March 27, 1915
I SHALL write you my letter to-day in this café Biard, whither I've come for shelter out of a terrific storm—rain and thunder. I'm soaked and my bones are in dismay already. It is the most absurd rot to have to think like an old pusson every time the rain falls. This is rheumatiz for a dead spit for me. But I am not sad, I am only surprised at God.
I am writing my book. Ça marche, ça va, ça se dessine. It's good.
Last night I woke to hear torrential rain. I got up with a candle and made the shutters firm, and that awful line of Geo. Meredith's sang in my head: “And Welcome Waterspouts that Bring Fresh Rain.” Then I dreamed that I went to stay with the sisters Brontë who kept a boarding house called the Brontë Institut—painfully far from the station, and all the way there through heather. It was a sober place with linoleum on the stairs. Charlotte met me at the door and said, “Emily is lying down.” K. I found was also there, taking supper. He broke an orange into a bowl of bread and milk. “Russian fashion,” said he. “Try it. It's very good.” But I refrained.
Then the bell tinkled and the concierge gave me your letter…. How can all these people afford cabs? Even girls in pinafores without hats are jumping into fiacres. I cannot afford even the principle.
I found a photograph of Willy to-day. He looked like Edward VII. in spirits of wine—an awful fathead. Of course, he has got something, but he's terribly small beer, I'm afraid. And a snob and heartless. So I feel. Frank Harris is writing pro-Germanics in The Continental Times. He is roaring down England and roaring up Germany. I feel very disgusted. “And you?” (as they are always singing in Wagner's operas for a kick-off).
There goes Eve Balfour. Yes, it is. No, it isn't. Yes, it is. No, it isn't. Alas, another case of mistaken identity, like the darkey who was asked why he stole the old lady's parrot and said, “A-aw Boss, Ah took it for a lark.”
“Tig, what a fool you are to-day.”
“But it won't stop raining, and I'm stuck, and wondering if the waiter will flick me away next time he comes.”
Saturday afternoon: Café Biard — March 27, 1915
Saturday afternoon: Café Biard
March 27, 1915
A LOVELY woman sits in here with me. She's got a fool of a man with her that she hates beyond words. So would I. She wears a big rose under her chin—her eyes are lovely, but very shadowed with a purple ring. She is not only bored; she is trying not to cry. Three fat jossers at a table near by are vastly amused. Two dirty little froggies, smoking pipes ‘à l'anglaise’ and ragging each other, are next to me. They occasionally sing at me, or snap their fingers. They are the most hideous little touts.
New—I ought to have known it—my lovely woman is playing a game of cards with her cavalier. Mon dieu! she does look lovely with the fan of cards in her hand, the other hand hovering over, and her lip just pouting. I must go. This is a fool of a letter….
Pretty business this German-chasing! And a pity they have to photograph such decent honest-looking wretches as the belles proies. It's a filthy trick; there's no difference between England and Germany when the mob gets a hand in things. No difference between any nations on earth; they are all equally loathsome.
March 29, 1915 —
March 29, 1915
To S. S. Koteliansky
I AM extremely fond of you this afternoon. I wish you would walk into this café now and sit opposite me and say—“Do not look at these people; they are extremely foolish.” But no, you will not; you are dancing on the downs with the fair Barbara and Kisienka is forgotten. No, I won't come to any of your weddings. You will marry some woman who will show me the door—because I come and sing in the street you live in in my beautiful Russian dress (given me by my anonymous friend) and you dare to look out of the window. I have just finished Two Frightful Hours trying to buy a corset—not really a corset but a kind of belt—I have spent every penny that I haven't got upon an affair of violet silk which is so exquisite that I lament my lonely life…. Now Frieda would say that I was being very wicked, but you understand—don't you? All the while I write I am looking at you and laughing a little and you are saying to me, “Really, you are a deplorable creature!”
Your letter was given to me and I read it while I was half awake—when in bed—and after I had read it I lay smoking and watching the sun dance on the ceiling—and I wondered why on earth I had fled away and could not find any answer. At any rate I can tell you frankly that the illness that I had in England and longed to be cured of—is quite gone for ever—I believe it was my ‘heart’ after all, you know, but not the kind of heart that Dr. Eder punches. Shut your eyes a minute—do you feel frightfully happy—just now—just at this minute? I do—I should like to lie on the grass beside a big river and look up at the sun until the sun went down—and then go slowly home to a little house hidden in a ring of poplar trees—carrying a large bunch of daisies. Do you see this house? It is a new one—just built at this moment—it is in some place very far away and there are woods near, and this river. A tiny little balcony has a table on it with a red and white cloth and a jar of clovers—and we sit there in the evenings, smoke and drink tea. Now you can build a little of it.
To tell you the absolute truth, a friend of mine is coming to London at the end of this week. (Do not tell anybody.) Her name is Katherine Mansfield, and if she should ring up the Bureau on Friday—answer her. Will you.
Yes, Koteliansky, you are really one of my people—we can afford to be quite free with each other—I know.
… My dear, it is so hot in this café that if Mrs. E. were here she would have taken half a dozen sun baths!
Jeudi — May 13, 1915 —
Jeudi
May 13, 1915
To J. M. Murry
I CANNOT tell you how beautiful this place is by daylight. The trees on the island are in full leaf … I had quite forgotten the life that goes on within a tree—how it flutters and almost plumes itself, and how the topmost branches tremble and the lowest branches of all swing lazy.
It is very warm to-day. All the windows are wide open. From early morning people have passed along the Quai carrying lilac … little stout men, the bunch upside down, looped to a finger by a knotted string—young girls carrying it along the arm—little children with their faces quite buried—and old fat women clasping the branches, just a frill of flower showing above their bosoms.
I ran out at seven to buy some oranges. Already the shops were open. Already the sausages were looped round a lilac jar—the tailoress bent over the machine had a piece in her bodice. (I shan't tell you any more because you won't believe me. It's everywhere.) I'll tell you where I saw it first yesterday.
