Monica MANOLESCU-OANCEA
"A
History of Genres" (LV20AM11)
|
Ralph Blakelock - Moonlight (1885) Oil on canvas, 69.2
x 82.0 cm |
Katherine
Mansfield (1888-1923)
From: by Katherine Mansfield, The Garden Party and Other
Stories, 1922.
MISS BRILL (Katherine Mansfield, 1922)
ALTHOUGH it was so
brilliantly fine–the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots
of light like white wine splashed over the Jardins
Publiques–Miss Brill was glad that she had decided on her fur.
The air was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there was
just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water
before you sip, and now and again a leaf came drifting–from
nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brill put up her hand and touched
her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice to feel it again. She
had taken it out of its box that afternoon, shaken out the moth
powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life back into the
dim little eyes. "What has been happening to me?" said the sad
little eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap at her again
from the red eiderdown! . . . But the nose, which was of some
black composition, wasn't at all firm. It must have had a knock,
somehow. Never mind–a little dab of black sealing-wax when the
time came–when it was absolutely necessary . . . Little rogue!
Yes, she really felt like that about it. Little rogue biting its
tail just by her left ear. She could have taken it off and laid
it on her lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her hands
and arms, but that came from walking, she supposed. And when she
breathed, something light and sad–no, not sad, exactly–something
gentle seemed to move in her bosom.
There were a number of
people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday. And the
band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the Season had
begun. For although the band played all the year round on
Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It was like some
one playing with only the family to listen; it didn't care how
it played if there weren't any strangers present. Wasn't the
conductor wearing a new coat, too? She was sure it was new. He
scraped with his foot and flapped his arms like a rooster about
to crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the green rotunda blew out
their cheeks and glared at the music. Now there came a little
"flutey" bit–very pretty!–a little chain of bright drops. She
was sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her head and
smiled.
Only two people shared her
"special" seat: a fine old man in a velvet coat, his hands
clasped over a huge carved walking-stick, and a big old woman,
sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on her embroidered
apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss
Brill always looked forward to the conversation. She had become
really quite expert, she thought, at listening as though she
didn't listen, at sitting in other people's lives just for a
minute while they talked round her.
She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go
soon. Last Sunday, too, hadn't been as interesting as usual. An
Englishman and his wife, he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and
she button boots. And she'd gone on the whole time about how she
ought to wear spectacles; she knew she needed them; but that it
was no good getting any; they'd be sure to break and they'd
never keep on. And he'd been so patient. He'd suggested
everything–gold rims, the kind that curve round your ears,
little pads inside the bridge. No, nothing would please her.
"They'll always be sliding down my nose!" Miss Brill had wanted
to shake her.
The old people sat on a
bench, still as statues. Never mind, there was always the crowd
to watch. To and fro, in front of the flower beds and the band
rotunda, the couples and groups paraded, stopped to talk, to
greet, to buy a handful of flowers from the old beggar who had
his tray fixed to the railings. Little children ran among them,
swooping and laughing; little boys with big white silk bows
under their chins, little girls, little French dolls, dressed up
in velvet and lace. And sometimes a tiny staggerer came suddenly
rocking into the open from under the trees, stopped, stared, as
suddenly sat down "flop," until its small high-stepping mother,
like a young hen, rushed scolding to its rescue. Other people
sat on the benches and green chairs, but they were nearly always
the same, Sunday after Sunday, and–Miss Brill had often
noticed–there was something funny about nearly all of them. They
were odd, silent, nearly all old, and from the way they stared
they looked as though they'd just come from dark little rooms or
even–even cupboards!
Behind the rotunda the
slender trees with yellow leaves down drooping, and through them
just a line of sea, and beyond the blue sky with gold-veined
clouds.
Tum-tum-tum tiddle-um!
tiddle-um! tum tiddley-um tum ta! blew the band.
Two young girls in red came
by and two young soldiers in blue met them, and they laughed and
paired and went off arm-in-arm. Two peasant women with funny
straw hats passed, gravely, leading beautiful smoke-coloured
donkeys. A cold, pale nun hurried by. A beautiful woman came
along and dropped her bunch of violets, and a little boy ran
after to hand them to her, and she took them and threw them away
as if they'd been poisoned. Dear me! Miss Brill didn't know
whether to admire that or not! And now an ermine toque and a
gentleman in gray met just in front of her. He was tall, stiff,
dignified, and she was wearing the ermine toque she'd bought
when her hair was yellow. Now everything, her hair, her face,
even her eyes, was the same colour as the shabby ermine, and her
hand, in its cleaned glove, lifted to dab her lips, was a tiny
yellowish paw. Oh, she was so pleased to see him–delighted! She
rather thought they were going to meet that afternoon. She
described where she'd been–everywhere, here, there, along by the
sea. The day was so charming–didn't he agree? And wouldn't he,
perhaps? . . . But he shook his head, lighted a cigarette,
slowly breathed a great deep puff into her face, and even while
she was still talking and laughing, flicked the match away and
walked on. The ermine toque was alone; she smiled more brightly
than ever. But even the band seemed to know what she was feeling
and played more softly, played tenderly, and the drum beat, "The
Brute! The Brute!" over and over. What would she do? What was
going to happen now? But as Miss Brill wondered, the ermine
toque turned, raised her hand as though she'd seen someone else,
much nicer, just over there, and pattered away. And the band
changed again and played more quickly, more gayly than ever, and
the old couple on Miss Brill's seat got up and marched away, and
such a funny old man with long whiskers hobbled along in time to
the music and was nearly knocked over by four girls walking
abreast.
Oh, how fascinating it was!
How she enjoyed it! How she loved sitting here, watching it all!
It was like a play. It was exactly like a play. Who could
believe the sky at the back wasn't painted? But it wasn't till a
little brown dog trotted on solemn and then slowly trotted off,
like a little "theatre" dog, a little dog that had been drugged,
that Miss Brill discovered what it was that made it so exciting.
They were all on stage. They weren't only the audience, not only
looking on; they were acting. Even she had a part and came every
Sunday. No doubt somebody would have noticed if she hadn't been
there; she was part of the performance after all. How strange
she'd never thought of it like that before! And yet it explained
why she made such point of starting from home at just the same
time each week–so as not to be late for the performance–and it
also explained why she had a queer, shy feeling at telling her
English pupils how she spent her Sunday afternoons. No wonder!
Miss Brill nearly laughed out loud. She was on the stage. She
thought of the old invalid gentleman to whom she read the
newspaper four afternoons a week while he slept in the garden.
She had got quite used to the frail head on the cotton pillow,
the hollowed eyes, the open mouth and the high pinched nose. If
he'd been dead she mightn't have noticed for weeks; she wouldn't
have minded. But suddenly he knew he was having the paper read
to him by an actress! "An actress!" The old head lifted; two
points of light quivered in the old eyes. "An actress–are ye?"
And Miss Brill smoothed the newspaper as though it were the
manuscript of her part and said gently; "Yes, I have been an
actress for a long time."
The band had been having a
rest. Now they started again. And what they played was warm,
sunny, yet there was just a faint chill–a something, what was
it?–not sadness–no, not sadness–a something that made you want
to sing. The tune lifted, lifted, the light shone; and it seemed
to Miss Brill that in another moment all of them, all the whole
company, would begin singing. The young ones, the laughing ones
who were moving together, they would begin and the men's voices,
very resolute and brave, would join them. And then she too, she
too, and the others on the benches–they would come in with a
kind of accompaniment–something low, that scarcely rose or fell,
something so beautiful–moving. . . . And Miss Brill's eyes
filled with tears and she looked smiling at all the other
members of the company. Yes, we understand, we understand, she
thought–though what they understood she didn't know.
Just at that moment a boy
and girl came and sat down where the old couple had been. They
were beautifully dressed; they were in love. The hero and
heroine, of course, just arrived from his father's yacht. And
still soundlessly singing, still with that trembling smile, Miss
Brill prepared to listen.
"No, not now," said the
girl. "Not here, I can't."
"But why? Because of that
stupid old thing at the end there?" asked the boy. "Why does she
come here at all–who wants her? Why doesn't she keep her silly
old mug at home?"
"It's her fu-ur which is so funny," giggled the girl. "It's
exactly like a fried whiting."
"Ah, be off with you!" said
the boy in an angry whisper. Then: "Tell me, ma petite
chère–"
"No, not here," said the
girl. "Not yet."
. . . . . . .
On her way home she usually
bought a slice of honeycake at the baker's. It was her Sunday
treat. Sometimes there was an almond in her slice, sometimes
not. It made a great difference. If there was an almond it was
like carrying home a tiny present–a surprise–something that
might very well not have been there. She hurried on the almond
Sundays and struck the match for the kettle in quite a dashing
way.
But to-day she passed the
baker's by, climbed the stairs, went into the little dark
room–her room like a cupboard–and sat down on the red eiderdown.
She sat there for a long time. The box that the fur came out of
was on the bed. She unclasped the necklet quickly; quickly,
without looking, laid it inside. But when she put the lid on she
thought she heard something crying.
Krebs
went
to the war from a Methodist college in Kansas. There is a
picture which shows him among his fraternity brothers, all of
them wearing exactly the same height and style collar. He
enlisted in the Marines in 1917 and did not return to the United
States until the second division returned from the Rhine in the
summer of 1919.
There
is
a picture which shows him on the Rhine with two German girls and
another corporal. Krebs and the corporal look too big for their
uniforms. The German girls are not beautiful. The Rhine does not
show in the picture.
By
the
time Krebs returned to his home town in Oklahoma the greeting of
heroes was over. He came back much too late. The men from the
town who had been drafted had all been welcomed elaborately on
their return. There had been a great deal of hysteria. Now the
reaction had set in. People seemed to think it was rather
ridiculous for Krebs to be getting back so late, years after the
war was over.
At
first
Krebs, who had been at Belleau Wood, Soissons, the Champagne,
St. Mihiel and in the Argonne did not want to talk about the war
at all. Later he felt the need to talk but no one wanted to hear
about it. His town had heard too many atrocity stories to be
thrilled by actualities. Krebs found that to be listened to at
all he had to lie, and after he had done this twice he, too, had
a reaction against the war and against talking about it. A
distaste for everything that had happened to him in the war set
in because of the lies he had told. All of the times that had
been able to make him feel cool and clear inside himself when he
thought of them; the times so long back when he had done the one
thing, the only thing for a man to do, easily and naturally,
when he might have done something else, now lost their cool,
valuable quality and then were lost themselves.
His
lies
were quite unimportant lies and consisted in attributing to
himself things other men had seen, done or heard of, and stating
as facts certain apocryphal incidents familiar to all soldiers.
Even his lies were not sensational at the pool room. His
acquaintances, who had heard detailed accounts of German women
found chained to machine guns in the Argonne forest and who
could not comprehend, or were barred by their patriotism from
interest in, any German machine gunners who were not chained,
were not thrilled by his stories.
Krebs
acquired
the nausea in regard to experience that is the result of untruth
or exaggeration, and when he occasionally met another man who
had really been a soldier and they talked a few minutes in the
dressing room at a dance he fell into the easy pose of the old
soldier among other soldiers: that he had been badly,
sickeningly frightened all the time. In this way he lost
everything.
During
this
time, it was late summer, he was sleeping late in bed, getting
up to walk down town to the library to get a book, eating lunch
at home, reading on the front porch until he became bored and
then walking down through the town to spend the hottest hours of
the day in the cool dark of the pool room. He loved to play
pool.
In
the
evening he practiced on his clarinet, strolled down town, read
and went to bed. He was still a hero to his two young sisters.
His mother would have given him breakfast in bed if he had
wanted it. She often came in when he was in bed and asked him to
tell her about the war, but her attention always wandered. His
father was non-committal.
Before
Krebs
went away to the war he had never been allowed to drive the
family motor car. His father was in the real estate business and
always wanted the car to be at his command when he required it
to take clients out into the country to show them a piece of
farm property. The car always stood outside the First National
Bank building where his father had an office on the second
floor. Now, after the war, it was still the same car.
Nothing
was
changed in the town except that the young girls had grown up.
But they lived in such a complicated world of already defined
alliances and shifting feuds that Krebs did not feel the energy
or the courage to break into it. He liked to look at them,
though. There were so many good-looking young girls. Most of
them had their hair cut short. When he went away only little
girls wore their hair like that or girls that were fast. They
all wore sweaters and shirt waists with round Dutch collars. It
was a pattern. He liked to look at them from the front porch as
they walked on the other side of the street. He liked to watch
them walking under the shade of the trees. He liked the round
Dutch collars above their sweaters. He liked their silk
stockings and flat shoes. He liked their bobbed hair and the way
they walked.
When
he
was in town their appeal to hims was not very strong. He did not
like them when he saw them in the Greek's ice cream parlor. He
did not want them themselves really. They were too complicated.
There was something else. Vaguely he wanted a girl but he did
not want to have to work to get her. He would have liked to have
a girl but he did not want to have to spend a long time getting
her. He did not want to get into the intrigue and the politics.
He did not want to have to do any courting. He did not want to
tell any more lies. It wasn't worth it.
He
did
not want any consequences. He did not want any consequences ever
again. He wanted to live along without consequences. Besides he
did not really need a girl. The army had taught him that. It was
all right to pose as though you had to have a girl. Nearly
everybody did that. But it wasn't true. You did not need a girl.
That was the funny thing. First a fellow boasted how girls mean
nothing to him, that he never thought of them, that they could
not touch him. Then a fellow boasted that he could not get along
without girls, that he had to have them all the time, that he
could not go to sleep without them.
That
was
all a lie. It was all a lie both ways. You did not need a girl
unless you thought about them. He learned that in the army. Then
sooner or later you always got one. When you were really ripe
for a girl you always got one. You did not have to think about
it. Sooner or later it would come. He had learned that in the
army.
Now
he
would have liked a girl if she had come to him and not wanted to
talk. But here at home it was all too complicated. He knew he
could never get through it all again. It was not worth the
trouble. That was the thing about French girls and German girls.
There was not all this talking. You couldn't talk much and you
did not need to talk. It was simple and you were friends. He
thought about France and then he began to think about Germany.
On the whole he had liked Germany better. He did not want to
leave Germany. He did not want to come home. Still, he had come
home. He sat on the front porch.
He
liked
the girls that were walking along the other side of the street.
He liked the look of them much better than the French girls or
the German girls. But the world they were in was not the world
he was in. He would like to have one of them. But it was not
worth it. They were such a nice pattern. He liked the pattern.
It was exciting. But he would not go through all the talking. He
did not want one badly enough. He liked to look at them all,
though. It was not worth it. Not now when things were getting
good again.
He
sat
there on the porch reading a book on the war. It was a history
and he was reading about all the engagements he had been in. It
was the most interesting reading he had ever done. He wished
there were more maps. He looked forward with a good feeling to
reading all the really good histories when they would come out
with good detail maps. Now he was really learning about the war.
He had been a good soldier. That made a difference.
One
morning
after he had been home about a month his mother came into his
bedroom and sat on the bed. She smoothed her apron.
"I
had
a talk with your father last night, Harold," she said, "and he
is willing for you to take the car out in the evenings."
"Yeah?"
said
Krebs, who was not fully awake. "Take the car out? Yeah?"
"Yes.
Your
father has felt for some time that you should be able to take
the car out in the evenings whenever you wished but we only
talked it over last night."
"I'll
bet
you made him," Krebs said.
"No.
It
was your father's suggestion that we talk the matter over."
"Yeah.
I'll
bet you made him," Krebs sat up in bed.
"Will
you
come down to breakfast, Harold?" his mother said.
"As
soon
as I get my clothes on," Krebs said.
His
mother
went out of the room and he could hear her frying something
downstairs while he washed, shaved and dressed to go down into
the dining-room for breakfast. While he was eating breakfast his
sister brought in the mail.
"Well,
Hare,"
she said. "You old sleepy-head. What do you ever get up for?"
Krebs looked at her. He liked her. She was his best sister.
"Have you got the paper?" he asked. She handed him the Kansas
City Star and he
shucked off its brown wrapper and opened it to the sporting
page. He folded the Star
open and propped it against the water pitcher with his cereal
dish to steady it, so he could read while he ate.
"Harold,"
his
mother stood in the kitchen doorway, "Harold, please don't muss
up the paper. Your father can't read his Star if it's been
mussed."
"I
won't
muss it," Krebs said.
His
sister
sat down at the table and watched him while he read.
"We're
playing
indoor over at school this afternoon," she said. "I'm going to
pitch."
"Good,"
said
Krebs. "How's the old wing?"
"I
can
pitch better than lots of the boys. I tell them all you taught
me. The other girls aren't much good."
"Yeah?"
said
Krebs. "I tell them all you're my beau. Aren't you my beau,
Hare?" "You bet." "Couldn't your brother really be your beau
just because he's your brother?" "I don't know." "Sure you know.
Couldn't you be my beau, Hare, if I was old enough and if you
wanted to?" "Sure. You're my girl now." "Am I really your girl?"
"Sure." "Do you love me?" "Uh, huh." "Will you love me always?"
"Sure." "Will you come over and watch me play indoor?" "Maybe."
"Aw, Hare, you don't love me. If you loved me, you'd want to
come over and watch me play indoor."
Kreb's
mother
came into the dining-room from the kitchen. She carried a plate
with two fried eggs and some crisp bacon on it and a plate of
buckwheat cakes. "You run along, Helen," she said. "I want to
talk to Harold."
She
put
the eggs and bacon down in front of him and brought in a jug of
maple syrup for the buckwheat cakes. Then she sat down across
the table from Krebs. "I wish you'd put down the paper a minute,
Harold," she said.
Krebs
took
down the paper and folded it. "Have you decided what you are
going to do yet, Harold?" his mother said, taking off her
glasses.
"No,"
said
Krebs.
"Don't
you
think it's about time?" His mother did not say this in a mean
way. She seemed worried. "I hadn't thought about it," Krebs
said. "God has some work for everyone to do," his mother said.
"There can be no idle hands in His
Kingdom."
"I'm
not in His Kingdom," Krebs said. "We are all of us in His
Kingdom." Krebs felt embarrassed and resentful as always. "I've
worried about you so much, Harold," his mother went on. "I know
the temptations you must have been exposed to. I know how weak
men are. I know what your own dear grandfather, my own father,
told us about the Civil War and I have prayed for you. I pray
for you all day long, Harold."
Krebs looked at the bacon fat
hardening on his plate. "Your father is worried, too," his
mother went on. "He thinks you have lost your ambition, that you
haven't got a definite aim in life. Charley Simmons, who is just
your age, has a good job and is going to be married. The boys
are all settling down; they're all determined to get somewhere;
you can see that boys like Charley Simmons are on their way to
being really a credit to the community." Krebs said nothing.
"Don't look that way, Harold," his mother said. "You know we
love you and I want to tell you for your own good how matters
stand. Your father does not want to hamper your freedom. He
thinks you should be allowed to drive the car. If you want to
take some of the nice girls out riding with you, we are only too
pleased. We want you to enjoy yourself. But you are going to
have to settle down to work, Harold. Your father doesn't care
what you start in at. All work is honorable as he says. But
you've got to make a start at something. He asked me to speak to
you this morning and then you can stop in and see him at his
office."
"Is that all?" Krebs said.
"Yes. Don't you love your mother, dear boy?" "No," Krebs said.
His mother looked at him across the table. Her eyes were shiny.
She started crying.
"I don't love anybody," Krebs
said. It wasn't any good. He couldn't tell her, he couldn't make
her see it. It was silly to have said it. He
had only hurt her. He went
over and took hold of her arm. She was crying with her head in
her hands. "I didn't mean it," he said. "I was just angry at
something. I didn't mean I didn't love you." His mother went on
crying. Krebs put his arm on her shoulder. "Can't you believe
me, mother?" His mother shook her head. "Please, please, mother.
Please believe me." "All right," his mother said chokily. She
looked up at him. "I believe you, Harold." Krebs kissed her
hair. She put her face up to him. "I'm your mother," she said.
"I held you next to my heart when you were a tiny baby." Krebs
felt sick and vaguely nauseated. "I know, Mummy," he said. "I'll
try and be a good boy for you." "Would you kneel and pray with
me, Harold?" his mother asked. They knelt down beside the
diningroom table and Krebs's mother prayed. "Now, you pray,
Harold," she said. "I can't," Krebs said. "Try, Harold." "I
can't." "Do you want me to pray for you?" "Yes." So his mother
prayed for him and then they stood up and Krebs kissed his
mother and went out of the house. He had tried so to keep his
life from being complicated. Still, none of it had touched him.
He had felt sorry for his mother and she had made him lie. He
would go to Kansas City and get a job and she would feel all
right about it. There would be one more scene maybe before he
got away. He would not go down to his father's office. He would
miss that one. He wanted his life to go smoothly. It had just
gotten going that way. Well, that was all over now, anyway. He
would go over to the schoolyard and watch Helen play indoor
baseball.
©2008 Monica Manolescu-Oancea. Dernière mise
à jour : 20 septembre 2012.