 Section 7 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. A Married Man's Story. It is evening. Supper is over. We have left the small cold dining room. We have come back to the sitting room where there's a fire. All is as usual. I am sitting at my writing table which is placed across a corner so that I am behind it, as it were, and facing the room. The lamp with the green shade is a light. I have before me two large books of reference, both open, a pile of papers, all the paraphernalia, in fact, of an extremely occupied man. My wife, with her little boy on her lap, is in a low chair before the fire. She is about to put him to bed before she clears away the dishes and piles them up in the kitchen for the servant girl tomorrow morning. But the warmth, the quiet, and the sleepy baby have made her dreamy. One of his red woolen boots is off, one is on. She sits, bent forward, clasping the little barefoot, staring into the glow, and as the fire quickens, falls, flares again, her shadow, and immense mother and child is here and gone again upon the wall. Outside it's raining. I like to think of that cold drenched window behind the blind, and beyond the dark bushes in the garden, their broad leaves bright with rain, and beyond the fence the gleaming road with the two horse little gutters singing against each other, and the wavering reflections of the lamps, like fishes' tails. While I am here, I am there, lifting my face to the dim sky, and it seems to me it must be raining all over the world, that the whole earth is drenched, is sounding with a soft quick patter or hard steady drumming, or gurgling and something that's like sobbing and laughing mingled together, and that light playful splashing that is of water falling into still lakes and flowing rivers. And all at one and the same moment I am arriving in a strange city, slipping under the hood of the cab while the driver whips the cover off the breathing horse, running from shelter to shelter, dodging someone, swerving by someone else. I am conscious of tall houses, their doors and shutters sealed against the night, of dripping balconies, and sodden flowerpots. I am brushing through deserted gardens and falling into moist smelling summer houses, you know how soft and almost crumbling the wood of a summer house is in the rain. I am standing on the dark key-side, giving my ticket into the wet red hand of the old sailor in an oil-skin. How strong the sea-smells! How loudly the tied-up boats knock against one another! I am crossing the wet stackyard, hooded in an old sack, carrying a lantern, while the house-dog, like a soaking doormat, springs, shakes himself all over me, and now I am walking along a deserted road. It is impossible to miss the puddles, and the trees are stirring, stirring. But one could go on with such a catalogue forever, on and on, until one lifted the single-arum lily-leaf, and discovered the tiny snails clinging, until one counted. And what then? Aren't those just the signs, the traces of my feeling? The bright green streaks made by someone who walks over the dewy grass. Not the feeling itself. And as I think that, a mournful, glorious voice begins to sing in my bosom. Yes, perhaps that is nearer what I mean. What a voice! What power! What velvety softness! Marvelous! Suddenly my wife turns round quickly. She knows. How long has she known? That I am not working. It is strange that with her full, open gaze, she should smile so timidly, and that she should say in such a hesitating voice. What are you thinking? I smile and draw two fingers across my forehead in the way I have. Nothing, I answer softly. At that she stirs, and still trying not to make it sound important, she says, Oh, but you must have been thinking of something. Then I really meet her gaze, meet it fully, and I fancy her face quivers. Will she never grow accustomed to these simple, one might say, every day, little lies? Will she never learn not to expose herself, or to build up defences? Truly I was thinking of nothing. There, I seem to see it dart at her. She turns away, pulls the other red sock off the baby, sits him up, and begins to unbutton him behind. I wonder if that little soft rolling bundle sees anything, feels anything. Now she turns him over on her knee, and in this light, his soft arms and legs waving, he is extra-ordinarily like a young crab. A queer thing is, I can't connect him with my wife and myself. I've never accepted him as ours. Each time when I come into the hall and see the perambulator, I catch myself thinking, hmm, someone has brought a baby. Or when his crying wakes me at night, I feel inclined to blame my wife for having brought the baby in from outside. The truth is that though one might suspect her of strong maternal feelings, my wife doesn't seem to me the type of woman who bears children in her own body. There's an immense difference. Where is that animal ease and playfulness, that quick kissing and cuddling one has been taught to expect of young mothers? She hasn't a sign of it. I believe that when she ties its bonnet, she feels like an aunt, and not a mother. But of course I may be wrong. She may be passionately devoted. I don't think so. At any rate, isn't it a trifle indecent to feel like this about one's own wife? Indecent or not, one has these feelings. And one other thing. How can I reasonably expect my wife, a broken-hearted woman, to spend her time tossing the baby? But that is beside the mark. She never even began to toss when her heart was whole. And now she has carried the baby to bed. I hear her soft, deliberate steps moving between the dining room and the kitchen, there and back again to the tune of the clattering dishes. And now, all is quiet. What is happening now? Oh, I know, just as surely as if I'd gone to sea. She is standing in the middle of the kitchen facing the rainy window. Her head is bent with one finger she is tracing something. Nothing on the table. It is cold in the kitchen. The gas jumps. The tap drips. It's a forlorn picture. And nobody is going to come behind her to take her in his arms, to kiss her soft hair, to lead her to the fire and to rub her hands warm again. Nobody is going to call her or to wonder what she's doing out there. And she knows it. And yet, being a woman, deep down, deep down, she really does expect the miracle to happen. She really could embrace that dark, dark deceit rather than live. Like this. To live like this. I write those words very carefully, very beautifully. For some reason I feel inclined to sign them, or to write underneath, trying a new pen. But seriously, isn't it staggering to think what may be contained in one innocent looking little phrase? It tempts me. It tempts me terribly. Seen. The supper table. My wife has just handed me my tea. I stir it, lift the spoon, idly chase and then carefully capture a speck of tea leaf. And, having brought it ashore, I murmur quite gently, how long shall we continue to live? Like this. And immediately there is that famous blinding flash and deafening roar. Huge pieces of debris. I must say I like debris. I flung into the air. And when the dark clouds of smoke have drifted away. But this will never happen. I shall never know it. It will be found upon me intact, as they say. Open my heart and you will see. Why? Ah, there you have me. There is the most difficult question of all to answer. Why do people stay together? Putting aside for the sake of the children, and the habit of years, and economic reasons, as lawyers' nonsense, it's not much more. If one really does try to find out why it is that people don't leave each other, one discovers a mystery. It is because they can't. They are bound. And nobody on earth knows what are the bonds that bind them, except those two. Am I being obscure? Well, the thing itself isn't so frightfully crystal clear, is it? Let me put it like this. Supposing you are taken, absolutely, first into his confidence, and then into hers. Supposing you know all there is to know about the situation, and having given it not only your deepest sympathy, but your most honest impartial criticism, you declare, very calmly, but not without the slightest suggestion of relish, for there is, I swear there is, in the very best of us, something that leaps up and cries, ah, for joy, at the thought of destroying. Well, my opinion is that you two people ought to part. You all do no earthly good together. Indeed, it seems to me it's the duty of either to set the other free. What happens then? He and she agree. It is their conviction to. You are only saying what they have been thinking all last night, and away they go to act on your advice immediately. And the next time you hear of them, they're still together. You see, you've reckoned without the unknown quantity, which is their secret relation to each other, and that they can't disclose, even if they want to. Thus far you may tell, and no further. Oh, don't misunderstand me. It need not necessarily have anything to do with their sleeping together. But this brings me to a thought I've often half-entertained, which is that human beings, as we know them, don't choose each other at all. It is the owner, the second self, inhabiting them, who makes the choice for his own particular purposes. And, this may sound absurdly far-fetched, it's the second self in the other which responds. Dimly, dimly, or so it has seemed to me, we realise this, at any rate to the extent that we realise the hopelessness of trying to escape, so that what it all amounts to is, if the impermanent selves of my wife and me are happy, tant mieux pour nous, if miserable, tant pis. But I don't know. I don't know. And it may be that it's something entirely individual in me, this sensation. Yes, it is even a sensation of how extraordinarily shell-like we are, as we are, little creatures peering out of the sentry box at the gate, ogling through our glass case at the entry, one little servant, who never can say for certain even if the master is out or in. The door opens. My wife. She says, I'm going to bed. And I look up vaguely and vaguely say, you're going to bed? Yes. A tiny pause. Don't forget, will you, to turn out the gas in the hall. And again I repeat, the gas in the hall. There was a time, the time before, when this habit of mine, it really has become a habit now, it wasn't long then, was one of our sweetest jokes together. It began, of course, when on several occasions I really was deeply engaged and I didn't hear. I emerged only to see her shaking her head and laughing at me. You haven't heard a word. No, what did you say? Why should she think that's so funny and charming? She did. It delighted her. Oh my darling, it's so like you. It's so… so… and I knew she loved me for it. I knew she positively looked forward to coming in and disturbing me and so, as one does, I played up. I was guaranteed to be wrapped away every evening at 10.30pm. But now, for some reason I feel it would be crude to stop my performance. It's simplest to play on. But what is she waiting for tonight? Why doesn't she go? Why prolong this? She's going. No, her hand on the doorknob, she turns round again and she says in the most curious, small, breathless voice, you're not cold? Oh, it's not fair to be as pathetic as that. That was simply damnable. I shuddered all over before I managed to bring out a slow, noooo, while my left hand ruffles the reference pages. She's gone. She will not come back again tonight. It is not only I who recognise that. The room changes too. It relaxes like an old actor. Slowly the mask is rubbed off. The look of strained attention changes to an air of heavy, sullen brooding. Every line, every fold, breathes fatigue. The mirror is quenched. The ash whitens. Only my sly lamp burns on. But what a cynical indifference to me it all shows. Or should I perhaps be flattered? No, we understand each other. You know those stories of little children who were suckled by wolves and accepted by the tribe and how forever after they move freely among their fleet grey brothers. Something like that has happened to me. But wait. That about the wolves won't do. Curious. Before I wrote it down, while it was still in my head, I was delighted with it. It seemed to express and more to suggest just what I wanted to say. But written, I can smell the falseness immediately and the source of the smell is in that word fleet. Don't you agree? Fleet grey brothers. Fleet. A word I never use. When I wrote wolves, it skimmed across my mind like a shadow and I couldn't resist it. Tell me. Tell me. Why is it so difficult to write simply? And not only simply, but soto voce, if you know what I mean. That is how I long to write. No fine effects. No bravura. But just the plain truth as only a liar can tell it. I light a cigarette, lean back, inhale deeply, and find myself wondering if my wife is asleep. Or is she lying in her cold bed, staring into the dark with those trustful bewildered eyes. Her eyes are like the eyes of a cow that is being driven along a road. Why am I being driven? What harm have I done? But I really am not responsible for that look. It's her natural expression. One day, when she was turning out her cupboard, she found a little old photograph of herself taken when she was a girl at school. In her confirmation dress, she explained, and there were the eyes even then. I remember saying to her, Did you always look so sad? Leaning over my shoulder, she laughed lightly. Do I look sad? I think it's just me. And she waited for me to say something about it. But I was marvelling at her courage at having shown it to me at all. It was a hideous photograph. And I wondered again if she realised how plain she was, and comforted herself with the idea that people who loved each other didn't criticise but accepted everything, or if she really rather liked her appearance and expected me to say something complimentary. Oh, that was base of me. How could I have forgotten all the numberless times when I have known her to turn away to avoid the light, press her face into my shoulders? And, above all, how could I have forgotten the afternoon of our wedding day when we sat on the green bench in the botanical gardens and listened to the band? How, in an interval between two pieces, she suddenly turned to me and said in the voice in which one says, Do you think the grass is damp? Or do you think it's time for tea? Tell me, do you think physical beauty is so very important? I don't like to think how often she had rehearsed that question. And do you know what I answered? At that moment, as ever at my command, there came a great gush of hard, bright sound from the band, and I managed to shout above it cheerfully. I didn't hear what you said. Devilish, wasn't it? Perhaps not wholly. She looked like the poor patient who hears the surgeon say, it will certainly be necessary to perform the operation. But not now. But all this conveys the impression that my wife and I were never really happy together. Not true. Not true. We were marvelously, radiantly happy. We were a model couple. If you had seen us together, any time, any place, if you had followed us, tracked us down, spied, taken us off our guard, you still would have been forced to confess, I have never seen a more ideally suited pair. Until last autumn. But really to explain what happened then, I should have to go back and back. I should have to dwindle until my two hands clutched the banisters. The stair rail was higher than my head, and I peered through to watch my father padding softly up and down. There were coloured windows on the landings. As he came up, first his bald head was scarlet, then it was yellow. How frightened I was! And when they put me to bed, it was the dream that we were living inside one of my father's big coloured bottles, for he was a chemist. I was born nine years after my parents were married. I was an only child, and the effect to produce even me, small, withered bud I must have been, sapped all my mother's strength. She never left the room again. Bed, sofa, window, she moved between the three. Well I can see her, on the window-days, sitting, her cheek in her hand, staring out. Her room looked over the street. Opposite there was a wall plastered with advertisements for travelling shows, and circuses, and so on. I stand beside her, and we gaze at the slim lady in a red dress, hitting a dark gentleman over the head with a parasol, or the tiger peering through the jungle while the clown, close by, balances a bottle on his nose, or a little golden-haired girl sitting on the knee of an old black man in a broad cotton hat. She says nothing. On sofa-days there is a flannel dressing-gown that I loathe, and a cushion that keeps on slipping off the hard sofa. I pick it up. It has flowers and writing sewn on. I ask what the writing says, and she whispers, Sweet repose. In bed her fingers plait, in tight little plaits, the fringe of the quilt, and her lips are thin. And that is all there is of my mother, except the last queer episode that comes later. My father, curled up in the corner on the lid of a round box that held sponges, I stared at my father so long it's as though his image, cut off at the waist by the counter, has remained solid in my memory. Perfectly bald, polished head, shaped like a thin egg, creased, creamy cheeks, little bags under his eyes, large pale ears like handles. Hannah was discreet, sly, faintly amused and tinged with impudence. Long before I could appreciate it, I knew the mixture. I even used to copy him in my corner, bending forward with a small reproduction of his faint sneer. In the evening his customers were chiefly young women. Some of them came in every day for his famous five-penny pick-me-up. Their gaudy looks, their voices, their free ways fascinated me. I longed to be my father, handing them across the counter the little glass of bluish stuff they tossed off so greedily. God knows what it was made of. Years after I drank some just to see what it tasted like, and I felt as though someone had given me a terrific blow on the head. I felt stunned. One of those evenings I remember vividly. It was cold. It must have been autumn, for the flaring gas was lighted after my tea. I sat in my corner, and my father was mixing something. The shop was empty. Suddenly the bell jangled and a young woman rushed in, crying so loud, sobbing so hard, that it didn't sound real. She wore a green cape, trimmed with fur, and a hat with cherries dangling. My father came from behind the screen, but she didn't stop herself at first. She stood in the middle of the shop, and rung her hands and moaned. I've never heard such crying since. Presently she managed to gasp out, give me a pick-me-up. Then she drew a long breath, trembled away from him, and quavered, I've had bad news. And in the flaring gas-light I saw the whole side of her face was puffed up and purple. Her lip was cut, and her eyelid looked as though it was gummed fast over the wet eye. My father pushed the glass across the counter, and she took the purse out of her stocking and paid him. But she couldn't drink. Clutching the glass, she stared in front of her as if she could not believe what she saw. Each time she put her head back, the tears spurted out again. Finally she put the glass down. There was no use. Holding the cape with one hand, she ran in the same way out of the shop again. My father gave no sign. But long after she had gone, I crouched in my corner, and when I think back, it's as though I felt my whole body vibrating. So that's what it is outside, I thought. That's what it's like out there. Do you remember your childhood? I'm always coming across these marvellous accounts by writers who declare that they remember everything. I certainly don't. The dark stretches, the blanks, are much bigger than the bright glimpses. I seem to have spent most of my time like a plant in a cupboard. Now and again, when the sun shone, a careless hand thrust me out on the windowsill, and a careless hand whipped me in again, and that was all. But what happened in the darkness, I wonder? Did one grow? Pale stem, timid leaves, white reluctant bud? No wonder I was hated at school. Even the masters shrank from me. I somehow knew that my soft, hesitating voice disgusted them. I knew too how they turned away from my shocked, staring eyes. I was small and thin, and I smelled of the shop. My nickname was Gregory Powder. School was a tin building, stuck on the raw hillside. There were dark red streaks like blood in the oozing clay banks of the playground. I hid in the dark passage where the coats hang, and I'm discovered there by one of the masters. What are you doing there in the dark? His terrible voice kills me. I die before his eyes. I am standing in a ring of thrust-out heads, some are grinning, some look greedy, some are spitting. And it is always cold. Big, crushed-up clouds press across the sky. The rusty water in the school tank is frozen. The bell sounds numb. One day they put a dead bird in my overcoat pocket. I found it just when I reached home. Oh! what a strange flutter there was at my heart when I drew out that terribly soft, cold little body, with the legs thin as pins and the claws rung. I sat on the back doorstep in the yard and put the bird in my cap. The feathers round the neck looked wet, and there was a tiny tuft just above the closed eyes that stood up too. How tightly the beak was shut! I could not see the mark where it was divided. I stretched out one wing and touched the soft secret down underneath. I tried to make the claws curl around my little finger. But I didn't feel sorry for it. No. I wondered. The smoke from our kitchen chimney poured downwards and flakes of soot floated, soft, light in the air. Through a big crack in the cement yard a poor-looking plant with dull reddish flowers had pushed its way. I looked at the dead bird again. And that is the first time that I remember singing. Rather, listening to a silent voice inside a little cage that was me. But what has all this to do with my married happiness? How can all this affect my wife and me? Why, to tell what happened last autumn, do I run all this way back into the past? The past. What is the past? I might say the star-shaped flake of soot on a leaf of the poor-looking plant and the bird lying on the quilted lining of my cap and my father's pestle and my mother's cushion belong to it. But that is not to say they are any less mine than they were when I looked upon them with my very eyes and touched them with these fingers. No. They are more. They are a living part of me. Who am I, in fact, as I sit here at this table but my own past? If I deny that, I am nothing. And if I were to try to divide my life into childhood, youth, early manhood and so on, it would be a kind of affectation. I should know I was doing it just because of the pleasantly important sensation it gives one to rule lines and to use green ink for childhood, red for the next stage and purple for the period of adolescence. For one thing I have learned, one thing I do believe is, nothing happens suddenly. Yes, that is my religion, I suppose. My mother's death, for instance. Is it more distant from me today than it was then? It is just as close, as strange, as puzzling, and in spite of all the countless times I have recalled the circumstances, I know no more now than I did then, whether I dreamed them or whether they really occurred. It happened when I was thirteen and I slept in a little strip of a room on what was called the half-landing. One night I woke up with a start to see my mother in her nightgown, without even the hated flannel dressing gown sitting on my bed. But the strange thing which frightened me was, she wasn't looking at me. Her head was bent, the short, thin tail of hair lay between her shoulders, her hands were pressed between her knees, and my bed shook. She was shivering. It was the first time I had ever seen her out of her own room. I said, or I think I said, is that you, mother? And as she turned round, I saw in the moonlight how queer she looked. Her face looked small, quite different. She looked like one of the boys at the school baths, who sits on a step, shivering just like that, and wants to go in, and yet is frightened. Are you awake? she said. Her eyes opened. I think she smiled. She leaned towards me. I've been poisoned, she whispered. Your father's poisoned me. And she nodded. Then, before I could say a word, she was gone. I thought I heard the door shut. I sat quite still. I couldn't move. I think I expected something else to happen. For a long time I listened for something that wasn't a sound. The candle was by my bed, but I was too frightened to stretch out my hand for the matches. But even while I wondered what I ought to do, even while my heart thumped, everything became confused. I lay down and pulled the blankets round me. I fell asleep, and the next morning my mother was found dead of failure of the heart. Did that visit happen? Was it a dream? Why did she come to tell me? Or why, if she came, did she go away so quickly? And her expression, so joyous under the frightened look, was that real? I believed it fully the afternoon of the funeral when I saw my father dressed up for his part, hat and all. That tall hat, so gleaming black and round, was like a cork covered with black ceiling wax, and the rest of my father was awfully like a bottle, with his face for the label, deadly poison. It flashed into my mind as I stood opposite him in the hall, and deadly poison, or old DP, was my private name for him from that day. Late. It grows late. I love the night. I love to feel the tide of darkness rising, slowly and slowly washing, turning over and over, lifting, floating, all that lies strewn upon the dark beach, all that lies hid in rocky hollows. I love, I love this strange feeling of drifting, wither. After my mother's death I hated to go to bed. I used to sit on the window sill, folded up and watch the sky. It seems to me the moon moved much faster than the sun, and one big bright green star I chose for my own. My star. But I never thought of it beckoning to me, or twinkling merrily for my sake. Cruel, indifferent, splendid, it burned in the airy night. No matter. It was mine. But growing up against the window, there was a creeper, with small, bunched-up pink and purple flowers. These did know me. These, when I touched them at night, welcomed my fingers. The little tendrils, so weak, so delicate, knew I would not hurt them. When the wind moved the leaves, I felt I understood their shaking. When I came to the window, it seemed to me the flowers said among themselves, the boy is here. As the months passed, there was often a light in my father's room below, and I heard voices and laughter. He's got some woman with him, I thought. But it meant nothing to me. Then the gay voice, the sound of laughter, gave me the idea it was one of the girls who used to come to the shop in the evenings, and gradually I began to imagine which girl it was. It was the dark one in the red coat and skirt, who once had given me a penny. A merry face stooped over me. Warm breath tickled my neck. There were little beads of black on her long clashes, and when she opened her arms to kiss me, there came a marvellous wave of scent. Yes, that was the one. Time passed, and I forgot the moon and my green star and my shy creeper. I came to the window to wait for the light in my father's window, to listen for the laughing voice, until one night I dozed and I dreamed she came again. Again she drew me to her, something soft, scented, warm and merry, hung over me like a cloud. But when I tried to see, her eyes only mocked me, her red lips opened, and she hissed, little sneak, little sneak. But not as if she were angry, as if she understood, and her smile somehow was like a rat, hateful. The night after I lighted the candle and sat down at the table instead. By and by, as the flame steadied, there was a small lake of liquid wax surrounded by a white smooth wall. I took a pin and made little holes in this wall and then sealed them up faster than the wax could escape. After a time I fancied the candle flame joined in this game. It leapt up, quivered, wagged. It even seemed to laugh. But while I played with the candle and smiled and broke off the tiny white peaks of wax that rose above the wall and floated them on my lake, a feeling of awful dreariness fastened on me. Yes, that's the word. It crept up from my knees to my thighs, into my arms. I ached all with misery. And I felt so strangely that I couldn't move. Something bound me there by the table. I couldn't even let the pin drop that I held between my finger and thumb. For a moment I came to a stop, as it were. Then the shriveled case of the bud split and fell. The plant in the cupboard came into flower. Who am I? I thought. What is all this? And I looked at my room at the broken bust of the man called Harnaman on top of the cupboard at my little bed with the pillow like an envelope. I saw it all, but not as I had seen before. Everything lived. Everything. But that was not all. I was equally alive and it's the only way I can express it, the barriers were down between us. I had come into my own world. The barriers were down. I had been all my life a little outcast. But until that moment no one had accepted me. I had lain in the cupboard or the cave for lawn. But now I was taken. I was accepted. Claimed. I did not consciously turn away from the world of human beings. I had never known it. But I, from that night, did beyond words consciously turn towards my silent brothers. Catherine Mansfield. The Dove's Nest. After lunch millioner mother were sitting as usual on the balcony beyond the salon, admiring for the five hundredth time the stocks, the roses, the small, bright grass beneath the palms, and the oranges against a wavy line of blue. When a card was brought them by Marie, visitors at the Villa Martin were very rare. True, the English clergyman, Mr. Sandiman, had called. And he had come a second time with his wife to tea. But an awful thing had happened on that second occasion. Mother had made a mistake. She had said, More tea, Mr. Sandybags? Oh, what a frightful thing to have happened. How could she have done it? Millie still flamed at the thought. And he had evidently not forgiven them. He'd never come again. So this card put them both into a flutter. Mr. Walter Procher, they read. And then an American address. So very much abbreviated that neither of them understood it. Walter Procher? But they'd never heard of him. Mother looked from the card to Millie. Procher? Dear? She asked mildly. As though helping Millie to a slice of a never-before-tasted pudding. And Millie seemed to be holding her plate back in the way she answered. I don't know, mother. These are the occasions, said mother, becoming a little flustered when one does so feel the need of our dear English servants. Now, if I could just say, What is he like, Annie? I should know whether to see him or not. But he may be some common man selling something. One of those American inventions for appealing things. You know, dear. Or he may even be some kind of foreign sharper. Mother winced at the hard, bright little word as though she had given herself a dig with her embroidery scissors. But here Marie smiled at Millie and murmured, Say untresbeau, monsieur. What does she say, dear? She says he looks very nice, mother. Well, we'd better. Where is he now, I wonder. Marie answered, in the vestibule, madam. In the hall? Mother jumped up, seriously alarmed. In the hall, with all those valuable little foreign things that didn't belong to them, scattered over the tables. Show him in, Marie. Come, Millie, come, dear. We will see him in the salon. Oh, why isn't Miss Anderson here? Almost wailed, mother. But Miss Anderson, mother's new companion, never was on the spot when she was wanted. She had been engaged to be a comfort, a support to them both, fond of traveling, a cheerful disposition, a good packer, and so on. And then, when they had come all this way and taken the Villa Martin and moved in, she had turned out to be a Roman Catholic. Half her time, more than half, she spent wearing out the knees of her skirts in cold churches. It was really too. The door opened. A middle-aged, clean shaven, very well-dressed stranger, stood bowing before them. His bow was stately. Millie saw it pleased mother very much. She bowed her Queen Alexandra bow back. As for Millie, she never could bow. She smiled, feeling shy, but deeply interested. By the pleasure, said the stranger very courteously, with a strong American accent, of speaking with Mrs. Windham Fawcett, I am Mrs. Fawcett, said mother, graciously. And this is my daughter, Miltred, pleased to meet you, Miss Fawcett. And the stranger shot afresh, chill hand at Millie, who grasped it just in time before it was gone again. Won't you sit down, said mother, and she waved faintly at all the gill-chairs. Thank you, I will, said the stranger. Down he sat, still solemn, crossing his legs, and, most surprisingly, his arms as well. His face looked at them over his dark arms, as over a gate. Millie, sit down, dear. So Millie sat down, too, on the madam-recamere couch, and traced a filet-laced flower with her finger. There was a little pause. She saw the stranger swallow. Mother's fan opened and shut. Then he said, I took the liberty of calling, Mrs. Fawcett, because had the pleasure of your husband's acquaintance in the States when he was lecturing there some years ago. I should like very much to renew our, well, I venture to hope we might call it friendship. Is he with you at present? Are you expecting him out? I noticed his name was not mentioned in the local paper. But I put that down to a foreign custom, perhaps, giving precedence to the lady. And here the stranger looked as though he might be going to smile. But as a matter of fact, it was extremely awkward. Mother's mouth shook. Millie squeezed her hands between her knees. But she watched hard from under her eyebrows. Good, noble little mummy. How Millie admired her as she heard her say, gently and quite simply, I am sorry to say my husband died two years ago. Mr. Proger gave a great start. Did he? He thrust out his underlip, frowned, pondered. I am truly sorry to hear that, Mrs. Fawcett. I hope you'll believe me when I say I had no idea your husband had passed over. Of course. Mother softly stroked her skirt. I do trust, said Mr. Proger. More seriously still, that my inquiry didn't give you too much pain. No, no. It's quite all right, said the gentle voice. But Mr. Proger insisted. You're sure? You're positive. At that, mother raised her head and gave him one of her still. Right, exalted glances that Millie knew so well. I'm not in the least hurt, she said. As one might say it from the midst of the fiery furnace, Mr. Proger looked relieved. He changed his attitude and continued, I hope this regrettable circumstance will not deprive me of your... Oh, certainly not. We shall be delighted. We are always so pleased to know anyone who... Mother gave a little bound, a little flutter. She flew from her shadowy branch on to a sunny one. Is this your first visit to the Riviera? It is, said Mr. Proger. The fact is I was in Florence until recently, but I took a heavy cold there. Florence so damp, cooed mother, and the doctor recommended I should come here for the sunshine before I started for home. The sun is so very lovely here, a great mother, enthusiastically. Well, I don't think we get too much of it, said Mr. Proger, dubiously. And two lines showed at his lips. I seem to have been sitting around in my hotel more days than I care to count. Ah, hotels are so very trying, said mother. And she drooped, sympathetically, at the thought of a lonely man in an hotel. You are alone here, she asked, gently, just in case. One never knew. It was better to be on the safe, the tack full side. But her fears were groundless. Oh, yes, I'm alone, cried Mr. Proger, more heartily than he had spoken yet. And he took a speck of thread off his immaculate trouser lake, something in his voice puzzled Millie. What was it? Still, the scenery is so very beautiful, said mother. That one really does not feel the need of friends. I was only saying to my daughter yesterday, I could live here for years without going outside the garden gate. It is all so beautiful. Is that so? said Mr. Proger. Soberly. He added, you have a very charming villa. And he glanced around the salon. Is all this antique furniture genuine? May I ask? I believe so, said mother. I was certainly given to understand it was. Yes, we love our villa. But of course it is very large for two. That is to say three ladies. My companion, Miss Anderson, is with us. But unfortunately she is a Roman Catholic. And so she is out most of the time. Mr. Proger bowed as one who agreed that Roman Catholics were very seldom in. But I am so fond of space, continued mother. And so is my daughter. We both love large rooms and plenty of them. Don't we, Millie? This time Mr. Proger looked at Millie quite cordially and remarked, Yes, young people like plenty of room to run about. He got up, put one hand behind his back, slapped the other upon it and went over to the balcony. You've a view of the sea from here, he observed. The ladies might well have noticed it. The whole Mediterranean swung before the windows. We are so fond of the sea, said mother, getting up too. Mr. Proger looked towards Millie. Do you see those yachts, Miss Fawcett? Millie saw them. Do you happen to know what they're doing? Asked Mr. Proger what they were doing. What a funny question. Millie stared and bit her lip. They were kissing, said Mr. Proger. And this time he did actually smile at her. Oh, yes, of course. Stammered Millie. Of course they are. She knew that. Well, they're not always at it, said Mr. Proger, good-humoredly, and he turned to mother and began to take a ceremony as farewell. I wonder, hesitated mother, folding her little hands and eyeing him, if you would care to lunch with us, if you would not be too dull with two ladies. We should be so very pleased. Mr. Proger became intensely serious again. He seemed to brace himself to meet the luncheon invitation. Thank you very much, Mrs. Fawcett. I should be delighted. That will be very nice, said mother, warmly. Let me see. Today is Monday, isn't it, Millie? Would Wednesday suit you? Mr. Proger replied, it would suit me excellently to lunch with you on Wednesday. Mrs. Fawcett. At midi, I presume, as they call it here. Oh, no. We keep our English times. At one o'clock, said mother. And that being arranged, Mr. Proger became more and more ceremonious and bowed himself out of the room. Mother rang for Marie to look after him, and a moment later the big glass hall door shut. Well, said mother, she was all smiles, little smiles like butterflies, a lighting on her lips, and gone again. That was an adventure, Millie. Wasn't it, dear? And I thought he was such a very charming man, didn't you? Millie made a little face at mother and rubbed her eye. Of course you did. You must have, dear. And his appearance was so satisfactory, wasn't it? Mother was obviously enraptured. I mean, he looked so very well kept. Did you notice his hands? Every nail shone like a diamond. I must say I do like to see. She broke off. She came over to Millie and padded her big hauler straight. You think it was right of me to ask him to lunch? Don't you, dear? Said mother, pathetically. Mother made her feel so big, so tall. But she was tall. She could pick mother up in her arms. Sometimes rare moods came when she did. Swooped on mother who squeaked like a mouse and even kicked. But not lately. Very seldom now. It was so strange, said mother. There was the still, bright, exalted glance again. I suddenly seemed to hear a father say to me, Ask him to lunch. And then there was some warning. I think it was about the wine. But that I didn't catch. Very unfortunately, she added mournfully. She put her hand on her breast. She bowed her head. Father is still so near. She whispered. Millie looked out of the window. She hated mother going on like this. But of course she couldn't say anything. Out of the window there was the sea and the sunlight silver on the palms. Like water dripping from silver oars. Millie felt a yearning. What was it? It was like a yearning to fly. But mother's voice brought her back to the salon, to the guild chairs, the guild couches, sconces, cabinets, the tables with the heavy sweet flowers, the faded brocade, the pink-spotted Chinese dragons on the mantelpiece and the two turks' heads in the fireplace that supported the broad logs. I think a leg of lamb would be nice. Don't you, dear? said mother. The lamb is so very small and delicate just now. And men like nothing so much as plain roast meat. Yvonne prepares it so nicely, too, with that little frill of paper lace round the top of the leg. It always reminds me of something. I can't think what. But it certainly makes it look very attractive indeed. Wednesday came and the flutter that mother and Millie had felt over the visiting card extended to the whole villa. Yes, it was not too much to say that the whole villa thrilled and fluttered at the idea of having a man to lunch. Old, flat-footed Yvonne came waddling back from the market with a piece of gorgonzola in so perfect a condition that when she found Marie in the kitchen she flung down her great basket, snatched the morsel up and held it, rustling in its paper to her quivering bosom. Je trouvais un morsel de gorgonzola. She panted, rolling up her eyes as though she invited the heavens themselves to look down upon it. Jean, un morsel de gorgonzola. I see pour un prince ma filet. And hissing the word, Prince, like lightning, she thrust the morsel under Marie's nose. Marie, who was a delicate creature, almost swooned at the shock. Do you think, cried Yvonne scornfully, that I would ever buy such cheese pour si d'homme? Never, never. Jean, mort de ma vie. Her sausage finger wagged before her nose, and she minced in a dreadful imitation of mother's French. We have none of us large appetites, Yvonne. We are very fond of boiled eggs and mashed potatoes and a nice plain salad. Ah, bah, with a snort of contempt she flung away her shawl, rolled up her sleeves, and began unpacking the basket. At the bottom there was a flat bottle which, sighing, she laid aside. De quoi pour ma course? Said she, and Marie, seizing a bottle of Saturn and bearing it off to the dining room murmured, as she shut the kitchen door behind her. Et voilà pour la course du mensur. The dining room was a large room paneled in darkwood. It had a massive mantelpiece and carved chairs covered on the heavy polish table stood an oval glass dish decorated with little gilt swags. This dish, which it was Marie's duty to keep filled with fresh flowers, fascinated her. The sight of it gave her a frism. It reminded her always, as it lay solitary on the dark expanse, of a little tomb, and one day passing through the long windows onto the stone terrace and down the steps into the garden she had the happy thought of so arranging the flowers that they would be appropriate to one of the ladies on a future tragic occasion. Her first creation had been terrible. Tomb of Mademoiselle Anderson in black pansies, lily of the valley, and a frill of heliotrope. It gave her a most intense, curious pleasure to hand Miss Anderson the potatoes at lunch and at the same time to gaze at her triumph. It was like, oh, ciel, it was like handing potatoes to a corpse. The tomb of Madem was on the contrary almost gay. Foolish little flowers, half yellow, half blue, hung over the edge, wisps of green trailed across. And in the middle there was a large scarlet rose. Cours saignant Marie had called it. But it did not look in the least like a cours saignant. It looked flushed and cheerful, like mother emerging from the luxury of a warm bath. Millie's, of course, was all white, white stocks, little white rose buds, with a sprig or two of dark box edging. It was mother's favorite. Poor innocent Marie at the sideboard had to turn her back when she heard mother exclaim, Isn't it pretty, Millie? Isn't it sweetly pretty? Most artistic. So original. And she had said to Marie, C'est très jolie, Marie. Très original. Marie's smile was so remarkable that Millie, peeling a tangerine, remarked to mother, I don't think she likes you to admire them. It makes her uncomfortable. But today the glory of her opportunity made Marie feel quite faint as she seized her flower scissors. Tombow dune Massure. She was forbidden to cut the orchids that grew around the fountain basin. But what were orchids for, if not for such an occasion? Her fingers trembled as the scissors snipped away. They were enough. Marie added two small sprays of palm. And back in the dining room she had the happy idea of binding the palm together with a twist of gold thread definitely torn off the fringe and curtains. The effect was superb. Marie almost seemed to see her bowl, Massure, very small, very small. At the bottom of the bowl in full evening dress with a ribbon across his chest and his ears white as wax. What surprised Millie, however, was that Miss Anderson should pay any attention to Mr. Project's coming. She wrestled to breakfast in her best with the large, painful-looking crucifix dangling over the front. Millie was alone when Miss Anderson entered the dining room. This was unfortunate, for she always tried to avoid being left alone with Miss Anderson. She could not say exactly why. It was a feeling. She had the feeling that Miss Anderson might say something about God or something fearfully intimate. Oh, she would sink through the floor if such a thing happened. She could expire. Supposing she were to say, Millie, do you believe in our Lord? Heavens! It simply didn't bear thinking about. Good morning, my dear, said Miss Anderson, and her fingers cold pale like church candles touched Millie's cheek. Good morning, Miss Anderson. May I give you some coffee? Said Millie, trying to be natural. Thank you, dear child, said Miss Anderson, with her light, nervous laugh, she hooked on her eyeglasses and stared at the basket of rolls. And is it today that you expect your guest? She asked. Now why did she ask that? Why pretend when she knew perfectly well? That was all part of her strangeness. Or was it because she wanted to be friendly? Miss Anderson was more than friendly. She was genial, but there was always this something. Was she spying? Was she at school that Roman Catholic spied? Miss Anderson rustled, rustled about the house like a dead leaf. Now she was on the stairs, now in the upstairs passage. Sometimes, at night, when Millie was feverish, she woke up and heard that rustle outside her door. Was Miss Anderson looking through the keyhole? And one night she actually had the idea that Miss Anderson had bored two holes in her head and was watching her from there. The feeling was so strong that next time she went into Miss Anderson's room, her eyes flew to the spot. To her horror, a large pitcher hung there. Had it been there before? Guest? The crisp breakfast roll broke in half at the word. Yes, I think it is, said Millie, vaguely, and her blue flower-like eyes were raised to Miss Anderson in a vague stare. We'll make quite a little change in our little party, said the much too pleasant voice. I confess, I miss very much the society of men. I have had such a great deal of it in my life. I think that ladies by themselves are apt to get a little hmm, hmm. And helping herself to cherry jam, she spilt it on the cloth. Millie took a large, childish bite out of her roll. There was nothing to reply to this. But how young Miss Anderson made her feel? She made her want to be naughty, to pour milk over her head or make a noise with a spoon. Ladies by themselves, went on Miss Anderson, who realized none of this, are very apt to find their interests limited. Why? said Millie, goaded to reply. People always said that. It sounded most unfair. I think, said Miss Anderson, taking off her eyeglasses and looking a little damn, it is the absence of political discussion. Oh, politics, cried Millie, eerily. I hate politics, father always said. But here she pulled up short. She crimsoned. She didn't want to talk about father to Miss Anderson. Oh, look, look, a butterfly, cried Miss Anderson softly and hastily. Look, what a darling. Her own cheeks flushed a slow red at the sight of the loving butterfly fluttering so softly over the glittering table. That was very nice of Miss Anderson, fearfully nice of her. She must have realized that Millie didn't want to talk about father and so she had mentioned the butterfly on purpose. Millie smiled at Miss Anderson and she never had smiled at her before and she said in her warm, youthful voice, he is a duck, isn't he? I love butterflies. I think they are great lambs. The morning whisked away as foreign mornings do. Mother had half decided to wear her hat at lunch. What do you think, Millie? Do you think as head of the house it might be appropriate? On the other hand, one does not want to do anything at all extreme. Which do you mean, mother? Your mushroom or the jam pot? Oh, not the jam pot, dear. Mother was quite used to Millie's name for it. I somehow don't feel myself in a hat without a brim. And to tell you the truth, I am still not quite certain whether I was wise in buying the jam pot. I cannot help the feeling that if I were to meet father in it, he would be a little too surprised. More than once lately, went on mother quickly. I have thought of taking off the trimming, turning it upside down and making it into a nice little work bag. What do you think, dear? But we must not go into it now, Millie. This is not the moment for such schemes. Come on to the balcony. I have told Marie we shall have coffee there. What about bringing out that big chair with the nice substantial legs for Mr. Proger? Men are so fond of nice, substantial. No, not by yourself, love. Let me help you. When the chair was carried out, Millie thought it looked exactly like Mr. Proger. It was Mr. Proger admiring the view. No, don't sit down on it. You mustn't. She cried hastily. As mother began to subside, she put her arm through mothers and drew her back into the salon. Happily, at that moment there was a rustle and Miss Anderson was upon them. In excellent time, for once, she carried a copy of the morning post. I have been trying to find out from this, said she, lightly tapping the newspaper with her eyeglasses, whether Congress sitting at present. But unfortunately, after reading my copy right through, I happened to glance at the heading and discovered it was five weeks old. Congress. Would Mr. Proger expect them to talk about Congress? The idea terrified mother. Congress. The American Parliament. Of course. Composed of Senators. Gray bearded old men in frock coats and turned down collars, rather like missionaries. But she did not feel at all competent to discuss them. I think we had better not be too intellectual. She suggested timidly, fearful of disappointing Miss Anderson, but more fearful still of the alternative. Still, one likes to be prepared, said Miss Anderson. And after a pause she added softly, one never knows. Ah, how true that is. One never does. Miss Anderson and mother seemed both to ponder this truth. They sat silent with head bent, as though listening to the whisper of the words one never knows, said the pink-spotted dragons on the mantelpiece, and the turks' heads pondered. Nothing is known, nothing. Everybody just waits for things to happen, as they were waiting there for the stranger who came walking towards them through the sun and shadow under the budding plain trees, or driving, perhaps in one of the small cotton-covered cabs an angel passed over the villa martin. In that moment of hovering silence something beseeching seemed to lift seemed to offer itself as the flowers in the salon uplifted, gave themselves to the light. Then mother said I hope Mr. Proger will not find the scent of the mimosa too powerful. Men are not found to flowers as a rule. I have heard it causes actual hay-fever in some cases. What do you think, Millie? Otwe perhaps? But there was no time to do anything. A long firm trill sounded from the hall door. It was a trill so calm and composed, and unlike the tentative little push, they gave the bell that it brought them back to the seriousness of the moment. They heard a man's voice. The door clicked and shut again. He was inside. A stick rattled on the table. There was a pause. And then the door handle of the salon turned and Marie in frilled Muslim cuffs and an apron shaped like a heart ushered in Mr. Proger. Only Mr. Proger after all, but whom had Millie expected to see. The feeling was there and gone again that she would not have been surprised to see somebody quite different. Before she realized this wasn't quite the same Mr. Proger as before. He was smarter than ever. All brushed, combed, shining. The ears that Marie had seen white as wax flashed as if they had been pink enameled. Mother fluttered up in her pretty little way, so hoping he had not found the heat of the day to trying to be out in. But happily it was a little early in the year for dust. Then Miss Anderson was introduced. Millie was ready this time for that fresh hand. But she almost gasped. It was so very chill. It was like a hand stretched out to you from the water. Then together they all sat down. Is this your first visit to the Riviera? Asked Miss Anderson, graciously dropping her handkerchief. It is, answered Mr. Proger, composedly, and he folded his arms as before. I was in Florence until recently, but I caught a heavy cold. Florence, so began Mother. When the beautiful grass gone, that burn like a fallen sun in the shadows of the hall, began to throb. First it was a low muttering. Then it swelled. It quickened. It burst into a clash of triumph under Marie's sympathetic fingers. Never had they been treated to such a performance before. Mr. Proger was all attention. That's a very fine gong, he remarked approvingly. We think it is so oriental, said Mother. It gives our little meals quite an eastern flavor, shall we? Their guest was at the door bowing. So many gentlemen and only one lady, fluttered Mother. What I mean is the boot is on the other shoe. That is to say, come, Millie, come dear. And she led the way to the dining room. Well, there they were. The cold, fresh napkins were shaken out of their charming shapes and Marie had the omelet. Mr. Proger said on Mother's right, facing Millie, and Miss Anderson had her back to the long windows. But after all, why should the fact of their having a man with them make such a difference? It did. It made all the difference. Why should they feel so stirred at the sight of that large hand outspread? Moving among the wine glasses. Why should the sound of that loud, confident change the very look of the dining room? It was not a favorite room of theirs as a rule. It was overpowering. They bobbed on certainly at the pale table with a curious feeling of exposure. They were like those meek guests who arrive unexpectedly at the fashionable hotel and are served with whatever may be ready. While the real luncheon, the real guests lurk important and contemptuous background. And although it was impossible for Marie to be other than deaf, nimble, and silent, what heart could she have administering to that poor uninspiring of spectacles? Three ladies dining alone? Now all was changed. Marie filled their glasses to the brim as if to reward them for some marvelous feat of courage. These timid English ladies had captured a live lion, a real one, smelling faintly of oo de cologne. And with a tip of handkerchief showing white as a flake of snow, he is worthy of it, decided Marie, eyeing her orchids and palms. Mr. Proger touched his hot plate with appreciative fingers. You'll hardly believe it, Mrs. Fawcett, he remarked, turning to mother, but this is the first hot plate I've happened on since I left the States. I had begun to believe there were two things that just weren't to be had in Europe. One was a hot plate and the other was a glass of cold water. Well, the cold water one can do without, but a hot plate is more difficult. I'd got so discouraged with the cold wet ones, I encountered everywhere that when I was arranging with Cook's agency about my room here I explained to them, I don't care what the expense may be, but for mercy's sake find me an hotel where I can get a hot plate by ringing for it. Mother, though outwardly all sympathy, found this a little bewildering. She had a momentary vision of Mr. Proger ringing for hot plates to be brought to him at all hours. Such strange things to want in any numbers. I have always heard the American hotels are so very well equipped, said Miss Anderson, telephones in all the rooms and even tape machines. Milly could see Miss Anderson reading that tape machine. I should like to go to America awfully, she cried as Marie brought in the lamb and said it before Mother. There is certainly nothing wrong with America, said Mr. Proger soberly. America's a great country. What are they? Peas? Well, I'll just take a few. I don't eat peas as a rule. No, no salad, thank you, not with the hot plate. But what makes you want to go to America? Miss Anderson ducked forward, smiling at Milly and her eyeglasses fell into her plate just escaping the gravy. Because one wants to go everywhere was the real answer. But Milly's flower blue gaze rested thoughtfully on Miss Anderson as she said, the ice cream. I adore ice cream. Do you, said Mr. Proger, and he put down his fork. So you're fond of ice cream, are you, Miss Fawcett? Milly transferred her dazzling gaze to him. It said she was. Well, said Mr. Proger quite playfully, and he began eating again. I'd like to see you get it. I'm sorry we can't manage to ship some across. I like to see young people have just what they want. It seems right, somehow. Kind man, would he have any more lamb? Lunch passed so pleasantly, so quickly, that the famous piece of Gorgonzola was on the table in all its fatness and richness before there had been an awkward moment. The truth was that Mr. Proger proved most easy to entertain, most ready to chat. As a rule men were not fond of chat as mother understood it. They did not seem to understand that it does not matter very much what one says. The important thing is not to let the conversation drop. Strange, even the best men ignored that simple rule. They refused to realize that conversation is like a dear little baby that is brought in to be handed round. You must rock it, nurse it, keep it on the move if you want it to keep smiling. What could be simpler, but even father, mother winced away from memories that were not as sweet as memories ought to be. All the same she could not help hoping that father saw what a successful little lunch party it was. He did so love to see Millie happy, and the child looked more animated than she had done for weeks. She had lost that dreamy expression, which though very sweet, did not seem natural at her age. Perhaps what she wanted was not so much eastern syrup as taking out of herself. I have been very selfish, thought mother, blaming herself as usual. She put her hand on Millie's arm. She pressed it gently as they rose from the table and Marie held the door open for the white and grey figure for Miss Anderson, who peered shortsightedly as though looking for something, for Mr. Proger, who brought up the rear walking stately, with a benign air of a monsoor who had eaten well. Beyond the balcony, the garden, the palms, and the sea lay bathed in quivering brightness. Not a leaf moved. The oranges were little worlds of burning light. There was the sound of grasshoppers ringing their tiny tambourines and the hum of bees as they hovered, as though to taste their joy in advance. Before burrowing, close into the warm wide open stocks and roses, the sound of the sea was like a breath, was like a sigh. Did the little group on the balcony hear it? Mother's fingers moved. Among the black and gold coffee cups, Miss Anderson brought the most uncomfortable chair out of the salon and sat down. Mr. Proger put his large hand on to the yellow stone ledge of the balcony and remarked gravely, This balcony rail is just as hot as it can be. They say, said mother, that the greatest heat of the day is at about half past two. We have certainly noticed it is very hot then. Yes, it's lovely then, murmured Millie and she stretched out her hand to the sun. It's simply baking. Then you're not afraid of the sunshine, said Mr. Proger, taking his coffee from mother. No, thank you. I won't take any cream. Just one lump of sugar. And he sat down balancing the little chattering cup on his broad knee. No, I adore it. Answered Millie and she began to nibble the lump of sugar. End of section 8 Section 9 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 6 years after It was not the afternoon to be on deck. On the contrary. It was exactly the afternoon when there is no snugger place than a warm cabin, a warm bunk. Tucked up with a rug, a hot water bottle and a piping hot cup of tea, she would not have minded the weather in the least. But he hated cabins. Hated to be inside anywhere more than was absolutely necessary. He had a passion for keeping, as he called it, above board, especially when he was travelling. And it wasn't surprising considering the enormous amount of time he spent cooped up in the office. So when he rushed away from her as soon as they got on board, and came back five minutes later to say he had secured two deck chairs on the lee side and the steward was undoing the rugs, her voice through the high skin collar murmured, good. And because he was looking at her, she smiled with bright eyes and blinked quickly as if to say, yes, perfectly all right. Absolutely. And she meant it. Then we'd better, said he, and he tucked her hand inside his arm and began to rush her off to where the two chairs stood. But she just had time to breathe, not so fast as he pleased when he remembered to and slowed down. Strange. They had been married 28 years and it was still an effort to him each time to adapt his pace to hers. Not cold, are you, he asked, glancing sideways at her. Her little nose, geranium pink above the dark fur was answer enough. But she thrust her free hand into the velvet pocket of her and murmured gaily, I shall be glad of my rug. He pressed her tighter to his side, a quick nervous pressure. He knew, of course, that she ought to be down in the cabin. He knew that it was no afternoon for her to be sitting on deck in this cold and raw mist, lee side or no lee side, rugs or no rugs, and he realized how she must be hating it. But he had come to believe that it really would be easier for her to make these sacrifices than it was for him. Take their present case, for instance. If he had gone down to the cabin with her, he would have been miserable the whole time and he couldn't have helped showing it. At any rate, she would have found him out. Whereas, having made up her mind to fall in with his ideas, he would have bettered anybody she would even go so far as to enjoy the experience. Not because she was without personality of her own. Good Lord! She was absolutely brimming with it. But because but here his thoughts always stopped. Here they always felt the need of a cigar, as it were. And, looking at the cigar tip, his fine blue eyes narrowed. It was a law of marriage, he supposed. All the same he always felt guilty when he asked sacrifices of her. That was what the quick pressure meant. His being said to her being you do understand, don't you? And there was an answering tremor of her fingers. I understand. Certainly the steward, good little chap, had done all in his power to make them comfortable. He could put up their chairs in whatever warmth there was and out of the smell. She did hope he would be tipped adequately. It was on occasions like these and her life seemed to be full of such occasions, that she wished it was the woman who controlled the purse. Thank you, steward, that will do beautifully. Why is steward so often delicate looking, she wondered, as her feet were tucked under. This poor little chap looks as though he'd got a chest and yet one would have thought the sea air. The button of the pigskin purse was undone. The tray was tilted. She saw sixpences, shillings, half-crowns. I should give him five shillings, she decided, and tell him to buy himself a good nourishing. He was given a shilling and he touched his cap and seemed genuinely grateful. Well, it might have been worse. It might have been sixpence. It might indeed, for at that moment father turned towards her and said, half-apologetically, stuffing the purse back. I gave him a shilling. I think it was worth it, don't you? Oh, quite, every bit, said she. It is extraordinary how peaceful it feels on a little steamer once the bustle of leaving port is over. In a quarter of an hour one might have been at sea for days. There is something almost touching, childish, in the way people submit themselves to the new conditions. They go to bed in the early afternoon, they shut their eyes, and it's night, like little children who turn the table upside down and cover themselves with the table-cloth. And those who remain on deck, they seem to be always the same, those few hardened men travellers. Pause, light their pipes, stamp softly, gaze out to sea, and their voices are subdued as they walk up and down. The long-legged little girl chases after the red cheeked boy, but soon both are captured. And the old sailor, swinging an unlighted lantern, passes and disappears. He lay back, the rug up on his chin, and she saw he was breathing deeply. See air. Anyone believed in sea air, it was he. He had the strongest faith in its tonic qualities. But the great thing was, according to him, to fill the lungs with it the moment you came on board. Otherwise, the sheer strength of it was enough to give you a chill. She gave a small chuckle and he turned to her quickly. What is it? It's your cap, she said. I never can get used to you in a cap. You look such a thorough burglar. Well, what the juice am I to wear? He shot up one grey eyebrow and wrinkled his nose. It's a very good cap, too. Very fine specimen of its kind. It's got a very rich white satin lining. He paused. He declined, as he had hundreds of times before at this stage. Rich and rare were the gems she wore. But she was thinking he really was childishly proud of the white satin lining. He would like to have taken off his cap and made her feel it. Feel the quality! How often had she rubbed between finger and thumb his coat, his shirt cuff, tie, sock, linen handkerchief, while he said that? She slipped down more deeply into her chair and the little steamer pressed on, pitching gently over the grey, unbroken, gently moving water that was veiled with slanting rain. Far out, as though idly, listlessly, gulls were flying. Now they settled on the waves, now they beat up into the rainy air and shone against the pale sky like the lights within a pearl. They looked cold and lonely. How lonely it will be when we have passed by, there will be nothing but the waves and those birds and rain falling. She gazed through the rust-spotted railing along which big drops trembled until suddenly she shut her lips. It was as if a warning voice inside her had said, Don't look! No, I won't, she decided. It's too depressing. Much too depressing. But immediately she opened her eyes and looked again. Lonely birds, water lifting, white pale sky. How were they changed? And it seems to her there was a presence far out there between the sky and the water. Someone very desolate and longing watched them pass and cried as if to stop them. But cried to her alone. Mother, don't leave me, sounded the cry. Don't forget me. You're forgetting me. You know you are. And it was as though from her own breast there came the sound of childish weeping. My son, my precious child, it isn't true! Shhh! How was it possible that she was sitting there on that quiet steamer beside father and at the same time she was hushing and holding a little slender boy so pale who had just waked out of a dreadful dream? I dreamed I was in a wood somewhere far away from everybody and I was lying down and a great blackberry vine grew over me and I called and called to you and you wouldn't come you wouldn't come so I had to lie there forever. What a terrible dream! He had always had terrible dreams. How often, years ago, when he was small she had made some excuse and escaped from their friends in the dining-room or the drawing-room to come to the foot of the stairs and listen. Mother! And when he was asleep his dream had journeyed with her back into the circle of lamplight it had taken its place there like a ghost. And now far more often at all times in all places like now, for instance she never settled down she was never off her guard for a moment but she heard him he wanted her I am coming as fast as I can as fast as I can the dark stairs have no ending and the worst dream of all the one that is always the same goes forever and ever uncomforted. This is anguish how is it to be born? Still it is not the idea of her suffering which is unbearable it is his can one do nothing for the dead? and for a long time the answer had been nothing. But softly without a sound the dark curtain has rolled down there is no more to come that is the end of the play but it can't end like that so suddenly there must be more no, it's cold it's still there is nothing to be gained by waiting but did he go back again? or when the war was over did he come home for good? surely he will marry later on, not for several years surely one day I shall remember his wedding and my first grandchild a beautiful dark-haired boy born in the early morning a lovely morning spring oh mother it's not fair to me to put these ideas into my head stop mother stop when I think of all I have missed I can't bear it I can't bear it she sits up breathing the words and crosses the dark rug away it's colder than ever and now the dusk is falling falling like ash upon the pallid water and the little steamer growing determined throbbed on, pressed on as if at the end of the journey they're waited end of section 9 recording by Rob Marland section 10 of The Dove's Nest and Other Stories this is a labor box recording all labor box recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit laborbox.org The Dove's Nest and Other Stories by Catherine Mansfield Daphne I had been in Port Willen six months when I decided to give a one-man show not that I was particularly keen but Little Field the pitcher shop man had just started a gallery and he wanted me rather to kick off for him he was a decent little chap I hadn't the heart to refuse and besides, as it happened I had a good deal of stuff that I felt it would be rather fun to palm off on anyone who was fool enough to buy it so with these high aims I had the cards printed the pitchers framed in plain white frames and God knows how many cups were ordered for the private view what was I doing in Port Willen oh well why not I'll own it does sound an unlikely spot but when you are an impermanent movable as I am it's just those unlikely spots that have a trick of holding you I arrived intending to stay a week and go on to Fiji but I had letters to one or two people of my arrival hanging over the side of the ship while we were waiting in the stream with nothing on earth to do but stare I took an extraordinary fancy to the shape to the look of the place it's a small town you know planted at the edge of a fine deep harbor like a lake behind it on either side there are hills they have iron roofs colored red and there are big dark, flummy trees masked together breaking up those light shapes giving a depth warmth making a composition of it well worth looking at well we needn't go into that but it had me that fine morning and the first days after my arrival walking or driving out in one of the big swinging rocking cabs made me think that I would never have an equal fancy to the people not quite all of them the men left me cold yes, I must say colonial men are not the brightest specimens but I never struck a place where the average of female attractiveness was so high you can't help noticing it for a peculiarity of Port Willen is the number of its tea shops not only tea sandwiches cream cakes ices fruit salad with fresh pineapples from 11 o'clock in the morning you meet with couples and groups of girls and young married women hurrying off to their first tea it was a real 11 o'clock function even the businessmen knocked off and went to a cafe and the same thing happened in the afternoon from four until half past six the streets were gay as a garden which reminds me it was early spring when I arrived and the town smelled of moist earth and the first flowers in fact wherever one went one got a strong whiff like the whiff of violets in a wood which was enough in itself to make one feel like lingering there was a theater too a building plastered over with red and blue bills which gave it an oriental look in that blue air and a touring company was playing sand toy I went my first evening I found it for some reason fearfully exciting the inside smelled of gas of glue and burnt paper whistling drafts cut along the corridors a strong wind among the orchestra kept the palms trembling and now and again the curtain blew out and there was a glimpse of a pair of large feet walking rapidly away but what women what girls in Muslim dresses with velvet sashes and little caps edged with swans down in the intervals long ripples and laughter sounded from the stalls from the dress circle and I leaned against a pillar that looked as though it was made of cream cake icing and fell in love with whole rows at a time then I presented my letters I was asked out to Dine and I met these charmers in their own homes that decided it they were something I had never known before so gay so friendly so impressed with the idea of ones being an artist it was rather like finding oneself in the playground in a family attractive girls school I painted the premier's daughter a dark beauty against a tree hung with long bell-like flowers as white as wax I painted a girl with a pigtail curled up on a white sofa playing with a pale red fan and a little blonde in a black jacket with pearl grey gloves I painted like fury I'm fond of women as a matter of fact I feel more at ease with women than I am with men because I have cultivated them I suppose you see it's like this with me I've always had enough money to live on and the consequence is I have never had to mix with people more than I wished and I've equally always had well I suppose you might call it a passion for painting painting is far and away it's a different thing in life as I see it but my work's my own affair it's the separate compartment which is me no strangers allowed in I haven't the smallest desire to explain what it is I'm after or to hear other men if people like my work I'm pleased if they don't well if I was a shrugging person it sounds arrogant it isn't I know my limitations but the truth about oneself always sounds arrogant as no doubt you've observed but women well I can only speak for myself I find the presence of women the consciousness of women an absolute necessity I know they are considered a distraction that the very big pots seal themselves in their hives to keep away and say his work without women would be to me like dancing without music or food without wine or a sailing boat without a breeze they just give me that what is it? stimulus is not enough inspiration is far too much that well if I knew what it is I should have solved a bigger problem than my own and problems aren't in my line of work and I got it what I hadn't reckoned on was that there would be no men it was one thing to ask a painter fellow to knock you up something to the tune of 50 guinea or so but it was quite another to make an ass of yourself staring the port-willing men would as soon have gazed into shops true when you came to Europe the galleries but then you shop gazed too it didn't matter what you did in Europe you could walk about for a week without being recognized so there were little field and I absolutely alone among all that loveliness it frightened him out of his life but I didn't mind I thought it rather fun especially as the sight seers didn't hesitate to find my pictures amusing I'm by no means an out modern as they say people like violins and landscapes of telegraph poles leave me cold but port-willing is still trying to swallow Rosetti and hope by Watts is looked upon as very advanced it was natural my pictures should surprise them the fat old lady Marorus became quite hysterical she drew me over to one drawing she patted my arm with her fan I don't wonder you drew her slipping out she gurgled and how depressed she looks the poor dear never could have sat down in it it's much too small there ought to be a little cake of pear soap on the floor and overcome by her own joke she flopped on the little double bench that ran down the middle of the room and even her fan seemed to laugh at that moment two girls passed in front of us one I knew a big fair girl called me pulled her companion by the sleeve Daphne she said Daphne and the other turned towards her then towards us smiled and was born christened part of my world from that moment Daphne her quick beautiful smile answered Saturday morning was gloriously fine when I woke up and saw the sun streaming under the polished floor I felt like a little boy who has been promised a picnic it was all I could do not to telephone to Daphne was she feeling the same it seemed somehow such a terrific lark that we should be going off together like this just with a couple of rucksacks and our bathing suits I thought of other weekends the preparation the emotional tension the amount of managing they'd needed I didn't really think of them I couldn't be bothered they belong to another life it seemed to me suddenly so preposterous that two people should be as happy as we were and not be happier here we were alone miles away from everybody free as air and in love with each other I looked again at Daphne at her slender shoulders her throat, her bosom I decided with fervor wouldn't it be rather absurd than to behave like a couple of children wouldn't she even in spite of all she had said be disappointed if we did and I went off at a tremendous pace not because I thought she'd run after me but I did think she might call or I might look round it was one of those still hushed days when the sea and the sky seemed to melt into one another and it is long before the moisture dries on the leaves and grasses one of those days when the sea smells strong and there are gulls standing in a row on the sand the smoke from our wood fire hung in the air and the smoke of my pipe mingled with it I caught myself staring at nothing I felt dull and angry I couldn't get over the ridiculous affair you see my amor propri was wounded Monday morning was grey cloudy one of those mornings peculiar to the seaside when everything the sea most of all seems exhausted and sullen there had been a very high tide the road was wet on the beach there stood a long line of sickly looking gulls when we got on board she sat down inches and muttering something about a pipe I walked quickly away it was intolerable that we should still be together after what had happened it was indecent I only asked I only longed for one thing to be free of this still unsmiling and pitiful that was the worst of it creature who had been my playful Daphne for answer I telephoned her at once and asked if I might come see her that evening her voice sounded grave unlike the voice I remembered and she seemed to deliberate there was a long pause before she said yes perhaps that would be best then I shall come at half past six very well and we went into a room full of flowers and very large art photographs of the harbor by night a misty day moon rise over the water and I know I wondered why did you admire them why did you send me that letter oh but I had to said Daphne I meant every word of it I only let you come tonight too no I know I shall disappoint you I'm wiser than you are for all your experience I shan't be able to live up to it I'm not the person for you really I'm not end of section 10 section 11 the doves nest and other stories this is a Librebox recording all Librebox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit Librebox.org the doves nest and other stories by Catherine Mansfield father and the girls at midday Ernestine who had come down from the mountains with her mother to work in the vineyards and the hotel heard the faint far away chuff chuff of the train from Italy trains were a novelty to Ernestine they were fascinating unknown terrible what were they like as they came tearing their way through the valley plunging between the mountains as if not even the mountains could stop them when she saw the dark flat breast of the engine powerful hurled as it were towards her she felt a weakness she could have sunk to the earth and yet she must look so she straightened up stopped pulling at the blue green leaves tugging at the long bright green curly suckers and with eyes like a bird stared the vines were very tall there was nothing to be seen of Ernestine but her beautiful bosom buttoned into a blue cotton jacket in her small dark had covered with a faded cherry colored handkerchief chuff chuff chuff chuff chuff sounded the train now a wisp of white smoke shone and melted now there was another and the monster itself came into sight and snorting horribly drew up at the little toy lag station five minutes away the railway ran at the bottom of the hotel garden which was perched high and surrounded by a stone wall steps cut in the stone led to the terraces where the vines were planted Ernestine looking out from the leaves like a bright bird saw the terrible engine and looked beyond it at doors swinging open at strangers stepping down she would never know who they were or where they had come from a moment ago they were not here perhaps tomorrow they would be gone again and looking like a bird herself she remembered how at home in the late autumn she had sometimes seen strange birds in the fir tree that were there one day and gone the next where from where to she felt an ache in her bosom wings were tight folded there why could she not stretch them out and fly away and away from the first class carriage tall then Emily alighted and gave her hand to father whose brittle legs seemed to wave in the air as they felt for the iron step taller dinner Edith followed carrying father's light overcoat his field glasses on a strap and his new bydecker the blonde hotel porter came forward wasn't that nice he could speak as good English as you and me so Edith had no trouble at all in explaining how as they were going on by the morning train tomorrow they would only need their suitcases and what was left in the compartment was there a carriage outside yes a carriage was there but if they cared to walk there was a private entrance through the hotel gardens no they wouldn't walk you wouldn't care to walk would you father dear no Edith I won't walk do you girls want to walk why no father not without you dear and the blonde hotel porter leading they passed through the little knot of sturdy peasants at the station gate to where the carriage waited under a group of limes did you ever see anything as big as that horse Edith cried Emily she was always the first to exclaim about things it is a very big horse saying Edith more sober it's a farm horse from the look of it and it's been working see how hot it is Edith had so much observation the big brown horse his side street with dark sweat tossed his head and the bells on his collar set up a loud jangling who yep called the young peasant driver warningly from his seat on the high box father who was just about to get in drew back a little scared you don't think that horse will run away with us do you Edith he quavered why no father dear coaxed Edith that horse is just as tame as you or me so in they got the three of them the horse bounded forward his ear seemed to twitch in surprise at his friend the driver call that a load father and the girls weighed nothing they might have been three bones three broomsticks three umbrellas bouncing up and down on the hard seats of the carriage it was a mercy the hotel was so close father could never have stood that for more than a minute especially at the end of a journey even as it was his face was quite green when Emily helped him out straightened him and gave him a little pull it's shaking you dear hasn't it she said tenderly but he refused her arm into the hotel that would create a wrong impression no no Emily I'm alright alright said father as staggering a little he followed them through big glass doors into a hall as dim as a church and as chill and as deserted my wasn't that hall cold the cold seemed to come leaping at them from the floor it clasped the peaked knees of Edith and Emily it leapt high as the fluttering heart of father for a moment they hesitated drew together almost gasped but then out from the bureau of cheerful young person her smiling face spotted with mosquito bites ran to meet them and welcomed them with such real enthusiasm in English too that the chill first moment was forgotten ah yes ah yes I can let you have very nice rooms on the furs floor with a lift two rooms and bart and dressing room for the gentle man beautiful rooms with sun north too hot very nice till tomorrow I take you if you please it is this way you are tired with the churney launch is at half past 12 hort water ah yes it is with the bart if you please father and the girls were drawn by her cheerful smiles and backs and nods along a white corridor into the lift and up until she flung open a heavy dark door and stood aside for them to enter it is a sweet she explained would a hall and tree doors quickly she opened them now I got to see when your luggage is gone and she went well cried Emily Edith stared father crained his then old neck looking too did you ever see the like Edith right Emily in a little rush and Edith softly clasped her hands softly she's saying no I never did Emily I've never seen anything just like this before Sims to me a nice room quaver father still hovering do you girls want to change it change it why father dear it's just the loveliest thing you've ever said eyes on isn't it Emily sit down father dear sit down in the armchair father's pale claws gripped the velvet arms he lowered himself he sank with an old man's quick sigh Edith stood still as if bewitched at the door but Emily ran over to the window and leaned out quite girlish for a long time now for how long for countless ages father and girls had been on the wing niece Montreux beer it's naples men tone lake majority they had seen them all and many many more and still they beat on beat on flying as if on worried never stopping anywhere for long but the truth was oh better not inquire what the truth was better not ask what it was that kept them going or why the only word that daunted father was the word home home to sit around doing nothing listening to the clock counting up the years thinking back thinking to stay fixed in one place as if waiting for something for somebody no no better far to be blown over the earth like the husk like the withered pod that the wind carries and drops and bears off again are you ready girls yes father dear then we better be off if we're to make that train but oh it was a weariness it was an unspeakable weariness father made no secret of his age he was eighty four as for Edith and Emily well he looked now like their elder brother and old old brother and two ancient sisters so the lovely room might have summed them up but it's did brightness it's beauty the flutter of leaves at the creamy stone windows seemed only to whisper rest stay Edith looked at the pale green paneled walls at the doors that had lodges and squares of green picked out in gold she made the amazing discovery that the floor had the same pattern in wood that was traced on the high painted ceiling but the color of the shining floor was marvelous it was like tortoise shell in one corner there was a huge tilted stove milky white and blue the low wooden bed with its cover of quilted yellow satin had sheaves of corn carved on the bed posts it looked too fanciful tired Edith yes that bed looked as if it were breathing softly gently breathing outside the narrow deep set windows beyond their wreaths of green she could see a whole tiny landscape bright as a jewel in the summer heat rest stay was it the sound of the leaves outside no it was in the air it was the room itself that whispered joyfully shyly Edith felt so strange that she could keep quiet no longer this is a very old room Emily she warbled softly I know what it is this hotel has not always been a hotel it's been an old chateau I feel as sure of that as that I'm standing here perhaps she wanted to convince herself that she was standing there do you see that stove she walked over to the stove it's got figures on it Emily she warbled faintly it's 1623 isn't that too wonderful cried Emily even father was deeply moved 1623 nearly 300 years old and suddenly in spite of his tiredness he gave a thin airy old man's chuckle makes your feel quite a chicken don't it said father Emily's breathless little laugh answered him it was too gay I'm going to see what's behind that door she cried and half running to the door in the middle wall she lifted the slender steel catch it led into a larger room Edith's and her bedroom but the walls were the same in the floor and there were the same deep set windows only two beds instead of one stood side by side with blue silk quilts instead of yellow and what a beautiful old chest there was under the windows oh cried Emily and rapture isn't it all too perfectly historical for words Edith it makes me feel she stopped she looked at Edith who had followed her and whose thin shadow lay on the sunny floor queer said Emily trying to put all she felt into that one word I don't know what it is perhaps if Edith the discoverer had had time she might have satisfied Emily but a knock sounded at the outer door it was the luggage boy and while he brought in their suitcases there came from downstairs the ringing of the luncheon bell father mustn't be kept waiting once a bell had gone he liked to follow it up right then so without even a glance at the mirror they had reached the age when it is natural to avoid mirrors as it is to peer into them when one is young Edith and Emily were ready are you ready girls yes father dear and off they went again to the left to the right in their case with a broad worn ballastrade to the left again finding their way as if by instinct Edith first then father and Emily close behind but when they reached the salamange which was as big as a ballroom it was still empty all gay all glittering the long French windows open on to the green and gold garden the salamange stretched before them and the 50 little tables with the 50 pots of Delilah's looked as if they might begin dancing with end of section 11