All language subtitles for Leave.all.Fair.(1985)

I've read them again and again,
so many times, and

always with the certainty
that in them she lives again.

Diary entry, May the 17th, 1956.

Though slow to start,
summer is now well upon us, and

the foliage full with the
sound of returning birds.

As usual, I shall retreat
here to the secure comfort of

my books, my work,
and the memory of my beloved Catherine.

It is here that Catherine still lives.

You won't have to pay any rent, you know.
My allowance will take care of all that.

Shall you take me as your mistress?

Catherine! Catherine!

What would you say, my dear,
were you to come through that door now?

Condemn the foolishness of an
old man hanging on to his memories?

No, I think not.

I know that you quietly smile.

That you live on in me still.

...Do you want me
to take your pyjamas?

Do you want me to take them off?

Listen,
tomorrow's going to be a big day for me.

I'm waiting for the
display proof from Paris,

and my little Mary's
arriving from England.

And you know,
the old man will find you very charming.

Desiree, I'm 33 years old.

...and there's some
things that I want to do.

But it will only be for a few days.

..

This will be the most important
book we'll publish this year.

And if it succeeds, perhaps we'll...
...we'll last out on the Château.

Can't you be serious about it, please?

Oh, it's only a book.

A book?

...I believe it is more important
for them to uneasy you either way.

My Dearest Miss Bogey, I've been on
the point of writing this letter for days.

My heart has been
behaving in such a curious

fashion that I can't
imagine it means nothing.

So,
as I should hate to leave you unprepared,

I'll just try and jot down
what comes to mind.

All my manuscripts, notebooks,
papers and letters I leave to you.

Go through them one day, dear love.

In spite of everything,
how happy we've been.

I feel no lovers have walked this
earth more joyfully, in spite of all.

Farewell, my precious love.
I am forever and ever, your Catherine.

Marie! Marie!

This is what we've been waiting for.

Why, it's not bad.

It should be more appreciative.
After all, she's a fellow who's either.

Don't start that again.
It's a very, very long time ago.

You've done well, André.

This is going to be a sensation.

Sorry about last night.

Oh. We've had a lot in our minds.

By the way, how's the play going?

It'll be all right on the night,
but we've got a long, long way to go.

Didier won't be ready for Middleton,
Marie, to see.

We'll have to entertain him somehow.

Will you help him, Marie?

Why don't we take him to the Petit Opéra?

Are they both?

Oui.

Let's go. Bye.

Bye.

Je ne serai pas là.

Oh, contez-moi.

Il est accablé de misère.

Comme la fleur, il naît et il se flétrit.

Au cœur même de la vie,
nous sommes dans la Mort.

Oh, oh, oh, oh.

Oh, oh, oh, oh.

Oh, oh, oh, oh.

Hello. How nice to see you.

Oh, John, how good to see you again.

Oh, Mrs.
Marie hasn't come with you, has she?

No, no, no. She's back at
home looking after the family.

She really doesn't care to travel.

Ah, the promotion crew... how do
you call it? The rough copy has arrived.

Right. So splendid.
So, we have a lot to talk about.

So, make yourself comfortable.

Thank you so much. Thank you.

Bonjour, Monsieur. Bonjour, madame.

Monsieur?

S'il vous plaît.

Ah. Très bien. Parfait. Merci.

Je vous en prie.

Excusez-moi encore une fois.

John,
I would like you to meet Ernesto Sculpture.

Très heureux, Monsieur. Enchanté.

Bernard Pleyer. He's a critic.

Elizabeth, friend of mine, piano player.

And Jean-Pierre.

Would you like to sit down here, please?
Thank you so much.

Okay. Lisa?

Tea or coffee?

Je pourrais un thé avec citron,
s'il vous plaît.

Et citron?

Oui, s'il vous plaît.

So her dead likeness, I do well believe,

excels whatever yet you looked upon.

Okay. Okay, okay.

Uh...

We'll come back and look
at the finale after lunch.

After now, everyone.

Lunchtime.

Ah. Now.

Hermione.

We've got to make her
look like a beautiful vision.

Isn't she supposed
to come to life here?

Shouldn't we make them think

Leontes must feel remorse?

What the people want is a fairy tale.

It's supposed to be romantic.

But the queen's got older.

She suffered.

She must look like it.

You can't make the
queen look her fright.

She's got to be beautiful.

Good.

Est-ce que tu viens?

Est-ce que tu veux que je t'apporte
un sandwich ou autre chose?

Oui, oui.

N'importe quoi, merci.

This new edition does what
my father always wanted to do.

I don't need to tell you how much
he admired your ability as an editor.

That's very good.

He was always a very good friend to me.

It's beautifully done, and most impressive.

I think so.

You know, there's no need to explain
to you what a passionate subject she is.

Yes, I only wonder sometimes
whether it's right to make public

these fragments and pieces that

a writer like Catherine might
not want to show the world.

But you've brought her to
the attention of the world.

Yes.

And now I hope that
these new pieces will help

everyone to understand
her more completely.

Ah...

I will leave you to it.

You do read French?

Oh, yes,
I think I can manage to get the hang of it.

I seem to spend half my
life arriving at strange hotels.

Strange hotels.

The horror of them.

The impertinent,

slightly amused attitude
of the hotel servant.

Waiting for that ominous,
infallible thing to happen.

Which was bound to happen to every
woman on earth who travelled alone.

Saba.

Must I suffer so?

I wasn't made for suffering.

Smile.

Whiskey?

Ah...

Would you care for a whiskey, John?

No,
I'd rather have port if you have any.

Why haven't I got a real life?

A real home.

Why haven't I got two babies

who rush at me and clasp my knees?

I'm not a girl.

I'm a woman.

And all this love and joy

that fights for an outlet.

And all this life drying up.

Like milk in an old breast.

And all this suffering.

I really did try to do
all I possibly could.

Of course I was longing to be with her
all the time but it just wasn't possible.

After her death, you know,

quite a number of people accused
me of having abandoned her.

You must understand that
the doctor had it pressed on me.

That complete rest with
Catherine was essential.

Any kind of excess,

if you understand what I mean,

would be completely
detrimental to her state of health.

Her naturopathy was quite explicit.

No sex.

So you see,
there was no question of my abandoning her.

On the contrary,

Catherine was such a
delightful creature that whenever

we were alone together we
found one another irresistible.

We simply couldn't help ourselves.

Of course, that isn't the kind of story
that you want to talk about to everyone.

Oh, hello.

Er, John,

let me introduce Marie.

Marie Taylor.

How do you do?

I just wanted to thank you for the roses.

They were lovely.

Delighted.

Well, I must go back to the theatre.

We're in a bit of a flap.

That's Marie Taylor.

She's the designer.

She works here with a theatre group.

Is that all she does?

Well, she's my...

How could I say?

Companion.

Oh, of course I understand.

Catherine and I had lived together
for years before we were married.

Didn't your father ever tell you?

Well then,

you must make yourself at home here.

Thank you very much.

It's just a small
company for writers.

You're rehearsing something there now?

A Winter's Tale.

Ah, that was always one of
Catherine's favourite plays.

I'm afraid we're not doing it much justice.

In fact, I'm sure we're not.

I can never help feeling rather
sorry for poor old Leontes.

It used to be an artist community of sorts.

But since Andrew's father died,

he's been tied up in
the publishing business

and it's all been rather neglected since.

Yes, I can imagine that publishing
must be rather a demanding business.

Andrew mentioned that you had
formed a community around you once.

Oh, that was a years ago now.

It wasn't an artist community,
more a sort

of socialist centre to
prepare young workers.

What were you socialists then?

The optimism of youth.

And the passion?

Oh, that was many years back.

I haven't read Catherine
Mansell since I was in school.

One of our great writers.

Catherine once wrote a little
verse about New Zealand.

From the other side of the world

from a little land with no history I,
a woman with a taint of pioneer in my blood

something, something

and shadows

that blot out reality

and something about
their stupid hands.

I, a woman with a taint

But you can plant trees
about 9 feet in a eye,

but you aren't
inspired by humans.

The best thing about
life is being stuck around

Once you find a purpose maybe,
maybe not.

Thinking about it when you can.

Now, what happens

after 4 years

You see, that is the very idea. We're
not changing what Catherine wrote.

We're using what she wrote to look
at the essential conflict within herself.

You see, we have the private thoughts of
the woman and the public thoughts of the

writer. And it is these extremes, this contrast
that's interesting to the modern public.

I'm so sorry. I've
had rather a long day.

I think I'll be off to bed,
if you don't mind.

No, no.

Please. Good night.

Good night.

My room is empty.

Well, we'll fill it up later.

Excuse me.

Dearest Bogie, I've been on the point of
writing this letter for days. My heart has

been behaving in such a curious fashion
that I can't imagine that it means nothing.

So,
as I should hate to leave you unprepared,

I'll just try and jot down
what comes to mind.

All my manuscripts, notebooks,
papers and letters I leave to you.

Go through them one day.

Lady, allow.

Publish as little.

Oh, take this for you.
The home for my wife and family.

Joey, can we go?

A tea with lemon juice.

Yes, Monsieur.

Here you are.

I'd like to ask you to set the table.

Here it is.

It won't be long, we have two.

Here it is.

Here it is.

Thank you.

I don't know why I have such
a fancy with this little cafe.

It's not as if it has anything to
distinguish it from hundreds of others.

It hasn't.

In certain lights,
Madame looks quite transparent.

Shining out of her black shawl
with an extraordinary effect.

When she's not serving, she sits on a stool
with her face turned always to the window.

And then there's the waiter.

When he's not smearing over the
tables or flicking a dead fly or two,

he stands,
in his far too long apron, waiting.

I don't miss John at all now.

I don't want to go home.

I feel quite content.

Life with other people becomes a blur,
it does with John.

But it's enormously valuable
and marvellous when I'm alone.

The detail of life.

The life of life.

I've never been able to join in like that.

Catherine always could.

No matter where she was,
she was always part of the life around her.

I remember in the stories at school.

At the bay.

At the garden party.

At the park.

But they're so full of life.

The characters.

Are they all made up then?

Oh, no, no.

Most of them are based on her own family,
her father especially.

And all those women.

So wise about the men.

Are you in any of them?

Oh, dear me, I'm sure I am.

How's your play going, by the way?

Nothing's a waste of time.

Oh John, before I forget,
here are the documents,

letters and photographs
that you so kindly lent me.

As you will see, we used quite a number
of the ones you fought to propagate.

Fine, thank you so much.

Now, for the promotion,
I thought we'd announce

publication at the gathering, you know,
a few friends and trade people.

And I was wondering if you
would accept to say a few words.

Oh, I'm sure I can write something for you.

Oh, don't go to any trouble.

Oh, no, no, no,
I promise to make it quite short.

Thank you. Now, you probably
would like to look through this contract.

Oh, thank you. Yes, I suppose contracts do
need to be revised after all these years.

How many copies do you
propose for the first run?

Well, the standard 5,000 and probably
10,000 before the end of the year.

Well, that'd be much better, wouldn't it?

Well, are you coming, you two?

Well, it would seem that lunch is ready.

Oh, splendid. Come on, let's go.

And the allowance that
Katherine had from her

father, we managed to move into a small
cottage near Chichester. Dream house.

How lovely.

Well, we did have three months there.

Lovely, happy months. Katherine
even believed that she was pregnant.

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John, I'm awfully sorry. Excuse me,
but I must go.

I'm waiting for a very important
call from Paris. Would you mind?

Thank you.

Lovely here in the country, isn't it?

New Zealand must seem a very long way away.

Oh, it's a funny place.
We all say we love it.

So many of us leave, but still home.
We never really get away.

Well, it seemed to me that Catherine
didn't take New Zealand very seriously.

Otherwise,
she'd have talked to me about it.

Perhaps it's something
you don't really talk about.

I don't know.
I remember some wonderful stories.

Lovely stuff about children and beaches.

Oh, of course,
she used the place for coffee.

But it's strange.

I suppose you will think
me a sentimental old fool.

But I must tell you that you
do remind me of her very much.

Well, back to BBC One's film now,
starring John Gielgud and Simon Ward.

The first story Catherine ever brought me
in London was called Woman at the Store.

I thought it was brilliant. And it was
set in that part of the savage country.

I think you were aware of it.

Oh, is that the way you pronounce it?

Oh, this must have changed so much.

It was so long ago.

It doesn't seem so very long ago to me.

Now I want to write
recollections of my own country.

Yes.

I want to write about my own
country until I exhaust my store.

Oh, the people we loved there.

Of them, too, I want to write.

Oh, I want for one moment
to make our undiscovered

country leap into the
eyes of the old world.

It must be mysterious as though floating.

It must take the breath.

I have a perfect passion for
the island where I was born.

So you knew D. H. Lawrence and his wife?

Oh, yes.
We used to see a lot of each other.

We even all lived together at one time.

Lawrence and I used to shoulder our rucksacks
and sally forth into the countryside.

Happy days.

Well, not altogether, no.

Poor Catherine was ill already.

The long-dying blossom,
Lawrence used to call her.

That's sad.

Yes, and we couldn't have children then,
of course.

Now I've got several and
even some grandchildren, too.

Four marriages, you said.

Yes, four marriages.

The last one two years ago.

These thrifty French, whose flower gardens
are nothing but potential salad bowls.

There isn't a leaf in France that
you can't faire une infusion avec,

not a blade that isn't bon pour la cuisine.

And what appalling furniture,
never one comfortable chair.

If you want to talk, the only
possible thing to do is to go to bed.

I quite understand the reason for
what is called French moral laxity.

You're simply forced into bed.

Suppose a friend drops in for tea
and asks if you believe in absolute evil.

How can you put your mind to these things

when you're sitting on four
knobs and a square inch of cane?

My life with Catherine
was blessed with much joy,

but harmed, no, not harmed,

but disturbed by painful separations.

Come in.

Catherine.

Oh, it's you, Marie.
I was thinking of something else.

I was just passing.
Is there anything you want?

No, no, nothing. I'm fine, thank you.

Oh, Marie.

I thought we might go for
another walk tomorrow morning.

Our visit is rather challenging.

I don't know.

It's a pleasant trip.

He's like anybody else.

Thinks of himself.

He's like you.

You've been at dinner with him.

At what?

Well, how he's conducted his affairs
since the death of his beloved Catherine.

How he's made his fortune out of her.

Fortune?

Oh, his farm, three more wives.

Huh?

I thought it was just publishers
that made all the money.

Well, that's different.

Of course.

The man at the centre.

None of you are capable of
putting a woman in the centre.

The way you describe it is as
if John discovered Catherine.

As if he made her talent.

You're a bastard.

Don't defend me.

Don't defend me.

Don't defend me.

Let me see him.

It's enough for a pizza.

Oh, I can't call you Robin the
Do we have to argue about this?

What are you doing?

Marie!

Marie! Marie!

What's wrong?

I had a dream.

I dreamt that Laurence and Freda
came and told me you were gone.

In all our years together,
Catherine and I had only one regret.

We were no children.

But by a second marriage with Violet,

I was blessed with two children,
a boy and a girl.

And the little girl I called Catherine,

I always felt that those
children were really hers.

My time with Violet was unhappily short,
too.

She died, you know.

Just like Catherine.

Of tuberculosis.

At the age of 26.

So tragic.

So it was Catherine who
couldn't have any children.

She must have had extraordinary courage,

travelling to the other side
of the world so long ago,

staking everything and becoming a writer.

Yes, but in those days,
New Zealand was still part of England.

She was returning to a great
capital from her distant province.

She had no roots there.

But afterwards she became
very dependent on me.

Never homesick?

Well, I think she sometimes
dreamt of being back there,

but never without a return ticket.

There are moments when I
think I'm wasting my time here.

If I was really brave, I'd go home.

And build something there.

Something new.

Off!

Can't even tie up a boat.

Maddy, careful!

It's a strong current.

Andre's family lived in it for generations.

Beautiful.

He still dreams of having it all done up.

And moving back.

War.

And time.

I won't have to pay any rent, you know.

My allowance will take care of all that.

I really cannot agree
with a Raj about this.

Spiritual rubbish.

Shall you take me as your mistress?

I should think that might spoil everything.

Yes.

I think you're quite right.

Catherine.

Catherine.

So Catherine left you?

Her brother had arrived
from New Zealand to enlist.

Chummy, she always used to call him.

She gave him enough money to go to Paris.

And soon afterwards, she went there too.

To meet a French writer.

A man called Carco.

She thought she was in love with him.

But I knew her better.

I knew she'd soon be back.

She only stayed four days with Carco.

Then she got ill and came back to me.

Then a few weeks later,
when she seemed to be getting better.

She returned to Paris.

It was time to write.

And is he Chummy?

Oh, no, no.

He'd been sent to the
front long before then.

I feel I'm shut behind many doors.

Hung about with memories
and can't move for them.

And no, I cannot be calm.

The wind blows everything about.
Everything's flapping.

Even my thoughts and ideas.

But I've suffered such agonies
from loneliness and illness combined.

That I'll never be quite whole again.

But she was shattered
when her brother died.

How could you leave her?

I had to go back.

To enlist?

No, I was a pacifist at the time.

I had to go and try and salvage
my magazine in England.

But of course I came back to
her as soon as I possibly could.

Were you jealous about
her feelings for Chummy?

She said she felt as dead as he was.

It was in her flesh as
well as in her blood.

Yes, yes, I suppose...

it was never the same
between us after that.

She seemed to...

take herself away from me...

and at a distance.

What of all things seems so hard...

is how we swore never
to let each other go again.

And then how soon we were gone.

This must be our last separation.

Then at times I get
overwhelmed that it's all over.

That we've seen each
other for the last time.

And that these letters
will one day be published.

And people will read something in them.

In their queer finality.

That ought to have told us.

I just got your note about
Je ne parle pas.

No, I certainly wouldn't
agree to those excisions.

Even if there were 500
million copies in existence.

Shall I pick the eye out
of the story for 40 pounds?

The outline would be blurred.

It must have those sharp lines.

I'd rather I wasn't there at all...

than sitting in the revue with
a broken nose and one ear...

as though it had been
through an editorial dogfight.

I can't cut it.

There are no superfluous words.

I mean every line of it.

This thing happens to
fit six and a half pages...

and you can't cut it without
making an ugly mess somewhere.

I hate the sort of license that
English people give themselves.

To spread over and flop and roll about.

I feel as fastidious
as if I wrote with acid.

I certainly wouldn't
agree to those excisions.

The outline would be blurred.

It must have those sharp lines.

What on earth would
have made me cut a word?

I wish I hadn't. I was wrong.

Oh, here you are.

Couldn't find you at the theatre.

What the hell has this man done?

You know, Mary, these are personal letters.

You shouldn't have taken
them away from the office.

How can a pacifist be chief
censor at the war office?

For Christ's sake!

He doesn't matter now.

Okay, come on, have lunch with us.

You can't just shut yourself away here,
can you?

No, Marie, I didn't mean it.

Get out!

I'm sorry, John. I was in the kitchen.

You don't have many arrangements for me.

That's all right.

You know, it's a strange thing, Andre.

On my way here, I stopped the car
to go and look at Catherine's grave.

And while I was there,
I had a dreadful feeling...

that I was a robber.

Yes, that's exactly what I was.

I remember that in all the 33
years since Catherine's death,

I've never even paid a single penny
towards the upkeep of her grave.

Well, contract signed.

It seems to be all right.
Everything's fine.

Well, well, well, this calls for a drink.

Yes.

Well, I see that an editor's
job isn't all that important.

It's all hardware.

Drink before lunch?

Mm-hm.

Here.

John, to health and happiness.

And to the new book.

So there I was with absolutely no
idea how I was going to pay for the farm.

Merci.

How much was it in those days?

900 pounds.

I hadn't a single penny.

But the very next day, a cheque came
through the post for a thousand pounds.

It was on Catherine's books.

It was so ironic.

The cheque was far bigger than
anything I'd ever received for my work.

And ten times as big as
Catherine had ever had

from her writings
while she was still alive.

I couldn't help taking
it as a sort of sign.

A sign of what?

Well, in some strange way that she was
giving a blessing on my decision to remarry.

John, for the last few days
I've been reading Catherine.

Her stories and also some letters.

Yes, we made an agreement
to write to each other every

day so that one day we'd
be able to look back at them.

And I read what you wrote
and how you talked about her.

This romantic vision lover.

The nailing princess.

Always alone, refining for you.

Well,
there was always some sort of strain,

of course,
but we did love one another, truly.

You, the eternal lover, devoting your
life to the posterity of your saintly wife.

What kind of truth is that?

I know it must be difficult
for you to understand, but...

What did she do before she met you?

I don't know.
She never talked about those times.

Because it wasn't important.

Well...

To risk two or three abortions at the
beginning of the century wasn't important.

Jean, she was no saint. She was real.

She was funny. And she was tough and wise.

And she cared about her writing.

And her brother and her
friends in New Zealand.

And not just about you.
You and your letters.

And the way you've written about her.

You'd think that all she
cared about was you.

And if she wrote with such passion,
it was because of you.

And she knew she was dying.

I used to beg her.
She wouldn't listen to me.

She would never stay in one place.
She would never stay still.

There's plenty of time to
stay still when you're dead.

It was you in a madman's story.

And in a man without a temperament,
it was you.

All those cold-hearted, deceptive men.

Who haven't got a clue about what's
happening in their women's heads.

It was you, wasn't it?

You know, you mustn't accuse
me of misrepresenting Catherine.

I fulfilled her longing
to be known as a writer.

Known as she is now to all the world.

Catherine would have
thanked me for what I've done.

I'm sure she would.

I must put down here a dream.

I felt my whole body breaking up.

It sounded in my ears a low,
confused sound.

There was a dim.

There was a sense of flashing
green brilliance like broken glass.

When I woke up, I thought that
there'd been a violent earthquake.

But all was still.

It slowly dawned on me the
conviction that in that dream, I died.

And I don't care.

All these two years,
I've been obsessed by the fear of death.

With this dream, it went.

I care no more.

It leaves me perfectly cold.

Alain.

Monsieur.

Vous avez vu mes outants de marée?

Monsieur, il parlait avec
mademoiselle il y a quelques heures.

Lisa, vous avez vu Marie?

Non, je n'ai pas vu.

Good Lord, the opera!
Is it as late as that already?

We must hurry, John.

It's all right, I shan't be a minute.

Let's go.

You're not going like this.

Why not?

You're not dressed.

Well then, I'm not going.

Why not?

I know the story.

That's not the point.

I bought the tickets.

Marie.

S'il te plaît.

Here I am.

You can finish dressing in the car.

Yeah.

Please.

Thank you.

Something strange and almost
terrifying darted into Bertha's mind.

And this something blind
and smiling whispered to her.

Soon these people will go.

The house will be quiet, quiet.

The lights will be out.

And you and he will be alone
together in the dark room.

The warm bed.

For the first time in her life,
Bertha Young desired her husband.

Oh, she'd loved him, she'd been in love
with him, of course, in every other way.

But just not in that way.

And equally, of course,
she'd understood that he was different.

They'd discussed it so often.

It had worried her dreadfully at first,
to find that she was so cold.

But after a time,
it had not seemed to matter.

They were so frank with each other,
such good pals.

That was the best of being modern.

Dearest Bogie, I've been on the
point of writing this letter for days.

My heart has been
behaving in such a curious

fashion that I can't imagine
that it means nothing.

So as I should hate to
leave you unprepared,

I'll just try and jot down
what comes to mind.

All my manuscripts, notebooks,
papers, and letters I leave to you.

Go through them one day, dear love.

Publish as little as possible.

Tear up and burn as much as possible.

You understand I desire to leave as few
traces of my camping ground as possible.

You know my love of tightness. Have a clean
sweep, Bogey, and leave all fair, will you?

Hello.

As expected. Now John seemed to enjoy it.
He didn't say much on the way back.

I've been reading.

Interesting. Did he edit all these books?

Well, that's normal.
He was an editor and she was his wife.

Pity he didn't realize that before.

C'est a lie.

He seemed to take more
care of her after she was dead.

What do you mean?

All her papers have the same theme.
Solitude, love.

And her dependence on him.

It reads like a man's
romantic vision of his wife.

She wasn't like that.

Oh, she certainly was not.

Three abortions and
gonorrhoea for so long she

became sterile is hardly
my vision of romantic.

Christ!

Another man!

That's not what I meant.

I was trying to talk about the woman.

Not the stuff you sell books for.

But Mary, you've just said it.
That's the job of an editor.

Then you should put this in your new book.

Go through all this one day, my dear love.

Publish as little as possible.

Tear up and burn as much as possible.

You understand.

I wish to leave as few traces of
my camping ground as possible.

Where did you get this?

Does it matter?

Publish it.

Everything underway?

John, you should be more careful of this.

You've read it, of course.

And?

Nothing.

My father knew of it.

Are you sure Catherine will
be happy with what I've done?

I don't think it belongs in our book.

We've been in publishing a long time.
It could be so easily misunderstood.

She so much wanted to be a great writer.

She is now.

Don't worry about this.

Catherine would thank you.

John, may I introduce Laura.

Laura.

He's a little red.

Ladies and gentlemen, please.

Dear friends,
I would like to call your attention.

I would like to introduce
John Milton Murray, my friend.

John.

In editing the journals and
letters of Catherine Mansfield,

my task has been a delightfully simple one,

to select material of the greatest interest

to represent the true
character of the writer.

My life with Catherine
was blessed with much joy,

but disturbed by painful separations.

During the quite often long separations,

she wrote to me every day.

Her letters,
their expressions of joy and sorrow,

combined now with the journals,

give a personal and moving
portrait of the last years of her life.

Her one concern was to leave behind
the testimony of her gifts as a writer.

To some of you, these letters and journals

may not seem as remarkable
and beautiful as they do to me.

I have read them again and again,

so many times,

and always with the certainty

that in them she lives again.

I remember what we really felt.

The blanks, the silences,
the anguish of continual misunderstanding.

Were we positive?

Eager?

Real?

Alive?

We were not.

We were a nothingness shot
through with gleams of what might be.

Gleams of what might be.

What might be.