What an appropriate time to be reading this wonderful book. As Europe, America and former British colonies around the world pause for a moment today to remember the centenary of the end of the First World War, it was good to be reminded of not only the horrors of loss but also the impacts on everyday people.
C K Stead has created a fine novel from a sequence of events in the life of Katherine Mansfield, one of New Zealand’s most famous writers. He has taken a period of time during the First World War and used letters, diaries and many sources to create a fiction, but one that has a strong basis in truth. We cannot be sure that all the things recorded here actually took place, we certainly can’t claim all the feelings and thoughts mentioned were real, but the use of a fictional account allows Stead to stretch what we know and weave a fine story.
One of the remarkable things about this particular moment in time, is the vast array of famous names who came together, who knew each other and, since many were writers, they left memories and records in print. In the course of this short book we encounter T S Elliot, D H Lawrence, Aldous Huxley, Lytton Strachey, Virginia Woolf, Bertrand Russel, Rupert Brook and Siegfried Sassoon. Together with a number of painters and artists they all had a loose association with the Bloomsbury Group, and Katherine Mansfield did the same, meeting so many of the famous names of the time.
The story covers primarily the years 1915 to 1917, with a brief epilogue that leaps to the winter of 1918. During that time Katherine lost her brother Leslie and her lover Fred to the war. We feel her losses and we watch her obsession with wanting to write at the same time as developing her relationship with Jack Middleton, whom she would eventually marry. It was a strange relationship to modern eyes, living apart, if only by a few streets, taking other lovers, and Katherine’s need to escape to live alone in France.
I always enjoy a novel where I know some of the locations, and it this book I can picture Acacia Road in St John’s Wood, London, where Jack and Katherine lived. I used to walk along that road to reach Primrose Hill. I also know Zennor in Cornwall, where they lived alongside D H Lawrence and his wife Frieda for a few months. The descriptions help me vividly recall the granite houses of Land’s End and the sudden fog that sweeps in from the sea.
Most poignant of all is the final epilogue, where Katherine coughs up blood for the first time, that bright red blood that tells you something is very wrong inside. It is the first evidence of the tuberculosis that will kill her at the young age of thirty-four. There is always something tragic and sad about someone who dies so young, but in this short book we also see some of the joy and the happiness of that short life.