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The Letters of Katherine Mansfield: Volume II

October 25, 1921

To John Galsworthy

By an unfortunate mischance your letter only reached me to-day. My silence must have seemed very ungracious… Though, even now, I scarcely know how to thank you. Your noble generous praise is such precious encouragement that all I can do is try to deserve it. I want to promise you that I will never do less than my best, that I will try not to fail you. But this sounds superficial page 148 and far from my feeling. There the letters are, tied up in the silk handkerchief with my treasures. I shall never forget them. I wish, some day, I might press your hand for them. Thank you ‘for ever.’

I ought to tell you—for after all, you have the key—I have been haunting the little house in Bayswater Road last week—looking at the place where the humming birds stood—and standing where Soames stood in the hall by the hat stand. How I can hear Smithers' word “Bobbish”—But one must not begin. One could go on for ever. All the life of that house flickers up, trembles, glows again, is rich again, in these last moments. And then there is Soames with Fleur running out of his bosom, so swift, so careless—leaving him bare… Thank you for these wonderful books…

You asked me about my work. I have just finished a new book which is to be published at the New Year. And now I am ‘thinking out’ For by the time the story is told her life is over. One tells it in taking leave of her… Not one of these modern women but one of those old-fashioned kind who seemed to have such a rich being, to live in such a living world. Is it fancy? Is it just that the harvest of the past is gathered? Who shall say?

In November or December the London Mercury is publishing a day in the life of the little family in Prelude. If I may, I should very much like to send you a copy.

The mountains here are good to live with, but it doesn't do to look lower. The Swiss are a poor lot. Honesty and Sparsamkeit—in themselves—don't warm one's heart.