'HUNDREDS OF SELVES': THE BRITISHLIBRARY'S KATHERINE MANSFIELD LETTERS

SALLY BROWN

I N January 1920, Katherine Mansfield 'escaped' (as she declared in a letter to herhusband, John Middleton Murry) from the 'hell of isolation . . . the loneliness andfright'^ of the past few months, which had been spent at Ospedaletti on the ItalianRiviera. She was ill with tuberculosis, and her doctors had advised against anotherEnglish winter. Alone with her ever-faithful companion, Ida Baker—on whom she wasforced to depend completely, but who provoked in her an irritation which occasionallyexploded into hatred—she found herself leading the dufl, restricted life of an invalid.Shortly before leaving England she had bravely made light of her condition in a letterto Virginia Woolf ('I would I were a crocodile. According to your Sir Thomas Browneit is the only creature who does not cough . . .'),^ but she now felt exhausted and afraid,cut off from her London literary life and friends. An Italian postal strike plunged herinto despair —'Do you know what that means?', she later wrote to Murry, 'No letters,no wires. Nothing came through it for me . . .'^—and she fled to Menton, on theFrench side of the border, where she found refuge for four months, first in a privateclinic, then a villa owned by a rich cousin of her father's. Basking in this new atmosphereof calm and luxurious comfort, in her own spacious room 'with four windows,overlooking great gardens and mountains . . . a big writing-table with a cut-glassinkstand . . . a great bowl of violets . . .\^ she read Shakespeare, burying herself in herfavourite plays. Her journal for April records her reflections on 'that most sly, ambiguous,difficult piece of advice: "To thine own self be true". . . True to oneself! which self?Which of my many—well really, that's what it looks like coming to—hundreds ofselves?'^

Katherine Mansfield's ability to slip in and out of many 'selves', to change roles andassume different voices, is nowhere more apparent than in her letters. She has thechameleon quality described by Keats in a famous letter of 1818: 'A Poet . . . has noIdentity—he is continually informing and filling some other Body . . .'.^ Workingthrough her papers twenty-five years after her death, Murry commented, in a series ofletters preserved in the Schiff Papers at the British Library, on 'the extraordinaryalternations of Katherine's moods and attitudes'^ and reflected that ' . . . it's indubitablytrue that she tended to assume a personality to please her correspondent . . .'.^ Sadly,her letters to several important correspondents have not survived. She herself destroyed

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those to her early lover Florian Sobieniowski (for which he demanded forty poundsfrom her in 1920) and commanded Ida Baker to burn hundreds of her youthful letters,a parcel 'quite a foot square . . . treasured through all vicissitudes',^ in 1918. Very fewof the numerous letters she wrote to her family in New Zealand have so far come tolight; there are none to her close friend (and later implacable enemy) D. H. Lawrence,and only one to A. R. Orage, her sometime literary mentor and editor of the weeklyNew Age. The British Library is, therefore, particularly fortunate in possessing twosubstantial, and in both cases meticulously preserved, collections of her letters to thenovelist and critic Sydney Schiff and his wife Violet, and to the translator S. S.Kotehansky, as well as letters to Ida Baker and to her cousin Elizabeth Russell, a fewwritten to Lytton Strachey in 1916-19, and a single undated letter to the painter MarkGertler (see Appendix).

In reading through the British Library letters, one is immediately aware of KatherineMansfield's different 'voices' and the way in which the character of each of her friendsdetermines the persona which she adopts in writing to them. Even as a child (she wasborn Kathleen Mansfield Beauchamp a hundred years ago, in Wellington, New Zealand)she was an accomplished actress and 'performer', moving susceptible visitors to tearswith her recitations. She published, or lived, at times under the names Julian Mark,K. Bowden (the surname of her first husband, whom she left on the evening of theirwedding-day), K. Bendall and Matilda Berry; her letters were signed variously as Kass,Katerina, Kissienka, Wig, Tig, and Jones. In an early letter to her cousin Sylvia Payne,a schoolfriend at Queen's College, Harley Street, she wrote in 1906: 'Would you notlike to try all sorts of lives^one is so very small—but that is the satisfaction of writing—one can impersonate so many people.'*° Even where we hear only the merest snatch ofa voice, as in the letters to Gertler and Lytton Strachey, it is intriguingly distinct.Writing to Gertler (with whom she had a brief romantic intrigue in 1914), she adoptsa wheedlingly intimate tone, apologising for the 'grimy snowball' of rumour and intriguewhich 'I'd rather have done anything than start'.^^ With Strachey she is bright, ironicand 'social', wryly describing an unsuccessful Hampstead party at which 'Poor Murrywas rather like a porter who had got at last! his passengers into the railway carriage butwouldn't somehow leave them until the train went—the train would not go . . .',^^ orpainting a rather Jane Austen-like picture of herself in 'a corner away from the doorand the window, beating time with a fan and trying to keep my mittens over myelbows . . .'.̂ ^

Katherine Mansfield's first real meeting with Sydney and Violet Schiff (she had oncebriefly come across Sydney in London, and indeed reviewed a novel by 'StephenHudson', unaware that this was his nom de plume) was during her stay at her cousin'sVilla Flora, in Menton, in April 1920. The Schiffs were wealthy patrons and—as oneof her biographers puts it—'collectors of creative persons',^'^ dividing their time betweenLondon and the Riviera. Although she was occasionally repelled by them and (as aletter from Murry elsewhere in the Schiff Papers reveals) could be cuttingly 'harsh andcruel' behind their backs, ̂ ^ her letters to them, both together and separately, are intense,

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eager, and anxious to praise and please. In one of the first she is 'delighting in the factof having met you';^^ 'Life is so much the richer for knowing you both . . . Are youmy friends as much as I am your friend?'^'' she asks on her return to London in May.Later that month she sends them a description—uncannily reminiscent of T. S. Eliot'sThe Waste Land, ahhough that poem was not to appear until 1922—of a visit to herbank in the City: 'It is almost terrifying to see such blank strained faces—moving inthe fog . . .'.^^ Shortly afterwards, she announces that she has asked Eliot (a friend ofMurry's) and his wife to dinner: 'What will they be like, I wonder? The grey door ofmy room keeps on opening and opening in my mind and Mrs Elliot and Elliot [sic]enter. I can't see her at all . . .'.^^ (Later, writing to Violet from Switzerland in October1921, she remarks that 'Poor Ehot sounds tired to death. His London letter is all amaze of words . . .\Y^

'There is so much to write. There is so little time . . .',̂ ^ Katherine bursts out toViolet in the summer of 1920. She eagerly seizes every opportunity to 'talk over Artand Letters',^^ and discuss her own work, with such intelligent and receptive friends.During the course of their correspondence there is much discussion of contemporarywriters, especially Lawrence and Joyce. Katherine pronounces 'Prufrock' to be 'the bestmodern poem. It stays in the memory as a work of art . . .',^^ laments the lack of'passion', the 'deathly cautiousness' of recent EngUsh writing,^ and advises Sydneythat 'Delicate perception is not enough: one must find the exact way in which to conveythe delicate perception.'^^ Throughout the London letters of 1920 there are also,however, affectionate references to the quiet, companionable times spent with the Schiffsin Menton, and their villa at Roquebrune, set amidst lemon trees and intensely bluelavender bushes.

Writing from Switzerland to London in December 1921 (after a peaceful few monthswith Murry during which, although very ill, she had written a clutch of her mostbrilliant and successful short stories), Katherine expresses her delight in this friendshipwith a fierce nostalgia which perhaps reflects the relentless progress of her tuberculosis:'I want to be with you—to listen, talk, look, observe, absorb, remember, rejoice in. Itis so awfully nice to laugh at the same things . . .'.^^ Thereafter the correspondence ispunctuated with silences and misunderstandings. In March 1922 she writes from Paristhat 'I had made up my mind . . . that that horrible whispering gallery, London, haddecided you both to write no more . . .'.̂ '̂ The Schiffs moved in 'intelligent' circleswhich occasionally angered and bewildered her. Although Sydney and Violet areaddressed as 'Dear precious friends'^^ in August 1922, the letters draw to a close on anote of awkwardness and strain: 'I am so sorry my letter distressed you . . . There isnothing to undo as far as I am concerned . . .'.^^ The last farewell of aU, in an undatedletter sent that autumn, is at once pleading and rueful: 'Don't, if you can help it, think

me too horrid.'-^^In Katherine Mansfield's early letters to her Russian friend Koteliansky we are

presented with another 'self entirely, by turns brilliant, coquettish, enigmatic, wistfuland all-confiding. Juliette Huxley, in a memoir of Katherine and the 'Bloomsbury set',

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declared that 'K.M. wrote to [Koteliansky] her truly best letters . . . coming from herinnermost truth.'^^ Certainly, 'Kot' (as he was known to his circle) was an extremelyimportant figure in her life, the 'secret friend' to whom she wrote at times of greatesthappiness and misery. Leonard Woolf described him with vivid affection, shortly afterhis death in January 1955, as 'a remarkable man' of'passionate intensity and integrity',given to loud denunciation of all he found false and enthusiastic approval of 'what hefelt good, particularly in people'. 'Katherine', Kot declared, 'is a real person'.^^

Like Woolf, Katherine collaborated with Koteliansky in Russian translations whichneeded to be cast in a smoother, less idiosyncratic English than his own quaint (thoughoften inspired) renderings. Many of her letters to him express her delight in Russianauthors and her pleasure in their work together. They met for the first time in 1914,through D. H. Lawrence—who was later to turn violently against Katherine andMurry—and their own relationship was not without periods of estrangement, althoughthe rifts were always healed by a renewed gesture of friendship on Katherine's part.The letters begin in early 1915, four years after Koteliansky's arrival in England fromKiev University. He was clearly in some sense paying court to Katherine (at a timewhen she was restless and dissatisfied with Murry); she thanks him gracefully for 'thecigarettes in the charming little box and the chocolates . . . and the russian skirt fitswell—I like it.'^^ Clandestine meetings are arranged at the Russian Law Bureau (a smalloffice in High Holborn which translated and certified Russian documents). SoonKatherine is signing her letters 'Kissienka' and looking forward to the time 'when we'rein Russia'.^ The distinct note of flirtation—'Yes you are quite right. I am wicked.Would it be very rude if I asked you to send me a few cigarettes?'^^—is balanced by aserious wish that Koteliansky should admire and understand her overwhelming needto write. In March 1915 she writes from Paris of the nights 'full of stars and littlemoons and big zeppelins' and her inclination to 'write you a long letter but I am afraidyou cannot read my handwriting'^^ (a problem familiar to editors of her correspondence).

Later in this same month, Katherine sends Koteliansky one of her very happiestletters, in which she describes her dream of 'a little house hidden in a ring of poplartrees . . . in some place very far away' where 'we sit . . . in the evenings, smokeand drink tea . . .', and declares 'Yes, Kotiliansky [sic\ you are really one of mypeople . . .'.̂ "̂ And again from Paris, in May, after a brief and unhappy return toLondon, comes one of her most lyrical, sustained pieces of description, conveying thedelight in the natural world captured in her best short stories: 'It is not only leaves yousmell when you stand under the trees today; you smell the black wet boughs andstems—the "forest" smell . . . A little boy . . . thrust one hand through the railingamong the ivy leaves and pulled out some tiny snails, arranging them in a neat row onthe stone wall. "Via! Mes escargots!"'. 'Do you, too', Katherine excitedly enquires,'feel an infinite dehght and value in detail} . . . As I write I hear your voice and I seeyou swing out into the hall of the bureau as though you were going to beat to deaththe person who had dared to come in.'^^

When Katherine's brother Leslie, of whom she was passionately fond, was killed in

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u-t/*i .-t\vv*v ir t

Fig. I. Letter from Katherine Mansfield to S. S. Koteliansky, i8 October 1921. Add. MS.48970, fol. 227

France in October 1915, her shock and grief drove her away from London. Writing toKoteliansky from Marseilles in November, she confides that 'I never see anything thatI like, or hear anything, without the longing that he should see and hear, too . . .'.̂ ^Later letters recapture her sharper, more malicious self; in May 1916 she sends fromCornwall an account of a spectacular fight between Lawrence and his wife; 'SuddenlyLawrence appeared and made a kind of horrible blind rush at her and they began toscream and scuffle . . .\'^ Her moods veer between frantic hope, resignation and despairas her state of health worsens. The friendship dies for a while and is revived when*Kot' is summoned to Hampstead in September 1918 with the three words: 'Come

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Fig. 2. Postcard photograph of Katherine Mansfield, sent to S. S. Koteliansky. Add. MS. 48970,fol. 228

tonight, Katherine'."*^ In April 1919 she writes: 'I dislike IMMENSELY not going over theletters with you . . . I feel Tchekov would be the first to say we must go over themtogether . . . I wish you would come in now, this moment, and let us have tea and talk.There is no one here except my cough . . .'.'̂ ^ Preparing to leave for Italy in August,she tells him that 'I always miss you when I am away and often there comes the illogicalnonsensical certainty you will be at a station . . .'."̂ ^

During her years of serious illness, Katherine ('Kissienka' no longer) writes toKoteliansky with increasingly sad, nostalgic affection: 'Does it disturb [your loneliness]to know that you are dear to me. Do not let it. It is such a quiet feeling. It is like the

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light coming into a room . . . If W o die perhaps there will be a small private heavenfor consumptives only. In that case I shall see Tchekov . . .\'^ Writing from Menton,she vividly conjures up his old room in Holborn 'with the tiny mirror and the brokenwindow and the piano sounding from outside . . .'.**̂ From Switzerland she sends awan and unsmiling postcard photograph of herself: 'If you hate me too much—burnit in a candle"*^ (figs, i, 2). At Christmas 1921 she assures him that he is one of those'who remain in one's life forever'."̂ "̂ It is surely the 'russianness' of Koteliansky thatdraws forth such declarations.

A phrase in a letter of July 1922, which speaks of a 'longing that people shall berooted in life',"^ looks forward to the poignant journal entry on 14 October, Katherine'sbirthday: 'But warm, eager, living life—To be rooted in life . . . That is what I want."^^During her last months she is still working at Koteliansky's translations. He is now'Dear precious Koteliansky' and the letters frequently close with 'I press your hand'.The last letter of all, sent from France on 17 October 1922, shortly after entering theGurdjiefflnstitute for the Harmonious Development of Man, at Fontainebleau, attemptsrather incoherently to describe the new 'truth' she is trying to embrace in an attemptto heal her 'divided' self: 'The world as I know it is no joy to me and I am useless init. People are almost non-existent . . . What is important is to try to learn to l ive-really live—and in relation to everything—not isolated . . .'.^° She assures Kotelianskyin a postscript that there is 'no tragedy' in all this; but it is hard not to feel with oneof her editors, C. K. Stead, that the real tragedy lay in the fact that 'There was nothingmystical about her that antibiotics could not have cured.'^^

Finally, in Katherine Mansfield's letters to two very different women, the doggedlydevoted Ida Baker and her cousin 'Elizabeth' (born Mary Annette Beauchamp), whowrote the world-famous Elizabeth and her German Garden (1898), we hear two moredistinct 'voices' in the last years of her life. Those to Elizabeth begin in June 1921,while Katherine is staying with Murry at the Chalet des Sapins, in Montana. Idaremembers Elizabeth 'walking over the snow in her little black gaiters' from her chaletat Randogne.^^ Although there had been occasional rivalry and periods of estrangementbetween the cousins in the past, they now settled into friendship. Nevertheless,Katherine's letters 'gush' rather too much at times—'And you know, dear wonderfulElizabeth, I have always longed to be allowed to know you a little . . .'^^—betraying aslight uneasiness. In writing of her illness she is brusquely dismissive: 'I do think itsimply unpardonable to bore one's friends with "I can't get out". '^ About her feelingsfor Murry, however, and the effect of her tuberculosis upon him, she is disarminglyfrank: 'He ought to divorce me, marry a really gay young healthy creature, havechildren . . . I shall never be a wife . . . Poor John. Its hellish to live with a femmemalade . . .'.^^ Yet a moment after this sad confession she has veered into a ratherstrained description of Elizabeth's house, ghmpsed on a ride down the mountain: 'Onlyheavenly blue shutters showed through. The little "working" chalet is in an absolutenest of green. It looked awfully fairy . . .\^^

The occasional brittle, self-conscious note in these letters derives, perhaps, from the

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resentment underlying Katherine's fondness for her cousin. Writing to Sydney Schiffin December 1921, she admits that Elizabeth 'fascinates' her but adds: 'And for somereason the mechanism of life hardly seems to touch her. She refuses to be ruffled . . .This is incomprehensible to me. I find it devilish, devilish, devilish . . .\^'' She clearlycraves Elizabeth's approval of her own writing, although she protests 'No, please let allthe pride be mine that you are my cousin . . . I should like to write one story goodenough to offer you one day.'^^ When Elizabeth heaps praise on The Garden Party andOther Stories (published in February 1922), however, she is undisguisedly delighted:Tour letter . . . was almost "too good to be true" . . .\^^ The uneven tone persists tothe end of this small group of letters which seem to mix genuine, if effusive, sentiment—'I feel I shall never look at a bud or a flower again without thinking of you . . Z'^—with a slightly false self-abasement and awkward attempts to impress her cousin with'fine writing' or bons mots. The final one is sent from London in August 1922. AlthoughKatherine describes her surroundings with brave cheerfulness and declares that '. . .its fun to think of three months in London . . .',̂ ^ she had only four more months tolive. Writing to her cousin from Paris earlier in the year she had abruptly changedmood to commiserate with her on the loss of a friend: 'It's such a violent change ofsubject—but then Death always is.'^^

'Lesley Moore', or 'L.M.', was the name Katherine chose for Ida Baker (compoundedof her own brother's Christian name and Ida's mother's maiden name). She also referredto her at different times as Godmother, Aida, Jones, The Faithful One, the RhodesianMountain and the Albatross. Although Ida was excluded from much of Katherine'sartistic and intellectual life, she always turned to her in times of crisis; 'Lesley' was theonly person in whom she confided at the time of her disastrous first marriage in 1909.Her lifelong devotion to Katherine is simply and touchingly chronicled in the book shepublished in 1971, under the pseudonym 'L.M.'. Its first description of Katherine isat Queen's College, Harley Street (where they had met in 1903), 'in a full, silk dress,her head tilted a little, her eyes glowing, her lips a little open as she sang to herself. . .'.̂ ^ It ends with a description of Katherine's funeral at Fontainebleau in January1923: 'I had brought a bunch of marigolds, a flower she loved, and there were notmany other flowers there for her. So I stepped forward, looked down, and droppedthem in. '^

The content of Katherine's early letters to Ida, sent from New Zealand to Londonin 1906-8 and from London to Rhodesia (where Ida had gone to join her family) in1914-16, will never be known. While conveying her intense sadness and regret atKatherine's order that such 'dreadful rubbish' should be burned, one 'idle afternoon'in 1918, 'L.M.' writes only vaguely of their subject-matter: 'Pages and pages of herearly girlish enthusiasms, hopes and visions—pictures of her own land and the Englandof her dreams.'^^ She gave all those that followed, dating from April 1918 untilKatherine's death, to the Department of Manuscripts in 1956. The earlier ones aremostly addressed to 'Dearest Jones' (the name each used to the other when all was wellbetween them) and signed 'Katie', but after Spring 1921 she becomes simply 'Ida' and

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the letters are signed 'Katherine' or 'K.M.'. During the last five years of Katherine*slife, Ida's steady affection and loyalty were often put severely to the test. Since Murrywas engaged in editing The Athenaeum in London (and was in any case 'too full of self-pity', in Ida's view, to give his wife any help),^^ she served as companion and nurseduring the winters in Italy and the south of France, as well as occasional housekeeperin London. Katherine was at times very ill indeed, bitter at what she saw as Murry'sdefection and unhappily conscious of her new status as an outcast. (In the autumn of1919, a hotel at San Remo requested that she leave, since the other guests werecomplaining of the danger of infection.) Although the sequence of letters begins happily,with Katherine expressing her joy and relief at being 'home' again in London after anunhappy period at Bandol and three weeks of 'imprisonment' during the bombing ofParis ('But Jones—one's own fire—and lighting the gas and making tea—and oh! thehot bath which really was hot . . .'),^'^ her mood changes with the dreaded news thatshe has 'definitely got consumption',^^ six days later. Writing from Cornwall in May1918, a note of anguish and depression sets in: 'I feel just like a fuchsia bud—cold,sealed up, hard'; '. . . everybody seems to be evil and vile . . .\^^ When 'Jones' falls ill(she was working in a hot, cramped munitions factory and living in a Y.W.C.A. hostel)Katherine berates her for her silence; suffering 'an awful attack of that spinalrheumatism', she forces herself to admit, with an invalid's complete selfishness, that 'Ionly love you when you're blind to everybody but us.'™

The often fractious and caustic tone of these letters—'I am thrilled about the seeds,and about your coat and skirt—equally thrilled . . .''̂ ^—is interspersed with (perhapsslightly guilty) outbursts of praise and lavish reassurance. It is difificult to say whetherthis bitterly sarcastic voice has its origins solely in Katherine's illness; the ease andfrequency with which it is adopted suggests that it may have come into play at earlierstages of the relationship. There can be no doubt, however, that it was sharpened byher condition. In July 1918 she explains: 'You see I am never for one single hourwithout pain . . . This, plus very bad nights, exasperates me and I turn into a fiend, Isuppose.'^" When she rallies a little, Katherine writes with all her old warmth andcharm —'When I went out today the air smelt like moss . . . The peach leaves are likelinnet wings . . . I hope you had a good journey. Will you please wire me immediatelyif you want any money . . .'^^—but when her condition worsens she cries out in angrymisery: 'I was not born an invalid and I want to get well . . . Do you understand? . . .Help me to escape!'̂ "^ In June 1922, 'a distraught creature', trying to write for theSphere in spite of her immense weakness, unable to manage alone with Murry who 'cannever understand',^^ she begs Ida to come to Switzerland: 'I do love you and want youfor my wife.'̂ *^

In August 1922 Katherine made her will (leaving her carved walking-stick toKoteliansky, her favourite small edition of Shakespeare to Elizabeth, and her gold watchand chain to Ida) before coming to London, where she attended the lectures of P. D.Ouspensky, a Russian who had worked with Gurdjieff for seven years. When, aftermore distressing and unsuccessful x-ray treatments in Paris, she entered Gurdjieff's

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recently established Institute at Fontainebleau, Ida accompanied her there and stayedtwo nights, leaving Katherine 'radiant, her eyes shining' but feeling as if she had comefrom a funeral.^^ The last letters to 'L.M.' are immensely moving, full of a new, almostchildlike simplicity. Katherine asks for no books but requests a tuteur for teaching the'cello"̂ ^ (which must have reminded Ida painfully of the old days at Queen's College,when they would give concerts together). 'The leaves fall all day and the grass smellsgood. We are making a Turkish Bath which will be very comforting . . . I hope youare happy.'"^^ 'How I am? I am learning to live . . . But do you see that our relationshipwas absolutely wrong now? You were identified with me. I prevented you from Hvingat all . . .\^^

The very last few letters are, in 'L.M's' own words, 'gentle, relaxed, happy andloving'.^^ They describe Katherine's immediate surroundings and her 'work': 'My handsare ruined for the present with scraping carrots and peeling onions . . .';^^ 'I am sureI know a great deal more about cows than you do [Ida was working on a farm atLisieux]. I spend hours every single day with them. . .';^^ 'Our pudding was made ina baby's bath, stirred by everybody and Mr Gurdjieff put in a coin . . . I shall be gladthough when spring comes. Winter is a difficult time . . . ' .^ One can sympathise withChristopher Isherwood's feelings when he writes to a friend in 1937 about the finalpart of'poor Kathy's journal . . . a book which still makes me cry . . . that last desperateeffort to become "pure in heart" by milking cows at the house of those phoney Russiansat Versailles . . .'.^^ One final letter to Ida was found inside Katherine's blotter afterher death, from a massive lung haemorrhage, on 9 January 1923: 'I am looking forsigns of spring already. Under the espaher pear trees there were wonderful Christmasroses. They reminded me of Switzerland . . . Write and tell me how you are will you?dear Ida?' It is signed simply 'With love from K.M.'.^^

A P P E N D I X

Checklist of Katherine Mansfield manuscript material in the British Library

Letters

To S. S. Koteliansky, 1915-22. Add. MS. 48970, fols. 160-295.To Lytton Strachey, 1916-19. Add. MS. 60679, fols. 41-5.To Ida Baker, 1918-22, and n.d. Add. MS. 49064A, fols. 1-237.To Sydney and Violet Schiff, 1920-22. Add. MS. 52919, fols. 112-182^.To Elizabeth Russell, 1921-2. Add. MS. 50844, fols. i-i6^\To Mark Gertler, n.d. Add. MS. 49597F, fol. 13.

Short Story

'A Suburban Fairy Tale', 15 March 1919. Autograph draft. Add. MS. 62128, fols. i - io .

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I would like to thank Dr Vanessa Davies, curatorof the Adam archive at King's College, London, forher help and encouragement in the preparation ofthis article.

1 C. K. Stead (ed.), The Letters and Journals ofKatherme Mansfield {V-omXon^ ^911)-, P- i68.

2 Ibid., p. iT^-j.3 Ibid., p. i68.4 Ibid., p. i68.5 Ibid., p. 173.6 Quoted in Robert Gittings, John Keats: The

Living Year (London, 1962), p. 35.7 Add. MS. 52921, fol. 20.8 Ibid., fol. 21, 2i^\9 [Ida Baker], Katherine Mansfield: The Memories

of LM (London, 1985), p. 126,10 Vincent O'Sullivan and Margaret Scott (eds.).

The Collected Letters of Katherine Mansfield, vol.i (Oxford, 1984), p. 19.

11 Add, MS. 49597F, fol. 13.12 Add. MS. 60679, fol. 45.13 Ibid., fol. 45.14 Antony Alpers, The Life of Katherine Mansfield

(London, 1980), p. 313.15 Add. MS. 52921, fol. 23^.J6 Add. MS. 52919, fol. 115^17 Ibid., fol. 117.18 Ibid., fol. 120, i2o^\19 Ibid., fol. 123.20 Ibid., fol. 158, 158^21 Ibid., fol. 133^.22 Ibid., fol. 112.23 Ibid., fol. 179 '̂.24 Ibid., fol. i8o^25 Ibid., fol. 117, 117 '̂.26 Ibid., fol. 160.27 Ibid., fol. 170.28 Ibid., fol. 178^29 Ibid., fol. 181.30 Ibid., fol. 182^.31 Juliette Huxley, 'Ottoline', in Adam Inter-

national Review, xxxviii (London, 1972-3)1

32 Obituary, The New Statesman and Nation,5 February 1955, pp. 171-2-

33 Add. MS. 48970. fol. 177.34 Ibid., fol. 293.35 Ibid., fol. 162^.36 Ibid., fol. i66^37 Ibid., fols. r68^ 169.

38 Ibid., fol. 171.39 Ibid., fol. 172^.40 Ibid., fol. 204.41 Alpers, op. dt., p. 286.42 Add. MS. 48970, fol. 194,43 Ibid., fol. 215.44 Ibid., fol. 220.45 Ibid., fol. 225.46 Ibid., fol. 227.47 Ibid., fol. 238 '̂.48 Ibid., fol. 264^.49 Stead, op. cit., p. 279.50 Add. MS. 48970, fol. 286^.51 Stead, op. dt., p. 19.52 Baker, op. dt., p. 167.53 Add. MS. 50844, fol. I.54 Ibid., fol. 2.55 Ibid., fol. 2^.56 Ibid., fol. 2 '̂.57 Add. MS. 52919, fol. 168.58 Add. MS. 50844, fol. 9^59 Ibid., fol. 10.60 Ibid., fol. 10.61 Ibid., fol. i6^\62 Ibid., fol. i o \63 Baker, op. dt., p. 23.64 Ibid., p. 230.65 Ibid., p. 127.66 Ibid., p. 128.67 Add. MS. 49064A, fol. 2^.68 Ibid., fol. 11^.69 Ibid., fols. 17, 22.70 Ibid., fols. 34-5.71 Ibid., fol. 40.72 Baker, op. dt., p. 122.73 Add. MS. 49064A, fol. 58, 58^.74 Ibid., fol. 68^.75 Ibid., fol. 177.76 Ibid., fol. 183^77 Baker, op. dt., p. 214.78 Add. MS. 49064A, fol. 189.79 Ibid., fols. 192, 193"̂ .80 Ibid., fols. 205^, 204^.81 Baker, op. dt., p. 221.82 Add. MS. 49064A, fol. 221^.83 Ibid., fol. 222.84 Ibid., fols. 228, 229^.85 Sotheby's Sale Catalogue, 15 December 1987,

lot 80.86 Add. MS. 49064A, fols. 234\ 235, 236^.

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