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The Letters of Katherine Mansfield: Volume II

December 19, 1921

Since I wrote to you I have been in my familiar land of counterpane. The cold got through as I knew it would and one wing only wags. As to Doctor Manoukhin I got the Mountain to 'phone Paris yesterday and found he was absent and only there from time to time, très rarement. It was impossible for the secretary to say when. So that doesn't sound very hopeful. I am disappointed. I had made him my “miracle.” One must have a miracle. Now I'm without one and looking round for another… Have you any suggestions?

It has been a fine day. The sun came into this room all the afternoon but at dusk an old ancient wind sprang up and it is shaking and complaining. A terrible wind—a wind that one always mercifully forgets until it comes again. Do you know the kind of wind I mean! It brings nothing but memories—and by memories I mean those that one cannot without pain remember. It always carries my brother to me. Ah, Brett, I hope with all my page 83 heart you have not known anyone who has died young—long before their time. It is bitterness. But what am I thinking of? I wanted to write you a Christmas letter. I wanted to wish you joy. I can in spite of everything in life. I can, and by that I don't mean that it's any desperate difficulty. No, let us rejoice—that we are alive and know each other and walk the earth at the same time. Let us make plans, and fulfil them, and be happy when we meet, and laugh a great deal this year and never cry. Above all, let us be friends. There was that in your last letter which made you dearer to me than ever before. I don't know what it was. It was as though you came out of the letter and touched me and smiled and I understood your goodness.