Women Alone

by Katherine Mansfield

  “I love that little boy,” he murmured. And then they both were silent.

  A new silence came between them. Nothing in the least like the satisfactory pause that had followed their greetings — the “Well, here we are together again, and there’s no reason why we shouldn’t go on from just where we left off last time”. That silence could be contained in the circle of warm, delightful fire and lamplight. How many times hadn’t they flung something into it just for the fun of watching the ripples break on the easy shores. But into this unfamiliar pool the head of the little boy sleeping his timeless sleep dropped — and the ripples flowed away, away — boundlessly far — into deep glittering darkness.

  And then both of them broke it. She said: “I must make up the fire,” and he said: “I have been trying a new …” Both of them escaped. She made up the fire and put the table back, the blue chair was wheeled forward, she curled up and he lay back among the cushions. Quickly! Quickly! They must stop it from happening again.

  “Well, I read the book you left last time.”

  “Oh, what do you think of it?”

  They were off and all was as usual. But was it? Weren’t they just a little too quick, too prompt with their replies, too ready to take each other up? Was this really anything more than a wonderfully good imitation of other occasions? His heart beat, her cheek burned, and the stupid thing was she could not discover where exactly they were or what exactly was happening. She hadn’t time to glance back. And just as she had got so far it happened again. They faltered, wavered, broke down, were silent. Again they were conscious of the boundless, questioning dark. Again, there they were — two hunters, bending over their fire, but hearing suddenly from the jungle beyond a shake of wind and a loud, questioning cry….

  She lifted her head. “It’s raining,” she murmured. And her voice was like his when he had said: “I love that little boy.”

  Well. Why didn’t they just give way to it — yield — and see what will happen then? But no. Vague and troubled though they were, they knew enough to realise their precious friendship was in danger. She was the one who would be destroyed — not they — and they’d be no party to that.

  He got up, knocked out his pipe, ran his hand through his hair and said: “I have been wondering very much lately whether the novel of the future will be a psychological novel or not. How sure are you that psychology qua psychology has got anything to do with literature at all?”

  “Do you mean you feel there’s quite a chance that the mysterious non-existent creatures — the young writers of to-day — are trying simply to jump the psycho-analyst’s claim?”

  “Yes, I do. And I think it’s because this generation is just wise enough to know that it is sick and to realise that its only chance of recovery is by going into its symptoms — making an exhaustive study of them — tracking them down — trying to get at the root of the trouble.”

  “But, oh,’ she wailed. “What a dreadfully dismal outlook.”

  “Not at all,” said he. “Look here …” On the talk went. And now it seemed they really had succeeded. She turned in her chair to look at him while she answered. Her smile said: “We have won.” And he smiled back, confident: “Absolutely.”

  But the smile undid them. It lasted too long; it became a grin. They saw themselves as two little grinning puppets jigging away in nothingness.

  “What have we been talking about?” thought he. He was so utterly bored he almost groaned.

  “What a spectacle we have made of ourselves,” thought she. And she saw him laboriously — oh, laboriously — laying out the grounds and herself running after, putting here a tree and there a flowery shrub and here a handful of glittering fish in a pool. They were silent this time from sheer dismay.

  The clock struck six merry little pings and the fire made a soft flutter. What fools they were — heavy, stodgy, elderly — with positively upholstered minds.

  And now the silence put a spell upon them like solemn music. It was anguish — anguish for her to bear it and he would die — he’d die if it were broken…. And yet he longed to break it. Not by speech. At any rate not by their ordinary maddening chatter. There was another way for them to speak to each other, and in the new way he wanted to murmur: “Do you feel this too? Do you understand it at all?” …

  Instead, to his horror, he heard himself say: “I must be off; I’m meeting Brand at six.”

  What devil made him say that instead of the other? She jumped — simply jumped out of her chair, and he heard her crying: “You must rush, then. He’s so punctual. Why didn’t you say so before?”

  “You’ve hurt me; you’ve hurt me! We’ve failed!” said her secret self while she handed him his hat and stick, smiling gaily. She wouldn’t give him a moment for another word, but ran along the passage and opened the big outer door.

  Could they leave each other like this? How could they? He stood on the step and she just inside holding the door. It was not raining now.

  “You’ve hurt me — hurt me,” said her heart. “Why don’t you go? No, don’t go. Stay. No — go!” And she looked out upon the night.

  She saw the beautiful fall of the steps, the dark garden ringed with glittering ivy, on the other side of the road the huge bare willows and above them the sky big and bright with stars. But of course he would see nothing of all this. He was superior to it all. He — with his wonderful “spiritual” vision!

  She was right. He did see nothing at all. Misery! He’d missed it. It was too late to do anything now. Was it too late? Yes, it was. A cold snatch of hateful wind blew into the garden. Curse life! He heard her cry “au revoir” and the door slammed.

  Running back into the studio she behaved so strangely. She ran up and down lifting her arms and crying: “Oh! Oh! How stupid! How imbecile! How stupid!” And then she flung herself down on the sommier thinking of nothing — just lying there in her rage. All was over. What was over? Oh — something was. And she’d never see him again — never. After a long long time (or perhaps ten minutes) had passed in that black gulf her bell rang a sharp quick jingle. It was he, of course. And equally, of course, she oughtn’t to have paid the slightest attention to it but just let it go on ringing and ringing. She flew to answer.

  On the doorstep there stood an elderly virgin, a pathetic creature who simply idolised her (heaven knows why) and had this habit of turning up and ringing the bell and then saying, when she opened the door: “My dear, send me away!” She never did. As a rule she asked her in and let her admire everything and accepted the bunch of slightly soiled-looking flowers — more than graciously. But to-day …

  “Oh, I am so sorry,” she cried. “But I’ve got someone with me. We are working on some wood-cuts. I’m hopelessly busy all evening.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all, darling,” said the good friend. “I was just passing and I thought I’d leave you some violets.” She fumbled down among the ribs of a large old umbrella. “I put them down here. Such a good place to keep flowers out of the wind. Here they are,” she said, shaking out a little dead bunch.

  For a moment she did not take the violets. But while she stood just inside, holding the door, a strange thing happened…. Again she saw the beautiful fall of the steps, the dark garden ringed with glittering ivy, the willows, the big bright sky. Again she felt the silence that was like a question. But this time she did not hesitate. She moved forward. Very softly and gently, as though fearful of making a ripple in that boundless pool of quiet, she put her arms round her friend.

  “My dear,” murmured her happy friend, quite overcome by this gratitude. “They are really nothing. Just the simplest little thrippenny bunch.”

  But as she spoke she was enfolded — more tenderly, more beautifully embraced, held by such a sweet pressure and for so long that the poor dear’s mind positively reeled and she just had the strength to quaver: “Then you really don’t mind me too much?”

  “Good night, my friend,” whispered the other. “Come again soon.”<
br />
  “Oh, I will. I will.”

  This time she walked back to the studio slowly, and standing in the middle of the room with half-shut eyes she felt so light, so rested, as if she had woken up out of a childish sleep. Even the act of breathing was a joy….

  The sommier was very untidy. All the cushions “like furious mountains” as she said; she put them in order before going over to the writing-table.

  “I have been thinking over our talk about the psychological novel,” she dashed off, “it really is intensely interesting….” And so on and so on.

  At the end she wrote: “Good night, my friend. Come again soon.”

  The Daughters of the Late Colonel

  —1920—

  I

  The week after was one of the busiest weeks of their lives. Even when they went to bed it was only their bodies that lay down and rested; their minds went on, thinking things out, talking things over, wondering, deciding, trying to remember where …

  Constantia lay like a statue, her hands by her sides, her feet just overlapping each other, the sheet up to her chin. She stared at the ceiling.

  “Do you think father would mind if we gave his top-hat to the porter?”

  “The porter?” snapped Josephine. “Why ever the porter? What a very extraordinary idea!”

  “Because,” said Constantia slowly, “he must often have to go to funerals. And I noticed at — at the cemetery that he only had a bowler.” She paused. “I thought then how very much he’d appreciate a top-hat. We ought to give him a present, too. He was always very nice to father.”

  “But,” cried Josephine, flouncing on her pillow and staring across the dark at Constantia, “father’s head!” And suddenly, for one awful moment, she nearly giggled. Not, of course, that she felt in the least like giggling. It must have been habit. Years ago, when they had stayed awake at night talking, their beds had simply heaved. And now the porter’s head, disappearing, popped out, like a candle, under father’s hat…. The giggle mounted, mounted; she clenched her hands; she fought it down; she frowned fiercely at the dark and said “Remember” terribly sternly.

  “We can decide to-morrow,” she said.

  Constantia had noticed nothing; she sighed.

  “Do you think we ought to have our dressing-gowns dyed as well?”

  “Black?” almost shrieked Josephine.

  “Well, what else?” said Constantia. “I was thinking — it doesn’t seem quite sincere, in a way, to wear black out of doors and when we’re fully dressed, and then when we’re at home—”

  “But nobody sees us,” said Josephine. She gave the bedclothes such a twitch that both her feet came uncovered and she had to creep up the pillows to get them well under again.

  “Kate does,” said Constantia. “And the postman very well might.”

  Josephine thought of her dark-red slippers, which matched her dressing-gown, and of Constantia’s favourite indefinite green ones which went with hers. Black! Two black dressing-gowns and two pairs of black woolly slippers, creeping off to the bathroom like black cats.

  “I don’t think it’s absolutely necessary,” said she.

  Silence. Then Constantia said, “We shall have to post the papers with the notice in them to-morrow to catch the Ceylon mail…. How many letters have we had up till now?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  Josephine had replied to them all, and twenty-three times when she came to “We miss our dear father so much” she had broken down and had to use her handkerchief, and on some of them even to soak up a very light-blue tear with an edge of blotting-paper. Strange! She couldn’t have put it on — but twenty-three times. Even now, though, when she said over to herself sadly, “We miss our dear father so much,” she could have cried if she’d wanted to.

  “Have you got enough stamps?” came from Constantia.

  “Oh, how can I tell?” said Josephine crossly. “What’s the good of asking me that now?”

  “I was just wondering,” said Constantia mildly.

  Silence again. There came a little rustle, a scurry, a hop.

  “A mouse,” said Constantia.

  “It can’t be a mouse because there aren’t any crumbs,” said Josephine.

  “But it doesn’t know there aren’t,” said Constantia.

  A spasm of pity squeezed her heart. Poor little thing! She wished she’d left a tiny piece of biscuit on the dressing-table. It was awful to think of it not finding anything. What would it do?

  “I can’t think how they manage to live at all,” she said slowly.

  “Who?” demanded Josephine.

  And Constantia said more loudly than she meant to, “Mice.”

  Josephine was furious. “Oh, what nonsense, Con!” she said. “What have mice got to do with it? You’re asleep.”

  “I don’t think I am,” said Constantia. She shut her eyes to make sure. She was.

  Josephine arched her spine, pulled up her knees, folded her arms so that her fists came under her ears, and pressed her cheek hard against the pillow.

  II

  Another thing which complicated matters was they had Nurse Andrews staying on with them that week. It was their own fault; they had asked her. It was Josephine’s idea. On the morning — well, on the last morning, when the doctor had gone, Josephine had said to Constantia, “Don’t you think it would be rather nice if we asked Nurse Andrews to stay on for a week as our guest?”

  “Very nice,” said Constantia.

  “I thought,” went on Josephine quickly, “I should just say this afternoon, after I’ve paid her, ‘My sister and I would be very pleased, after all you’ve done for us, Nurse Andrews, if you would stay on for a week as our guest.’ I’d have to put that in about being our guest in case—”

  “Oh, but she could hardly expect to be paid!” cried Constantia. “One never knows,” said Josephine sagely.

  Nurse Andrews had, of course, jumped at the idea. But it was a bother. It meant they had to have regular sit-down meals at the proper times, whereas if they’d been alone they could just have asked Kate if she wouldn’t have minded bringing them a tray wherever they were. And meal-times now that the strain was over were rather a trial.

  Nurse Andrews was simply fearful about butter. Really they couldn’t help feeling that about butter, at least, she took advantage of their kindness. And she had that maddening habit of asking for just an inch more bread to finish what she had on her plate, and then, at the last mouthful, absent-mindedly — of course it wasn’t absent-mindedly — taking another helping. Josephine got very red when this happened, and she fastened her small, bead-like eyes on the tablecloth as if she saw a minute strange insect creeping through the web of it. But Constantia’s long, pale face lengthened and set, and she gazed away — away — far over the desert, to where that line of camels unwound like a thread of wool….

  “When I was with Lady Tukes,” said Nurse Andrews, “she had such a dainty little contrayvance for the buttah. It was a silvah Cupid balanced on the — on the bordah of a glass dish, holding a tayny fork. And when you wanted some buttah you simply pressed his foot and he bent down and speared you a piece. It was quite a gayme.”

  Josephine could hardly bear that. But “I think those things are very extravagant” was all she said.

  “But whey?” asked Nurse Andrews, beaming through her eyeglasses. “No one, surely, would take more buttah than one wanted — would one?”

  “Ring, Con,” cried Josephine. She couldn’t trust herself to reply.

  And proud young Kate, the enchanted princess, came in to see what the old tabbies wanted now. She snatched away their plates of mock something or other and slapped down a white, terrified blancmange.

  “Jam, please, Kate,” said Josephine kindly.

  Kate knelt and burst open the sideboard, lifted the lid of the jam-pot, saw it was empty, put it on the table, and stalked off.

  “I’m afraid,” said Nurse Andrews a moment later, “there isn’t any.”

  “Oh, what a
bother!” said Josephine. She bit her lip. “What had we better do?”

  Constantia looked dubious. “We can’t disturb Kate again,” she said softly.

  Nurse Andrews waited, smiling at them both. Her eyes wandered, spying at everything behind her eyeglasses. Constantia in despair went back to her camels. Josephine frowned heavily — concentrated. If it hadn’t been for this idiotic woman she and Con would, of course, have eaten their blancmange without. Suddenly the idea came.

  “I know,” she said. “Marmalade. There’s some marmalade in the sideboard. Get it, Con.”

  “I hope,” laughed Nurse Andrews — and her laugh was like a spoon tinkling against a medicine-glass — “I hope it’s not very bittah marmalayde.”

  III

  But, after all, it was not long now, and then she’d be gone for good. And there was no getting over the fact that she had been very kind to father. She had nursed him day and night at the end. Indeed, both Constantia and Josephine felt privately she had rather overdone the not leaving him at the very last. For when they had gone in to say good-bye Nurse Andrews had sat beside his bed the whole time, holding his wrist and pretending to look at her watch. It couldn’t have been necessary. It was so tactless, too. Supposing father had wanted to say something — something private to them. Not that he had. Oh, far from it! He lay there, purple, a dark, angry purple in the face, and never even looked at them when they came in. Then, as they were standing there, wondering what to do, he had suddenly opened one eye. Oh, what a difference it would have made, what a difference to their memory of him, how much easier to tell people about it, if he had only opened both! But no — one eye only. It glared at them a moment and then … went out.

  IV

  It had made it very awkward for them when Mr Farolles, of St John’s, called the same afternoon.