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by Katherine Mansfield
He really was an impossible person. Too shy altogether. With absolutely nothing to say for himself. And such a weight. Once he was in your studio he never knew when to go, but would sit on and on until you nearly screamed, and burned to throw something enormous after him when he did finally blush his way out-something like the tortoise stove. The strange thing was that at first sight he looked most interesting. Everybody agreed about that.
You would drift into the café one evening and there you would see, sitting in a corner, with a glass of coffee in front of him, a thin dark boy, wearing a blue jersey with a little grey flannel jacket buttoned over it. And somehow that blue jersey and the grey jacket with the sleeves that were too short gave him the air of a boy that has made up his mind to run away to sea. Who has run away, in fact, and will get up in a moment and sling a knotted handkerchief containing his nightshirt and his mother’s picture on the end of a stick, and walk out into the night and be drowned. . . . Stumble over the wharf edge on his way to the ship, even. . . . He had black close-cropped hair, grey eyes with long lashes, white cheeks and a mouth pouting as though he were determined not to cry. . . . How could one resist him? Oh, one’s heart was wrung at sight. And, as if that were not enough, there was his trick of blushing. . . . Whenever the waiter came near him he turned crimson-he might have been just out of prison and the waiter in the know . . . .
“Who is he, my dear? Do you know?”
“Yes. His name is Ian French. Painter. Awfully clever, they say. Someone started by giving him a mother’s tender care. She asked him how often he heard from home, whether he had enough blankets on his bed, how much milk he drank a day. But when she went round to his studio to give an eye to his socks, she rang and rang, and though she could have sworn she heard someone breathing inside, the door was not answered. . . . Hopeless!”
Someone else decided that he ought to fall in love. She summoned him to her side, called him “boy,” leaned over him so that he might smell the enchanting perfume of her hair, took his arm, told him how marvellous life could be if one only had the courage, and went round to his studio one evening and rang and rang. . . . Hopeless.
“What the poor boy really wants is thoroughly rousing,” said a third. So off they went to café’s and cabarets, little dances, places where you drank something that tasted like tinned apricot juice, but cost twenty-seven shillings a bottle and was called champagne, other places, too thrilling for words, where you sat in the most awful gloom, and where someone had always been shot the night before. But he did not turn a hair. Only once he got very drunk, but instead of blossoming forth, there he sat, stony, with two spots of red on his cheeks, like, my dear, yes, the dead image of that rag-time thing they were playing, like a “Broken Doll.” But when she took him back to his studio he had quite recovered, and said “good night” to her in the street below, as though they had walked home from church together. . . . Hopeless.
After heaven knows how many more attempts-for the spirit of kindness dies very hard in women-they gave him up. Of course, they were still perfectly charming, and asked him to their shows, and spoke to him in the café but that was all. When one is an artist one has no time simply for people who won’t respond. Has one?
“And besides I really think there must be something rather fishy somewhere . . . don’t you? It can’t all be as innocent as it looks! Why come to Paris if you want to be a daisy in the field? No, I’m not suspicious. But –”
He lived at the top of a tall mournful building overlooking the river. One of those buildings that look so romantic on rainy nights and moonlight nights, when the shutters are shut, and the heavy door, and the sign advertising “a little apartment to let immediately” gleams forlorn beyond words. One of those buildings that smell so unromantic all the year round, and where the concierge lives in a glass cage on the ground floor, wrapped up in a filthy shawl, stirring something in a saucepan and ladling out tit-bits to the swollen old dog lolling on a bead cushion. . . . Perched up in the air the studio had a wonderful view. The two big windows faced the water; he could see the boats and the barges swinging up and down, and the fringe of an island planted with trees, like a round bouquet. The side window looked across to another house, shabbier still and smaller, and down below there was a flower market. You could see the tops of huge umbrellas, with frills of bright flowers escaping from them, booths covered with striped awning where they sold plants in boxes and clumps of wet gleaming palms in terra-cotta jars. Among the flowers the old women scuttled from side to side, like crabs. Really there was no need for him to go out. If he sat at the window until his white beard fell over the sill he still would have found something to draw . . . .
How surprised those tender women would have been if they had managed to force the door. For he kept his studio as neat as a pin. Everything was arranged to form a pattern, a little “still life” as it were-the saucepans with their lids on the wall behind the gas stove, the bowl of eggs, milk jug and teapot on the shelf, the books and the lamp with the crinkly paper shade on the table. An Indian curtain that had a fringe of red leopards marching round it covered his bed by day, and on the wall beside the bed on a level with your eyes when you were lying down there was a small neatly printed notice: GET UP AT ONCE.
Every day was much the same. While the light was good he slaved at his painting, then cooked his meals and tidied up the place. And in the evenings he went off to the café, or sat at home reading or making out the most complicated list of expenses headed: “What I ought to be able to do it on,” and ending with a sworn statement . . . “I swear not to exceed this amount for next month. Signed, Ian French.”
Nothing very fishy about this; but those far-seeing women were quite right. It wasn’t all.
One evening he was sitting at the side window eating some prunes and throwing the stones on to the tops of the huge umbrellas in the deserted flower market. It had been raining – the first real spring rain of the year had fallen-a bright spangle hung on everything, and the air smelled of buds and moist earth. Many voices sounding languid and content rang out in the dusky air, and the people who had come to close their windows and fasten the shutters leaned out instead. Down below in the market the trees were peppered with new green. What kind of trees were they? he wondered. And now came the lamplighter. He stared at the house across the way, the small, shabby house, and suddenly, as if in answer to his gaze, two wings of windows opened and a girl came out on to the tiny balcony carrying a pot of daffodils. She was a strangely thin girl in a dark pinafore, with a pink handkerchief tied over her hair. Her sleeves were rolled up almost to her shoulders and her slender arms shone against the dark stuff.
“Yes, it is quite warm enough. It will do them good,” she said, puffing down the pot and turning to someone in the room inside. As she turned she put her hands up to the handkerchief and tucked away some wisps of hair. She looked down at the deserted market and up at the sky, but where he sat there might have been a hollow in the air. She simply did not see the house opposite. And then she disappeared.
His heart fell out of the side window of his studio, and down to the balcony of the house opposite-buried itself in the pot of daffodils under the half-opened buds and spears of green. . . . That room with the balcony was the sitting-room, and the one next door to it was the kitchen. He heard the clatter of the dishes as she washed up after supper, and then she came to the window, knocked a little mop against the ledge, and hung it on a nail to dry. She never sang or unbraided her hair, or held out her arms to the moon as young girls are supposed to do. And she always wore the same dark pinafore and the pink handkerchief over her hair. . . . Whom did she live with? Nobody else came to those two windows, and yet she was always talking to someone in the room. Her mother, he decided, was an invalid. They took in sewing. The father was dead. . . . He had been a journalist-very pale, with long moustaches, and a piece of black hair falling over his forehead.
By working all day they just made enough money to live on, but they never went out and they had no friends. Now when he sat down at his table he had to make an entirely new set of sworn statements. . . . Not to go to the side window before a certain hour: signed, Ian French. Not to think about her until he had put away his painting things for the day: signed, Ian French.
It was quite simple. She was the only person he really wanted to know, because she was, he decided, the only other person alive who was just his age. He couldn’t stand giggling girls, and he had no use for grown-up women. . . . She was his age, she was-well, just like him. He sat in his dusky studio, tired, with one arm hanging over the back of his chair, staring in at her window and seeing himself in there with her. She had a violent temper; they quarrelled terribly at times, he and she. She had a way of stamping her foot and twisting her hands in her pinafore . . . furious. And she very rarely laughed. Only when she told him about an absurd little kitten she once had who used to roar and pretend to be a lion when it was given meat to eat. Things like that made her laugh. . . . But as a rule they sat together very quietly; he, just as he was sitting now, and she with her hands folded in her lap and her feet tucked under, talking in low tones, or silent and tired after the day’s work. Of course, she never asked him about his pictures, and of course he made the most wonderful drawings of her which she hated, because he made her so thin and so dark. . . . But how could he get to know her? This might go on for years . . . .
Then he discovered that once a week, in the evenings, she went out shopping. On two successive Thursdays she came to the window wearing an old-fashioned cape over the pinafore, and carrying a basket. From where he sat he could not see the door of her house, but on the next Thursday evening at the same time he snatched up his cap and ran down the stairs. There was a lovely pink light over everything. He saw it glowing in the river, and the people walking towards him had pink faces and pink hands.
He leaned against the side of his house waiting for her and he had no idea of what he was going to do or say. “Here she comes,” said a voice in his head. She walked very quickly, with small, light steps; with one hand she carried the basket, with the other she kept the cape together. . . . What could he do? He could only follow. . . . First she went into the grocer’s and spent a long time in there, and then she went into the butcher’s where she had to wait her turn. Then she was an age at the draper’s matching something, and then she went to the fruit shop and bought a lemon. As he watched her he knew more surely than ever he must get to know her, now. Her composure, her seriousness and her loneliness, the very way she walked as though she was eager to be done with this world of grown-ups all was so natural to him and so inevitable.
“Yes, she is always like that,” he thought proudly. “We have nothing to do with-these people.”
But now she was on her way home and he was as far off as ever. . . . She suddenly turned into the dairy and he saw her through the window buying an egg. She picked it out of the basket with such care-a brown one, a beautifully shaped one, the one he would have chosen. And when she came out of the dairy he went in after her. In a moment he was out again, and following her past his house across the flower market, dodging among the huge umbrellas and treading on the fallen flowers and the round marks where the pots had stood. . . . Through her door he crept, and up the stairs after, taking care to tread in time with her so that she should not notice. Finally, she stopped on the landing, and took the key out of her purse. As she put it into the door he ran up and faced her.
Blushing more crimson than ever, but looking at her severely he said, almost angrily: “Excuse me, Mademoiselle, you dropped this.”
And he handed her an egg.
by Katherine Mansfield (1888 – 1923)
From: Bliss, and other stories
A Suburban Fairy Tale
by Katherine Mansfield
Mr. and Mrs. B. sat at breakfast in the cosy red dining-room of their “snug little crib just under half-an-hour’s run from the City.”
There was a good fire in the grate—for the dining-room was the living-room as well—the two windows overlooking the cold empty garden patch were closed, and the air smelled agreeably of bacon and eggs, toast and coffee. Now that this rationing business was really over Mr. B. made a point of a thoroughly good tuck-in before facing the very real perils of the day. He didn’t mind who knew it—he was a true Englishman about his breakfast—he had to have it; he’d cave in without it, and if you told him that these Continental chaps could get through half the morning’s work he did on a roll and a cup of coffee—you simply didn’t know what you were talking about.
Mr. B. was a stout youngish man who hadn’t been able—worse luck—to chuck his job and join the Army; he’d tried for four years to get another chap to take his place but it was no go. He sat at the head of the table reading the Daily Mail. Mrs. B. was a youngish plump little body, rather like a pigeon. She sat opposite, preening herself behind the coffee set and keeping an eye of warning love on little B. who perched between them, swathed in a napkin and tapping the top of a soft-boiled egg.
Alas! Little B. was not at all the child that such parents had every right to expect. He was no fat little trot, no dumpling, no firm little pudding. He was under-sized for his age, with legs like macaroni, tiny claws, soft, soft hair that felt like mouse fur, and big wide-open eyes. For some strange reason everything in life seemed the wrong size for Little B.—too big and too violent. Everything knocked him over, took the wind out of his feeble sails and left him gasping and frightened. Mr. and Mrs. B. were quite powerless to prevent this; they could only pick him up after the mischief was done—and try to set him going again. And Mrs. B. loved him as only weak children are loved—and when Mr. B. thought what a marvellous little chap he was too—thought of the spunk of the little man, he—well he—by George—he …
“Why aren’t there two kinds of eggs?” said Little B. “Why aren’t there little eggs for children and big eggs like what this one is for grown-ups?”
“Scotch hares,” said Mr. B. “Fine Scotch hares for 5s. 3d. How about getting one, old girl?”
“It would be a nice change, wouldn’t it?” said Mrs. B. “Jugged.”
And they looked across at each other and there floated between them the Scotch hare in its rich gravy with stuffing balls and a white pot of red-currant jelly accompanying it.
“We might have had it for the week-end,” said Mrs. B. “But the butcher has promised me a nice little sirloin and it seems a pity”… Yes, it did and yet … Dear me, it was very difficult to decide. The hare would have been such a change—on the other hand, could you beat a really nice little sirloin?
“There’s hare soup, too,” said Mr. B. drumming his fingers on the table. “Best soup in the world!”
“O-Oh!” cried Little B. so suddenly and sharply that it gave them quite a start—“Look at the whole lot of sparrows flown on to our lawn”—he waved his spoon. “Look at them,” he cried. “Look!” And while he spoke, even though the windows were closed, they heard a loud shrill cheeping and chirping from the garden.
“Get on with your breakfast like a good boy, do,” said his mother, and his father said, “You stick to the egg, old man, and look sharp about it.”
“But look at them—look at them all hopping,” he cried. “They don’t keep still not for a minute. Do you think they’re hungry, father?”
Cheek-a-cheep-cheep-cheek! cried the sparrows.
“Best postpone it perhaps till next week,” said Mr. B., “and trust to luck they’re still to be had then.”
“Yes, perhaps that would be wiser,” said Mrs. B.
Mr. B. picked another plum out of his paper.
“Have you bought any of those controlled dates yet?”
“I managed to get two pounds yesterday,” said Mrs. B.
“Well a date pudding’s a good thing,” said Mr. B. And they looked across at each other and there floated between them a dark round pudding covered with creamy sauce. “It would be a nice change, wouldn’t it?” said Mrs. B.
Outside on the grey frozen grass the funny eager sparrows hopped and fluttered. They were never for a moment still. They cried, flapped their ungainly wings. Little B., his egg finished, got down, took his bread and marmalade to eat at the window.
“Do let us give them some crumbs,” he said. “Do open the window, father, and throw them something. Father, please!”
“Oh, don’t nag, child,” said Mrs. B., and his father said—“Can’t go opening windows, old man. You’d get your head bitten off.”
“But they’re hungry,” cried Little B., and the sparrows’ little voices were like ringing of little knives being sharpened. Cheek-a-cheep-cheep-cheek! they cried.
Little B. dropped his bread and marmalade inside the china flower pot in front of the window. He slipped behind the thick curtains to see better, and Mr. and Mrs. B. went on reading about what you could get now without coupons—no more ration books after May—a glut of cheese—a glut of it—whole cheeses revolved in the air between them like celestial bodies.
Suddenly as Little B. watched the sparrows on the grey frozen grass, they grew, they changed, still flapping and squeaking. They turned into tiny little boys, in brown coats, dancing, jigging outside, up and down outside the window squeaking, “Want something to eat, want something to eat!” Little B. held with both hands to the curtain. “Father,” he whispered, “Father! They’re not sparrows. They’re little boys. Listen, Father!” But Mr. and Mrs. B. would not hear. He tried again. “Mother,” he whispered. “Look at the little boys. They’re not sparrows, Mother!” But nobody noticed his nonsense.
“All this talk about famine,” cried Mr. B., “all a Fake, all a Blind.”
With white shining faces, their arms flapping in the big coats, the little boys danced. “Want something to eat—want something to eat.”
“Father,” muttered Little B. “Listen, Father! Mother, listen, please!”
“Really!” said Mrs. B. “The noise those birds are making! I’ve never heard such a thing.”
“Fetch me my shoes, old man,” said Mr. B.
Cheek-a-cheep-cheep-cheek! said the sparrows.
Now where had that child got to? “Come and finish your nice cocoa, my pet,” said Mrs. B.
Mr. B. lifted the heavy cloth and whispered, “Come on, Rover,” but no little dog was there.
“He’s behind the curtain,” said Mrs. B.
“He never went out of the room,” said Mr. B.
Mrs. B. went over to the window, and Mr. B. followed. And they looked out. There on the grey frozen grass, with a white white face, the little boy’s thin arms flapping like wings, in front of them all, the smallest, tiniest was Little B. Mr. and Mrs. B. heard his voice above all the voices, “Want something to eat, want something to eat.”
Somehow, somehow, they opened the window. “You shall! All of you. Come in at once. Old man! Little man!”
But it was too late. The little boys were changed into sparrows again, and away they flew—out of sight—out of call.
A Suburban Fairy Tale (1917)
by Katherine Mansfield (1888 – 1923)
From: Something Childish and Other Stories
The Man Without a Temperament
by Katherine Mansfield
He stood at the hall door turning the ring, turning the heavy signet ring upon his little finger while his glance travelled coolly, deliberately, over the round tables and basket chairs scattered about the glassed-in veranda. He pursed his lips-he might have been going to whistle-but he did not whistle-only turned the ring-turned the ring on his pink, freshly washed hands.
Over in the corner sat The Two Topknots, drinking a decoction they always drank at this hour-something whitish, greyish, in glasses, with little husks floating on the top-and rooting in a tin full of paper shavings for pieces of speckled biscuit, which they broke, dropped into the glasses and fished for with spoons. Their two coils of knitting, like two snakes, slumbered beside the tray.
The American Woman sat where she always sat against the glass wall, in the shadow of a great creeping thing with wide open purple eyes that pressed-that flattened itself against the glass, hungrily watching her. And she knoo it was there-she knoo it was looking at her just that way. She played up to it; she gave herself little airs. Sometimes she even pointed at it, crying: “Isn’t that the most terrible thing you’ve ever seen! Isn’t that ghoulish!” It was on the other side of the veranda, after all . . . and besides it couldn’t touch her, could it, Klaymongso? She was an American Woman, wasn’t she, Klaymongso, and she’d just go right away to her Consul. Klaymongso, curled in her lap, with her torn antique brocade bag, a grubby handkerchief, and a pile of letters from home on top of him, sneezed for reply.
The other tables were empty. A glance passed between the American and the Topknots. She gave a foreign little shrug; they waved an understanding biscuit. But he saw nothing. Now he was still, now from his eyes you saw he listened. “Hoo-e-zip-zoo-oo!” sounded the lift. The iron cage clanged open. Light dragging steps sounded across the hall, coming towards him. A hand, like a leaf, fell on his shoulder. A soft voice said: “Let’s go and sit over there-where we can see the drive. The trees are so lovely.” And he moved forward with the hand still on his shoulder, and the light, dragging steps beside his. He pulled out a chair and she sank into it, slowly, leaning her head against the back, her arms falling along the sides.
“Won’t you bring the other up closer? It’s such miles away.” But he did not move.
“Where’s your shawl?” he asked.
“Oh!” She gave a little groan of dismay. “How silly I am, I’ve left it upstairs on the bed. Never mind. Please don’t go for it. I shan’t want it, I know I shan’t.”
“You’d better have it.” And he turned and swiftly crossed the veranda into the dim hall with its scarlet plush and gilt furniture-conjuror’s furniture-its Notice of Services at the English Church, its green baize board with the unclaimed letters climbing the black lattice, huge “Presentation” clock that struck the hours at the half-hours, bundles of sticks and umbrellas and sunshades in the clasp of a brown wooden bear, past the two crippled palms, two ancient beggars at the foot of the staircase, up the marble stairs three at a time, past the life-size group on the landing of two stout peasant children with their marble pinnies full of marble grapes, and along the corridor, with its piled-up wreckage of old tin boxes, leather trunks, canvas holdalls, to their room.
The servant girl was in their room, singing loudly while she emptied soapy water into a pail. The windows were open wide, the shutters put back, and the light glared in. She had thrown the carpets and the big white pillows over the balcony rails; the nets were looped up from the beds; on the writing-table there stood a pan of fluff and match-ends. When she saw him her small, impudent eyes snapped and her singing changed to humming. But he gave no sign. His eyes searched the glaring room. Where the devil was the shawl!
“Vous desirez, Monsieur? “ mocked the servant girl.
No answer. He had seen it. He strode across the room, grabbed the grey cobweb and went out, banging the door. The servant girl’s voice at its loudest and shrillest followed him along the corridor.
“Oh, there you are. What happened? What kept you? The tea’s here, you see. I’ve just sent Antonio off for the hot water. Isn’t it extraordinary? I must have told him about it sixty times at least, and still he doesn’t bring it. Thank you. That’s very nice. One does just feel the air when one bends forward.”
“Thanks.” He took his tea and sat down in the other chair. “No, nothing to eat.”
“Oh do! Just one, you had so little at lunch and it’s hours before dinner.”
Her shawl dropped off as she bent forward to hand him the biscuits. He took one and put it in his saucer.
“Oh, those trees along the drive,” she cried. “I could look at them for ever. They are like the most exquisite huge ferns. And you see that one with the grey-silver bark and the clusters of cream-coloured flowers, I pulled down a head of them yesterday to smell, and the scent”-she shut her eyes at the memory and her voice thinned away, faint, airy–“was like freshly ground nutmegs.” A little pause. She turned to him and smiled. “You do know what nutmegs smell like-do you Robert?”
And he smiled back at her. “Now how am I going to prove to you that I do?”
Back came Antonio with not only the hot water-with letters on a salver and three rolls of paper.
“Oh, the post! Oh, how lovely! Oh, Robert, they mustn’t be all for you! Have they just come, Antonio?” Her thin hands flew up and hovered over the letters that Antonio offered her, bending forward.
“Just this moment, Signora,” grinned Antonio. “I took-a them from the postman myself. I made-a the postman give them for me.”
“Noble Antonio!” laughed she. “There-those are mine, Robert; the rest are yours.”
Antonio wheeled sharply, stiffened, the grin went out of his face. His striped linen jacket and his flat gleaming fringe made him look like a wooden doll.
Mr. Salesby put the letters into his pocket; the papers lay on the table. He turned the ring, turned the signet ring on his little finger and stared in front of him, blinking, vacant.
But she-with her teacup in one hand, the sheets of thin paper in the other, her head tilted back, her lips open, a brush of bright colour on her cheek-bones, sipped, sipped, drank . . . drank.
“From Lottie,” came her soft murmur. “Poor dear . . . such trouble . . . left foot. She thought . . . neuritis . . . Doctor Blyth . . . flat foot . . . massage. So many robins this year . . . maid most satisfactory . . . Indian Colonel . . . every grain of rice separate . . . very heavy fall of snow.” And her wide lighted eyes looked up from the letter. “Snow, Robert! Think of it!” And she touched the little dark violets pinned on her thin bosom and went back to the letter.
. . . Snow. Snow in London. Millie with the early morning cup of tea. “There’s been a terrible fall of snow in the night, sir.” “Oh, has there, Millie?” The curtains ring apart, letting in the pale, reluctant light. He raises himself in the bed; he catches a glimpse of the solid houses opposite framed in white, of their window boxes full of great sprays of white coral . . . . In the bathroom-overlooking the back garden. Snow-heavy snow over everything. The lawn is covered with a wavy pattern of cat’s -paws; there is a thick, thick icing on the garden table; the withered pods of the laburnum tree are white tassels; only here and there in the ivy is a dark leaf showing. . . . Warming his back at the dining-room fire, the paper drying over a chair. Millie with the bacon. “Oh, if you please, Sir, there’s two little boys come as will do the steps and front for a shilling, shall I let them?” . . . And then flying lightly, lightly down the stairs–Jinnie. “Oh, Robert, isn’t it wonderful! Oh, what a pity it has to melt. Where’s the pussy-wee?” “I’ll get him from Millie.” . . . “Millie, you might just hand me up the kitten if you’ve got him down there.” “Very good, sir.” He feels the little beating heart under his hand. “Come on, old chap, your missus wants you.” “Oh, Robert, do show him the snow-his first snow. Shall I open the window and give him a little piece on his paw to hold? . . . ”
“Well, that’s very satisfactory on the whole-very. Poor Lottie! Darling Anne! How I only wish I could send them something of this,” she cried, waving her letters at the brilliant, dazzling garden. “More tea, Robert? Robert dear, more tea?”
“No, thanks, no. It was very good,” he drawled.
“Well, mine wasn’t. Mine was just like chopped hay. Oh, here comes the Honeymoon Couple.”
Half striding, half running, carrying a basket between them and rods and lines, they came up the drive, up the shallow steps.
“My! have you been out fishing?” cried the American Woman. They were out of breath, they panted: “Yes, yes, we have been out in a little boat all day. We have caught seven. Four are good to eat. But three we shall give away. To the children.”
Mrs. Salesby turned her chair to look; the Topknots laid the snakes down. They were a very dark young couple-black hair, olive skin, brilliant eyes and teeth. He was dressed “English fashion” in a flannel jacket, white trousers and shoes. Round his neck he wore a silk scarf; his head, with his hair brushed back, was bare. And he kept mopping his forehead, rubbing his hands with a brilliant handkerchief. Her white skirt had a patch of wet; her neck and throat were stained a deep pink. When she lifted her arms big half-hoops of perspiration showed under her arm-pits; her hair clung in wet curls to her cheeks. She looked as though her young husband had been dipping her in the sea and fishing her out again to dry in the sun and then-in with her again-all day.
“Would Klaymongso like a fish?” they cried. Their laughing voices charged with excitement beat against the glassed-in veranda like birds and a strange, saltish smell came from the basket.
“You will sleep well tonight,” said a Topknot, picking her ear with a knitting needle while the other Topknot smiled and nodded.
The Honeymoon Couple looked at each other. A great wave seemed to go over them. They gasped, gulped, staggered a little and then came up laughing-laughing.
“We cannot go upstairs, we are too tired. We must have tea just as we are. Here-coffee. No-tea. No-coffee. Tea-coffee, Antonio!” Mrs. Salesby turned.
“Robert! Robert!” Where was he? He wasn’t there. Oh, there he was at the other end of the veranda, with his back turned, smoking a cigarette. “Robert, shall we go for our little turn?”
“Right.” He stumped the cigarette into an ash-tray and sauntered over, his eyes on the ground. “Will you be warm enough?”
“Well,” she put her hand on his arm, “perhaps”-and gave his arm the faintest pressure–“it’s not upstairs, it’s only in the hall-perhaps you’d get me my cape. Hanging up.”
He came back with it and she bent her small head while he dropped it on her shoulders. Then, very stiff, he offered her his arm. She bowed sweetly to the people of the veranda while he just covered a yawn, and they went down the steps together.
“Vous avez voo ca! “ said the American Woman.
“He is not a man,” said the Two Topknots, “he is an ox. I say to my sister in the morning and at night when we are in bed, I tell her–No man is he, but an ox!”
Wheeling, tumbling, swooping, the laughter of the Honeymoon Couple dashed against the glass of the veranda.
The sun was still high. Every leaf, every flower in the garden lay open, motionless, as if exhausted, and a sweet, rich, rank smell filled the quivering air. Out of the thick, fleshy leaves of a cactus there rose an aloe stem loaded with pale flowers that looked as though they had been cut out of butter; light flashed upon the lifted spears of the palms; over a bed of scarlet waxen flowers some black insects “zoom-zoomed”; a great, gaudy creeper, orange splashed with jet, sprawled against the wall.
“I don’t need my cape after all,” said she. “It’s really too warm.” So he took it off and carried it over his arm. “Let us go down this path here. I feel so well today-marvellously better. Good heavens-look at those children! And to think it’s November!”
In a corner of the garden there were two brimming tubs of water. Three little girls, having thoughtfully taken off their drawers and hung them on a bush, their skirts clasped to their waists, were standing in the tubs and tramping up and down. They screamed, their hair fell over their faces, they splashed one another. But suddenly, the smallest, who had a tub to herself, glanced up and saw who was looking. For a moment she seemed overcome with terror, then clumsily she struggled and strained out of her tub, and still holding her clothes above her waist, “The Englishman! The Englishman!” she shrieked and fled away to hide. Shrieking and screaming the other two followed her. In a moment they were gone; in a moment there was nothing but the two brimming tubs and their little drawers on the bush.
“How-very-extraordinary!” said she. “What made them so frightened? Surely they were much too young to . . . “ She looked up at him. She thought he looked pale-but wonderfully handsome with that great tropical tree behind him with its long, spiked thorns.
For a moment he did not answer. Then he met her glance, and smiling his slow smile, ”Très rum!” said he.
Très rum! Oh, she felt quite faint. Oh, why should she love him so much just because he said a thing like that. Très rum! That was Robert all over. Nobody else but Robert could ever say such a thing. To be so wonderful, so brilliant, so learned, and then to say in that queer, boyish voice . . . She could have wept.
“You know you’re very absurd, sometimes,” said she.
“I am,” he answered. And they walked on.
But she was tired. She had had enough. She did not want to walk any more.
“Leave me here and go for a little constitutional, won’t you? I’ll be in one of these long chairs. What a good thing you’ve got my cape; you won’t have to go upstairs for a rug. Thank you, Robert, I shall look at that delicious heliotrope. . . . You won’t be gone long?”
“No-no. You don’t mind being left?”
“Silly! I want you to go. I can’t expect you to drag after your invalid wife every minute . . . . How long will you be?”
He took out his watch. “It’s just after half-past four. I’ll be back at a quarter-past five.”
“Back at a quarter-past five,” she repeated, and she lay still in the long chair and folded her hands.
He turned away. Suddenly he was back again. “Look here, would you like my watch?” And he dangled it before her.
“Oh!” She caught her breath. “Very, very much.” And she clasped the watch, the warm watch, the darling watch in her fingers. “Now go quickly.”
The gates of the Pension Villa Excelsior were open wide, jammed open against some bold geraniums. Stooping a little, staring straight ahead, walking swiftly, he passed through them and began climbing the hill that wound behind the town like a great rope looping the villas together. The dust lay thick. A carriage came bowling along driving towards the Excelsior. In it sat the General and the Countess; they had been for his daily airing. Mr. Salesby stepped to one side but the dust beat up, thick, white, stifling like wool. The Countess just had time to nudge the General.
“There he goes,” she said spitefully.
But the General gave a loud caw and refused to look.
“It is the Englishman,” said the driver, turning round and smiling. And the Countess threw up her hands and nodded so amiably that he spat with satisfaction and gave the stumbling horse a cut.
On-on-past the finest villas in the town, magnificent palaces, palaces worth coming any distance to see, past the public gardens with the carved grottoes and statues and stone animals drinking at the fountain, into a poorer quarter. Here the road ran narrow and foul between high lean houses, the ground floors of which were scooped and hollowed into stables and carpenters’ shops. At a fountain ahead of him two old hags were beating linen. As he passed them they squatted back on their haunches, stared, and then their “A-hak-kak-kak!” with the slap, slap, of the stone on the linen sounded after him.
He reached the top of the hill; he turned a corner and the town was hidden. Down he looked into a deep valley with a dried-up river bed at the bottom. This side and that was covered with small dilapidated houses that had broken stone verandas where the fruit lay drying, tomato lanes in the garden and from the gates to the doors a trellis of vines. The late sunlight, deep, golden, lay in the cup of the valley; there was a smell of charcoal in the air. In the gardens the men were cutting grapes. He watched a man standing in the greenish shade, raising up, holding a black cluster in one hand, taking the knife from his belt, cutting, laying the bunch in a flat boat-shaped basket. The man worked leisurely, silently, taking hundreds of years over the job. On the hedges on the other side of the road there were grapes small as berries, growing among the stones. He leaned against a wall, filled his pipe, put a match to it . . . .
Leaned across a gate, turned up the collar of his mackintosh. It was going to rain. It didn’t matter, he was prepared for it. You didn’t expect anything else in November. He looked over the bare field. From the corner by the gate there came the smell of swedes, a great stack of them, wet, rank coloured. Two men passed walking towards the straggling village. “Good day!” “Good day!” By Jove! he had to hurry if he was going to catch that train home. Over the gate, across a field, over the stile, into the lane, swinging along in the drifting rain and dusk . . . . Just home in time for a bath and a change before supper. . . . In the drawing-room; Jinnie is sitting pretty nearly in the fire. “Oh, Robert, I didn’t hear you come in. Did you have a good time? How nice you smell! A present?” “Some bits of blackberry I picked for you. Pretty colour.” “Oh, lovely, Robert! Dennis and Beaty are coming to supper.” Supper-cold beef, potatoes in their jackets, claret, household bread. They are gay– everybody’s laughing. “Oh, we all know Robert,” says Dennis, breathing on his eyeglasses and polishing them. “By the way, Dennis, I picked up a very jolly little edition of . . . ”
A clock struck. He wheeled sharply. What time was it. Five? A quarter past? Back, back the way he came. As he passed through the gates he saw her on the look-out. She got up, waved and slowly she came to meet him, dragging the heavy cape. In her hand she carried a spray of heliotrope.
“You’re late,” she cried gaily. “You’re three minutes late. Here’s your watch, it’s been very good while you were away. Did you have a nice time? Was it lovely? Tell me. Where did you go?”
“I say-put this on,” he said, taking the cape from her. “Yes, I will. Yes, it’s getting chilly. Shall we go up to our room?”
When they reached the lift she was coughing. He frowned.
“It’s nothing. I haven’s been out too late. Don’t be cross.” She sat down on one of the red plush chairs while he rang and rang, and then, getting no answer, kept his finger on the bell.
“Oh, Robert, do you think you ought to?”
“Ought to what?”
The door of the salon opened. “What is that? Who is making that noise?” sounded from within. Klaymongso began to yelp. “Caw! Caw! Caw!” came from the General. A Topknot darted out with one hand to her ear, opened the staff door, “Mr. Queet! Mr. Queet!” she bawled. That brought the manager up at a run.
“Is that you ringing the bell, Mr. Salesby? Do you want the lift? Very good, sir. I’ll take you up myself. Antonio wouldn’t have been a minute, he was just taking off his apron–” And having ushered them in, the oily manager went to the door of the salon. “Very sorry you should have been troubled, ladies and gentlemen.” Salesby stood in the cage, sucking in his cheeks, staring at the ceiling and turning the ring, turning the signet ring on his little finger . . . .
Arrived in their room he went swiftly over to the washstand, shook the bottle, poured her out a dose and brought it across.
“Sit down. Drink it. And don’t talk.” And he stood over her while she obeyed. Then he took the glass, rinsed it and put it back in its case. “Would you like a cushion?”
“No, I’m quite all right, come over here. Sit down by me just a minute, will you, Robert? Ah, that’s very nice.” She turned and thrust the piece of heliotrope in the lapel of his coat. “That,” she said, “is most becoming.” And then she leaned her head against his shoulder and he put his arm round her.
“Robert–” her voice like a sigh-like a breath.
They sat there for a long while. The sky flamed, paled; the two white beds were like two ships . . . . At last he heard the servant girl running along the corridor with the hot-water cans, and gently he released her and turned on the light.
“Oh, what time is it? Oh, what a heavenly evening. Oh, Robert, I was thinking while you were away this afternoon . . . “
They were the last couple to enter the dining-room. The Countess was there with her lorgnette and her fan, the General was there with his special chair and the air cushion and the small rug over his knees. The American Woman was there showing Klaymongso a copy of the Saturday Evening Post . . . “We’re having a feast of reason and a flow of soul.” The Two Topknots were there feeling over the peaches and the pears in their dish of fruit and putting aside all they considered unripe or overripe to show to the manager, and the Honeymoon Couple leaned across the table, whispering, trying not to burst out laughing.
Mr. Queet, in everyday clothes and white canvas shoes, served the soup, and Antonio, in full evening dress, handed it round.
“No,” said the American Woman, “take it away, Antonio. We can’t eat soup. We can’t eat anything mushy, can we, Klaymongso?”
“Take them back and fill them to the rim!” said the Topknots, and they turned and watched while Antonio delivered the message.
“What is it? Rice? Is it cooked?” The Countess peered through her lorgnette. “Mr. Queet, the General can have some of this soup if it is cooked.”
“Very good, Countess.”
The Honeymoon Couple had their fish instead.
“Give me that one. That’s the one I caught. No, it’s not. Yes, it is. No, it’s not. Well, it’s looking at me with its eye, so it must be. Tee! Hee! Hee!” Their feet were locked together under the table.
“Robert, you’re not eating again. Is anything the matter?”
“No. Off food, that’s all.”
“Oh, what a bother. There are eggs and spinach coming. You don’t like spinach, do you. I must tell them in future . . . “
An egg and mashed potatoes for the General.
“Mr. Queet! Mr. Queet!”
“The General’s egg’s too hard again.”
“Caw! Caw! Caw!”
“Very sorry, Countess. Shall I have you another cooked, General?”
. . . They are the first to leave the dining-room. She rises, gathering her shawl and he stands aside, waiting for her to pass, turning the ring, turning the signet ring on his little finger. In the hall Mr. Queet hovers. “I thought you might not want to wait for the lift. Antonio’s just serving the finger bowls. And I’m sorry the bell won’t ring, it’s out of order. I can’t think what’s happened.”
“Oh, I do hope . . . “ from her.
“Get in,” says he.
Mr. Queet steps after them and slams the door . . . .
. . . “Robert, do you mind if I go to bed very soon? Won’t you go down to the salon or out into the garden? Or perhaps you might smoke a cigar on the balcony. It’s lovely out there. And I like cigar smoke. I always did. But if you’d rather . . . ”
“No, I’ll sit here.”
He takes a chair and sits on the balcony. He hears her moving about in the room, lightly, lightly, moving and rustling. Then she comes over to him. “Good night, Robert.”
“Good night.” He takes her hand and kisses the palm. “Don’t catch cold.”
The sky is the colour of jade. There are a great many stars; an enormous white moon hangs over the garden. Far away lightning flutters-flutters like a wing-flutters like a broken bird that tries to fly and sinks again and again struggles.
The lights from the salon shine across the garden path and there is the sound of a piano. And once the American Woman, opening the French window to let Klaymongso into the garden, cries: “Have you seen this moon?” But nobody answers.
He gets very cold sitting there, staring at the balcony rail. Finally he comes inside. The moon-the room is painted white with moonlight. The light trembles in the mirrors; the two beds seem to float. She is asleep. He sees her through the nets, half sitting, banked up with pillows, her white hands crossed on the sheet, her white cheeks, her fair hair pressed against the pillow, are silvered over. He undresses quickly, stealthily and gets into bed. Lying there, his hands clasped behind his head . . .
. . . In his study. Late summer. The virginia creeper just on the turn . . . .
“Well, my dear chap, that’s the whole story. That’s the long and the short of it. If she can’t cut away for the next two years and give a decent climate a chance she don’t stand a dog’s -h’m-show. Better be frank about these things.” “Oh, certainly . . . . “ “And hang it all, old man, what’s to prevent you going with her? It isn’t as though you’ve got a regular job like us wage earners. You can do what you do wherever you are–” “Two years.” “Yes, I should give it two years. You’ll have no trouble about letting this house, you know. As a matter of fact . . . ”
. . . He is with her. “Robert, the awful thing is–I suppose it’s my illness–I simply feel I could not go alone. You see-you’re everything. You’re bread and wine, Robert, bread and wine. Oh, my darling-what am I saying? Of course I could, of course I won’t take you away. . . . ”
He hears her stirring. Does she want something?
Good Lord! She is talking in her sleep. They haven’t used that name for years.
“Boogles. Are you awake?”
“Yes, do you want anything?”
“Oh, I’m going to be a bother. I’m so sorry. Do you mind? There’s a wretched mosquito inside my net–I can hear him singing. Would you catch him? I don’t want to move because of my heart.”
“No, don’t move. Stay where you are.” He switches on the light, lifts the net. “Where is the little beggar? Have you spotted him?”
“Yes, there, over by the corner. Oh, I do feel such a fiend to have dragged you out of bed. Do you mind dreadfully?”
“No, of course not.” For a moment he hovers in his blue and white pyjamas. Then, “got him,” he said.
“Oh, good. Was he a juicy one?”
“Beastly.” He went over to the washstand and dipped his fingers in water. “Are you all right now? Shall I switch off the light?”
“Yes, please. No. Boogles! Come back here a moment. Sit down by me. Give me your hand.” She turns his signet ring. “Why weren’t you asleep? Boogles, listen. Come closer. I sometimes wonder-do you mind awfully being out here with me?”
He bends down. He kisses her. He tucks her in, he smooths the pillow.
“Rot!” he whispers.
The Man Without a Temperament
by Katherine Mansfield (1888 – 1923)
From: Bliss, and other stories
The Wrong House
by Katherine Mansfield
“Two purl—two plain—woolinfrontoftheneedle—and knit two together.” Like an old song, like a song that she had sung so often that only to breathe was to sing it, she murmured the knitting pattern. Another vest was nearly finished for the mission parcel.
“It’s your vests, Mrs. Bean, that are so acceptable. Look at these poor little mites without a shred!” And the churchwoman showed her a photograph of repulsive little black objects with bellies shaped like lemons…
“Two purl—two plain.” Down dropped the knitting on to her lap; she gave a great long sigh, stared in front of her for a moment and then picked the knitting up and began again. What did she think about when she sighed like that? Nothing. It was a habit. She was always sighing. On the stairs, particularly, as she went up and down, she stopped, holding her dress up with one hand, the other hand on the bannister, staring at the steps—sighing.
“Woolinfrontoftheneedle …” She sat at the dining-room window facing the street. It was a bitter autumn day; the wind ran in the street like a thin dog; the houses opposite looked as though they had been cut out with a pair of ugly steel scissors and pasted on to the grey paper sky. There was not a soul to be seen.
“Knit two together!” The clock struck three. Only three? It seemed dusk already; dusk came floating into the room, heavy, powdery dusk settling on the furniture, filming over the mirror. Now the kitchen clock struck three—two minutes late—for this was the clock to go by and not the kitchen clock. She was alone in the house. Dollicas was out shopping; she had been gone since a quarter to two. Really, she got slower and slower! What did she do with the time? One cannot spend more than a certain time buying a chicken … And oh, that habit of hers of dropping the stove-rings when she made up the fire! And she set her lips, as she had set her lips for the past thirty-five years, at that habit of Dollicas’.
There came a faint noise from the street, a noise of horses’ hooves. She leaned further out to see. Good gracious! It was a funeral. First the glass coach, rolling along briskly with the gleaming, varnished coffin inside (but no wreaths), with three men in front and two page 235 standing at the back, then some carriages, some with black horses, some with brown. The dust came bowling up the road, half hiding the procession. She scanned the houses opposite to see which had the blinds down. What horrible looking men, too! laughing and joking. One leaned over to one side and blew his nose with his black glove— horrible! She gathered up the knitting, hiding her hands in it. Dollicas surely would have known … There, they were passing … It was the other end …
What was this? What was happening? What could it mean? Help, God! Her old heart leaped like a fish and then fell as the glass coach drew up outside her door, as the outside men scrambled down from the front, swung off the back, and the tallest of them, with a glance of surprise at the windows, came quickly, stealthily, up the garden path.
“No!” she groaned. But yes, the blow fell, and for the moment it struck her down. She gasped, a great cold shiver went through her, and stayed in her hands and knees. She saw the man withdraw a step and again—that puzzled glance at the blinds—then—
“No!” she groaned, and stumbling, catching hold of things, she managed to get to the door before the blow fell again. She opened it, her chin trembled, her teeth clacked; somehow or other she brought out, “The wrong house!”
Oh! he was shocked. As she stepped back she saw behind him the black hats clustered at the gate. “The wrong’ ouse!” he muttered. She could only nod. She was shutting the door again when he fished out of the tail of his coat a black, brass-bound notebook and swiftly opened it. “No. 20 Shuttleworth Crescent?”
“S—street! Crescent round the corner.” Her hand lifted to point, but shook and fell.
He was taking off his hat as she shut the door and leaned against it, whimpering in the dusky hall, “Go away! Go away!”
Clockety-clock-clock. Cluk! Cluk! Clockety-clock-cluk! sounded from outside, and then a faint Cluk! Cluk! and then silence. They were gone. They were out of sight. But still she stayed leaning against the door, staring into the hall, staring at the hall-stand that was like a great lobster with hat-pegs for feelers. But she thought of nothing; she did not even think of what had happened. It was as if she had fallen into a cave whose walls were darkness …
She came to herself with a deep inward shock, hearing the gate bang and quick, short steps crunching the gravel; it was Dollicas hurrying round to the back door. Dollicas must not find her there; and wavering, wavering like a candle-flame, back she went into the dining-room to her seat by the window.
Dollicas was in the kitchen. Klang! went one of the iron rings into the fender. Then her voice, “I’m just putting on the teakettle’m.” Since they had been alone she had got into the way of shouting from one room to another. The old woman coughed to steady herself. “Please bring in the lamp,” she cried.
“The lamp!” Dollicas came across the passage and stood in the doorway. “Why, it’s only just on four’ m.”
“Never mind,” said Mrs. Bean dully.
“Bring it in!” And a moment later the elderly maid appeared, carrying the gentle lamp in both hands. Her broad soft face had the look it always had when she carried anything, as though she walked in her sleep. She set it down on the table, lowered the wick, raised it, and then lowered it again. Then she straightened up and looked across at her mistress.
“Why, ‘m, whatever’s that you’re treading on?”
It was the mission vest.
“T’t! T’t!” As Dollicas picked it up she thought, “The old lady has been asleep. She’s not awake yet.” Indeed the old lady looked glazed and dazed, and when she took up the knitting she drew out a needle of stitches and began to unwind what she had done.
“Don’t forget the mace,” she said. Her voice sounded thin and dry. She was thinking of the chicken for that night’s supper. And Dollicas understood and answered, “It’s a lovely young bird!”‘as she pulled down the blind before going back to her kitchen …
The Wrong House (1919)
by Katherine Mansfield (1888 – 1923)
From: Something Childish and Other Stories
by Katherine Mansfield
The post was very late. When we came back from our walk after lunch it still had not arrived.
“Pas encore, Madame,” sang Annette, scurrying back to her cooking.
We carried our parcels into the dining-room. The table was laid. As always, the sight of the table laid for two—for two people only—and yet so finished, so perfect, there was no possible room for a third, gave me a queer, quick thrill as though I’d been struck by that silver lightning that quivered over the white cloth, the brilliant glasses, the shallow bowl of freezias.
“Blow the old postman! Whatever can have happened to him?” said Beatrice. “Put those things down, dearest.”
“Where would you like them …?”
She raised her head; she smiled her sweet, teasing smile.
But I knew only too well that there was no such place for her, and I would have stood holding the squat liqueur bottle and the sweets for months, for years, rather than risk giving another tiny shock to her exquisite sense of order.
“Here—I’ll take them.” She plumped them down on the table with her long gloves and a basket of figs. “The Luncheon Table. Short story by—by—” She took my arm. “Let’s go on to the terrace—” and I felt her shiver. “Ça sent,” she said faintly, “de la cuisine …”
I had noticed lately—we had been living in the south for two months—that when she wished to speak of food, or the climate, or, playfully, of her love for me, she always dropped into French.
We perched on the balustrade under the awning. Beatrice leaned over gazing down—down to the white road with its guard of cactus spears. The beauty of her ear, just her ear, the marvel of it was so great that I could have turned from regarding it to all that sweep of glittering sea below and stammered: “You know—her ear! She has ears that are simply the most …”
She was dressed in white, with pearls round her throat and lilies-of-the-valley tucked into her belt. On the third finger of her left hand she wore one pearl ring—no wedding ring.
“Why should I, mon ami? Why should we pretend? Who could possibly care?”
And of course I agreed, though privately, in the depths of my heart, I would have given my soul to have stood beside her in a large, yes, a large, fashionable church, crammed with people, with old reverend clergymen, with The Voice that breathed o’er Eden, with palms and the smell of scent, knowing there was a red carpet and confetti outside, and somewhere, a wedding-cake and champagne and a satin shoe to throw after the carriage—if I could have slipped our wedding-ring on to her finger.
Not because I cared for such horrible shows, but because I felt it might possibly perhaps lessen this ghastly feeling of absolute freedom, her absolute freedom, of course.
Oh, God! What torture happiness was—what anguish! I looked up at the villa, at the windows of our room hidden so mysteriously behind the green straw blinds. Was it possible that she ever came moving through the green light and smiling that secret smile, that languid, brilliant smile that was just for me? She put her arm round my neck; the other hand softly, terribly, brushed back my hair.
“Who are you?” Who was she? She was—Woman.
… On the first warm evening in Spring, when lights shone like pearls through the lilac air and voices murmured in the fresh-flowering gardens, it was she who sang in the tall house with the tulle curtains. As one drove in the moonlight through the foreign city hers was the shadow that fell across the quivering gold of the shutters. When the lamp was lighted, in the new-born stillness her steps passed your door. And she looked out into the autumn twilight, pale in her furs, as the automobile swept by …
In fact, to put it shortly, I was twenty-four at the time. And when she lay on her back, with the pearls slipped under her chin, and sighed “I’m thirsty, dearest. Donne-moi un orange,” I would gladly, willingly, have dived for an orange into the jaws of a crocodile—if crocodiles ate oranges.
“Had I two little feathery wings
And were a little feathery bird …”
I seized her hand. “You wouldn’t fly away?”
“Not far. Not further than the bottom of the road.”
“Why on earth there?”
She quoted: “He cometh not, she said …”
“Who? The silly old postman? But you’re not expecting a letter.”
“No, but it’s maddening all the same. Ah!” Suddenly she laughed and leaned against me. “There he is—look—like a blue beetle.”
And we pressed our cheeks together and watched the blue beetle beginning to climb.
“Dearest,” breathed Beatrice. And the word seemed to linger in the air, to throb in the air like the note of a violin.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know,” she laughed softly. “A wave of—a wave of affection, I suppose.”
I put my arm round her. “Then you wouldn’t fly away?”
And she said rapidly and softly: “No! No! Not for worlds. Not really. I love this place. I’ve loved being here. I could stay here for years, I believe. I’ve never been so happy as I have these last two months, and you’ve been so perfect to me, dearest, in every way.”
This was such bliss—it was so extraordinary, so unprecedented, to hear her talk like this that I had to try to laugh it off.
“Don’t! You sound as if you were saying good-bye.”
“Oh, nonsense, nonsense. You mustn’t say such things even in fun!” She slid her little hand under my white jacket and clutched my shoulder. “You’ve been happy, haven’t you?”
“Happy? Happy? Oh, God—if you knew what I feel at this moment … Happy! My Wonder! My Joy!”
I dropped off the balustrade and embraced her, lifting her in my arms. And while I held her lifted I pressed my face in her breast and muttered: “You are mine?” And for the first time in all the desperate months I’d known her, even counting the last month of— surely—Heaven—I believed her absolutely when she answered:
“Yes, I am yours.”
The creak of the gate and the postman’s steps on the gravel drew us apart. I was dizzy for the moment. I simply stood there, smiling, I felt, rather stupidly. Beatrice walked over to the cane chairs.
“You go—go for the letters,” said she.
I—well—I almost reeled away. But I was too late. Annette came running. “Pas de lettres” said she.
My reckless smile in reply as she handed me the paper must have surprised her. I was wild with joy. I threw the paper up into the air and sang out:
“No letters, darling!” as I came over to where the beloved woman was lying in the long chair.
For a moment she did not reply. Then she said slowly as she tore off the newspaper wrapper: “The world forgetting, by the world forgot.”
There are times when a cigarette is just the very one thing that will carry you over the moment. It is more than a confederate, even; it is a secret, perfect little friend who knows all about it and understands absolutely. While you smoke you look down at it—smile or frown, as the occasion demands; you inhale deeply and expel the smoke in a slow fan. This was one of those moments. I walked over to the magnolia and breathed my fill of it. Then I came back and leaned over her shoulder. But quickly she tossed the paper away on to the stone.
“There’s nothing in it,” said she. “Nothing. There’s only some poison trial. Either some man did or didn’t murder his wife, and twenty thousand people have sat in court every day and two million words have been wired all over the world after each proceeding.”
“Silly world!” said I, flinging into another chair. I wanted to forget the paper, to return, but cautiously, of course, to that moment before the postman came. But when she answered I knew from her voice the moment was over for now. Never mind. I was content to wait—five hundred years, if need be—now that I knew.
“Not so very silly,” said Beatrice. “After all it isn’t only morbid curiosity on the part of the twenty thousand.”
“What is it, darling?” Heavens knows I didn’t care.
“Guilt! “she cried. “Guilt! Didn’t you realise that? They’re fascinated like sick people are fascinated by anything—any scrap of news about their own case. The man in the dock may be innocent enough, but the people in court are nearly all of them poisoners. Haven’t you ever thought” —she was pale with excitement— “of the amount of poisoning that goes on? It’s the exception to find married people who don’t poison each other— married people and lovers. Oh,” she cried, “the number of cups of tea, glasses of wine, cups of coffee that are just tainted. The number I’ve had myself, and drunk, either knowing or not knowing—and risked it. The only reason why so many couples”—she laughed—” survive, is because the one is frightened of giving the other the fatal dose. That dose takes nerve! But it’s bound to come sooner or later. There’s no going back once the first little dose has been given. It’s the beginning of the end, really—don’t you agree? Don’t you see what I mean?”
She didn’t wait for me to answer. She unpinned the lilies-of-the-valley and lay back, drawing them across her eyes.
“Both my husbands poisoned me,” said Beatrice. “My first husband gave me a huge dose almost immediately, but my second was really an artist in his way. Just a tiny pinch, now and again, cleverly disguised—Oh, so cleverly! —until one morning I woke up and in every single particle of me, to the ends of my fingers and toes, there was a tiny grain. I was just in time …”
I hated to hear her mention her husbands so calmly, especially to-day. It hurt. I was going to speak, but suddenly she cried mournfully:
“Why! Why should it have happened to me? What have I done? Why have I been all my life singled out by … It’s a conspiracy.”
I tried to tell her it was because she was too perfect for this horrible world—too exquisite, too fine. It frightened people. I made a little joke.
“But I—I haven’t tried to poison you.”
Beatrice gave a queer small laugh and bit the end of a lily stem.
“You!” said she. “You wouldn’t hurt a fly!”
Strange. That hurt, though. Most horribly.
Just then Annette ran out with our apéritifs. Beatrice leaned forward and took a glass from the tray and handed it to me. I noticed the gleam of the pearl on what I called her pearl finger. How could I be hurt at what she said?
“And you,” I said, taking the glass, “you’ve never poisoned anybody.”
That gave me an idea; I tried to explain.
“You—you do just the opposite. What is the name for one like you who, instead of poisoning people, fills them—everybody, the postman, the man who drives us, our boatman, the flower-seller, me—with new life, with something of her own radiance, her beauty, her—”
Dreamily she smiled; dreamily she looked at me.
“What are you thinking of—my lovely darling?”
“I was wondering,” she said, “whether, after lunch, you’d go down to the post-office and ask for the afternoon letters. Would you mind, dearest? Not that I’m expecting one —but—I just thought, perhaps—it’s silly not to have the letters if they’re there. Isn’t it? Silly to wait till to-morrow.” She twirled the stem of the glass in her fingers. Her beautiful head was bent. But I lifted my glass and drank, sipped rather—sipped slowly, deliberately, looking at that dark head and thinking of—postmen and blue beetles and farewells that were not farewells and …
Good God! Was it fancy? No, it wasn’t fancy. The drink tasted chill, bitter, queer.
by Katherine Mansfield (1888 – 1923)
From: Something Childish and Other Stories
by Katherine Mansfield
It is raining. Big soft drops splash on the people’s hands and cheeks; immense warm drops like melted stars. “Here are roses! Here are lilies! Here are violets!” caws the old hag in the gutter. But the lilies, bunched together in a frill of green, look more like faded cauliflowers. Up and down she drags the creaking barrow. A bad, sickly smell comes from it. Nobody wants to buy. You must walk in the middle of the road, for there is no room on the pavement. Every single shop brims over; every shop shows a tattered frill of soiled lace and dirty ribbon to charm and entice you. There are tables set out with toy cannons and soldiers and Zeppelins and photograph frames complete with ogling beauties. There are immense baskets of yellow straw hats piled up like pyramids of pastry, and strings of coloured boots and shoes so small that nobody could wear them. One shop is full of little squares of mackintosh, page 185 blue ones for girls and pink ones for boys with Bébé printed in the middle of each …
“Here are lilies! Here are roses! Here are pretty violets!” warbles the old hag, bumping into another barrow. But this barrow is still. It is heaped with lettuces. Its owner, a fat old woman, sprawls across, fast asleep, her nose in the lettuce roots … Who is ever going to buy anything here …? The sellers are women. They sit on little canvas stools, dreamy and vacant looking. Now and again one of them gets up and takes a feather duster, like a smoky torch, and flicks it over a thing or two and then sits down again. Even the old man in tangerine spectacles with a balloon of a belly, who turns the revolving stand of ‘comic’ postcards round and round cannot decide …
Suddenly, from the empty shop at the corner a piano strikes up, and a violin and flute join in. The windows of the shop are scrawled over—New Songs. First Floor. Entrance Free. But the windows of the first floor being open, nobody bothers to go up. They hang about grinning as the harsh voices float out into the warm rainy air. At the doorway there stands a lean man in a pair of burst carpet slippers. He has stuck a feather through the broken rim of his hat; with what an air he wears it! The feather is magnificent. It is gold epaulettes, frogged coat, page 186 white kid gloves, gilded cane. He swaggers under it and the voice rolls off his chest, rich and ample.
“Come up! Come up! Here are the new songs! Each singer is an artiste of European reputation. The orchestra is famous and second to none. You can stay as long as you like. It is the chance of a lifetime, and once missed never to return!” But nobody moves. Why should they? They know all about those girls—those famous artistes. One is dressed in cream cashmere and one in blue. Both have dark crimped hair and a pink rose pinned over the ear … They know all about the pianist’s button boots—the left foot—the pedal foot—burst over the bunion on his big toe. The violinist’s bitten nails, the long, far too long cuffs of the flute player—all these things are as old as the new songs.
For a long time the music goes on and the proud voice thunders. Then somebody calls down the stairs and the showman, still with his grand air, disappears. The voices cease. The piano, the violin and the flute dribble into quiet. Only the lace curtain gives a wavy sign of life from the first floor.
It is raining still; it is getting dusky … Here are roses! Here are lilies! Who will buy my violets? …
Hope! You misery—you sentimental, faded female! Break your last string and have done with it. I shall go mad with your endless thrumming; my heart throbs to it and every little pulse beats in time. It is morning. I lie in the empty bed—the huge bed big as a field and as cold and unsheltered. Through the shutters the sunlight comes up from the river and flows over the ceiling in trembling waves. I hear from outside a hammer tapping, and far below in the house a door swings open and shuts. Is this my room? Are those my clothes folded over an armchair? Under the pillow, sign and symbol of a lonely woman, ticks my watch. The bell jangles. Ah! At last! I leap out of bed and run to the door. Play faster—faster—Hope!
“Your milk, Mademoiselle,” says the concierge, gazing at me severely.
“Ah, thank you,” I cry, gaily swinging the milk bottle. “No letters for me?”
“But the postman—he has called already?”
“A long half-hour ago, mademoiselle.”
Shut the door. Stand in the little passage a moment. Listen—listen for her hated twanging. Coax her—court her—implore her to play just once that charming little thing for one string only. In vain.
Across the river, on the narrow stone path that fringes the bank, a woman is walking. She came down the steps from the Quay, walking slowly, one hand on her hip. It is a beautiful evening; the sky is the colour of lilac and the river of violet leaves. There are big bright trees along the path full of trembling light, and the boats, dancing up and down, send heavy curls of foam rippling almost to her feet. Now she has stopped. Now she has turned suddenly. She is leaning up against a tree, her hands over her face; she is crying. And now she is walking up and down wringing her hands. Again she leans against the tree, her back against it, her head raised and her hands clasped as though she leaned against someone dear. Round her shoulders she wears a little grey shawl; she covers her face with the ends of it and rocks to and fro.
But one cannot cry for ever, so at last she becomes serious and quiet, patting her hair into place, smoothing her apron. She walks a step or two. No, too soon, too soon! Again her arms fly up—she runs back—again she is blotted against the tall tree. Squares of gold light show in the houses; the street lamps gleam through the new leaves; yellow fans of light follow the dancing boats. For a moment she is a blur against the tree, white, grey and black, melting into the stones and the shadows. And then she is gone.
Spring Pictures (1915)
by Katherine Mansfield (1888 – 1923)
From: Something Childish and Other Stories
Henning Mankell is dead. He died in his sleep on october 5th early in the morning in Göteborg. He was 67 years old.
Henning Mankell was one of the great Swedish authors of our time, loved by readers in Sweden and all over the world. His work includes around forty novels and numerous plays. His books have sold more than forty million copies and are translated into more than forty languages. Solidarity with those in need run through his entire work and manifested itself in action until the very end.
In 2001, together with Dan Israel, he founded Leopard Förlag where his books are published. Henning Mankell divided his time between Sweden and Moçambique where he was the artistic leader of Teatro Avenida in Maputo.
He is mourned by his wife Eva Bergman and his son Jon Mankell and by many readers.
(Kurt) Walander books
Mördare utan ansikte (1991; English translation by Steven T. Murray: Faceless Killers, 1997)
Hundarna i Riga (1992; English translation by Laurie Thompson: The Dogs of Riga, 2001)
Den vita lejoninnan (1993; English translation by Laurie Thompson: The White Lioness, 1998)
Mannen som log (1994; English translation by Laurie Thompson: The Man Who Smiled, 2005)
Villospår (1995; English translation by Steven T. Murray: Sidetracked, 1999) Gold Dagger 2001
Fotografens död (1996)
Den femte kvinnan (1996; English translation by Steven T. Murray: The Fifth Woman, 2000)
Steget efter (1997; English translation by Ebba Segerberg: One Step Behind, 2002)
Brandvägg (1998; English translation by Ebba Segerberg: Firewall, 2002)
Pyramiden (1999; short stories; English translation by Ebba Segerberg with Laurie Thompson: The Pyramid, 2008)
Handen (2004; novella; originally published in Dutch (2004) as Het Graf (The Grave). Published in Swedish, 2013. English translation by Laurie Thompson: An Event in Autumn, 2014)
Den orolige mannen (2009; English translation by Laurie Thompson: The Troubled Man, 2011)
Innan frosten (2002; English translation by Ebba Segerberg: Before the Frost, 2005)
Danslärarens återkomst (2000; English translation by Laurie Thompson: The Return of the Dancing Master, 2004)
Kennedys hjärna (2005; English translation by Laurie Thompson: Kennedy’s Brain, 2007, U.S. release)
Kinesen (2007; English translation by Laurie Thompson: The Man from Beijing, 2010)
Fångvårdskolonin som försvann (1979)
Dödsbrickan (fi) (1980)
En seglares död (fi) (1981)
Daisy Sisters (1982)
Sagan om Isidor (sv) (1984)
Leopardens öga (1990); English translation by Steven T. Murray: The Eye of the Leopard, (2008)
Comédia infantil (1995); English translation by Tiina Nunnally: Chronicler of the Winds, (2006)
Vindens son (2000); English translation by Steven T. Murray: Daniel (2010)
Tea-Bag (2001) English translation by Ebba Segerberg: The Shadow Girls (2012)
Djup (2004); English translation by Laurie Thompson: Depths, (2006)
Italienska skor (2006); English translation by Laurie Thompson: Italian Shoes, (2009)
Minnet av en Smutsig Ängel (2011); English translation by Laurie Thompson: A Treacherous Paradise, (2013)
Secrets in the Fire – 2000 (Eldens hemlighet, 1995)
Playing with Fire – 2002 (Eldens gåta, 2001)
The Fury in the Fire – 2009 (Eldens vrede (sv), 2005)
The Cat Who Liked Rain – 2007
Älskade syster (1983) – Beloved Sister
Apelsinträdet (1983) – The Orange Tree
Att Storma Himlen
Berättelser På Tidens Strand
Daisy Sisters (1982)
Darwins kapten (2010) – Darwin’s Captain
Den Samvetslöse Mördaren Hasse Karlsson…
Eldens gåta (2001) – Fire Riddle
En Gammal Man Som Dansar
En Höstkväll Innan Tystnaden
En seglares död (1981) – Death of a Sailor
Fångvårdskolonin som försvann (1979)
I sand och i lera (1999) – In Sand and Mud
In Duisternis (2010) – Time of Darkness
Italienska skor (2006) – Italian shoes
Jag dör, men minnet lever (2003) – I Die, but the Memory Lives
Kakelugnen På Myren
Katten som älskade regn (1992) The Cat that Loved Rain
Labyrinten (2000) – The Labyrinth
Mannen Som Byggde Kojor
Möte Om Eftermiddagen
Och Sanden Ropar…
Pojken som sov med snö i sin säng (1996) – The Boy Who Slept with Snow in His Bed
Politik (2010) – Politics
Resan till värdens ände (1998) – Journey to The End of the World
Sagan om Isidor (1984) Isidor’s Saga
Sandmålaren (1974) – Sand painter
Tyckte Jag Hörde Hundar
Vettvillingen (1977) – The Maniac
Guy de Maupassant
LÉGENDE DE LA CHAMBRE
DES DEMOISELLES À ÉTRETAT
Lentement le flot arrive
Sur la rive
Qu’il berce et flatte toujours.
C’est un triste chant d’automne
Qui pleure après les beaux jours.
Sur la côte solitaire
Est une aire
Jetée au-dessus des eaux ;
Un étroit passage y mène,
Des mauves et des corbeaux.
C’est une grotte perdue,
Entre le ciel et les mers,
Une demeure ignorée
Du reste de l’univers.
Jadis plus d’une gentille
Y vint voir son amoureux ;
On dit que cette retraite
A caché bien des heureux.
On dit que le clair de lune
Vit plus d’une
Jouvencelle au coeur léger
Prendre le sentier rapide,
Insouciante au danger.
Mais comme un aigle tournoie
Sur sa proie,
Les guettait l’ange déchu,
Lui qui toujours laisse un crime
L’ongle de son pied fourchu.
Un soir près de la colline
Ce roc au front élancé,
Une fillette ingénue
Attendant son fiancé.
Or celui qui perdit Eve,
Sur la grève
La suivit d’un pied joyeux ;
“Hymen, dit-il, vous invite,
“La belle fille aux doux yeux,
“Là-bas sur un lit de roses
“Vous attend le jeune Amour ;
“Pour accomplir ses mystères
“Il a choisi cette tour.”
Elle était folle et légère,
Hélas, et n’entendit pas
Pleurer son ange fidèle,
Et près d’elle
Satan qui riait tout bas.
Car elle suivit son guide
Et par le sentier glissant.
Bat la rive
Mais lui, félon, de la cime,
Il la jeta, – Dieu Puissant !
Son ombre pâle est restée
Veillant sur l’étroit chemin.
Sitôt que de cette roche
Elle étend sa blanche main.
Depuis qu’en ces lieux, maudite
Aucun autre n’est tombé.
C’est ainsi qu’elle se venge
Auquel elle a succombé.
Allez la voir, Demoiselles,
Que mon récit attrista,
Car pour vous la renommée
Cette grotte d’Étretat !
A son pied le flot arrive
Bat la rive
Qu’il berce et flatte toujours.
C’est un triste chant d’automne
Qui pleure après les beaux jours.
Légende de la Chambre des Demoiselles à Étretat a paru dans le Mercure de France du 15 décembre 1922.
Guy de Maupassant poetry
BABELMATRIX Translation Project
Péter Nádas (born 1942 in Budapest) is a Hungarian writer. He worked as a dramaturg and photographer, and his first novel The End of a Family Story was censored because of some of its themes.
Nádas’ other novels include Lovely Tale of Photography and Book of Memories, which is considered as his most important work. Death is a recurrent theme in Nádas’ work, and his writing has been described as intellectual, detailed, strong and innovative but also demanding.
Egy családregény vége (Hungarian)
Egyik nap a nagypapa éppen az o”söket mesélte a padláson. A nagymama hozott a közértboö egy halat. Nagyon örült, hogy kapott, mert a nagypapa szerette. Két órát állt sorban, de a hallal nem mehetett templomba. Ha tudta, hogy ma hoznak valamit, akkor engem is magával vitt. Ezt nem szerettem, mert az emberek kiabáltak. ,,Nézzék, hogy tolakszik!“ ,,Nem tudja? Hátul a sor vége!“ ,,Süket.” ,,Hová gyüri már magát, hallja?” A nagymama fogta a kezemet és húzott maga után, és én nem láttam semmit az emberek között, mert ki akartak nyomni; és a nagymama is kiabált: ,,Szégyentelenek! Nem látják, hogy gyerekkel vagyok?” ,,Küldte volna a cselédjét!” ,,Ezt a lovat nevezni gyereknek!” ,,Hagyta volna, miért nem hagyta otthon?” ,,Fehér kalapban? Fehér kalapban jön, amikor zsírt osztanak?” A nagymama letépte a fejéro”l a fehér kalapot, és mindenki láthatta, hogy majdnem egészen kopasz, és akkor elo”bb kaptunk. A nagymama azt mondta nekem, ez a kiszolgálóno” mindenkit becsap és szo”kére van festve a haja. Egyszer ez a kiszolgálónoö sikítani kezdett. ,,Jaj! istenem!” Összevissza csapkodott a kezével és sikított. „Jajistenem!” És dobogott a lábával. ,,Takarodjanak! Jaj, istenem, fogják be a szájukat! Vagy takarodjanak! Én dolgozó no” vagyok! Én így nem tudok! Így nem tudok számolni! Nekem számolni kell! Nem tudok! Nem bírom! Abbahagyom! Nem bírom!” Akkor mindenki elhallgatott. Nagy késsel vágta a zsírt, és a késro”l egy papírra kente, és mindenki csendben volt. A mérlegre dobta a papírt és megint vágta a zsírt és a papírra kente és nézte a mérleget. Sírt. Mi ott álltunk elöl. Az a nö vágta a zsírt és közben sírt, és megtörölte a szemét, de zsíros lett az arca és nem hallatszott más, csak a sírás és ahogy zörgött a papír. Féltem, elüldöznek minket. A halat betettük a kádba. Éjjel kopogtak az ablakomon. Nem mertem fölkelni, pedig láttam a katonasapkát; az apám. A halat addig a mosdóba tettük, hogy az apám fürdeni tudjon. Állt a kádban és szappanozta magát. Amikor ott voltunk a közértben, az a no”, akinek szo”kére volt festve a haja, nem tudta tovább mérni a zsírt. Reszketett, mintha félne, kezében azzal a nagy késsel, és sírt. Akkor egy férfi, akit a templomban láttam, bement a pult mögé a nöhöz. A nagymama azt mondta, ha nagyobb leszek, ministrálhatok, de az apámnak nem szabad tudni, és akkor nálam lehet a csengö. Ha rázom a csengoö, mindenki letérdel. Amikor letérdeltünk, az a férfi, aki bement a nöhöz, ránk nézett, nem értettem, miért néz? nem csináltam semmit! és átkarolta a noö, és leültette egy ládára és vigasztalta. ,,Nyugodjon meg! Nyugodjon meg! Kérem, nyugodjon meg! Most már csend van. Számolhat, dolgozhat nyugodtan.” Térdeltünk, a toronyban megszólaltak, kondultak, kongtak a harangok. A pap felmutatta az Úr testét. A noösírt és nem tudta abbahagyni. Mi álltunk és néztük. Szerettem nézni, hogyan szappanozza magát az apám; még a hátát is. A noöösszetette a kezét, reszketett, mintha valakitöl félne. Kezében a hosszú kés. ,,Ne haragudjanak! Nem bírom! Nem bírom! Ne haragudjanak!” Az a férfi, akit egyszer a templomban láttam, simogatta a nö szöke haját, ami festett. ,,Nyugodjon meg, kérem! Nem haragszik magára senki. Mindnyájan emberek vagyunk.” De akkor azt mondta valaki, hogy az a férfi biztosan csak azért vigasztalja a kisasszonyt, mert soron kívül akarja megkapni a zsírt; és megint mindenki kiabált. A hal nyitogatta a száját, mozgatta a kopoltyúját és úszkált a kádban. A nagymama azt mondta, pénteken megesszük. Elképzeltem a keresztfát. Az elöszobában, a tükör alatt, a fiókban tartották a kalapácsot, a harapófogót, a fu”részt és a szögeket. Néztem a tenyerem, de nem mertem beleverni a szöget. A hal úgy úszkált, mintha keresne valamilyen kijáratot. Amíg körbeúszott, négyszer nyitotta a kopoltyúját. A nagypapa megkérdezte, akarom-e hallani a halszagú lány történetét? ,,Igen.” ,,Akkor jól figyelj – mondta a nagypapa –, hogy értsél a szóból!” Néztük a halat. ,,Egyszer nagyon régen, egyszer nagyon messze történt mindaz, ami történt.” Azt hittem, az o”sök idejében, amiro”l a padláson mesélt, de a nagypapa megrázta a fejét. „Nem! Megmondottam, figyelj! Nem figyelsz! Az o”söknek még meghalni sem volt idejük, még élnek, itt élnek bennünk. De ez, amit mesélni készülök, ez olyan idökben történt, amit már elfeledtünk, akkor, amikor még óriás szörnyek, kígyódémonok, sárkányok és nagy szellemek éltek a földön; és úgy éltek, úgy szerették, úgy gyu”lölték egymást, akár az emberek. Csak a szeretet, a gyu”lölet maradt. Ha gyíkot látsz vagy siklót, a szörnyek árnyai! Erre gondolj. És most erröl, a csodák idejéro”l mesélek, s ez messzi föld. Ein unübersehbahres Gebiet. Az ösök, az más idö. Az o”sök Hárán földjén éltek, ahonnan Ábrám elindult, Kanaán földjén éltek, ahonnan Jákob menekült, Egyiptom földjén éltek, ahol József uralkodott, az ösök az Eufrátesz völgyében, a Jordán völgyében, a Nílus mellett éltek, és az itt van, itt van egy karnyújtásnyira; nem hallod? a pálmák, a datolya pálmák höségben zizegnek! még a fogad alatt megcsikordul a homok; nem is beszélve, ha virágba borulnak Kordovában az olajligetek! vagy nem is beszélve a német tölgyesek illatáról! ez itt van, ehhez nem szükségeltetik mély emlékezet. Én arról mesélek, amire te már nem emlékezhetsz. Itt kellett volna kezdenem. Vagy még elöbb. Talán ott kellett volna kezdenem, hogy kezdetben teremté Isten az eget és a földet. Kezdetben, de mikor? Ez már nemcsak neked, nekem is megfejthetetlen idö. És miböl? A szellem az anyagot, aztán az anyag a szellemnek ezt a komédiáját? De ha nem itt kezdtem is, ezekhez a terekhez majd eljutsz magad. Tehát valamennyi ido”vel a teremtés után, ami annyit tesz: nagyon régen és nagyon messze, élt akkor a folyó, a nagy folyó, milyen folyó? akkor még nem nevezték néven a folyókat! de késo”bb ezt a folyót Gangának becézték; élt itt a parton egy égi tündér. Tehát kezdo”dik a mese.
Publisher: Egy csaladregeny vege, p. 81-85., Szépirodalmi Könyvkiadó, Budapest, 1977
The end of a family story (English)
One day up in the attic Grandpapa was telling me about our ancestors. Grandmama had brought a fish from the market. She was very glad to have got one because Grandpapa loved fish. She stood in line for two hours, but she couldn’t go to church with the fish. When she got wind of something being available at the market she’d take me along, too. I didn’t like that because people would yell at her. „Look at her shoving and pushing!” „Don’t you know where the end of the line is? Back there!” „Must be deaf!” „Where are you bulldozing your way to now? Hey, can’t you hear?” Grandmama would hold my hand and drag me along and I couldn’t see anything among the people because they’d be trying to squeeze me out, and Grandmama would be yelling, too: „Shameless creatures! Can’t you see I have a child with me?” „You should have sent your maid!” „This lout she calls a child!” „Why didn’t you leave him at home?” „In a white hat! She always wears a white hat when they’re selling lard.” Grandmama would tear the white hat off her head and everybody could see she was almost completely bald, and then we’d be served right away. Grandmama told me that one particular saleswoman cheated everybody and that her blond hair was dyed. Once, this saleswoman started to scream: „Oh! Oh my God!” She was flailing her arms, banging all over the place with her hands and screaming, „Ohmygod!” and stamping her feet. „Get out of here! All of you! Oh my God, why don’t you all shut up! Or get out of here! I’m a working woman! I can’t work like this! I can’t count like this! I’ve got to keep track! I can’t bear this! I can’t stand it! I’ll just stop, that’s all! I can’t stand it!” Everyone fell silent. She cut the lard with a huge knife and slapped it on a sheet of paper, and everybody kept quiet. She threw the paper on the scale and cut some more and smeared it on the paper again and watched the scale. She was crying. We were standing right up front. The woman went on cutting the lard and crying; she’d wipe her eyes and her face got all greasy and all we heard was her crying and the paper rustling. I was afraid we would be chased away. We put the fish into the bathtub. That night there was a knocking on my window. I didn’t dare get out of bed even though I could see the army cap: it was my father. We put the fish in the sink so Father could take a bath. He soaped himself standing in the tub. When we were standing in the market, the woman with dyed blond hair couldn’t go on weighing the lard. She stood there shaking, with the big knife in her hand, and crying. Then a man I recognized from church went around the counter to her. Grandmama said that when I got older I could be an altar boy, but Father shouldn’t know about it, and then I could hold the little bell. Each time I shook the bell everybody would kneel. When we were all on our knees, this man who went behind the counter to the woman would look at us, I didn’t understand why, I didn’t do anything! and he put his arm around the woman and made her sit down on a box and started to console her. „Calm down! Calm down! Please, calm down! Everyone’s being quiet now. You can do your work, keep count, nice and easy.” We were kneeling and the bells began to toll in the tower, clanging and pealing. The priest raised his arms and showed us the body of the Lord. The woman kept crying and couldn’t stop. We stood there, just looking at her. I liked to look at Father soaping himself, he could even do his back. The woman brought her hands together. She was shaking as if afraid of somebody. The long knife in her hand. „Don’t be angry with me, please! I can’t bear it! I can’t bear it! Don’t be angry with me!” The man I’d seen in church was stroking her dyed blond hair. „Please, calm down! Nobody’s angry with you. We’re all human beings.” But then somebody said the man was comforting the woman only because he wanted to get his lard out of turn, and then everybody started shouting again. The fish kept opening its mouth, moving its gills, swimming around in the tub. Grandmama said we’d eat it on Friday. I pictured the image of the crucifix. The hammer, the pliers, the saw and nails were kept in a drawer in the hallway, under the mirror. I looked at my palm, but I didn’t dare drive a nail into it. The fish was swimming as if looking for an exit. During a single round of the tub it opened its gills four times. Grandpapa asked me if I wanted to hear the story of the girl who smelled like a fish. „Yes.” „Well, listen, then,” Grandpapa said, „so you’ll know what’s what!” We were looking at the fish. „Everything in this story happened a very long time ago, and very far from here.” I thought he meant the time of the ancestors he’d told me about up in the attic, but Grandpapa shook his head. „No! Didn’t I ask you to listen? You’re not paying attention! Our ancestors have had no time even to die, and they’re still alive, they live here, within us. But the story I’m about to tell you happened in times we’ve already forgotten, when giant monsters, serpent-demons, dragons, and great ghosts were still living on earth; and they lived and loved and hated one another as humans do. All that’s left now is love and hatred. Whenever you see a lizard or a snake, you see the shadow of monsters! think of that! And that’s the time, the time of miracles, that I want to tell you about, and that’s a very distant territory. A huge region. Ein unübersehbares Gebiet. Ancestors, that’s a different time. They lived in the land of Canaan, where Abraham came from, they lived in the land of Canaan, where Jacob escaped from, they lived in Egypt land, where Joseph became ruler, our ancestors lived in the valley of the Euphrates, in the Jordan valley, along the Nile, but that’s right here, only an arm’s length away; can’t you hear it? the palm trees, the date palms rustling in the sweltering heat? feel the sand crunching between your teeth? not to mention the flowering olive groves of Cordova! or the fragrance of the German oak forests! they are all here, no need for long memories. But now I’m telling you about things you can’t possibly remember. This is where I should have begun. Or even before. Maybe I should have started by saying that in the beginning God created heaven and earth. In the beginning, but when? And that is an unfathomable time, not only for you but for me, too. And out of what? Did the spirit create matter, and then matter created this comedy of the spirit? But even if I didn’t start here, you would get to these areas by yourself. Well then, some time after the creation, which means a long time ago and far away, there lived a river, the great river, what kind of river? back then people didn’t call rivers by names! but later it had a nickname – Ganga – and on the shore of this river there lived a heavenly fairy. And now the tale begins.
Source of the quotation : New York N.Y. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1998. p. 83-88.
Einde van een familieroman (Dutch)
Op een dag zaten opa en ik op zolder en vertelde hij over onze voorouders. Oma had in de zelfbedieningswinkel een vis gekocht. Ze was heel blij dat ze die had kunnen krijgen, want opa was er dol op. Ze had er twee uur voor in de rij moeten staan, maar ze had de vis moeilijk mee kunnen nemen naar de kerk. Als ze geweten had dat er die dag vis te koop was, had ze mij ook mee naar de winkel genomen. Ik vond daar niets aan, want de mensen riepen altijd: ‘Moet je eens zien hoe die daar staat te dringen!’ ‘U moet achteraan aansluiten! Wist u dat niet?’ ‘Bent u doof?’ ‘Zeg, wilt u soms dwars door me heen? Hoort u me niet?’ Oma hield mijn hand vast en trok me achter zich aan; ik kon niets zien tussen de mensen, die probeerden me uit de rij te duwen. Oma schreeuwde terug: ‘U moest u schamen! Ziet u niet dat ik een kind bij me heb?’ ‘Waarom heeft u uw dienstmeisje niet gestuurd?’ ‘Zo’n groot joch moet een kind verbeelden?’ ‘U had die jongen beter thuis kunnen laten. Waarom heeft u hem meegebracht?’ ‘Met een witte hoed! Dat komt met een witte hoed als er reuzel wordt verkocht!’ Oma rukte de hoed van haar hoofd, zodat iedereen kon zien dat ze bijna helemaal kaal was, en dan schoten we weer een stukje op. Oma zei tegen me dat die verkoopster iedereen beduvelde en dat ze geblondeerd haar had. Op een keer begon de verkoopster te krijsen. ‘O mijn God!’ Ze zwaaide wild met haar armen en krijste: ‘O mijn God!’ Ze stampte ook met haar voeten. ‘Ga weg allemaal! O mijn God, schei uit met dat gemier of ga anders weg! Ik ben een werkende vrouw! Zo gaat het niet langer! Zo kan ik niet rekenen! Ik moet rekenen! Zo gaat het niet! Ik word er knetter van! Ik schei ermee uit! Ik kan er niet meer tegen!’ Iedereen hield opeens zijn mond. Ze sneed met een groot mes een stuk reuzel af en smeerde dit van het mes op een stuk papier, terwijl iedereen doodstil toekeek. Ze gooide het papier op de weegschaal, sneed nog wat reuzel af, smeerde dit ook op het papier en keek weer naar de weegschaal. Intussen huilde ze. Wij stonden helemaal vooraan. De vrouw sneed huilend de reuzel af en veegde haar tranen af, zodat haar hele gezicht vet werd. Je hoorde alleen haar gehuil en het ritselen van het papier. Ik was bang dat ze ons zouden wegjagen. We deden de vis in de badkuip. ’s Nachts werd er op mijn raam geklopt. Ik durfde niet op te staan, ook al zag ik de legerpet van mijn vader. Omdat mijn vader in bad moest, deden we de vis zolang in de wasbak. Hij stond in de kuip en zeepte zich in. Toen we in de zelfbedieningswinkel waren, hield de vrouw met het geblondeerde haar ineens op met het afwegen van de reuzel. Ze beefde alsof ze bang was en huilde, terwijl ze nog altijd het grote mes vasthield. Toen ging er een man die ik in de kerk had gezien naar de vrouw achter de toonbank toe. Oma zei dat ik, als ik wat ouder was, misdienaar mocht worden, maar mijn vader mocht er niets van weten. Ik mocht dan de bel vasthouden. Als ik de bel luidde, moest iedereen neerknielen. Toen we neerknielden, keek de man die naar de vrouw was gegaan me aan. Ik begreep niet waarom hij zo naar me keek, want ik had niets gedaan. Hij sloeg zijn arm om de vrouw, liet haar op een kist plaats nemen en zei troostend: ‘Kalm nou maar! Kalm nou maar! Wind u niet zo vreselijk op. Ziet u wel, ze zijn al stil. U kunt rustig rekenen en werken.’ We knielden neer en in de toren begonnen de klokken uit alle macht te beieren. De priester toonde de hostie. De vrouw huilde en kon niet tot bedaren komen. Wij stonden daar en keken naar haar. Ik vond het leuk om te zien hoe mijn vader zich inzeepte; zelfs zijn rug sloeg hij niet over. De vrouw vouwde haar handen en beefde, alsof ze bang was voor iemand. Ze hield nog steeds het grote mes vast. ‘Neemt u me niet kwalijk! Ik kan er niet meer tegen! Ik kan er niet meer tegen! Neemt u me niet kwalijk!’ De man die ik in de kerk had gezien, streelde de vrouw over haar geblondeerde haar. ‘Kalm nou maar! Niemand neemt u iets kwalijk. We zijn allemaal maar mensen.’ Maar toen zei iemand dat die man de vrouw alleen maar troostte omdat hij het eerst geholpen wilde worden en daarop begon iedereen opnieuw te schreeuwen. De vis deed zijn bek open, bewoog zijn kieuwen en zwom rond in de badkuip. Oma zei dat we hem vrijdag zouden opeten. Ik stelde me het kruis voor. In de vestibule, in de la onder de spiegel, bewaarden we de hamer, de nijptang, de zaag en de spijkers. Ik keek naar mijn handpalm, maar ik durfde er geen spijker in te slaan. De vis zwom alsof hij een uitgang zocht. In de tijd dat hij een rondje zwom, opende hij vier keer zijn kieuwen. Opa vroeg of ik het verhaal wilde horen van het meisje met de vislucht. ‘Ja.’ ‘Let dan goed op,’ zei opa, ‘want je kan er wat van leren.’ We keken naar de vis. ‘Heel lang geleden, in een land hier ver vandaan, gebeurde er het volgende.’ Ik dacht dat opa de tijd van onze voorouders bedoelde, waarover hij op zolder had verteld, maar hij schudde zijn hoofd. ‘Nee! Ik heb je gevraagd op te letten, maar je doet het niet! Je voorouders hebben nog niet de tijd gehad om te sterven, ze leven voort in ons binnenste. Wat ik wil vertellen, gebeurde in een tijd die we al zijn vergeten, een tijd dat de aarde nog werd bevolkt door reusachtige monsters, slangengodinnen, draken en demonen. Ze leefden net zo als de mensen en ze beminden en haatten elkaar ook net zo. Er is niets van hen overgebleven, alleen de liefde en de haat. Als je een hagedis of een ringslang ziet, weet dan dat zij de schimmen zijn van die monsters. En nu zal ik je vertellen over die wonderbaarlijke tijd. Een ver land, ein unübersehbares Gebiet… Dat was een heel andere tijd. Onze voorouders leefden in het land Haraan, waar Abraham vandaan kwam, in Kanaän, waaruit Jakob heeft moeten vluchten, en in Egypte, waar Jozef onderkoning is geweest. Onze voorouders leefden in het dal van de Eufraat, in het stroomgebied van de Jordaan en aan de oevers van de Nijl, allemaal vlakbij ons, allemaal op een steenworp afstand. Hoor je het niet? Palmen, dadelpalmen, ritselen in de hete wind! Tussen je tanden knarst nog altijd woestijnzand! Om maar te zwijgen van de bloeiende olijven in Cordoba, of de geur van de Duitse eiken! Maar dat is allemaal vlakbij, daar hoef je geen ver in het verleden teruggaande herinneringen voor te hebben. Ik bedoel een tijd die jij je niet meer kunt herinneren. Daar moet ik beginnen, of misschien nog verder terug. Misschien moet ik wel beginnen bij „in den beginne schiep God hemel en aarde”. In den beginne, maar wanneer dan? Die tijd is niet alleen voor jou raadselachtig, maar ook voor mij. En waaruit schiep Hij dat alles? De stof uit de geest en daarna uit de stof de komedie van de geest? Maar laat ik niet hiermee beginnen, hieraan kom je later vanzelf toe. Enige tijd na de schepping, dat wil dus zeggen heel lang geleden en heel ver hier vandaan, was er een rivier, een grote rivier. Welke rivier? In die tijd hadden de rivieren nog geen namen, maar later werd zij liefkozend Ganga genoemd. Aan de oever van deze rivier leefde een hemelse fee. Nu begint het eigenlijke verhaal.
Publisher: Van Gennep, Amsterdam
Source of the quotation p. 62-65.
A.s. zondag 17 maart 2013 om 11.20 uur op Nederland 1
In het boek 1001 vrouwen uit de Nederlandse geschiedenis heeft historica Els Kloek de levensbeschrijvingen van vrouwen verzameld die in de afgelopen eeuwen op een of andere manier naam hebben gemaakt. Bij de samenstelling werd niet alleen gekeken naar bijzondere prestaties, maar ook naar de reputatie waarmee de vrouw de aandacht op zich wist te vestigen.
Een bonte stoet vrouwen trekt voorbij: reuzin Trijntje Keever, bordeelhoudster Thérèse, spion Mata Hari, schilderes Judith Leyster, feministe Joke Smit en muze Mathilde Willink. Door de levensverhalen worden al deze opmerkelijke en bijzondere vrouwen aan de vergetelheid onttrokken. In het gebouw van Bijzondere Collecties van de Universiteit van Amsterdam is een gelijknamige tentoonstelling ingericht, die nog tot en met 20 mei is te zien.
Kees van Kooten & Nelleke Noordervliet
A.s. zondag om 19.20 uur op Nederland 2
Gouden Tijden, Zwarte Bladzijden is het thema van de 78e Boekenweek, waarbij het draait om het bewogen en roemrijke verleden van Nederland. Moeten we ons schamen voor de Zwarte Bladzijden? Mogen we trots zijn op de Gouden Tijden? Aan Kees van Kooten en Nelleke Noordervliet de opdracht deze vragen te onderzoeken in het Boekenweekgeschenk De verrekijker en het Boekenweekessay De leeuw en zijn hemd.
In haar laatste boek, de historische roman Vrij man, schetst Nelleke Noordervliet een beeld van het dagelijkse leven in de Gouden Eeuw. De opdracht om voor het Boekenweekessay de vaderlandse geschiedenis tegen het licht te houden lijkt dan ook een logisch vervolg. Overheerst de schaamte voor ons koloniaal verleden of zijn we trots op onze handelsmacht? In De leeuw en zijn hemd onderzoekt Noordervliet de dubbelzinnige omgang met ons verleden. Per trekschuit reist ze door de Nederlandse geschiedenis en komt onderweg historische figuren tegen aan wie ze vragen kan stellen.
De Zwarte Bladzijden in de vaderlandse geschiedenis beperken zich niet tot ons koloniaal verleden. De opstelling van de Nederlanders tijdens de Tweede Wereldoorlog is een andere beladen discussie. Waarom hadden de Duitsers zo’n succes met de jodenvervolging in Nederland? Kees van Kooten nam voor het Boekenweekgeschenk De verrekijker het oorlogsdagboek en de agenda’s van zijn vader als uitgangspunt. Aan de hand van de notities van zijn vader, die in de oorlog sergeant was, gaat Van Kooten op zoek naar mogelijke zwarte bladzijden, maar ontdekt dat zijn vader in de oorlogsjaren vooral een gouden tijd beleefde. Hoewel een handgeschreven brief over een door hem in beslag genomen verrekijker de nodige vragen oproept.
VPRO BOEKEN zondag 17 maart 2013
Ideën (7 delen, 1862-1877)
Idee Nr. 78
Twee personen die pas gestorven waren, ontmoetten elkaar. Voor hun sterven hadden ze veel getwist over “zyn” of “niet zyn”.
De wyze — de weter — zei: ‘Welnu, had ik niet gelyk? Ge ziet, we zyn er. Dat vervelende citaat uit Hamlet heeft afgedaan.’
De onwetende, die generaal geweest was, scheen geen lust te hebben in diskussie. Althans hy antwoordde niet op de uitnodiging tot voortzetten van de stryd die afgebroken was door de dood. Ik gis dat hy ‘t doelloos vond, en beneden de waardigheid van onsterfelyken, vooral nu ‘t niet langer te doen was om waarheid — dit was tot weerzyds genoegen uitgewezen in z’n nadeel — maar over de prioriteit van het vinden dier waarheid. Hierin scheen de gewezen generaal geen belang te stellen.
Maar wél was hy verdrietig over ‘t verlies van z’n laatste veldslag.
‘Verbeeld u, vriend onsterfelyke, ik was gewond. Men bracht me in een kamer en te bed. Ik lag de ganse dag te ylen, en kon geen bevelen geven.
Maar ‘s avends werd m’n geest helder. Ik liet my de kaarten van de situatie voorleggen, bestudeerde positiën, sterkte, snelheid van beweging. Ik gaf orders, en zond m’n adjudanten rechts en links. Dát korps moest hierlangs…’t andere daarheen… men zou de vyand aantreffen op dát punt… zie!’
En met onsterflyke vinger wees hy ‘n punt aan op de kleine aarde.
‘Welnu, werden uw bevelen niet goed uitgevoerd?’
‘Ja… maar… luister! Na alles te hebben geregeld, sliep ik in. ‘s Nachts werd ik wakker. Myn wakers hadden my alleen gelaten, vertrouwende op m’n gerusten slaap. Ik hoorde niets dan ‘t eentonig stappen van de schildwacht, onder m’n venster…’
‘Wat is dat… ‘n schildwacht?’
‘Definitiën zyn moeielyk. Nadenkende over myn bevelen, bedacht ik dat er iets verzuimd was. De kolonel P… kent ge die?
‘Ik weet niet…’
‘Levenden ken ik niet.’
‘Dat ‘s waar… ik vergat dat we dood zyn. Ik ken hem ook niet meer. Maar toen scheen ik hem te kennen.
Welnu, ik bedacht dat P. misschien te laat zou komen met z’n kolonne, als ik niet spoedig… “Hoe laat is ‘t?” riep ik met schrik.
‘Hoe laat? … Schrik?… wat is dat?’
‘Definitiën zyn moeielyk. Laat of vroeg is iets van tyd…’
‘Wat is dat… tyd?’
‘Dat weet ik niet meer, maar val me niet telkens in de rede. Ik wil u vertellen, waarom ik zo
verdrietig hier ben aangekomen. Ik riep “Hoe laat is ‘t?”
Ik hoorde maar altyd door dat eentonige stappen van den schildwacht, en riep nog eens: ”Hoe laat is ‘t?” zo luid ik kon.
Maar opstaan kon ik niet. Ik was zwaar gewond, en kon ‘t hoofd niet keren naar de pendule. Die wond aan de hals…’
‘Ik zie uw wond niet, en uw hals niet.’
‘ ‘t Is waar, we hebben geen hals hier, en geen wonden. Dat moet wennen. Maar toen had ik een hals, en aan die hals een wond die me belette te zien hoe laat het was. Ik riep weer: “Hoe laat is ‘t?” Geen antwoord.
Maar ik hoorde altyd de tred van die schildwacht.
En ik hoorde hem hoesten, ja, ik hoorde z’n ademhaling Maar als ik riep: ”hoe laat is ‘t?” hoorde hy my niet. Dit ergerde my, maar ik begreep het wel. Die schildwacht was pas rekruut geweest, en had de stiptheid van iemand die iets weet, maar die ‘t nog niet lang weet: hy mocht niet spreken op z’n post. Wist ge dat? ‘
‘Neen, ik was spreker van beroep, en heb dus wel eens gezwegen op myn post, waar ‘t spreken plicht was. En toch ben ik hier!’
‘Nu, myn schildwacht komt zéker hier. Hy deed zyn plicht met rekrutige domheid. Ik riep… ik riep!
Ach, altyd te vergeefs !
Ik kreeg de koorts van ergernis. De volgende morgen kwam men my berichten dat de slag verloren was, omdat kolonel P. te laat was gekomen.
“En, zeiden velen — die nooit ‘n slag verloren, omdat ze nooit slag leverden — ‘t zou anders afgelopen zyn, als Generaal X heden nacht vóór vier uren een estafette had gezonden.”
De domme kwaadaardigheid…’
‘Wat is dat?’
‘Definitiën zyn moeielyk. Val me niet in de rede. De kwaadaardige domheid redeneerde ditmaal juist. Het was wáár! Inderdaad, als ik die nacht een estafette had gezonden…!
Begryp eens hoe verdrietig ik was
Terstond na ‘t bericht van de verloren slag, liet een der manschappen verzoeken by my toegelaten te worden. Men liet hem binnen:
“Generaal, ik ben de schildwacht die op post stond onder uw venster, deze nacht van twee tot vier.”
“Hm!…” zei ik.
“Generaal, ‘t was half drie.”
“O God, riep ik, waarom dat niet eerder gezegd toen ‘t weten my nodig was! “
Daarop ben ik gestorven.
kempis poetry magazine
N o v a l i s
Georg Philipp Friedrich von Hardenberg (1772 – 1801)
Wenn in bangen, trüben Stunden
Wenn in bangen, trüben Stunden
Unser Herz beinah’ verzagt,
Wenn, von Krankheit überwunden,
Angst in unserm Innern nagt,
Wir der Treugeliebten denken,
Wie sie Gram und Kummer drückt,
Wolken unsern Blick beschränken,
Die kein Hoffnungsstrahl durchblickt:
O! dann neigt sich Gott herüber,
Seine Liebe kommt uns nah’:
Sehnen wir uns dann hinüber,
Steht sein Engel vor uns da,
Bringt den Kelch des frischen Lebens,
Lispelt Mut und Trost uns zu,
Und wir beten nicht vergebens
Auch für der Geliebten Ruh’.
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