‘Mansfield’ by Xu Zhimo

Turnbull Library Record, Volume 22, Issue 2, 1 October 1989, Page 85

‘Mansfield’ by Xu Zhimo

TRANSLATED BY SHIFEN GONG

This joy in the inner recesses of my heart, This vast realm of my feeling, If Paradise itself should fall, or Hell open its doors, The treasure within me will never be destroyed. Dusk on the River Cam 1 The remembrance of beauty is the most precious possession in life. The ability to perceive beauty is a magic key to Paradise given us by God. Some temperaments, mine, for example, fluctuate like the weather. There may be sunshine one moment and cloud next, a raging tempest may be followed by a radiant spring day. Sometimes disillusionment makes me profoundly cynical and pessimistic, it oppresses my heart like a leaden weight, like a gloomy winter fog, surrounding me with a frozen, lifeless landscape. I become sceptical about everything: the universe, life, myself. They are all illusions. Human feelings, hopes, ideals, they are all mere vanity. Ah, human nature, how, If utterly frail though art and vile, If dust thou art and ashes, is thy heart so great? If thou art noble in part, How are thy loftiest impulses and thoughts By so ignoble causes kindled and put out?

Sopra un ritratto di una belladonna The above is from a poem by that most profoundly pessimistic poet Leopardi. On the tombstone of a deserted grave there hung the portrait of a lady, who lay buried within. Its beauty caused the poet to start searching for the answer to this essential question: if life is rational why should it contain so many contradictions? If beauty is an illusion, why should it excite such an intense response in the human heart? If beauty is real, why should it decay like common things? Leopardi’s vision was like the beam of a lighthouse. He tore the veil from the illusory phenomena of this material world; he even stripped religion bare and revealed it as a mere dream. Yet he could not deny beauty.

He could only consider the creation of it a wonder. Neither could he deny the nobility of spiritual love, although he did not believe women could attain to so high an ideal. He had to acknowledge the intimations of paradise conveyed by those momentary feelings of pure beauty and love. He recognised these feelings as the most valuable experience in life. Whenever I feel empty or depressed, it is the memory of these feelings that brings a surge of warmth from the depths of my icy heart, and purges away the accretion of ennui, the sediment of pessimism. To see a world in a grain of sand, And a Heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour

Auguries of Innocence William Blake This sense of the mysterious is certainly not universal, nor is it even usual. The practical minded are bound to mock at mysticism. They will never believe that such a thing as the nervous system, the functioning of which can be explained by science, can at the same time produce a sense of mystery beyond the reach of science. Yet there are things in this world that can be talked about only with those who know. Once in the sixteenth century, an Italian missionary scholar visited the English countryside. He saw a large field of clover in full blossom shining in the sun like a dancing lake of palest gold. He was so overjoyed that he knelt down immediately and prayed to God, thanking him for this experience of beauty, for the wonders of nature. His eccentric behaviour was undoubtedly laughed at by the local villagers. The experience I am going to tell of here is, I think, somewhat similar. But I am sure some of my readers will be sympathetic, and I am not afraid of being ridiculed by the locals!

It was a wet evening last July. 2 Braving the rain I walked alone through the streets of Hampstead, asking policemen and pedestrians the way to No. 10 Pond Street. On that evening I had my first, and, alas, my last encounter with Mansfield —my ‘twenty immortal minutes’. I already knew John Middleton Murry, who was the editor-in-chief of the Athenaeum, a poet and a well-known critic, and Mansfield’s closest companion in the last ten years of her life. They started living together in 1913, but she always used the ‘pen name’ Katherine Mansfield, which she adopted after settling in England. She was born in New Zealand. Her original name was Kathleen Beauchamp. She was one of the daughters of Sir Harold Beauchamp, chairman of the Bank of New Zealand. She had left her native land fifteen years before I met her. Together with her three sisters, she first went to England and studied at Queen’s College, London University. 3 Even as a child she was known for her good looks and intelligence. But she always had delicate health. She later lived in Germany, where

she wrote her first stories, published in the collection In a German Pension. Then she spent some time in France during the war. In recent years she had spend a lot of time in Switzerland, Italy and the south of France. She had lived mostly abroad because of her poor health. She could not bear the wet foggy London weather. To be with her, Murry had to give up part of his work (this is why the Athenaeum merged with the London Nation). He followed his angel in her search for health. After the war, she had contracted tuberculosis and a doctor had given her no more than two or three years to live. So Murry’s days with her were numbered. With every sunrise and every sunset, her beauty became more and more transfigured by the approach of death, and her last energies were consumed. Her fate recalls the famous words spoken by the Lady of the Camellias, as she passed the days of her critical illness in wine and pleasure: ‘You know I have not long to live. Therefore I will live fast!’

It is hard to conceive the helpless sorrow that the tender Murry must have felt as he watched this most beautiful of all sunsets gradually fade. Mansfield’s way of ‘living fast’ was different from that of the Lady of the Camellias. She never indulged in wine and pleasure. Instead she devoted herself to her writing. Like the nightingale on summer nights in the elm-woods, she sang her songs of love with her heart’s blood, until she could sing no more. Even then, she still considered it her duty to dedicate her remaining energy to the task of adding a little beauty to nature, of giving a little artistic consolation to this wretched world. Her hard work produced two collections of stories: Bliss, and The Garden Party (published last year). 4 She established herself in the British literary world with the stories in these two collections. While most fiction is mere fiction, hers is pure literature, true art. Mediocre writers crave popularity, the acclaim of the ephemeral public, but she wanted to bequeath to the world a few genuine crystals, whose glory would not be darkened by the ‘dust of time’. She sought appreciation from that minority of readers who really understood her.

Because hers is pure literature, its brilliance is not shown, it is hidden deep within. It requires careful perusal to reach the essence. I had the honour of being granted by her in person the right to translate her works. Now that she is dead, I must treasure all the more this task entrusted to me, though I doubt if I can be worthy of it. My good friend Chen Tongbo, 5 who must be better versed in European literature than anyone else in Peking, has lectured on Mansfield at Peking University, in his course on the short story. Lately he, too, has promised to do some translations of her work, and for this I will be deeply grateful to him. I hope that one day he will find time to say something further on her art as a short story writer. Now let me tell you about the night I met Mansfield. A few days

before, I had a discussion on English and French literature with Murry at the noisy ABC cafe behind Charing Cross. In passing I mentioned the Chinese literary renaissance of recent years. I told him that Chinese novelists had mostly been influenced by Russian writers. He almost jumped for joy on hearing that, since both he and his wife worshipped the Russians. He had made a study of Dostoievsky and written a book entitled Dostoievsky: A Critical Study. As for Mansfield, her preference was for Chekhov. It was a source of constant regret to them that Russian literature had been so little noticed by the English. They believed that this neglect had enabled Victorian philistinism to exercise an influence over the content and form of fiction right up to the present day. Then I inquired how Mansfield was. He said that she was quite all right for the moment, and that he had been able to bring her back to London for two weeks. He gave me their address and asked me to meet her and their friends the next Thursday evening. So I would see Mansfield. I was the luckiest of men. The following Wednesday I visited H. G. Wells at his country house in Easton Glebe and returned to London with his wife the next day. It was raining hard that day. I remember being soaked to the skin by the time I arrived home.

It was hard to find their house. (I always have great trouble finding my way in London. I really hate this labyrinthine city.) Finally I reached the place, a small two-storey house. Murry opened the door. I felt a bit awkward, standing there, holding an umbrella and several Chinese scrolls, paintings and examples of calligraphy that had just been returned to me by a friend of mine. I entered the house, took off my raincoat, and was led into a room on the right. Until then I had had a holy reverence for Mansfield as a famous young woman writer. I had never expected to find in her a creature of ‘beauty and grace’. I had presumed her to be a literary woman in the style of Rose Macaulay, Virginia Woolf, Roma Wilson, Mrs Lucas and Vanessa Bell. Male writers and artists have always had a reputation for eccentricity. Today, women writers seem to strive to be even more eccentric. The most conspicuous thing about them is the way they dress: in as simple and plain a style as possible. They try to be unfashionable and ‘anti-feminine’. They wear their hair short, never combing it, but just letting it fall in a tangle down on their shoulders. Their stockings are always made of coarse stuff. Their shoes are either muddy or dusty, and always in the ugliest style. As for their skirts, they are either too short or too long. They sometimes have a couple of ‘genius yellow haloes’ 6 in between their brows, or sometimes they wear those repulsive tortoiseshell American spectacles. They never wear make-up or jewellery. Instead, the occasional cigarette stain can be seen on their fingers. Nine out of ten times their laughter is louder than that of their male companions. They stick out their chests and stomachs when they walk, giving no hint

whatsoever that they are descended from Eve. When they talk, they use language that men would not dare to use. Their favourite topics are probably the Freudian complexes, birth control, or private press editions of works by George Moore and James Joyce such as A Storyteller’s Holiday and Ulysses Their whole personality is a caricature of feminism (Amy Lowell is said to be a chain smoker of cigars!). It is certainly entertaining to spend time with these ‘intelligence-above-all’ females, who are determined to act against God’s will. But sometimes I can not help finding them altogether too pretentious. As a man, I feel an intense antipathy towards them. Although I never expected Mansfield to be futuristic, I had certainly never imagined her as an ideal of femininity. So when I pushed the door open, I was almost expecting a middle-aged, kindly woman to stand up from the sofa in front of the fireplace, greet me with a smile, and shake me by the hand.

But as it turned out, the room a long narrow one, with a fireplace opposite the door —contained not a single soul. A lamp cast a calm, pale yellow light. Paintings hung on the walls, and ornaments stood on the mantelpiece, in a variety of colours. A few easy chairs with patterned covers were placed before the fire. Murry told me to sit down in one of the chairs and started chatting with me. We talked about the similarities between the oriental Goddess of Mercy, Guan Yin, the Blessed Virgin Mary in Christianity, the Greek Virgin Diana, the Egyptian Isis and the Virgin in Persian Mithraism. The virginal saint seemed an indispensable symbol in every religion. We were in the midst of a heated discussion when there was a sound at the door. A young lady came in and stood smilingly in the entrance. ‘Could this be Mansfield? She is so young . . .’ I said to myself. She had brown curly hair and a small rounded face, lively eyes and an expressive mouth. She was dressed in bright colours; patent leather shoes, green silk stockings, a rose-coloured silk blouse and a plum-coloured velvet skirt.

She stood there gracefully, like a tulip nodding in the breeze. Murry stood up and introduced us. She was not Mansfield, but the landlady, a Miss Beir or Beek (I forget exactly). Murry was living there temporarily. She was an artist, and most of the paintings on the walls were her work. She sat down in the chair opposite me, taking something like a miniature motor from the mantelpiece and holding it in her hand. Then she put on a pair of earphones like the ones used by telephonists, and when she talked, she leaned over and tried to get very close to me. At first I thought what she had on was some sort of electronic toy. But later I realised that this pretty lady had trouble in hearing (as I had in seeing), and had to use some mechanical means to make good nature’s deficiency. (At the time I thought what a good subject it would be for a poem ‘The Deaf Beauty’. It would be impossible to ‘whisper sweet nothings’ to such a lady!).

She had just sat down when the door bell rang loudly; it seemed to me to be unusually loud. The man who came in was Sydney Waterlow, whom I had met at Mr Roger Fry’s. He was a very humorous individual. Once, to amuse us, he took out from his huge pocket half a dozen pipes in different sizes and colours. As soon as he came in, he asked Murry how Katherine was that day. I was all ears to hear his answer: ‘She is not coming downstairs tonight. It’s been such terrible weather today. None of us can stand it’. Mr Waterlow asked him if he could go upstairs to see her, and Murry agreed. Then he politely excused himself to Miss B, and stood up. He was about to leave the room when Murry went over to him and said in a low voice: ‘Sydney, don’t talk too much!’

Light footsteps were heard from upstairs. W was already in Katherine’s room. Presently two more guests came, a short one, a Mr M, who had just come back from a journey to Greece, and a tall handsome gentleman called Sullivan, who wrote the science column in the London Nation and Athenaeum. M told us about his trip to Greece, reciting all the names of ancient Greek sites such as Parnassus and Mycenae. S also inquired about Katherine. Murry told him she was not coming downstairs and that W was at that moment upstairs with her. Half an hour later, the heavy footsteps of W were heard coming down the stairs. S asked him if Katherine was tired. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘she doesn’t seem to be. But I can’t tell. I was afraid of wearing her out, so I left her.’ After a while, S also received permission to go upstairs from Murry, who gave him the same warning not to tire her. Murry then asked me about Chinese painting and calligraphy. I used the scrolls I had brought to give him a brief introduction to Chinese calligraphy. That evening I had with me a painting by Zhao Zhiqian, called ‘Plums in Cursive Script’, a piece of cursive script by Wang Juesi, and a piece of running script by Liang Shanzou. I opened them and displayed them all. Miss B sat close to me with her hearing-aid in her hand, and seemed to be enjoying what I was saying.

But I was feeling profoundly disappointed. I had braved the rain to see the author of Bliss only to find her unable to come downstairs and receive her friends. The way W, S and Murry treated her made her seem all the more precious; it only increased my curiosity. I thought myself exceptionally unlucky. There she was, confined to her own room, into which it seemed that only old friends were allowed. I was a foreigner and a stranger, and it would be impossible for me to gain access. It was now half past ten, and with some reluctance I stood up and said my goodbyes. Murry saw me to the door. As he helped me on with my raincoat, I said how very sorry I was that Miss Mansfield had not been able to come downstairs, and how very pleased I would have been to see her. To my surprise, Murry responded by saying with great earnestness: ‘lf you wish to, you may go upstairs and see her’. I was

overjoyed, took off my raincoat immediately and followed him step by step up the stairs. Once upstairs, we knocked at the door, and went into the room. I was introduced, and S took his leave, going out of the room with Murry, and closing the door behind him. Mansfield told me to sit down, which I did, and then she sat down too. This long complicated procedure seemed to happen in an instant. In fact I was not even consciously aware of it taking place. I am just presuming now, in retrospect, that we must have gone through all these motions. Everything seemed so blurred to me at the time. And now when I recall it in my memory, it still seems blurred. Whenever we enter a brightly-lit house from a dark street, or when we leave a dim house and walk into the brilliant sunshine, we feel dizzy with the sudden brightness. We have to stand still for a while before we can see what is in front of us. Our senses are overwhelmed by excessive light. It is not only excessive light; strong colours too have the effect of‘overwhelming’ our senses. That evening my senses may not have been overwhelmed by the brilliance of Mansfield’s personality, but the lighting in her room and the strikingly bright colours of her jewellery and the clothes she was wearing confused my unprepared senses for an instant. It was perhaps understandable.

I do not have a particularly clear impression of her room. While she was talking to me, I was unable to detach myself and scrutinise my surroundings. All I remember is that the room was rather small. A large bed occupied most of it. Several oil-paintings hung on the papered walls, probably again the work of the landlady. She sat with me on the couch, against the wall to the left of the bed. Because she was sitting upright and I was reclining, she seemed to be much taller than I was (indeed, who would not seem small in her presence?). I suspect that the two lamp-shades were red. Otherwise why should I always associate her room with the image of ‘red candles burning on high’? But the setting was in the end unimportant. What mattered was Mansfield herself and that ‘purest aesthetic feeling’ that she inspired in me. She enabled me to use the magic key to Paradise given me by God; she added new treasure to my soul. But even such high-flown language as this is inadequate to describe her as she was on that night! It is difficult enough to describe my own impressions of her that day, let alone to conjure up in words the very essence of her personality. Once upon a time there was a man who dreamed that he had journeyed to paradise. He was beside himself with joy. The moment he rose from his bed the next morning he went to see his friends, wanting to describe to them in detail his wonderful dream. But instead he found himself quite tongue-tied and incapable of uttering a single word. None of the expressions he had learned in this world seemed to him adequate to describe the paradise of his dream. This filled him with such frustration

and anger that he decided never to speak again from that day forth. And in the end he died of melancholy. I have almost the same feeling when I try to find words with which to bring Mansfield to life. But I would rather risk profaning the sacred than die a wretched death like that honest gentleman. She was dressed in a similar fashion to her friend Miss B. She too had on a pair of shiny patent leather shoes and bright green stockings. She wore a burgundy velvet skirt and a pale yellow silk blouse, with elbow-length sleeves, and a string of fine pearls around her bare neck. She had black hair, cut short like Miss B’s. But the way her hair was combed was something I had never before seen in Europe or America. I suspected that she was intentionally imitating the Chinese style, for her hair was pitch black and straight, and cut in a neat fringe at the front. It was extraordinarily well combed. Though I could not hope to do it justice in words, I felt that hers was the most beautiful hair I had ever seen.

As for her features, I would never be able to describe a thousandth part of their crystalline beauty. Before her you felt yourself in the presence of one of nature’s masterpieces: an alpine lake bathed in autumnal moonlight; a sunset swathed in roseate clouds; or a clear, star-studded night sky of the southern seas. Or she was like a masterpiece of art: one of Beethoven’s symphonies, or Wagner’s operas, or a sculpture by Michelangelo, or a painting by Whistler or Corot. There is something about such beauty that is complete, pure, perfect, irreducible, ineffable. It is as if you have been granted a direct insight into the creator’s will, a most intense experience, bringing with it a feeling of infinite joy. It cleanses the soul to be in the presence of a truly great personality. Mansfield’s features seemed to me like the purest Indian jade, her gaze alive with spiritual revelation, her manner gentle as a spring breeze. She gave me a sense of what I can only call total beauty. She was like crystal. You could not but marvel at the flawless purity of her spirit. The brightly coloured clothes she was wearing might have aroused some trifling criticism had they been worn by someone else. But on her it looked so becoming, like green leaves, the peony’s indispensable complement. H. M. Tomlinson, a good friend of hers, once compared her transcendent beauty to that of the pristine snow on the Alps. I think it a wonderful comparison. He said,

She has been called a beautiful woman. That is hardly the word. Beauty, as we commonly understand it, is attractive. Katherine Mansfield’s beauty was attractive, but it was also unearthly and a little chilling, like the remoteness of Alpine snow. The sun is on it, and it is lovely in a world of its own, but that world is not ours. Her pallor was of ivory and there was something of exquisite Chinese refinement in the delicacy of her features, her broad face, her dark eyes, the straight thick fringe, and her air of quiet solicitude. And her figure was so fragile that a man beside her felt his own sound breathing to be too evident and coarse for proximity to the still light of that wax taper, a pale star sacramental to what was unknown. 7

He went on to write of her penetrating gaze, the way her eyes pierced to the very depths of your soul and brought up into the light every secret hidden within it. There was something uncanny about her, something supernatural. When she looked at you, Tomlinson wrote, what she saw of you was not your outward appearance, but your innermost heart. But she did not wish to pry, she was not inquisitive, merely sympathetic. With her you felt no need for caution. She knew everything about you without having to be told. And when you told her your story she would not be surprised. She would offer neither blame nor praise, nor would she urge you on to any particular course of action. She would neveroffer any practical advice. She would just listen, quietly, and then offer her thoughts, which contained a wisdom that transcended conventional morality.

These impressions of Tomlinson’s were those of a man who had had the benefit of a long friendship with her. In my twenty minutes I could not reach such an understanding. But from the spiritual light that emanated from her eyes, I venture to say that the truth of his words is beyond doubt. That night, as we sat together on the blue velvet couch, a soft light quietly enveloped her. As if in a hypnotic trance, I stared into her mystical eyes, letting her sword-like gaze penetrate my being, while the music of her voice washed over me and flooded into the depths of my soul. Whatever consciousness I had left resembled Keats’s:

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk . . . ’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness . . . Her voice was another miracle. Notes rippled from her fragile vocal cords one after the other, revealing to my common ears a world of wonders, bright stars appearing one by one in a sapphire sky. It was like listening to music which you known you have never heard before, and which yet seems familiar, perhaps from a dream, or from a previous life. Her voice was pleasing to the ear. It seemed to reach directly to the depths of your soul, soothing its hidden pain, kindling half-dead hopes, washing away stultifying worldly cares, and revitalising your spirits. It was as if she were murmuring into the ear of your soul, communicating some news from a fairy land that you had never dreamt of. When I recall it now, I still feel a tragic sense of grief. Tears almost come to my eyes. She is gone. Her voice and her smile have vanished like a mirage. To console myself, I can only believe, with Abt Vogler

Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist When eternity affirms the conception of an hour. Enough that He heard it once: we shall hear it by and by. 8

I have already said that Mansfield had contracted tuberculosis. I saw her about six months before her death. 9 She spoke in a high-pitched voice that night. Her wind-pipe seemed to vibrate like a reed, and each time she finished speaking, she seemed short of breath and her cheeks became flushed. I found it most distressing to see how weak she was. The slightest excitement caused her to raise her voice, and when she did so she wheezed and her chest heaved almost visibly. The pity of it! I lowered my voice in the hope that she would do likewise, and for a while she spoke more quietly. But the moment she began to get carried away, she would raise her voice again. Finally I could not bear to see her consuming her energy in this way on my account, and remembering how Murry had repeatedly warned W and S, I took my leave. It was altogether no more than twenty minutes from the time I entered the room to the time she saw me out of it.

Our conversation was an interesting one. Most of the time, she was giving her opinion of some of the novelists then popular in England: Rebecca West, Roma Wilson, Hutchinson, Swinnerton and one or two others. I am afraid few of my readers will be familiar with these writers and so her views might not interest them. But Murry, who is one of the most learned of the younger English critics, and whose speech at Oxford last year, ‘The Problem of Style’, is judged to have been the most important contribution to criticism since Matthew Arnold, frequendy praises Mansfield’s brilliant literary judgement, her unfailing critical acumen. So I feel it would be a great shame not to record something of her casual remarks that evening. She told me that she had just come back from Switzerland, where she had lived close to the Russells. They often talked about the merits of the East. She had always had a respect for China, and now she found herself becoming one of its warm admirers. She said that what she liked best was Chinese poetry in the translations of Arthur Waley. She thought that the Chinese art of poetry was a wonderful revelation to the West. But she was disappointed with Amy Lowell’s translations. In this context she used one of her favourite expressions: ‘That’s not the thing!’ She asked me if I had done any translations myself, and encouraged me several times to have a try. She believed that only a Chinese could translate Chinese poetry.

She asked me whether I wrote fiction too. Then she inquired which of Chekhov’s stories the Chinese liked best, and if they were welltranslated, and which other writers had exerted an influence on Chinese literature. She asked me which novelists I liked best. I said Hardy and Conrad’s work was wonderful. She raised her eyebrows and smiled. ‘lsn’t it! We have to go back to the old masters for good literature —the real thing!’

She asked what I was going to do when I returned to China. She hoped I would not get involved in politics. Politics was such a cruel, wicked mess the world over, she said with great indignation. After that we talked about her own writings. I said that her work was such pure art that it might be beyond the reach of ordinary people. ‘That’s just it,’ she replied. ‘Then of course, popularity is never the thing for us.’ I told her that I might translate some of her stories and that I would like to ask her permission first. She seemed delighted, and agreed readily to my proposal. But at the same time she doubted if they were worth the trouble.

She looked forward to my revisiting Europe at an early date, and invited me to visit her if I was in Switzerland. She told me how she loved the Swiss scenery, and how lovely Lake Geneva was. Listening to her I thought I could feel the waves softly lapping against our boat, and see the mountains across the lake. Clear, placid Leman! . . . thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a Sister’s voice reproved. That I with stern delights should e’er have been so moved. Lord Byron 10

I promised her I would surely visit her when I returned to Europe. I was worried that she might be too tired. Before I finally left I expressed my regret at not having been able to see her earlier, and also my wish to see her again. She saw me off at the door and warmly shook me by the hand. Four weeks ago I learned that Mansfield had died in France, at Fontainebleau. I meant to write this piece of mine long ago, while she was still alive, but somehow my innate laziness got the better of me, I kept putting it off. And now it will have to be my tribute to her memory. I have also added a poem, which can perhaps more adequately express my deep sense of grief.

Mansfield: An Elegy I dreamed last night I was deep in a secluded valley, Listening to a cuckoo singing its heartblood among the lilies. I dreamed last night I was high on a mountain peak, Watching a glittering tear drop from the sky. To the west of Rome is a quiet garden, Where a foreign poet lies buried in violets. A century later the wheels of Hades’ chariot Turn roaring again in the green woods of Fontainebleau. If the universe is a heartless machine, Why do ideals shine before us like a flaming torch? If it is a creation of truth, kindness, and beauty, Why does the rainbow not dwell forever on the horizon?

Though I only met you once, It was an eternal twenty minutes! Who would have thought that such a sylph-like beauty Would leave this world as swiftly as the morning dew? No! Life is but a material illusion. That beautiful soul, forever blessed by God, Lived a mere thirty years like some rare and short-lived flower. With tear-filled eyes, I see you smiling as you return to your fairy abode.

Do you still remember, Mansfield, the promise we made in London? At Lake Geneva, where the snows of Mount Blanc are mirrored in the water, We were to meet this summer. Now I gaze sadly into the clouds, and let my Pars fall. When first I knew life I sensed in a dream the grandeur of love. Life’s awakening is the maturing of love, And now death shows me both life and love hang by a thread.

Sympathy is an unbreakable crystal. Love is the only way to live a life. Death is a great and mysterious furnace, Tempering the divinity of creation. Would that my grieving thoughts could fly like lightning To touch your soul in heaven? Shedding tears I ask the wind, When can the gate between life and death be broken?

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Womens Words A Guide to Manuscripts and Archives in the Alexander Turnbull Library Relating to Women in the Nineteenth Century COMPILED BY DIANA MEADS, PHILIP RAINER & KAY SANDERSON Published by the Alexander Turnbull Library, National Library of New Zealand ISBN 0-477-07412-X. 137 p. 1988. $22.00

Victoria’s Furthest Daughters A Bibliography of Published Sources for the Study of Women in New Zealand, 1830-1914 PATRICIA A. SARGISON

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Available from the National Library Bookshop, Molesworth Street, Wellington and all good booksellers

This article was originally published in a Chinese journal Short Story Magazine in 1923, and was influential in drawing attention to Mansfield and her work in China. Xu Zhimo (1896-1931) was a well known Chinese poet and critic.

REFERENCES I would like to acknowledge the assistance of Prof. John Minford, of the University of Auckland, in preparing this translation. 1 The poem was written by Xu Zhimo himself. 2 Xu Zhimo must have made an error in remembering the actual date of his meeting with Katherine Mansfield, for she left Murry for the Hotel Chateau Belle Vue, Sierre, with L. M., on 29 June, because of a rift between them. She did not return to London until 16 August, when she was accompanied by Murry and L. M. to Dorothy Brett’s house, No. 6 Pond Street, Hampstead. They both stayed there till the end of August. Then, Murry went to live in Vivian Locke-Ellis’s house at Selsfield in September while Katherine remained at Pond Street, meeting Orage, Koteliansky and attending lectures by P. D. Ouspensky. On 2 October she left for Paris, with L. M., and two weeks later she went to Fontainebleau. Hence Xu Zhimo must have seen her sometime during the last two weeks in August 1922. Likewise, the address he gave is also a mistake of rememberance. It should be 6 Pond Street instead of 10 Pond Street. 3 The author made a mistake here, for the Queen’s College which Katherine Mansfield attended in 1903 when she was fourteen was not connected with London University. It was situated in Harley Street and was the first institution to be created in England for the higher education of women.

4 The Garden Party and Other Stories was published by Constable in February 1922. 5 Chen Tongbo (1896-1970), writer and critic, was originally named Chen Yuan and later, Chen Xiying. Tongbo was his literary name, a name the old Chinese scholars used to indicate their status as men of letters, and as a creative writer he used the pen name Xiying. He met Xu Zhimo in England in 1920 shortly after the latter arrived from America, and the two became good friends. Chen Xiying went to England at the age of sixteen as a student and stayed there for ten years. He majored in Literature and Politics, and completed his doctorate in 1922, returning to China the same year where he was offered a professorship at Peking University in English Literature. In 1924 he and a number of other men of letters started a literary weekly Literary Criticism, of which he was the editor-in-chief in the Division of Literature. He wrote personal essays and literary criticism, and at the request of Xu Zhimo, translated some of Katherine Mansfield’s stories. Altogether he translated five complete stories, ‘Sun and Moon’, ‘The Doll’s House’, ‘The Man Without a Temperament’, ‘Taking the Veil’, and ‘The Lady’s Maid’, as well as excerpts from ‘At the Bay’ and ‘Prelude’. 6 I have been unable to discover whether this phrase refers to an actual cosmetic habit of the time. In ancient China pretty women with good manners painted their eyelids yellow to make them appear prettier, and it is said that Indian women also had the same convention. 7 This is a quotation from Tomlinson’s article ‘Katherine Mansfield’ published in the Nation and Athenaeum, v. 32, 20 January 1923, less than two weeks after Mansfield’s death. 8 The lines are taken from the tenth stanza of Robert Browning’s poem ‘Abt Vogler’. 9 Mansfield died on 9 January 1923. 10 These lines are taken from Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Stanza 85, Canto 111.