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Monday night

May 17, 1915

To S. S. Koteliansky

… IT is a rainy evening—not at all cold, rather warm, but rainy, rainy. Everything is wet; the river is sopping, and if you stand still a moment you hear the myriad little voices of the rain. As you walk, the air lifts just enough to blow on your cheeks. Ah! how delicious that is! It is not only leaves you smell when you stand under the trees to-day; you smell the black wet boughs and stems, the ‘forest’ smell. This evening I went walking in a park. Big drops splashed from the leaves and on the paths there lay a drift of pink and white chestnut flowers. In the fountain basin there was a great deal of mixed bathing going on among some sparrows— A little boy stood just outside the park. He thrust one hand through the railing among the ivy leaves and pulled out some tiny snails, arranging them in a neat row on the stone wall. “V'là mes escargots!” But I was rather frightened, that, being French, he'd take a pin out of his jacket and begin eating them! And then they locked the park up. An old caretaker in a black cape with a hood to it locked it up with a whole bunch of keys.

There is a wharf not far from here where the sand barges unload. Do you know the smell of wet sand? Does it make you think of going down to the beach in the evening light after a rainy day and gathering the damp drift wood (it will dry on top of the stove) and picking up for a moment the long branches of sea weed that the waves have tossed and listening to the gulls who stand reflected in the gleaming sand, and just fly a little way off as you come and then—settle again.

This evening a mist rose up from the river and everything looks far away. Down below, two nuns went by, their ample skirts gathered in one hand, the other holding an umbrella over their white hoods. And just below—there is a court where the barrow men take their barrows for the night—their palms and their rose trees and china blue hydrangea bushes. You see the barrows with waving shining leaves float by like miraculous islands. Very few people are out. Two lovers came and hid behind a tree and put up an umbrella—then they walked away, pressed against each other. It made me think of a poem that our German professor used to read us in class.

Ja, das war zum letzenmal

Das wir beide, Arm in Arme,

Unter einem Schirm gebogen …

…. Alles war zum letzenmal….

And 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.