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The Letters of Katherine Mansfield: Volume I

Hôtel Beau Rivage — Bandol (Var) — Friday — January 11, 1918

Hôtel Beau Rivage
Bandol (Var)
Friday
January 11, 1918

….My enthusiastic letter from Paris has been in my mind ever since. And mocked me: I took it to post; it was dark by then, piercing cold' and so wet underfoot that one's feet felt like two walking toads. After a great deal of bother I got established in the train (No pillows to be had nowadays) and then the fun began. I liked my fellow-passengers, but God! how stiff one got, and my feet hurt and the flat-iron1 became hot enough to burn the buttoned back against which I leaned. There was no refreshment car on the train—no chance of getting anything hot—a blinding snowstorm until we reached Valence.

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I must confess the country was exquisite at sunrise—exquisite—but we did not arrive at Marseilles till one o'clock. Good! As I got out a pimp getting in to hold a seat for some super-pimp gave me such a blow in the chest that it is blue to-day. I thought: “This is Marseilles, sans doute.” Feeling very tired and hungry I carried my baggage three miles to the consigne, and finding that the train left for Bandol at 3.30 decided to have a snack at the buffet just outside—that place under a glass verandah. It was rather full, so I sat down opposite an elderly lady who eyed me so strangely that I asked if “cette place est prise?” “Non, Madame,” said she, insolent beyond everything, “mais il y a d'autre tables, n'est-ce pas? Je prèfère beaucoup que vous ne venez pas ici. D'abord, jéuner, et c'est fini mon déjeuner, et c'est tres de'goutant de vous voir commencer car j'ai l'estomac délicat, et puis….” And then she raised her eyebrows and left it at that. You can judge what I ate after that and what I thought.

At 1.30 I went to get my baggage registered, waited for one hour in a queue for my ticket and then was told I could not have one until my passport was vise'd. I had that done, waited again, carried my luggage to the plat form finally at 3 o'clock juste, and waited there in a crowd until four. Then a train came in at another platform, and the people swarmed in just like apes climbing into bushes, and I had just thrown my rugs into it when it was stated that it was only for permissionaires and did not stop before Toulon. Good again! I staggered out and got into another train on another platform, asked three people if it was the right one, who did not know, sat down in the corner, completely dished.

There were 8 Serbian officers in the compartment with me and their 2 dogs. Never shall I say another word against Serbians. They looked like Maiden's Dreams, excessively handsome and well cared for, graceful, young, dashing, with fine teeth and eyes. But that did not matter. What did was that after shunting for 2 hours, five yards forward and five back, there was a free fight at page 95 the station between a mob of soldiers and the civilians. The soldiers demanded the train and that les civils should exacuate it. Not with good temper, but furious—very ugly—and vile. They banged on the windows, wrenched open the doors and threw out the people and their luggage after them. They came to our carriage, swarmed in, told the officers they too must go, and one caught hold of me as though I were a sort of packet of rugs. I never said a word, for I was far too tired and vague to care about anything, except I was determined not to cry. But one of the officers then let out, threw out the soldiers, said I was his wife and had been travelling with him five days, and when the chef militaire de la gare came, said the same, threw him out, banged the door, took off their dogs' leads and held the door shut. The others then pressed against the connecting door between the carriages, and there we remained in a state of siege until seven o'clock when the train started. You should have heard the squalling and banging. They pinned the curtains together and I hid behind them until we were under way.

By this time it was pitch dark, and I knew I should never find the station, as a terrific mistral was blowing and you could not hear the stations cried. But as we came to each stop, they pulled the window down and shouted in their curious clipped French to know which it was. Ah, but they were very nice chaps, splendid chaps—I'll not forget them. We reached Bandol at 9. I felt that my grande malle was gone for ever, but I seized the other 2 and dashed across the line. I could not have walked here, but happily the boy from the Hôtel des Bains was at the station and though he said qu'il n'était pas bon avec le patron he brought me.

When I arrived the hall was rather cold and smoky. A strange woman came out, wiping her mouth with a serviette. I realised in a flash that the hotel had changed hands. She said she had received no letter, but there were plenty of rooms, and proceeded to lead me to them. My own was taken. I chose finally the one next door which page 96 had 2 beds on condition she removed one. Also it was the cheapest, 12 francs a day. The others have had de l'e au courante put into them and cost 13. The big stoves were not lighted in the passages…. I asked for hot water and a hot water bottle, had some soup, wrapped up to the eyes, and simply fell into bed after finishing the brandy in my flask. For I felt that the whole affair wanted thoroughly sleeping over and not thinking about….

In the morning when I opened the persiennes it was so lovely outside, I stayed in bed till lunch. Ma grande malle really did turn up. Then I got up, and after lunch went into the town. The Meynets are gone for the present. The tabac woman did not know me and had no tobacco. Nobody remembered me at all. I bought writing things and a few bull's-eyes—about a penny for two, they were—and suddenly I met Ma'am Gamel. She, too, did not recognise me until I had explained who I was. Then she was very kind. “Ah! Ah! Ah! Vous êtes beaucoup changé Vous avez été ben malade, n'est-ce pas? Vous n'avez plus votre air de p'tite gosse, vous sa-avez!” I went with her to the shop which is just the same and saw the old mother who was most tender about you. I bought a tiny pot of cherry jam and came home—to find my room not yet done. You can see, I am depressed, I feel faible still after ce voyage, but I shall get better and I shall arrange things here as soon as I have la force nécessaire. The place is, even to my blind eyes, as lovely as ever, glittering with light, with the deep hyacinth blue sea, the wonderful flashing palms and the mountains, violet in the shadow and jade-green in the sun. The mimosa outside my window is in bud. Don't worry about me. Having got over that journey and that Paris thaw, I shall never fall by the way; and when my room is ready, I shall work. That I do feel, and that is what matters. I am not even very sad. It has been a bit of a bang; though, hasn't it? I feel like a fly who has been dropped into the milk-jug and fished out again, but is still too milky and drowned to start cleaning up yet.

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Letters will take a long while—perhaps 6 or 8 days—so do not worry if you do not hear.

1 K. M's name for the burning sensation in her lung.