Katherine Mansfield, The Woman Behind The Books (Including Letters, Journals, Essays & Articles). Katherine Mansfield
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I heard again his ‘sad’ voice (so beautiful it seemed, you know!) and I saw again his white hand with a ring on it, press open the page!
But now I know the perfect thing to do on a night like this. It is to ride in a little closed cab. You may have the windows open but you cannot keep out the smell of leather and the smell of upholstered buttons. The horse makes an idle klippety-kloppeting. When we arrive at the house there is a big bush of lilac in flower growing over the gate and it is so dark that you do not stoop low enough and drops and petals fall on you. The light from the hall streams down the steps.
Scene II.
K.: “Tell me frankly. Does it, does it not feel damp to you?”
Visionary Caretaker: “I've had fires in all the rooms, m'm. Beautiful fires they were, too. It seemed a pity to let them out; they burned that lovely.”
‘M. or N.’: “It feels as dry as a bone to me, I must say.”
The Visionary Caretaker beams at ‘M. or N.’ Her little girl puts her head round the door. In her pinafore she has rather a wet kitten.
Visionary C.: “And if you should like a chicken at any time, m'm, or a few greens, I'm sure my husband and I would be only too pleased, etc., etc., etc., etc….”
I'm laughing. Are you? The queer thing is that, dreaming like that I can't help living it all, down to the smallest details—down to the very dampness of the salt at supper that night and the way it came out on your plate the exact shape of the salt spoon….
Do you, too, feel an infinite delight and value in detail—not for the sake of detail but for the life in the life of it. I never can express myself (and you can laugh as much as you please.) But do you ever feel as though the Lord threw you into Eternity—into the very exact centre of eternity, and even as you plunge you felt every ripple floating out from your plunging—every single ripple floating away and touching and drawing into its circle every slightest thing that it touched.
No, I shan't write any more. I see you, my wise one, putting down this letter and saying—“No. I must go to Barbara to explain this …”
I feel a little bit drunk. It's the air, and the noise the real waves make as the boats, with long fans of light, go dancing by.
We shall see each other again soon. But I can't deny that I feel a little neglected. I had counted on a reply to my letter, after all. Don't forget me—don't go far away. As I write I hear your voice and I see you swing out into the hall of the bureau as though you were going to beat to death the person who had dared to come in.
Saturday — May 22, 1915 —
Saturday
May 22, 1915
To J. M. Murry
I DON'T know how money goes. I keep a strict account (one of those amazing fourfold affairs in which we are so expert) and every penny is reckoned, and yet, it seems to fly. A franc in Paris is really 8d. in England just now. But don't think I am complaining, because I am not—merely stating my case—and I know my money will come next week. I have asked them to send it through Cook's. It is the simplest way, and really the post-offices are merely a collection of stools and stamp-paper. Yesterday, after I had nearly cried through a grating about my lost letter, the man suggested brightly, cleaning his nails on an old nib, “Perhaps the postman threw it away! …”
I wanted to tell you about a nice time I had on Thursday night. At about seven I left the house, buttoned up in my black and white coat and went for a walk behind the Hotel de Ville. I found most curious places, and I found at last a little market place where every third body was either frying or eating Polish pancakes. The air smelled of them and of ‘petits gris,’ tiny snails which you bought by the shovelful. It began to rain. Under an old stone arch three hags wrapped in black shawls were standing, their hands crossed over their bellies. At their feet there lay three little baskets of herbs, dry twigs, withered bundles and tiny packets. Their heads were raised, watching the drizzle, and the green light from a lantern fell on their faces. All of them were talking, whether to each other or to themselves you could not tell, for their voices did not pause. It sounded like a song. It was one of the most ancient things I have ever seen or heard.
I had to go into one of those little 10 c. places. In the passage stood an immense fat and rosy old market woman, her skirts breast high, tucking her chemise into her flannel drawers, and talking to an equally fat old ouvrier, who began to help her to arrange her affairs, saying as he tugged and buttoned, “Mais tu sais, ma petite, tu ne peux pas sortir comme ca.”
I went on much further—then down an alley on to a quai. There was a bird shop there. The window was flying with canaries and java sparrows and green love-birds and white doves and parrots. Outside the shop two little girls were standing, their arms round each other's necks. One had rings in her ears and the other wore a bangle. They were watching the birds and eating an orange between them, quarter by quarter. The bird-seller was a dark young man with long black moustaches and narrow eyes…. I don't know why, but I had a curious sensation that I was in a dream and that I had seen all this years and ages ago.
Finally, it poured so with rain that I hunted and I hollered and found a café—very poor—the people eating, chauffeurs and rag bags of people. But a woman came in, skinny, enceinte, but very alive, and a curious rough boy followed her. They were so wet that the woman said “faut danser.” And they danced. As far as I could make out this is what they sang as they turned round and round. The people who ate banged with their bread on the table and the plates clattered.
S'il en reste un bout, ce sera pour la servante.
S'il en reste pas du tout, elle se tapera sur l'ventre.
Et zon zon zon Lisette, ma Lisette.
Et zon zon zon Lisette, ma Lison.
All the while my hat dripped over the table. I kept taking it off and shaking it on the floor. But when the boy was greeted by a very smart young friend who came to my table and said “Je veux manger une belle fricassée avec vous, ma fleur,” I paid and ran away.
Sunday evening — May 23, 1915
Sunday evening
May 23, 1915
INSTEAD of having dinner to-day I ate some bread and drank some wine at home and went to a cinema. It was almost too good. A detective drama, so well acted and so sharp and cruel, with a horrible décor—the environs of Calais. Wickedness triumphed to everyone's great relief, for the hero, an apache called ‘l'Fantôme,’ was an admirable actor. And there was a girl there, mistress of ‘Bébé’ and ‘le faux curé,’ two other apaches. I wish you could have seen that girl act. She was very still, and then her gestures sprang from her. Pale, you know. A little round head and a black dress. All the while the orchestra played a tango that we have heard before, a very ‘troubling’ tune.
Before going in I walked up to the Luxembourg Gardens. But the Sunday crowd … the women mincing in their high boots like fowls in the wet, and the shopwalker men, and the “Ah, c'est beau!” “Dis—c'est joli,” “C'est très, très joli,” “Tout à fait beau.” I felt exactly as if I were dead.
It is very beautiful outside the window this afternoon. The wind shakes the trees so.
There was a great excitement a few minutes ago. I saw the policeman before the station below suddenly stiffen, and then at the bottom of the steps that lead on to the quai—you know where I mean, below here?—there came a grey little frog squirming in the grip of two gendarmes.