Section 8 of Something Childish in Other Stories. This is a LibriVox recording, while LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Something Childish in Other Stories by Catherine Mansfield, The Little Girl. To the little girl, he was a figure to be feared and avoided. Every morning, before going to business, he came into the nursery and gave her a perfunctory kiss, to which she responded with, Goodbye, Father. And oh, the glad sense of relief when she heard the noise of the buggy growing fainter and fainter down the long road. In the evening, leaning over the banisters at his homecoming, she heard his loud voice in the hall. Bring me my tea into the smoking room. Hasn't the paper come yet? Have they taken it into the kitchen again? Mother, go and see if my paper's out there. And bring me my slippers. Kezia, mother, would call to her.  Slowly the girl would slip down the stairs, holding tightly on the banisters with one hand. More slowly, still, across the hall and push open the smoking room door. By that time, he had his spectacles on and looked at her over them in a way that was terrifying to the little girl.  And a good girl today? I d-d-d-don't know, Father. You d-d-d-don't know? If you stutter like that, Mother will have to take you to the doctor. She never stuttered with other people, had quite given it up, but only with Father, because then she was trying so hard to say the words properly. What's the matter? What are you looking so wretched about? I wish you would teach this child not to appear on the brink of suicide. Here, Kezia, carry my teacup back to the table. Carefully. Your hands jog like an old lady's. And try to keep your handkerchief in your pocket, not up your sleeve. Yes, Father. On Sundays, she sat in the same pew with him in church, listening while he sang in a loud, clear voice, watching while he made little notes during the sermon with the stump of a blue pencil on the back of an envelope. His eyes narrowed to a slit, one hand beating a silent tattoo on the pew ledge. He said his prayers so loudly she was certain God heard him above the clergyman.  Thinking about him alone in the nursery was like thinking about a giant. On Sunday afternoon's grandmother sent her down to the drawing room, dressed in her brown velvet, to have a nice talk with Father and Mother. But the little girl always found Mother reading the sketch, and Father stretched out on the couch, his handkerchief on his face. His feet propped on one of the best sofa pillows, and so soundly sleeping that he snored. She, perched on the piano stool, gravely watched him until he woke and stretched, and asked the time, then looked at her. Don't stare so, Kezia.  One day, when she was kept indoors with the cold, the grandmother told her that Father's birthday was next week, and suggested she should make him a pin cushion for a present out of a beautiful piece of yellow silk. Laboriously, with a double cotton, the little girl stitched three sides. But what to fill it with? That was the question. The grandmother was out in the garden, and she wandered into Mother's bedroom to look for scraps. On the bed table she discovered a great many sheets of fine paper, gathered them up, shredded them into tiny pieces, and stuffed her case, then sewed up the fourth side. That night there was a hue and cry over the house. Father's great speech for the poor authority had been lost. Rooms were ransacked, servants questioned. Finally Mother came into the nursery. Kezia, I suppose you didn't see some papers on a table in our room. Oh, yes, she said. I tore them up for my surprise. What? screamed Mother, come straight down to the dining room this instant. And she was dragged down to where Father was pacing to and fro, hands behind his back. Well, he said sharply. Mother explained. He stopped and stared in a stupefied manner at the child. Did you do that? Nuh, nuh, no, she whispered.  See that the child's put to bed at this instant. Crying too much to explain, she lay in the shadow room watching the evening light sift through the Venetian blinds and trace a sad little pattern on the floor. Then Father came into the room with a ruler in his hands. I am going to whip you for this, he said. Oh, no, no, she screamed, cowering down under the bedclothes. He pulled them aside, sit up, he commanded, and hold out your hands. You must be taught once and for all not to touch what does not belong to you, but it was for your birthday.  Hours later, when the grandmother had wrapped her in a shawl and rocked her in the rocking chair, the child cuddled close to her soft body. What did Jesus make fathers for? She sobbed. Here's a clean hanky, darling, with some of my lavender water on it. Go to sleep, pet. You'll forget all about it in the morning. I tried to explain to Father, but he was too upset to listen tonight. But the child never forgot. Next time she saw him, she whipped both hands behind her back, and a red color flew into her cheeks. The McDonald's lived in the next door house. Five children there were. Looking through a hole in the vegetable garden fence, the little girl saw them playing tag in the evening. The father with the baby Mac on his shoulders, two little girls hanging onto his coattails, ran round and round the flower beds, shaking with laughter. Once she saw the boys turn the hose on him, turn the hose on him, and he made a great grab at them, tickling them until they got hiccups. Then it was she decided there were different sorts of fathers. Suddenly, one day, mother became ill, and she and grandmother drove into town in a closed carriage. The little girl was left alone in the house with Alice, the general. That was all right in the daytime. But while Alice was putting her to bed, she grew suddenly afraid. What'll I do if I have nightmare? She asked. I often have nightmare. And then Granny takes me into her bed. I can't stay in the dark. It all gets whispery. What'll I do if I do? You just go to sleep, child, said Alice pulling off her socks and whacking them against the bed rail.  But the same old nightmare came. The butcher with a knife and a rope grew nearer and nearer, smiling that dreadful smile. While she could not move, could only stand still, crying out, Grandma, Grandma! She woke, shivering, to see Father beside her bed, a candle in his hand. What's the matter? He said. Oh, a butcher, a knife. I want Granny. He blew out the candle, bent down and caught up the child in his arms, carrying her along the passage to the big bedroom. A newspaper was on the bed. A half-smoked cigar balanced against his reading lamp. He pitched the paper on the floor, threw the cigar into the fireplace, then carefully tucked up the child. He lay down beside her, half asleep still, still with the butcher's smile all about her. It seemed. She crept close to him. Snuggled her head under his arm, held tightly to his pajama jacket. Then the dark did not matter. She lay still. Here, rub your feet against my legs and get the morm. Said Father, tired out. He slept before the little girl. A funny feeling came over her. Poor Father, not so big, after all, and with no one to look after him. He was harder than the grandmother, but it was a nice hardness. And every day he had to work and was too tired to be a Mr. McDonald. She had torn up all his beautiful writing. She stirred suddenly, and sighed, What's the matter? Asked Father. Another dream. Oh, said the little girl, My head's on your heart. I can hear it going. What a big heart you've got, Father dear. End of Section 8 Section 9 of Something Childish in Other Stories This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Something Childish in Other Stories by Catherine Mansfield. Millie. Millie stood leaning against the veranda until the men were out of sight. When they were far down the road, Willie Cox turned round on his horse and waved. But she didn't wave back.  Not a bad young fellow, Willie Cox, but a bit too free and easy for her taste. Oh, my word. It was hot. Enough to fry your hair.  In the distance along the dusty road she could see the horses, like brown spots dancing up and down. And when she looked away from them and over the burnt paddocks, she could see them still. Just before her eyes, jumping like mosquitoes, it was half past two in the afternoon. The sun hung in the faded blue sky like a burning mirror. And away beyond the paddocks, the blue mountains quivered and leapt like sea. Sid wouldn't be back until half past ten. He had ridden over to the township with four of the boys to help hunt down the young fellow who'd murdered Mr. Williamson. Such a dreadful thing. And Mrs. Williamson left all alone with all those kids. Funny. She couldn't think of Mr. Williamson being dead. He was such a one for a joke, always having a lark. Willie Cox said they found him in the barn, shot bang through the head, and the young English Johnny, who'd been on the station learning farming, disappeared. Funny. She couldn't think of anyone shooting Mr. Williamson and him so popular and all. My word. When they caught that young man. Well, you couldn't be sorry for a young fellow like that. As Sid said, if he wasn't strung up, where would they all be? A man like that doesn't stop at one go. There was blood all over the barn. And Willie Cox said he was that knocked out. He picked a cigarette up out of the blood and smoked it. My word. He must have been half-doddy. Millie went back into the kitchen. She put some ashes on the stove and sprinkled them with water.  She cleared away at the dinner and, going into the bedroom, stared at herself in the fly-specked mirror and wiped her face and neck with a towel. She didn't know what was the matter with herself that afternoon. She could have a good cry just for nothing. And then changed her blouse and have a good cup of tea. Yes, she felt like that. She flopped down on the side of the bed and stared at the colored print on the wall opposite. Garden party at Windsor Castle. In the foreground, emerald lawns painted with immense oak trees. And in their grateful shade, a muddle of ladies and gentlemen and parasols and little tables. The background was filled with the towers of Windsor Castle, flying three Union jacks. And in the middle of the picture, the old queen, like a tea cozy with a head on top of it. I wonder if it really looked like that. Milly stared at the flowery ladies who simpered back at her. I wouldn't care for that sort of thing. Too much side. What with the queen and one thing and another. Over the packing case dressing table, there was a large photograph of her and Sid taken on their wedding day. Nice picture that, if you do like. She was sitting down in a basket chair in her cream cashmere and satin ribbons. And Sid, standing with one hand on her shoulder, looking at her bouquet. And behind them there were some fern trees and a waterfall and Mount Cook in the distance. Covered with snow, she had almost forgotten her wedding day. Time did pass so, and if you hadn't anyone to talk things over with, they soon dropped out of your mind. I wonder why we never had no kids. She shrugged her shoulders, gave it up. Well, I've never missed them. I wouldn't be surprised if Sid had, though. He's softer than me. And then she said quiet, thinking of nothing at all. Her red swollen hands rolled in her apron.   Tick, tick, went the kitchen clock. The ashes clinked in the grate and the Venetian blind knocked against the kitchen window. Quite suddenly Millie felt frightened.  There's somebody about. She tiptoed to the door and peered into the kitchen. Nobody there. The veranda doors were closed. The blinds were down. And in the dusky light, the white face of the clock shone. And the furniture seemed to bulge and breathe. And listen, too. The clock, the ashes, and the Venetian. And then again, something else, like steps in the backyard. Go and see what it is, Millie Evans. She darted to the back door, opened it, and at the same moment someone ducked behind the woodpile. Who's that? She cried in a loud, bold voice. Come out of that. I, senior, I know where you are. I got my gun. Come out from behind of that wood stack. She was not frightened anymore. She was furiously angry. Her heart banged like a drum. I'll teach you to play tricks with a woman. She yelled. And she took a gun from the kitchen corner and dashed down the veranda steps across the glaring yard to the other side of the wood stack. A young man lay there, on his stomach, one arm across his face.  Your shaman. Still holding the gun, she kicked him in the shoulders. He gave no sign. Oh, my God. I believe he's dead. She knelt down, seized hold of him, and turned him over on his back. He rolled like a sack. She crouched back on her haunches, staring. Her lips and nostrils fluttered with horror. He was not much more than a boy, with fair hair, and a growth of fair down on his lips and chin. His eyes were open, rolled up, showing the whites. And his face was patched with dust, caked with sweat. He wore a cotton shirt and trousers, with sand shoes on his feet. One of the trousers was stuck to his leg with a patch of dark blood. I can't, said Millie. And then, you've got to. She bent over and felt his heart. Wait a minute. She stammered. Wait a minute. And she ran into the house for Brandy in a pail of water. What are you going to do, Millie Evans? Oh, I don't know. I never seen anyone in a dead faint before. She knelt down, put her arm under the boy's head, and poured some Brandy between his lips. It spilled down both sides of his mouth. She dipped a corner of her apron in the water and wiped his face and his hair and his throat with fingers that trembled. Under the dust and sweat his face gleamed, white as her apron, and thin and puckered in little lines. A strange, dreadful feeling gripped Millie Evans' spoozum, some seed that had never flourished there. Unfolded and struck deep roots and burst into painful leaf. Are your coming round, feeling all right again? The boy breathed sharply, half choked. His eyelids quivered, and he moved his head from side to side. You're better, said Millie, smoothing his hair, feeling fine now again, ain't you? The pain in her bosom half suffocated her. It's no good you crying, Millie Evans. You got to keep your head. Quite suddenly he sat up and leaned against the woodpile, away from her, staring on the ground. There, now, cried Millie Evans, in a strange, shaking voice.  After a long pause he said, in the little voice of a child talking in sleep, I'm hungry, his lips quivered. She scrambled to her feet and stood over him. You come right into the house and have a sit-down meal. She said, can you walk? Yes, he whispered, and swaying he followed her across the glaring yard to the veranda. At the bottom step he paused, looking at her again. I'm not coming in, he said. He sat on the veranda step in the little pool of shade that lay round the house. Millie watched him. When did your last have anything to eat? He shook his head. She cut a chunk off the greasy corned beef and a round of bread plastered with butter. But when she brought it, he was standing up, glancing around him, and paid no attention to the plate of food. When are they coming back? He stammered. At that moment she knew. She stood, holding the plate, staring. He was Harrison. He was the English Johnny who had killed Mr. Williamson. I know who you are. She said, very slowly, you can't fucks me. That's who you are. I must have been blind in me two eyes not to have known from the first. He made a movement with his hands as though that was all nothing. When are they coming back? And she meant to say, any minute, they're on their way now. Instead she said to the dreadful, frightened face, not till off Pustan. He sat down, leaning against one of the veranda poles. His face broke up into little quivers.  Nothing but a kid and all them fellows after him. You don't stand any more of a chance than a kid would. Try a bit of beef, said Millie. It's the food you want. Something to steady your stomach. She moved across the veranda and sat down beside him. The plate on her knees. Here, try a bit. She broke the bread and butter into little pieces and she thought, they won't catch him. Not if I can help it. Men is all beasts. I don't care what he's done or what he hasn't done. See him through.  Millie lay on her back. Her eyes wide open, listening. Sid turned over. Honched the quilt round his shoulders. Muddered, good night, old girl. She heard Willie Cox and the other chap drop their clothes onto the kitchen floor and then their voices. And Willie Cox saying, Lie down, Gumball.  The house dropped quiet. Little pulses tapped in her body, listening too. It was hot. She was frightened to move because of Sid. He must get off. He must.  She thought savagely. How are you to know what anything's like till or do? No, it's all rot. She strained to the silence. He ought to be moving. Before there was a sound from outside. Willie Cox's Gumball got up and padded sharply across the kitchen floor and sniffed at the back door. Terror started up in Millie. What's that dog doing? Huh?  Why don't he lie down and sleep? The dog stopped. But she knew it was listening. Suddenly, with a sound that made her cry out in horror, the dog started barking and rushing to and fro. What's that? What's up? Sid flung out of bed. It ain't nothing. It's only Gumball. Sid, Sid.  My Christ, there's something up. My God. Sid flung into his trousers. Willie Cox opened the back door. Gumball in a fury darted out into the yard. Round the corner of the house. The paddock roared the other chap. What is it? What's that? Sid dashed out onto the front veranda. Air, Millie, take the lantern. Willie, some skunks got old of one of the horses. The three men bolted out of the house. And at the same moment Millie saw Harrison dash across the paddock on Sid's horse and down the road. Millie, ring that blasted lantern. She ran in her bare feet. Her nightdress flicking her legs. They were after him in a flash. And at the sight of Harrison in the distance. And the three men hot after. A strange mad joy smothered everything else. She rushed into the road. She laughed and shrieked and danced in the dust, jigging the lantern. Uh-huh. Arturum, Sid. Uh-uh-uh-uh. Catch him, Willie. Go it, go it. Uh-uh, Sid. Arturum. End of Section 9. Section 10 of Something Childish in Other Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Something Childish in Other Stories by Catherine Mansfield. Pension Sigein. The servant who opened the door was twin sister to that efficient hideous creature bearing a soup terrine into the first French pitcher. Her round red face shone like freshly washed china. She had a pair of immense bare arms to match. And a quantity of modeled hair arranged in a sort of bow. I stammered in a ridiculous, breathless fashion as though a pack of Russian wolves were behind me. Rather than five flights of beautifully polished French stairs. Have you a room? The girl did not know. She would ask Madame. Madame was at dinner. Will you come in, please? Through the dark hall, guarded by a large black stove that had the appearance of a headless cat with one red all-seeing eye in the middle of its stomach, I followed her into the salon. Please to sit down. Said the servant girl, closing the door behind her. I heard her list slippers shuffle along the corridor. The sound of another door opening. A little clamor instantly suppressed. Silence followed. The salon was long and narrow with a yellow floor dotted with white mats. White Muslim curtains hit the windows. The walls were white, decorated with pictures of pale ladies drifting down Cyprus avenues to forsaken temples and moons rising over boundless oceans. You would have thought that all the long years of Madame's virginity had been devoted to the making of white mats that her childish voice had lisped its numbers in crochet work stitches. I did not dare to begin counting them. They rained upon me from every possible place like impossible snowflakes. Even the piano stool was buttoned into one embroidered with P, F. I had been looking for a resting place at the start I flew up innumerable stairs as though they were major scales. The most cheerful things in the world. But after repeated failures the scales had resolved into the minor and my heart which was quite cast down by this time leapt up again at these signs and tokens of virtue and sobriety. A woman with such sober passions thought I is bound to be quiet and clean with few babies and a much absent husband. Mats are not the sort of things that lend themselves in their making to cheerful singing. Mats are essentially the fruits of pious solitude. I shall certainly take a room here. And I began to dream of unpacking my clothes in a little white room and getting into a kimono and lying on a white bed watching the curtains float out from the windows in the delicious automare that smelled of apples and honey. Until the door opened and a tall thin woman in a lilac pinafore came in smiling in a vague fashion. Madam Sigeen? Yes, Madam. I repeated the familiar story. A quiet room removed from any church bells or crowing cocks or little boys schools or railway stations. There are none of such things anywhere near her, said Madam, looking very surprised. I have a very beautiful room to let and quite unexpectedly. It has been occupied by a young gentleman from Buenos Aires whose father died, unfortunately, and implored him to return home immediately. Quite natural, indeed. Oh, very. Said I, hoping that the Hamlet-like apparition was at rest again and would not invade my solitude to make certain of his son's obedience. If Madam will follow me down a dark corridor round a corner I felt my way. I wanted to ask Madam if this was where Buenos Aires pair appeared unto his son, but I did not dare to. Here, you see, quite away from everything, said Madam. I have always viewed with a proper amount of respect and abhorrence those penetrating spirits who are not susceptible to appearances. What is there to believe in except appearances? I have nearly always found that they are the only things worth enjoying at all. And if ever an innocent child lays its head upon my knee and begs for the truth of the matter, I shall tell it the story of my one and only nurse, who, knowing my horror of Gooseberry Jam, spread a coat of apricot over the top of the jam jar. As long as I believed it, apricot was my copy, and learning wisdom, I can try to eat the apricot and leave the Gooseberry behind. So, you see, my little innocent creature, I shall end. The great thing to learn in this life is to be content with appearances. And shun the vulgarities of the grocer and philosopher. Bright sunlight streamed through the windows of the delightful room. There was an alcove for the bed. The waiting table was placed against the window, a couch against the wall. And outside the window, I looked down upon an avenue of gold and red trees and up at a range of mountains, white with fresh fallen snow, 180 francs a month, murmured Madam, smiling at nothing, but seeming to imply by her manner. Of course, this has nothing to do with the matter. I said, that is too much. I cannot afford more than 150 francs. But, explained Madam, the size, the alcove, and the extreme rarity of being overlooked by so many mountains. Yes, I said. And then the food. There are four meals a day and breakfast in your room if you wish it. Yes, I said, more feebly. And my husband, a professor at the conservator, that again is so rare. Courage is like a disobedient dog once it starts running away it flies all the faster for your attempts to recall it. 160, I said. If you agree to take it for two months, I will accept, said Madam, very quickly. I agreed. Marie helped to unstrap my boxes. She knelt on the floor, grinning and scratching her big red arms. Ah, how glad I am, Madam, has come, she said. Now we shall have some life again, Monsieur Arthur, who lived in this room. He was a gay one, singing all day and sometimes dancing. Many a time, Mademoiselle, would be playing and he'd dance for an hour without stopping. Who is Mademoiselle? I asked. A young lady studying at the conservator said Marie, sniffing in a very friendly fashion, which she gives lessons to. Sometimes when I am dusting in her room I think her fingers will drop off. She plays all day long. But I like that. That's life. Noises. That's what I say. You'll hear her soon. Up and down she goes, said Marie, with extreme hardiness. But I cried, loathing Marie. How many other people are staying here? Marie shrugged. Nobody to speak of. There's the Russian gentleman. The priest he is. And Madem's three children. And that's all. The children are lively enough. She said, filling the wash stand picture. But then there's the baby. The boy. Ah.  Soon enough. She was so detestable. I would not ask her anything further. I waited until she was gone and leaned against the windowsill. Watching the sun deepen in the trees with gold. And wondering what was the matter with the mysterious baby. All through the afternoon, Mademoiselle and Betty T. Elos and the piano wored with the Appassionata sonata. They shattered it to bits and remade it to their heart's desire. They unpicked it and tried it in various styles. They added a little touch. Caught up something. Finally they decided that the only thing the mysterious baby hidden behind heaven knows how many doors cried with such curious persistence that I had to strain my ears. Wondering if it was a baby or an engine or a far-off whistle. At dusk Marie, accompanied by the two little girls, brought me a lamp. My appearance disturbed these charming children to such an extent that they rushed up and down the corridor in a frenzied state for half an hour afterwards with themselves against the walls and shrieking with derisive laughter. At eight the gong sounded for supper. I was hungry. The corridor was filled with the warm, strong smell of cooked meat. Well, I thought, at any rate, judging by the smell, the food must be good. And feeling very frightened, I entered the dining room. Two rows of faces turned to watch me. Madem, Sigeen, introduced me. Wrapped on the table with the soup spoon and the two little girls, impudent and scornful, cried, Bonsoir! Madem, while the baby half-washed away by his afternoon's performance, emptied his cup of milk over his head while Madem, Sigeen, showed me my seat. In the confusion caused by this last episode and by his being carried away by Marie, screaming and spitting with rage, I sat down next to the Russian priest and opposite Mademoiselle Ambedialos. Monsieur, Sigeen, took a loaf of bread from a three-legged basket at his elbow and carved it against his chest. Soup was served with vermicelli, letters of the alphabet floating in it. These were last straws to the little Sigeen's table manners. Mom, Yen, Yvonne's got more letters than me. Mom, Yen! Haleen keeps taking my letters out with her spoon. Children, children, quiet, quiet! Said Madem, Sigeen, gently. No, don't do it. Haleen seized Yvonne's plate and pulled it towards her. Stop! Said Madem, Sigeen, who was like a rat. With spectacles all misted over with soup steam. Haleen, leave the table.  Soup was followed by chestnuts and Brussels sprouts. All the time Russian priests who wore a pale blue tie with a buttoned frock coat and a mustache fierce as a go-go novel, kept up a flow of conversation with Mademoiselle and Matelos. She looked very young. She was stout, with a high firm bust decorated with a spray of artificial roses. She never ceased touching the roses or her blouse or hair or looking at her hands with a smile trembling on her mouth and her blue eyes wide and she seemed half intoxicated with her fresh young body. I saw you this morning when you didn't see me. Said the priest. You didn't. I did. He didn't. Did he, Madem? Madem, Sigeen, smiled and carried away the chestnuts bringing back a dish of pears. I hope you'll come into the salon after dinner, she said to me. We always chat a little.  I smiled wondering why pears should follow chestnuts. I must apologize for baby. She went on. He is so nervous. But he spends his day in a room at the other end of the apartment to you. You will not be troubled. Only think of it. He passes whole days banging his little head against the floor and walls. The doctors cannot understand it at all. Monsieur Sigeen pushed back his chair. Said Grace. I followed desperately into the salon. I expect you have been admiring my mats, said Madame Sigeen. With more animation than she had hitherto shown, people, I was imagining they are the product of my industry. But alas, no, they are all made by my friend, Madame Coomer, who has the pension on the first floor. End of section 10. Section 11 of Something to Oddish and Other Stories. This is a Leopard Fox recording. All Leopard Fox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LeopardFox.org. Something Childish and Other Stories by Catherine Mansfield, Violet. I'm Eddie Young-Burgeon who sadly did moan. There is a very anxious and irritating English proverb to the effect that every cloud has a silver lining. What comfort can it be to one steeped to the eyebrows and clouds to ponder over their linings? And what an unpleasant picture postcard seal it sets upon one's tragedy, turning it into a little ha-penny monstrosity with a moon in the left-hand corner like a vane-glorious three-penny bit? Nevertheless, like most anxious and irritating things, it is true. The lining woke me after my first night at the pension Sigeen and showed me over the feather bolster of room right with sunlight as if every golden-haired baby in heaven were pelting the earth with buttercup posies. What a charming fancy, I thought. How much prettier than the proverb. It sounds like a day in the country with Catherine Tynan. And I saw a little picture of myself and Catherine Tynan being handed glasses of milk by a red-faced woman with an immensely fat apron while we discuss the direct truth of proverbs as opposed to a policy of playful babies. But in such a case, imaginary I was ranged on the side of the proverbs. There's a lot of sound sense in them, said that course-being. I admire the way they put their collective foot down upon the female attempt to embroider everything. The picture that goes too often to the well gets broken. Also, gut. Not even a loophole for a set of verses to a broken picture. No possible of the well being one of those symbolic fonts to which all hearts in the form of pictures are carried. The only proverb I disapprove of when on this impossible creature, pulling a spring onion from the garden bed and chewing on it is the one about a bird in the hand. I naturally prefer birds and bushes. But, said Catherine Tynan, tender and brooding, as she lifted a little green fly from the male glass. But if you were St. Francis, the bird would not mind being in your hand. It would prefer the white nest of your fingers to any bush. I jumped out of bed and ran over to the window and opened it wide and leaned out. Down below in the avenue, a wind shook and swung the trees. The scent of leaves was on the lifting air. The houses lining the avenue were small and white. Charming face-looking little houses, showing glimpses of lace and knots of ribbon for all the world like country children in a row about to play, nuts, and may. I began to imagine an adorable little creature named Yvette, who lived in one and all of these houses. She spends her morning in a white lace boudoir cap, worked with Daisy's sipping chocolate from a several cup with one hand.  When one of the balcony windows opened an astout servant swaggered out with her arms full of rugs and carpet strips. With a gesture expressing fury and disgust, she flung them over the railing, disappeared, reappeared again with a long handle cane broom and fell upon the wretched rugs and carpets. Bang! Whack! Whack! Bang! They're feeble, pitiful, cheeking, inflamed her to ever greater effort. Clouds of dust flew up around her and when one little rug escaped and flocked down to the avenue below, like a fish, she leaned over the balcony shaking her fist and the broom at it. Lured by the noise, an old gentle man came to a window opposite and cast an eye of approval upon the industrious girl and yawned in the face of the lovely day. There was an air of detachment and deliberation about the way he carefully felled over, the muscles of his arms and legs pressed his throat, coughed and shot a jet of spittle out of the window. Nobody seemed more surprised at his last feet than he. He seemed to regard it as a small triumph in its way, butting his immense stomach into a white PK waistcoat with every appearance of satisfaction. Away flew my charming event in a black and white check dress, an alpaca apron and a market basket over her arm. I dressed, ate a roll and drank some tepid coffee, feeling very sobered. I thought how true it was that the world was a place if it were not for the people and how more than true it was that people were not worth troubling about, and that wise men should set their affections upon nothing smaller than cities, heavenly or otherwise, and countrysides which are always heavenly. With these reflections, both pious and smug, I put on my hat, groped my way along the dark passage and ran down the five flights of stairs into the Rue Saint Elyseur. There was a garden on the opposite side of the street, through which one walked to the university and the more pretentious avenues, fronting the Place du Vieter. Although autumn was well advanced, not a leaf had fallen from the trees, the little shrubs and bushes were touched with pink and crimson, and against the blue sky the trees stood sheathed and gold. On stone benches, in white cloaks and stiff white caps, chattered and waged their heads like a company of cockatoos, and up and down, in the sun, some gentile babies, bold hoops with a delicate air. What peculiar pleasure it is to wander through a strange city and amuse oneself, as a child does, playing a solitary game. Pardon, madame. Mais vourez vous. And then the voice faltered and cried my name as though I had been given up for lost times without number, as though I had been drowned in foreign seas and burnt in American hotel fires and buried in 100 lonely graves. What on earth are you doing here? Before me, not a day changed, not a hairpin altered, stood Violet Burton. I was flattered beyond measure at this enthusiasm and pressed her cold, strong hand and said, extraordinary, but what are you here for? Nerves. Oh, impossible. I really can't believe that. It is perfectly true, I said. My enthusiasm waning.  Well, you certainly don't look it, said she, scrutinizing me with that direct English frankness that makes one feel as though sitting in the glare of a window at breakfast time. What are you here for? I said, smiling graciously to soften the glare. At that she turned and looked across the lawns and fidgeted with her umbrella like a provincial actress about to make a confession. I, in a quiet affected voice, I came here to forget, but facing me again and smiling energetically, don't let's talk about that. Not yet. I can't explain. Not until I know you all over again, very solemnly. Not until I am sure you are to be trusted. Oh, don't trust me. Violet, I cried. I'm not to be trusted. I wouldn't if I were you. She frowned and stared. What a terrible thing to say. You can't be an earnest. Yes, I am. There's nothing I adore talking about so much as another person's secret. To my surprise, she came to my side and put her arm through mine. Thank you, she said, gratefully. I think it's awfully good of you to take me into your confidence like that, awfully. And even if it were true. But no, it can't be true. Otherwise you wouldn't have told me. I mean, it can't be psychologically true of the same nature to be frank and dishonorable at the same time. Can it? But then, I don't know. I suppose it is possible. Don't you find that the Russian novelists have made an upheaval of all your conclusions? We walked Bross Desus, Bross Desus, down the sunny path. Let's sit down, said Violet. There's a fountain quite near this bench. I often come here. You can hear it all the time. The faint noise of the water sounded like a half-regotten tune. Half-sly, laughing. Isn't it wonderful? Breathe, Violet. Like weeping in the night. Oh, Violet, said I, terrified at this turn. Wonderful things don't weep in the night.  She put her arm over the back of the bench and crossed her legs. Why do you persist in denying your emotions? Why are you ashamed of them? She demanded, I'm not. But I keep them tucked away and only produce them very occasionally, like special little pots of jam, when the people whom I love come to tea. There you are again. Emotions and jam. Now, I'm absolutely different. I live on mine. Sometimes I wish I didn't. But then again, I would rather suffer through them. Suffer intensely, I mean. Go down into the depths with them. For the sake of that upward swing onto the pinnacles of happiness, she edged nearer to me. I wish I could think where I get my nature from, she went on. Father and mother are absolutely different.  I shook my head and raised my eyebrows, but it is no use fighting it. It has beaten me absolutely once and for all. A pause inadequately filled by the way, laughing water. Now, said Violet impressively, you know what I meant when I said I came here to forget. But I assure you, I don't Violet. How can you expect me to be so subtle? I quite understand that you don't wish to tell me until you know me better. Quite.  I have told you. I mean, not straight out. Not in so many words. But then, how could I? When I told you of my emotional nature and that I had been in the depths and swept up to the pinnacles, surely, surely you realized that I was telling you, symbolically, what else can you have thought? No young girl ever performed such gymnastic feats by herself. Yet in my experience, I had always imagined that the depths followed the pinnacles. I ventured to suggest so. They do, said Violet. Willow Millie, you see them if you look before and after. Like the people in Shelley's Skylark, said I. Violet looked vague, and I repented. But I did not know how to sympathize. And I had no idea of the relative sizes. It was in the summer, said Violet. I had been most frightfully depressed. I don't know what it was. For one thing, I felt as though I could not make up my mind to anything. I felt so terribly useless that I had no place in the scheme of things. And worst of all, nobody who understood me. It may have been what I was reading at the time, but I don't think not entirely. Still, one never knows, does one. And then I met Mr. Far at a dance. Oh, call him by his Christian name, Violet. You can go on telling me about Mr. Far and you on the heights. Why on earth not? Very well, I met Arthur. I think I must have been mad that evening. For one thing, there had been a bother about going. Mother didn't want me to. Because, she said, there wouldn't be anybody to see me home. And I was frightfully keen. I must have had a pre-sentiment, I think. Do you believe in pre-sentiments? I don't know. I can't be certain, can we? Anyhow, I went. And he was there. She turned a deep scarlet and bit her lip. Oh, I really began to like Violet Burton to like her very much indeed. Go on, I said. We danced together seven times and we talked the whole time. The music was very slow. We talked of everything you know about books and theaters and all sort of thing at first. And then about our souls. What? I said, our souls. He understood me absolutely. And after the seventh dance, no, I must tell you the first thing he ever said to me. He said, do you believe in pan? Quite quietly. Just like that. And then he said, I knew you did. Wasn't that extraordinary? After the seventh dance, we set out on the landing. And shall I go on? Yes, go on. He said, I think I must be mad.  And I let him do go on. I simply can't tell you what I felt like. Fancy. I'd never kissed out of the family before. I mean, of course, never a man. And then he said, I must tell you, I am engaged. Well, what else is there? Of course, I simply rushed upstairs and tumbled everything over in the dressing room and found my coat and went home. And next morning I made mother let me come here. I thought, said Violet, I thought I would have died of shame. Is that all? I cried. You can't mean to say that's all. What else could there be? What on earth did you expect? How extraordinary you are. Staring at me like that. And in the long pause, I heard again the little fountain half sly, half laughing at me. I thought not at Violet. End of section 11 Section 12 of Something Childish and Other Stories This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer. Please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Daphne Ma Pain Stokes by Catherine Mansfield Third Story to the Left, Madam said the gassir handing me a pink ticket. One moment I will ring for the elevator.   She rang and rang. A thousand pardons, Madam. It is disgraceful. A new attendant he leaves this week with her fingers on the bell she peered into the cage as though she expected to see him lying on the floor like a dead bird. It is disgraceful.  Here you are, she scolded. Where have you been? What have you been doing? Sir, the figure hid its face behind one of the white cotton gloves and sneezed twice. Disgusting. Take, Madam, to the third story. The midgets stepped aside, bowed, andered after me and clasped the gates to. We assented very slowly to an accompaniment of sneezes and prolonged half-whistling sneezes. I asked the top of the pattern leather cap. Have you a cold? It is the air, Madam, replied the creature, speaking through its nose with a restrained air of great relice. One is never dry here. Third floor, if you please, sneezing over my tent sent him deep. I walked alone a tiled corridor decorated with advertisements for lingerie and burst improvers.  Through the mud-sport walls and from the corridor sounded cries and laughter and snotches of conversation. Are you ready? Are you coming out now? Wait till you see me. Birth? One moment, one moment. Immediately. I dressed quickly and carelessly, feeling like one of a troop of little school girls let loose in a swimming bath. The warm room was not large. It had terracotta painted walls with the fringes of peacocks and a glass roof through which one could see the sky, pale and unreal as a photographer's background screen. Some round tables strewn with sabby fashion journals, a marble basin in the centre of the room filled with yellow lilies and on the long towel-enveloped chairs a number of ladies apparently languid as the flowers. I lay back with a cloth over my head and the air smelling of jungles and damp washing made me begin to dream. Yes, it might have been very fascinated to have married an explorer and lived in a jungle as long as he didn't suit anything or take anything captive. I detest performing beasts. Oh, those circuses at home. The tan in the paddock and the children swarming over the fence carried the wagons and the clown making up with his glass truck on the wagon wheel and the steam organ playing the honeysuckle and the bee much too fast over and over. I know what this air reminds me of. I came and followed my leader among the clothes hung out to try. The door opened. Two tall blonde women in red and white check counts came in and took the chairs opposite mine. One of them carried a box of mandarins wrapped in silver paper and the other a manicure set.  Before sitting down they glanced round the room looked the other women up and down turned to each other grimaced, whispered something and one of them said offering the box have a mandarin at that they started laughing they lay back and sook and each time they got sight of each other broke out a fresh that was too good cried one wiping her eyes very carefully just at the corners. You and I come in here quite serious you know very correct and looking round the room and as a result of our careful inspection I offer you a mandarin no it's too funny I must remember that it's good enough for a musical have a mandarin but I cannot imagine said the other why women look so hideous in turkish baths like beef steaks in semeses or is it the air look at that one for instance the skinny one reading a book and sweating at the moustache and those two over in the corner discussing whether or not they are non-existent babies how babies come and heavens look at this one coming in take the box dear have all the mandarins the newcomer was a sort stout little woman with flat white feet and a black macintosh cup over her hair she walked up and down the room swinging her arms in effected unconcern glancing at the laughing women and rang the bell for the attendant it was answered immediately by bertha half naked and sprinkled with soapsads is it madame? have no time please bring me a hand towel said the macintosh cup in german pardon? i don't understand do you speak french? no said the macintosh cup bertha strict one of the blonde women have a mandarin omg i have a tie of laughing the macintosh cup went through a pandemic herself wet and rubbing herself dry veris tng? me no madame said bertha watching with round eyes that snapped with laughter and she left the macintosh cup winked at the blonde women came over felt them as though they have been a pair of prized paltry said you're doing very well and disappeared again the macintosh cup sat down on the edge of a chair snatched a fashion journal smacked over the crackling pages and pretended to read all the blonde women leaned back eating the mandarins and throw the peeling into a lily basin a scent of fruit fresh and penetrating hung on the air i looked around at the other women yes they were hideous black, red and moist with dull eyes and long hair the only little energy they had ventured in shocked, prudery at the behavior of the two blondes suddenly i discovered macintosh cup staring at me over the top of her fashion journal so intently that i took flight and went into the hot room but in vain macintosh cup followed after and planted herself in front of me i know she said confident and confiding that you can speak german i saw it in your face just now wasn't that a scandal about the attendant refusing me a towel i shall speak to the management about that and i shall get my husband to write them a letter this evening things always come better from a man, don't they no, she said robbing her yellowish arms i've never been in such a scandalous place and for francs fifty to pay, naturally i shall not leave a tip you wouldn't would you not after that scandal about a hand towel i've got a grain mine to complain about those women as well those two that keep on laughing and eating do you know who they are? she shook her head you're not respectable women you can tell at a glance at least i can any married woman can they're nothing but a couple of street women i've never been so insulted in my life laughing at me, mind you the great big fat pigs like that and i haven't sweated at all properly just because of them i got so angry that the sweat turned in instead of out it does in excitement, you know sometimes and i instead of losing my cold i wouldn't be surprised if i brought on a fever i walked round the hot room in misery pursued by the macintosh cup until the two blonde women came in and seen her best into another fit of laughter to my rage and disgust macintosh cup sealed it up to me smiled meaningfully and drew down her mouth i don't care she said in her hideous german voice i shouldn't lower myself by paying any attention to a couple of street women if my husband knew he'd never get over it dreadfully particular he is we've been married six years we come from plough's book it's a nice town four children i have living and it was really to get over the shock of the fifth that we came here the fifth she whispered patting after me was born a fine healthy child and it never breathed well after nine months a woman can't help being disappointed can she i moved towards the vapor room are you going in there she said i wouldn't if i were you those two have gone in they may think you want to strike up an acquaintance with them you never know women like that at that moment they came out wrapping themselves in rough counts and passing magento's cup like disdainful queens are you going to take your chair miss off in the vapor room asked see don't mind me you know woman is woman and besides if you'd rather i won't look at you i know i used to be like that i wouldn't mind patting savagely those filthy women had a good look at each other pool women like that you can't sock them and don't they look dreadful bald in all the false hair that moniker box one of them had was fitted up with cold well i don't suppose it was real but i think it was disgusting to bring it one might at least cut one's nails in private don't you think i cannot see she said what men see in such women no husband and children and a home to look after that's what a woman needs that's what my husband says fancy one of these houses pilling potatoes or choosing the meat are you going already i flew to find Perther and all the time i was soaked and smacked and sprayed and thrown in a cold water tank i could not get out of my mind the ugly wretched figure of the little german with a good husband and four children railing against the two fresh beauties who had never built potatoes nor chosen the right meat in the enter room i saw them once again they were dressed in blue one was pinning on a bunch of violets the other buttoning in pair of ivory sweat clothes in their charming feather hats and furs they stood talking yes there they are said a voice at my elbow and there was macintosh cup transformed in a blue and white check blouse and corset collar with a little waist and large hip of the german woman and a terrible bird nest with platzberg doubtless called raisin butt on her head how do you suppose they can afford clothes like that the horrible low creatures no they're enough to make a young girl think twice and as the two walked on the enter room macintosh cup stared after them a shallow face or mouth and eyes like the face of a hungry child before a forbidden table end of section 12 recording by Daphne Ma section 13 of something childish and other stories this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Rob Marland something childish but very natural in the western Mansfield whether he had forgotten what it felt like or his head had really grown beggar since the summer before Henry could not decide but his straw hat hurt him it pinched his forehead and started a dull ache in the two bones just over the temples so he chose a corner seat in a third class smoker took off his hat and put it in the rack a large black cardboard portfolio and his Aunt B's Christmas present gloves the carriage smelt horribly of wet India rubber and soot there were ten minutes to spare before the train went so Henry decided to go and have a look at the bookstore sunlight started through the glass roof of the station in long beams of blue and gold a little boy ran up and down the train of primroses there was something about the people about the women especially something idle and yet eager the most thrilling day of the year the first real day of spring had enclosed its warm, delicious beauty even to London eyes it had put a spangle in every colour and a new tone in every voice and city folks walked as though they carried real live bodies under their clothes with real live hearts pumping the stiff blood through Henry was a great fellow for books he did not read many nor did he possess above half a dozen he looked at all in the Charring Cross Road drawing lunchtime and at any odd time in London the quantity with which he was on nodding terms was amazing by his clean neat handling of them and by his nice choice of phrase when discussing them with one or another bookseller you would have thought that he had taken his pap with a tome propped before his nurse's bosom but you would have been quite wrong that was only Henry's way with everything he touched or said that afternoon it was an anthology of English poetry and he turned over the pages until a title struck his eye something childish but very natural had I but two little wings and were a little feathery bird to you I'd fly my dear but thoughts like these are idle things and I stay here but in my sleep to you I fly I'm always with you in my sleep the world is all one's own but then one wakes and where am I all all alone sleep stays not though a monarch bids so I love to wake at break of day for though my sleep be gone yet while it is dark one shuts one's lids and so dreams on he could not have done with the little poem it was not the word so much as the whole air of it that charmed him he might have written it lying in bed very early in the morning and watching the sun dance on the ceiling it is stilly like that thought Henry I am sure he wrote it when he was half awake some time for it's got a smile of a dream on it he stared at the poem looked away and repeated it by heart missed a word in the third verse and looked again and again until he became conscious of shouting and shuffling and he looked up to see the train moving slowly God's thunder Henry dashed forward a man with a flag and a whistle had his hand on a door he clutched Henry somehow Henry was inside with the door slammed a carriage that wasn't a smoker that had not a trace of his straw hat or the black portfolio or his Aunt B's Christmas present gloves instead in the opposite corner close against the wall there sat a girl Henry did not care to look at her but he felt certain she was staring at him she must think I'm mad he thought dashing into a train without even a hat and in the evening too he felt so funny he didn't know how to sit or sprawl he put his hands in his pockets and tried to appear quite indifferent and frown at a large photograph of Bolton Abbey but feeling her eyes on him he gave her just the tiniest glance quick she looked away out of the window and then Henry careful of her slightest movement went on looking she sat pressed against the window her cheek and shoulder half hidden by a long wave of marigold coloured hair one little hand in a grey cotton glove held a leather case on her lap with the initials E.M. on it the other hand she had slipped through the window strap and Henry noticed a silver on the wrist with a Swiss cowbell and a silver shoe and a fish she wore a green coat and a hat with a wreath round it all this Henry saw while the title of the new poem persisted in his brain something childish but very natural I suppose she goes to some school in London thought Henry she might be in an office too young besides she'd have her hair up if she was it isn't even down her back he could not keep his eyes off that beautiful waving hair my eyes are like two drunken bees now I wonder do I read that or made it up that moment the girl turned round and catching his glance she blushed she bent her head to hide the red colour that flew in her cheeks and Henry terribly embarrassed blushed too I shall have to speak have to he started putting up his hand to raise the hat that wasn't there he thought that funny it gave him confidence I'm most awfully sorry he said smiling at the girl's hat I can't go on sitting in the same carriage with you and not explaining why I dashed in like that without my hat even I'm sure I gave you a fright and just now I was staring at you but that's only an awful fault of mine I'm a terrible stare if you'd like me to explain how I got in here not about the staring of course he gave a little laugh I will for a minute she said nothing then in a low shy voice it doesn't matter the train had flung behind the roofs and chimneys they were swinging into the country past little black woods and fading fields and pools of water shining under an apricot evening sky Henry's heart began to thump and beat to the beat of the train leave it like that she sat so quiet hidden in her fallen hair he felt that it was absolutely necessary that she should look up and understand him understand him at least he went forward and clasped his hands around his knees you see I just poured all my things a portfolio into a third class smoker and was having a look at the bookstore he explained as he told the story she raised her head he saw her grey eyes under the shadow of her hat and her eyebrows like two gold feathers her lips were faintly parted almost unconsciously he seemed to absorb the fact that she was wearing a bunch of prim roses and that her throat was white the shape of her face wonderfully delicate burning hair how beautiful she is how simply beautiful she is sang Henry's heart and swelled with the words bigger and bigger and trembling like a marvellous bubble so that he was afraid to breathe for fear of breaking it I hope there was nothing valuable in the portfolio she said very grave oh only some silly drawings that I was taking back from the office and said Henry airily and I was rather glad to lose my hat it had been hurting me all day yes she said it's left a mark and she nearly smiled why on earth should those words have made Henry feel so free suddenly and so happy and so madly excited what was happening between them they said nothing but to Henry their silence was alive and warm it covered him from his head to his feet in a trembling wave her marvellous words it's made a mark had in some mysterious fashion established a bond between them they could not be utter strangers to each other if she spoke so simply and so naturally and now she was really smiling the smile danced in her eyes crept over her cheeks to her lips and stayed there he leaned back the words flew from him isn't life wonderful at that moment the train dashed into a tunnel he heard her voice raised against the noise she leaned forward I don't think so but then I've been a fatalist for a long time now a pause months they were shattering through the dark why called Henry oh then she shrugged and smiled and shook her head meaning she could not speak against the noise he nodded and leaned back they came out of the tunnel into a sprinkle of lights and houses he waited for her to explain but she got up and buttoned her coat and put her hands to her hat swaying a little I get out here she said that seemed quite impossible to Henry the train slowed down and the lights outside grew brighter she moved towards the end of the carriage look here he stammered he got up too leaned against the rack with one hand I must see you again the train was stopping she said breathlessly I come down from London every evening you you do really his eagerness frightened her he was quick to curb it shall we or shall we not shake hands raced through his brain one hand was on the door handle handle the other held the little bag the train stopped without another word or glance she was gone then came Saturday a half day at the office and Sunday between by Monday evening Henry was quite exhausted he was at the station far too early with a pack of silly thoughts at his heels as if it were driving him up and down she didn't say she came by this train and supposing I go up and she cuts me there may be somebody with her why do you suppose she's ever thought of you again what are you going to say if you do see her he even prayed Lord if it be thy will let us meet but nothing helped white smoke floated against the roof of the station dissolved and came again in swaying wreaths of a sudden as he watched it so delicate and so silent moving with such mysterious grace above the crowd and the scuffle he grew calm he felt very tired he only wanted to sit down and shut his eyes she was not coming a forlorn relief breathed in the words and then he saw her quite near to him walking towards the train with the same little leather case in her hand Henry waited he knew somehow that she had seen him but he did not move until she came close to him and said in her low shy voice did you get them again oh yes thank you I got them again and with a funny half gesture he showed her the portfolio and the gloves they walked side by side to the train and into an empty carriage they sat down opposite to each other smiling timidly but not speaking while the train moved slowly and slowly gathered speed and smoothness Henry spoke first it's so silly he said not knowing your name she put back a big piece of hair that had fallen on her shoulder and he saw how her hand in the grey glove was shaking then he noticed that she was sitting very stiffly with her knees pressed together and he was too both of them trying not to tremble so she said my name is Edna and mine is Henry he took possession of each other's names and turned them over and put them away a shade less frightened after that I want to ask you something else now said Henry he looked at Edna his head a little on one side how old are you over 16 she said and you I'm nearly 18 isn't it hot suddenly and pulled off her grey gloves and put her hands to her cheeks and kept them there their eyes were not frightened they looked at each other with a sort of desperate calmness if only their bodies would not tremble so stupidly still half hidden by her hair Edna said have you ever been in love before no never have you no never in all my life she shook her head I never even thought it possible his next words came in a rush whatever have you been doing since last Friday evening whatever did you do all Saturday and all Sunday and today but she did not answer only shook her head and smiled and said you tell me I and then he found he couldn't tell her either he couldn't climb back to those mountains of days and he had to shake his head too but it's being agony he said smiling brilliantly agony but that she took away her hands and started laughing and Henry joined her they laughed until they were tired it's so so extraordinary he said so suddenly you know and I feel as if I'd known you for years so do I said Henry I believe it must be the spring I believe I've swallowed a butterfly and it's fanning its wings just here he put his hand on his heart and the really extraordinary thing is, said Edna that I'd made up my mind that I didn't care for I mean all the girls at college were you at college she nodded a training college learning to be a secretary she sounded scornful I'm in an office said Henry an architect's office such a funny little place up 130 stairs we ought to be building nests instead of houses I always think do you like it I don't I don't want to do anything do you? no I hate it and she said my mother is a Hungarian I believe that makes me hate it even more that seems to Henry quite natural it would he said mother and I are exactly alike I haven't a thing in common with my father he's just in the city but mother has got wild blood in her and she's given it to me she hates our life just as much as I do she paused and frowned all the same we don't get on a bit together that's funny isn't it but I'm absolutely alone at home Henry was lessening in a way he was lessening but there was something else he wanted to ask her very shyly would you take off your hat she looked startled take off my hat yes it's your hair I'd give anything to see your hair properly she protested it isn't really oh it is and then as she took off the hat and gave her head a little toss oh Edna it's the loveliest thing in the world do you like it she said smiling and very pleased she pulled it round her shoulders like a cape of gold people generally laugh at it it's such an absurd colour but Henry would not believe that she leaned her elbows on her knees and cupped her chin in her hands that's how I often sit when I'm angry and then I feel it burning me up silly no no not a bit said Henry I knew you did it's your sort of weapon against all the dull hooded things however did you know that yes that's just it however did you know just knew smiled Henry my god he cried what fools people are all the little pollies that you know just look at you and me here we are that's all that is to be said I know about you and you know about me we've just found each other quite simply just by being natural that's all life is something childish and very natural isn't it yes yes she said eagerly that's what I've always thought it's people that make things so silly as long as you can keep away from them you're safe and you're happy oh I've thought that for a long time then you're just like me said Henry the wonder of that was so great that he almost wanted to cry instead he said very solemnly I believe we're the only two people alive who think as we do the thought of it nobody understands me I feel as though I were living in a world of strange beings for you always we'll be in that loathsome tunnel again in a minute said Henry Edna can I just touch your hair she drew back quickly oh no please don't and as they were going into the dark they were all away from him Edna I've bought the tickets the man at the concert hall didn't seem at all surprised that I had the money meet me outside the gallery doors at three and wear that cream blouse and the corals will you I love you I don't like sending these letters to the shop I always feel those people with letters received in their window keep a kettle in their back parlor that would steam open an elephant's ear of an envelope but it really doesn't matter does it darling can you get away on Sunday pretend you're going to spend the day with one of the girls from the office and let's meet at some little place and walk or find a field where we can watch the daisies uncurling I do love you Edna but Sundays without you are simply impossible don't get run over before Saturday and don't eat anything out of a tin or drink anything from a public fountain that's all darling my dearest yes I'll be there on Saturday and I've arranged about Sunday too that is one great blessing I'm quite free at home I have just come in from the garden it's such a lovely evening oh Henry I could sit and cry I love you so tonight silly isn't it I either feel so happy I can hardly stop laughing or else so sad I can hardly stop crying and both for the same reason but we are so young to have found each other aren't we I am sending you a violet it is quite warm I wish you were here now just for a minute even good night darling I am Edna safe said Edna safe and excellent places aren't they Henry she stood up to take off her coat and Henry made a movement to help her no no it's off she tucked it under the seat she sat down beside him oh Henry what have you got there flowers only two tiny little roses he laid them in her lap did you get my letter all right asked Edna on pinning the paper yes he said and the violet is growing beautifully you should see my room I planted a little piece of it in every corner and one on my pillow and one in the pocket of my pyjama jacket she shook her hair at him Henry give me the programme here it is you can read it with me I'll hold it for you let me have it well then I'll read it for you no you can have it after Edna he whispered oh please don't she plead it not here the people why did he want to touch her so much and why did she mind whenever he was with her he wanted to hold her hand or take her arm when they walked together or lean against her just lean lightly so that his shoulder should touch her shoulder and she wouldn't even have that all the time that he was away from her he was hungry he craved the nearness of her there seemed to be comfort and warmth breathing from Edna that he needed to keep him calm yes that was it he couldn't get calm with her because she wouldn't let him touch her but she loved him he knew that why did she feel so curiously about it every time he tried to or even asked for her hand she shrank back and looked at him with pleading frightened eyes as though he wanted to hurt her they could say anything to each other and there wasn't any question of their belonging to each other and yet he couldn't touch her why he couldn't even help her off with her coat her voice dropped into his thoughts Henry he leaned to listen setting his lips I want to explain something to you I will, I will, I promise after the concert all right he was still hurt you're not sad are you she said he shook his head yes you are Henry really not he looked at the roses lying in her hands well are you happy yes here comes the orchestra it was twilight when they came out of the hall a blue net of light hung over the streets and houses and pink clouds floated in a pale sky as they walked away from the hall Henry felt they were very little and alone for the first time since he had known Edna his heart was heavy Henry she stopped suddenly and stared at him Henry I'm not coming to the station with you don't wait for me please, please leave me my god cried Henry and started what's the matter Edna darling Edna what have I done go away and she turned and ran across the street into a square and leaned up against the square railings and hit her face in her hands Edna, Edna my little love you're crying Edna my baby girl she leaned her arms along the railings and sobbed destructedly Edna stop it's all my fault I'm a fool, I'm a thundering idiot I've spoiled your afternoon I've tortured you with my idiotic mad bloody clumsiness that's it, isn't it Edna for God's sake oh, she sobbed I do hate hurting you sir every time you ask me to let let you hold my hand or kiss me I could kill myself for not doing it for not letting you I don't know why I don't even she said wildly it's not that I'm frightened of you it's not that it's only a feeling Henry that I can't understand even myself give me your handkerchief darling he pulled it from his pocket all through the concert I've been haunted by this and every time we meet I know it's bound to come up somehow I feel if once we did that you know, held each other's hands and kissed it would be all changed and I feel we wouldn't be free like we are we'd be doing something secret we wouldn't be children anymore silly isn't it I'd feel awkward with you Henry and I'd feel shy and I do so feel that just because you and I are you and I we don't need that sort of thing she turned and looked at him pressing her hands to her cheeks in the way he knew so well and behind her as in a dream he saw the sky and half a white moon and the trees of the square with their unbroken buds he kept twisting twisting up in his hands the concert program Henry you do understand me don't you yes I think I do but you're not going to be frightened anymore are you he tried to smile we'll forget Edna I'll never mention it again we'll bury the bogey in this square now you and I won't we but she said searching his face will it make you love me less oh no he said nothing good nothing on earth could do that London became their playground on Saturday afternoons they explored they found their own shops where they bought cigarettes and sweets for Edna and their own tea shop with their own table their own streets and one night when Edna was supposed to be at a lecture at the Polytechnic they found their own village it was the name that made them go there there's white geese in that name said Henry telling it to Edna and a river and little low houses with old men sitting outside them old sea captains with wooden legs winding up their watches and there are little shops with lamps in the windows it was too late for them to see the geese or the old men the river was there and the houses and even the shops with lamps in one a woman sat working a sewing machine on the counter they heard the whirring hum and they saw her big shadow filling the shop too full for a single customer said Henry it's a perfect place the houses were small and covered with creepers and ivy some of them had worn wooden steps leading up to the doors you had to go down a little flight of steps to enter some of the others and just across the road to be seen from every window was the river with a walk beside it and some high poplar trees this is the place for us to live in said Henry there's a house to let too I wonder if it would wait if we asked it I'm sure it would yes, I would like to live there said Edna they crossed the road and she leaned against the trunk of a tree and looked up at the empty house with a dreamy smile there's a little garden at the back said Henry along with one tree on it and some daisy bushes round the wall at night the stars shine in the tree like tiny candles and inside there are two rooms downstairs and a big room with folding doors upstairs and above that an attic and there are eight stairs to the kitchen very dark, Edna you are rather frightened of them, you know Henry dear would you mind bringing the lamp I just want to make sure that euphemia has raked out the fire before we go to bed yes said Edna our bedroom is at the very top there's a room with the two square windows when it's quiet we can hear the river flowing and the sound of the poplar trees far, far away rustling and flowing in our dreams darling you're not cold are you he said suddenly no, no only happy the room with the folding doors is yours Henry laughed at all it's full of your toys and there's a big blue chair in it where you sit curled up in front of the fire with the flames in your curls because though we're madded you refuse to put your head up and only tuck it inside your coat for the church service and there's a rug on the floor for me to lie on because I'm so lazy euphemia that's our servant only comes in the day after she's gone we go down to the kitchen and sit on the table and eat an apple or perhaps we make some tea just for the sake of hearing the kettle sing that's not joking if you listen to a kettle ride through it's like an early morning in spring yes I know she said all the different kinds of birds a little cat came through the railings of the empty house and into the road edna called it and bent down and held out her hands kitty, kitty the little cat ran to her and rubbed against her knees if we're going for a walk just take the cat and put it inside the front door said henry still pretending I've got the key they walked across the road and edna stood stroking the cat in her arms while henry went up the steps and pretended to open the door he came down again quickly let's go away at once it's going to turn into a dream the night was dark and warm they didn't want to go home what I feel so certain of is said henry that we ought to be living there now we oughtn't to wait for things what age nor as old as you'll ever be and so am I you know he said I have a feeling often and often that it's dangerous to wait for things that if you wait for things they only go further and further away but henry money you see we haven't any money oh well perhaps if I disguised myself as an old man we could get a job as caretakers in some large house for fun I'd make up a terrific history of the house if anyone came to look over it and you could dress up and be the ghost moaning and wringing your hands in the deserted picture gallery to frighten them off don't you ever feel that money is more or less accidental that if one really wants things it's either there or it doesn't matter she did not answer that she looked up at the sky and said oh dear I don't want to go home exactly that's the whole trouble and we oughtn't to go home we ought to be going back to the house to find an old saucer to give the cat the dregs of the milk-jugging I'm not really laughing I'm not even happy I'm lonely for you, Edna I would give anything to lie down and cry and he added limply with my head in your lap and your darling cheek in my hair but Henry, she said coming closer you have faith, haven't you I mean you are absolutely certain that we shall have a house like that and everything we want aren't you not enough that's not enough I want to be sitting on those very stairs and taking off these very boots this very minute don't you is faith enough for you if only we weren't so young she said miserably and yet she sighed I'm sure I don't feel very young I feel twenty at least Henry lay on his back in the little wood when he moved the dead leaves rustled beneath him and above his head the new leaves quivered like fountains of green water steeped in sunlight somewhere out of sight Edna was gathering prim roses he'd been so full of dreams that morning that he could not keep pace with her delight in the flowers yes, love you go and come back for me I'm too lazy to have grown off her hat and knelt down beside him and by and by her voice and her footsteps had grown fainter now the wood was silent except for the leaves but he knew that she was not far away and he moved so that the tips of his fingers touched her pink jacket ever since waking he had felt so strangely that he was not really awake at all but just dreaming the time before Edna was a dream and now he and she were dreaming together and somewhere in some dark place another dream waited for him no, that can't be true because I can't ever imagine the world without us I feel that we two together mean something that's got to be there just as naturally as trees or birds or clouds he tried to remember what it had felt like without Edna but he could not get back to those days they were hidden by her Edna with the marigold hair and strange dreamy smile filled him up to the brim he breathed her he ate and drank her he walked about with a shining ring of Edna keeping the world away or touching whatever it lighted on with its own beauty long after you have stopped laughing, he told her I can hear your love running up and down my veins and yet are we a dream? and suddenly he saw himself and Edna as two very small children walking through the streets looking through windows buying things and playing with them talking to each other smiling he saw even their gestures and the way they stood so often quite still face to face and then he rolled over and pressed his face in the leaves faint with longing he wanted to kiss Edna and to put his arms round her and press her to him and feel her cheek hot against his kiss and kiss her until he had no breath left and so stifle the dream no, I can't go on being hungry like this said Henry and jumped up and began to run in the direction she had gone she had wandered a long way down in a green hollow he saw her kneeling and when she saw him she waved and said oh Henry such beauties I've never seen such beauties come and look by the time he'd reached her he would have cut off his hand rather than spoil her happiness how strange Edna was that day all the time she talked to Henry her eyes laughed they were sweet and mocking two little spots of colour like strawberries glowed on her cheeks and I wish I could feel tired she kept saying I want to walk over the whole world until I die Henry come along walk faster if I start flying suddenly you'll promise to catch hold of my feet won't you otherwise I'll never come down and she cried I'm so happy I'm so frightfully happy they came to a weird place covered with heather it was early afternoon and the sun streamed down upon the purple let's rest here a little said Edna and she waded into the heather and lay down oh Henry it's so lovely I can't see anything except the little bells and the sky Henry knelt down by her and took some primroses out of her basket and made a long chain to go round her throat I could almost fall asleep said Edna she crept over to his knees and in her hair just beside him it's like being under the sea isn't it dearest so sweet and so still yes said Henry in a strange husky voice now I'll make you one of violets but Edna sat up let's go in she said they came back to the road and walked a long way and said no I couldn't walk over the world I'm tired now she trailed on the grass edge of the road you and I are tired Henry how much further is it I don't know not very far said Henry peering into the distance then they walked in silence she said at last it really is too far Henry I'm tired and I'm hungry carry my silly basket of primroses he took them without looking at her at last they came to a village and a cottage with a notice teas provided this is the place said Henry I've often been here you sit on a little bench and I'll go and order the tea she sat down on the bench all white and yellow with spring flowers a woman came to the door and leaned against it watching the meat Henry was very nice to her but Edna did not say a word you haven't been here for a long spell said the woman no the gardens looking wonderful fair said she is the young lady your sister Henry nodded yes and took some jam the lightness said the woman she came down into the garden and picked ahead of white junkwills and handed it to Edna I suppose you don't happen to know anyone who wants a cottage said she my sister's taken ill and she left me hers I want to let it for a long time asked Henry politely oh said the woman vaguely that depends said Henry well I might know of somebody could we go and look at it yes it's just a step down the road the little one with the apple trees in front I'll fetch you the key while she was away Henry turned to Edna and said will you come she nodded they walked down the road and in through the gate and up the grassy path between the pink and white trees it was a tiny place two rooms downstairs and two rooms upstairs Edna leaned out of the top window and Henry stood at the doorway do you like it he asked yes she called and then made a place for him at the window come and look it's so sweet he came and lent out of the window below them were the apple trees tossing in a faint wind that blew a long piece of Edna's hair across his eyes they did not move it was evening the pale green sky was sprinkled with stars look she said stars Henry there'll be a moon in two tees said Henry she did not seem to move and yet she was leaning against Henry's shoulder he put his arm round her there are all those trees down there apple she asked in a shaky voice no darling said Henry some of them are full of angels and some of them are full of sugar almonds but evening light is awfully deceptive she sighed Henry we mustn't stay here any longer he let her go when she stood up in the dusky room and touched her hair what has been the matter with you all day she said and then did not wait for an answer but ran to him and put her arms round his neck and pressed his head into the hollow of her shoulder oh she breathed I do love you hold me Henry he put his arms round her and she leaned against him and looked into his eyes hasn't it been terrible all today said Edna I knew what was the matter and I've tried everywhere I could to tell you that I wanted you to kiss me that I'd quite got over the feeling you're perfect perfect said Henry the thing is how am I going to wait until evening he took his watch out of his pocket went into the cottage and popped it into a china jar on the mantelpiece he'd looked at it seven times in one hour and now he couldn't remember what time it was well he'd look once again half past four her train arrived at seven he'd have to start for the station at half past six two hours more to wait he went through the cottage again downstairs and upstairs it looks lovely he said he went into the garden and picked a round bunch of white pinks and put them in a vase on the little table by Edna's bed I don't believe this thought Henry I don't believe this for a minute it's too much she'll be here in two hours and we'll walk home and then I'll take that white jug off the kitchen table and go across to Mrs Biddy's and get the milk and then come back and when I come back we'll have lighted the lamp in the kitchen and I'll look through the window and see her moving about in the pool of lamp light and then we shall have supper and after supper bags are washing up I shall put some wood on the fire and we'll sit on the hearth rug and watch it burning there won't be a sound except the wood and perhaps the wind will creep round the house once and then we shall change our candles and she will go up first with her shadow on the wall beside her and she will call out good night Henry and I shall answer good night Edna and then I shall dash upstairs and jump into bed and watch the tiny bar of light from her room brush my door and the moment it disappears will shut my eyes until morning then we'll have all tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow night is she thinking all this too? Edna come quickly had I two little wings and with a little feathery bird to you I'd fly my dear no no dearest because the waiting is a sort of heaven too darling if you can understand that did you ever think you can understand that did you ever know a cottage could stand on tiptoe this one is doing it now he was downstairs and sat on the doorstep with his hands clasped round his knees that night when they found the village and Edna said haven't you faith Henry? I hadn't then now I have he said just like God he leaned his head against the lintel he could hardly keep his eyes open not that he was sleepy but for some reason and a long time passed Henry thought he saw a big white moth flying down the road it perched on the gate no it wasn't a moth it was a little girl in a pinafore what a nice little girl and he smiled in his sleep and she smiled too and turned in her toes as she walked but she can't be living here thought Henry because this is ours here she comes when she was quite close to him she took her hand from under her pinafore and gave him a telegram and smiled and went away that's a funny present thought Henry staring at it perhaps it's only a make-believe one and it's got one of those snakes inside it that fly up at you he laughed gently in the dream and opened it very carefully it's just a folded paper he took it out and spread it open the garden became full of shadows they span a web of darkness over the cottage trees and Henry and the telegram but Henry did not move 1914 end of something childish but very natural