 Section 0 of The Dove's Nest and Other Stories. This is the 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 Dove's Nest and Other Stories by Catherine Mansfield. Introductory note. Catherine Mansfield died at Fontaine Bleu on January 9, 1923 at the age of 34. This volume contains all the complete stories and several fragments of stories which she wrote at the same time as, or after, those published in The Garden Party and Other Stories. Her earlier work, belonging to the period between her first book, in a German pension, and her second, Bliss and Other Stories, will be published in one or two separate volumes in a collected edition of her work. Thus the continuity of her writing will be preserved, and an opportunity given to those who care for such things to follow the development of a talent now generally recognized as among the rarest of her generation. The title of this volume, The Dove's Nest and Other Stories, is the title which Catherine Mansfield intended to give it. Whether the stories which compose it, are those which she would finally have included in it, I cannot say. Her standard of self-criticism was continually changing, and changing always in the direction of a greater rigor. In writings which I thought perfect, she, with her Keener insight, discerned unworthy elements. Now that I am forced to depend upon my own soul judgment, it has seemed to me that there is not a scrap of her writing, not even the tiniest fragment, during this final period which does not bear the visible impress of her exquisite individuality and her creative power. On October 27, 1921, soon after she had finished and sent to her publisher the stories which compose The Garden Party, she wrote the following plan of her new book in her journal. Parentheses, the letters L and NZ, mean that the stories were to have London or New Zealand for their setting. End parentheses. Stories for my new book. NZ. Honesty. The Doctor, Arnold Cullen and his wife Lydia, and Archie, the friend. L. Second Violin. Alexander and his friend in the train. Spring. Wet lilac. Spouting rain. NZ. Six years after. A wife and husband on board a steamer. They see someone who reminds them. The cold buttons. L. Lives like logs of driftwood. This wants to be a long, very well written story. The men are important, especially the lesser man. It wants a great deal of working. Newspaper office. NZ. A weak heart. Roddy on his bike in the evening, with his hands in his pockets, doing marvels by that dark tree at the corner of May Street. L. Widowed. Geraldine and Jimmy. A house overlooking Sloan Street and Square. Wearing those buds at her breast. Married or not married. From autumn to spring. NZ. Our Mord. Husband and wife play duets. And a one, a two, a three, a one, a two, a three, one. His white waistcoats. Wifeling and Mahoob. What a girl you are. NZ. At Karori. The little lamp. I seen it. And then they were silent. NZ. And Anne. Her life with the Tanhauser Overture. Of these stories, only the one called At Karori and subsequently entitled The Doll's House was finished three days later on October 30. Of some of the remaining stories there are considerable fragments. Of three of them I have so far discovered no trace at all. All the fragments I have found which indubitably belong to any of these stories I have included in this volume. I have also included other fragments which seemed to possess a separate existence, but I have reserved most of the shorter pieces for publication with her journal. Between October 1921, when the original plan of this volume was sketched, and the end of January 1922, she finished other stories which she had not foreseen. These were A Cup of Tea, Honeymoon, Taking the Veil, and the long, unfinished yet somehow complete piece, A Married Man's Story. In January she also began The Dove's Nest, a story which was particularly important to her and with the writing of which, at least at the beginning, she was satisfied. She wrote in her journal on New Year's Day, 1922, wrote The Dove's Nest this afternoon, I was in no mood to write, it seemed impossible, yet when I had finished three pages, they were all right. This is a proof, never to be too often proved, that when one has thought out a story nothing remains but the labour. She worked on and off at The Dove's Nest during the following summer also. Unfortunately I can find no trace of her own manuscript. There is a fair, clean copy, type written by herself, of the portion printed in this book, but nothing more. In February 1922 began three months of an exacting medical treatment in Paris, during which work became more and more a physical impossibility. Nevertheless, at the beginning of this time, on February 20th, she wrote The Fly. On her return to Switzerland in June, she tried to resume work on The Dove's Nest, and she wrote the scenario of a play, but again physical weakness made work in the mountains impossible. To ease the strain on her heart, she descended into the valley in June. At Sierra she wrote more of The Dove's Nest, much more alas than remains. She also began the unfinished piece called Father and the Girls, and finished the short story called The Canary. These were the last of the stories written by her which can be exactly dated. There is reason, however, to believe that the passage of the story called Six Years After, which ends with the words Can one do nothing for the dead, and for a long time the answer had been Nothing was actually the last piece written by her. It seems to belong to the autumn of 1922, when she had, for a time, practically abandoned writing. It was not, however, because of her physical weakness that she stopped writing in the late summer of 1922. The power of her spirit to triumph over the frailty of her body had been proved over and over again. She stopped writing deliberately, not under compulsion. She felt that her whole attitude to life needed to be renewed, and she determined that she would write no more until it had been renewed. Perhaps an idea of the way her mind, or rather her whole being, was moving, may be gleaned from some extracts from her journal. At first her dissatisfaction with her work took shape in a feeling that she was not exerting the whole of her powers or expressing the whole of her knowledge in her writings. As early as July 1921, when she was still engaged on the last part of the stories for the garden party, she wrote, July 1921. I finished Mr. and Mrs. Dove yesterday. I am not altogether pleased with it. It's a little bit made up. It's not inevitable. I meant to imply that those two may not be happy together, that that is the kind of reason for which a young girl marries. But have I done so? I don't think so. Besides, it's not strong enough. I want to be nearer, far nearer than that. I want to use all my force even when I'm taking a fine line. And I have a sneaking notion that I have, at the end, used the doves unwarrantably. To say ce que je veux dire. I used them to round off something, didn't I? Is that quite my game? No, it's not. It's not quite the kind of truth I'm after. Now for Susanna. All must be deeply felt. And a few days later she wrote, July 23. Finished an ideal family yesterday. It seems to me better than the doves, but still it's not good enough. I worked at it hard enough, God knows, and yet I didn't get the deepest truth out of the idea, even once. What is this feeling? I feel again that this kind of knowledge is too easy for me. It's even a kind of trickery. I know so much more. It looks and smells like a story, but I wouldn't buy it. I don't want to possess it, to live with it. No. Once I have written two more, I shall tackle something different. A long story. At the bay, with more difficult relationships. That's the whole problem. Yet a little later her vision of the cause of her own dissatisfaction deepened, and she began to define it in terms of the insufficient clarity of her own spirit and of the incompleteness of her inward life, which were to become more and more familiar. Well, I must confess I have had an idle day. God knows why. All was to be written, but I just didn't write it. I thought I would, but I felt tired after tea, and rested instead. Is it good or bad in me to behave so? I have a sense of guilt, but at the same time I know that to rest is the very best thing I can do, and for some reason there is a kind of booming in my head, which is horrid. But marks of earthly degradation still pursue me. I am not crystal clear. Above all else I do still lack application. It's not right. There is so much to do, and I do so little. Look at the stories that wait and wait just at the threshold. Why don't I let them in? And their place would be taken by others who are lurking beyond, just out there, waiting for the chance. Next day. Yet take this morning, for instance. I don't want to write anything. It's grey, it's heavy and dull, and short stories seem unreal and not worth doing. I don't want to write. I want to live. What does one mean by that? It's not too easy to say. But there you are. August 21. All this that I write, all that I am, is on the border of the sea. It's a kind of playing. I want to put all my force behind it, but somehow I cannot. And again in the autumn of the year, her incessant effort towards an inward purity, who but she would have dreamed that she lacked it, as a condition of soul essential to writing that you purposed to write becomes still more manifest. October 16. Another radiant day. Jay is typing my last story, The Garden Party, which I finished on my birthday. It took me nearly a month to recover from at the bay. I made at least four false starts, but I could not get away from the sound of the sea and barrel fanning her hair at the window. These things would not die down. Now I am not at all sure about that story. It seems to me it's a little wispy, not what it might have been. The GP is better, but that is not good enough either. The last few days, what one notices more than anything, is the blue, blue sky, blue mountains, all is a heavenly blueness, and clouds of all kinds, wings, soft white clouds, almost hard little golden islands, white mock mountains, the gold deepens on the slopes. In fact, in sober fact, it is perfection. But the late evening is the time of times. Then, with that unearthly beauty before one, it's not hard to realise how far one has to go. To write something that will be worthy of that rising moon, that pale light, to be simple enough, as one would be simple before God. November 21. Since then I have only written The Doll's House. A bad spell has been on me. I have begun two stories, but then told them and they felt betrayed. It's absolutely fatal to give way to this temptation. Today I begin to write, seriously, The Weak Heart, a story which fascinates me deeply. What I feel it needs so peculiarly is a very subtle variation of tense from the present to the past, and back again, and softness, lightness, and the feeling that all is in bud, with a play of humour over the character of Roddy, and the feeling of the thawnden baths, the wet, moist, oozy. No, I know how it must be done. May I be found worthy to do it. Lord, make me crystal clear for thy light to shine through. The two stories which she told, and then was forced to abandon, because they felt betrayed, were honesty and all serene. Of Weak Heart, as she subsequently called it, only fragments remain. There is the opening, copied in careful writing, a few hurriedly written sentences from the middle, themes, as it were, hastily noted, and then, obviously written at top speed and decipherable only with great difficulty, the end. The two following passages from her journal belong to the same months, October and November 1921, but they were written in another book, and one of them should be placed in point of time between the two previous entries. Catherine Mansfield's attempts at keeping a regular journal were intermittent. Nearly all the passages quoted here as from her journal were written on random pages of the little copy books in which she composed her stories. In order to appreciate the first of the following passages fully, it should be remembered that it was written immediately after she had finished at the bay. October 1921 I wonder why it should be so difficult to be humble. I do not think I am a good writer. I realise my faults better than anyone else could realise them. I know exactly when I fail, and yet, when I have finished a story and before I have begun another, I catch myself preening my feathers. It's disheartening. There seems to be some bad old pride in my heart, a root of it that puts out a thick shoot on the slightest provocation. This interferes very much with work. One can't be calm, clear, good, as one must be while it goes on. I look at the mountains. I try to pray, and I think of something clever. It's a kind of excitement within one which shouldn't be there. Calm yourself, clear yourself, and anything that I write in this mood will be no good. It will be full of sediment. If I were well, I would go off by myself somewhere and sit under a tree. One must learn, one must practice to forget oneself. I can't tell the truth about Aunt Anne unless I am free to enter into her life without self-consciousness. Oh, God, I am divided still. I am bad. I fail in my personal life. I lapse into impatience, temper, vanity, and so I fail as thy priest. Perhaps poetry will help. I have just thoroughly cleaned and attended to my fountain pen. If after this it leaks, then it is no gentleman. November 13, 1921 It is time I started a new journal. Come, my unseen, my unknown, let us talk together. Yes, for the last two weeks I have written scarcely anything. I have been idle. I have failed. Why? Many reasons. There has been a kind of confusion in my consciousness. It has seemed as though there was no time to write. The mornings, if they're sunny, are taken up with some treatment. The post eats away the afternoon. And at night, I'm tired. But it goes deeper. Yes, you are right. I haven't felt able to yield to the kind of contemplation that is necessary. I haven't felt pure in heart, not humble, not good. There's been a stirring up of sediment. I look at the mountains and I see nothing but mountains. Be frank. I read rubbish. Out of hand? Yes, that describes it. Disappear, vague, not positive. And above all, above everything, not working as I should be working. Wasting time. Wasting time. The old cry. The first and last cry. Why do ye tarry? Ah, why indeed. My deepest desire is to be a writer, to have a body of work done. And there the work is. There the stories wait for me. Grow tired, wilt, fade, because I will not come. When first they knock, how eager and fresh they are. And I hear and I acknowledge them. And still I go on sitting at the window, playing with the ball of wool. What is to be done? I must make another effort at once. I must begin all over again. I must try and write simply, fully, freely from my heart. Quietly, caring nothing for success or failure, but just going on. But how to resolve? And especially to keep in touch with life. With the sky, this moon, these stars, these cold, candid peaks. During the following summer at Sierre in Switzerland, one could have believed that Catherine Mansfield had finally accomplished the task of inward purification she had set herself. And to me it seems that there is a Halcyon clarity and calm diffused through the unfinished stories written there. But she was still secretly dissatisfied with herself and her work. And in the autumn, after a brief return to London, she deliberately decided to risk everything, to abandon the writing that was dearer than all else to her, in order to achieve that newness of heart without which her work and her life seemed to her unprofitable. At the end of October she retired by herself to a settlement at Fontainebleau, where she found what she sought. A few days after she had taken this final step, she wrote in a letter, No treatment on earth is any good to me, really. It all pretends. M did make me heavier and a trifle stronger, but that was all if I really face the facts. The miracle never came near happening. It couldn't. And as for my spirit, well, as a result of that life at the Victoria Palace, I stopped being a writer. I have only written long or short scraps since the fly. If I had gone on with my old life, I never would have written again, for I was dying of poverty of life. I wish, when one writes about things, one didn't dramatise them so. I feel awfully happy about all this, and it's all as simple as can be. But, in any case, I shan't write any stories for three months, and I'll not have a book ready before the spring. It doesn't matter. And again, in reply to a friend who pleaded with her not to abandon writing, she wrote, on October 26, As for writing stories and being true to one's gift, I could not write them if I were not here even. I am at an end of my source for a time. Life has brought me no flow. I want to write, but differently. Far more steadily. She believed that she could not express the change that had taken place in her even in letters, though indeed her letters were radiant with happiness. And yet I realise, as I write, all this is no use. An old personality is trying to get back to the outside and observe, and it's not true to the facts at all. What I write seems so petty. In fact, I cannot express myself in writing just now. The old mechanism isn't mine any longer, and I can't control the new. I just have to talk this baby talk. I am running the mood for books at present, she wrote, finally, shortly before Christmas, though I know that in future I shall want to write them more than anything else, but different books. What those different books would have been we shall never know. She was seized by a sudden and fatal hemorrhage on the evening of January 9th. She is buried in the communal cemetery of Avon near Fontainebleau. On her gravestone are inscribed the words of Shakespeare she chose for the title page of Bliss, words which had long been cherished by her and were to prove prophetic. But I tell you, my lord fall out of this nettle danger we pluck this flower. Safety. End of section zero. The Doves nest in other stories by Catherine Mansfield. The Doll's House. When dear old Mrs. Hay went back to town after staying with the Bernals, she sent the children a doll's house. It was so big that the carter and pat carried it into the courtyard and there it stayed, propped up on two wooden boxes beside the feed room door. No harm could come to it, it was summer. And perhaps the smell of paint would have gone off to be taken in, for really the smell of paint coming from that doll's house. Sweet of all Mrs. Hay, of course, almost sweet and generous. But the smell of paint was quite enough to make anyone seriously ill in Aunt Barrell's opinion, even before the sacking was taken off and when it was. There stood the doll's house, a dark, oily, spinach green picked out with bright yellow. Its two solid little chimneys glued to the roof painted red and white and the door gleaming with yellow varnish was like a little slab of toffee. Four windows, real windows, were divided into panes by a broad streak of green. There was actually a tiny porch too, painted yellow with bright lumps of congealed paint hanging along the edge. But perfect, perfect little house. Who could possibly mind the smell? It was part of the joy, part of the newness. Open it quickly, someone. The hook at the side was stuck fast. Pat prided open with his pin knife and the whole house front swung back. And there you were, gazing at one in the same moment into the drawing room, the dining room, the kitchen and two bedrooms. That is the way for a house to open. Why don't all houses open like that? How much more exciting than peering through the slit of a door into a mean little hall with a hat stand and two umbrellas? That is, isn't it, what you long to know about a house when you put your hand on the knocker? Perhaps it is the way God opens houses at the dead of night when he is taking a quiet turn with an angel. Oh, the Brunel children sounded as though they were in despair. It was too marvelous. It was too much for them. They had never seen anything like it in their lives. All the rooms were papered. There were pictures on the wall, painted on the paper with gold frames complete. Red carpet covered all the floors except the kitchen. Red plush chairs in the drawing room. Green in the dining room. Tables, beds with bedcloths, a cradle, a stove, a dresser with tiny plates and one big jug. But what Kezia liked more than anything, what she liked frightfully was the lamp. It stood in the middle of the dining room table an exquisite little amber lamp with a white globe. It was even filled all ready for lighting though of course you couldn't light it. But there was something inside that looked like oil and that moved when you shook it. The father and the mother dolls who sprawled very stiff as though they had fainted in the drawing room and their two little children asleep upstairs were really too big for the dolls house. They didn't look as though they belonged but the lamp was perfect. It seemed to smile at Kezia to say, I live here. The lamp was real. The Bernal children could hardly walk to school fast enough the next morning. They burned to tell everybody to describe too well to boast about their dolls house before the school bell rang. I'm to tell, said Isabel because I'm the eldest and you two can join in after but I'm to tell first. There was nothing to answer Isabel was bossy but she was always right and Lottie and Kezia knew too well the powers that went with being eldest. They brushed through the thick buttercups at the road edge and said nothing and I'm to choose who's to come and see it first. Mother said I might for it had been arranged that while the dolls house stood in the courtyard they might ask the girls at school to at a time to come and look not to say to tea of course or to come traipsing through the house but just to stand quietly in the courtyard while Isabel pointed out the beauties and Lottie and Kezia looked pleased but hurry as they might by the time they had reached the tarred pallings of the boys playground the bell had begun to jangle. They only just had time to whip off their hats and fall into the line before the roll was called. Never mind. Isabel tried to make up for it by looking very important and mysterious and by whispering behind her hand to the girls near her got something to tell you at playtime. Playtime came and Isabel was surrounded. The girls of her class nearly fought to put their arms around her to walk away with her to beam flatteringly to be her special friend. She held quite a court under the huge pine trees at the side of the playground nudging, giggling together the girls pressed up close and the only two who stayed outside the ring were the two who were always outside the little Kelby's they knew better than to come anywhere near the Bernal's for the fact was the school the Bernal children went to was not at all the kind of place their parents would have chosen if there had been any choice but there was none. It was the only school for miles and the only difference was all the children in the neighborhood the judges little girls the doctors daughters the storekeepers children the milkmans were forced to mix together not to speak of there being an equal number of rude rough little boys as well but the line had to be drawn somewhere it was drawn at the Kelby's many of the children including the Bernal's were not allowed even to speak to them they walked past the Kelby's even in all matters of behavior the Kelby's were shunned by everybody even the teacher had a special voice for them and a special smile for the other children when Lil Kelby came up to her desk with a bunch of dreadfully common looking flowers they were the daughters of a spry hard working little washer woman who went about from house to house by the day this was awful enough but where was Mr Kelby nobody knew for certain but everybody said he was in prison so they were the daughters of a washer woman and a jailbird very nice company for other people's children and they looked it why Mrs Kelby made them so conspicuous was hard to understand the truth was they were dressed in bits given to her by the people for whom she worked Lil for instance who was a stout plain child with big freckles came to school in a dress with a green art surge table cloth of the Bernals with red plush sleeves from the Logan's curtains her hat perched on top of her high forehead was a grown-up woman's hat once the property of Miss Lucky the Postmistress it was turned up at the back and trimmed with a large scarlet quill what a little guy she looked it was impossible not to laugh and her little sister our Elsie was rather like a nightgown and a pair of little boys boots but whatever our Elsie wore she would have looked strange she was a tiny wishbone of a child with cropped hair and enormous solemn eyes a little white owl nobody had ever seen her smile she scarcely even spoke she went through life holding on to Lil with a piece of Lil's skirt screwed up in her hand where Lil went our Elsie followed around all the road going to and from school there was Lil marching in front and our Elsie holding on behind only when she wanted anything or when she was out of breath our Elsie gave Lil a tug a twitch and Lil stopped and turned around the Kelvys never failed to understand each other now they hovered at the edge you couldn't stop them listening when the little girls turned round and sneered Lil as usual their silly shame face smile but our Elsie only looked and Isabelle's voice so very proud went on telling the carpet made a great sensation but so did the beds with real bed clothes and the stove with an oven door when she finished Kezia broke in you've forgotten the lamp Isabelle oh yes said Isabelle and there's a teeny little lamp all made of yellow glass with a white globe that stands on the dining room table you couldn't tell it from a real one the lamp's the best of all cried Kezia she thought Isabelle wasn't making half enough of the little lamp but nobody paid any attention Isabelle was choosing the two who were to come back with them that afternoon and see it she chose Emi Cole and Lena Logan but when the others knew they were all to have a chance they couldn't be nice enough to Isabelle one by one they put their arms in Isabelle's waist and walked her off they had something to whisper to her a secret Isabelle's my friend only the little Kelvys moved away forgotten there was nothing more for them to hear days passed and as more children saw the dolls house the fame of it spread it became the one subject the rage the one question was have you seen the burnels dolls house oh ain't it lovely haven't you seen it oh I say even the dinner hour was given up to talking about it the little girls sat under their pines eating their thick mutton sandwiches and big slabs of Johnny cake spread with butter while always as near as they could get sat the Kelvys our Elsie holding on to Lil listening to while they chewed their jam sandwiches out of a newspaper soaked with large red blobs mother said Kezia can't I ask the Kelvys just once certainly not Kezia but why not run away Kezia you know quite well why not at last everybody had seen it except them on that day the subject rather flagged it was the dinner hour the children stood together under the pines and suddenly as they looked at the Kelvys eating out of their paper always by themselves always listening they wanted to be horrid to them Emmy Cole started the whisper Lil Kelvys going to be a servant when she grows up oh how awful said Isabel Bernal and she made eyes at Emmy Emmy swallowed in a very meaningful way and nodded to Isabel as she had seen her mother do on those occasions it's true it's true it's true she said then Lena Logan's little eyes snapped shall I ask her she whispered bet you don't said Jesse May suddenly she gave a little squeal and danced in front of the other girls watch watch me watch me now said Lena and sliding gliding dragging one foot giggling behind her hand Lena went over to the Kelvys Lil looked up from her dinner she wrapped the rest quickly away our Elsie stopped chewing coming now is it true you're going to be a servant when you grow up Lil Kelvy shrilled Lena dead silence but instead of answering Lil only gave her silly shame face smile she didn't seem to mind the question at all what a sell for Lena the girls began to titter Lena couldn't stand that she put her hands on her hips she shot forward yeah your father's in prison she hissed spitefully this was such a marvelous thing to have said that the little girls rushed away in a body deeply deeply excited wild with joy someone found a long rope and they began skipping and never did they skip so high run in and out so fast or do such daring things is on that morning in the afternoon Pat called for the Bernal children with the buggy and they drove home there were visitors Isabel and Lottie who liked visitors upstairs to change their pinafores but Kezia thieved out at the back nobody was about and she began to swing on the big white gates of the courtyard presently looking along the road she saw two little dots they grew bigger they were coming towards her now she could see that one was in front and one close behind now she could see that they were the Kelvys Kezia stopped swinging she slipped off the gate as if she was going to run away then she hesitated the Kelvys came nearer and beside them walked their shadows very long stretching right across the road with their heads in the buttercups Kezia clamored back on the gate she had made up her mind she swung out hello she said to the passing Kelvys they were so astonished that they stopped Lil gave her silly smile our Elsie stared you can come and see our dolls house Kezia and she dragged one toe on the ground but at that Lil turned red and shook her head quickly why not ask Kezia Lil gasped then she said your ma told our ma you wasn't to speak to us oh well said Kezia she didn't know what to reply it doesn't matter you can come and see our dolls house all the same don't you want to ask Kezia suddenly there was a twitch a tug at Lil's skirt she turned around our Elsie was looking at her with big imploring eyes she was frowning she wanted to go for a moment Lil looked at our Elsie very doubtfully but then our Elsie twitched her skirt again she started forward Kezia led the way the little stray cats they followed across the courtyard to where the dolls house stood there it is said Kezia Lil breathed loudly almost snorted our Elsie was still as a stone I'll open it for you said Kezia kindly she undid the hook and they looked inside there's the drawing room and the dining room and that's the Kezia they gave it was Aunt Beryl's voice they turned around at the back door stood Aunt Beryl staring as if she couldn't believe what she saw how dare you ask the little Kelvys into the courtyard said her cold furious voice you know as well as I do that you're not allowed to talk to them run away children run away at once and don't come back again said Aunt Beryl and she stepped into the yard and shewed them out with the chickens off you go immediately she called cold and proud they did not need telling twice burning with shame shrinking together Lil huddling along like her mother our Elsie dazed somehow they crossed the big courtyard and squeezed through the white gate wicked disobedient little girl said Aunt Beryl bitterly to Kezia and she slammed the dolls house too the afternoon had been awful the letter had come from Willie Brent a terrifying threatening letter saying that if she did not meet him that evening at Pullman's Bush he'd come to the front door and ask the reason why but now that she had frightened those little rats of Kelvys and given Kezia a good scolding her heart felt lighter that ghastly pressure was gone she went back to the house humming when the Kelvys were well out of sight of Bernals they sat down to rest on a big red rain pipe by the side of the road Lil's cheeks were still burning she took off the hat with the quill and held it on her knee dreamily they looked over the hay paddocks past the creek to the group of waddles where the Logan's cows stood waiting to be milked what were their thoughts presently our Elsie nudged up close to her sister but now she had forgotten the cross lady she put out a finger and stroked her sister's quill she smiled her rare smile I seen the little lamp she said softly then both were silent once more End of Section 1 The Doll's House Recording by Sunbeard Chattanooga, Tennessee On January 16, 2019 in Columbia, South Carolina The Dove's Nest and other stories by Katherine Mansfield Honeymoon and when they came out of the lace shop there was their own driver and the cab they called their own cab waiting for them under a plane tree what luck wasn't it luck Fanny pressed her husband's arm these things seemed always to be happening to them ever since they came abroad didn't he think so too but George stood on the pavement edge lifted his stick and gave a loud, high Fanny sometimes felt a little uncomfortable about the way George summoned cabs but the drivers didn't seem to mind so it must have been all right fat, good-natured and smiling they stuffed away the little newspaper they were reading whipped the cotton cover off the horse and said to a bay I say George said as he helped Fanny in suppose we go and have tea at the place where the lobsters grow would you like to? most awfully said Fanny as she leaned back wondering why the way George put things made them sound so very nice right, the end he was beside her I lay he cried gaily and off they went lightly under the green and gold shade of the plain trees through the small streets that smelled of lemons and fresh coffee passed the fountain square where women with water pots lifted stopped talking to gays after them ground the corner past the cafe with its pink and white umbrellas green tables and blue siphons and so to the seafront there a wind, light warm came flooring over the boundless sea it touched George and Fanny it seemed to linger over while they gazed at the dazzling water and George said, jolly isn't it? and Fanny looking dreamy said as she said at least 20 times a day since they came abroad isn't it extraordinary to think that here we are quite alone away from everybody with nobody to tell us to go home or to order us about except ourselves George had long since given up answering extraordinary as a rule he merely kissed her but now he caught hold of her hand stuffed it into his pocket pressed her fingers and said I used to keep a white mouse in my pocket when I was a kid did you? said Fanny who was intensely interested in everything George had ever done were you very fond of white mice? fairly said George without conviction he was looking at something bobbing out there beyond the bathing steps suddenly he almost jumped in his seat Fanny he cried there's a chap out there bathing do you see? I had no idea people had begun I've been missing it all these days George glared at the retten face the retten arm as though he could not look away he muttered while horses won't keep me from going in tomorrow Fanny's heart sank she had heard for years of the frightful dangers of the Mediterranean it was an absolute death trap beautiful treacherous Mediterranean there it lay curled before them it's white silky paws touching the stones and gone again but she'd made up her mind long before she was married that never would she be the kind of woman who interfered with her husband's pleasures so all she said was early I suppose one has to be very up in the currents doesn't one? oh I don't know said George people talk an awful lot of rock about the danger but now they were passing a high wall on the land side covered with flowering heliotrope and Fanny's little nose lifted oh George she breathed the smell the most divine stopping Villa said George look you can see it through the palms isn't it rather large said Fanny who somehow could not look at any villa except as a possible habitation for herself and George well you'd need a crowd of people if you stayed there alone replied George deadly otherwise I say it is ripping I wonder who it belongs to and he prodded the driver in the back the lazy smiling driver who had no idea replied as he always did on these occasions that it was the property of a wealthy Spanish family masses of spandits on this coast coming to George leaning back again and they were silent until as they rounded the bin the big bone white hotel restaurant came into view before there was a small terrace built up against the sea planted with umbrella palms set up with tables from the terrace from the hotel waiters came running to receive to welcome Fanny and George to cut them off from any possible kind of escape outside? oh but of course they would sit outside the sleek manager who was marvelously like a fish in the frock coat skimmed forward this way sir this way sir I have a very nice little table he gasped the little table for you sir over in the corner this way so George looking most dreadfully bored and Fanny trying to look as though she spent years of life treading her way through strangers followed after here you are sir here you would be very nice coaxed the manager taking the vase off the table and putting it down again as if it were a fresh little bouquet out of the air confused to sit down immediately he saw through these fellows he wasn't going to be done these chaps were always out to rush you so he put his hands in his pockets and said to Fanny very calmly this alright for you anywhere else you'd prefer how about over there and he nodded to a table right over the other side what it was to be a man of the world Fanny admired him deeply but all she wanted to do like everybody else I like this she said right said George hastily and he sat down almost before Fanny and said quickly tea for two and chocolate declares very good sir said the manager and his mouth open and shut as though he was ready for another dive under the water you will not add toast to start with we have very nice toast sir said George shortly you don't want toast do you Fanny oh no thank you George said Fanny praying the manager would go or perhaps the lady might like to look at the live lobsters in the tank while the tea is coming and he grimaced and smirked and flicked like a thin George's face grew stony he said no again and Fanny bent over the table when she looked up the man was gone George took off his hat tossed it to a chair and pressed back his hair thank God said he that chap's gone these foreign fellows bore me stiff the only way to get rid of them is simply to shut up as you saw I did thank heaven again with so much emotion that if it hadn't been ridiculous Fanny might have imagined that he had been as frightened as it was she felt a rush of love for George his hands were on the table brown large hands that she knew so well she longed to take one of them and squeeze it hard but to her astonishment George did just that thing leaning across the table put his hand over hers and said without looking at her Fanny darling Fanny oh George it was in that heavily moment that Fanny heard a twing twing and a light strumming there's going to be a music she thought but the music didn't matter just then nothing mattered except love faintly smiling she gazed into that faintly smiling face and the feeling was so blissful that she felt inclined to say to George let us stay here where we are at this little table it's perfect and the sea is perfect let us stay instead her eyes grew serious darling said Fanny I want to ask you something fearfully important promise me you'll answer promise I promise said George too solemn to be quite as serious as she it's this Fanny paused the moment looked down looked up again do you feel she said softly that you really know me it was too much for George know his Fanny he gave a broad child his grin I should jolly well think I do he said emphatically why what's up Fanny felt he hadn't quite understood she went on quickly what I mean is this so often people even when they love each other don't seem to to it's so hard to say know each other perfectly perfectly they don't seem to want to and I think that's awful they misunderstand each other about the most important things of all Fanny looked horrified George we couldn't do that could we we never could couldn't be done laugh George and he was just going to tell her how much he liked her little nose when the waiter arrived for the tea and the band struck up and the vowel in and it played so gaily that Fanny felt if she wasn't careful even the cups and saucers might grow little wings and fly away George absorbed three chocolate eclairs Fanny too the funny tasting tea lobster in the kettle shot at George above the music was nice all the same and when the tray was pushed aside and George was smoking Fanny felt bold enough to look at the other people the band grouped under one of the dark trees that fascinated her most the fat man stroking the guitar was like a pitcher the dark man playing the flute kept raising his eyebrows as though he was astonished at the sounds that came from it the fiddle it was in the shadow the music stopped and suddenly as it had begun it was then she noticed a tall old man with white hair standing beside the musicians strange she hadn't noticed him before he wore a very high glazed collar a coat green at the seams and shamefully shabby button boots was he another manager he did not look like a manager and yet he stood there gazing over the table and still thinking of something different and far away from all this who could it be presently as Fanny watched him he touched the points of his collar with his fingers coughed slightly and half turned to the band it began to play again something boisterous reckless full of fire full of passion was tossed into the air was tossed to that quiet digger which clasped his hands and still with that far away look began to sing good lord said George it seemed that everybody was equally astonished even the little children eating ices stared with their spoons in the air nothing was heard except the thin faint voice singing something in Spanish it wavered beat on touched the high notes fell again seemed to implore to intrigue to beg for something and then the tune changed and it was resigned it bowed down it knew it was denied almost before the end a little child gave a squeak of laughter but everybody was smiling except Fanny and George is life like this too thought Fanny there are people like this there is suffering and she looked at that gorgeous sea lapping the land and still it loved it and the sky bright with the brightness before evening had she and George the right to be so happy wasn't it cruel there must be something else in life which made all these things possible what was it she turned to George but George had been feeling differently from Fanny the poor old boy's voice was funny in a way but god made you realize what a terrific thing it was to be at the beginning of everything as they were he and Fanny George too gazed at the bright breathing water and his lips opened as if he could drink it how fine it was there was nothing like the sea for making a chap feel fit and there sat Fanny his Fanny leaning forward breathing so gently Fanny George called to her and she turned to him there was something in her soft wondering look made George feel that for two pins he would jump over the table and carry her off I say said George rapidly let's go showy let's go back to the hotel come do Fanny darling let's go now the band began to play oh god almost grown George let's go before the old codger began squawking again end of section 2 section 3 of the Dove's Nest and other stories this is the LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org the Dove's Nest and other stories by Catherine Mansfield a cup of tea Rosemary Fell was not exactly beautiful no you couldn't have called her beautiful pretty well if you took her to pieces but why be so cruel as to take anyone to pieces she was young brilliant extremely modern exquisitely well dressed amazingly well read in the newest of the new books and her parties were the most delicious mixture of the really important people and artists quaint creatures discoveries of hers some of them too terrifying for words but others quite presentable and amusing Rosemary had been married two years she had a duck of a boy no not Peter Michael and her husband absolutely adored her they were rich, really rich not just comfortably well off which is odious and stuffy and sounds like one's grandparents but if Rosemary wanted to shop she would go to Paris as you and I would go to Bond Street if she wanted to buy flowers the car pulled up at that perfect shop in Regent Street and Rosemary inside the shop just gazed in her dazzled rather exotic way and said I want those and those and those give me four bunches of those and that jar of roses yes I'll have all the roses in the jar no no lilac I hate lilac it's got no shape the attendant bowed and put the lilac out of sight as though this was only too true lilac was dreadfully shapeless give me those stumpy little tulips those red and white ones and she was followed to the car by a thin shop girl staggering under an immense white paper armful that looked like a baby in long clothes one winter afternoon she had been buying something in a little antique shop she liked for one thing when usually had it to oneself and then the man who kept it was ridiculously fond of serving her he beamed whenever she came in he clasped his hands he was so gratified he could scarcely speak flattery of course all the same there was something you see madam he would explain in his low respectful tones I love my things I would rather not part with them than sell them to someone who does not appreciate them who has not that fine feeling which is so rare and breathing deeply he unrolled a tiny square of blue velvet and pressed it on the glass counter with his pale fingertips today it was a little box he had been keeping it for her he had shown it to nobody as yet an exquisite little enamel box with the glaze so fine it looked as though it had been baked in cream on the lid a minute creature stood under a flowery tree and a more minute creature still had her arms around his neck her hat really no bigger than a geranium pedal hung from a branch it had green ribbons and there was a pink cloud like a watchful cherub floating above their heads rosemary took her hands out of her long gloves she always took off her gloves to examine such things yes she liked it very much she loved it it was a great duck she must have it and turning the creamy box opening and shutting it she couldn't help noticing how charming her hands were against the blue velvet the shopman in some dim cavern of his mind may have dared to think so too for he took a pencil lent over the counter and his pale bloodless fingers crept timidly towards those rosy flashing ones as he murmured gently if I may venture to point out to madam the flowers on the little lady's bodice charming rosemary admired the flowers but what was the price for a moment the shopman did not seem to hear then a murmur reached her 28 guineas madam 28 guineas rosemary gave no sign she laid the little box down she buttoned her gloves again 28 guineas even if one is rich she looked vague she stared at a plump tea kettle like a plump hen above the shopman's head and her voice was dreamy as she answered well keep it for me will you I'll even had already bowed as though keeping it for her was any human being could ask he would be willing of course to keep it for her forever the discreet door shut with a click she was outside on the step gazing at the winter afternoon rain was falling and with the rain, it seemed the dark came too spinning down like ashes there was a cold bitter taste in the air sad. Sad were the lights in the house's opposite. Dimly they burned as if regretting something. And people hurried by, hidden under their hateful umbrellas. Rosemary felt a strange pang. She pressed her muff to her breast. She wished she had the little box, too, to cling to. Of course the car was there. She'd only to cross the pavement. But still she waited. There are moments, horrible moments in life when one emerges from shelter and looks out and it's awful. One oughtn't to give way to them. One ought to go home and have an extra special tea. But at the very instant of thinking that, a young girl, thin, dark, shadowy, where had she come from? Was standing at Rosemary's elbow and a voice like a sigh, almost like a sob, breathed, Madam, may I speak to you a moment? Speak to me, Rosemary turned. She saw a little battered creature with enormous eyes, someone quite young, no older than herself, who clutched at her coat-caller with reddened hands and shivered as though she had just come out of the water. Madam, stammered the voice, would you let me have the price of a cup of tea? A cup of tea? There was something simple, sincere in that voice. It wasn't in the least the voice of a beggar. Then have you no money at all? asked Rosemary. None, Madam, came the answer. How extraordinary! Rosemary peered through the desk and the girl gazed back at her. How more than extraordinary! And suddenly it seemed to Rosemary such an adventure. It was like something out of a novel by Dostoevsky, this meeting in the dusk. Supposing she took the girl home, supposing she did do one of those things she was always reading about or seeing on the stage. What would happen? It would be thrilling. And she heard herself saying afterwards to the amazement of her friends, I simply took her home with me as she stepped forward and said to that dim person beside her, come home to tea with me. The girl drew back, startled. She even stopped shivering for a moment. Rosemary put out a hand and touched her arm. I mean it, she said, smiling. And she felt how simple and kind her smile was. Why won't you? Do come home with me now in my car and have tea. You don't mean it, Madam, said the girl, and there was pain in her voice. But I do, cried Rosemary. I want you to, to please me. Come along. The girl put her fingers to her lips and her eyes devoured Rosemary. You're not taking me to the police station, she stammered. The police station, Rosemary laughed out. Why should I be so cruel? No, I only want to make you warm and to hear anything you care to tell me. Hungry people are easily led. The footmen held the door of the car open, and a moment later they were skimming through the dusk. There, said Rosemary, she had a feeling of triumph as she slipped her hand through the velvet strap. She could have said, now I've got you, as she gazed at the little captive she had netted. But of course she meant it kindly. Oh, more than kindly. She was going to prove to this girl that one of things did happen in life, that very godmothers were real, that rich people had hearts, and that women were sisters. She turned impulsively, saying, don't be frightened. After all, why shouldn't you come back with me? We're both women. If I'm the more fortunate, you want to expect. But happily at that moment, for she didn't know how the sentence was going to end, the car stopped. The bell was rung, the door opened. And with a charming, protecting, almost embracing movement, Rosemary drew the other into the hall. Warmth, softness, light, a sweet scent, all those things so familiar to her, she never even thought about them. She watched that other receive. It was fascinating. She was like a little rich girl in her nursery with all the cupboards to open, all the boxes to unpack. Come, come upstairs, said Rosemary, longing to begin to be generous. Come up to my room. And besides, she wanted to spare this poor little thing from being stared at by the servants. She decided as they mounted the stairs, she would not even ring for Jean, but take off her things by herself. The great thing was to be natural. And there cried Rosemary again as they reached her beautiful big bedroom with the curtains drawn, the fire leaping on her wonderful lacquer furniture, her gold cushions and the prim rose and blue rugs. The girl stood just inside the door. She seemed dazed. But Rosemary didn't mind that. Come and sit down, she cried, dragging her big chair up to the fire. In this comfy chair. Come and get warm. You look so dreadfully cold. I dare not, madam, said the girl, and she edged backwards. Oh, please, Rosemary ran forward. You mustn't be frightened. You mustn't really sit down. And when I've taken off my things, we shall go into the next room and have tea and be cozy. Why are you afraid? And gently she half pushed the thin figure into its deep cradle. But there was no answer. The girl stayed just as she had been put with her hands by her sides and her mouth slightly open. To be quite sincere, she looked rather stupid. But Rosemary wouldn't acknowledge it. She lent over her saying, won't you take off your hat? Your pretty hair is all wet. And one is so much more comfortable without a hat, isn't one? There was a whisper that sounded like very good, madam. And the crushed hat was taken off. Let me help you off with your coat too, said Rosemary. The girl stood up. But she held on to the chair with one hand and let Rosemary pull. It was quite an effort. The other scarcely helped her at all. She seemed to stagger like a child. And the thought came and went through Rosemary's mind that if people wanted helping, they must respond a little, just a little. Otherwise it became very difficult indeed. And what was she to do with the coat now? She left it on the floor and the hat too. She was just going to take a cigarette off the mantelpiece when the girl said quickly, but so lightly and strangely, I'm very sorry, madam, but I'm going to faint. I shall go off, madam, if I don't have something. Good heavens, how thoughtless I am. Rosemary rushed to the bell. Tea, tea at once, and some brandy immediately. The maid was gone again. But the girl almost cried out. No, I don't want no brandy. I never drink brandy. It's a cup of tea I want, madam. And she burst into tears. It was a terrible and fascinating moment. Rosemary knelt beside her chair. Don't cry, poor little thing, she said. Don't cry. And she gave the other her lace handkerchief. She really was touched beyond words. She put her arm around those thin, birdlike shoulders. Now at last the other forgot to be shy. Forgot everything except that they were both women and gasped out, I can't go on no longer like this. I can't bear it. I shall do away with myself. I can't bear no more. You shan't have to. I'll look after you. Don't cry anymore. Don't you see what a good thing it was that you met me? We'll have tea and you'll tell me everything. And I shall arrange something. I promise. Do stop crying. It's so exhausting. Please. The other did stop just in time for Rosemary to get up before the tea came. She had the table placed between them. She plied the poor little creature with everything. All the sandwiches, all the bread and butter. And every time her cup was empty, she filled it with tea, cream and sugar. People always said sugar was so nourishing. As for herself, she didn't eat. She smoked and looked away tactfully so that the other should not be shy. And really the effect of that slight meal was marvelous. When the tea table was carried away, a new being, a light frail creature with tangled hair, dark lips, deep, lighted eyes, lay back in the big chair in a kind of sweet langer, looking at the blaze. Rosemary lit a fresh cigarette. It was time to begin. And when did you have your last meal? She asked softly. But at that moment, the door handle turned. Rosemary may I come in? It was Philip. Of course, he came in. Oh, I'm so sorry, he said, and stopped and stared. It's quite all right, said Rosemary, smiling. This is my friend, Miss Smith, madam, said the language figure who was strangely still and unafraid. Smith, said Rosemary, we are going to have a little talk. Oh, yes, said Philip, quite, and his eye caught side of the coat and hat on the floor. He came over to the fire and turned his back to it. It's a beastly afternoon, he said curiously, still looking at that listless figure, looking at its hands and boots, and then at Rosemary again. Yes, isn't it? said Rosemary enthusiastically, vile. Philip smiled, his charming smile. As a matter of fact, said he, I wanted you to come into the library for a moment. Would you? Will Miss Smith excuse us? The big eyes were raised to him, but Rosemary answered for her. Of course she will. And they went out of the room together. I say, said Philip, when they were alone. Explain, who is she? What does it all mean? Rosemary, laughing, leaned against the door and said, I picked her up in Crescent Street. Really, she's a real pick up. She asked me for the price of a cup of tea, and I brought her home with me. But what on earth are you going to do with her? cried Philip. Be nice to her, said Rosemary quickly. Be frightfully nice to her. Look after her. I don't know how we haven't talked yet. But show her, treat her, make her feel my darling girl, said Philip. You're quite mad, you know, it simply can't be done. I knew you'd say that retorted Rosemary. Why not? I want to. Isn't that a reason? And besides, one's always reading about these things. I decided, but said Philip slowly, and he cut the end of a cigar. She's so astonishingly pretty. Pretty? Rosemary was so surprised that she blushed. Do you think so? I I hadn't thought about it. Good Lord, Philip struck a match. She's absolutely lovely. Look again, my child, I was bowled over when I came into your room just now. However, I think you're making a ghastly mistake. Sorry, darling, if I'm crude and all that. But let me know if Miss Smith is going to dine with us in time for me to look up the milliner's Gazette. You absurd creature, said Rosemary, and she went out of the library, but not back to her bedroom. She went to her writing room and sat down at her desk. Pretty, absolutely lovely, bowled over. Her heart beat like a heavy bell. Pretty, lovely. She drew her checkbook towards her. But no, checks wouldn't be no use, of course. She opened a drawer and took out five pound notes, looked at them, put two back, and holding the three squeezed in her hand, she went back to her bedroom. Half an hour later, Philip was still in the library when Rosemary came in. I only wanted to tell you, said she, and she leaned against the door again and looked at him with her dazzled exotic gaze. Miss Smith won't dine with us tonight. Philip put down the paper. Oh, what's happened? Previous engagement? Rosemary came over and sat down on his knee. She insisted on going, said she, so I gave the poor little thing a present of money. I couldn't keep her against her will, could I? She added softly. Rosemary had just done her hair, darkened her eyes a little and put on her pearls. She put up her hands and touched Philip's cheeks. Do you like me? said she, and her tone, sweet husky, troubled him. I like you awfully, he said, and he held her tighter. Kiss me. There was a pause. Then Rosemary said dreamily, I saw a fascinating little box today. It cost 28 guineas. May I have it? Philip jumped her on his knee. You may, little wasteful ones, said he. But that was not really what Rosemary wanted to say. Philip, she whispered, and she pressed his head against her bosom. Am I pretty? End of section three. Section four of the Dove's Nest 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 Dove's Nest and Other Stories by Catherine Mansfield. Taking the Vale. It seemed impossible that anyone should be unhappy on such a beautiful morning. Nobody was, decided Edna, except herself. The windows were flung wide in the houses. From within there came the sound of pianos. Little hands chased after each other and ran away from each other. Practicing scales. The trees fluttered in the sunny gardens. All bright with spring flowers. Street boys whistled. A little dog barked. People passed by. Walking so lightly, so swiftly. They looked as though they wanted to break into a run. Now she actually saw in the distance a parasol. Peach coloured. The first parasol of the year. Perhaps even Edna did not look quite as unhappy as she felt. It was not easy to look tragic at 18. When you are extremely pretty. With the cheeks and lips and shining eyes of perfect health. Above all, when you are wearing a French blue frock, and your new spring hat trimmed with cornflowers. True, she carried under her arm a book bound in horrid black leather. Perhaps the book provided a gloomy note. But only by accident. It was the ordinary library binding. For Edna had made going to the library an excuse for getting out of the house to think. To realise what had happened. To decide somehow what was to be done now. An awful thing had happened. Quite suddenly at the theatre last night when she and Jimmy were seated side by side in the dress circle. Without a moment's warning. In fact, she had just finished a chocolate almond and passed the box to him again. She had fallen in love with an actor. But fallen in love. The feeling was unlike anything she had ever imagined before. It wasn't in the least pleasant. It was hardly thrilling. Unless you can call the most dreadful sensation of hopeless misery, despair, agony and wretchedness, thrilling. Combined with a certainty that if that actor met her on the pavement after, while Jimmy was fetching their cab, she would follow him to the ends of the earth. At a nod. At a sign. Without giving another thought to Jimmy or her father and mother or her happy home and countless friends again. The play had begun fairly cheerfully. That was at the chocolate almond stage. Then the hero had gone blind. Terrible moment. Edna had cried so much she had to borrow Jimmy's folded, smooth feeling handkerchief as well. Not the crying mattered. Whole rows were in tears. Even the men blew their noses with a loud trumpeting noise and tried to peer at the program instead of looking at the stage. Jimmy, most mercifully dry-eyed, for what would she have done without his handkerchief, squeezed her free hand and whispered, Cheer up, darling girl. And it was then she had taken the last chocolate almond to please him and passed the box again. Then there had been that ghastly scene with the hero alone on the stage in a deserted room at twilight with a band playing outside and the sound of cheering coming from the street. He had tried, how painfully, how pitifully to grope his way to the window. He had succeeded at last. There he stood holding the curtain while one beam of light, just one beam shown full on his raised, cyclist face. And the band faded away into the distance. It was, really, it was absolutely, oh, the most, it was simply, in fact, from that moment, Edna knew that life could never be the same. She drew her hand away from Jimmy's, leaned back and shut the chocolate box forever. This, at last, was love. Edna and Jimmy were engaged. She had had her hair up for a year and a half. They had been publicly engaged for a year. But they had known they were going to marry each other ever since they walked in the botanical gardens with their nurses and sat on the grass with a wine biscuit and a piece of barley sugar each for their tea. It was so much an accepted thing that Edna had worn a wonderfully good imitation of an engagement ring out of a cracker all the time she was at school. And up till now they had been devoted to each other. But now it was over. It was so completely over that Edna found it difficult to believe that Jimmy did not realize it too. She smiled wisely. Sadly, as she turned into the gardens of the convent of the Sacred Heart, and mounted the path that led through them to Hill Street, how much better to know it now than to wait until after they were married. Now it was possible that Jimmy would get over it. No. It was no use deceiving herself. He would never get over it. His life was wracked, was ruined. That was inevitable. But he was young. Time, people said. Time might make a little, just a little difference. In 40 years, when he was an old man, he might be able to think of her calmly. Perhaps. But she? What did the future hold for her? Edna had reached the top of the path. There under a new leafed tree, hung with little bunches of white flowers, she sat down on a green bench and looked over the convent flower beds. In the one nearest to her there grew tender stalks, with a border of blue shell like pansies, with at one corner a clump of creamy friezes, their light spears of green crisscrossed over the flowers. The convent pigeons were tumbling high in the air, and she could hear the voice of Sister Agnes, who was giving a singing lesson. All sounded the deep tones of the nun, and all they were echoed. If she did not marry Jimmy, of course she would marry nobody. The man she was in love with, the famous actor, Edna had far too much common sense not to realize that would never be. It was very odd. She didn't even want it to be. Her love was too intense for that. It had to be endured, silently. It had to torment her. It was, she supposed, simply that kind of love. But Edna, cried Jimmy, can you never change? Can I never hope again? Oh, what sorrow to have to say it, but it must be said. No, Jimmy. I will never change. Edna bowed her head. And a little flower fell on her lap. And the voice of Sister Agnes cried suddenly. And the echo came. At that moment, the future was revealed. Edna saw it all. She was astonished. It took her breath away at first. But after all, what could be more natural? She would go into a convent. Her father and mother do everything to dissuade her in vain. As for Jimmy, his state of mind hardly bears thinking about. Why can't they understand? How can they add to her suffering like this? The world is cruel, terribly cruel. After a last scene when she gives away her jewelry and so on to her best friends, she so calm, they so brokenhearted. Into a convent she goes. No, one moment. The very evening of her going is the actor's last evening at Port Whillen. He receives by a strange messenger a box. It is full of white flowers. But there is no name. No card. Nothing? Yes. Under the roses. Wrapped in a white handkerchief. Edna's last photograph with, written underneath. The world forgetting. By the world forgot. Edna sat very still under the trees. She clasped the black book in her fingers as though it were her missile. She takes the name of Sister Angela. Snip, snip. All her lovely hair is cut off. Will she be allowed to send one curl to Jimmy? It is contrived somehow. And in a blue gown with a white headband, Sister Angela goes from the convent to the chapel. From the chapel to the convent with something unearthly in her look. In her sorrowful eyes. And in the gentle smile with which they greet the little children who run to her. A saint. She hears it whispered as she paces the chill wax smelling corridors. A saint. And visitors to the chapel are told of the nun whose voice is heard above the other voices. Of her youth. Her beauty. Of her tragic, tragic love. There is a man in this town whose life is ruined. A big bee. A golden furry fellow crept into a frisia. And the delicate flower leaned over, swung, shook. And when the bee flew away, it fluttered still as though it were laughing. Happy, careless flower. Sister Angela looked at it and said, now it is winter. One night, lying in her icy cell, she hears a cry. Some stray animal is out there in the garden. A kitten or a lamb or, well, whatever little animal might be there. Up rises the sleepless nun. All in white. Shivering but fearless. She goes and brings it in. But the next morning, when the bell rings for matins, she is found tossing in high fever. In delirium. And she never recovers. In three days, all is over. The service has been said in the chapel. And she is buried in the corner of the cemetery, reserved for the nuns. Where there are plain little crosses of wood. Rest in peace, Sister Angela. Now it is evening. Two old people leaning on each other come slowly to the grave and kneel down sobbing. Our daughter, our only daughter. Now there comes another. He is all in black. He comes slowly. But when he is there and lifts his black hat, Edna sees to her horror his hair is snow white. Jimmy. Too late. Too late. The tears are running down his face. He is crying now. Too late. Too late. The wind shakes the leafless trees in the churchyard. He gives one awful bitter cry. Edna's black book fell with a thud to the garden path. She jumped up, her heart beating. My darling. No. It's not too late. It's all been a mistake. A terrible dream. Oh, that white hair. How could she have done it? She has not done it. Oh heavens. Oh, what happiness. She is free, young, and nobody knows her secret. Everything is still possible for her and Jimmy. The house they've planned may still be built. The little solemn boy with his hands behind his back watching them plant the standard roses may still be born. His baby sister. But when Edna got as far as his baby sister, she stretched out her arms as though the little love came flying through the air to her and gazing at the garden, at the white sprays on the tree, at those darling pigeons blue against the blue and the convent with its narrow windows. She realized that now at last for the first time in her life, she had never imagined any feeling like it before. She knew what it was to be in love. But in love. End of section four, read by the story girl. Section of five of the Dove's Nest 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 Jeffrey Wilson, Ames, Iowa. The Dove's Nest and Other Stories by Catherine Mansfield. The Fly. You are very snug in here. Piped old Mr. Woodifield and he peered out of the great green leather armchair by his friend the boss's desk as a baby peers out of its pram. His talk was over. It was time for him to be off. But he did not want to go. Since he had retired since his stroke, the wife and the girls kept him boxed up in the house every day of the week except Tuesday. On Tuesday he was dressed up and brushed and allowed to cut back to the city for the day. Though what he did there, the wife and girls couldn't imagine. Made a nuisance of himself to his friends, they supposed. Well, perhaps so. All the same, we cling to our last pleasures as the tree clings to its last leaves. So there sat old Woodifield, smoking a cigar and staring almost greedily at the boss who rolled in his office chair, stout, rosy, five years older than he and still going strong, still at the helm. It did one good to see him. Wistfully, admiringly, the old voice added, It snog in here upon my word. Yes, it's comfortable enough, agreed the boss, and he flipped the financial times with a paper knife. As a matter of fact he was proud of his room. He liked to have it admired, especially by old Woodifield. It gave him a feeling of deep, solid satisfaction to be planted there in the midst of it in full view of that frail old figure in the muffler. I've had it done up lately, he explained, as he had explained for the past how many weeks. New carpet. And he pointed to the bright red carpet with a pattern of large white rings. New furniture. And he nodded towards the massive bookcase and the table with legs like twisted treacle. Electric heating. He waved almost exultantly towards the five transparent pearly sausages glowing so softly in the tilted copper pan. But he did not draw old Woodifield's attention to the photograph over the table of a grave-looking boy in uniform standing in one of those spectral photographers' parks with photographers' storm clouds behind him. It was not new. It had been there for over six years. There was something I wanted to tell you, said old Woodifield, and his eyes grew dim remembering. Now what was that? I had it in my mind when I started out this morning. His hands began to tremble, and patches of red showed above his beard. Poor old chap, he's on his last pins, thought the boss. And feeling kindly, he winked at the old man and said jokingly, I tell you what, I've got a little drop of something here that'll do you good before you go out into the cold again. It's beautiful stuff. It wouldn't hurt a child. He took a key off his watch chain, unlocked a cupboard below his desk, and drew forth a dark squat bottle. That's the medicine, said he. And the man from whom I got it told me on the strict QT it came from the cellars at Windsor Castle. Old Woodifield's mouth fell open at the site. He couldn't have looked more surprised if the boss had produced a rabbit. It's whiskey ain't it, he piped feebly. The boss turned the bottle and lovingly showed him the label. Whiskey it was. Do you know, said he, peering up at the boss wonderingly, they won't let me touch it at home. And he looked as though he was going to cry. Ah, that's where we know a bit more than the ladies cried the boss, swooping across for two tumblers that stood on the table with a water bottle and pouring a generous finger into each. Drink it down. It'll do you good. And don't put any water with it. It's sacrilege to tamper with stuff like this. Ah, he tossed off his, pulled out his handkerchief, hastily wiped his mustaches, and cocked an eye at Old Woodifield, who was rolling his in his chaps. The old man swallowed was silent a moment and then said faintly, It's nutty. But it warmed him. It crept into his chill old brain. He remembered, That was it, he said, heaving himself out of his chair. I thought you'd like to know. The girls were in Belgium last week having a look at poor Reggie's grave, and they happened to come across your boys. They're quite near each other it seems. Old Woodifield paused, but the boss made no reply. Only a quiver in his eyelids showed that he heard. The girls were delighted with the way the place is kept, piped the old voice, beautifully looked after. Couldn't be better if they were at home. You've not been across, have you? No, no. For various reasons the boss had not been across. There's miles of it, quavered Old Woodifield, and it's all as neat as a garden, flowers growing on all the graves, nice broad paths. It was plain from his voice how much he liked a nice broad path. The pause came again. Then the old man brightened wonderfully. Do you know what the hotel made the girls pay for a pot of jam? He piped, Ten francs! Robbery, I call it. It was a little pot, so Gertrude says, no bigger than a half crown. And she hadn't taken more than a spoonful when they charged her ten francs. Gertrude brought the pot away with her to teach him a lesson. Quite right too. It's trading on our feelings. They think because we're over there having a look around we're ready to pay anything. That's what it is. And he turned towards the door. Quite right, quite right, cried the boss. Though what was quite right he hadn't the least idea. He came round by his desk, followed the shuffling footsteps to the door, and saw the old fellow out. Woodifield was gone. For a long moment the boss stayed, staring at nothing, while the gray-haired office messenger watching him dodged in and out of his cubby-hole like a dog that expects to be taken for a run. Then, I'll see nobody for half an hour, Macy, said the boss, understand nobody at all. Very good, sir. The door shut. The firm heavy steps recrossed the bright carpet. The fat body plumped down in the spring chair, and leaning forward the boss covered his face with his hands. He wanted, he intended, he had arranged to weep. It had been a terrible shock to him when old Woodifield sprang that remark upon him about the boy's grave. It was exactly as though the earth had opened and he had seen the boy lying there with Woodifield's girls staring down at him. For it was strange. Although over six years had passed away, the boss never thought of the boy except his lying unchanged, unblemished in his uniform asleep forever. My son, groaned the boss. But no tears came yet. In the past, in the first months and even years after the boy's death, he had only to say those words to be overcome by such grief that nothing short of a violent fit of weeping could relieve him. Time, he had declared then, he had told everybody, could make no difference. Other men perhaps might recover, might live their loss down. But not he. How was it possible? His boy was an only son. Ever since his birth, the boss had worked at building up this business for him. It had no other meaning if it was not for the boy. Life itself had come to have no other meaning. How on earth could he have slaved, denied himself, kept going all those years without the promise forever before him of the boy's stepping into his shoes and carrying on where he left off. And that promise had been so near being fulfilled. The boy had been in the office learning the ropes for a year before the war. Every morning they had started off together. They had come back by the same train. And what congratulations he had received as the boy's father. No wonder he had taken to it marvelously. As to his popularity with the staff, every man jack of them down to old Macy couldn't make enough of the boy. And he wasn't in the least spoiled. No, he was just his bright natural self, with the right word for everybody, with that boyish look and his habit of saying, simply splendid. But all that was over and done with as though it never had been. The day had come when Macy had handed him the telegram that brought the whole place crashing about his head. Deeply regret to inform you. And he had left the office a broken man with his life in ruins. Six years ago. Six years. How quickly time passed. It might have happened yesterday. The boss took his hands from his face. He was puzzled. Something seemed to be wrong with him. He wasn't feeling as he wanted to feel. He decided to get up and have a look at the boy's photograph. But it wasn't a favorite photograph of his, the expression was unnatural. It was cold, even stern looking. The boy had never looked like that. At that moment, the boss noticed that a fly had fallen into his broad ink pot and was trying feebly but desperately to clamber out again. Help! Help! said those struggling legs. But the sides of the ink pot were wet and slippery. It fell back again and began to swim. The boss took up a pen, picked the fly out of the ink, and shook it onto a piece of blotting paper. For a fraction of a second, it lay still on the dark patch that oozed around it. Then the front legs waved, took hold, and pulling its small, sodden body up, it began the immense task of cleaning the ink from its wings. Over and under. Over and under went a leg along a wing as the stone goes over and under the side. Then there was a pause while the fly, seeming to stand on the tips of its toes, tried to expand first one wing and then the other. It succeeded at last, and sitting down it began like a minued cat to clean its face. Now one could imagine that the little front legs rubbed against each other lightly, joyfully. The horrible danger was over. It had escaped. It was ready for life again. But just then the boss had an idea. He plunged his pen back into the ink, leaned his thick wrist on the blotting paper, and as the fly tried its wings, down came a great heavy blot. What would it make of that? What indeed? The little beggar seemed absolutely cowed, stunned, and afraid to move because of what would happen next. But then, as if painfully, it dragged itself forward. The front legs waved, cothold, and more slowly this time the task began from the beginning. He is a plucky little devil, thought the boss, and he felt a real admiration for the fly's courage. That was the way to tackle things. That was the right spirit. Never say die. It was only a question of... But the fly had again finished its laborious task, and the boss had just time to refill his pen, to shake fair and square on the new cleaned body yet another dark drop. What about it this time? A painful moment of suspense followed. But behold, the front legs were again waving. The boss felt a rush of relief. He leaned over the fly and said to it tenderly, You're artful little buh! And he actually had the brilliant notion of breathing on it to help the drying process. All the same, there was something timid and weak about its efforts now, and the boss decided that this time should be the last as he dipped the pen into the ink pot. It was. The last blot on the soaked blotting paper, and the draggled fly lay in it and did not stir. The back legs were stuck to the body. The front legs were not to be seen. Come on! said the boss. Look sharp! And he stirred it with his pen in vain. Nothing happened or was likely to happen. The fly was dead. The boss lifted the corpse on the end of the paper knife and flung it into the waste paper basket. But such a grinding feeling of wretchedness seized him that he felt positively frightened. He started forward and pressed the bell for Macy. Bring me some fresh blotting paper, he said sternly, and look sharp about it. And while the old dog patted away, he fell to wondering what it was he had been thinking about before. What was it? It was. He took out his handkerchief and passed it inside his collar. For the life of him he could not remember. The Dove's Nest and Other Stories by Catherine Mansfield The Canary You see that big nail to the right of the front door. I can scarcely look at it even now, and yet I could not bear to take it out. I should like to think it was there always, even after my time. I could not bear to take it out. I could not bear to take it out. I could not bear to take it out. I could not bear to take it out. I should like to think it was there always, even after my time. I sometimes hear the next people saying, There must have been a cage hanging from there, and it comforts me. I feel he is not quite forgotten. You cannot imagine how wonderfully he sang. It was not like the singing of other Canaries. And that isn't just my fancy. Often, from the window, I used to see people stop at the gate to listen, or they would lean over the fence by the mock orange for quite a long time. Carried away. I suppose it sounds absurd to you. It wouldn't, if you'd heard him. But it really seems to me that he sang whole songs with a beginning and an end to them. For instance, when I'd finished the house in the afternoon, and changed my blouse and brought my sewing up to the veranda here, he used to hop hop hop from one perch to another, tap against the bars as if to attract my attention, sip a little water just as a professional singer might, and then break into a song so exquisite that I had to put my needle down to listen to him. I can't describe it. I wish I could. But it was always the same every afternoon, and I felt that I understood every note of it. I loved him. How I loved him. Perhaps it does not matter so very much what it is one loves in this world. But love something one must. Of course, there was always my little house and the garden, but for some reason they were never enough. Flowers respond wonderfully, but they don't sympathise. Then I loved the evening star. Does that sound foolish? I used to go into the backyard after sunset, and wait for it until it's shone above the dark gum-tree. I used to whisper, There you are, my darling. And just in that first moment it seemed to be shining for me alone. It seemed to understand this, something which is like longing, and yet it is not longing. Or regret. It is more like regret. And yet regret for what? I have much to be thankful for. But after he came into my life I forgot the evening star. I did not need it any more. But it was strange, when the Chinaman who came to the door with birds to sell held him up in his tiny cage, and instead of fluttering, fluttering like the poor little goldfinches, he gave a faint small chirp. I found myself saying, just as I had said to the star over the gum-tree, There you are, my darling. From that moment he was mine. It surprises me even now to remember how he and I shared each other's lives, The moment I came down in the morning and took the cloth off his cage, he greeted me with a drowsy little note. I knew it meant, Mrs., Mrs. Then I hung him on the nail outside, while I got my three young men their breakfasts, and I never brought him in until we had the house to ourselves again. Then, when the washing up was done, it was quite a little entertainment. I spread a newspaper over a corner of the table, and when I put the cage on it, he used to beat with his wings despairingly, as if he didn't know what was coming. You're a regular little actor! I used to scold him. I scraped the tray, dusted it with fresh sand, filled his seed and water tins, took a piece of chickweed and half a chili between the bars, and I am perfectly certain he understood and appreciated every item of this little performance. You see, by nature he was exquisitely neat. There was never a speck on his perch, and you'd only to see him enjoy his bath to realise he had a real small passion for cleanliness. His bath was put in last, and the moment it was in, he positively leapt into it. First he fluttered one wing, then the other, then he ducked his head and dabbled his breast feathers. Drops of water were scattered all over the kitchen, but still he would not get out. I used to say to him, now that's quite enough, you're only showing off. And at last, out he hopped, and standing on one leg, he began to peck himself dry. Finally he gave a shake, a flick, a twitter, and he lifted his throat. Oh, I can hardly bear to recall it. I was always cleaning the knives at the time, and it almost seemed to me the knives sang too, as I rubbed them bright on the board. Company, you see, that was what he was. Perfect company. If you have lived alone, you will realise how precious that is. Of course, there were my three young men who came into supper every evening, and sometimes stayed in the dining room afterwards reading the paper. But I could not expect them to be interested in the little things that made my day. Why should they be? I was nothing to them. In fact, I overheard them one evening talking about me on the stairs as the Scarecrow. No matter. It doesn't matter. Not in the least. I quite understand. They're young. Why should I mind? But I remember feeling so especially thankful that I was not quite alone that evening. I told him after they had gone out. I said, Do you know what they call Mrs? And he put his head on one side and looked at me with his little bright eye, until I could not help laughing. It seemed to amuse him. Have you kept birds? If you haven't, all this must sound, perhaps, exaggerated. People have the idea that birds are heartless, cold little creatures, not like dogs or cats. My washer-woman used to say on Mondays, when she wondered why I didn't keep a nice fox terrier, there's no comfort-miss in a canary. Untrue. Dreadfully untrue. I remember one night I had had a very awful dream. Dreams can be dreadfully cruel. Even after I had woken up I could not get over it. So I put on my dressing-gown and went down to the kitchen for a glass of water. It was a winter night and raining hard. I suppose I was still half asleep. But through the kitchen window, that hadn't a blind, it seems to me the dark was staring in, spying. And suddenly I felt it was unbearable that I had no one to whom I could say, I've had such a dreadful dream. Or hide me from the dark. I even covered my face for a minute, and then came a little sweet, sweet. His cage was on the table, and the cloth had slipped, so that a chink of light shone through. Sweet, sweet, said the darling little fellow again, softly. As much as to say, I'm here, missus, I'm here. That was so beautifully comforting, that I nearly cried. And now he's gone. I shall never have another bird, another pet of any kind. How could I? When I found him, lying on his back, with his eye dim and his claws wrong, when I realised that never again should I hear my darling sing, something seemed to die in me. My heart felt hollow, as if it was his cage. I shall get over it. Of course. I must. One can get over anything in time. And people always say I have a cheerful disposition. They are quite right. I thank my God I have. All the same, without being morbid, and giving way to—to memories and so on, I must confess that there does seem to me something sad in life. It is hard to say what it is. I don't mean the sorrow that we all know, like illness and poverty and death. No, it is something different. It is there, deep down. Deep down, part of one, like one's breathing. However hard I work and tire myself, I have only to stop to know it's there, waiting. I often wonder if everybody feels the same. One can never know. But isn't it extraordinary that under his sweet, joyful little singing, it was just this sadness? Ah, what is it? That I heard.