Yesterday I had de la veine and wrote in the afternoon and then went for a short walk along that bar that encloses the harbour. It was sunset. It’s a good place to walk—the sea on either side rushes up and the town—just showing a glimmer of light here and there—looked marvellous. I sat on a stone and began thinking “I believe it is perfectly necessary to one’s spiritual balance to be somewhere where you can see the sun both rise and set, etc., etc.” and such like nonsense—très sérieux—when I remarked a gazelle-like military form approaching—in blue with a braided cap. This ensemble, thought I, is exactly like the cover of a 95 centimes novel. Myself on a rock—a red sunset behind—this graceful form approaching… It came near—and then a blithe, cheerful dead sure voice positively hailed me. “Vous vous promenez seule, Madame?” I had a good look at the upstart. Olive skin, silk eyebrows and silky moustache. Vain—there is no word for it. I said, “Oui, Monsieur, seule.” “Vous demeurez à l’hôtel Beau Rivage, n’est-ce pas?” Silence. “Je vous ai déjà remarqué plusieurs fois.” (His French was right. Mine isn’t.) Then I looked up at him like Frank Harris would look at Dan Rider quoting Shakespeare—and he drew himself up, saluted, said “Ah, pardon je suis indiscret.” I said exactly like Harris, “Très indiscret, Monsieur,” and walked home. Scarcely had I gained the road when a gentleman in a cape approached and “Vous vous promenez seule, Madame?” But that was a bit too steep. I said, “Non, Monsieur, avec une canne—” What a race! They’re like the German commercial travellers! Send me a bulldog in your next letter, sweetheart.
K. Mansfield, letter to J. M. Murry (December 11, 1915)
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Damn those French.
Her letters are the best, and i love her French writing, including the mistakes.
