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----WILL & GOING TO----
lundi 18 novembre 2013
A Cup of Tea
A Cup of Tea
by Katherine Mansfield
Rosemary Fell was not exactly beautiful. No, you couldn't have
called her beautiful. Pretty? Well, if you took her to pieces.... But
why be so cruel as to take anyone to pieces? She was young, brilliant,
extremely modern, exquisitely well dressed, amazingly well read in the
newest of the new books, and her parties were the most delicious mixture
of the really important people and... artists--quaint creatures,
discoveries of hers, some of them too terrifying for words, but others
quite presentable and amusing.
Rosemary had been married two years. She had a duck of a boy.
No, not Peter--Michael. And her husband absolutely adored her. They
were rich, really rich, not just comfortably well off, which is odious
and stuffy and sounds like one's grandparents. But if Rosemary wanted
to shop she would go to Paris as you and I would go to Bond Street. If
she wanted to buy flowers, the car pulled up at that perfect shop in
Regent Street, and Rosemary inside the shop just gazed in her dazzled,
rather exotic way, and said: 'I want those and those and those. Give me
four bunches of those. And that jar of roses. Yes, I'll have all the
roses in the far. No, no lilac. I hate lilac. It's got no shape.' The
attendant bowed and put the lilac out of sight, as though this was only
too true; lilac was dreadfully shapeless. 'Give me those stumpy little
tulips. Those red and white ones.' And she was followed to the car by a
thin shop-girl staggering under an immense white paper armful that
looked like a baby in long clothes....
One winter afternoon she had been buying something in a little
antique shop in Curzon Street. It was a shop she liked. For one thing,
one usually had it to oneself. And then the man who kept it was
ridiculously fond of serving her. He beamed whenever she came in. He
clasped his hands; he was so gratified he could scarcely speak.
Flattery, of course. AIl the same, there was something...
'You see, madam,' he would explain in his low respectful tones,
'I love my things. I would rather not part with them than sell them to
someone who does not appreciate them, who has not that fine feeling
which is so rare....' And, breathing deeply, he unrolled a tiny square
of blue velvet and pressed it on the glass counter with his pale
finger-tips.
Today it was a little box. He had been keeping it for her. He
had shown it to nobody as yet. An exquisite little enamel box with a
glaze so fine it looked as though it had been baked in cream. On the lid
a minute creature stood under a flowery tree, and a more minute
creature still had her arms round his neck. Her hat, really no bigger
than a geranium petal, hung from a branch; it had green ribbons. And
there was a pink cloud like a watchful cherub floating above their
heads. Rosemary took her hands out of her long gloves. She always took
off her gloves to examine such things. Yes, she liked it very much.
She loved it; it was a great duck. She must have it. And, turning the
creamy box, opening and shutting it, she couldn't help noticing how
charming her hands were against the blue velvet. The shopman, in some
dim cavern of his mind, may have dared to think so too. For he took a
pencil, leant over the counter, and his pale bloodless fingers crept
timidly towards those rosy, mashing ones, as he murmured gently: 'If I
may venture to point out to madam, the flowers on the little lady's
bodice.'
'Charming!' Rosemary admired the flowers. But what was the
price? For a moment the shopman did not seem to hear. Then a murmur
reached her. 'Twenty-eight guineas, madam.'
'Twenty-eight guineas.' Rosemary gave no sign. She laid the
little box down; she buttoned her gloves again. Twenty-eight guineas.
Even if one is rich... She looked vague. She stared at a plump
tea-kettle like a plump hen above the shopman's head, and her voice was
dreamy as she answered: 'Well, keep it for me--will you? I'll...'
But the shopman had already bowed as though keeping it for her
was all any human being could ask. He would be willing, of course, to
keep it for her for ever.
The discreet door shut with a click. She was outside on the
step, gazing at the winter afternoon. Rain was falling, and with the
rain it seemed the dark came too, spinning down like ashes. There was a
cold bitter taste in the air, and the new-lighted lamps looked sad. Sad
were the lights in the houses opposite. Dimly they burned as if
regretting something. And people hurried by, hidden under their hateful
umbrellas. Rosemary felt a strange pang. She pressed her muff against
her breast; she wished she had the little box, too, to cling to. Of
course, the car was there. She'd only to cross the pavement. But still
she waited. There are moments, horrible moments in life, when one
emerges from shelter and looks out, and it's awful. One oughtn't to
give way to them. One ought to go home and have an extra-special tea.
But at the very instant of thinking that, a young girl, thin, dark,
shadowy--where had she come from? ---was standing at Rosemary's elbow
and a voice like a sigh, almost like a sob, breathed: 'Madam, may I
speak to you a moment?'
'Speak to me?' Rosemary turned. She saw a little battered
creature with enormous eyes, someone quite young, no older than herself,
who clutched at her coat-collar with reddened hands, and shivered as
though she had just come out of the water.
'M-madam', stammered the voice. 'Would you let me have the price of a cup of tea?'
'A cup of tea?' There was something simple, sincere in that
voice; it wasn't in the least the voice of a beggar. 'Then have you no
money at all?' asked Rosemary.
'None, madam.' came the answer.
'How extraordinary!' Rosemary peered through the dusk, and the
girl gazed back at her. How more than extraordinary! And suddenly it
seemed to Rosemary such an adventure. It was like something out of a
novel by Dostoevsky, this meeting in the dusk. Supposing she took the
girl home? Supposing she did do one of those things she was always
reading about or seeing on the stage, what would happen? It would be
thrilling. And she heard herself saying afterwards to the amazement of
her friends: 'I simply took her home with me,' as she stepped forward
and said to that dim person beside her: 'Come home to tea with me.'
The girl drew back startled. She even stopped shivering for a
moment. Rosemary put out a hand and touched her arm. 'I mean it,' she
said, smiling. And she felt how simple and kind her smile was. 'Why
won't you? Do. Come home with me now in my car and have tea.'
'You--you don't mean it, madam,' said the girl, and there was pain in her voice.
'But I do,' cried Rosemary. 'I want you to. To please me. Come along.'
The girl put her fingers to her lips and her eyes devoured
Rosemary. 'You're--you're not taking me to the police station?' she
stammered.
'The police station!' Rosemary laughed out. 'Why should I be so
cruel? No, I only want to make you warm and to hear--anything you care
to tell me.'
Hungry people are easily led. The footman held the door of the
car open, and a moment later they were skimming through the dusk.
'There!' said Rosemary. She had a feeling of triumph as she
slipped her hand through the velvet strap. She could have said, 'Now
I've got you,' as she gazed at the little captive she had netted. But of
course she meant it kindly. Oh, more than kindly. She was going to
prove to this girl that--wonderful things did happen in life,
that--fairy godmothers were real, that--rich people had hearts, and that
women were Sisters. She turned impulsively, saying: 'Don't be
frightened. After all, why shouldn't you come back with me? We're
both women. If I'm the more fortunate, you ought to expect....'
But happily at that moment, for she didn't know how the sentence
was going to end, the car stopped. The bell was rung, the door opened,
and with a charming, protecting, almost embracing movement, Rosemary
drew the other into the hall. Warmth, softness, light, a sweet scent,
all those things so familiar to her she never even thought about them,
she watched that other receive. It was fascinating. She was like the
rich little girl in her nursery with all the cupboards to open, all the
boxes to unpack.
'Come, come upstairs,' said Rosemary, longing to begin to be
generous. 'Come up to my room.' And, besides, she wanted to spare this
poor little thing from being stared at by the servants; she decided as
they mounted the stairs she would not even ring for Jeanne, but take off
her things by herself. The great thing was to be natural!
And 'There!' cried Rosemary again, as they reached her beautiful
big bedroom with the curtains drawn, the fire leaping on her wonderful
lacquer furniture, her gold cushions and the primrose and blue rugs.
The girl stood lust inside the door; she seemed dazed. But Rosemary didn't mind that.
'Come and sit down,' she cried, dragging her big chair up to the
fire, 'in this comfy chair. Come and get warm. You look so dreadfully
cold.'
'I daren't, madam,' said the girl, and she edged backwards.
'Oh, please,'--Rosemary ran forward--'you mustn't be frightened,
you mustn't, really. Sit down, and when I've taken off my things we
shall go into the next room and have tea and be cosy. Why are you
afraid?' And gently she half pushed the thin figure into its deep
cradle.
But there was no answer. The girl stayed just as she had been
put, with her hands by her sides and her mouth slightly open. To be
quite sincere, she looked rather stupid. But Rosemary wouldn't
acknowledge it. She leant over her, saying: 'Won't you take off your
hat? Your pretty hair is all wet. And one is so much more comfortable
without a hat, isn't one?'
There was a whisper that sounded like 'Very good, madam,' and the crushed hat was taken off.
'And let me help you off with your coat, too,' said Rosemary.
The girl stood up. But she held on to the chair with one hand
and let Rosemary pull. It was quite an effort. The other scarcely
helped her at all. She seemed to stagger like a child, and the thought
came and went through Rosemary's mind, that if people wanted helping
they must respond a little, just a little, otherwise it became very
difficult indeed. And what was she to do with the coat now? She left
it on the moor, and the hat too. She was just going to take a cigarette
off the mantelpiece when the girl said quickly, but so lightly and
strangely: 'I'm very sorry, madam, but I'm going to faint. I shall go
off, madam, if I don't have something.'
'Good heavens, how thoughtless I am!' Rosemary rushed to the bell.
'Tea! Tea at once! And some brandy immediately!'
The maid was gone again, but the girl almost cried out: 'No, I
don't want no brandy. I never drink brandy. It's a cup of tea I want,
madam.' And she burst into tears.
It was a terrible and fascinating moment. Rosemary knelt beside her chair.
'Don't cry, poor little thing,' she said. 'Don't cry.' And she
gave the other her lace handkerchief. She really was touched beyond
words. She put her arm round those thin, bird-like shoulders. Now at
last the other forgot to be shy, forgot everything except that they were
both women, and gasped out: 'I can't go on no longer like this. I
can't bear it. I can't bear it. I shall do away with myself. I can't
bear no more.'
'You shan't have to. I'll look after you. Don't cry any more.
Don't you see what a good thing it was that you met me? We'll have tea
and you'll tell me everything. And I shall arrange something. I
promise. Do stop crying. It's so exhausting. Please!'
The other girl did stop just in time for Rosemary to get up
before the tea came. she had the table placed between them. She plied
the poor little creature with everything, all the sandwiches, all the
bread and butter, and every time her cup was empty she filled it with
tea, cream and sugar. People always said sugar was so nourishing. As
for herself she didn't eat; she smoked and looked away tactfully so that
the other should not be shy.
And really the effect of that slight meal was marvellous. When
the tea-table was carried away a new being, a light, frail creature with
tangled hair, dark lips, deep, lighted eyes, lay back in the big chair
in a kind of sweet languor, looking at the blaze. Rosemary lit a fresh
cigarette; it was time to begin.
'And when did you have your last meal?' she asked softly.
But at that moment the door-handle turned.
'Rosemary, may I come in?' It was Philip.
'Of course.'
He came in. 'Oh, I'm so sorry,' he said, and stopped and stared.
'It's quite all right,' said Rosemary, smiling. 'This is my friend, Miss--'
'Smith, madam,' said the languid figure, who was strangely still and unafraid.
'Smith,' said Rosemary. 'We are going to have a little talk.'
'Oh yes,' said Philip. 'Quite,' and his eye caught sight of the
coat and hat on the floor. He came over to the fire and turned his back
to it. 'It's a beastly afternoon,' he said curiously, still looking at
that listless figure, looking at its hands and boots, and then at
Rosemary again.
'Yes, isn't it?' said Rosemary enthusiastically. 'Vile.'
Philip smiled his charming smile. 'As a matter of fact,' said
he, 'I wanted you to come into the library for a moment. Would you?
Will Miss Smith excuse us?'
The big eyes were raised to him, but Rosemary answered for her: 'Of course she will.' And they went out of the room together.
'I say,' said Philip, when they were alone. 'Explain. Who is she? What does it all mean?'
Rosemary, laughing, leaned against the door and said: 'I picked
her up in Curzon Street. Really. She's a real pick-up. She asked me
for the price of a cup of tea, and I brought her home with me.'
'But what on earth are you going to do with her?' cried Philip.
'Be nice to her,' said Rosemary quickly. 'Be frightfully nice to
her. Look after her. I don't know how. We haven't talked yet. But
show her--treat her--make her--feel--'
'My darling girl,' said Philip, 'you're quite mad, you know. It simply can't be done.'
'I knew you'd say that,' retorted Rosemary. 'Why not? I want
to. Isn't that a reason? And besides, one's always reading about these
things. I decided--
'But,' said Philip slowly, and he cut the end of a cigar, 'she's so astonishingly pretty.'
'Pretty?' Rosemary was so surprised that she blushed. 'Do you think so? I--I hadn't thought about it.'
'Good Lord!' Philip struck a match. 'She's absolutely lovely.
Look again, my child. I was bowled over when I came into your room just
now. However... I think you're making a ghastly mistake. Sorry,
darling, if I'm crude and all that. But let me know if Miss Smith is
going to dine with us in time for me to look up The Milliner's Gazette.'
'You absurd creature!' said Rosemary, and she went out of the
library, but not back to her bedroom. She went to her writing-room and
sat down at her desk. Pretty! Absolutely lovely! Bowled over! Her
heart beat like a heavy bell. Pretty! Lovely! She drew her
cheque-book towards her. But no, cheques would be no use, of course.
She opened a drawer and took out five pound notes, looked at them, put
two back, and holding the three squeezed in her hand, she went back to
her bedroom.
Half an hour later Philip was still in the library, when Rosemary came ln.
'I only wanted to tell you,' said she, and she leaned against the
door again and looked at him with her dazzled exotic gaze, 'Miss Smith
won't dine with us tonight.'
Philip put down the paper. 'Oh, what's happened? Previous engagement?'
Rosemary came over and sat down on his knee. 'She insisted on
going,' said she, 'so I gave the poor little thing a present of money. I
couldn't keep her against her will, could I?' she added softly.
Rosemary had just done her hair, darkened her eyes a little, and
put on her pearls. She put up her hands and touched Philip's cheeks.
'Do you like me?' said she, and her tone, sweet, husky, troubled him.
'I like you awfully,' he said, and he held her tighter. 'Kiss me.'
There was a pause.
Then Rosemary said dreamily: 'I saw a fascinating little box today. It cost twenty-eight guineas. May I have it?'
Philip jumped her on his knee. 'You may, little wasteful one,' said he.
But that was not really what Rosemary wanted to say.
'Philip,' she whispered, and she pressed his head against her bosom, 'am I pretty?'