Читать книгу Katherine Mansfield, The Woman Behind The Books (Including Letters, Journals, Essays & Articles) - Katherine Mansfield - Страница 105

Table of Contents

March 1915

I DON'T know what you think of yourself, but I think you're a little pig of a sneak. Not a letter—not a sign—not a copy of The Saturday Westminster—plainly nothing. Why are you so horrid? Or is it the post? I'll put it down to the post and forgive you. A baby in arms could play with me to-day. The weather is so warm I'm sitting with the windows wide open and nothing but a thin blouse on (in a way of speaking). All the trees are popping and the air smells of mignonette. Big open barges full of stones are being towed by black and red beetles up the river; the steering men lean idly, legs crossed—you know their way—and the water froths against the bows. The carts passing make a merry jingle and the concierge has put a pink hyacinth in her window. I'm a fool when I'm alone. I turn into a little child again.

There is a woman on the opposite side of the river. She sits with her back against a tree, her legs stretched out in front of her, combing her long brown hair. To this side and to that she bends, and then with that charming, weary gesture she throws her head back and draws the comb all the length of it. If I were near enough, I am sure I would hear her singing. The idle time of the year is coming, Jack, when you can sit outside with a piece of bread and butter on your knee and watch it frisle. (How do you spell that?)

I felt very flat when I bought La Patrie at midday and found that no Zeppelins had arrived after all. Unfortunately I had already posted your letter, so you can laugh at me. This afternoon I am going to write about last night. I'll send it to you. Do what you will with it. Send it somewhere, will you please? …

I dreamed last night about G. I was at an opera with you, sitting on a converted railway carriage seat, and I heard G. talking of his wife to an American lady. Then he saw me and I went up and spoke to him. Just as I was saying I never had and never would love him, etc., Mrs. S. appeared and seeing us together she came up to me and said, “Oh Katherine, I always felt such love for you, and now I know why,” and she pressed me to her and said “Frank is at home digging in the garden.” This sc [sic] touched me that I nearly sacrifiged myself on the spot, but I knew you were waiting for me in a little house in South Kensington. The opera had disappeared, and I was sitting on the stump of a nut tree, and G. leant against it, toying with a top-hat. So I pressed his hand awfully kindly, picked up a very large rabbit that was watching us, with twitching ears, and walked away, saying over my shoulder to G., “There is always a beginning and an ending, G.” But he burst into tears and called, “Ah, my dear, don't—don't be so wonderful.” “If that is the case,” thought I, “I'm wasting myself. I shall take some inexpensive but good dancing lessons.” Then I woke up.

Next day. After all, I never wrote a thing. Yesterday I began reading and read on till past midnight. There are so many books of “the young men” here, and I glanced through a number to get an impression. Heavens! What a set of lollipops! Really, I did not come across one that counted. Upon the same stage with the same scenery, the same properties, to the same feeble little tune, one after another pipes his piece, and the audience, being composed of a number of young men and females exactly like himself, with precisely the same burning desire to feel the limelight on their faces, applaud and flatter and cherish. You can't believe they were not all littered at a breath. Funny, if it weren't so damned ugly; and the trouble is that nobody will ever kick their little derrières for them because they haven't got 'em to kick—seulement “deux globes d'ivoire”! Afterwards I began to read Stendhal's “Le Rouge et le Noir.” You can imagine how severe and noble it seemed and does still by morning seem to me. But what I feel most deeply is—how tragic a great work of art appears. All these young ‘nez-au-venticistes’ have their place and their meaning in this world; but I seemed to see Stendhal, with his ugly face and pot belly and his little pig's legs, confined within a solitary tower, writing his book and gazing through the window chink at a few lonely stars. (Don't whistle!)

I must go off to the post. I could write to you all day. It is raining fast and my lung hates the weather.