Katherine Mansfield - Premium Collection: 160+ Short Stories & Poems. Katherine Mansfield
“Hullo, my lad.” Then he went away. But soon he came back again and said: “Fond of dogs?” Sun said: “Yes.” But then he went away again, and though Sun looked for him everywhere he couldn’t find him. He thought perhaps he’d gone outside to fetch in a puppy.
“Good night, my precious babies,” said Mother, folding them up in her bare arms. “Fly up to your little nest.”
Then Moon went and made a silly of herself again. She put up her arms in front of everybody and said: “My Daddy must carry me.”
But they seemed to like it, and Daddy swooped down and picked her up as he always did.
Nurse was in such a hurry to get them to bed that she even interrupted Sun over his prayers and said: “Get on with them, child, do.” And the moment after they were in bed and in the dark except for the nightlight in its little saucer.
“Are you asleep?” asked Moon.
“No,” said Sun. “Are you?”
“No,” said Moon.
A long while after Sun woke up again. There was a loud, loud noise of clapping from downstairs, like when it rains. He heard Moon turn over.
“Moon, are you awake?”
“Yes, are you.”
“Yes. Well, let’s go and look over the stairs.”
They had just got settled on the top step when the drawing-room door opened and they heard the party cross over the hall into the dining-room. Then that door was shut; there was a noise of “pops” and laughing. Then that stopped and Sun saw them all walking round and round the lovely table with their hands behind their backs like he had done. . . . Round and round they walked, looking and staring. The man with the grey whiskers liked the little house best. When he saw the nut for a handle he rolled his eyes like he did before and said to Sun: “Seen the nut?”
“Don’t nod your head like that, Moon.”
“I’m not nodding. It’s you.”
“It is not. I never nod my head.”
“O-oh, you do. You’re nodding it now.”
“I’m not. I’m only showing you how not to do it.”
When they woke up again they could only hear Father’s voice very loud, and Mother, laughing away. Father came out of the dining-room, bounded up the stairs, and nearly fell over them.
“Hullo!” he said. “By Jove, Kitty, come and look at this.”
Mother came out. “Oh, you naughty children,” said she from the hall.
“Let’s have ’em down and give ’em a bone,” said Father. Sun had never seen him so jolly.
“No, certainly not,” said Mother.
“Oh, my Daddy, do! Do have us down,” said Moon.
“I’m hanged if I won’t,” cried Father. “I won’t be bullied. Kitty—way there.” And he caught them up, one under each arm.
Sun thought Mother would have been dreadfully cross. But she wasn’t. She kept on laughing at Father.
“Oh, you dreadful boy!” said she. But she didn’t mean Sun.
“Come on, kiddies. Come and have some pickings,” said this jolly Father. But Moon stopped a minute.
“Mother—your dress is right off one side.”
“Is it?” said Mother. And Father said “Yes” and pretended to bite her white shoulder, but she pushed him away.
And so they went back to the beautiful dining-room.
But—oh! oh! what had happened. The ribbons and the roses were all pulled untied. The little red table napkins lay on the floor, all the shining plates were dirty and all the winking glasses. The lovely food that the man had trimmed was all thrown about, and there were bones and bits and fruit peels and shells everywhere. There was even a bottle lying down with stuff coming out of it on to the cloth and nobody stood it up again.
And the little pink house with the snow roof and the green windows was broken—broken—half melted away in the centre of the table.
“Come on, Sun,” said Father, pretending not to notice.
Moon lifted up her pyjama legs and shuffled up to the table and stood on a chair, squeaking away.
“Have a bit of this ice,” said Father, smashing in some more of the roof.
Mother took a little plate and held it for him; she put her other arm round his neck.
“Daddy. Daddy,” shrieked Moon. “The little handle’s left. The little nut. Kin I eat it?” And she reached across and picked it out of the door and scrunched it up, biting hard and blinking.
“Here, my lad,” said Father.
But Sun did not move from the door. Suddenly he put up his head and gave a loud wail.
“I think it’s horrid—horrid—horrid!” he sobbed.
“There, you see!” said Mother. “You see!”
“Off with you,” said Father, no longer jolly. “This moment. Off you go!”
And wailing loudly, Sun stumped off to the nursery.
FEUILLE D’ALBUM
HE really was an impossible person. Too shy altogether. With absolutely nothing to say for himself. And such a weight. Once he was in your studio he never knew when to go, but would sit on and on until you nearly screamed, and burned to throw something enormous after him when he did finally blush his way out—something like the tortoise stove. The strange thing was that at first sight he looked most interesting. Everybody agreed about that. You would drift into the café one evening and there you would see, sitting in a corner, with a glass of coffee in front of him, a thin, dark boy, wearing a blue jersey with a little grey flannel jacket buttoned over it. And somehow that blue jersey and the grey jacket with the sleeves that were too short gave him the air of a boy that has made up his mind to run away to sea. Who has run away, in fact, and will get up in a moment and sling a knotted handkerchief containing his nightshirt and his mother’s picture on the end of a stick, and walk out into the night and be drowned. . . . Stumble over the wharf edge on his way to the ship, even. . . . He had black close-cropped hair, grey eyes with long lashes, white cheeks and a mouth pouting as though he were determined not to cry. . . . How could one resist him? Oh, one’s heart was wrung at sight. And, as if that were not enough, there was his trick of blushing. . . . Whenever the waiter came near him he turned crimson—he might have been just out of prison and the waiter in the know. . . .
“Who is he, my dear? Do you know?”
“Yes. His name is Ian French. Painter. Awfully clever, they say. Someone started by giving him a mother’s tender care. She asked him how often he heard from home, whether he had enough blankets on his bed, how much milk he drank a day. But when she went round to his studio to give an eye to his socks, she rang and rang, and though she could have sworn she heard someone breathing inside, the door was not answered. . . . Hopeless!”
Someone else decided that he ought to fall in love. She summoned him to her side, called him “boy,” leaned over him so that he might smell the enchanting perfume of her hair, took his arm, told him how marvellous life could be if one only had the courage, and went round to his studio one evening and rang and rang. . . . Hopeless.
“What the poor boy really wants is thoroughly rousing,” said a third. So off they went to cafés and cabarets, little dances, places where you drank something that tasted like tinned apricot juice, but cost twenty-seven shillings a bottle and was called champagne, other places, too thrilling for words, where