bush, and I asked him if he’d read some of your stuff.”
She went up to her room and shut herself into her own world, spread out the big black Note Book and the smaller Black Note Books scrawled heavily with violet ink, and read everything with a newly critical eye. She even went back through the Queen’s College years, re-reading sketches and jottings, and the verses in Little Fronds. Nothing was good enough. None would do. She put away the long sheets of foolscap upon which she meant to copy out something for Tom Mills. She would have to write all new ones.
From the sheets she destroyed during the next weeks she saved a series of brief sketches — hardly stories — Vignettes she called them — and two poems like those written with E.K.B. So much time had elapsed between her father’s meeting Tom Mills and her mailing the sheaf of MSS. that he had completely forgotten the incident.
A few days later, however, he rang her up to make an appointment for afternoon tea.
“But how shall I know you?” Kass cried.
“Watch for a slim fellow wearing a split hat, and with a handkerchief wrapped around his left hand,” said the voice in her ear;”then you stand up at your table in the D.I.C.”
What he had to tell her was this: he thought the verses “the sweetest songs of childhood” he had ever read;”the six stories — of the sex-problem type… a matured and widely experienced woman of thirty might have written.”
He added, long afterward, that “the psychology of Katherine Mansfield in her teens was remarkably precocious.” He made much the same remark to her — after he knew her rather better — and added:”I don’t like your preference for the sex-problem story.”
“That is my business,” she retorted quickly.”It is none of your business what I write about, but merely to assure me that I can write successfully.”
He didn’t argue the matter; neither did she.
“Another outstanding feature,” he continued,”is the spirit of London in the sketches.”
“London is my Ultima Thule,” she answered hotly.
“As to their publication,” he told her,”there are very few publishers in the world to-day who would either buy or publish such tales.”
“I don’t want to be paid for the writing,” Kass answered quickly.”I want to prove to the family that my writing is worth while.”
“Then send them out for publication. You will not only confirm my own opinion, but you will realise the very best criticism — payment for work.”
“But where shall I send them?”
“There’s a monthly magazine in Melbourne,” said Mills,”that takes the sex story — The Native Companion, edited by E.J. Brady. Send three of the sketches there, and three to a London Magazine.”
Kathleen knew that for such an experiment they must be typed. Her father had bought her a little-used Fox machine which she meant to master some time; but she was too impatient for results to go through the arduous process of typing. The appearance of her written page was important to her; once it was copied, it no longer seemed her own; yet she knew how difficult her script was to read.
She remembered Mattie, her father’s secretary. But the matter needed delicate handling! She divined something of what actually did happen — several years later — when In a German Pension reached Wellington:
“This would never uplift anybody,” Mattie remarked to Kathleen’s father, returning the book to him.
“Her thoughts were always in a minor key, even as a child,” Mr. Beauchamp said diplomatically.
That Kathleen was fully capable of handling the immediate situation, however, is apparent in the notes she left for Mattie with the various MSS. she wanted to have typed. They are characteristic of a certain diplomacy to which she had recourse throughout her life.
“47 Fitzherbert Terrace.
“22. vii. 07.
“Thank you very much indeed for the ‘Poor Child’ — Mattie. I am most grateful —
“Yes — I quite agree that she was — to say the least — rather a morbid little individual — but to write — she was most fascinating. Never mind — soon I shall write some Poems full of cheerfulness — though to tell you a secret I prefer the others — the tragic pessimism of youth — you see — is as inevitable as the measles!
“I send you the sheet — it ought to read— ‘She and the Boy’…and that is all —
“It is so fine to see my children in such an abnormally healthy — clean — tidy condition —
“Thank you for that —
“Yours sincerely
“Kathleen Beauchamp.”
“Friday.
“This is written specially for you — a sort of continuation of the last at least it is the same style. Could you — any time type it for me — dear, and I do hope you will like the man, because I think he is a dear. On one place you will see a sign () where I where I left out a sentence — I’ve just written it in on the back of that page.
“What weather! Winter or Autumn I think.
“I’d like to go with you to a concert this afternoon Mark Hambourg & Gerardy. Wouldn’t it be fine.
“Yours with love
“K.”
“Sunday Night.
“My dear,
“Here is the work — it is written really in a ‘faire hand’ and will I hope not be too much of a bother. I’m afraid you won’t like ‘ — Amore.’ I can’t think how I wrote it — it’s partly a sort of a dream. Castles have been tumbling about my ears since Father came home. Do not mention — I pray you — my London prospects to him — he feels very sensitive — but — willy nilly I Go I’m determined.
“I wish that you were not always so busy. I always feel when I am with you that theres so much I want to say — oh delightful sensation and so rare.
“Well I must go to but — shall I build a castle with a spare room for you. Yes I will — so please return the complement.
“Thanking you in anticipation.
“K.”
“47 Fitzherbert Terrace.
“Am I asking too great a favour — when I say — could you type this for me my dear. I feel horrid to do so but really I will make it the last and conquer my Fox machine if I die in the effort! But my Editor wants something for a Summer Number the haste. If its impossible for you just send it back by Father and I shall understand. Are you better? I hope so — And here is a man that you will like — will you — I wonder? Hmm!
