THE UNPUBLISHED MANUSCRIPTS OF KATHERINE MANSFIELD

Turnbull Library Record, Volume 5, Issue 1, 1 May 1972, Page 19

THE UNPUBLISHED MANUSCRIPTS OF KATHERINE MANSFIELD

Margaret Scott

Part IV

Among the things of Katherine Mansfield’s in the possession of Miss Ida Baker were two manuscripts which were sold to a London dealer in the early 1950 s and cannot now be traced. Because they were so difficult to read and had, in fact, never been read or transcribed, Miss Baker retained a photocopy of both, hoping to be able to work on them. Failing eyesight, however, made this impossible and, well aware that transcribing Mansfield is virtually a hopeless task for the inexperienced, Miss Baker recently gave the photocopies to the Turnbull Library. Permission to publish them has been granted by Mrs Middleton Murry.

The larger of the manuscripts, entitled ‘Brave Love’, turned out to be a complete short story —not just ‘the opening pages’ referred to by Middleton Murry in a footnote in the Journal. Since a new, complete, unpublished story by Katherine Mansfield is an event of some literary importance, the editor of the Turnbull Library Record has generously agreed to its being published in Landfall, New Zealand’s major literary journal.

The other manuscript, a notebook of some 28 small pages, is published here. Apart from a few brief and fragmentary passages it consists of one situation: the young woman Elena and her small son Peter. Once again the interest is biographical and psychological rather than literary and for this reason dating is important. But the dating of an undated photocopy is even more difficult than that of an original manuscript where the paper itself sometimes gives a clue. In this case the use of an occasional German word would suggest that it was written in the second half of 1909 in Germany, either when Katherine Mansfield was pregnant or after the pregnancy when she was looking after Walter, the little boy from London. The death of Peter would be psychologically interesting if it were written at that time. But early in the story are three sentences (‘She loved to think of the world outside . . . Mon Dieu how quiet it was.’) which appear almost word for word in another fragment published in the Journal (p. 63) and dated 1914 by Middleton Murry. If this dating is correct, and it is likely to be so, the notebook was probably also written towards the end of 1914. Some support for this is in the notebook itself. The story of Elena and Peter is written on the recto pages only, but about half way through, on one of the verso pages, there appears this note: ‘One night when Jack was with Goodyear and I had gone to bed and he said that what he really wanted was a woman who would keep

him—yes, that’s what he really wanted. And then again, so much later, with Campbell, he said I was the one who submitted. Yes I gave way to him and still do—but then I did it because I did not feel the urgency of my own desires. Now I do and though I submit from habit now it is always under a sort of protest which I call an adieu submission. It always may be the last time.’ Since Katherine Mansfield had not yet met Murry when she was in Germany this note was written later than 1909, as was probably the whole notebook. On the following verso page she has written ‘Elena Bendall’ and ‘Peter Bendall’, using the name of a girlhood New Zealand friend.

The brilliant sunny weather. The pansies in the Kasino grounds—the lilac bushes. I see her walking under a parasol. The little sick boy. His death. The whole peasant family in mourning—that night Peter goes to see her and they kiss.

It was evening. The lamp was lighted on the round table. The frau tapped, came in and took away the supper tray. ‘Shall I draw the curtains gnadige frau?’ she whispered. Her face very scarlet from cooking and her eyes burnt by the fire made her look like a little girl who has been playing in the wind. ‘No’ said Elena, ‘I will draw them later. The light is so lovely.’ The frau smiled at her and went out, setting down the tray in the hall that she might close the door more quietly. Elena heard her steps on the stairs, heard the eager babble that greeted her as she opened the kitchen door—that always greeted her. She is like a bird flying back to her nest, thought Elena, and then the house was quiet again. The lovely light shone in the window. She loved to think of the world outside white under the mingled snow and moonlight. White trees, white fields, the heaps of stones by the roadside white, snow in all the furrows. Mon Dieu how quiet it was. There is nobody except the moon, she thought, and she saw the moon walking over the snow, walking slowly through the heavy forests like a hunter, landing upon the tops of hills as though she stood upon a wave crest, bending over the sleeping gardens, gathering from the sleeping gardens white and green roses, slipping through the frozen bushes and looking into tiny houses, smiling strangely. She had a feeling that two wings rushed to open in her breast. ‘O I want to sing.’ She got up quickly and walked across the room to Peter’s bed. She sat down on the edge of it. Peter was not asleep. Propped up against the pillows, his arms along the sheet, he looked as beautiful a little boy as ever ran away from Heaven. His straight black hair was tumbled. There were two little spots like cherry stains on his

cheeks, his red lips were parted, the collar of his cream flannel nightgown stood up in two peaks to his chin. ‘Sleepy?’ asked Elena smiling. He shook his head. Of course he was not sleepy. How could he have been sleepy with eyes like that. O how she longed to sing! ‘What are you thinking about Peter?’ ‘Nothing my Mother’ said Peter, giving the lie to his imploring beseeching eyes. ‘Really nothing?’ She bent down the better to see him. Suddenly he lifted his hands and then clasped them and let them fall—so—but still he did not speak. Only his eyes implored her—troubled terrified eyes. How strange he looked—he must be feverish. She put her pretty caressing hand on his forehead and brushed his fringe to the outside. Yes he was feverish. A little web of sweat hung on his face. ‘Do you feel quite well?’ she asked tenderly. He nodded Yes

and at the same time she knew what his eyes were saying. ‘Mother do not sing. Mother I could not bear you to sing tonight.’ She never doubted his feeling for an instant. She knew, more plainly than if he had spoken, whether he were conscious of it or not, Peter was imploring her not to sing. But the knowledge did not take away her longing—her longing pushed in her breast. It was wild, it would not be denied. Free me—free me! Mother, implored Peter’s eyes, do not sing tonight. But I must sing Peter. The longing is far stronger than I —and when she had asserted the fact to herself it became so. It leapt up, cruel and eager. If he did not want me to sing he would say so, she thought. He is not a baby-—not such a baby as that. She took his hand between hers, tenderly,

tenderly she stroked. She carried it to her eager bosom as though to make him feel how her desire pressed. A mysterious fascinating smile parted her lips, her nostrils quivered. She breathed deeply and with the breath her beauty flowered. Rich she was and powerful. ‘You ought to be asleep’ she whispered fondly. ‘lt’s long past your sleeping time darling —would you like Mother to sing you to sleep, Peter?’ Her words flew, explaining. Deliberately she veiled her eyes and did not meet his. ‘But not really sing—just make up as I go along, a song for a sleepy boy, about the moon darling, about the moon.’ The hand she held did not quiver. She put it down. She looked about her at the shadowy room, at the window where the strange light beckoned. As in a dream she saw the dark head on the white pillows. Beautiful! Beautiful! And she lifted her bosom to those urgent wings. But she would only sing gently, only softly Peter. Listen. Snow is falling. Out of the sky falls the snow, like green and white roses and nobody sees but the moon. From her cloud pillows the moon arises and floats with the falling snow and gathers the green and white roses, the little white buds of snow, in her gleaming fingers. Softly, softly. As she sang she stood up and singing still she went to the window and put her arms along the frame. Peter shut his eyes. He floated into his mother’s singing bosom and rose and fell to her

breath. His wonderful mother had wings. Yes, yes she could fly. She flew with him out of the window to show him the snow and to give him some of the roses. He felt the snow on his chest and creeping up to his throat it formed a little necklace round his neck. It crept up —but not to my mouth Mother. Mother, not over my eyes.

In the middle of her singing there came a knock at the door. Two sharp knocks, they were like a blow on the heart to her. Still half under the spell of her singing like a queen she flung the door open. The doctor stood on the landing in his big driving coat. He was beating his fur hat against the stair rail. ‘I am afraid I am interrupting’ he said, and from his voice she thought he was accusing her. Her lips curled. ‘Not at all’ she said coldly. He strode into the room pulling off his big coat. She shut the door and leaned against it. ‘The young man’s never asleep, is it?’ said the doctor. Still the same tone. ‘Yes he is asleep’ said Eleanor [sic] and she felt her glow ebb away from her like a retreating wave. The doctor went over to the bed. He parted the sheets and caught hold of Peter’s arm to raise him. Suddenly she saw an extraordinary alertness in his face, in his movements. He dropped on one knee and put his arm under Peter’s shoulder. ‘Bring over that lamp’ he commanded, ‘and take off the globe. Quick now!’ She held the lamp in her two hands. She felt the blood creep, creep away from her body. She saw the doctor give Peter a long searching glance, and then put him back on the pillows and straighten the sheet. ‘So that’s it’ he said, shooting out his lower lip and frowning. ‘What!’ The word dropped from her lips like a pebble. The young doctor barely glanced at her. This time the sneer was unmistakable. ‘You know as well as I do’ he said. ‘Here, give me that lamp.’ And as he took the lamp from her he said quite calmly ‘He is dead of course.’

There is always something wonderfully touching in the sight of a young mother with a delicate child —and when the mother is beautiful and radiant, and when the child is like her but terribly unlike, a little shadow page carrying with bird-like hands his mother’s glory —then the sight is enough to melt the most frozen heart. Not a heart had withstood Elena and Peter throughout the Journey. Arms had shot out to lift little Peter up and down steps, in and out of railway carriages, eyes had caressed them, Peter had been offered flowers and cakes—even some silver cachous from a minute flask dragged out of her red pocket by a French baby with long yellow boots on. Now it was the end of the day and the last stage of their journey. They had only one hour more,

one town more. From her dressing case Elena took out a bottle of eau de cologne, shook some on to her handkerchief, and raising her veil slightly she held the handkerchief to her lips and nostrils. She did not really want the eau de cologne. She was not really exhausted but her perfect sense of the dramatic fitness of things prompted the action. She could not bear that even so small an audience —half a dozen people in a railway carriage—should go away indifferent or unsatisfied. She felt bound to play exquisitely for them. Why she even took the trouble to play exquisitely for Peter when he and she were alone together. Sometimes in front of her mirror she played most exquisitely of all. She quite realised it, she would have acknowledged the fact frankly. You see, as a

singer I am more or less a public woman, and I find it really frightfully difficult to keep my private and my public life apart. Also, I feel so much myself on the stage that perhaps I only act when I am off. Yes, well, there was some truth in that. It was sunset. They were going through fields of tall gleaming flowers. In the deep bright light they looked more silver and gold than white and yellow. There were blue flowers like lapis lazuli and a tall red plant with flowers like plumes. In the distance the horizon was banked by forests of fir and pine black against a glittering golden sky. The sun sets to a fanfare of trumpets, thought Elena, and she longed to compose a hymn to the departing sun —

in French. Sole'll —it was lovely—it has a wonderful caressing sound. Suddenly she felt a soft pressure on her arm. Peter was leaning against her, his head lying on his chest. There was hardly anything to be seen of him but the charming back of his white neck and the faint V of hair between the two neck bones. She bent over him—and just for a moment she caught the tender glance and smile of the old woman opposite. He has gone to sleep I know. I have had them too. Many many children this old lap has carried, said the glance and the smile. ‘Asleep darling?’ asked Elena. Peter looked up, his wonderful grey eyes blind, hidden by the curly lashes. She said ‘Come. Come on to my lap.’ With a very

graceful supple movement she gathered up her little son and held him in her arms. Like all children he was not merely asleep —he was drowned in sleep. Helpless, his arms and legs dangling, his head jerking to the train. She put his head in the hollow of her neck and rested her own on his silky black hair. ‘That’s better, isn’t it,’ she whispered. Peter gave a sigh, and again Elena caught the glance of the old woman opposite—kindly, envious. The old woman looked sadly at her hands as though she asked in remembrance. Again she looked out of the window. A breeze flew among the daisies, ruffling their petals—she fancied she could smell their bitter scent. And suddenly she remembered a year in her childhood when the hills and the valleys of her home had been smothered under these same flowers,

and the schoolchildren had dragged a toboggan to the top of the tallest hills and made a slide. She heard again their shrieks and screams of excitement. They had been too excited to wait their turn in the toboggan. They had rolled and tumbled among the feathery snow, and jumped up and down, running through the daisies, pulling each other, until all the side of the hill lay in green tatters. She remembered now the agony she had felt and been ashamed to show. Yes, to this very day she regretted her part in it. It had left a wound for life. She sighed. Yes, life! What animals 1 and worse children are! thought Elena—and she turned from the window and wondered how on earth she could bear any more of this journey. Really the last moments of a journey are intolerable. If she could only share the state of apathy that these people were sunk in. The noise of the train seemed to act upon them like a

drug. They were content to be carried away. But their stupid country faces, so [ ], 2 so soothed, revolted her faintly as she watched them. No, she would rather suffer these strange pangs of excitement that set upon her at the end of a journey. Any journey—it was always the same. Though more than half her life had been spent in travelling the thrill remained. The unknown place to which she travelled had in her head a fanciful image. It was a town. Ah it was always the poor quarter that she saw first. The narrow streets, the tall houses teeming with careless unruly life. Footsteps ran through them ceaselessly, they ran through the narrow dark vein of the houses. Strange doors banged open, banged shut. In the basements lived the dregs of humanity—old men who kept birds in tiny cages or bought rabbit skins or sold little paper bags of coal and wood. On the roof there were thin cats and pigeons and vulgar clothes hanging out to dry. And the shops, the little shops that she

loved brimmed over on to the pavement. They were lighted with long whistling flares of gas —or stalls lighted by candles in round glass globes —or by lamps benign in spreading shades like haymakers’ hats. And then there were the cafes and the little [ ] 2 bars. The swing doors opened, the sound of a gramophone rushed out, mingled with the clink of glasses and girls’ laughter and men’s voices very loud. I will go there, I will go there. To the fringe of the town, to the new roads sticky with clay where the railway thrust out roots of iron, where the houses dark and blind reared up in the air as though for the first time or the last. Yes, there she was walking, her coat collar turned up, her hands in her pockets. A little fox terrier dog rooted in the gutters full of dead leaves. Or it was a village of white and green houses with red geraniums at the windows and lilac bushes in the garden. She was leaning out of the window in the evening. Below her the hay carts were passing, and the air smelt of hay. Behind the haycarts came the girls with scarlet cheeks. One of them carried a cornflower bush in her hands, another carried

poppies. And although these things never came to pass it did not matter. Faced with reality she did not even regret them. They faded out of her mind until they were forgotten, then on the torn web of the old dream the new dream began silently to spin. But what was the quality in them that excited her so, that [made] her tremble. Her mouth burned. Her heart beat powerfully. She had scarcely room in her body for her quick breath. Like a woman on the way to her lover who shifts her own despairing impatience by crying to him Yes, yes, I am coming, I am coming as fast as I can, I am on my way now, I am hurrying, hurrying to you — so Elena cried out to herself. And Peter, the unfamiliar burden, did not see the gold burn out of the sky. He did not see the forest rush to surround the train like an army and then fall back leaving fields again, and more fields threaded with streams and spanned with wooden bridges. Not even the shrill toy-like whistling of the engine waked him as the train drew up at the station. Then he rubbed his eyes and staggered as Elena set him down like a bird fallen out of a nest. ‘Try and wake up for a little while Peter,’ she said. ‘You shall go to bed . . .’

NOTES 1 Uncertain reading. 2 Illegible.