 Section 14 of Something Childish and Other Stories. An Indiscreet Journey by Catherine Mansfield. She is like Saint Anne. Yes. The concierge is the image of Saint Anne. With that black cloth over her head, the wisps of gray hair hanging, and the tiny smoking lamp in her hand. Really, very beautiful, I thought, smiling at Saint Anne, who said severely, Six o'clock, you have only just got time. There was a bowl of milk on the writing-table. I jumped out of my pajamas and into a basin of cold water, like any English lady in any French novel. The concierge, persuaded that I was on my way to prison cells and death by bayonets, opened the shutters, and the cool, clear light came through. A little steamer hooded on the river. A cart with two horses at a gallop flung past. The rapid swirling water, the tall black trees on the far side, grouped together like negroes conversing. Sinister, very, I thought, as I buttoned on my age-old burberry. That burberry was very significant. It did not belong to me. I had borrowed it from a friend. My eyes lighted upon it, hanging in her little dark hall. The very thing. The perfect and adequate disguise, an old burberry. Lions had been faced in a burberry. Ladies had been rescued from open boats in mountainous seas wrapped in nothing else. An old burberry seems to me the sign and the token of the undisputed venerable traveler, I decided, leading my purple peg-top with the real seal-collar and cuffs in exchange. You will never get there, said the concierge, watching me turn up the collar. Never, never! I ran down the echoing stairs, strange they sounded, like a piano flicked by a sleepy housemaid, and on to the key. Why so fast, ma mignonne? Said a lovely little boy in colored socks, dancing in front of the electric lotus buds that curve over the entrance to the metro. Alas! There was not even time to blow him a kiss. When I arrived at the big station, I had only four minutes to spare, and the entrance platform was crowded and packed with soldiers, their yellow papers in one hand and big untidy bundles. The commissioner of police stood on one side, a nameless official on the other. Will he let me pass? Will he? He was an old man with a fat, swollen face covered with big warts. The rimmed spectacles squatted on his nose. Trembling, I made an effort. I conjured up my sweetest early morning smile, and handed it with the papers. But the delicate thing fluttered against the horned spectacles, and fell. Nevertheless he let me pass, and I ran, ran in and out among the soldiers, and up the high steps into the yellow painted carriage. Does one go direct to X? I asked the collector, who dug at my ticket with a pair of forceps, and handed it back again. No, mademoiselle, you must change at X, Y, Z. At... X, Y, Z. Again I had not heard. At what time do we arrive there, if you please? One o'clock. But that was no good to me. I hadn't a watch. Oh, well, later. Ah! The train had begun to move. The train was on my side. The train swept out of the station, and soon we were passing the vegetable gardens, passing the tall, blind houses to let, passing the servants beating carpets, up already and walking in the fields, rosy from the rivers and the red-fringed pools, the sun lighted upon the swinging train, and stroked my muff, and told me to take off that burberry. I was not alone in the carriage, an old woman sat opposite, her skirt turned back over her knees, a bonnet of black lace on her head. In her fat hands, adorned with a wedding and two morning rings, she held a letter. Slowly, slowly she sipped a sentence, and then looked up and out the window, her lips trembling a little, and then another sentence, and again the old face turned to the light, tasting it. Two soldiers leaned out of the window, their heads nearly touching. One of them was whistling, the other had his coat fastened with some rusty safety pins. And now there were soldiers everywhere working on the railway line, leaning against trucks or standing hands on hips, eyes fixed on the train as though they expected at least one camera at every window. And now we were passing big wooden sheds like rigged up dancing halls or seaside pavilions, each flying a flag. In and out of them walked the red crossmen, the wounded set against the walls, sunning themselves. At all the bridges, the crossings, the stations, a petite soldat, all boots and bayonet, forlorn and desolate he looked, like a little comic picture waiting for the joke to be ridden underneath. Is there really such a thing as war? Are all these laughing voices really going to the war? These dark woods, lighted so mysteriously by the white stems of the birch and the ash, these watery fields with the big birch flying over, these rivers green and blue in the light. Have battles been fought in places like these? What beautiful cemeteries we are passing. They flash gay in the sun. They seem to be full of cornflowers and poppies and daisies. How can there be so many flowers at this time of the year? But they are not flowers at all. They are bunches of ribbons tied on to the soldiers' graves. I glanced up and caught the old woman's eyes. She smiled and folded the letter. It is from my son, the first we have had since October. I am taking it to my daughter-in-law. Huh? Yes, very good, said the old woman, shaking down her skirt and putting her arm through the handle of her basket. He wants me to send him some handkerchiefs and a piece of stout string. What is the name of this station where I have to change? Perhaps I shall never know. I got up and leaned my arms across the window-rail. My feet crossed. One cheek burned as in infancy over the way to the seaside. When the war is over, I shall have a barge and drift along these rivers with a white cat and a pot of minnet to bear me company. Down the side of the hill followed the troops, winking red and blue in the light. Far away, but plainly to be seen, some more flew by on bicycles. But, really, mon France adoré, this uniform is ridiculous. Your soldiers are stamped upon your bosom like bright irreverent transfers. The train slowed down, stopped. Everybody was getting out except me. Our big boy, his suppose, tied to his back with a piece of string, the inside of his tin wine-cup stained a lovely impossible pink, looked very friendly. Does one change here perhaps for X? Another's whose kepi had come out of a wet paper-cracker swung my suitcase to earth. What darling soldiers are! Merci bien, monsieur. Vous êtes tous à faire amour bien. Not this way, said a bayonet. Nor this, said another. So I followed the crowd. Your passport, mademoiselle? Oui, sir Edward Gray. I ran through the muddy square and into the buffet. A green room with a stove jutting out in tables on each side. On the counter, beautiful with colored bottles, a woman leans her breasts in her folded arms. Through an open door I can see a kitchen and the cook in a white coat breaking eggs into a bowl and tossing the shells into a corner. The blue and red coats of the men who are eating hang upon the walls. Their short swords and belts are piled upon chairs. Heavens! What a noise! The sunny air seemed all broken up and trembling with it. A little boy, very pale, swung from table to table, taken the orders, and poured me out a glass of purple coffee. Shhh! came from the eggs. They were in a pan. The woman rushed from behind the counter and began to help the boy. Too sweet! Too sweet! she chirped to the loud impatient voices. There came a clatter of plates and the pop-pop of corks being drawn. Suddenly in the doorway I saw someone with a pail of fish, brown speckled fish, like the fish one sees in a glass case, swimming through forests of beautiful pressed seaweed. He was an old man in a tattered jacket, standing humbly, waiting for someone to attend to him. A thin beard fell over his chest. His eyes under the tufted eyebrows were bent on the pail he carried. He looked as though he had escaped from some holy picture, and was in treating the soldiers pardon for being there at all. But what could I have done? I could not arrive at X with two fishes hanging on a straw. And I am sure it is a penal offence in France to throw fish out of railway carriage windows, I thought, miserably climbing on to a smaller, shabbier train. Perhaps I might have taken them to—ah, mon Dieu! I had forgotten the name of my uncle and aunt again! Bafard! Bafoum! What was it? Again, I read the unfamiliar letter in the familiar handwriting. My dear niece, now that the weather is more settled, your uncle and I would be charmed if you would pay us a little visit. Telegraph me when you are coming. I shall meet you outside the station if I am free. Otherwise, our good friend, Madame Grécon, who lives in the little tall house by the bridge, just en part de la guerre, will conduct you to our home. J'ai vous embarrassé de tellement! Julie Bafard! A visiting car was enclosed. Monsieur Paul Bafard! Bafard! Ah, of course, that was the name! Martin Julie and mon uncle Paul! Suddenly they were there with me, more real, more solid than any relations I had ever known. I saw Tante Julie, brittling, with a soup terrain in her hands, and Uncle Paul, sitting at the table, with a red and white napkin tied around his neck. Bafard! Bafard! I must remember the name. Supposing the commissionaire and military should ask me who the relations were I was coming to, and I muddled the name, oh, fatal! Bafard! No. Bafard! And then for the first time, folding Aunt Julie's letter, I saw scrawled in a corner of the empty back page, Vene Vite, Vite! Strange impulsive woman! My heart began to beat. Ah, we are not far off now, said the lady opposite. You are going to ex, mademoiselle? Oui madame. I also. You have been there before? No madame. This is the first visit. Really? It is a strange time for a visit. I smiled faintly, and tried to keep my eyes off her hat. She was quite an ordinary little woman, but she wore a black velvet turk, with an incredibly surprised looking seagull camped on the very top of it. Its round eyes, fixed on Miso inquiringly, were almost too much to bear. I had a dreadful impulse to shoo it away, or to lean forward and inform her of its presence. Excusez-moi, madame, but perhaps you have not remarked there as an espèce de seagull, couche sur votre chapeau? Could the bird be there on purpose? I must not laugh. I must not laugh. Had she ever looked at herself in a glass with that bird on her head? It is very difficult to get into ex at present, to pass the station, she said, and she shook her head with the seagull at me. Ah, such an affair! One must sign one's name and state one's business. Is it as bad as all that? But naturally you see the whole place is in the hands of the military and—she shrugged—they have to be strict. Many people do not get beyond the station at all. They arrive, they are put in the waiting room, and there they remain. Did I or did I not detect in her voice a strange insulting relish? I suppose such strictness is absolutely necessary. I said coldly, stroking my muff. Necessary! She cried. I should think so. Why, Madam Wazelle, you cannot imagine what it would be like otherwise. You know what women are like about soldiers. She raised a final hand. Mad! Completely mad! But—and she gave a good laugh of triumph—they could not get into ex. Mange! No! There is no question about that. I don't suppose they even try, said I. Don't you? said the seagull. Madam said nothing for a moment. Of course the authorities are very hard on the men. It means instant imprisonment, and then, after the firing line without a word. What are you going to ex for? said the seagull. What on earth are you doing here? Are you making a long stay at ex, Madam Wazelle? She had won. She had won. I was terrified. A lamp-post went past the train with a fatal name upon it. I could hardly breathe. The train had stopped. I smiled gaily at Madam, and danced down the steps to the platform. It was a little hot room, completely furnished with two kernels seated at two tables. They were large, gray-whiskered men, with a touch of burnt red on their cheeks, sumptuous and omnipotent they looked. One smoked what ladies love to call a heavy Egyptian cigarette, with a long creamy ash, the other toyed with a gilded pen. Their heads rolled on their tight collars, like big, overripe fruits. I had a terrible feeling as I handed my passport and ticket that a soldier would step forward and tell me to kneel. I would have knelt without question. What's this? said God one, quarrellessly. He did not like my passport at all. The very sight of it seemed to annoy him. He waved a dissenting hand at it with a, No, je ne peux pas manger un cas, air. But it won't do, it won't do at all, you know. Look! Read for yourself. And he glanced with extreme distaste at my photograph. And then, with even greater distaste, his pebble eyes looked at me. Of course, the photograph is deplorable, I said, scarcely breathing with terror. But it has been vis-aid and vis-aid. He raised his big bulk and went over to God two. Courage, I said to my muffin, held it firmly, courage. God two held up a finger to me, and I produced Aunt Julie's letter and her card. But he did not seem to feel the slightest interest in her. He stamped my passport idly, scribbling a word on my ticket, and I was on the platform again. That way! You pass out of that way! Terribly pale, with a faint smile on his lips. His hand at salute stood the little corporal. I gave no sign. I am sure I gave no sign. He stepped behind me. And then follow me, as though you do not see me. I heard him half whisper, half sing. How fast he went, through the slippery mud toward a bridge. He had a postman's bag on his back, a paper parcel, and the montant in his hand. He seemed to dodge through a maze of policemen, and I could not keep up at all with the little corporal who began to whistle. From the toll-house, our good friend, Madame Grigant, her hands wrapped in a shawl, watched our coming, and against the toll-house there leaned a tiny-faded cab. Montre, vite, vite, said the little corporal, hurling my suitcase, the postman's bag, the paper parcel, and the montant onto the floor. Aïe! Aïe! Do not be so mad! Do not ride yourself! You would be seen, wailed our good friend, Madame Grigant. Ah! Je me fais! said the little corporal. The driver jerked into activity. He lashed the bony horse in a way we flew, both doors, which were the complete sides of the cab, flapping and banging. Bonjour, mon ami! Bonjour, mon ami! And then we swooped down and clushed at the banging doors. They would not keep shut. They were fools of doors. Lean back! Let me do it! I cried. The policemen are as thick as violets everywhere. At the barracks, the horse reared up and stopped. A crowd of laughing faces blotted the windows. Prenka, mon vie! said the little corporal, handing the paper parcel. It's all right! called someone. We waved. We were off again. By a river, down a strange white street, with little houses on either side, gay in the late sunlight. Jump out as soon as he stops again. The door will be open. On straight inside, I will follow. The man is already paid. I know you will like the house. It is quite white, and the room is white, too, and the people are white as snow. We looked at each other. We began to laugh. Now, said the little corporal, out I flew and in at the door. There stood, presumably, my Aunt Julie. There in the background hovered, I supposed, my Uncle Paul. Bonjour, madame! Bonjour, mon sieur! It is all right! You are safe, said my Aunt Julie. Heavens, how I loved her! And she opened the door of the white room and shut it upon us. Down went the suitcase, the postman's bag, the matin. I threw my passport up in the air, and the little corporal caught it. What an extraordinary thing! We had been there to lunch and to dinner each day. But now in the dusk and alone I could not find it. I clop-clopped in my borrowed sable through the greasy mud, right to the end of the village, and there was not a sign of it. I could not even remember what it looked like, or if there was a name painted on the outside or any bottles or tables showing at the window. Already the village houses were sealed for the night behind big wooden shutters. Strange and mysterious they looked in the ragged drifting light in the thin rain, like a company of beggars perched on the hillside, their bosoms full of rich unlawful gold. There was nobody about but the soldiers. A group of wounded stood under a lamp-post, petting a mangy, shivering dog. Up the street came four big boys singing, Do-do, mon-home, vis-vi-to-do-do! And swung off down the hills of their sheds behind the railway station. They seemed to take the last breath of the day with them. I began to walk slowly back. It must have been one of these houses. I remembered stood far back from the road. And there were no steps, not even a porch. Men seemed to walk right through the window. And then quite suddenly the waiting-boy came out of just such a place. He saw me and grinned cheerfully, and began to whistle through his teeth. Mon-soie, mon-petite! Bon-soie, madame! And he followed me up the café to our special table, right at the far end by the window, and marked by a bunch of violets that I had left in a glass there yesterday. You are, too? asked the waiting-boy, flicking the table with a red and white cloth. His long-swinging steps echoed over the bare floor. He disappeared into the kitchen, and came back to light the lamp that hung from the ceiling under a spreading shade like a haymaker's hat. Warm light shone on the empty place that was really a barn set out with dilapidated tables and chairs. Into the middle of the room a black stove jetted. At one side of it there was a table with a row of bottles on it, behind which madame sat and took the money and made entries in a red book. Opposite her desk a door led into the kitchen. The walls were covered with a creamy paper, patterned all over with green and swollen trees. Hundreds and hundreds of trees reared their mushroom heads to the ceiling. I began to wonder who had chosen the paper and why. Did madame think it was beautiful, or that it was a gay and lovely thing to eat one's dinner at all seasons in the middle of a forest? On either side of the clock there hung a picture, one a young gentleman in black tights wooing a pear-scented lady in yellow over the back of a garden seat. Premier raconte. Two, the black in yellow and amorous confusion, tarion de moi. The clock ticked to a soothing lilt. C'est ça, c'est ça. In the kitchen the waiting boy was washing up. I heard the ghostly chatter of the dishes. And years passed. Perhaps the war is long since over. There is no village outside at all. The streets are quiet under the grass. I have an idea. This is the sort of thing one would do on the very last day of all. Sit in an empty cafe and listen to the clock ticking until. Madame came through the kitchen door, nodded to me and took her seat behind the table, her plump hands folded on the red book. Ping! Went the door. A handful of soldiers came in, took off their coats and began to play cards, chaffing and poking fun at the pretty waiting boy, who threw up his little round head, rubbed a stick fringe out of his eyes, and cheeked them back in his broken voice. Sometimes his voice boomed up from his throat, deep and harsh, and then in the middle of a sentence it broke and scattered in a funny squeaking. He seemed to enjoy it himself. You would not have been surprised if he had walked into the kitchen on his hands and brought back your dinner turning a Catherine wheel. Ping! What the door again? Two more men came in. They sat at the table nearest Madame, and she leaned to them with a bird-like movement, her head on one side. Oh! They had a grievance. The lieutenant was a fool, no thing about, springing out at them, and they had only been sewing on buttons. Yes, that was all. Sewing on buttons! And up comes this young spark. Now then, what are you up to? They mimicked the idiotic voice. Madame drew down her mouth, nodding sympathy. The waiting-voice served them with glasses. He took a bottle of some orange-coed stuff and put it on the table-edge. A shout from the card-players made him turn sharply and, crash, overwent the bottle, spilling on the table, the floor, smash, detinkly atoms, and amazed silence. Through it the drip-drip of the wine from the table onto the floor. It looked very strange, dropping so slowly, as though the table were crying. Then there came a roar from the card-players. You all catch it, my boy! That's the style! Now you've done it, zept wheat nerf! They started playing again. The waiting-boy never said a word. He stood, his head bent, his hand spread out, and then he knelt and gathered up the glass, piece by piece, and soaked the wine up with a cloth. Only when Madame cried cheerfully, You wait until he finds out! Did he raise his head? You can't say anything if I pay for it! He muttered, his face jerking, and he marched off into the kitchen with a soaking cloth. He'll pleudiculaire! said Madame delightedly, patting her hair with her plump hands. The cafe slowly filled. It grew very warm. Blue smoke mounted from the tables and hung about the haymaker's hat in misty wreaths. There was a suffocating smell of onion soup and boots and damp cloth. In the din the door sounded again. It opened to let in a weed of a fellow who stood with his back against it, one hand shading his eyes. Hello! You've got the bandage off! How does it feel, mon vie? Let's have a look at them! But he made no reply. He shrugged and walked unsteadily to a table, sat down and lent against the wall. Slowly his hand fell. In his white face his eyes showed, pink as a rabbit's. They brimmed and spilled, brimmed and spilled. He dragged a white cloth out of his pocket and wiped them. It's the smoke! said some one. It's the smoke! Dickles them out for you. His comrades watched him a bit, watched his eyes fill again. Again brim over. The water ran down his face, off his cheek, onto the table. He rubbed the place with his coat sleeve, and then, as though forgetful, went on rubbing, rubbing his hand across the table, staring in front of him. And then he started shaking his head to the movement of his hand. He gave a loud, strained groan, and dragged out the cloth again. Who ate? Nerf, indeed, said the card-players. Petit! Some more bread! Two coffees! Un pecon! The waiting boy quite recovered, but with scarlet cheeks ran to and fro. A tremendous quarrel flared up among the card-players, raged for two minutes, and died in flickering laughter. Oof! Grown the man with the eyes, rocking and mopping. But nobody paid any attention to him except Madame. She made a little grimace at her two soldiers. Mais vous-ce-va? C'est un peu de goutant, ça? She said civilly. Ah, oui, Madame! Answered the soldiers, watching her bent head in pretty hands, as she arranged for the hundredth time, throw of lace on her lifted bosom. Blah, mon sire! Called the waiting boy over her shoulder to me. For some reason I pretended not to hear, and I leaned over the table, smelling the violets, until the little corporal's hand closed over mine. Shall we have in purges our clouterie to begin with, yes, tenderly? In England, said the blue-eyed soldier, you drink whisky with your meals. N'est-ce pas, mademoiselle? A little glass of whisky, neat, before eating? Whisky and soda with your bifts, and after, more whisky with hot water and lemon? Is it true, that?" asked his great friend, who's had opposite. A big red-faced chap with a black beard and large moist eyes and hair that looked as though it had been cut with a sewing machine. Well, not quite true, said I. C'est, c'est," cried the blue-eyed soldier. I ought to know, I'm in business. English travellers come to my place, and it's always the same thing. Ah! I can't stand whisky, said the little corporal. It's too disgusting the morning after. Do you remember Malfi, the whisky in that little bar in Montmonton? Souvenir tendre, sighed the black beard, putting two fingers in the breast of his coat and letting his head fall. He was very drunk. But I know something you've never tasted, said the blue-eyed soldier, pointing a finger at me. Something really good. He went with his tongue. Eh, peau-son! And the curious thing is that you'd hardly know it from whisky, except that it's— He felt with his hand for the word. Well, finer, sweeter, perhaps, not so sharp, and it leaves you feeling gay as a rabbit next morning. What is it called? Mirabelle. He rolled the word round his mouth under his tongue. Ah! That's the stuff. Ah! I could eat another mushroom, said the black beard. I would like another mushroom, very much. I am sure I could eat another mushroom if Mademoiselle gave it to me out of her hand. You ought to try it, said the blue-eyed soldier, leaning both hands on the table and speaking so seriously that I began to wonder how much more sober he was than the black beard. You ought to try it and tonight. I would like you to tell me if you don't think it's like whisky. Perhaps they've got it here, said the little corporal, and they called a waiting-boy, Petit. No, Monsieur, said the boy, who never stopped smiling. He served with his dessert plates, painted with blue parrots and horned beetles. What is the name for this in English, said the black-beard pointing. I told him, Parrot. Ah! Mon Dieu! Petit! He put his arms round his plate. Ah! I love you, my Petit-Pato. You are sweet. You are blonde. You are English. You do not know the deference between whisky and Mirabelle. The little corporal and I looked at each other, laughing. He squeezed up his eyes when he laughed, so that you saw nothing but the long curly lashes. And I know a place where they do keep it, said the blue-eyed soldier. Café d'Amise. We'll go there. I'll pay. I'll pay for the whole lot of us. His gesture embraced thousands of pounds. But with a loud whirring noise, the clock on the wall struck half past eight, and no soldier is allowed in a café after eight o'clock at night. It is fast, said the blue-eyed soldier. The little corporal watch, said the same. So did the immense turn of the black-beard produced, and carefully deposited it on the head of one of the horned beetles. Oh! Well! We'll take the risk, said the blue-eyed soldier, and he thrust his arms into his immense cardboard coat. It's worth it! He said, it's worth it! You just wait! Outside, stars shone between wispy clouds, and the moon fluttered like a candle-flame over a pointed spire. The shadows of the dark, bloom-like trees waved on the white houses. Not a soul to be seen. No sound to be heard but the hush, hush, of a faraway train, like a big beast shoveling in its sleep. You are cold, whispered the little corporal. You are cold, Mafé. No, really not. But you are trembling. Yes, but I'm not cold. What are the women like in England? asked black-beard. After the war is over, I shall go to England. I shall find a little English girl and marry her and her parallel. He gave a loud, choking laugh. Fool! said the blue-eyed soldier, shaking him. And he lent over to me. It is only after the second glass that you really taste it, he whispered. It was the second little glass and then, ah, then you know. Cathay des amis gleamed in the moonlight. We glanced quickly up and down the road. We ran up the four wooden steps and opened the ringing glass door into a low room, lighted with a hanging lamp where about ten people were dining. They were seated on two benches at a narrow table. Soldiers screamed a woman, gleaning up from behind a white soup-terrain, a scrag of a woman in a black shawl. Soldiers! At this hour! Look at that clock! Look at it! And she pointed to the clock with a dripping ladle. It's fast, said the blue-eyed soldier. It's fast, madam. And don't make so much noise, I beg of you. We will drink and we will go. Who will you? She cried, running around the table and planning herself in front of us. That's just what you won't do. Coming at one honest woman's house this hour of the night, making a scene, getting the police after you. Oh, no, ah, no! It's a disgrace. That's what it is. Shhh! Said the little corporal, holding up his hand. Dead silence. In the silence we heard steps passing. The police! Whispered blackbeard, winking at a pretty girl with rings in her ears, who smiled back at him, saucy. Shhh! The faces lifted, listening. How beautiful they are, I thought. They are like a family party having supper in the New Testament. The steps died away. Serve you very well right if you had been caught, scolded the angry woman. I'm sorry on your account that the police didn't come. You deserve it. You deserve it. A little glass of Mirabelle and we will go, persisted the blue-eyed soldier. Still scolding and muttering, she took four glasses from the cupboard and a big bottle. But you're not going to drink it in here. Don't you believe it? The little corporal ran into the kitchen. Not there! Not there! Idiot! Can't you see there's a window there and a wall opposite where the police come every evening to shh! Another scare. You are mad and you will end in prison, all four of you, said the woman. She flounced out of the room. We tipped out after her into a dark, smelling scullery, full of pans of greasy water, of salad leaves, and meat bones. There now, she said, putting down the glasses. Drink and go! Why at last! The blue-eyed soldier's happy voice trickled through the dark. What do you think? Isn't it just as I said? Hasn't it got a taste of excellent, excel-lunt whisky? 1915 End of Section 14 Recording by Todd Section 15 of Something Childish and Other Stories This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Neema Spring Pictures by Catherine Mansfield 1. It is raining. Big soft drops splash on the people's hands and cheeks. Immense warm drops like melted stars. Here are roses. Here are lilies. Here are violets. Cause the old hag in the gutter. But the lilies, bunched together in a frill of green, look more like faded cow-flowers. Up and down she drags the creaking borough. A bad, sickly smell comes from it. Nobody wants to buy. You must walk in the middle of the road, for there's no room on the pavement. Every single shop brims over. Every shop shares a tattered frill of soiled lace and dirty ribbon to charm and entice you. There are tables set out with toy cannons and soldiers and zeppelins, and photograph frames complete with ogling beauties. There are immense baskets of yellow straw hats piled up like pyramids of pastry, and strings of colored boots and shoes so small that nobody could wear them. One shop is full of little squares of macintosh, blue ones for girls and pink ones for boys, with BB printed in the middle of each. Here are lilies. Here are roses. Here are pretty violets, warbles the old hag, bumping into another borough. But this borough is still. It is heaped with lettuces. Its owner, a fat old woman, sprawls across fast asleep, her nose in the lettuce-roots. Who's ever going to buy anything here? The sellers are women. They sit on little canvas stools, dreamy and fake and looking. Now and again one of them gets up and takes a feather duster, like a smoky torch and flicks it over a thing or two and then sits down again. Even the old man in tangerine spectacles, with a balloon of a belly, who turns the revolving stand of comic postcards round and round, cannot decide. Suddenly, from the empty shop at the corner a piano strikes up and a violin and flute join in. The windows of the shop are scrawled over. New songs, first floor, entrance free. But the windows of the first floor being open, nobody bothers to go up. The hangabout grinning as the harsh voices float out into the warm rainy air. At the doorway there stands a lean man and a pair of burst carpet slippers. He has stuck a feather through the broken rim of his hat. With what an air he wears it. The feather is magnificent. It is gold epulets, frog coat, white kid gloves, gilded cane. He swaggers under it, and the voice rolls off his chest, rich and ample. Come up, come up, here are the new songs. Each singer is an artist of European reputation. The orchestra is famous in second to none. You can stay as long as you like, it is the chance of a lifetime, and once missed, never to return. But nobody moves, why should they? They know all about those girls, those famous artists. One is dressed in cream, cashmere, and one in blue. Both have dark crimped hair, and a pink rose pinned over the air. They know all about the pianist's button boots, the left foot, the pedal foot, burst over the bunion on his big toe. The violinist bit nails the long, far too long cuffs of the flute player. All these things are as old as the new songs. For a long time the music goes on in the proud voice thunders. Then somebody calls down the stairs, and the showman, still with his grand air, disappears. The voices cease, the piano, the violin, and the flute dribble into quiet. Only the lace curtain gives a wavy sign of life from the first floor. It is raining still, it is getting dusky. Here are roses, here are lilies, who will buy my violets. Two. Hope. You misery, you sentimental, faded female. Break your last string and have done with it. I shall go mad with your endless thrumming. My heart throbs to it, and every little pulse beats in time. It is morning. I line the empty bed, the huge bed, big as a field and is cold and unsheltered. Through the shutters the sunlight comes up from the river, and flows over the ceiling in trembling waves. I hear from outside a hammer tapping, and far below in the house a door swings open and shuts. Is this my room? Are those my clothes folded over an armchair? Under the pillow, sign and symbol of a lonely woman ticks my watch. The bell jangles. Ah! At last! I leap out of my bed and run to the door. Play faster, faster, hope. Your milk, mademoiselle, says the concierge, gazing at me severely. Ah! Thank you, I cry, gaily swinging the milk-battle. No letters for me. Nothing mademoiselle. But the postman, he is called already. A long half hour ago, mademoiselle. Out the door, stand in the little passage a moment, listen. Listen for her hated twanging, coax her, court her, implore her to play just once, that charming little thing for one string only. In vain. Three. Across the river on the narrow stone path that fringes the bank, a woman is walking. She came down the steps from the key, walking slowly, one hand on her hip. It is a beautiful evening. The sky is the color of lilac and the river of violet leaves. There are big bright trees along the path full of trembling light, and the boats, dancing up and down, send heavy curls of foam, rippling almost to her feet. Now she has stopped. Now she has turned suddenly. She is leaning up against a tree, her hands over her face, she is crying. And now she is walking up and down, wringing her hands. Again she leans against the tree, her back against it, her head raised, and her hands clasped as though she leaned against someone dear. Round her shoulders she wears a little gray shawl. She covers her face with the ends of it, and rocks to and fro. But one cannot cry forever, so at last she becomes serious and quiet, patting her hair into place, smoothing her apron. She walks a step or two. No. Too soon, too soon. Again her arms fly up, she runs back. Again she is blotted against the tall tree. Squares of gold light show in the houses. The street lamps gleam through the new leaves. Below fans of light follow the dancing boats. For a moment she is a blur against the tree, white, gray, and black, melting into the stones and the shadows. And then she is gone. End of Section 15. Section 16 of Something Childish Under the Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Later Night by Catherine Mansfield. Virginia. Recording by Farah Iftikar. Narrated by Rob Marland. Virginia is seated by the fire. Her outdoor things are thrown on a chair. Her boots are faintly steaming in the fender. Virginia, laying the letter down. I don't like this letter at all. Not at all. I wonder if he means it to be so snubbing, or if it's just his way. Reads. Many thanks for the socks. As I have had five pairs sent me lately, I am sure you will be pleased to hear I gave yours to a friend in my company. No, it can't be my fancy. He must have meant it. It is a dreadful snub. Oh, I wish I hadn't sent him that letter telling him to take care of himself. I'd give anything to have that letter back. I wrote it on a Sunday evening too. That was so fatal. I never ought to write letters on Sunday evenings. I always let myself go so. I can't think why Sunday evenings always have such a funny effect on me. I simply yearn to have someone to write to, or to love. Yes, that's it. They make me feel sad and full of love. Funny, isn't it? I must start going to church again. It's fatal sitting in front of the fire and thinking. They are the hymns too. One can let oneself go so safely in the hymns. She croons. And then, for those our dearest and our best, Bought her eye lights on the next sentence in the letter. There was most kind of you to have knitted them yourself. Really? Really, that is too much. Men are abominably arrogant. He actually imagines that I knitted them myself. Why, I hardly know him. I've only spoken to him a few times. Why on earth should I knit him socks? He must think I am far gone to throw myself at his head like that, For it certainly is throwing oneself at a man's head to knit him socks, If he's almost a stranger. Buying him an odd pair is a different matter altogether. No, I shan't write to him again. That's definite. And besides, what would be the use? I might get really keen on him and he'd never care a straw for me. Men don't. I wonder why it is that after a certain point, I always seem to repel people. Funny, isn't it? They like me at first. They think me uncommon or original. But then immediately I want to show them, even give them a hint that I like them. They seem to get frightened and begin to disappear. I suppose I shall get embittered about it later on. Perhaps they know somehow that I've got so much to give. Perhaps it's that that frightens them. Oh, I feel I've got such boundless, boundless love to give to somebody. I would care for somebody so utterly and so completely. Watch over them, keep everything horrible away, and make them feel that if they ever wanted anything done, I lived to do it. If only I felt that somebody wanted me, that I was of use to somebody, I should become a different person. Yes, that is the secret of life for me. To feel love, to feel wanted, to know that somebody leaned on me for everything, absolutely, forever. And I am strong and far, far richer than most women. I am sure that most women don't have this tremendous yearning to express themselves. I suppose that's it, to come into flower almost. I'm all folded and shut away in the dark and nobody cares. I suppose that is why I feel this tremendous tenderness for plants and sick animals and birds. It's one way of getting rid of this wealth, this burden of love. And then, of course, they are so helpless. That's another thing. But I have a feeling that if a man were really in love with you, he'd be just as helpless too. Yes, I am sure that men are very helpless. I don't know why, I feel inclined to cry tonight. Certainly not because of this letter, it isn't half important enough, but I keep wondering if things will ever change or if I shall go on like this until I am old. Just wanting and wanting. I'm not as young as I was even now. I've got lines and my skin isn't a bit what it used to be. I never was really pretty, not in the ordinary way, but I did have lovely skin and lovely hair and I walked well. I only caught sight of myself in a glass today, stooping and shuffling along. I looked dowdy and elderly. Well, no, perhaps not quite as bad as that. I always exaggerate about myself, but I'm fuddy about things now. That's a sign of age, I'm sure. The wind, I can't bear being blown about in the wind now. And I hate having wet feet. I never used to care about those things. I used almost to revel in them. They made me feel so one with nature in a way. But now I get cross and I want to cry and I yearn for something to make me forget. I suppose that's why women take to drink. Funny, isn't it? The fire is going out. I'll burn this letter. What's it to me? Poop, I don't care. What is it to me? The five other women can send him socks. And I don't suppose he was a bit what I imagined. I can just hear him saying, it was most kind of you to have knitted them yourself. He has a fascinating voice. I think it was his voice that attracted me to him and his hands. They looked so strong. They were such man's hands. Oh well, don't sentimentalise over it. Burn it. No, I can't now. The fire's gone out. I'll go to bed. I wonder if he really meant to be snubbing. Oh, I am tired. Often when I go to bed now, I want to pull a close over my head and just cry. Funny, isn't it? 1917. End of section 16. Section 17 of Something Childish and Other Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Two topony ones, please. By Catherine Mansfield. Lady. Read by Katarina Glovalin. Friend. Read by Eva Davis. Conductor. Read by Todd. Narrated by Rob Marland. Yes, there is, dear. There's plenty of room. If the lady next to me would move her seat and sit opposite, would you mind, so that my friend may sit next to me? Thank you so much. Yes, dear, both the car's on war work. I'm getting quite used to buses. Of course, if we go to the theater, I found Cynthia. She's still got one car. Her chauffeur's been called up. Ages ago. Killed by now, I think. I can't quite remember. I don't like her new man at all. I don't mind taking any reasonable risk, but he's so obstinate. He charges everything he sees. Heaven alone knows what would happen if he rushed into something that wouldn't swerve aside. But the poor creature's got a withered arm. And something the matter with one of his feet, I believe, he told me. I suppose that's what makes him so careless. I mean, well, don't you know? Hmm? Yes, she sold it. My dear, it was far too small. There were only 10 bedrooms, you know. There were only 10 bedrooms in that house. Extraordinary. One wouldn't believe it from the outside, would one? And with the governesses and the nurses and so on, all the manservants had to sleep out. You know what that means. Hmm. Fares, please. Pass your fares along. How much is it? Tupens, isn't it? Two, two penny ones, please. Don't bother. I've got some coppers somewhere or other. Hmm. No, it's all right. I've got some. If only I can find them. Pass your fares, please. Really? So I did. I remember now. Yes, I paid coming. Very well. I'll let you. Just this once. Wartime, my dear. How far do you want to go? To the Boltons. Another A penny each. No. Oh, no. I only paid Tupens coming. Are you quite sure? Read it on the board for yourself. Oh, very well. Here's another penny. To friend. Isn't it extraordinary how disobliging these men are? After all, he's paid to do his job. But they're nearly all alike. I've heard these motorbuses affect the spine after a time. I suppose that's it. You've heard about Teddy, haven't you? Hmm. He's got his. He's got his. Now what is it? Whatever can it be? How ridiculous of me. Hmm. Oh, no. He's been a major for ages. Hmm. Colonel. Oh, no, my dear. It's something much higher than that. Not his company. He's had his company a long time. Not his battalion. Hmm. Hmm. Regiment. Yes, I believe it's his regiment. But what I was going to say is he's been made, um... Oh, how silly I am. What's higher than a brigadier general? Yes, I believe that's it. Chief of staff. Of course, Mrs. T's frightfully gratified. Hmm. Oh, my dear. Everybody goes over the top nowadays. Whatever his position may be. And Teddy is such a sport, I really don't see how... Too dreadful, isn't it? Hmm. Didn't you know? She's at the war office and doing very well. I believe she got a rise the other day. She's something to do with notifying the deaths or finding the missing. I don't know exactly what it is. At any rate, she says it is too depressing for words and she has to read the most hard-rending letters from parents and so on. Happily, they're a very cheery little group in her room, all officers' wives, and they make their own tea and get cakes in turn from stewards. She has one afternoon a week off when she shops or has her hair waved. Last time she and I went to see Yvette's spring show. Hmm. No, not really. I'm getting frightfully sick of these coat frogs, aren't you? I mean, as I was saying to her, what is the use of paying an enormous price for having one made by Yvette when you can't really tell the difference in the long run between it and one of those cheap ready-made ones? Of course, one has the satisfaction for oneself of knowing that the material is good and so on, but it looks nothing. No, I advised her to get a good coat and skirt. For, after all, a good coat and skirt always tells, doesn't it? Hmm. Yes, I didn't tell her that, but that's what I had in mind. She's much too fat for those coat frogs. She goes out far too much at the hips. I have ordered a rather lovely, indefinite blue one for myself, trimmed with the new lobster red. I've lost my good Kate, you know. Hmm. Yes, isn't it annoying? Just when I got her more or less trained. But she went off her head like they all do nowadays and decided that she wanted to go into munitions. I told her when she gave notice that she would go on the strict understanding that if she got a job, which I think is highly improbable, she was not to come back and disturb the other servants. Another penny each if you're going on. Oh, we're there. How extraordinary. I never should have noticed. Hmm-hmm. Tuesday? Bridge on Tuesday? No, dear, I'm afraid I can't manage Tuesday. I trot out the wounded every Tuesday, you know. I'll let Cook take them to the zoo or some place like that. Don't you know? Wednesday, I'm perfectly free on Wednesday. It'll be Wednesday before you get off the bus if you don't hurry up. That's quite enough, my man. Hmm. 1917. End of Section 17. Section 18 of Something Childish and Other Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Black Cap by Catherine Mansfield. She, read by Iberdavis. He, read by Neema. Servant, manager, read by Honoria. Narrated by Rob Marland. A lady and her husband are seated at breakfast. He is quite calm, reading the newspaper and eating. But she is strangely excited, dressed for travelling, and only pretending to eat. Oh, if you should want your flannel shirts, they're on the right-hand bottom shelf of the linen press. He, at a board meeting of the Meat Export Company? No. You didn't hear what I said. I said, if you should want your flannel shirts, they're on the right-hand bottom shelf of the linen press. I quite agree. It does seem rather extraordinary that on the very morning that I am going away, you cannot leave the newspaper alone for five minutes. My dear woman, I don't want you to go. In fact, I've asked you not to go. I can't for the life of me, see? You know perfectly well that I am only going because I absolutely must. I've been putting it off, and putting it off. And the dentist said last time... Good, good. Don't let's go over the ground again. We've thrashed it out pretty thoroughly, haven't we? Cops here, Mum. Please put my luggage in. Very good, Mum. She gives a tremendous sigh. Sigh... You haven't got too much time if you want to catch that train. I know. I'm going. Darling, don't let us part like this. It makes me feel so wretched. Why is it that you always seem to take a positive delight in spoiling my enjoyment? I don't think going to the dentist is so positively enjoyable. You know that's not what I mean. You're only saying that to hurt me. You know you are begging the question. Ha! And you're losing your train. You'll be back on Thursday evening, won't you? Yes, on Thursday evening. Goodbye, then. Comes over to him and takes his head in her hands. Is there anything really the matter? Do at least look at me. Don't you care at all? My darling girl, this is like an exit on the cinema. She letting her hands fall. Very well. Goodbye. Gives a quick tragic glance around the dining room and goes. On the way to the station. How strange life is. I didn't think I should feel like this at all. All the glamour seems to have gone somehow. Oh, I'd give anything for the cab to turn round and go back. The most curious thing is that I feel if he really had made me believe he loved me, it would have been much easier to have left him. But that's absurd. How strong the hay smells. It's going to be a very hot day. I shall never see these fields again. Never, never. But in another way, I am glad that it happened like this. It puts me so finally, absolutely in the right forever. He doesn't want a woman at all. A woman has no meaning for him. He's not the type of man to care deeply for anybody, except himself. I've become the person who remembers to take the links out of his shirts before they go to the wash. That is all. And that's not enough for me. I'm young. I'm too proud. I'm not the type of woman to vegetate in the country and rave over our own lettuces. What you have been trying to do ever since you married me is to make me submit, to turn me into a shadow, to rely on me so utterly that you'd only to glance up to find the right time printed on me somehow as if I were a clock. You have never been curious about me. You never wanted to explore my soul. No, you wanted me to settle down to your peaceful existence. Oh, how your blindness has outraged me. How I hate you for it. I am glad, thankful, thankful to have left you. I'm not a green girl. I'm not conceited, but I do know my powers. It's not for nothing that I've always longed for riches and passion and freedom. I felt that they were mine by right. She leans against the buttoned back of the cab and murmurs. You are queen. Let mine be the joy of giving you your kingdom. She smiles at her little royal hands. Wish my heart didn't beat so hard. It really hurts me, tires me so, and excites me so. It's like someone in a dreadful hurry beating against a door. This cab is only crawling along, which will never be at the station at this rate. Hurry, hurry. My love, I am coming as quickly as ever I can. Yes, I am suffering just like you. It's dreadful, isn't it? Unbearable, this last half hour without each other. Oh God, the horses began to walk again. Why doesn't he beat the great strong boot of a thing? Our wonderful life. We shall travel all over the world together. The whole world shall be ours because of our love. Oh, be patient. I am coming as fast as I possibly can. Ah, now it's downhill. Now we really are going faster. An old man attempts to cross the road. You thought of my way, you old fool. He deserves to be run over. Dearest, dearest, I'm nearly there. Only be patient. At the station. Put it in a first class smoker. There's plenty of time after all. A full 10 minutes before the train goes. No wonder he's not here. I mustn't appear to be looking for him. But I must say I'm disappointed. I never dreamed of being the first to arrive. I thought he would have been here and engaged to carriage and bought papers and flowers. How curious. I absolutely saw in my mind a paper of the pink carnations. He knows how fond I am of carnations. But pink ones are not my favorites. I prefer dark red or pale yellow. He really will be late if he doesn't come now. The guard has begun to shut the doors. Whatever can have happened, something dreadful. Perhaps at the last moment he has shot himself. I could not bear the thought of ruining your life. But you're not ruining my life. Where are you? I shall have to get into the carriage. Who is this? That's not him. It can't be. Yes, it is. What on earth has he got on his head? A black cap. But how awful. He's utterly changed. What can he be wearing a black cap for? I wouldn't have known him. How absurd he looks coming towards me smiling in that appalling cap. My darling, I shall never forgive myself but the most absurd tragic comic thing happened. They get into the carriage. I lost my hat. It simply disappeared. I had half the hotel looking for it, not a sign. So finally, in despair, I had to borrow this from another man who was staying there. The train moves off. You're not angry. Tries to take her in his arms. Don't. We're not even out of the station yet. Great God, what do I care if the whole world were to see us? Tries to take her in his arms. My wonder, my joy. Please don't. I hate being kissed on trains. Very well. You are angry. It's serious. You can't get over the fact that I was late. If you only knew the agony I suffered. How can you think I could be so small-minded? I'm not angry at all. Then why won't you let me kiss you? You look so different somehow. Almost a stranger. He jumps up and looks at himself in the glass anxiously. And fatuously, she decides. But it's all right, isn't it? Oh, quite all right. Perfectly all right. She begins to laugh and cry with rage. They arrive. She, while he gets a cab. I must get over this. It's an obsession. It's incredible that anything should change a man so. I must tell him. Surely it's quite simple to say. Don't you think that now you are in the city you had better buy yourself a hat? But that will make him realize how frightful the cap has been. And the extraordinary thing is that he doesn't realize it himself. I mean, if he has looked at himself in the glass and doesn't think that cap too ridiculous. How different our points of view must be. How deeply different. I mean, if I had seen him in the street I would have said I could not possibly love a man who wore a cap like that. I couldn't even have got to know him. He isn't my style at all. She looks round. Everybody is smiling at it. I don't wonder. The way it makes his ears stick out and the way it makes him have no back to his head at all. The cab is ready, my darling. They get in. He tries to take her hand. The miracle that we too should be driving together so simply like this. She arranges her veil. He tries to take her hand. Very ardent. I'll engage one room, my love. Oh no. Of course you must take two. But don't you think it would be wiser not to create suspicion? I must have my own room. To herself. You can hang your cap behind your own door. She begins to laugh hysterically. Ah, thank God my queen is her happy self again. At the hotel. Yes sir. I quite understand. I think I've got the very thing for you, sir. Kindly step this way. He takes them into a small sitting room with a bedroom leading out of it. This would suit you nicely, wouldn't it? And if you liked we could make you up a bed on the sofa. Ah, admirable, admirable. The manager goes. I told you I wanted a room to myself. What a trick to play upon me. I told you I did not want to share a room. Don't dare you treat me like this. She mimics. Admirable, admirable. I shall never forgive you for that. Oh God, what is happening? I don't understand. I'm in the dark. Why have you suddenly on this day of days ceased to love me? What have I done? Tell me. She sinks on the sofa. Very tired. If you do love me, please leave me alone. I only want to be alone for a little. Very well. I shall try to understand. I do begin to understand. I'll go out for half an hour and then my love you may feel calmer. He looks round, destructed. What is it? My heart. You are sitting on my cap. She gives a positive scream and moves into the bedroom. He goes. She waits a moment and then puts down her veil and takes up her suitcase. In the taxi. Yes, Waterloo. She leans back. I've escaped. I've escaped. I shall just be in time to catch the afternoon train home. It's like a dream. I'll be home before supper. I'll tell him that the city was too hot or the dentist away. What does it matter? I've a right to my own home. It will be wonderful driving up from the station. The fields will smell so delicious. There's cold fowl for supper left over from yesterday and orange jelly. I have been mad. But now I am sane again. Oh, my husband. 1917. End of section 18. Section 19 of Something Childish and Other Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rob Marland. Something Childish and Other Stories by Catherine Mansfield. A suburban fairy tale. Mr and Mrs B sat at breakfast in the cosy red dining room of their snug little crib just under half an hour's run from the city. There was a good fire in the grate, for the dining room was the living room as well. The two windows overlooking the cold empty garden patch were closed, and the air smelled agreeably of bacon and eggs, toast and coffee. Now that this rationing business was really over, Mr B made a point of a thoroughly good tuck-in before facing the very real perils of the day. He didn't mind who knew it, he was a true Englishman about his breakfast. He had to have it, he'd cave in without it, and if you told him that these continental chaps could get through half the morning's work he did on a roll and a cup of coffee, you simply didn't know what you were talking about. Mr B was a stout youngish man who hadn't been able, worse luck, to chuck his job and join the army. He'd tried for four years to get another chap to take his place, but it was no go. He sat at the head of the table reading the daily mail. Mrs B was a youngish plump little body, rather like a pigeon. He sat opposite, preening herself behind the coffee-set, and keeping an eye of warning love on little B, who perched between them, swathed in a napkin, and tapping the top of a soft-boiled egg. Alas, little B was not at all the child that such parents had every right to expect. He was no fat little trot, no dumpling, no firm little pudding. He was undersized for his age, with legs like macaroni, tiny claws, soft, soft hair that felt like mouse fur, and big, wide-open eyes. For some strange reason, everything in life seemed the wrong size for little B, too big and too violent. Everything knocked him over, took the wind out of his feeble sails, and left him gasping and frightened. Mr and Mrs B were quite powerless to prevent this. They could only pick him up after the mischief was done, and try to set him going again. And Mrs B loved him as only weak children are loved, and when Mr B thought what a marvellous little chap he was, too, thought of the spunk of the little man, he, well, he, by George, see. Why aren't there two kinds of eggs, said little B? Why aren't there little eggs for children, and big eggs, like what this one is, for grown-ups? Scotch hairs, said Mr B, fine scotch hairs for five shelling's three pence. How about getting one, old girl? It would be a nice change, wouldn't it? Said Mrs B. Shugged. And they looked across at each other, and there floated between them the scotch hair in its rich gravy with stuffing balls, and a white pot of red currant jelly accompanying it. We might have had it for the weekend, said Mrs B. But the butcher has promised me a nice little sirloin, and it seems a pity. Yes, it did. And yet, dear me, it was very difficult to decide. The hair would have been such a change. On the other hand, could you beat a really nice little sirloin? There's hair-soup, too, said Mr B, drumming his fingers on the table. Bast soup in the world! Ah! Oh! cried little B, so suddenly and sharply that it gave them quite a start. Look at all the whole lot of sparrows flown on to our lawn! He waved his spoon. Look at them! he cried. And while he spoke, even though the windows were closed, they heard a loud shrill cheeping and chirping from the garden. Get on with your breakfast like a good boy do, said his mother, and his father said, You stick to the egg, old man, and look sharp about it. But look at them! Look at them all hopping! he cried. They don't keep still! Not for a minute! Do you think they're hungry, father? Cheep-a-cheep-cheep-cheep cried the sparrows. Best postpone it, perhaps, till next week, said Mr B, and trust to look they're still to be had then. Yes, perhaps that would be wiser, said Mrs B. Mr B picked another plum out of his paper. Have you bought any of those controlled dates yet? I managed to get two pounds yesterday, said Mrs B. Well, a date pudding's a good thing, said Mr B, and they looked across at each other, and there floated between them a dark round pudding covered with creamy sauce. It would be a nice change, wouldn't it? said Mrs B. Outside on the grey frozen grass the funny eager sparrows hopped and fluttered. They were never for a moment still. They cried, flapped their ungainly wings. Little B, his egg finished, got down, took his bread and marmalade to eat at the window. Do let us give them some crumbs, he said. Do open the window, father, and throw them something. Father, please! Oh, don't nag, child, said Mrs B, and his father said. Can't go opening windows, old man, you'd get your head bitten off. But they're hungry, cried Little B, and the sparrows' little voices were like ringing of little knives being sharpened. Cheek-a-cheep-cheek, they cried. Little B dropped his bread and marmalade inside the china flowerpot in front of the window. He slipped behind the thick curtains to see better, and Mr and Mrs B went on reading about what you could get now without coupons. No more ration books after May. A glut of cheese, a glut of it, whole cheeses revolved in the air between them like celestial bodies. Suddenly, as Little B watched the sparrows on the grey frozen grass, they grew, they changed, still flapping and squeaking. They turned into tiny little boys, in brown coats, dancing, jigging outside, up and down, outside the window, squeaking. Want something to eat, want something to eat? Little B held with both hands to the curtain. Father, he whispered, Father, they're not sparrows, they're little boys. Listen, Father! But Mr and Mrs B would not hear. He tried again. Mother, he whispered, Look at the little boys, they're not sparrows, mother! But nobody noticed his nonsense. All this talk about famine, cried Mr B. All are fake, all are blind. With white shining faces, their arms flapping in the big coats, the little boys danced. Want something to eat, want something to eat? Father, muttered Little B, listen, Father, mutter, listen, please. Really? said Mrs B. The noise those birds are making, I've never heard such a thing. Fetch me my shoes, old man, said Mr B. Cheek-cheek-cheek-cheek, said the sparrows. Now where had that child got to? Come and finish your nice cocoa, my pet, said Mrs B. Mr B lifted the heavy cloth and whispered, Come on, Rover! But no little dog was there. He's behind the curtain, said Mrs B. He never went out of the room, said Mr B. Mrs B went over to the window, and Mr B followed, and they looked out. There on the grey frozen grass, with a white white face, the little boys' thin arms flapping like wings, in front of them all, the smallest, tarniest, was Little B. Mr and Mrs B heard his voice above all the voices. Want something to eat, want something to eat? Somehow, somehow, they opened the window. You shall, all of you, come in at once, old man, little man! But it was too late. The little boys were changed into sparrows again, and away they flew, out of sight, out of call. 1917. End of section 19. Section number 20 of Something Childish and Other Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Katharina Glovalin. Carnation by Catherine Mansfield. On those hot days, Eve, curious Eve, always carried a flower. She snuffed it and snuffed it, twirled it in her fingers, laid it against her cheek, held it to her lips, tickled Katie's neck with it, and ended, finally, by pulling it to pieces and eating it, petal by petal. Roses are delicious, my dear Katie, she would say, standing in the dim cloakroom, with a strange decoration of flowery heads on the headpacks behind her. But carnations are simply divine. They taste like, like, are well. And away her little thin-law flew, fluttering amongst those huge strange flower heads on the wall behind her. But how cruel her little thin-law was! It had a long, sharp beak and claws and two bead eyes, thought Fancyful Katie. Today it was a carnation. She brought a carnation to the French class, a deep, deep red one that looked as though it had been dipped in wine and left in the dark to dry. She held it on the desk before her, half shut her eyes and smiled. Isn't it a darling, she said, but, un peu de silence s'il vous plaît? came from Monsieur Hugo. Oh bother, it was too hot, frightfully hot, grilling simply. The two square windows of the French room were open at the bottom and the dark blinds drawn half way down. Although no air came in, the blind court sprung out and back and the blind lifted. And really there was not a breath from the dazzle outside. Even the girls in the dusky room in their pale blouses with stiff butterfly bow hair rubins perched on their hair seemed to give off a warm, weak light and Monsieur Hugo's white waistcoat gleamed like the belly of a shark. Some of the girls were very red in the face and some were white. Meryl Holland had pinned up her black curls à la Japonais with a pen holder and a pink pencil. She looked charming. Francie Owen pushed her sleeves nearly up to the shoulders and she inked the little blue vein in her elbow, shut her arm together and then looked to see the market maid. She had a passion for inking herself. She always had a face drawn on her thumbnail with black forked hair. Sylvia Mann took off her collar and tie, took them off simply and laid them on the desk beside her as calm as if she were going to wash her hair in her bedroom at home. She had a nerve. Jenny Edwards tore a leaf out of her notebook and wrote, Shall we ask old Hugo Vugo to give us a thrippany vanilla on the way home? And passed it across to Connie Baker, who turned absolutely purple and nearly burst out crying. All of them lulled and gaved, staring at the round clock which seemed to have grown paler too. The hands scarcely crawled. Un peu d'silence s'il vous plaît, came from Monsieur Hugo. He held up a puffy hand. Ladies, as it is so hot, we will take no more notes today, but I will read to you. And he paused and smiled, a broad gentle smile, a little French poetry. Good God, Mount Frenzy Owen, Monsieur Hugo's smile deepened. Well, Miss Owen, you need not attend. You can paint yourself. You can have my red ink as well as your black one. How well they knew the little blue book with red edges that he tucked out of his coattail pocket. It had a green silk marker embroidered in forget-me-nots. They often giggled at it when he handed the book round. He adored reading poetry. He would begin softly and calmly, and then gradually his voice would swell and vibrate and gather itself together. Then it would be pleading and imploring and entreating, and then rising, rising triumphant until it burst into light as it were, and then gradually again it ebbed. And grew soft and warm and calm, and died down into nothingness. The great difficulty was, of course, if you felt at all feeble, not to get the most awful fit of the giggles. Not because it was funny, really, but because it made you feel uncomfortable, queer, silly, and somehow ashamed for old Hugo Vugo. But oh dear, if he was going to inflict it on them in this heat, courage my pet, said Eve, kissing the languid carnation. He began, and most of the girls fell forward, over the desks, their head on their arms, dead at the first shot. Only Eve and Katie set upright and still. Katie did not know enough French to understand, but Eve said listening, her eyebrows raised, her eyes half veiled, and a smile that was like the shadow of her cruel little love, like the wing shadow of that cruel little love fluttering over her lips. She made a warm white cup of her fingers, the carnation inside. Oh, this scent, it floated across to Katie. It was too much. Katie turned away to the dazzling light outside the window. Down below she knew there was a cobbled courtyard, with stable buildings around it. That's why the French room always smelled faintly of ammonia. It wasn't unpleasant. It was even part of the French language for Katie, something sharp and vivid and, and biting. Now she could hear a man clatter over the cobbles, and the jing-jang of the pails he carried. And now, hoo-ho-ha, hoo-ho-ha, as he worked the pump, and a great gush of water followed. Now he was flinging the water over something, over the wheels of a carriage, perhaps. And she saw the wheel, propped up, clear of the ground, spinning round, flashing scarlet and black, with great drops glancing of it. And all the while he worked, the man kept up a high, bold whistling that skimmed over the noise of the water as a bird skims over the sea. He went away, he came back again, leading a cluttering horse. Hoo-ho-her, hoo-ho-her, came from the pump. Now he dashed the water over the horse's legs and then swooped down and began brushing. She saw him simply, in a faded shirt, his sleeves rolled up, his chest bare, all splashed with water. And as he whistled loud and free, and as he moved swooping and bending, Yugo Vugo's voice began to warm, to deepen, to gather together, to swing, to rise, somehow or other, to keep time with the men outside, o' the scent of Eve's carnation, until they became one great rushing, rising, triumphant thing, bursting into light, and then the whole room broke into pieces. Thank you, ladies, cried Monsieur Yugo, bobbing at his high desk over the wreckage. And keep it, dearest, said Eve, souvenir tendre, as she popped the carnation down the front of Katie's blouse. End of Section 20. Section 21 of Something Childish in Other Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Seasaw, by Catherine Mansfield. Spring. As the people leave the road for the grass, their eyes become fixed and dreamy, like the eyes of people waiting in the warm sea. There are no daisies yet, but the sweet smell of the grass rises, rises in tiny waves the deeper they go. The trees are in full leaf. As far as one can see, there are fans, hoops, tall rich plumes of various green. A light wind shakes them, blowing them together, blowing them free again, and the blue sky floats a cluster of tiny white clouds like a brood of ducklings. The people wander over the grass. The old ones inclined to puff and waddle after their long winter snooze. The young ones, suddenly licking hands and making for that screen of trees in the hollow or the shelter of that clump of dark oars tipped with yellow. Walking very fast, almost running, as though they had heard some lovely little creature caught in the thicket crying to them to be saved. On the top of a small green mound, there is a very favorite bench. It has a young chestnut growing beside it, shaped like a mushroom. Below, the earth has crumbled, fallen away, leaving three or four clay-y hollows, caves, caverns, and in one of them, two little people had set up house with a minute pickaxe and empty matchbox, a blunted nail, and a shovel for furniture. He had red hair, cut in a deep fringe, light blue eyes, a faded pink smock, and brown buttoned shoes. Her flowery curls were caught up with a yellow ribbon and she wore two dresses. She was wearing them for this week's underneath and her last week's on top. This gave her rather a bulky air. If you don't get me no sticks for my fire, said she, there won't be no dinner. She wrinkled her nose and looked at him severely. You seem to forget I've got a fire to make. He took it very easy, balancing on his toes. Well, where's I to find any sticks? Oh, said she, flinging up her hands. Anywhere, of course, and then she whispered just loud enough for him to hear. They needn't be real ones, you know? Oh, he breathed, and then he shouted in a loud, distinct tone. Well, I'll just go and get a few sticks. He came back in a moment with an armful. Is that a whole pen-earth, said she, holding out her skirts for them? Well, said he. I don't know, because had them give to me by a man that was moving. Perhaps they are bits of what was broke, said she. When we moved, two of the pictures was broken, and my daddy lit the fire with them. And my mommy said, she said, a tiny pause. Soldiers, manners. What's that, said he. Good gracious, she made great eyes at him. Don't you know? No, said he. What does it mean? He screwed up a bit of her skirt, scrunched it, then looked away. Oh, don't bother me, child, said she. He didn't care. He took the pickaxe and hacked a little piece out of the kitchen floor. Got a newspaper? He plucked one out of the air and handed it to her. She tore it into three pieces, knelt down and laid the sticks over. Matches, please. The real box was a triumph, and the blunt did nails. But funny, it wouldn't light. They looked at each other in consternation. Try the other side, said she. Ah, that's better. There was a great glow, and they sat down on the floor and began to make the pie. To the bench beside the chestnut came two fat old babies and plumped themselves down. She wore a bonnet trimmed with lilac and tied with lilac velvet strings. A black satin coat and lace tie in each of her hands squeezed into black kid gloves showed a morsel of purplish flesh. The skin of his swollen old face was tight and glazed, and he sat down clasping his huge soft belly as though careful not to jolt or alarm it. Very hot, said he, and he gave a low, strange trumpeting cry with which she was evidently familiar, for she gave no sign. She looked into the lovely distance and quivered. Nelly cut her finger last night. Oh, did she? said the old snorter. Then, how did she do that? At dinner, was the reply, with the knife. They both looked ahead of them, panting. Then, badly? The weak-worn old voice, the old voice that reminded one somehow of a piece of faintly-smelling dark lace, said, not very badly. Again, he gave that low, strange cry. He took off his hat, wiped the rim, and put it on again. The voice beside him said with a spiteful touch, I think it was carelessness, and he replied, blowing out his cheeks, bound to be. But then a little bird flew onto a branch of the young chestnut above them and shook over the old head a great jet of song. He took off his hat, heathed himself up, and beat in its direction in the tree. Away it flew. Don't want bird muck falling on us, said he, lowering his belly carefully. Carefully again. The fire was made. Put your hand in the oven, said she, and see if it's hot. He put his hand in, but drew it out again with a squeak, and danced up and down. It's ever so hot, said he. This seemed to please her very much. She too got up and went over to him, and touched him with a finger. Do you like playing with me? And he said, in a small, solid way. Yes, I do. At that, she flung away from him and cried, I'll never be done if you keep on bothering me with these questions. As she poked the fire, he said, Our dogs had kittens. Kittens? She said back on her heels. Can a dog have kittens? Of course they can, said he. Little ones, you know? But cats have kittens, cried she. Dogs don't. Dogs have. She stopped. Stared, looked for the word, couldn't find it. It was gone. They have. Kittens, cried he, Our dogs been and had too. She stamped her foot at him. She was pink with exasperation. It's not kittens, she wailed. It's. It is. It is. It is. It is. He shouted, waving the shovel. She threw her top dress over her head and began to cry. It's not. It's. It's. Suddenly, without a moment's warning, he lifted his pinafore and made water. At the sound, she emerged. Look what you've been and done, said she. To appall to cry anymore, you've put out my fire. Ah, never mind. Let's move. You could take the pickaxe in the matchbox. They moved to the next cave. It's much nicer here, said he. Off you go, said she, and gave me some sticks from my fire. The two old babies above began to rumble and obedient to the sign they got up without a word and waddled away. End of section 21. Section 22 of Something Childish and Other Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Summer Ward, Newport News, Virginia, USA. This Flower by Katherine Mansfield. But I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle danger, we pluck this flower. Safety. As she lay there, looking up at the ceiling, she had her moment. Yes, she had her moment, and it was not connected with anything she had thought or felt before. Not even with those words the doctor had scarcely ceased speaking. It was single, glowing, perfect. It was like a pearl too flawless to match with another. Could she describe what happened? Impossible. It was as though, even if she had not been conscious, and she certainly had not been conscious all the time, that she was fighting against the stream of life. The stream of life, indeed. She had suddenly ceased to struggle. Oh, more than that. She had yielded, yielded absolutely, down to every minutest pulse and nerve. And she had fallen into the bright bosom of the stream, and it had borne her. She was part of her room, part of the great bouquet of southern anemones, of the white net curtains that blew in stiff against the light breeze, of the mirrors, the white silky rugs. She was part of the high, shaking, quivering clamor, broken with little bells and crying voices that went streaming by outside, part of the leaves and the light. Over, she sat up. The doctor had reappeared. This strange little figure with his deathoscope still strung round his neck. For, she had asked him to examine her heart, squeezing and kneading his freshly washed hands, had told her it was the first time she had ever seen him. Roy, unable, of course, to miss the smallest dramatic opportunity, had obtained his rather shady Bloomsbury address from the man in whom he always confided everything, who, although he'd never met her, knew all about them. My darling, Roy had said, we'd better have an absolutely unknown man, just in case it's, well, what we don't either of us want it to be. One can't be too careful in affairs of this sort. Doctors do talk. It's all damned rot to say they don't. Then, not that I care straw who on earth knows. Not that I wouldn't, if you'd have me, blaze in it on the skies or take the front page of the Daily Mirror and have her two names on it in a heart, you know, pierced by an arrow. Nevertheless, of course, his love of mystery and intrigue, his passion for keeping our secret beautifully, his phrase, had won the day. And off he'd gone in taxi to fetch this rather sodden-looking little man. She heard her untroubled voice saying, do you mind not mentioning anything of this to Mr. King? If you tell him that I'm a little run down and that my heart wants a rest, for I've been complaining about my heart, Roy had really been too right about the kind of man the doctor was. He gave her a strange, quick, clearing look and taking off the stethoscope with shaking fingers, he folded it into his bag. That looked somehow like a broken old canvas shoe. Don't you worry, my dear, he said huskily, I'll see you through. Odious little toad to have asked a favor of, she sprang to her feet and picking up her purple cloth jacket went over to the mirror. There was a soft knock at the door and Roy, he really did look pale smiling his half-smile, came in and asked the doctor what he had to say. Well, said the doctor, taking up his hat and holding it against his chest and beating a tattoo on it. All I've got to say is that Mrs. Madame wants a bit of rest. She's a bit run down. Her heart's a bit strained. Nothing else wrong. Nothing gay, laughing, mocking, gushing with little trills, shakes, jumbles of notes. That's all I've got to say, to say, that's all I've got to say. It mocked. It sounded so near she wouldn't have been surprised if the doctor were turning the handle. She saw Roy smile deep in. His eyes took fire. He gave a little ah of relief and happiness. And just for one moment he allowed himself to gaze at her without carrying a jot, whether the doctor saw or not. Drinking her up with that gaze so well as she stood tying the pale ribbons of her camisole and drawing on the little purple cloth jacket. He jerked back to the doctor. She shall go away. She shall go away to the sea at once, said he, and then terribly anxious. What about her food? At that, buttoning her jacket in the long mirror, she couldn't help laughing at him. That's all very well, he protested, laughing back delightedly at her and at the doctor. But if I didn't manage her food, doctor, she'd never eat anything but a glass of wine. Wouldn't she have wine? Wine would do her no harm. Champagne, pleaded Roy, how he was enjoying himself. Oh, as much champagne as she likes, said the doctor, and a brandy and soda with her lunch if she fancies it. Roy loved that. It tickled him immensely. Do you hear that? He asked solemnly blinking and sucking in his cheeks to keep him laughing. Do you fancy a brandy and soda? A brandy and soda, a brandy and soda, please, a brandy and soda, please. The doctor seemed to hear that too. He shook hands with her, and Roy went with him into the passage to settle his fee. She heard the front door close, and then rapid, rapid steps along the passage. This time he simply burst into her room, and she was in his arms, crushed up small while he kissed her with warm, quick kisses murmuring between them, my darling, my beauty, my delight, your mind, your safe, and then three soft groans. Oh, oh, oh, the relief! Still keeping his arms round her, he leaned his head against her shoulder as though exhausted. If you knew how frightened I've been, he murmured. I thought we were in for it this time. I really did. And it would have been so fatal, so fatal. 1919 End of Section 22 Recording by Summer Ward Section 23 of Something Childish and Other Stories This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Rob Marland The Wrong House by Catherine Mansfield Two pearl, two plane, well in front of the needle and knit two together. Like an old song, like a song that she had sung so often that only to breathe was to sing it, she murmured the knitting pattern. Another vest was nearly finished for the mission parcel. It's your vests, Mrs. Bean, that are so acceptable. Look at these poor little mites without a shred. And the church woman showed her a photograph of repulsive little black objects with bellies shaped like lemons. Two pearl, two plane, down dropped the knitting onto her lap. She gave a great long sigh, stared in front of her for a moment and then picked the knitting up and began again. What did she think about when she sighed like that? Nothing. It was a habit. She was always sighing on the stairs particularly as she went up and down. She stopped, holding her dress up with one hand, the other hand on the banister, staring at the steps, sighing. Well in front of the needle. She sat at the dining room window facing the street. It was a bitter autumn day. The wind ran in the street like a thin dog. The houses opposite looked as though they'd been cut out with a pair of ugly steel scissors and pasted onto the grey paper sky. There was not a soul to be seen. Knit two together. The clock struck three. Only three? It seemed dusk already. Dusk came floating into the room, heavy, powdery dusk settling on the furniture, filming over the mirror. Now the kitchen clock struck three, two minutes late for this was the clock to go by and not the kitchen clock. She was alone in the house. Dolly Suss was out shopping. She'd been gone since a quarter to two. Really she got slower and slower. What did she do with the time? One cannot spend more than a certain time buying chicken. And that habit of hers of dropping the wings when she made up the fire. And she set her lips as she had set her lips for the past 35 years at that habit of Dolly Suss. Then came a faint noise from the street, a noise of horses hooves. She leaned further out to see. Good gracious! It was a funeral. First the glass coach rolling along briskly a seeming, varnished coffin inside but no wreaths with three men in front and two standing at the back. Then some carriages some with black horses some with brown. The dust came bowling up the road half hiding the procession. She scanned the houses opposite to see which had the blinds down. What horrible looking men too laughing and joking. One leaned over to one side and blew his nose with his black glove. Horrible! She gathered up the netting hiding her hands in it. Dolly Suss surely would have known. There they were passing. It was the other end. What was this? What was happening? What could it mean? Her old heart leaped like a fish and then fell as the glass coach drew up outside her door as the outside men scrambled down from the front swung off the back and the tallest of them with a glance of surprise at the windows came quickly stealthily up the garden path. No! She groaned. But yes, the blow fell and for a moment it struck her down. She gasped. A great cold shiver went through her and stayed in her hands and knees. She saw the man withdraw a step and again that puzzled glance at the blinds. Then No! She groaned and stumbling, catching hold of things she managed to get to the door before the blow fell again. She opened it. Her chin trembled. Her teeth clacked. Somehow or other she brought out the wrong house. No! He was shocked. As she stepped back she saw behind him the black hats clustered at the gate. The wrong house! He muttered. She could only nod. She was shutting the door again when he fished out of the tail of his coat a black brass-bound notebook and swiftly opened it. No. 20 Shaworth Crescent Street Crescent round the corner. Her hand lifted to point but shook and fell. He was taking off his hat as she shut the door and leaned against it, whimpering in the dusky hall Go away! Go away! Clock, clock, clock, clock clock, clock, clock, clock sounded from outside and then a faint clock, clock and then silence they were gone. They were out of sight. But still she stayed leaning against the door staring at the hall stand that was like a great lobster with hat pegs for feelers. But she thought of nothing. She did not even think of what had happened. It was as if she had fallen into a cave whose walls were darkness. She came to herself with a deep inward shock, hearing the gate bang and quick, short steps crunching the gravel. It was Dollisus hurrying round to the back door. Dollisus must not find her there, and wavering, wavering like a candle flame, back she went into the dining-room to her seat by the window. This was in the kitchen. Clang! Went one of the iron rings into the fender. Then her voice. I'm just putting on the tea-cattle! Since they'd been alone she had got into the way of shouting from one room to another. The old woman coughed to steady herself. Please bring in the lamp! She cried. The lamp? Dollisus came across the passage and stood in the doorway. Why, it's only just on former. Never mind, said Mrs. Bean Dolly. Bring it in. And a moment later the elderly maid appeared, carrying the gentle lamp in both hands. Her broad, soft face had the look it always had when she carried anything, as though she walked in her sleep. She set it down on the table, lowered the wick, raised it, and then lowered it again. Then she straightened up and looked across at her mistress. Why, ma'am, whatever's that you're treading on? It was the mission-vest. As Dollisus picked it up she thought, the old lady has been asleep. She's not awake yet. Indeed the old lady looked glazed and dazed, and when she took up the knitting she drew out a needle of stitches and began to unwind what she'd done. Don't forget the mace, she said. Her voice sounded thin and dry. She was thinking of the chicken for that night's supper. And Dollisus understood and answered, it's a lovely young bird, as she pulled down the blind before going back to her kitchen. End of section 23.