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The Letters of Katherine Mansfield: Volume I

It is Xmas morning — December 25, 1915

It is Xmas morning
December 25, 1915

When I went out to put your letter in the Palais d'Azur yesterday I found out why the boats had come in—for tiers was a procession of dark young sailors, bare legged, their bright blue trousers rolled to the thigh, in big full blouses and with their hair cropped “en pudding” carrying on their shoulders little red kegs and filling them at the fountain. A great dispute went on because it was midday and the women had come to draw water too—and the sailorn would not take the kegs away and only laughed. They had a tiny boat rocking at the steps of the quai. On deck three sailors hung over the rail plucking three ducks. The feathers floated on the water. The boat is called the Felicina and she comes from Verraggia. The other boat hasn't got a name. To-day they are dressed and flying five or six snippets of flags.

Yesterday afternoon I went off by myself into the woods page 57 and spent all the afternoon exploring little tracks and ‘chemins de chamois’! I picked such lovely daisies too, with pink tips. It got very faery after the sun went down—and when I got to the road to come home, still deep in the woods, there came a tinkle and round the corner came an old man with a herd of brindled goats. As I came into the town all the babies were flocking in the streets looking at Xmas toys. Heaven knows they are a sorry little show, but you should have heard the screams of joy—“Ah ah, le beau chemin de fer—Dis, dis! Qu'il est mignon le p'tit chien! Ah, la grande—la belle!” I began to look too and I nearly bought an elephant or a dog with one ear standing up—or a lovely tea-set with roses painted on it and a sugar basin with a tiny strawberry for the handle on the lid.

Then the Captain of the Felicina landed and came marching up the street—very grand—all gold braid—little clipped beard, stiff linen. He was followed by two sailors and he disappeared behind the bead curtain of the butcher's shop. Then another ship came sailing in—which makes five. Can you feel how thrilling they are in this tiny place? And how one longs to go on board and walk up and down little ladders?

There is a crêche in the Church. It has been all made by the children. It is simply beautiful. A landscape with painted cardboard houses—even shutters to the windows. A windmill—little bridges of twigs, fountains made of falling silver paper cut in strips—and the roads all of fresh sand, the hills and the valleys all of moss that they gathered in the woods. Trees are planted in the moss and hung with silver stars (far too big for them). There are sheep under the trees, shepherds, holy men, the three Kings, one with a black face and awful whites to his eyes. Fat little angels perch in all sorts of places and in a neat cardboard grotto is Mary, St. Joseph (a very old dotty) and a naked ‘p'tit Cbesau’ as they say, who can open and shut his eyes. The priest was showing this Marvel to a baby when I was there but she could say nothing except in a page 58 Very hushed voice—“Il est tout nu.” The dove is also perched on a tree—a drunken fowl bigger than the ox and the ass—and out of one nouse there is the head of the innkeeper in a night cap with a tassel on it telling Mary he hasn't got a room….

Plus tard. I have opened my letter (I am always doing that—It's like popping just one's head in again) to say that when I ran to the Post it was shut for all to-day and I am afraid this letter will not go until to-morrow.

I have just had a Xmas dinner—very dreadful and indecent to be partaken of alone. The ‘belle famille’ had an enormous feed. I left the little tiny ones leaning back in their chairs with their legs stretched out utterly helpless—and slightly the worse for wine. For even the baby who is not yet three drank until her glass rested on her nose, where she left it and blew into it and stared at one through the top. Now I am going for a walk with the Englishman who leaves definitely the day after tomorrow.

Later. It was a long walk through the woods and then we left the paths and he taught me how to climb as taught by the guides in Norway. It was boring beyond words but absolutely successful—we scaled dreadful precipices and got wonderful views. Then I had to learn how to descend, and how to balance if the stones roll when you put your foot on them—What a pa-man! All this, of couse, he takes really seriously—and I find myself doing so too and I don't get one bit tired. I wish you could see my room. Even the blue glass vases we put away had to come out for the big bouquets of yellow and pink roses. To-night I have promised to dine with this paman. I don't doubt I shall get a lecture on touring in Spain. I already know more about how to travel in Italy than any living being, I should think.

I am going to try to send you a nut shell in this letter for a little hat. It's dark now and the waves are breaking right up the road among the palms.