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The Letters of Katherine Mansfield: Volume I

Sunday — October 12, 1919

Sunday
October 12, 1919

I am sitting in the Bastick chair covered with the Jaeger rug, as although the sun is hot the air is chilly (it's about 4.45 p.m.). It has been a marvellous day here; I've not moved except for meals. I've been reading and writing, and after lunch I fell asleep from the general ship-board atmosphere. Speaking of ships, such a small jewel of a sailing ship passed the house to-day, riding close enough in to see the men on board. She had two small sails at the bows, one big one at the stern, and a medium very movable one amidships. The sea is my favourite sea, bright, bright blue, but showing a glint of white as far as one can see. That lift of white seen far away, as far as the horizon, moves me terribly. In fact it is the very thing I would like to express in writing: it has the very quality. Here comes another most interesting little steamboat—a very small trader, she looks, painted black and red, with a most ridiculous amount of smoke coming out of the funnel. [A drawing of the steamer.] No, I can't draw her.

From where I sit, I cannot see any ground below the balustrade. That is threaded through with sea. One would think it was a sheer drop from there into deep water.

What a place, eh?

page 251

I had a nasty jar last night. As there was no water last week, the laundry was put ‘out’ and it came home exquisite, covered with a white net with a rose on top, carried by the nicest old body on her head, who seemed to take the greatest fancy to me, as I did to her. Long conversation. “Comme vous êtes bien ici,” etc., etc., etc., etc. And under all this a bill for 37.85. This, of course, after the old' un had gone and the rose had been smelled and admired and Wig had thought how much better, after all, they order these things in Italy. L. M. did not really “think it very heavy. I don't think you could have expected it to be less, Katie.” This with her overall 4.50 and an immense white petticoat 3.85! As to serviettes at 1 lira apiece, “Oh well, my dear, that's not quite sixpence if the exchange is still at 41 for the £1. It's about … let me see … hardly fivepence,” and so on and so on and so on. How I should beat her if I were married to her! It's an awful thought. She thinks I am made of money. That's the worst of it! On her last but one journey to San Remo she bought one hecto of coffee for 4.50 from “such a funny little shop” and when I protested she thought “the parcel was small for the money, but the beans felt very tightly packed.” Could you believe it? However,—let her go. And I shall never shoot her because the body would be so difficult to dispose of after. One couldn't make it into a neat parcel or put it under a hearth stone, and she would never burn.

Every day I love this house more for some new grace, and every day I hold a minute review of the garden, and there is always some thing fresh and wonderful. Then there is the wild hill, never the same, satisfying one's deep love for what is living and ancient in literature. I look at the hill, and because I have not had a classical education, it seems to me full of the spirit of those old boys—the wild fig and olive, the low-growing berries and the tufts of sweet roots….