Other formats

    TEI XML file   ePub eBook file  

Connect

    mail icontwitter iconBlogspot iconrss icon

The Letters of Katherine Mansfield: Volume II

June 14, 1922

To William Gerhardi

Your handwriting on the envelope made me feel a guilty thing; I hardly dared open the letter.And when page 217 I did there wasn't a single reproach in it. That was very kind of you—very generous.

The truth is I have been on the pen point of writing to you for weeks and weeks but always Paris—horrid Paris— snatched my pen away. And during the latter part of the time I spent nearly every afternoon in a tight, bony dentist's chair while a dreadfully callous American gentleman with an electric light on his forehead explored the root canals or angled with devilish patience for the lurking nerves. Sometimes, at black moments, I think that when I die I shall go to the Dentist's.

I am glad you did not come to Paris after all; we should not have been able to talk. It's too distracting. It is like your “twelve complete teas, ices and all”—all the time. One is either eating them or watching other people eat them, or seeing them swept away or hearing the jingle of their approach, or waiting for them, or paying for them, or trying to get out of them (hardest of all). Here it is ever so much better. If, on your walk to-day you pass one of those signs with a blameless hand pointing to the Hotel d'Angleterre, please follow. The cherries are just ripe; they are cutting the hay. But these are English delights, too. Our speciality is the forest à deux pas, threaded with little green paths and hoarse quick little streams. If it happens to be sunset, too, I could shew you something very strange. Behind this Hotel there is a big natural lawn, a wide stretch of green turf. When the herds that are being driven home in the evening come to it they go wild with delight. Staid, black cows begin to dance, to leap, to cut capers. Quiet, refined little sheep who look as though buttercups would not melt in their mouths suddenly begin to jump, to spin round, to bound off like rocking-horses. The goats are complete Russian Ballet Dancers; they are almost too brilliant. But the cows are the most surprising and the most näive. You will admit that cows don't look like born dancers, do they? And yet my cows are light as feathers, bubbling over with fun. Please tell dear little Miss Helsingfors that it's quite true page 218 they do jump over the moon. I have seen them do it— or very nearly. Ah, Mr. Gerhardi, I love the country! To lie on the grass again and smell the clover! Even to feel a little ant creep up one's sleeve was a kind of comfort … after one had shaken it down again…

I am in the middle of a very long story1 written in the same style—horrible expression!—as The Daughters of the Late Colonel. I enjoy writing it so much that even after I am asleep, I go on. The scene is the South of France in early spring. There is a real love story in it, too, and rain, buds, frogs, a thunderstorm, pink spotted Chinese dragons. There is no happiness greater than this leading a double life. But it's mysterious, too. How is it possible to be here in this remote, deserted hotel and at the same time to be leaning out of the window of the Villa Martin listening to the rain thrumming so gently on the leaves and smelling the night-scented stocks with Milly? (I shall be awfully disappointed if you don't like Milly.)

Have you read Bunin's stories? They are published in English by the Hogarth Press. The Gentleman from San Francisco is good, but I don't care much for the others. He tries too hard. He's too determined you shall not miss the cucumbers and the dyed whiskers. And the last story called Son I can't for the life of me understand. I met Bunin in Paris and because he had known Tchehov I wanted to talk of him. But alas! Bunin said “Tchehov? Ah—Ah—Oui, j'ai connu Tchekhov. Mais il y a longtemps, longtemps.” And then a pause. And then, graciously, “II a écrit des belles choses.” And that was the end of Tchehov. “Vous avez lu mon dernier…?”

I shall be here until the end of August. After that I go back to Paris for two months and then I want to go to Italy to a little place called Arco near the Lake of Garda for the winter.

When you are in the mood please write to me and tell me what you are writing. I am sorry you did not like The Fly and glad you told me. I hated writing it. Yes, I page 219 remember the story about the little boy and the buzzing insects. His father comes home from the town and finds him sitting up to the table cutting Kings and Queens out of a pack of playing cards. I can always see him.

Here comes my ancient landlady with a cup of tea made from iceland moss and hay flowers. She is determined to make a new man of me—good old soul—and equally convinced that nothing but herb tea will do it. My inside must be in a state of the most profound astonishment.

Goodbye for now. All success—every good wish for your book.

And don't be grateful to me, please; I've done nothing.

1 The Doves' Nest.