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The Letters of Katherine Mansfield: Volume II

October 13, 1920

I am amazed at the sudden ‘mushroom growth’ of cheap psycho-analysis everywhere. Five novels one after the other are based on it: it's in everything. And I want to prove it won't do—it's turning Life into a case. And yet, of course, I do believe one ought to be able to—not ought—one's novel if it's a good one will be capable of being proved scientifically correct. Here—the thing that's happening now is—the impulse to write is a different impulse. With an artist—one has to allow—Oh tremendously—for the sub-conscious element in his work. He page 54 writes he knows not what—he's possessed. I don't mean, of course, always, but when he's inspired—as a sort of divine flower to all his terrific hard gardening there comes this sub-conscious … wisdom. Now these people who are nuts on analysis seem to me to have no sub-conscious at all. They write to prove—not to tell the truth. Oh, I am so dull aren't I? I'll stop. I wish they'd stop, tho'! It's such gross impertinence.

Later. I've just been to the Villa Louise, stolen three whopping lemons and had a talk to their jardinier who comes here le vendredi to plant flowers autour du palmier. This man drew a design of the flower bed on the gravel and then, after telling me the names of the flowers, he described them. You know, it was terrific to hear him. In trying to describe the scent… “C'est— un—parrr-fum—” and then he threw back his head, put his thumb and finger to his nose—took a long breath and suddenly exploded it in a kind of AAAhhh! almost staggering backwards—overcome, almost fainting; and then, in telling me of des paquerettes, “ce sont de tout petites fleurs qui se regardent comme s'ils disent: c'est moi qui est plus jolie que toi!” Oh dear me—I wonder if it is so wonderful. I sat down on a bench and felt as though waves of health went flowing through me. To think the man cares like that—responds—laughs like he does and snips off a rosebud for you while he talks. Then I think of poor busmen and tube men and the ugliness of wet, dark London. It's wrong. People who are at all sensitive ought not to live there. I'll tell you (as it's my birthday to-morrow) a tale about this man. He came to see me. I had to engage him. First he passed me in the garden and went to Marie to ask for Madame Murry. Marie said—“But you've seen her already—” He said: “No—there's only une petite personne—une fillette de quinze ans—enfin—sur la terrasse.” Marie thought this a very great joke. Bit steep—wasn't it? I expect I'll be about five by Xmas time—just old enough for a Christmas tree…

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Doctor Mee—who was Mother's doctor, too—can't get over my improvement in the last fortnight. He's staggered. But he says he does wish you would go to Gamage and buy her a pair of shoulder straps—you know the things, I mean. They're to keep me from stooping. I stoop mainly from habit. I feel so much better that I almost have to tie myself to my chaise longue. But I know now is the moment to go slow. Alas, I'm so infernally wise in these things. Oh Heavenly day. I wish you'd shared my boisson—that fresh lemon with a lump of sugar and Saint-Galmier.

Every morning I have a sea-water bath in a saucer and to-day after it, still wet, I stood in the full sun to dry—both windows wide open. One can't help walking about naked in the mornings—one almost wades in the air. I'm writing, facing Italy—great mountains, grey-gold with tufts of dark green against a sheer blue sky. Yes, I confess it's hard work to wait for you. Can we hope for more than—how many?—springs and summers. I don't want to miss one.