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The Letters of Katherine Mansfield: Volume I

Thursday — January 24, 1918

Thursday
January 24, 1918

Yesterday I took your letter with me and we walked our old familiar way—along by the coast and then inland…. Well, I suppose we looked as though we were walking, but, good God, my spirit never kept worse time with my toes …. A sea like quilted silk, the lavender bushes growing among the rocks all in new leaf. Such air as you and I have drunk together, and a whole flock of little winds to shake every perfumed bud and flower. The almond trees, if one stands close and looks up, are thick with white and red buds; the lanes have a thick border of white and yellow—wild candytuft and small marigolds. The mimosa is coming out over the gate of our house, which is still sealed up—still as remote, more beautiful, more desirable than ever. This place is so full of ourselves that every little walk I take is a passionate pilgrimage. There is the villa—allons-y. Here is the field where we saw all the anemones, here the wall where the lizard lay basking. One could hear everywhere the voices of people in the page 108 fields, one could see, through the blue, fresh-painted gates, women bending to the earth and rising up again, with the old leisurely grace. They passed me, the dark people we know so well, with their loads of little olive branches or a squeaking barrow of manure—and as I came home I went by the Villa Pauline and saw over the wall the geraniums in leaf and bud. (Ah, I did of course go in, and while you put the kettle on, I took out the flowery cups, put our honey-biscuits in a dish, and we sat down, faint and warm and smiling we knew not why.) … These incredible people who avant-hier were wrapped in every inch of fur or wool they could find were yesterday dabbling their legs in the water down on the shore….

I had a lie-down when I came home, and then I worked. When it grew dusky I opened the window to close the shutters. The moon was up; the sky over the sea faint rose, and there was a strange bright glitter on the palm trees. After dinner in the hotel library I found a copy of Martin Eden (which O. always thought a famous good book) and a large shabby tome—Tissot: Littérature Française. But I couldn't stomach the former. No, a little Shakespeare makes one's nose too fine for such a rank smeller as Jack London. The other is rare meat. It is examples of French literature from the 9th century to the end of the 18th, and it is followed by a Revue of the state of the whole world at that time, each country taken separately—very excellent amusement. And, too, there are hundreds of the little engravings and fantastical letters that we love. I shall guard this in my room and bury Jack London again.

I heard from Madame G. yesterday and she included une poème. I send you both. By my passport I shall not be permitted to stay at Carpentras, you know. But I'll tell her that later. It would kill me. After the war, with you to fly to, I will: but alone to sustain that parfaitement, Madame—justement—mais bien sur—for more than half an hour would turn me into a parrot for life.

When we have a house here I think I'll try to get this page 109 maid to come. She's just our style, but I wish she wouldn't give me a fresh bouquet more than once a day. The last is feathery mimosa. I write to you thus and tell you all because you must share it. For the present you are the King in the Counting-House counting out his money, and I am the Queen in the parlour eating bread and honey…. Oh, I could weep like a child because there are so many flowers and my lap is so small and all must be carried home….