New Zealand Stories

by Katherine Mansfield

  “It seems to me just as imbecile, just as infernal, to have to go to the office on Monday,” said Jonathan, “as it always has done and always will do. To spend all the best years of one’s life sitting on a stool from nine to five, scratching in somebody’s ledger! It’s a queer use to make of one’s … one and only life, isn’t it? Or do I fondly dream?” He rolled over on the grass and looked up at Linda. “Tell me, what is the difference between my life and that of an ordinary prisoner. The only difference I can see is that I put myself in jail and nobody’s ever going to let me out. That’s a more intolerable situation than the other. For if I’d been — pushed in, against my will — kicking, even — once the door was locked, or at any rate in five years or so, I might have accepted the fact and begun to take an interest in the flight of flies or counting the warder’s steps along the passage with particular attention to variations of tread and so on. But as it is, I’m like an insect that’s flown into a room of its own accord. I dash against the walls, dash against the windows, flop against the ceiling, do everything on God’s earth, in fact, except fly out again. And all the while I’m thinking, like that moth, or that butterfly, or whatever it is, “The shortness of life! The shortness of life!” I’ve only one night or one day, and there’s this vast dangerous garden, waiting out there, undiscovered, unexplored.”

  “But, if you feel like that, why—” began Linda quickly.

  “Ah!” cried Jonathan. And that “Ah!” was somehow almost exultant. “There you have me. Why? Why indeed? There’s the maddening, mysterious question. Why don’t I fly out again? There’s the window or the door or whatever it was I came in by. It’s not hopelessly shut — is it? Why don’t I find it and be off? Answer me that, little sister.” But he gave her no time to answer.

  “I’m exactly like that insect again. For some reason” — Jonathan paused between the words — “it’s not allowed, it’s forbidden, it’s against the insect law, to stop banging and flopping and crawling up the pane even for an instant. Why don’t I leave the office? Why don’t I seriously consider, this moment, for instance, what it is that prevents me leaving? It’s not as though I’m tremendously tied. I’ve two boys to provide for, but, after all, they’re boys. I could cut off to sea, or get a job up-country, or—” Suddenly he smiled at Linda and said in a changed voice, as if he were confiding a secret, “Weak … weak. No stamina. No anchor. No guiding principle, let us call it.” But then the dark velvety voice rolled out:

  Would ye hear the story

  How it unfolds itself …

  and they were silent.

  The sun had set. In the western sky there were great masses of crushed-up rose-coloured clouds. Broad beams of light shone through the clouds and beyond them as if they would cover the whole sky. Overhead the blue faded; it turned a pale gold, and the bush outlined against it gleamed dark and brilliant like metal. Sometimes when those beams of light show in the sky they are very awful. They remind you that up there sits Jehovah, the jealous God, the Almighty, Whose eye is upon you, ever watchful, never weary. You remember that at His coming the whole earth will shake into one ruined graveyard; the cold, bright angels will drive you this way and that, and there will be no time to explain what could be explained so simply…. But to-night it seemed to Linda there was something infinitely joyful and loving in those silver beams. And now no sound came from the sea. It breathed softly as if it would draw that tender, joyful beauty into its own bosom.

  “It’s all wrong, it’s all wrong,” came the shadowy voice of Jonathan. “It’s not the scene, it’s not the setting for … three stools, three desks, three inkpots and a wire blind.”

  Linda knew that he would never change, but she said, “Is it too late, even now?”

  “I’m old — I’m old,” intoned Jonathan. He bent towards her, he passed his hand over his head. “Look!” His black hair was speckled all over with silver, like the breast plumage of a black fowl.

  Linda was surprised. She had no idea that he was grey. And yet, as he stood up beside her and sighed and stretched, she saw him, for the first time, not resolute, not gallant, not careless, but touched already with age. He looked very tall on the darkening grass, and the thought crossed her mind, “He is like a weed.”

  Jonathan stooped again and kissed her fingers.

  “Heaven reward thy sweet patience, lady mine,” he murmured. “I must go seek those heirs to my fame and fortune….” He was gone.

  XI

  Light shone in the windows of the bungalow. Two square patches of gold fell upon the pinks and the peaked marigolds. Florrie, the cat, came out on to the verandah and sat on the top step, her white paws close together, her tail curled round. She looked content, as though she had been waiting for this moment all day.

  “Thank goodness, it’s getting late,” said Florrie. “Thank goodness, the long day is over.” Her greengage eyes opened.

  Presently there sounded the rumble of the coach, the cracking of Kelly’s whip. It came near enough for one to hear the voices of the men from town, talking loudly together. It stopped at the Burnells’ gate.

  Stanley was half-way up the path before he saw Linda. “Is that you, darling?”

  “Yes, Stanley.”

  He leapt across the flower-bed and seized her in his arms. She was enfolded in that familiar, eager, strong embrace.

  “Forgive me, darling, forgive me,” stammered Stanley, and he put his hand under her chin and lifted her face to him.

  “Forgive you?” smiled Linda. “But whatever for?”

  “Good God! You can’t have forgotten,” cried Stanley Burnell. “I’ve thought of nothing else all day. I’ve had the hell of a day. I made up my mind to dash out and telegraph, and then I thought the wire mightn’t reach you before I did. I’ve been in tortures, Linda.”

  “But, Stanley,” said Linda, “what must I forgive you for?”

  “Linda!” — Stanley was very hurt — “didn’t you realise — you must have realised — I went away without saying good-bye to you this morning? I can’t imagine how I can have done such a thing. My confounded temper, of course. But — well” — and he sighed and took her in his arms again — “I’ve suffered for it enough today.”

  “What’s that you’ve got in your hand?” asked Linda. “New gloves? Let me see.”

  “Oh, just a cheap pair of wash-leather ones,” said Stanley humbly. “I noticed Bell was wearing some in the coach this morning, so, as I was passing the shop, I dashed in and got myself a pair. What are you smiling at? You don’t think it was wrong of me, do you?”

  “On the con-trary, darling,” said Linda, “I think it was most sensible.”

  She pulled one of the large, pale gloves on her own fingers and looked at her hand, turning it this way and that. She was still smiling.

  Stanley wanted to say, “I was thinking of you the whole time I bought them.” It was true, but for some reason he couldn’t say it. “Let’s go in,” said he.

  XII

  Why does one feel so different at night? Why is it so exciting to be awake when everybody else is asleep? Late — it is very late! And yet every moment you feel more and more wakeful, as though you were slowly, almost with every breath, waking up into a new, wonderful, far more thrilling and exciting world than the daylight one. And what is this queer sensation that you’re a conspirator? Lightly, stealthily you move about your room. You take something off the dressing-table and put it down again without a sound. And everything, even the bedpost, knows you, responds, shares your secret….

  You’re not very fond of your room by day. You never think about it. You’re in and out, the door opens and slams, the cupboard creaks. You sit down on the side of your bed, change your shoes and dash out again. A dive down to the glass, two pins in your hair, powder your nose and off again. But now — it’s suddenly dear to you. It’s a darling little funny room. It’s yours. Oh, what a joy it is to own things! Mine — my own!

  “My very own for ever?”

  “Yes.” Thei
r lips met.

  No, of course, that had nothing to do with it. That was all nonsense and rubbish. But, in spite of herself, Beryl saw so plainly two people standing in the middle of her room. Her arms were round his neck; he held her. And now he whispered, “My beauty, my little beauty!” She jumped off her bed, ran over to the window and kneeled on the window-seat, with her elbows on the sill. But the beautiful night, the garden, every bush, every leaf, even the white palings, even the stars, were conspirators too. So bright was the moon that the flowers were bright as by day; the shadow of the nasturtiums, exquisite lily-like leaves and wide-open flowers, lay across the silvery verandah. The manuka tree, bent by the southerly winds, was like a bird on one leg stretching out a wing.

  But when Beryl looked at the bush, it seemed to her the bush was sad.

  “We are dumb trees, reaching up in the night, imploring we know not what,” said the sorrowful bush.

  It is true when you are by yourself and you think about life, it is always sad. All that excitement and so on has a way of suddenly leaving you, and it’s as though, in the silence, somebody called your name, and you heard your name for the first time. “Beryl!”

  “Yes, I’m here. I’m Beryl. Who wants me?”

  “Beryl!”

  “Let me come.”

  It is lonely living by oneself. Of course, there are relations, friends, heaps of them; but that’s not what she means. She wants someone who will find the Beryl they none of them know, who will expect her to be that Beryl always. She wants a lover.

  “Take me away from all these other people, my love. Let us go far away. Let us live our life, all new, all ours, from the very beginning. Let us make our fire. Let us sit down to eat together. Let us have long talks at night.”

  And the thought was almost, “Save me, my love. Save me!”

  … “Oh, go on! Don’t be a prude, my dear. You enjoy yourself while you’re young. That’s my advice.” And a high rush of silly laughter joined Mrs Harry Kember’s loud, indifferent neigh.

  You see, it’s so frightfully difficult when you’ve nobody. You’re so at the mercy of things. You can’t just be rude. And you’ve always this horror of seeming inexperienced and stuffy like the other ninnies at the Bay. And — and it’s fascinating to know you’ve power over people. Yes, that is fascinating….

  Oh why, oh why doesn’t “he” come soon?

  If I go on living here, thought Beryl, anything may happen to me.

  “But how do you know he is coming at all?” mocked a small voice within her.

  But Beryl dismissed it. She couldn’t be left. Other people, perhaps, but not she. It wasn’t possible to think that Beryl Fairfield never married, that lovely, fascinating girl.

  “Do you remember Beryl Fairfield?”

  “Remember her! As if I could forget her! It was one summer at the Bay that I saw her. She was standing on the beach in a blue” — no, pink — “muslin frock, holding on a big cream” — no, black — “straw hat. But it’s years ago now.”

  “She’s as lovely as ever, more so if anything.”

  Beryl smiled, bit her lip, and gazed over the garden. As she gazed, she saw somebody, a man, leave the road, step along the paddock beside their palings as if he was coming straight towards her. Her heart beat. Who was it? Who could it be? It couldn’t be a burglar, certainly not a burglar, for he was smoking and he strolled lightly. Beryl’s heart leapt; it seemed to turn right over and then to stop. She recognised him.

  “Good evening, Miss Beryl,” said the voice softly.

  “Good evening.”

  “Won’t you come for a little walk?” it drawled.

  Come for a walk — at that time of night! “I couldn’t. Everybody’s in bed. Everybody’s asleep.”

  “Oh,” said the voice lightly, and a whiff of sweet smoke reached her. “What does everybody matter? Do come! It’s such a fine night. There’s not a soul about.”

  Beryl shook her head. But already something stirred in her, something reared its head.

  The voice said, “Frightened?” It mocked, “Poor little girl!”

  “Not in the least,” said she. As she spoke that weak thing within her seemed to uncoil, to grow suddenly tremendously strong; she longed to go!

  And just as if this was quite understood by the other, the voice said, gently and softly, but finally, “Come along!”

  Beryl stepped over her low window; crossed the verandah, ran down the grass to the gate. He was there before her.

  “That’s right,” breathed the voice, and it teased, “You’re not frightened, are you? You’re not frightened?”

  She was; now she was here she was terrified and it seemed to her everything was different. The moonlight stared and glittered; the shadows were like bars of iron. Her hand was taken.

  “Not in the least,” she said lightly. “Why should I be?”

  Her hand was pulled gently, tugged. She held back.

  “No, I’m not coming any further,” said Beryl.

  “Oh, rot!” Harry Kember didn’t believe her. “Come along! We’ll just go as far as that fuchsia bush. Come along!”

  The fuchsia bush was tall. It fell over the fence in a shower. There was a little pit of darkness beneath.

  “No, really, I don’t want to,” said Beryl.

  For a moment Harry Kember didn’t answer. Then he came close to her, turned to her, smiled and said quickly, “Don’t be silly! Don’t be silly!”

  His smile was something she’d never seen before. Was he drunk? That bright, blind, terrifying smile froze her with horror. What was she doing? How had she got here? The stern garden asked her as the gate pushed open, and quick as a cat Harry Kember came through and snatched her to him.

  “Cold little devil! Cold little devil!” said the hateful voice.

  But Beryl was strong. She slipped, ducked, wrenched free.

  “You are vile, vile,” said she.

  “Then why in God’s name did you come?” stammered Harry Kember.

  Nobody answered him.

  XIII

  A cloud, small, serene, floated across the moon. In that moment of darkness the sea sounded deep, troubled. Then the cloud sailed away, and the sound of the sea was a vague murmur, as though it waked out of a dark dream. All was still.

  The Doll’s House

  — 1921 —

  When dear old Mrs Hay went back to town after staying with the Burnells she sent the children a doll’s house. It was so big that the carter and Pat carried it into the courtyard, and there it stayed, propped up on two wooden boxes beside the feed-room door. No harm could come to it; it was summer. And perhaps the smell of paint would have gone off by the time it had to be taken in. For, really, the smell of paint coming from that doll’s house (“Sweet of old Mrs Hay, of course; most sweet and generous!”) — but the smell of paint was quite enough to make anyone seriously ill, in Aunt Beryl’s opinion. Even before the sacking was taken off. And when it was …

  There stood the doll’s house, a dark, oily, spinach green, picked out with bright yellow. Its two solid little chimneys, glued on to the roof, were painted red and white, and the door, gleaming with yellow varnish, was like a little slab of toffee. Four windows, real windows, were divided into panes by a broad streak of green. There was actually a tiny porch, too, painted yellow, with big lumps of congealed paint hanging along the edge.

  But perfect, perfect little house! Who could possibly mind the smell? It was part of the joy, part of the newness.

  “Open it quickly, someone!”

  The hook at the side was stuck fast. Pat prised it open with his penknife, and the whole house-front swung back, and — there you were, gazing at one and the same moment into the drawing-room and dining-room, the kitchen and two bedrooms. That is the way for a house to open! Why don’t all houses open like that? How much more exciting than peering through the slit of a door into a mean little hall with a hat-stand and two umbrellas! That is — isn’t it? — what you long to know about a house when you put
your hand on the knocker. Perhaps it is the way God opens houses at the dead of night when He is taking a quiet turn with an angel….

  “Oh-oh!” The Burnell children sounded as though they were in despair. It was too marvellous; it was too much for them. They had never seen anything like it in their lives. All the rooms were papered. There were pictures on the walls, painted on the paper, with gold frames complete. Red carpet covered all the floors except the kitchen; red plush chairs in the drawing-room, green in the dining-room; tables, beds with real bedclothes, a cradle, a stove, a dresser with tiny plates and one big jug. But what Kezia liked more than anything, what she liked frightfully, was the lamp. It stood in the middle of the dining-room table, an exquisite little amber lamp with a white globe. It was even filled all ready for lighting, though, of course, you couldn’t light it. But there was something inside that looked like oil and moved when you shook it.

  The father and mother dolls, who sprawled very stiff as though they had fainted in the drawing-room, and their two little children asleep upstairs, were really too big for the doll’s house. They didn’t look as though they belonged. But the lamp was perfect. It seemed to smile at Kezia, to say, “I live here.” The lamp was real.

  The Burnell children could hardly walk to school fast enough the next morning. They burned to tell everybody, to describe, to — well — to boast about their doll’s house before the school bell rang.

  “I’m to tell,” said Isabel, “because I’m the eldest. And you two can join in after. But I’m to tell first.”

  There was nothing to answer. Isabel was bossy; but she was always right, and Lottie and Kezia knew too well the powers that went with being eldest. They brushed through the thick buttercups at the road edge and said nothing.

  “And I’m to choose who’s to come and see it first. Mother said I might.”

  For it had been arranged that while the doll’s house stood in the courtyard they might ask the girls at school, two at a time, to come and look. Not to stay to tea, of course, or to come traipsing through the house. But just to stand quietly in the courtyard while Isabel pointed out the beauties, and Lottie and Kezia looked pleased….