KATHERINE MANSFIELD

Evening Post, Volume CVI, Issue 48, 25 August 1923, Page 19

KATHERINE MANSFIELD

EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL.

<HtOtt OOR OWN CORRESPONDED!.)

. • ' LONDON, 16th July. One is not quite sure whether the late Katherine Mansfield'would have wished fco have the intimate passages of her private journals presented to the public. Yet these very personal meditations are . to appear in book form, and in the meantime a selection has been given, in the current and second number of "The Adelphi," which is edited by the late writer's husband, Mr. John Midleton Murry. • .

Katherine Mansfield delighted a very 1%1-ge section of the.literary public-.with her finished work.". Whether or not the' self-anajysls to which she subjected herself in her journals will appeal to. an equally large circle of readers is a moot point. It would seem that her stories were quite enough, to keep her memory, green, and this revelation of the person; us distinct from the writer appears to be a little premature. It must be admitted, however, that there are .many lovers of her writings whose curiosity; will ,be satisfied by' the publication of< the journals, though . they appear to' have been written for.no one but herself, and at this stage are more suitable for intimate: friends and relatives than* for the general public. * ■' ■ The extracts which appear in "The Adelphi" deal with the winter of 1915----16, when she was living at Bandol, a little watering-place on the Mediterran-: eari. Her brother, Leslie Heron Beauchamp, had died in France in October, 1915, at the age of 21, barely a, week after' leaving England with his regiment, and it jb t° him that she addresses the words of her .'diary:— "I've got things to do for both of ua, and then I will come as quickly as I can. \Dearest heart, I know you are there, and I live witli you, and 1 will write for you. Other people are near, but they are not close to me: To you only do I belong, just as you belong to me. Nobody knows how often lam with you. Indeed, I am always with you, and I begiu to feel that you know—that when I leave this house and this place it will be with you t and I.will never even for-the shortest space of time be away from ypu.- You have, me. You're in my flesh as well as in my soul. I give others my ''surplus*, love, but to you I hold and to you J: give my deepest love." Later passages show clearly the writer's purpose of lmjnortalishig her own country in her work: —"Now—now, 1 want to write recollections of my own country. Yes, I want to write about my own country" till I simply exhaust my store. Not only because it is a 'sacred debt' that I pay to my country because my brother and I were born there, but also because in my thoughts I range with him over all the remembered places. lam never far away from them: 1 long to renew them in-writing. Ah, the people—the people we loved there— of them, too, I want to write. Another 'debt of love.' Oh, I want for one moment to make our undiscovered country leap'into the eye/of'the Old World. It must be mysterious, as though floating; It must take the breath. It must be 'one of those islands. . . .' I-shall tell everything, even of how the laundry basket squeaked" at '75.' But all must bo told with a- sense of mystery, a radiance, an afterglow, because you, my little sun of it,, are set. You have dropped over the dazzling brim of the world. Now I must play my part." The book which Katherine Mansfield promised her brother, she would write 'is ['Prelude." It was originally'called The Aloe." The .passages of the journal -explain the mood in which that work was conceived and written. ;

On 16th February. 1916, there is the author's acknowledgment of her art i— . ThdAloe is right. The Aloe is lovely. It simply fascinates me, and I know that it is what you would.wish me to write. (And now I know what the last chapter is. It is i your birth—your coming in the autumn. You in. Grandmother's arm's under the tree, your, solemnity, your wonderful beauty. Your hands, your head—your helplessnsss, lying.on the earth, and, above all, your., tremendous solemnity. That- chapter will end the book.

'• ZJ *«bruary> 1916:— ''I am sad tonight. Perhaps it is the old forlorn wind. And the thought of you spiritually is not enough to-night. I tfant you by me. I must get deep down into mv book, for then I shall be happy .Lose myself, lose myself to find you,* dearest Oh, I want this book, to be written. It must be done. It must be bound and wrapped and sent to New Zealand. I feel that with all my soul. It will be." ; Referring to the posthumous, publication, . "The Dove's Nest," which recently appeared, "The Guardian" remarks • It is of great, interest that this book is dedicated to Mr. Walter de la Mare whose 'The Kiddle' has only been pubhshed. a few weeks. Both collections of short stories contain masterpieces of the art; and yet they are amazingly dissimilar in style. In- days to come the student of literature of the Georgian age may perhaps compare the turbulent, fantastic prose of such a tale ns Mr. de la ' W "S 10 Vats'* with the silvery music of 'The Dove s Nest.' "■