Women Alone

by Katherine Mansfield

  “No, not now,” said the girl. “Not here, I can’t.”

  “But why? Because of that stupid old thing at the end there?” asked the boy. “Why does she come here at all — who wants her? Why doesn’t she keep her silly old mug at home?”

  “It’s her fu-fur which is so funny,” giggled the girl. “It is exactly like a fried whiting.”

  “Ah, be off with you!” said the boy in an angry whisper. Then: “Tell me, ma petite chère—”

  “No, not here,” said the girl. “Not yet.”

  —

  On her way home she usually bought a slice of honey-cake at the baker’s. It was her Sunday treat. Sometimes there was an almond in her slice, sometimes not. It made a great difference. If there was an almond it was like carrying home a tiny present — a surprise — something that might very well not have been there. She hurried on the almond Sundays and struck the match for the kettle in quite a dashing way.

  But to-day she passed the baker’s by, climbed the stairs, went into the little dark room — her room like a cupboard — and sat down on the red eiderdown. She sat there for a long time. The box that the fur came out of was on the bed. She unclasped the necklet quickly; quickly, without looking, laid it inside. But when she put the lid on she thought she heard something crying.

  The Lady’s Maid

  —1920—

  Eleven o’clock. A knock at the door.

  … I hope I haven’t disturbed you, madam. You weren’t asleep — were you? But I’ve just given my lady her tea, and there was such a nice cup over, I thought, perhaps….

  Not at all, madam. I always make a cup of tea last thing. She drinks it in bed after her prayers to warm her up. I put the kettle on when she kneels down and I say to it, “Now you needn’t be in too much of a hurry to say your prayers.” But it’s always boiling before my lady is half through. You see, madam, we know such a lot of people, and they’ve all got to be prayed for — every one. My lady keeps a list of the names in a little red book. Oh dear! whenever someone new has been to see us and my lady says afterwards, “Ellen, give me my little red book,” I feel quite wild, I do. “There’s another,” I think, “keeping her out of her bed in all weathers.” And she won’t have a cushion, you know; madam; she kneels on the hard carpet. It fidgets me something dreadful to see her, knowing her as I do. I’ve tried to cheat her; I’ve spread out the eiderdown. But the first time I did it — oh, she gave me such a look — holy it was, madam. “Did our Lord have an eiderdown, Ellen?” she said. But — I was younger at that time — I felt inclined to say, “No, but our Lord wasn’t your age, and he didn’t know what it was to have your lumbago.” Wicked — wasn’t it? But she’s too good, you know, madam. When I tucked her up just now and seen — saw her lying back, her hands outside and her head on the pillow — so pretty — I couldn’t help thinking, “Now you look just like your dear mother when I laid her out!”

  … Yes, madam, it was all left to me. Oh, she did look sweet. I did her hair, soft-like, round her forehead, all in dainty curls, and just to one side of her neck I put a bunch of most beautiful purple pansies. Those pansies made a picture of her, madam! I shall never forget them. I thought to-night, when I looked at my lady, “Now, if only the pansies was there no one could tell the difference.”

  … Only the last year, madam. Only after she’d got a little — well — feeble as you might say. Of course, she was never dangerous; she was the sweetest old lady. But how it took her was — she thought she’d lost something. She couldn’t keep still, she couldn’t settle. All day long she’d be up and down, up and down; you’d meet her everywhere — on the stairs, in the porch, making for the kitchen. And she’d look up at you, and she’d say — just like a child, “I’ve lost it; I’ve lost it.” “Come along,” I’d say, “come along, and I’ll lay out your patience for you.” But she’d catch me by the hand — I was a favourite of hers — and whisper, “Find it for me, Ellen. Find it for me.” Sad, wasn’t it?

  … No, she never recovered, madam. She had a stroke at the end. Last words she ever said was — very slow, “Look in — the — Look — in—” And then she was gone.

  … No, madam, I can’t say I noticed it. Perhaps some girls. But you see, it’s like this, I’ve got nobody but my lady. My mother died of consumption when I was four, and I lived with my grandfather, who kept a hairdresser’s shop. I used to spend all my time in the shop under a table dressing my doll’s hair — copying the assistants, I suppose. They were ever so kind to me. Used to make me little wigs, all colours, the latest fashions and all. And there I’d sit all day, quiet as quiet — the customers never knew. Only now and again I’d take my peep from under the tablecloth.

  … But one day I managed to get a pair of scissors and — would you believe it, madam? — I cut off all my hair; snipped it all off in bits, like the little monkey I was. Grandfather was furious! He caught hold of the tongs — I shall never forget it — grabbed me by the hand and shut my fingers in them. “That’ll teach you!” he said. It was a fearful burn. I’ve got the mark of it to-day.

  … Well, you see, madam, he’d taken such pride in my hair. He used to sit me up on the counter, before the customers came, and do it something beautiful — big, soft curls and waved over the top. I remember the assistants standing round, and me ever so solemn with the penny grandfather gave me to hold while it was being done…. But he always took the penny back afterwards. Poor grandfather! Wild, he was, at the fright I’d made of myself. But he frightened me that time. Do you know what I did, madam? I ran away. Yes, I did, round the corners, in and out, I don’t know how far I didn’t run. Oh, dear, I must have looked a sight, with my hand rolled up in my pinny and my hair sticking out. People must have laughed when they saw me….

  … No, madam, grandfather never got over it. He couldn’t bear the sight of me after. Couldn’t eat his dinner, even, if I was there. So my aunt took me. She was a cripple, an upholstress. Tiny! She had to stand on the sofa when she wanted to cut out the backs. And it was helping her I met my lady ….

  … Not so very, madam. I was thirteen, turned. And I don’t remember ever feeling — well — a child, as you might say. You see there was my uniform, and one thing and another. My lady put me into collars and cuffs from the first. Oh yes — once I did! That was — funny! It was like this. My lady had her two little nieces staying with her — we were at Sheldon at the time — and there was a fair on the common.

  “Now, Ellen,” she said, “I want you to take the two young ladies for a ride on the donkeys.” Off we went; solemn little loves they were; each had a hand. But when we came to the donkeys they were too shy to go on. So we stood and watched instead. Beautiful those donkeys were! They were the first I’d seen out of a cart — for pleasure, as you might say. They were a lovely silver-grey, with little red saddles and blue bridles and bells jing-a-jingling on their ears. And quite big girls — older than me, even — were riding them, ever so gay. Not at all common. I don’t mean, madam, just enjoying themselves. And I don’t know what it was, but the way the little feet went, and the eyes — so gentle — and the soft ears — made me want to go on a donkey more than anything in the world!

  … Of course, I couldn’t. I had my young ladies. And what would I have looked like perched up there in my uniform? But all the rest of the day it was donkeys — donkeys on the brain with me. I felt I should have burst if I didn’t tell someone; and who was there to tell? But when I went to bed — I was sleeping in Mrs James’s bedroom, our cook that was, at the time — as soon as the lights was out, there they were, my donkeys, jingling along, with their neat little feet and sad eyes …. Well, madam, would you believe it, I waited for a long time and pretended to be asleep, and then suddenly I sat up and called out as loud as I could, “I do want to go on a donkey. I do want a donkey-ride!” You see, I had to say it, and I thought they wouldn’t laugh at me if they knew I was only dreaming. Artful — wasn’t it? Just what a silly child would think….

  … No, madam, nev
er now. Of course, I did think of it at one time. But it wasn’t to be. He had a little flower-shop just down the road and across from where we was living. Funny — wasn’t it? And me such a one for flowers. We were having a lot of company at the time and I was in and out of the shop more often than not, as the saying is. And Harry and I (his name was Harry) got to quarrelling about how things ought to be arranged — and that began it. Flowers! you wouldn’t believe it, madam, the flowers he used to bring me. He’d stop at nothing. It was lilies-of-the-valley more than once, and I’m not exaggerating! Well, of course, we were going to be married and live over the shop, and it was all going to be just so, and I was to have the window to arrange …. Oh, how I’ve done that window of a Saturday! Not really, of course, madam, just dreaming, as you might say. I’ve done it for Christmas — motto in holly, and all — and I’ve had my Easter lilies with a gorgeous star all daffodils in the middle. I’ve hung — well, that’s enough of that. The day came he was to call for me to choose the furniture. Shall I ever forget it? It was a Tuesday. My lady wasn’t quite herself that afternoon. Not that she’d said anything, of course; she never does or will. But I knew by the way that she kept wrapping herself up and asking me if it was cold — and her little nose looked … pinched. I didn’t like leaving her; I knew I’d be worrying all the time. At last I asked her if she’d rather I put it off. “Oh no, Ellen,” she said, “you mustn’t mind about me. You mustn’t disappoint your young man.” And so cheerful, you know, madam, never thinking about herself. It made me feel worse than ever. I began to wonder … then she dropped her handkerchief and began to stoop down to pick it up herself — a thing she never did. “Whatever are you doing!” I cried, running to stop her. “Well,” she said, smiling, you know, madam, “I shall have to begin to practise.” Oh, it was all I could do not to burst out crying. I went over to the dressing-table and made believe to rub up the silver, and I couldn’t keep myself in, and I asked her if she’d rather I … didn’t get married. “No, Ellen,” she said — that was her voice, madam, like I’m giving you — “No, Ellen, not for the wide world!” But while she said it, madam — I was looking in her glass; of course, she didn’t know I could see her — she put her little hand on her heart just like her dear mother used to, and lifted her eyes…. Oh, madam!

  When Harry came I had his letters all ready, and the ring and a ducky little brooch he’d given me — a silver bird it was, with a chain in its beak, and on the end of the chain a heart with a dagger. Quite the thing! I opened the door to him. I never gave him time for a word. “There you are,” I said. “Take them all back,” I said, “it’s all over. I’m not going to marry you,” I said, “I can’t leave my lady.” White! he turned as white as a woman. I had to slam the door, and there I stood, all of a tremble, till I knew he had gone. When I opened the door — believe me or not, madam — that man was gone! I ran out into the road just as I was, in my apron and my house shoes, and there I stayed in the middle of the road … staring. People must have laughed if they saw me….

  … Goodness gracious! — What’s that? It’s the clock striking! And here I’ve been keeping you awake. Oh, madam, you ought to have stopped me…. Can I tuck in your feet? I always tuck in my lady’s feet, every night, just the same. And she says, “Good night, Ellen. Sleep sound and wake early!” I don’t know what I should do if she didn’t say that, now.

  … Oh dear, I sometimes think … whatever should I do if anything were to … But, there, thinking’s no good to anyone — is it, madam? Thinking won’t help. Not that I do it often. And if ever I do I pull myself up sharp, “Now then, Ellen. At it again — you silly girl! If you can’t find anything better to do than to start thinking …!”

  Psychology

  —1920—

  When she opened the door and saw him standing there she was more pleased than ever before, and he, too, as he followed her into the studio, seemed very very happy to have come.

  “Not busy?”

  “No. Just going to have tea.”

  “And you are not expecting anybody?”

  “Nobody at all.”

  “Ah! That’s good.”

  He laid aside his coat and hat gently, lingeringly, as though he had time and to spare for everything, or as though he were taking leave of them for ever, and came over to the fire and held out his hands to the quick, leaping flame.

  Just for a moment both of them stood silent in that leaping light. Still, as it were, they tasted on their smiling lips the sweet shock of their greeting. Their secret selves whispered:

  “Why should we speak? Isn’t this enough?”

  “More than enough. I never realised until this moment …”

  “How good it is just to be with you …”

  “Like this …”

  “It’s more than enough.”

  But suddenly he turned and looked at her and she moved quickly away.

  “Have a cigarette? I’ll put the kettle on. Are you longing for tea?”

  “No. Not longing.”

  “Well, I am.”

  “Oh, you.” He thumped the Armenian cushion and flung on to the sommier. “You’re a perfect little Chinee.”

  “Yes, I am,” she laughed. “I long for tea as strong men long for wine.”

  She lighted the lamp under its broad orange shade, pulled the curtains and drew up the tea table. Two birds sang in the kettle; the fire fluttered. He sat up clasping his knees. It was delightful — this business of having tea — and she always had delicious things to eat — little sharp sandwiches, short sweet almond fingers, and a dark, rich cake tasting of rum — but it was an interruption. He wanted it over, the table pushed away, their two chairs drawn up to the light, and the moment came when he took out his pipe, filled it, and said, pressing the tobacco tight into the bowl: “I have been thinking over what you said last time and it seems to me …”

  Yes, that was what he waited for and so did she. Yes, while she shook the teapot hot and dry over the spirit flame she saw those other two: him, leaning back, taking his ease among the cushions, and her, curled up en escargot in the blue shell armchair. The picture was so clear and so minute it might have been painted on the blue teapot lid. And yet she couldn’t hurry. She could almost have cried: “Give me time.” She must have time in which to grow calm. She wanted time in which to free herself from all these familiar things with which she lived so vividly. For all these gay things round her were part of her — her offspring — and they knew it and made the largest, most vehement claims. But now they must go. They must be swept away, shooed away — like children, sent up the shadowy stairs, packed into bed and commanded to go to sleep — at once — without a murmur!

  For the special thrilling quality of their friendship was in their complete surrender. Like two open cities in the midst of some vast plain their two minds lay open to each other. And it wasn’t as if he rode into hers like a conqueror, armed to the eyebrows and seeing nothing but a gay silken flutter — nor did she enter his like a queen walking soft on petals. No, they were eager, serious travellers, absorbed in understanding what was to be seen and discovering what was hidden — making the most of this extraordinary absolute chance which made it possible for him to be utterly truthful to her and for her to be utterly sincere with him.

  And the best of it was they were both of them old enough to enjoy their adventure to the full without any stupid emotional complication. Passion would have ruined everything; they quite saw that. Besides, all that sort of thing was over and done with for both of them — he was thirty-one, she was thirty — they had had their experiences, and very rich and varied they had been, but now was the time for harvest — harvest. Weren’t his novels to be very big novels indeed? And her plays. Who else had her exquisite sense of real English Comedy? …

  Carefully she cut the cake into thick little wads and he reached across for a piece.

  “Do realise how good it is,” she implored. “Eat it imaginatively. Roll your eyes if you can and taste it on the breath. It’s
not a sandwich from the hatter’s bag — it’s the kind of cake that might have been mentioned in the Book of Genesis … And God said: ‘Let there be cake. And there was cake. And God saw that it was good.’”

  “You needn’t entreat me,” said he. “Really you needn’t. It’s a queer thing but I always do notice what I eat here and never anywhere else. I suppose it comes of living alone so long and always reading while I feed … my habit of looking upon food as just food … something that’s there, at certain times … to be devoured … to be … not there.” He laughed. “That shocks you. Doesn’t it?”

  “To the bone,” said she.

  “But — look here —” He pushed away his cup and began to speak very fast. “I simply haven’t got any external life at all. I don’t know the names of things a bit — trees and so on — and I never notice places or furniture or what people look like. One room is just like another to me — a place to sit and read or talk in — except,” and here he paused, smiled in a strange naïve way, and said, “except this studio.” He looked round him and then at her; he laughed in his astonishment and pleasure. He was like a man who wakes up in a train to find that he has arrived, already, at the journey’s end.

  “Here’s another queer thing. If I shut my eyes I can see this place down to every detail — every detail…. Now I come to think of it — I’ve never realised this consciously before. Often when I am away from here I revisit it in spirit — wander about among your red chairs, stare at the bowl of fruit on the black table — and just touch very lightly, that marvel of a sleeping boy’s head.”

  He looked at it as he spoke. It stood on the corner of the mantelpiece; the head to one side down-drooping, the lips parted, as though in his sleep the little boy listened to some sweet sound….