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The Letters of Katherine Mansfield: Volume I

December 11, 1915

December 11, 1915

The weather has changed. Last night a wind sprang up—one of the lesser winds—a forlorn, piping creature that I don't remember having heard on land before—a wind I always connect with the open sea and night in the cabin—and a hollow dread that the land has gone for ever. I dreamed that I had a baby (Virtue always rewards me with this elfin child) and Grandmother was alive. I had gone to sleep after it was born and when I woke it was night and I saw all the people in the house lying on their backs asleep too. And I was sure my baby was dead. For a long time I was too frightened to call anyone—but finally called to Grandmother and she came in and said, “Nonsense, child, he's getting on beautifully (as though ‘he’ were a cake in the oven).” She brought him in to reassure me—a charming little creature in a flannel gown with a tuft of hair. So I got up and kissed Grandmother who handed me the baby and I went downstairs and met you in the street. The moon was shining—you looked lovely; it shone particularly on your grey felt hat which you wore à l'espagnole. But we were very poor; we lived in a tenement and you had put a banana box across two chairs for the baby. “The only brick is,” you said—“how the hell can we go to a music hall?” Then I woke up, switched on the light and began to read Venus and Adonis. It's pretty stuff—rather like the Death of Procris.

Yesterday I had de la veine and wrote in the afternoon and then went for a short walk along that bar that encloses the harbour. It was sunset. It's a good place to walk— page 40 the sea on either side rushes up and the town—just showing a glimmer of light here and there—looked marvellous. I sat on a stone and began thinking “I believe it is perfectly necessary to one's spiritual balance to be somewhere where you can see the sun both rise and set, etc., etc.” and such like nonsense—très sérieux—when I remarked a gazelle-like military form approaching—in blue with a braided cap. This ensemble, thought I, is exactly like the cover of a 95 centimes novel. Myself on a rock—a red sunset behind—this graceful form approaching…. It came near—and than a blithe, cheerful dead sure voice positively hailed me. “Vous vous promenez seule, Madame?” I had a good look at the upstart. Olive skin, silky eyebrows and silky moustache. Vain—there is no word for it. I said, “Oui, Monsieur, seule.” “Vous demeurez à l'hôtel Beau Rivage, n'est-ce pas?” Silence. “Je vous ai déja remarqué plusieurs fois.” (His French was right. Mine isn't.) Then I looked up at him like Frank Harris would look at Dan Rider quoting Shakespeare—and he drew himself up, saluted, said “Ah, pardon je suis très indiscret.” I said exactly like Harris—“Très indiscret, Monsieur,” and walked home. 1 Scarcely had I gained the road when a gentleman in a cape approached and ‘Vous vous promenez seule, Madame?’ But that was a bit too steep. I said, “Non, Monsieur, avec une canne—” What a race! They're like German commercial travellers! Send me a bulldog in your next letter, sweetheart.

The sea is very choppy to-day. Far as you can see the waves break—like a school of fishes.

1 For this incident, see Journal, p. 39.