Journal of Katherine Mansfield
[January - February 1915]
January 1. What a vile little diary! But I am determined to keep it this year. We saw the Old Year out and the New Year in. A lovely night, blue and gold. The church bells were ringing. I went into the garden and opened the gate and nearly—just walked away. J. stood at the window mashing an orange in a cup. The shadow of the rose-tree lay on the grass like a tiny bouquet. The moon and the dew had put a spangle on everything. But just at 12 o'clock I thought I heard footsteps on the road and got frightened and ran back into the house. But nobody passed. J. thought I was a great baby about the whole affair. The ghost of L.M. ran through my heart, her hair flying, very pale, with dark startled eyes.
1 “This book” refers, I think, to a novel called “Maata,” of which the two opening chapters and a complete synopsis alone remain.
I feel the new life coming nearer. I believe, just as I always have believed. Yes, it will come. All will be well.
January 2. A horrible morning and afternoon. Je me sens incapable de tout, and at the same time I am just not writing very well. I must finish my story to-morrow. I ought to work at it all day— yes, all day and into the night if necessary. A vile day. Jai envie de prier au bon Dieu comme le vieux pére Tolstoi. Oh, Lord, make me a better creature to-morrow. Le coeur me monte aux lévres d'un goût de sang. Je me deteste aujourd'hui. Dined at L.'s and talked the Island.1 It is quite real except that some part of me is blind to it. Six months ago I'd have jumped.
The chief thing I feel lately about myself is that I am getting old. I don't feel like a girl any more, or even like a young woman. I feel really quite past my prime. At times the fear of death is dreadful. I feel ever so much older than J. and that he recognises it, I am sure. He never used to, but now he often talks like a young man to an older woman. Well, perhaps, it's a good thing.
1 A plan, how far serious I cannot say after these years, of making a settlement in some remote island. It was probably of the same order of seriousness as Coleridge's pantisocratic colony on the Susquehannah.
January 4. Woke early and saw a snowy branch across the window. It is cold, snow has fallen, and now it is thawing. The hedges and the trees are covered with beads of water. Very dark, too, with a wind somewhere. I long to be alone for a bit.
I make a vow to finish a book this month. I'll write all day and at night too, and get it finished. I swear.
January 5. Saw the sun rise. A lovely apricot sky with flames in it and then a solemn pink. Heavens, how beautiful! I heard a knocking, and went downstairs. It was Benny cutting away the ivy. Over the path lay the fallen nests—wisps of hay and feathers. He looked like an ivy bush himself. I made early tea and carried it up to J., who lay half awake with crinkled eyes. I feel so full of love to-day after having seen the sun rise.
Evening. Have written a good deal.
January 9. J. went to town. I worked a little—chased the fowls. One brown fowl refused to leave the garden. Long after it knew there was no gap in the wire-netting it kept on running up and down. I must not forget that, nor how cold page 20 it was, nor how the mud coated my thin shoes. In the evening L. and K. They talked plans; but I felt very antagonistic to the whole affair.
January 10. Windy and dark…. At night we went to L.'s. It was a warm night with big drops of rain falling. I didn't mind the going, but the coming back was rather awful. I was unwell, and tired, and my heart could scarcely beat. But we made up a song to keep going. The rain splashed up to my knees, and I was frightened. L. was nice, very nice, sitting with a piece of string in his hand …
January 11. I got up in the dark to be ready for my little maid and watch the dawn coming. It wasn't up to much, though. I am wretched. It is a bright, winking day. Oh God, my God, let me work!
Wasted! Wasted!
January 12. Have been in more of a state of virtue to-day. Actually finished the story, Brave Love,1 and I don't know what to make of it even now. Read it to J., who was also puzzled. Violent headache, but rather happy.
January 20. A man outside is breaking stones. The day is utterly quiet. Sometimes a leaf rustles and a strange puff of wind passes the window. The old man chops, chops, as though it were a heart beating out there.
1 Of this story I have found only the opening pages.
In the afternoon there came a violent storm, but we walked over to C.'s, dined with them and the L.'s and the S.'s and had a play after. Late we went to the L.'s to sleep; very untidy—newspapers and faded mistletoe. I hardly slept at all, but it was nice.
A stormy day. We walked back this morning. It has rained and snowed and hailed and the wind blows. The dog at the mill howls. A man far away is playing the bugle. I have read and sewed to-day, but not written a word. I want to tonight. It is so funny to sit quietly sewing, while my heart is never for a moment still. I am dreadfully tired in head and body. This sad place is killing me. I live upon old made-up dreams; but they do not deceive either of us.
January 21. I am in the sitting-room downstairs. The wind howls outside, but here it is so warm and pleasant. It looks like a real room where real people live. My sewing-basket is on the table: under the bookcase are poked J.'s old house shoes. The black chair, half in shadow, looks as if a happy person had sprawled there. We had roast mutton and onion sauce and baked rice for dinner. It sounds right. I have run the ribbons through my underclothes with a hair-pin in the good home way. But my anxious heart is eating up my body, eating up my nerves, eating up my brain. I feel this poison slowly filling my veins—every particle becoming slowly tainted…. I am never, never calm, never for an instant. I remember years ago saying I wished I were one of those happy people page 22 who can suffer so far and then collapse or become exhausted. But I am just the opposite. The more I suffer, the more of fiery energy I feel to bear it.
January 22. Weather worse than ever. At tea-time I surprised myself by breaking down. I simply felt for a moment overcome with anguish and came upstairs and put my head on the black cushion. My longing for cities engrosses me.
January 23. The old man breaking stones again. A thick white mist reaches the edge of the field.
January 26. Went to London. We found B.C. had arrived; so D. put us up. D.'s flat looks lovely to me. Had tea at the Criterion with C. and D. Had my hands done. In the evening went to the Oxford and saw Marie Lloyd, who was very good. Slept on the big divan in A.'s room. In the afternoon it was very foggy in London; but the relief to be there was immense.
January 27. Met a woman who'd been in the cinema with me—her pink roses in her belt, and hollow lovely eyes and battered hair. I shall not forget her. No, no. She was wonderful.1
February 1. A slight attack of ‘flu’ is bowling me over. There is a glimpse of sun. The trees look as though they were hanging out to dry.
1 She was, probably, the original of Miss Moss in “Pictures.” In 1913 K.M. had acted as a super in various cinematograph productions.
My cold gained on me all day. I read the lonely Nietzsche; but I felt a bit ashamed of my feelings for this man in the past. He is, if you like, “human, all too human.” Read until late. I felt wretched simply beyond words. Life was like sawdust and sand. Talked short stories to J.
February 2. I feel a bit more cheerful to-day because I don't look quite so revolting as I have done.
No, the day ended in being as bad as ever. For one thing my illness is really severe. I have been embroidering my kimono with black wool. Bah! What rot! What do I care for such rubbish!
February 3. I can do nothing. Have tidied my desk and taken some quinine and that's all. But I know I shall go, because otherwise I'll die of despair. My head is so hot, but my hands are cold. Perhaps I am dead and just pretending to live here. There is, at any rate, no sign of life in me.
February 15. Went to London with J.
February 16. Came to Paris.
February 19. Came to Gray.