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Journal of Katherine Mansfield

Later

page 84

Later.

The table was laid for two. I dined opposite a white serviette—shaped like a hand with spread fingers. Now I have dressed and am waiting for the motor. I rubbed some genêt fleuri on my collar just now: I look different—as though I were meant to be played on and not just to lie in a corner, with the bow in that slot opposite which fastens with two buttons. No! Now the bow is hanging from the peg—At Least.

June: Paralysis as an idea. A pleasant one. Spinal disease. A shock. Failure of the Heart's Action. Some “obscure” Horror. Dead before Friday. A cripple—unable to speak—My face all deformed. But the top and bottom of this sangwidge is a paralytic stroke—the important middle —heart failure. Well I've cut it for myself and eaten it day after day—day after day—It's an endless loaf…. And I'd like to put on quiet record that the physical pain is just not unbearable—only just not.

Love To be read after it has happened.

At 4.30 to-day it did conquer me and I began, like the Tchehov students, to “pace from corner to corne”—then up and down, up and down, and the pain racked me like a curse and I could hardly breathe. Then I sat down again and tried to take it quietly. But although I've an armchair and a fire and little table all drawn up comfortable I feel too ill to write. I could dictate I think p'raps—but write—no. Trop Malade.

I have been, in addition, waiting for A. all the page 85 afternoon. I thought, even in this storm, she'd “blow over.” “Hillo!” And about 100 A.s with quick deliberate steps have walked up this brick path but got no further. Plus that, I have nothing to read. Hurrah!!!

One's ‘salvation’ would I think be music. To have a 'cello again. That I must try….

June 20th. The twentieth of June 1918.

C'est de la misére.

Non, pas ça exactement. Il y a quelque chose—une profonde malaise me suive comme un ombre. Oh, why write bad French? Why write at all? 11,500 miles are so many—too many by 11,449¾ for me. [New Zealand is that distance from England.]

June 21. What is the matter with to-day? It is thin, white, as lace curtains are white, full of ugly noises (e.g. people opening the drawers of a cheap chest and trying to shut them again). All food seems stodgy and indigestible—no drink is hot enough. One looks hideous, hideous in the glass—bald as an egg—one feels swollen—and all one's clothes are tight. And everything is dusty, gritty—the cigarette ash crumbles and falls—the marigolds spill their petals over the dressing table. In a house nearby someone is trying to tune a cheap cheap piano.

If I had a ‘home’ and could pull the curtains together, lock the door—burn something sweet, fast, walk round my own perfect room, soundlessly, watching the lights and the shadows—it would page 86 be tolerable—but living as I do in a public house—it's trés difficile.

A few of its enormities.

1.

I decided to faire les ongles de mes pieds avant mon petit déjeuner—and did not—from idleness.

2.

The coffee was not hot: the bacon salt, and the plate shewed that it had been fried in a dirty pan.

3.

I could not think of any small talk for Mrs. Honey, who seemed silent and distrait—burning with a very feeble wick….

4.

J.'s letter telling of all his immense difficulties—all the impossible things he must do before he could start his holiday left me lukewarm. It had somehow a flat taste—and I felt rather as tho' I'd read it curiously apart, not united.

5.

A vague stomach-ache in my bath.

6.

Nothing to read and too rainy to go out.

7.

A. came—and did not ring. I felt she had enough of our friendship for the present….

8.

Very bad lunch. A small tough rissole which was no use to the functions and some rather watery gooseberries. I despise terribly English cooking.

9.

Went for a walk and was caught in the wind and rain. Terribly cold and wretched.

10.

The tea was not hot. I meant not to eat the bun but I ate it. Over-smoked.