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The Letters of Katherine Mansfield: Volume II

October 1920

I return de la Mare's letter. I long to hear of your time with him. It's very queer; he haunts me here—not a persistent or substantial ghost but as one who shares my joy in the silent world—joy is not the word, I only used it because it conveys a stillness, a remoteness, because there is a far-away sound in it.

You know, I have felt very often lately as though the silence had some meaning beyond these signs, these intimations. Isn't it possible that if one yielded there is a whole world into which one is received? It is so near and yet I am conscious that I hold back from giving myself up to it. What is this something mysterious that waits—that beckons?

And then suffering, bodily suffering such as I've known for three years. It has changed forever everything—even the appearance of the world is not the same—there is something added. Everything has its shadow. Is page 58 it right to resist such suffering? Do you know I feel it has been an immense privilege. Yes, in spite of all. How blind we little creatures are! It's only the fairy tales we really live by. If we set out upon a journey, the more wonderful the treasure, the greater the temptations and perils to be overcome. And if someone rebels and says, Life isn't good enough on those terms, one can only say: “It is! “Don't misunderstand me. I don't mean a “thorn in the flesh”—it's a million times more mysterious. It has taken me three years to understand this—to come to see this. We resist, we are terribly frightened. The little boat enters the dark fearful gulf and our only cry is to escape—“put me on land again.” But it's useless. Nobody listens. The shadowy figure rows on. One ought to sit still and uncover one's eyes.

I believe the greatest failing of all is to be frightened. Perfect Love casteth out Fear. When I look back on my life all my mistakes have been because I was afraid… Was that why I had to look on death? Would nothing less cure me? You know, one can't help wondering, sometimes… No, not a personal God or any such nonsense. Much more likely—the soul's desperate choice…

P.S.—Can you bring Ribni at Xmas? There is a shop in Nice which cures Poupées cassées. When I read of it I almost telegraphed for Ribni. I want him to be made good as new again. He haunts me—Ah, I can see a story in this idea…