when at 9 o'clock I left and refused either to stay any longer or to spend the night here, she flared up in a fury and we parted for life again. It seems such utter rubbish in the face of all this—now. A very decent and pleasant man saw me home, happily. Otherwise I think I might have been sitting in a Y.M.C.A. until this moment; it was so very dark—but a lovely evening, very soft, with rain falling. B. makes me sad to-night. I didn't touch anything but soda-water, and so I really realised how the other people played on her drunkenness, and she was so … half-charming, and such an utter fool.
It is raining fast now, on the shutters, a sound I love to hear. England feels so far away at this moment—oh, very far….
March 1915