Women Alone

by Katherine Mansfield

  “Oh, isn’t Mr Kadgit here?” said Miss Moss, trying to dodge the pail and brush. “Well, I’ll just wait a moment, if I may.”

  “You can’t wait in the waiting-room, Miss. I ’aven’t done it yet. Mr Kadgit’s never ’ere before ’leven-thirty Saturdays. Sometimes ’e don’t come at all.” And the char began crawling towards her.

  “Dear me — how silly of me,” said Miss Moss. “I forgot it was Saturday.” “Mind your feet, please, Miss,” said the char. And Miss Moss was outside again.

  That was one thing about Beit and Bithems; it was lively. You walked into the waiting-room, into a great buzz of conversation, and there was everybody; you knew almost everybody. The early ones sat on chairs and the later ones sat on the early ones’ laps, while the gentlemen leaned negligently against the walls or preened themselves in front of the admiring ladies.

  “Hello,” said Miss Moss, very gay. “Here we are again!” And young Mr Clayton, playing the banjo on his walking-stick, sang: “Waiting for the Robert E. Lee.”

  “Mr Bithem here yet?” asked Miss Moss, taking out an old dead powder puff and powdering her nose mauve.

  “Oh yes, dear,” cried the chorus. “He’s been here for ages. We’ve all been waiting here for more than an hour.”

  “Dear me!” said Miss Moss. “Anything doing, do you think?”

  “Oh, a few jobs going for South Africa,” said young Mr Clayton. “Hundred and fifty a week for two years, you know.”

  “Oh!” cried the chorus. “You are weird, Mr Clayton. Isn’t he a cure? Isn’t he a scream, dear? Oh, Mr Clayton, you do make me laugh. Isn’t he a comic?”

  A dark, mournful girl touched Miss Moss on the arm.

  “I just missed a lovely job yesterday,” she said. “Six weeks in the provinces and then the West End. The manager said I would have got it for certain if only I’d been robust enough. He said if my figure had been fuller, the part was made for me.” She stared at Miss Moss, and the dirty dark red rose under the brim of her hat looked, somehow, as though it shared the blow with her, and was crushed, too.

  “Oh, dear, that was hard lines,” said Miss Moss, trying to appear indifferent. “What was it — if I may ask?” But the dark, mournful girl saw through her and a gleam of spite came into her heavy eyes.

  “Oh, no good to you, my dear,” said she. “He wanted someone young, you know — a dark Spanish type — my style, but more figure, that was all.”

  The inner door opened and Mr Bithem appeared in his shirt sleeves. He kept one hand on the door ready to whisk back again, and held up the other.

  “Look here, ladies —” and then he paused, grinned his famous grin before he said — “and bhoys.” The waiting-room laughed so loudly at this that he had to hold both hands up. “It’s no good waiting this morning. Come back Monday; I’m expecting several calls on Monday.”

  Miss Moss made a desperate rush forward. “Mr Bithem, I wonder if you’ve heard from …”

  “Now let me see,” said Mr Bithem slowly, staring; he had only seen Miss Moss four times a week for the past — how many weeks? “Now, who are you?”

  “Miss Ada Moss.”

  “Oh yes, yes; of course, my dear. Not yet, my dear. Now I had a call for twenty-eight ladies to-day, but they had to be young and able to hop it a bit — see? And I had another call for sixteen — but they had to know something about sand-dancing. Look here, my dear, I’m up to the eyebrows this morning. Come back on Monday week; it’s no good coming before that.” He gave her a whole grin to herself and patted her fat back. “Hearts of oak, dear lady,” said Mr Bithem, “hearts of oak!”

  At the North-East Film Company the crowd was all the way up the stairs. Miss Moss found herself next to a fair little baby thing about thirty in a white lace hat with cherries round it. “What a crowd!” said she. “Anything special on?”

  “Didn’t you know, dear?” said the baby, opening her immense pale eyes. “There was a call at nine-thirty for attractive girls. We’ve all been waiting for hours. Have you played for this company before?” Miss Moss put her head on one side. “No, I don’t think I have.”

  “They’re a lovely company to play for,” said the baby. “A friend of mine has a friend who gets thirty pounds a day…. Have you arcted much for the fil-lums?”

  “Well, I’m not an actress by profession,” confessed Miss Moss. “I’m a contralto singer. But things have been so bad lately that I’ve been doing a little.”

  “It’s like that, isn’t it, dear?” said the baby.

  “I had a splendid education at the College of Music,” said Miss Moss, “and I got my silver medal for singing. I’ve often sung at West End concerts. But I thought, for a change, I’d try my luck …”

  “Yes, it’s like that, isn’t it, dear?” said the baby.

  At that moment a beautiful typist appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “Are you all waiting for the North-East call?”

  “Yes!” cried the chorus.

  “Well, it’s off. I’ve just had a ’phone through.”

  “But look here! What about our expenses?” shouted a voice.

  The typist looked down at them, and she couldn’t help laughing.

  “Oh, you weren’t to have been paid. The North-East never pay their crowds.”

  There was only a little round window at the Bitter Orange Company. No waiting-room — nobody at all except a girl, who came to the window when Miss Moss knocked, and said: “Well?”

  “Can I see the producer, please?” said Miss Moss pleasantly. The girl leaned on the window-bar, half shut her eyes and seemed to go to sleep for a moment. Miss Moss smiled at her. The girl not only frowned; she seemed to smell something vaguely unpleasant; she sniffed. Suddenly she moved away, came back with a paper and thrust it at Miss Moss.

  “Fill up the form!” said she. And banged the window down.

  “Can you aviate — high-dive — drive a car — buck-jump — shoot?” read Miss Moss. She walked along the street asking herself those questions. There was a high, cold wind blowing; it tugged at her, slapped her face, jeered; it knew she could not answer them. In the Square Gardens she found a little wire basket to drop the form into. And then she sat down on one of the benches to powder her nose. But the person in the pocket mirror made a hideous face at her, and that was too much for Miss Moss; she had a good cry. It cheered her wonderfully.

  “Well, that’s over,” she sighed. “It’s one comfort to be off my feet. And my nose will soon get cool in the air …. It’s very nice in here. Look at the sparrows. Cheep. Cheep. How close they come. I expect somebody feeds them. No, I’ve nothing for you, you cheeky little things ….” She looked away from them. What was the big building opposite — the Café de Madrid? My goodness, what a smack that little child came down! Poor little mite! Never mind — up again…. By eight o’clock tonight … Café de Madrid. “I could just go in and sit there and have a coffee, that’s all,” thought Miss Moss. “It’s such a place for artists too. I might just have a stroke of luck…. A dark handsome gentleman in a fur coat comes in with a friend, and sits at my table, perhaps. ‘No, old chap, I’ve searched London for a contralto and I can’t find a soul. You see, the music is difficult; have a look at it.’” And Miss Moss heard herself saying: “Excuse me, I happen to be a contralto, and I have sung that part many times…. Extraordinary! ‘Come back to my studio and I’ll try your voice now.’ … Ten pounds a week … Why should I feel nervous? It’s not nervousness. Why shouldn’t I go to the Café de Madrid? I’m a respectable woman — I’m a contralto singer. And I’m only trembling because I’ve had nothing to eat to-day … ‘A nice little piece of evidence, my lady.’ … Very well, Mrs Pine. Café de Madrid. They have concerts there in the evenings…. ‘Why don’t they begin?’ The contralto has not arrived…. ‘Excuse me, I happen to be a contralto; I have sung that music many times.’”

  It was almost dark in the café. Men, palms, red plush seats, white marble tables, waiters in aprons, Miss Moss walked t
hrough them all. Hardly had she sat down when a very stout gentleman wearing a very small hat that floated on the top of his head like a little yacht flopped into the chair opposite hers.

  “Good evening!” said he.

  Miss Moss said, in her cheerful way: “Good evening!”

  “Fine evening,” said the stout gentleman.

  “Yes, very fine. Quite a treat, isn’t it?” said she.

  He crooked a sausage finger at the waiter — “Bring me a large whisky” — and turned to Miss Moss. “What’s yours?”

  “Well, I think I’ll take a brandy if it’s all the same.”

  Five minutes later the stout gentleman leaned across the table and blew a puff of cigar smoke full in her face.

  “That’s a tempting bit o’ ribbon!” said he.

  Miss Moss blushed until a pulse at the top of her head that she never had felt before pounded away.

  “I always was one for pink,” said she.

  The stout gentleman considered her, drumming with her fingers the table.

  “I like ’em firm and well covered,” said he.

  Miss Moss, to her surprise, gave a loud snigger.

  Five minutes later the stout gentleman heaved himself up. “Well, am I goin’ your way, or are you comin’ mine?” he asked.

  “I’ll come with you, if it’s all the same,” said Miss Moss. And she sailed after the little yacht out of the café.

  Miss Brill

  —1920—

  Although it was so brilliantly fine — the blue sky powdered with gold and the great spots of light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques — Miss Brill was glad that she had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and again a leaf came drifting — from nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brill put up her hand and touched her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice to feel it again. She had taken it out of its box that afternoon, shaken out the moth-powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life back into the dim little eyes. “What has been happening to me?” said the sad little eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap at her again from the red eiderdown! … But the nose, which was of some black composition, wasn’t at all firm. It must have had a knock, somehow. Never mind — a little dab of black sealing-wax when the time came — when it was absolutely necessary…. Little rogue! Yes, she really felt like that about it. Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She could have taken it off and laid it on her lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from walking, she supposed. And when she breathed, something light and sad — no, not sad exactly — something gentle seemed to move in her bosom.

  There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday. And the band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the Season had begun. For although the band played all the year round on Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It was like someone playing with only the family to listen; it didn’t care how it played if there weren’t any strangers present. Wasn’t the conductor wearing a new coat, too? She was sure it was new. He scraped with his foot and flapped his arms like a rooster about to crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the green rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at the music. Now there came a little “flutey” bit — very pretty! — a little chain of bright drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her head and smiled.

  Only two people shared her “special” seat: a fine old man in a velvet coat, his hands clasped over a huge carved walking-stick, and a big old woman, sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on her embroidered apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss Brill always looked forward to the conversation. She had become really quite expert, she thought, at listening as though she didn’t listen, at sitting in other people’s lives just for a minute while they talked round her.

  She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last Sunday, too, hadn’t been as interesting as usual. An Englishman and his wife, he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and she button boots. And she’d gone on the whole time about how she ought to wear spectacles; she knew she needed them; but that it was no good getting any; they’d be sure to break and they’d never keep on. And he’d been so patient. He’d suggested everything — gold rims, the kind that curved round your ears, little pads inside the bridge. No, nothing would please her. “They’ll always be sliding down my nose!” Miss Brill had wanted to shake her.

  The old people sat on the bench, still as statues. Never mind, there was always the crowd to watch. To and fro, in front of the flower-beds and the band rotunda, the couples and groups paraded, stopped to talk, to greet, to buy a handful of flowers from the old beggar who had his tray fixed to the railings. Little children ran among them, swooping and laughing; little boys with big white silk bows under their chins; little girls, little French dolls, dressed up in velvet and lace. And sometimes a tiny staggerer came suddenly rocking into the open from under the trees, stopped, stared, as suddenly sat down “flop”, until its small high-stepping mother, like a young hen, rushed scolding to its rescue. Other people sat on the benches and green chairs, but they were nearly always the same, Sunday after Sunday, and — Miss Brill had often noticed there was something funny about nearly all of them. They were odd, silent, nearly all old, and from the way they stared they looked as though they’d just come from dark little rooms or even even cupboards!

  Behind the rotunda the slender trees with yellow leaves down drooping, and through them just a line of sea, and beyond the blue sky with gold-veined clouds.

  Tum-tum-tum tiddle-um! tiddle-um! tum tiddley-um tum ta! blew the band.

  Two young girls in red came by and two young soldiers in blue met them, and they laughed and paired and went off arm in arm. Two peasant women with funny straw hats passed, gravely, leading beautiful smoke-coloured donkeys. A cold, pale nun hurried by. A beautiful woman came along and dropped her bunch of violets, and a little boy ran after to hand them to her, and she took them and threw them away as if they’d been poisoned. Dear me! Miss Brill didn’t know whether to admire that or not! And now an ermine toque and gentleman in grey met just in front of her. He was tall, stiff, dignified, and she was wearing the ermine toque she’d bought when her hair was yellow. Now everything, her hair, her face, even her eyes, was the same colour as the shabby ermine, and her hand, in its cleaned glove, lifted to dab her lips, was a tiny yellowish paw. Oh, she was so pleased to see him — delighted! She rather thought they were going to meet that afternoon. She described where she’d been — everywhere, here, there, along by the sea. The day was so charming — didn’t he agree? And wouldn’t he, perhaps? … But he shook his head, lighted a cigarette, slowly breathed a great deep puff into her face and, even while she was still talking and laughing, flicked the match away and walked on. The ermine toque was alone; she smiled more brightly than ever. But even the band seemed to know what she was feeling and played more softly, played tenderly, and the drum beat “The Brute! The Brute!” over and over. What would she do? What was going to happen now? But as Miss Brill wondered, the ermine toque turned, raised her hand as though she’d seen someone else, much nicer, just over there, and pattered away. And the band changed again and played more quickly, more gaily than ever, and the old couple on Miss Brill’s seat got up and marched away, and such a funny old man with long whiskers hobbled along in time to the music and was nearly knocked over by four girls walking abreast.

  Oh, how fascinating it was! How she enjoyed it! How she loved sitting here, watching it all! it was like a play. It was exactly like a play. Who could believe the sky at the back wasn’t painted? But it wasn’t till a little brown dog trotted on solemnly and then slowly trotted off, like a little “theatre” dog, a little dog that had been drugged, that Miss Brill discovered what it was that made it so exciting. They were all on the stage. They weren’t only the audience, not only looking on; they were acting
. Even she had a part and came every Sunday. No doubt somebody would have noticed if she hadn’t been there; she was part of the performance, after all. How strange she’d never thought of it like that before! And yet it explained why she made such a point of starting from home at just the same time each week — so as not to be late for the performance — and it also explained why she had quite a queer, shy feeling at telling her English pupils how she spent her Sunday afternoons. No wonder! Miss Brill nearly laughed out loud. She was on the stage. She thought of the old invalid gentleman to whom she read the newspaper four afternoons a week while he slept in the garden. She had got quite used to the frail head on the cotton pillow, the hollowed eyes, the open mouth and the high pinched nose. If he’d been dead she mightn’t have noticed for weeks; she wouldn’t have minded. But suddenly he knew he was having the paper read to him by an actress! “An actress!” The old head lifted; two points of light quivered in the old eye. “An actress — are ye?” And Miss Brill smoothed the newspaper as though it were the manuscript of her part and said gently: “Yes, I have been an actress for a long time.”

  The band had been having a rest. Now they started again. And what they played was warm, sunny, yet there was just a faint chill — a something, what was it? — not sadness — no, not sadness — a something that made you want to sing. The tune lifted, lifted, the light shone; and it seemed to Miss Brill that in another moment all of them, all the whole company, would begin singing. The young ones, the laughing ones who were moving together, they would begin, and the men’s voices, very resolute and brave, would join them. And then she too, she too, and the others on the benches — they would come in with a kind of accompaniment — something low, that scarcely rose or fell, something so beautiful — moving…. And Miss Brill’s eyes filled with tears and she looked smiling at all the other members of the company. Yes, we understand, we understand, she thought — though what they understood, she didn’t know.

  Just at that moment a boy and a girl came and sat down where the old couple had been. They were beautifully dressed; they were in love. The hero and heroine, of course, just arrived from his father’s yacht. And still soundlessly singing, still with that trembling smile, Miss Brill prepared to listen.