 Section 24 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. Sixpence by Catherine Mansfield Children are unaccountable little creatures. Why should a small boy like Dickie, good as gold as a rule, sensitive, affectionate, obedient and marvelously sensible for his age, have moods, when, without the slightest warning, he suddenly went, mad dog, as his sisters called it, and there was no doing anything with him. Dickie, come here. Come here, sir, at once. Do you hear your mother calling you? Dickie! But Dickie wouldn't come. Though he heard right enough, a clear, ringing little laugh was his only reply, and away he flew, hiding, running through the uncut hay on the lawn, dashing past the woodshed, making a rush for the kitchen garden, and there dodging, peering at his mother from behind the mossy apple trunks, and leaping up and down like a wild Indian. It had begun at tea-time. While Dickie's mother and Mrs. Spears, who was spending the afternoon with her, were quietly sitting over their sowing in the drawing-room, this, according to the servant-girl, was what had happened at the children's tea. They were eating their first bread-and-butter as nicely and quietly as you please, and the servant-girl had just poured out the milk and water, when Dickie had suddenly seized the bread-plate, put it upside down on his head, and clutched the bread-knife. Look at me! he shouted. His startled sisters looked, and, before the servant-girl could get there, the bread-plate wobbled, slid, flew to the floor, and broke into shivers. At this awful point, the little girls lifted up their voices and shrieked their loudest. Mother, come and look what he's done. Dickie's broke a great big plate. Come and stop him, mother. You can imagine how mother came flying. But she was too late. Dickie had leapt out of his chair, run through the French windows onto the veranda, and, well, there she stood, popping her thimble on and off, helpless. What could she do? She couldn't shaste after the child. She couldn't stalk Dickie among the apples and damnsons. That would be too undignified. It was more than annoying. It was exasperating. Especially as Mrs Spears, Mrs Spears of all people, whose two boys were so exemplary, was waiting for her in the drawing-room. Very well, Dickie, she cried, I shall have to think of some way of punishing you. I don't care, sounded the high little voice, and again there came that ringing laugh. The child was quite beside himself. Oh, Mrs Spears, I don't know how to apologise for leaving you by yourself like this. It's quite all right, Mrs Bendall, said Mrs Spears, in her soft, sugary voice, and raising her eyebrows in the way she had. She seemed to smile to herself as she stroked the gathers. These little things will happen from time to time. I only hope it was nothing serious. It was Dickie, said Mrs Bendall, looking rather helplessly for her only fine needle, and she explained the whole affair to Mrs Spears. Another worst of it is, I don't know how to cure him. Nothing when he's in that mood seems to have the slightest effect on him. Mrs Spears opened her pale eyes. Not even a whipping, said she, but Mrs Bendall, threading her needle, perstopped her lips. We never have whipped the children, she said. The girls never seemed to have needed it, and Dickie is such a baby and the only boy, somehow. Oh, my dear, said Mrs Spears, and she laid her sewing down. I don't wonder Dickie has these little outbreaks. You don't mind my saying so, but I'm sure you make a great mistake in trying to bring up children without whipping them. Nothing really takes its place, and I speak from experience, my dear. I used to try gentler measures. Mrs Spears drew in her breath with a little hissing sound. Soaping the boy's tongues, for instance, with yellow soap, or making them stand on the table for the whole of Saturday afternoon. But no, believe me, said Mrs Spears, there is nothing, there is nothing, like handing them over to their father. Mrs Bendall, in her heart of hearts, was dreadfully shocked to hear of that yellow soap, but Mrs Spears seemed to take it so much for granted that she did, too. Their father, she said, then you don't whip them yourself? Never! Mrs Spears seemed quite shocked at the idea. I don't think it's the mother's place to whip the children. It's the duty of the father, and besides, he impresses them so much more. Yes, I can imagine that, said Mrs Bendall faintly. Now my two boys, Mrs Spears smiled kindly, encouragingly, at Mrs Bendall, would behave just like Dickie if they were not afraid to, as it is. Oh, your boys are perfect little models! cried Mrs Bendall. They were, quieter, better behaved little boys, in the presence of grown-ups, could not be found. In fact, Mrs Spears' callers often made the remark that you never would have known that there was a child in the house. There wasn't, very often. In the front hall, under a large picture of fat, cheery old monks fishing by the riverside, there was a thick, dark horse whip that had belonged to Mr Spears' father, and for some reason the boys preferred to play out of sight of this behind the dog-canal or in the tool-house, or round about the dust-bin. It's such a mistake, sighed Mrs Spears, breathing softly as she folded her work, to be weak with children when they're little. It's such a sad mistake, and one so easy to make. It's so unfair to the child. That is what one has to remember. Now Dickie's little escapade this afternoon seemed to me as though he'd done it on purpose. It was the child's way of showing you that he needed a weeping. Do you really think so? Mrs Bendall was a weak little thing, and this impressed her very much. I do. I feel sure of it. And a sharp reminder now and then, cried Mrs Spears in quite a professional manner, administered by the father, will save you so much trouble in the future. Believe me, my dear. She put her dry, cold hand over Mrs Bendall's. I shall speak to Edward the moment he comes in," said Dickie's mother firmly. The children had gone to bed before the garden gate banged, and Dickie's father staggered up the steep concrete steps carrying his bicycle. It had been a bad day at the office. He was hot, dusty, tired out. But by this time Mrs Bendall had become quite excited over the new plan, and she opened the door to him herself. Oh, Edward! I'm so thankful you've come home," she cried. Why? What's happened? Edward lowered the bicycle and took off his hat. A red, angry pucker showed where the brim had pressed. What's up? Come. Come into the drawing-room," said Mrs Bendall, speaking very fast. I simply can't tell you how naughty Dickie has been. You have no idea. You can't have at the office all day how a child of that age can behave. He's been simply dreadful. I have no control over him, none. I've tried everything, Edward, but it's all no use. The only thing to do," she finished breathlessly, is to whip him. It's for you to whip him, Edward. In the corner of the drawing-room there was a what-not, and on the top shelf stood a brown china bear with a painted tongue. It seemed in the shadow to be grinning at Dickie's father, to be saying, Hooray! This is what you've come home to. But why on earth should I start whipping him, said Edward, staring at the bear? We've never done it before. Because, said his wife, don't you see it's the only thing to do. I can't control the child. Her words flew from her lips. They beat round him, beat round his tired head. We can't possibly afford a nurse. The servant girl has more than enough to do, and his naughtiness is beyond words. You don't understand, Edward. You can't. You're at the office all day. The bear poked out his tongue. The scolding voice went on. Edward sank into a chair. What am I to beat him with? he said weakly. Your slipper, of course, said his wife, and she knelt down to untie his dusty shoe. Oh, Edward! she wailed. You've still got your cycling-clips on in the drawing-room. No, really? Hey, that's enough. Edward nearly pushed her away. Give me that slipper. He went up the stairs. He felt like a man in a dark net, and now he wanted to beat Dickie. Yes, damn it. He wanted to beat something. My God! What a life! The dust was still in his hot eyes. His arms felt heavy. He pushed open the door of Dickie's slip of a room. Dickie was standing in the middle of the floor in his night-shirt. At the sight of him, Edward's heart gave a warm throb of rage. Well, Dickie, you know what I've come for, said Edward. Dickie made no reply. I've come to give you a whipping. No answer. Lift up your night-shirt. At that Dickie looked up. He flushed a deep pink. Must I? he whispered. Come on now. Be quick about it, said Edward, and grasping the slipper, he gave Dickie three hard slaps. There. That'll teach you to behave properly to your mother. Dickie stood there, hanging his head. Look sharp and get into bed, said his father. Still he did not move. But a shaking voice said, I've not done my teeth yet, Daddy. Eh, what's that? Dickie looked up. His lips were quivering, but his eyes were dry. He hadn't made a sound or shed a tear. Only he swallowed and said huskily, I haven't done my teeth, Daddy. But at the sight of that little face, Edward turned, and, not knowing what he was doing, he bolted from the room, down the stairs, and out into the garden. Good God! What had he done? He strode along and hid in the shadow of the pear tree by the hedge. Whipped Dickie! Whipped his little man with a slipper. And what a devil for! He didn't even know. Suddenly he barged into his room, and there was the little chap in his night-shirt. Dickie's father groaned and held onto the hedge, and he didn't cry, never a tear. If only he'd cried or got angry, but that, Daddy. And again he heard the quivering whisper, forgiving like that without a word. But he'd never forgive himself. Never. Coward. Fool. Brute. And suddenly he remembered the time when Dickie had fallen off his knee and sprained his wrist while they were playing together. He hadn't cried then either. And that was the little hero he just whipped. Something's got to be done about this, thought Edward. He strode back to the house, up the stairs, into Dickie's room. The little boy was lying in bed. In the half-light his dark head, with the square fringe, showed plain against the pale pillow. He was lying quite still, and even now he wasn't crying. Edward shut the door and leaned against it. What he wanted to do was to kneel down by Dickie's bed and cry himself and beg to be forgiven. But of course one can't do that sort of thing. He felt awkward, and his heart was wrong. Not asleep yet, Dickie? He said lightly. No, Daddy. Edward came over and sat on his boy's bed, and Dickie looked at him through his long lashes. Nothing the matter, little chap, is there? Said Edward, half whispering. No, Daddy. Came from Dickie. Edward put out his hand and carefully he took Dickie's hot little paw. You mustn't think any more of what happened just now, little man, he said huskily. See? That's all over now. That's forgotten. That's never going to happen again, see? Yes, Daddy. So the thing to do now is to back up, little chap, said Edward, and to smile. And he tried himself for an extraordinary, trembling apology for a smile. To forget all about it. To, eh, little man? Oh, boy. Dickie lay as before. This was terrible. Dickie's father sprang up and went over to the window. It was nearly dark in the garden. The servant girl had run out and she was snatching, some white clothes off the bushes, and piling them over her arm. But in the boundless sky, the evening star shone, and a big gum-tree, black against the pale glow, moved its long leaves softly. All this he saw while he felt in his trouser pocket for his money. Bringing it out, he chose a new sixpence, and went back to Dickie. Here you are, little chap. Buy yourself something, said Edward, softly, laying the sixpence on Dickie's pillow. But could even that, could even a whole sixpence, blot out what had been? 1921 End of Section 24 Section 25 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 St. Ananda, Norwich, UK. Poison. By Catherine Mansfield. The post was very late. When we came back from our walk after lunch it still had not arrived. Po-on-court-mazame, sang a net, scurrying back to her cooking. We carried our parcels into the dining-room. The table was laid. As always, the side of the table laid for two, for two people only, and yet so finished, so perfect. There was no possible room for a third. Gave me a queer, quick thrill, as though I'd been struck by that silver lightning that quivered over the white cloth. The brilliant glasses, the shallow bowl of friezes. Below the old postman, whatever could have happened to him, said Beatrice. Put those things down, dearest. Where would you like them? She raised her head. She smiled, her sweet teasing smile. Anywhere silly. But I knew only too well there was no such place for her, and I would have stood holding that squat liqueur bottle in the sweets for months, for years, rather than risk-giving another tiny shock to her exquisite sense of order. Here, I'll take them. She plumped them down on the table with her long gloves and a basket of figs. The luncheon table. Short story by... by... She took my arm. Let's go on to the terrace. And I felt her shiver. C'est son, she said faintly, de la cuisine. I had noticed lately, we had been living in the South for two months, that when she wished to speak of food or the climate or playfully of her love for me, she always dropped into French. We perched on the balustrade under the awning. Beatrice leaned over, gazing down, down to the white road with its guard of cactus spears. The beauty of her ear, just her ear, the marvel that was so great that I could have turned from regarding it to all the sweep of glittering sea below and stammered, You know, her ear, she has ears that are simply the most. She was dressed in white, with pearls round her throat and lilies of the valley tucked into her belt. On the third finger of her left hand she wore one pearl ring, no wedding ring. Why should I, mon ami? Why should we pretend? Who could possibly care? And, of course, I agreed, though privately, in the depths of my heart I would have given my soul to have stood beside her in a large, yes, a large, fashionable church, crammed with people, with old, reverend clergymen, with the voice that breathed over Eden, with palms in the smell of scent, knowing there was a red carpet and confetti outside, and somewhere, a wedding-cake and champagne and a satin shoe to throw after the carriage, if I could have slipped our wedding-ring on to her finger. Not because I cared for such horrible shows, but because I felt it might possibly perhaps lessen the ghastly feeling of absolute freedom, her absolute freedom, of course. Oh, God! What torture happiness was! What anguish! I looked up at the villa, at the windows of our room, hidden so mysteriously behind the green blinds. Was it possible she ever came moving through the green light and smiling that sacred smile, that languid, brilliant smile that was just for me? She put her arm around my neck, the other hand softly, terribly, brushed back my hair. Who are you? Who was she? She was woman. On the first warm evening in spring, when lights shone like pearls through the lilac air and voices murmured in the fresh flowering gardens, it was she who sang in the tall house with the tool curtains. As one drove in the moonlight through the foreign city, hers was the shadow that fell across the quivering gold of the shutters. When the lamp was lighted, in the newborn stillness, her steps passed your door, and she looked out into the autumn twilight pale in her furs as the automobile swept by. In fact, to put it shortly, I was twenty-four at the time, and when she lay on her back with the pearls slipped under her chin and sighed, I'm thirsty, dearest. Don moi une orange? I would gladly, willingly, have dived for an orange into the jaws of a crocodile, if crocodiles ate oranges. Had I two little feathery wings and were a little feathery bird, sang Beatrice. I seized her hand. You wouldn't fly away. Not far. Not further than the bottom of the road. Why on earth there? She quoted. He cometh not, she said. Who? The silly old postman. But you're not expecting a letter. No, but it's maddening all the same. Ah! Suddenly she laughed and leaned against me. There he is! Look! Like a blue beetle! And we pressed our cheeks together and watched the blue beetle beginning to climb. Dearest, breathed Beatrice, and the word seemed to linger in the air, to throb in the air like the note of a violin. What is it? I don't know. She laughed softly. A wave of a wave of affection, I suppose. I put my arm around her. Then you wouldn't fly away. And she said rapidly and softly, No, no, not for worlds. Not really. I love this place. I've loved being here. I could stay here for years, I believe. I've never been so happy as I have these last two months. And you've been so perfect to me, Dearest, in every way. This was such bliss. It was so extraordinary, so unprecedented, to hear her talk like this that I had to try to laugh it off. Don't! You sound as if you were saying goodbye. Oh, nonsense, nonsense! You mustn't say such things even in fun. She slid her hand under my white jacket and clutched my shoulder. You've been happy, haven't you? Happy? Happy? Oh, God! If you knew what I feel at this moment. Happy! My wonder! My joy! I dropped off the balustrade and embraced her, lifting her in my arms. And while I held her lifted, I pressed my face in her breast and muttered, You are mine. And for the first time in all the desperate months I'd known her, even counting the last month of, surely, heaven, I believed her absolutely when she answered. Yes, I am yours. The creak of the gate and the postman's steps on the gravel drove us apart. I was dizzy for the moment. I simply stood there, smiling. I felt rather stupidly. Beatrice walked over to the cane-chairs. You go, go for the letters, said she. I—well, I almost reeled away. But I was too late. A net came running. Pa de letra, said she. My reckless smile and reply as she handed me the paper must have surprised her. I was wild with joy. I threw the paper up in the air and sang out, No letters, darling, as I came over to her the beloved woman was lying in the long chair. For a moment she did not reply. Then she said slowly as she tore off the newspaper wrapper, The world forgetting by the world forgot. There are times when a cigarette is just the very one thing that will carry you over the moment. It is more than a confederate even. It is a secret, perfect little friend who knows all about it and understands absolutely. While you smoke you look down at it, smile or frown, as the occasion demands. You inhale deeply and expel the smoke in a slow fan. This was one of those moments. I walked over to the magnolia and breathed my fill of it. Then I came back and leaned over her shoulder. But quickly she tossed the paper away on to the stone. There's nothing in it, she said. Nothing. There's only some poison trial, Either some man did or didn't murder his wife, And twenty thousand people have sat in court every day And two million words had been wired all over the world after each proceeding. Silly world, said I, flinging into another chair. I wanted to forget that paper, to return, but cautiously, of course, To that moment before the postman came. But when she answered I knew from her voice that moment was over for now. Never mind. I was content to wait five hundred years if need be, now that I knew. Not so very silly, said Beatrice. After all it isn't only morbid curiosity on that part of the twenty thousand. What is it, darling? Heaven's know I didn't care. Guilt, she cried. Guilt. Didn't you realize that? They're fascinated like sick people are fascinated by anything, Any scrap of news about their own case. The man in the dock may be innocent enough, But the people in court are nearly all of them poisoners. Haven't you ever thought, she was pale with excitement, Of the amount of poison that goes on? It's the exception to find married people who don't poison each other, Married people and lovers. Oh, she cried. The number of cups of tea, glasses of wine, Cups of coffee that are just tainted. The number I've had myself and drunk, either knowing or not knowing, And risked it. The only reason why so many couples, she laughed, survived Is because the one is frightened of giving the other the fatal dose. That dose takes nerve. But it's bound to come sooner or later. There's no going back once the first little dose has been given. It's the beginning of the end, really. Don't you agree? Don't you see what I mean? She didn't wait for me to answer. She unpinned the lilies of the valley and lay back, Drawing them across her eyes. Both my husbands poisoned me, said Beatrice. My first husband gave me a huge dose almost immediately, But my second was really an artist in his way. Just a tiny pinch now and again, cleverly disguised. Oh, so cleverly. Until one morning I woke up, and in every single particle of me, To the ends of my fingers and toes, there was a tiny grain. I was just in time. I hated to hear her mention her husband so calmly. Especially today. It hurt. I was going to speak, but suddenly she cried mournfully. Why? Why should it have happened to me? What have I done? Why have I been all my life singled out by? It's a conspiracy. I tried to tell her it was because she was too perfect for this horrible world. Too exquisite, too fine. It frightened people. I made a little joke. But I, I haven't tried to poison him. Beatrice gave a queer small laugh and bit the end of a lily stem. You, she said, you wouldn't hurt a fly. Strange. That hurt, though. Most horribly. Just then a net ran out with her aperitifs. Beatrice leaned forward and took a glass from the tray and handed it to me. I noticed the gleam of the pearl on what I called her pearl finger. How could I be hurt at what she said? And you, I said, taking the glass. You've never poisoned anybody? That gave me an idea. I tried to explain. You. You do just the opposite. What is the name for one like you who, instead of poisoning people, fills them, everybody, the postman, the man who drives us, or boatman, the flower seller, me, with new life, with something of her own radiance, her beauty, her— Dreamily, she smiled. Dreamily, she looked at me. What are you thinking of, my lovely darling? I was wondering, she said. Whether after lunch you'd go down to the post office and ask for the afternoon letters. Would you mind, dearest? Not that I'm expecting one, but I just thought perhaps. It's silly not to have the letters if they're there, isn't it? Silly to wait till tomorrow. She twirled the stem of the glass in her fingers. Her beautiful head was bent. But I lifted my glass and drank, sipped rather, sipped slowly, deliberately, looking at that dark head and thinking of postman, and blue beetles and farewells that were not farewells and— Good God! Was it fancy? No, it wasn't fancy. The drink tasted chill, bitter, queer. End of Section 25 Recorded by St. Ananda Norwich, England stananda.com End of Something Challengish and Other Stories by Catherine Mansfield