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The Letters of Katherine Mansfield: Volume I

December 14, 1915

December 14, 1915

Don't you worry about me. My femme de chambre, when she goes off duty leaves me in her ‘friend's’ charge and her ‘friend’ is a little spry creature with a pale blue nose who is very gentille indeed to me. “Il ne faut pas vous gêner.” She keeps saying to me—“Je veux faire tout ce que je peux pour vous.” In fact, the servants here seem to think I'm a dear little thing! And after midday that Englishman, terribly shy, knocked at my door. It appears he has a most marvellous cure for just my kind of rheumatism—Would I try it? All this was explained in the most preposterous rigmarole, in an attempt to appear off hand and at his poor unfortunate ease. I never saw a man so shy! Finally he says that if the pharmacien can't make it up here he will take the first train to Toulon this afternoon and get it for me. It is a rubbing mixture which he got off a German doctor one year when he was in Switzerland for winter sports and had an attack of sciatic rheumatism. It sounds to me very hopeful,—but I'd catch any straw!

So I thanked him and bowing and humming and hawing he went off. I can't think what frightened him so, I shall have to put on a hat and a pair of gloves when he brings me back the unguent. Oh, that postman is a tortoise, a detestable tortoise—half a tortoise—for I am hot and he is slow. (Bogey, I am an awful little cod, my bed is going to my brain. Now I'll wait for your letter before I go on.)

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Later. I did wait with a vengeance. At half past three I rang the bell. “Le courier, a-t-il déja passé?” “Ah, oui, Madame—une bonne demi-heure!” “Merci bien.” But when she had gone I confess I turned to the wall and cried bitterly…. I think mostly from rage. Then I began to think how my Father always had time to write every single day to my Mother, etc., etc., etc. Then in despair I climbed out of bed, found a piece of ribbon and sat up and made myself a hat. Once before, I remember when I was ill at Rottingdean and alone and waiting for a letter that didn't come I made myself a hat out of pins and fury and it was the hat of my life. So is this. But I think it is awfully cruel. Once I get better I'll forgive you if you don't write, but Oh—to lie in this silent room and know the postman has been. You wouldn't like it, Bogey.

Now I've had dinner, an omelette, some cauliflower and a stewed apple. I am getting thin. There are two hollows in my cheeks but no little love kisses there. My Englishman has arrived with his pot of ointment and refuses to take even a pin or a bead in payment. How kind he is—It's easy to see he hasn't lived with me three years.

I should like to be at a large circus to-night: in a box—very luxurious, you know, very warm, very gay with a smell of sawdust and elephants. A superb clown called Pistachio—white poneys, little blue monkeys drinking out of chinese cups. I should like to be dressed beautifully, beautifully down to the last fragment of my chemise—and I should like Colette Willy to be dressed just exactly like me and to be in the same box. And during the entr'actes while the orchestra blared Pot Pourri from The Toreador we would eat tiny little jujubes out of a much too big bag and tell each other all about our childhood.