The Letters of Katherine Mansfield: Volume I
Friday — February 1, 1918
February 1, 1918
This morning I got your Sunday night, Sunday morning and Monday night letter, all together, and they all seemed to be knocked off by such a steam engine that I wonder they didn't arrive sooner….
I am rather diffident about telling you, because so many sham wolves have gone over the bridge, that I am working and have been for two days. It looks to me the real thing. But one never knows. I'll keep quiet about it until it is finished.
What extraordinary weather you have been having! As for to-day, here, at a quarter to nine it was hot in the sun, for I got up to pull the curtain over my dresses, thinking they would fade. The sea is like a silver lake, and the exquisite haze hangs over the coast. You can hear the fishermen from far, far away, the plash of oars and their talk to one another. Where there were 20 flowers, there seem to be 20 hundred everywhere: everything is in such abundant bloom. We never knew this place so warm. One could walk about in a cotton dress. Old men survey their villa gardens in cream alpaca jackets and swathed sun helmets!
My wing hurts me horribly this morning: I don't know why. And I don't care—really. As long as I can work—as long as I can work!
Good God! There's some reckless bird trying over a note or two! He'll be en cocotte within the hour. I simply loathe and abominate the French bourgeoisie. Let me put it on record again. There are a round dozen of them descended on this hotel and all, after a day or two, in each other's pockets, arms round each other, sniggering, confiding internal complaints, and “elle m'a dit” and “mon mari m'a dit,” and the gentlemen with their “passez—mes dames”—God! how I detest them. I must show it in some way. For they avoid me like pison, only breaking into the most amused laughter after I have passed (you know the style), and staring till their very eyes congeal while I take my food. It is the ugliness and the cruelty which hurts me so much, beneath all one's cool contemptuous manner. But I suppose a great part of the earth is peopled with these fry: only as a rule we don't see them. I do feel though that the Frenchies must be the lowest.
Would you send me Nicholas Nickleby? (I am not reading Dickens idly).
The quiet day! The air quivers and three tiny flies have just performed a very successful and highly intricate dance in my window space.
I bought such a nice little coffee pot. It will do for hot milk at home. It has a lid and is white with blue daisies on it. In fact, it's charming and only cost 65 centimes.