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The Letters of Katherine Mansfield: Volume I

April 1919 —

April 1919

To Mrs. Virginia Woolf

I have burned to write to you ever since you were here last. The East Wind made my journey in the train an impossibility; it set up ponds and pools in my left lung wherein the Germs and the Toxins—two families I detest—bathed and refreshed themselves and flourished and multiplied. But since then so many miracles have happened that I don't see how one will be able to bear real, full Spring. One is almost tired already—one wants to swoon, like Charles Lamb, before the curtain rises—Oh God! to look up again and see the sun like a great silver spangle, big bright buds on the trees, and the little bushes caught in a net of green. But what I chiefly love, Virginia, is to watch the people. Will you laugh at me? —it wrings my heart to see the people coming into the open again, timid, airing themselves; they idle, their voices change and their gesture. A most unexpected old man passes with a paper of flowers (for whom?), a soldier lies on the grass hiding his face, a young girl flies down a side street on the—positive—wing of a boy—

On April 5th our one daffodil came into flower and our cat, Charlie Chaplin, had a kitten.

page 227

Diagram of family tree of Katherine Mansfield's cat.

Athenæum is like a prehistoric lizard, in very little. He emerged very strangely—as though hurtling through space—flung by the indignant Lord. I attended the birth. Charles implored me. He behaved so strangely: he became a beautiful, tragic figure with blue-green eyes, terrified and wild. He would only lie still when I stroked his belly and said, “It's all right, old chap. It's bound to happen to a man sooner or later.” And, in the middle of his pangs, his betrayer, a wretch of a cat with a face like a penny bun and the cat-equivalent of a brown bowler hat, rather rakish over one ear, began to howl from outside. “Fool that I have been!” said Charles, grinding his claws against my sleeve. The second kitten, April, was born during the night, a snug, compact little girl. When she sucks she looks like a small infant saying its prayers and knowing that Jesus loves her. They are both loves; their paws inside are very soft, very pink, just like unripe raspberries….

Virginia, I have read your article on Modern Novels. You write so damned well, so devilish well.

But I positively must see you soon. I want to talk over so much—Your room with the too deep windows—I should love to be there now. Last time the rambler roses were nearly over and there was a sound of someone sawing wood.