-
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
modem,
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:
And that jar of roses.
Yes, I'll have all the roses in the jar. No, no
lilac. I
hate lilac. It's got no
shape.
sight,
as
though
this
was
only
too
true;
lilac
was
dreadfully
shapeless.
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. All the same,
there was
something...
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.
To-day 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
1
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,
flashing ones, as he murmured gently:
bodice.
moment the shopman did not
seem to hear. Then a murmur reached her.
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:
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:
speak to you a moment?
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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.
of tea?
in the least the voice of a
beggar.
Rosemary.
extra
ordinary!
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:
took
her
home
with
me,
as
she
stepped
forward
and
said
to
that
dim
person
beside her:
The
girl
drew
back
startled.
She
even
stopped
shivering
for
a
moment.
Rosemary
put
out
a
hand
and
touched
her
arm.
mean
it,
she
said,
smiling. And she felt how simple and
kind her smile was.
Do. Come home with
me now in my car and have tea.
voice.
The
girl
put
her
fingers
to
her
lips
and
her
eyes
devoured
Rosemary.
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.
3
hand through
the velvet strap. She could have said,
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'.
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.
thing from being
stared at by the servants; she decided as they
mounted
the stairs she would not even
ring to Jeanne, but take off her things by
herself. The great things were to be
natural!
And
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 just inside the door;
she seemed dazed. But Rosemary didn't
mind that.
this comfy chair. Come and
get warm. You look so dreadfully cold.
mustn't, really. Sit down,
when I've taken off my things we shall go into
the next room and have tea and be cozy.
Why are you afraid?
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:
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