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The Letters of Katherine Mansfield: Volume I

Sunday — January 27, 1918

Sunday
January 27, 1918

I am just up. It's ten past eleven. It has been a dead quiet golden morning and I lay in bed feeling as quiet as the day, thinking. I decided to tell you as far as I could—how and of what…. Something like this.

Why don't I get up now and sit at the table and write before lunch? No, I can't. I am too tired. I have overdone it these last perfect days and walked too far and been out too long. For when I come back at 4 o'clock in the afternoon with three absolutely undisturbed hours page 113 before me, I get into my room—lie on the bed—‘collapse’—and then get up, light my fire, sit down at the table, leaning on anything I can find, leaning on my pen most of all, and though I do write—it is only a matter of ‘will’ to break through—it's all a sham and a pretence so far. I am so tired I can only just brush my fringe and get down to dinner and up here again to bed. Ah, how devilish it is! I am so tired I can't think of anything, and really can barely read. Still, my lass, this won't last. Don't walk so far or so fast. It's months since you really have walked, and your legs are bound to turn backwards. But if only I had the stickle-back 1 to lie on! These little chairs are for mean French behinds and they make me ache. However, none of this is serious. 'Twill pass. I'll go on grinding until suddenly I throw away the stone and begin to create something. It's no use being peevish. Are you sure this is not hypochondria? You are not getting ill here? Supposing you had a string kit and 10 little children? Oh, I'd sit in public houses and on steps. No, it's a feeling of confounded physical weakness—preparatory to great physical strength, I'm sure. It's the change: and then I get so fearfully excited, and that exhausts me. Keep your head. You'll be all right in a week….

After this consoling homily, I put my legs out of bed and dropped after them and got into the basin for a bath. But it is true. I have written two Patrias (they are the pink cahiers) full here, and whenever I re-read the stuff, I can't believe it's mine. Tame, diffuse, “missed it.” Don't blame me. I shall perk up. And I shall go slower till my legs get more wiry! I know what I want to do as soon as I can do it. I have no doubts or false alarms at all….

You know what I feel just at this moment? Rather dashed because I have been such an enfant gâté and now the old post has nothing for me. It's these trains again. Even if I had the money, I would not travel about here, you know. Yesterday I saw a train come in here all boarded up, all the carriages locked, full of soldiers, and page 114 those who wished to get out to go “to the base,” as Marie calls it, had to fling themselves through the windows and back again. A few poor civilians who were at the station were well jeered at by these braves.

I left off there and went down to lunch. I stood on the terrace a moment in the sun, wondering why French dogs and cats are so very unsympathetic, and suddenly there at the end of the palm avenue sparkled the brightest jewel—the postman. Yes, a letter from you and a paper….

This country, quâ country, is really ideally beautiful. It is the most exquisite entrancing place. Yet I am very sincere when I say I hate the French. They have no heart—no heart at all.

1 K M.'s private name for a small sofa she possessed.