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Katherine Mansfield, Feuille dAlbum, 1920
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 outsomething 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 caf one eveningand 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 crimsonhe 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 tocaf's 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 you sat in the most awful gloom, and where someone had always been shot the
night before. But he did not turn a hair. Only once he got very drunk, but instead of blossoming
forth, there he sat, stony, with two spots of red on his cheeks, like, my dear, yes, the dead image of
that rag-time thing they were playing, like a "Broken Doll." But when she took him back to his
studio he had quite recovered, and said "good night" to her in the street below, as though they had
walked home from church together. . . . Hopeless.
After heaven knows how many more attemptsfor the spirit of kindness dies very hard in
womenthey gave him up. Of course, they were still perfectly charming, and asked him to theirshows, and spoke to him in the caf but that was all. When one is an artist one has no time simply
for people who won't respond. Has one?
"And besides I really think there must be something rather fishy somewhere . . . don't you? It
can't all be as innocent as it looks! Why come to Paris if you want to be a daisy in the field? No, I'm
not suspicious. But"
He lived at the top of a tall mournful building overlooking the river. One of those buildings
that look so romantic on rainy nights and moonlight nights, when the shutters are shut, and the
heavy door, and the sign advertising "a little apartment to let immediately" gleams forlorn beyond
words. One of those buildings that smell so unromantic all the year round, and where the concierge
lives in a glass cage on the ground floor, wrapped up in a filthy shawl, stirring something in a
saucepan and ladling out tit-bits to the swollen old dog lolling on a bead cushion. . . . Perched up inthe air the studio had a wonderful view. The two big windows faced the water; he could see the
boats and the barges swinging up and down, and the fringe of an island planted with trees, like a
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dusky studio, tired, with one arm hanging over the back of his chair, staring in at her window and
seeing himself in there with her. She had a violent temper; they quarrelled terribly at times, he and
she. She had a way of stamping her foot and twisting her hands in her pinafore . . . furious. And she
very rarely laughed. Only when she told him about an absurd little kitten she once had who used to
roar and pretend to be a lion when it was given meat to eat. Things like that made her laugh. . . . But
as a rule they sat together very quietly; he, just as he was sitting now, and she with her hands folded
in her lap and her feet tucked under, talking in low tones, or silent and tired after the day's work. Ofcourse, she never asked him about his pictures, and of course he made the most wonderful drawings
of her which she hated, because he made her so thin and so dark. . . . But how could he get to know
her? This might go on for years. . . .
Then he discovered that once a week, in the evenings, she went out shopping. On two
successive Thursdays she came to the window wearing an old-fashioned cape over the pinafore, and
carrying a basket. From where he sat he could not see the door of her house, but on the next
Thursday evening at the same time he snatched up his cap and ran down the stairs. There was a
lovely pink light over everything. He saw it glowing in the river, and the people walking towards
him had pink faces and pink hands.
He leaned against the side of his house waiting for her and he had no idea of what he was
going to do or say. "Here she comes," said a voice in his head. She walked very quickly, with small,light steps; with one hand she carried the basket, with the other she kept the cape together. . . . What
could he do? He could only follow. . . . First she went into the grocer's and spent a long time in
there, and then she went into the butcher's where she had to wait her turn. Then she was an age at
the draper's matching something, and then she went to the fruit shop and bought a lemon. As he
watched her he knew more surely than ever he must get to know her, now. Her composure, her
seriousness and her loneliness, the very way she walked as though she was eager to be done with
this world of grown-ups all was so natural to him and so inevitable.
"Yes, she is always like that," he thought proudly. "We have nothing to do withthese
people."
But now she was on her way home and he was as far off as ever. . . . She suddenly turned
into the dairy and he saw her through the window buying an egg. She picked it out of the basketwith such carea brown one, a beautifully shaped one, the one he would have chosen. And when she
came out of the dairy he went in after her. In a moment he was out again, and following her past his
house across the flower market, dodging among the huge umbrellas and treading on the fallen
flowers and the round marks where the pots had stood. . . . Through her door he crept, and up the
stairs after, taking care to tread in time with her so that she should not notice. Finally, she stopped
on the landing, and took the key out of her purse. As she put it into the door he ran up and faced her.
Blushing more crimson than ever, but looking at her severely he said, almost angrily:
"Excuse me, Mademoiselle, you dropped this."
And he handed her an egg.
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Katherine Mansfield, Bliss, 1920
ALTHOUGH Bertha Young was thirty she still had moments like this when she wanted to run
instead of walk, to take dancing steps on and off the pavement, to bowl a hoop, to throw something
up in the air and catch it again, or to stand still and laugh atnothingat nothing, simply.
What can you do if you are thirty and, turning the corner of your own street, you are
overcome, suddenly by a feeling of blissabsolute bliss!as though you'd suddenly swallowed abright piece of that late afternoon sun and it burned in your bosom, sending out a little shower of
sparks into every particle, into every finger and toe? . . .
Oh, is there no way you can express it without being "drunk and disorderly" ? How idiotic
civilisation is! Why be given a body if you have to keep it shut up in a case like a rare, rare fiddle?
"No, that about the fiddle is not quite what I mean," she thought, running up the steps and
feeling in her bag for the keyshe'd forgotten it, as usualand rattling the letter-box. "It's not what I
mean, becauseThank you, Mary"she went into the hall. "Is nurse back?"
"Yes, M'm."
"And has the fruit come?"
"Yes, M'm. Everything's come."
"Bring the fruit up to the dining-room, will you? I'll arrange it before I go upstairs."It was dusky in the dining-room and quite chilly. But all the same Bertha threw off her coat;
she could not bear the tight clasp of it another moment, and the cold air fell on her arms.
But in her bosom there was still that bright glowing placethat shower of little sparks
coming from it. It was almost unbearable. She hardly dared to breathe for fear of fanning it higher,
and yet she breathed deeply, deeply. She hardly dared to look into the cold mirrorbut she did look,
and it gave her back a woman, radiant, with smiling, trembling lips, with big, dark eyes and an air
of listening, waiting for something . . . divine to happen . . . that she knew must happen . . .
infallibly.
Mary brought in the fruit on a tray and with it a glass bowl, and a blue dish, very lovely,
with a strange sheen on it as though it had been dipped in milk.
"Shall I turn on the light, M'm?""No, thank you. I can see quite well."
There were tangerines and apples stained with strawberry pink. Some yellow pears, smooth
as silk, some white grapes covered with a silver bloom and a big cluster of purple ones. These last
she had bought to tone in with the new dining-room carpet. Yes, that did sound rather far-fetched
and absurd, but it was really why she had bought them. She had thought in the shop: "I must have
some purple ones to bring the carpet up to the table." And it had seemed quite sense at the time.
When she had finished with them and had made two pyramids of these bright round shapes,
she stood away from the table to get the effectand it really was most curious. For the dark table
seemed to melt into the dusky light and the glass dish and the blue bowl to float in the air. This, of
course, in her present mood, was so incredibly beautiful. . . . She began to laugh.
"No, no. I'm getting hysterical." And she seized her bag and coat and ran upstairs to the
nursery.
Nurse sat at a low table giving Little B her supper after her bath. The baby had on a white flannel
gown and a blue woollen jacket, and her dark, fine hair was brushed up into a funny little peak. She
looked up when she saw her mother and began to jump.
"Now, my lovey, eat it up like a good girl," said nurse, setting her lips in a way that Bertha
knew, and that meant she had come into the nursery at another wrong moment.
"Has she been good, Nanny?"
"She's been a little sweet all the afternoon," whispered Nanny. "We went to the park and I sat
down on a chair and took her out of the pram and a big dog came along and put its head on my kneeand she clutched its ear, tugged it. Oh, you should have seen her."
Bertha wanted to ask if it wasn't rather dangerous to let her clutch at a strange dog's ear. But
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she did not dare to. She stood watching them, her hands by her side, like the poor little girl in front
of the rich girl with the doll.
The baby looked up at her again, stared, and then smiled so charmingly that Bertha couldn't
help crying:
"Oh, Nanny, do let me finish giving her her supper while you put the bath things away.
"Well, M'm, she oughtn't to be changed hands while she's eating," said Nanny, still
whispering. "It unsettles her; it's very likely to upset her."How absurd it was. Why have a baby if it has to be keptnot in a case like a rare, rare
fiddlebut in another woman's arms?
"Oh, I must!" said she.
Very offended, Nanny handed her over.
"Now, don't excite her after her supper. You know you do, M'm. And I have such a time with
her after!"
Thank heaven! Nanny went out of the room with the bath towels.
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From Katherine Mansfield, Je ne parle pas franais, 1920
I DO not know why I have such a fancy for this little caf. It's dirty and sad, sad. It's not as if it had
anything to distinguish it from a hundred othersit hasn't; or as if the same strange types came here
every day, whom one could watch from one's corner and recognize and more or less (with a strong
accent on the less) get the hang of.
But pray don't imagine that those brackets are a confession of my humility before themystery of the human soul. Not at all; I don't believe in the human soul. I never have. I believe that
people are like portmanteauxpacked with certain things, started going, thrown about, tossed away,
dumped down, lost and found, half emptied suddenly, or squeezed fatter than ever, until finally the
Ultimate Porter swings them on to the Ultimate Train and away they rattle. . . .
Not but what these portmanteaux can be very fascinating. Oh, but very! I see myself
standing in front of them, don't you know, like a Customs official.
"Have you anything to declare? Any wines, spirits, cigars, perfumes, silks?"
And the moment of hesitation as to whether I am going to be fooled just before I chalk that
squiggle, and then the other moment of hesitation just after, as to whether I have been, are perhaps
the most thrilling instants in life. Yes, they are, to me.
But before I started that long and rather far-fetched and not frightfully original digression,what I meant to say quite simply was that there are no portmanteaux to be examined here because
the clientele of this caf, ladies and gentlemen, does not sit down. No, it stands at the counter, and it
consists of a handful of workmen who come up from the river, all powdered over with white flour,
lime or something, and a few soldiers, bringing with them thin, dark girls with silver rings in their
ears and market baskets on their arms.
Madame is thin and dark, too, with white cheeks and white hands. In certain lights she looks
quite transparent, shining out of her black shawl with an extraordinary effect. When she is not
serving she sits on a stool with her face turned, always, to the window. Her dark-ringed eyes search
among and follow after the people passing, but not as if she was looking for somebody. Perhaps,
fifteen years ago, she was; but now the pose has become a habit. You can tell from her air of fatigue
and hopelessness that she must have given them up for the last ten years, at least. . . .And then there is the waiter. Not patheticdecidedly not comic. Never making one of those
perfectly insignificant remarks which amaze you so coming from a waiter (as though the poor
wretch were a sort of coffee-pot and a wine bottle and not expected to hold so much as a drop of
anything else). He is grey, flat-footed, and withered, with long, brittle nails that set your nerves on
edge while he scrapes up your two sous. When he is not smearing over the table or flicking at a
dead fly or two, he stands with one hand on the back of a chair, in his far too long apron, and over
his other arm the three-cornered dip of dirty napkin, waiting to be photographed in connexion with
some wretched murder. "Interior of Caf where Body was Found." You've seen him hundreds of
times.
Do you believe that every place has its hour of the day when it really does come alive?
That's not exactly what I mean. It's more like this. There does seem to be a moment when you
realize that, quite by accident, you happen to have come on to the stage at exactly the moment you
were expected. Everything is arranged for youwaiting for you. Ah, master of the situation ! You fill
with important breath. And at the same time you smile, secretly, slyly, because Life seems to be
opposed to granting you these entrances, seems indeed to be engaged in snatching them from you
and making them impossible, keeping you in the wings until it is too late, in fact. . . . Just for once
you've beaten the old hag.
I enjoyed one of these moments the first time I ever came in here. That's why I keep coming
back, I suppose. Revisiting the scene of my triumph, or the scene of the crime where I had the old
bitch by the throat for once and did what I pleased with her.
Query: Why am I so bitter against Life? And why do I see her as a rag-picker on theAmerican cinema, shuffling along wrapped in a filthy shawl with her old claws crooked over a
stick?
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Answer: The direct result of the American cinema acting upon a weak mind.
Anyhow, the "short winter afternoon was drawing to a close," as they say, and I was drifting
along, either going home or not going home, when I found myself in here, walking over to this seat
in the corner.
I hung up my English overcoat and grey felt hat on that same peg behind me, and after I had
allowed the waiter time for at least twenty photographers to snap their fill of him, I ordered a coffee.
He poured me out a glass of the familiar, purplish stuff with a green wandering light playingover it, and shuffled off, and I sat pressing my hands against the glass because it was bitterly cold
outside.
Suddenly I realized that quite apart from myself, I was smiling. Slowly I raised my head and
saw myself in the mirror opposite. Yes, there I sat, leaning on the table, smiling my deep, sly smile,
the glass of coffee with its vague plume of steam before me and beside it the ring of white saucer
with two pieces of sugar.
I opened my eyes very wide. There I had been for all eternity, as it were, and now at last I
was coming to life. . . .
It was very quiet in the caf. Outside, one could just see through the dusk that it had begun
to snow. One could just see the shapes of horses and carts and people, soft and white, moving
through the feathery air. The waiter disappeared and reappeared with an armful of straw. He strewedit over the floor from the door to the counter and round about the stove with humble, almost adoring
gestures. One would not have been surprised if the door had opened and the Virgin Mary had come
in, riding upon an ass, her meek hands folded over her big belly. . . .
That's rather nice, don't you think, that bit about the Virgin? It comes from the pen so gently;
it has such a "dying fall." I thought so at the time and decided to make a note of it. One never knows
when a little tag like that may come in useful to round off a paragraph. So, taking care to move as
little as possible because the "spell" was still unbroken (you know that?), I reached over to the next
table for a writing pad.
No paper or envelopes, of course. Only a morsel of pink blotting-paper, incredibly soft and
limp and almost moist, like the tongue of a little dead kitten, which I've never felt.
I satbut always underneath, in this state of expectation, rolling the little dead kitten's tongueround my finger and rolling the soft phrase round my mind while my eyes took in the girls' names
and dirty jokes and drawings of bottles and cups that would not sit in the saucers, scattered over the
writing pad.
They are always the same, you know. The girls always have the same names, the cups never
sit in the saucers; all the hearts are stuck and tied up with ribbons.
But then, quite suddenly, at the bottom of the page, written in green ink, I fell on to that
stupid, stale little phrase:Je ne parle pas francais.
There ! it had comethe momentthegeste! and although I was so ready, it caught me, it
tumbled me over; I was simply overwhelmed. And the physical feeling was so curious, so particular.
It was as if all of me, except my head and arms, all of me that was under the table, had simply
dissolved, melted, turned into water. Just my head remained and two sticks of arms pressing on to
the table. But, ah! the agony of that moment! How can I describe it? I didn't think of anything. I
didn't even cry out to myself. Just for one moment I was not. I was Agony, Agony, Agony.
Then it passed, and the very second after I was thinking: "Good God! Am I capable of
feeling as strongly as that? But I was absolutely unconscious! I hadn't a phrase to meet it with! I
was overcome! I was swept off my feet! I didn't even try, in the dimmest way, to put it down!"
And up I puffed and puffed, blowing off finally with: "After all I must be first-rate. No
second-rate mind could have experienced such an intensity of feeling so . . . purely."
The waiter has touched a spill at the red stove and lighted a bubble of gas under a spreading shade.
It is no use looking out of the window, Madame; it is quite dark now. Your white hands hover overyour dark shawl. They are like two birds that have come home to roost. They are restless, restless. . .
. You tuck them, finally, under your warm little armpits.
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Now the waiter has taken a long pole and dashed the curtains together. "All gone," as
children say.
And besides, I've no patience with people who can't let go of things, who will follow after
and cry out. When a thing's gone, it's gone. It's over and done with. Let it go then ! Ignore it, and
comfort yourself, if you do want comforting, with the thought that you never do recover the same
thing that you lose. It's always a new thing. The moment it leaves you it's changed. Why, that's even
true of a hat you chase after; and I don't mean superficiallyI mean profoundly speaking . . . I havemade it a rule of my life never to regret and never to look back. Regret is an appalling waste of
energy, and no one who intends to be a writer can afford to indulge in it. You can't get it into shape;
you can't build on it; it's only good for wallowing in. Looking back, of course, is equally fatal to
Art. It's keeping yourself poor. Art can't and won't stand poverty.
Je ne parle pas francais. Je ne parle pas francais. All the while I wrote that last page my
other self has been chasing up and down out in the dark there. It left me just when I began to
analyse my grand moment, dashed off distracted, like a lost dog who thinks at last, at last, he hears
the familiar step again.
"Mouse! Mouse! Where are you? Are you near? Is that you leaning from the high window
and stretching out your arms for the wings of the shutters? Are you this soft bundle moving towards
me through the feathery snow? Are you this little girl pressing through the swing-doors of therestaurant? Is that your dark shadow bending forward in the cab? Where are you? Where are you?
Which way must I turn? Which way shall I run? And every moment I stand here hesitating you are
farther away again. Mouse! Mouse!"
Now the poor dog has come back into the caf, his tail between his legs, quite exhausted.
"It was a . . . false . . . alarm. She's nowhere . . . to . . . be seen."
"Lie down then! Lie down! Lie down!"
My name is Raoul Duquette. I am twenty-six years old and a Parisian, a true Parisian. About my
familyit really doesn't matter. I have no family; I don't want any. I never think about my childhood.
I've forgotten it. In fact, there's only one memory that stands out at all. That is rather interesting
because it seems to me now so very significant as regards myself from the literary point of view. Itis this.
When I was about ten our laundress was an African woman, very big, very dark, with a
check handkerchief over her frizzy hair. When she came to our house she always took particular
notice of me, and after the clothes had been taken out of the basket she would lift me up into it and
give me a rock while I held tight to the handles and screamed for joy and fright. I was tiny for my
age, and pale, with a lovely little half-open mouthI feel sure of that.
One day when I was standing at the door, watching her go, she turned round and beckoned
to me, nodding and smiling in a strange secret way. I never thought of not following. She took me
into a little outhouse at the end of the passage, caught me up in her arms and began kissing me. Ah,
those kisses! Especially those kisses inside my ears that nearly deafened me.
When she set me down she took from her pocket a little round fried cake covered with sugar,
and I reeled along the passage back to our door.
As this performance was repeated once a week it is no wonder that I remember it so vividly.
Besides, from that very first afternoon, my childhood was, to put it prettily, "kissed away." I became
very languid, very caressing, and greedy beyond measure. And so quickened, so sharpened, I
seemed to understand everybody and be able to do what I liked with everybody.
I suppose I was in a state of more or less physical excitement, and that was what appealed to
them. For all Parisians are more than halfoh, well, enough of that. And enough of my childhood,
too. Bury it under a laundry basket instead of a shower of roses andpassons oultre.
I date myself from the moment that I became the tenant of a small bachelor flat on the fifth floor ofa tall, not too shabby house, in a street that might or might not be discreet. Very useful, that. . . .
There I emerged, came out into the light, and put out my two horns with a study and a bedroom and
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a kitchen on my back. And real furniture planted in the rooms. In the bedroom a wardrobe with a
long glass, a big bed covered with a yellow puffed-up quilt, a bed table with a marbled top, and a
toilet set sprinkled with tiny apples. In my studyEnglish writing table with drawers, writing chair
with leather cushions, books, arm-chair, side table with paper-knife and lamp on it, and some nude
studies on the walls. I didn't use the kitchen except to throw old papers into.
Ah, I can see myself that first evening, after the furniture men had gone and I'd managed to
get rid of my atrocious old conciergewalking about on tip-toe, arranging and standing in front ofthe glass with my hands in my pockets, and saying to that radiant vision: "I am a young man who
has his own flat. I write for two newspapers. I am going in for serious literature. I am starting a
career. The book that I shall bring out will simply stagger the critics. I am going to write about
things that have never been touched before. I am going to make a name for myself as a writer about
the submerged world. But not as others have done before me. Oh, no! Very naively, with a sort of
tender humour and from the inside, as though it were all quite simple, quite natural. I see my way
quite perfectly. Nobody has ever done it as I shall do it because none of the others have lived my
experiences. I'm richI'm rich."
All the same I had no more money than I have now. It's extraordinary how one can live
without money. . . . I have quantities of good clothes, silk underwear, two evening suits, four pairs
of patent leather boots with light uppers, all sorts of little things, like gloves and powder boxes anda manicure set, perfumes, very good soap, and nothing is paid for. If I find myself in need of right-
down cashwell, there's always an African laundress and an outhouse, and I am very frank and bon
enfantabout plenty of sugar on the little fried cake afterwards. . . .
And here I should like to put something on record. Not from any strutting conceit, but rather
with a mild sense of wonder. I've never yet made the first advances to any woman. It isn't as though
I've known only one class of womannot by any means. But from little prostitutes and kept women
and elderly widows and shop girls and wives of respectable men, and even advanced modern
literary ladies at the most select dinners and soires (I've been there), I've met invariably with not
only the same readiness, but with the same positive invitation. It surprised me at first. I used to look
across the table and think "Is that very distinguished young lady, discussing le Kiplingwith the
gentleman with the brown beard, really pressing my foot?" And I was never really certain until Ihad pressed hers.
Curious, isn't it? I don't look at all like a maiden's dream. . . .
I am little and light with an olive skin, black eyes with long lashes, black silky hair cut short,
tiny square teeth that show when I smile. My hands are supple and small. A woman in a bread shop
once said to me: "You have the hands for making fine little pastries." I confess, without my clothes
I am rather charming. Plump, almost like a girl, with smooth shoulders, and I wear a thin gold
bracelet above my left elbow.
But, wait! Isn't it strange I should have written all that about my body and so on? It's the
result of my bad life, my submerged life. I am like a little woman in a caf who has to introduce
herself with a handful of photographs. "Me in my chemise, coming out of an eggshell. . . . Me
upside down in a swing, with a frilly behind like a cauliflower. . . . " You know the things.
If you think what I've written is merely superficial and impudent and cheap you're wrong. I'll admit
it does sound so, but then it is not all. If it were, how could I have experienced what I did when I
read that stale little phrase written in green ink, in the writing-pad? That proves there's more in me
and that I really am important, doesn't it? Anything a fraction less than that moment of anguish I
might have put on. But no! That was real.
"Waiter, a whisky."
I hate whisky. Every time I take it into my mouth my stomach rises against it, and the stuff
they keep here is sure to be particularly vile. I only ordered it because I am going to write about an
Englishman. We French are incredibly old-fashioned and out of date still in some ways. I wonder Ididn't ask him at the same time for a pair of tweed knickerbockers, a pipe, some long teeth, and a set
of ginger whiskers.
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"Thanks, mon vieux. You haven't got perhaps a set of ginger whiskers?"
"No, monsieur," he answers sadly. "We don't sell American drinks."
And having smeared a corner of the table he goes back to have another couple of dozen
taken by artificial light.
Ugh! The smell of it! And the sickly sensation when one's throat contracts.
"It's bad stuff to get drunk on," says Dick Harmon, turning his little glass in his fingers and
smiling his slow, dreaming smile. So he gets drunk on it slowly and dreamily and at a certainmoment begins to sing very low, very low, about a man who walks up and down trying to find a
place where he can get some dinner.
Ah! how I loved that song, and how I loved the way he sang it, slowly, slowly, in a dark, soft
voice:
There was a man
Walked up and down
To get a dinner in the town . . .
It seemed to hold, in its gravity and muffled measure, all those tall grey buildings, those
fogs, those endless streets, those sharp shadows of policemen that mean England.
And thenthe subject! The lean, starved creature walking up and down with every house
barred against him because he had no "home." How extraordinarily English that is. . . . I rememberthat it ended where he did at last "find a place" and ordered a little cake of fish, but when he asked
for bread the waiter cried contemptuously, in a loud voice: "We don't serve bread with one fish
ball."
What more do you want? How profound those songs are ! There is the whole psychology of
a people; and how un-Frenchhow un-French!
"Once more, Dick, once more!" I would plead, clasping my hands and making a pretty
mouth at him. He was perfectly content to sing it for ever.
There again. Even with Dick. It was he who made the first advances.
I met him at an evening party given by the editor of a new review. It was a very select, very
fashionable affair. One or two of the older men were there and the ladies were extremely comme ilfaut. They sat on cubist sofas in full evening dress and allowed us to hand them thimbles of cherry
brandy and to talk to them about their poetry. For, as far as I can remember, they were all poetesses.
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From Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility, 1811
CHAPTER 1
The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex. Their estate was large, and their residence
was at Norland Park, in the centre of their property, where, for many generations, they had lived in
so respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance.The late owner of this estate was a single man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many
years of his life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister. But her death, which
happened ten years before his own, produced a great alteration in his home; for to supply her loss,
he invited and received into his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood, the legal
inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to bequeath it. In the society of
his nephew and niece, and their children, the old Gentleman's days were comfortably spent. His
attachment to them all increased. The constant attention of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Dashwood to his
wishes, which proceeded not merely from interest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every
degree of solid comfort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the children added a
relish to his existence.
By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son: by his present lady, three daughters. The
son, a steady respectable young man, was amply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which
had been large, and half of which devolved on him on his coming of age. By his own marriage,
likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his wealth. To him therefore the succession
to the Norland estate was not so really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent of
what might arise to them from their father's inheriting that property, could be but small. Their
mother had nothing, and their father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the
remaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her child, and he had only a life-
interest in it.
The old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every other will, gave as much
disappointment as pleasure. He was neither so unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from
his nephew;but he left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the bequest. Mr.
Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife and daughters than for himself or his
son;but to his son, and his son's son, a child of four years old, it was secured, in such a way, as to
leave to himself no power of providing for those who were most dear to him, and who most needed
a provision by any charge on the estate, or by any sale of its valuable woods. The whole was tied up
for the benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his father and mother at Norland, had so
far gained on the affections of his uncle, by such attractions as are by no means unusual in children
of two or three years old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his own way, many
cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise, as to outweigh all the value of all the attention which, for
years, he had received from his niece and her daughters. He meant not to be unkind, however, and,as a mark of his affection for the three girls, he left them a thousand pounds a-piece.
Mr. Dashwood's disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper was cheerful and sanguine; and
he might reasonably hope to live many years, and by living economically, lay by a considerable sum
from the produce of an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate improvement. But the
fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was his only one twelvemonth. He survived his uncle
no longer; and ten thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained for his widow
and daughters.
His son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, and to him Mr. Dashwood recommended,
with all the strength and urgency which illness could command, the interest of his mother-in-law
and sisters.Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the family; but he was affected by a
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recommendation of such a nature at such a time, and he promised to do every thing in his power to
make them comfortable. His father was rendered easy by such an assurance, and Mr. John
Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there might prudently be in his power to do for
them.
He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted and rather selfish is to be ill-
disposed: but he was, in general, well respected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the
discharge of his ordinary duties. Had he married a more amiable woman, he might have been madestill more respectable than he was:he might even have been made amiable himself; for he was
very young when he married, and very fond of his wife. But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong
caricature of himself;more narrow-minded and selfish.
When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to increase the fortunes of his
sisters by the present of a thousand pounds a-piece. He then really thought himself equal to it. The
prospect of four thousand a-year, in addition to his present income, besides the remaining half of his
own mother's fortune, warmed his heart, and made him feel capable of generosity."Yes, he would
give them three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome! It would be enough to make
them completely easy. Three thousand pounds! he could spare so considerable a sum with little
inconvenience."He thought of it all day long, and for many days successively, and he did notrepent.
No sooner was his father's funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood, without sending any notice of
her intention to her mother-in-law, arrived with her child and their attendants. No one could dispute
her right to come; the house was her husband's from the moment of his father's decease; but the
indelicacy of her conduct was so much the greater, and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood's situation,
with only common feelings, must have been highly unpleasing;but in HER mind there was a
sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any offence of the kind, by whomsoever
given or received, was to her a source of immovable disgust. Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a
favourite with any of her husband's family; but she had had no opportunity, till the present, of
shewing them with how little attention to the comfort of other people she could act when occasionrequired it.
So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so earnestly did she despise her
daughter-in-law for it, that, on the arrival of the latter, she would have quitted the house for ever,
had not the entreaty of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect on the propriety of going, and her
own tender love for all her three children determined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes
avoid a breach with their brother.
Elinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed a strength of understanding,
and coolness of judgment, which qualified her, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her
mother, and enabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all, that eagerness of
mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led to imprudence. She had an excellentheart;her disposition was affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern
them: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn; and which one of her sisters had
resolved never to be taught.
Marianne's abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to Elinor's. She was sensible and clever; but
eager in everything: her sorrows, her joys, could have no moderation. She was generous, amiable,
interesting: she was everything but prudent. The resemblance between her and her mother was
strikingly great.
Elinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister's sensibility; but by Mrs. Dashwood it was valued
and cherished. They encouraged each other now in the violence of their affliction. The agony of
grief which overpowered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was sought for, was created againand again. They gave themselves up wholly to their sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in
every reflection that could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation in future.
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"To be sure it would."
"Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum were diminished one half.Five
hundred pounds would be a prodigious increase to their fortunes!"
"Oh! beyond anything great! What brother on earth would do half so much for his sisters, even if
REALLY his sisters! And as it isonly half blood!But you have such a generous spirit!"
"I would not wish to do any thing mean," he replied. "One had rather, on such occasions, do toomuch than too little. No one, at least, can think I have not done enough for them: even themselves,
they can hardly expect more."
"There is no knowing what THEY may expect," said the lady, "but we are not to think of their
expectations: the question is, what you can afford to do."
"Certainlyand I think I may afford to give them five hundred pounds a-piece. As it is, without any
addition of mine, they will each have about three thousand pounds on their mother's deatha very
comfortable fortune for any young woman."
"To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no addition at all. They will have ten
thousand pounds divided amongst them. If they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if theydo not, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of ten thousand pounds."
"That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the whole, it would not be more
advisable to do something for their mother while she lives, rather than for themsomething of the
annuity kind I mean.My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself. A hundred a
year would make them all perfectly comfortable."
His wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this plan.
"To be sure," said she, "it is better than parting with fifteen hundred pounds at once. But, then, if
Mrs. Dashwood should live fifteen years we shall be completely taken in."
"Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that purchase.""Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever when there is an annuity to be paid
them; and she is very stout and healthy, and hardly forty. An annuity is a very serious business; it
comes over and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it. You are not aware of what you are
doing. I have known a great deal of the trouble of annuities; for my mother was clogged with the
payment of three to old superannuated servants by my father's will, and it is amazing how
disagreeable she found it. Twice every year these annuities were to be paid; and then there was the
trouble of getting it to them; and then one of them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned
out to be no such thing. My mother was quite sick of it. Her income was not her own, she said, with
such perpetual claims on it; and it was the more unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money
would have been entirely at my mother's disposal, without any restriction whatever. It has given me
such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would not pin myself down to the payment of onefor all the world."
"It is certainly an unpleasant thing," replied Mr. Dashwood, "to have those kind of yearly drains on
one's income. One's fortune, as your mother justly says, is NOT one's own. To be tied down to the
regular payment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable: it takes away one's
independence."
"Undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it. They think themselves secure, you do no
more than what is expected, and it raises no gratitude at all. If I were you, whatever I did should be
done at my own discretion entirely. I would not bind myself to allow them any thing yearly. It may
be very inconvenient some years to spare a hundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses."
"I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should be no annuity in the case;
whatever I may give them occasionally will be of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance,
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because they would only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger income, and would
not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the year. It will certainly be much the best way. A
present of fifty pounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for money, and will, I
think, be amply discharging my promise to my father."
"To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within myself that your father had no
idea of your giving them any money at all. The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such
as might be reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a comfortable smallhouse for them, helping them to move their things, and sending them presents of fish and game, and
so forth, whenever they are in season. I'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther; indeed, it would
be very strange and unreasonable if he did. Do but consider, my dear Mr. Dashwood, how
excessively comfortable your mother-in-law and her daughters may live on the interest of seven
thousand pounds, besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the girls, which brings them in
fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of course, they will pay their mother for their board out of it.
Altogether, they will have five hundred a-year amongst them, and what on earth can four women
want for more than that?They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will be nothing at all. They
will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any servants; they will keep no company, and can have
no expenses of any kind! Only conceive how comfortable they will be! Five hundred a year! I am
sure I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as to your giving them more, it is quite
absurd to think of it. They will be much more able to give YOU something."
"Upon my word," said Mr. Dashwood, "I believe you are perfectly right. My father certainly could
mean nothing more by his request to me than what you say. I clearly understand it now, and I will
strictly fulfil my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you have described.
When my mother removes into another house my services shall be readily given to accommodate
her as far as I can. Some little present of furniture too may be acceptable then."
"Certainly," returned Mrs. John Dashwood. "But, however, ONE thing must be considered. When
your father and mother moved to Norland, though the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china,
plate, and linen was saved, and is now left to your mother. Her house will therefore be almostcompletely fitted up as soon as she takes it."
"That is a material consideration undoubtedly. A valuable legacy indeed! And yet some of the plate
would have been a very pleasant addition to our own stock here."
"Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what belongs to this house. A great deal
too handsome, in my opinion, for any place THEY can ever afford to live in. But, however, so it is.
Your father thought only of THEM. And I must say this: that you owe no particular gratitude to him,
nor attention to his wishes; for we very well know that if he could, he would have left almost
everything in the world to THEM."
This argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever of decision was wanting before;
and he finally resolved, that it would be absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to domore for the widow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as his own wife
pointed out.
CHAPTER 3
Mrs. Dashwood remained at Norland several months; not from any disinclination to move when the
sight of every well known spot ceased to raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while;
for when her spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other exertion than that
of heightening its affliction by melancholy remembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and
indefatigable in her inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland; for to remove
far from that beloved spot was impossible. But she could hear of no situation that at once answeredher notions of comfort and ease, and suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier
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judgment rejected several houses as too large for their income, which her mother would have
approved.
Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise on the part of his son in
their favour, which gave comfort to his last earthly reflections. She doubted the sincerity of this
assurance no more than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her daughters' sake with
satisfaction, though as for herself she was persuaded that a much smaller provision than 7000L
would support her in affluence. For their brother's sake, too, for the sake of his own heart, sherejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to his merit before, in believing him incapable
of generosity. His attentive behaviour to herself and his sisters convinced her that their welfare was
dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the liberality of his intentions.
The contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for her daughter-in-law, was very
much increased by the farther knowledge of her character, which half a year's residence in her
family afforded; and perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or maternal affection on
the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it impossible to have lived together so long,
had not a particular circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility, according to the opinions
of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters' continuance at Norland.
This circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and the brother of Mrs. John
Dashwood, a gentleman-like and pleasing young man, who was introduced to their acquaintance
soon after his sister's establishment at Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of his time
there.
Some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of interest, for Edward Ferrars
was the eldest son of a man who had died very rich; and some might have repressed it from motives
of prudence, for, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the will of his mother.
But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either consideration. It was enough for her that he
appeared to be amiable, that he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the partiality. It was
contrary to every doctrine of hers that difference of fortune should keep any couple asunder who
were attracted by resemblance of disposition; and that Elinor's merit should not be acknowledgedby every one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.
Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any peculiar graces of person or
address. He was not handsome, and his manners required intimacy to make them pleasing. He was
too diffident to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome, his behaviour
gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart. His understanding was good, and his education
had given it solid improvement. But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to answer the
wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him distinguishedasthey hardly knew what.
They wanted him to make a fine figure in the world in some manner or other. His mother wished to
interest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to see him connected with some of
the great men of the day. Mrs. John Dashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one ofthese superior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her ambition to see him driving a
barouche. But Edward had no turn for great men or barouches. All his wishes centered in domestic
comfort and the quiet of private life. Fortunately he had a younger brother who was more
promising.
Edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged much of Mrs. Dashwood's
attention; for she was, at that time, in such affliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects.
She saw only that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. He did not disturb the
wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation. She was first called to observe and approve
him farther, by a reflection which Elinor chanced one day to make on the difference between him
and his sister. It was a contrast which recommended him most forcibly to her mother.
"It is enough," said she; "to say that he is unlike Fanny is enough. It implies everything amiable. I
love him already."
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"I think you will like him," said Elinor, "when you know more of him."
"Like him!" replied her mother with a smile. "I feel no sentiment of approbation inferior to love."
"You may esteem him."
"I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love."
Mrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him. Her manners were attaching, and soonbanished his reserve. She speedily comprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for
Elinor perhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his worth: and even that
quietness of manner, which militated against all her established ideas of what a young man's address
ought to be, was no longer uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper
affectionate.
No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to Elinor, than she considered
their serious attachment as certain, and looked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching.
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From Henry Fielding, The History of Tom Jones,A Foundling(1749)
BOOK I.
CONTAINING AS MUCH OF THE BIRTH OF THE FOUNDLING AS IS NECESSARY ORPROPER TO ACQUAINT THE READER WITH IN THE BEGINNING OF THIS
HISTORY.
Chapter i.
The introduction to the work, or bill of fare to the feast.
An author ought to consider himself, not as a gentleman who gives a private or eleemosynary treat,
but rather as one who keeps a public ordinary, at which all persons are welcome for their money. In
the former case, it is well known that the entertainer provides what fare he pleases; and though this
should be very indifferent, and utterly disagreeable to the taste of his company, they must not findany fault; nay, on the contrary, good breeding forces them outwardly to approve and to commend
whatever is set before them. Now the contrary of this happens to the master of an ordinary. Men
who pay for what they eat will insist on gratifying their palates, however nice and whimsical these
may prove; and if everything is not agreeable to their taste, will challenge a right to censure, to
abuse, and to dn their dinner without controul.
To prevent, therefore, giving offence to their customers by any such disappointment, it hath been
usual with the honest and well-meaning host to provide a bill of fare which all persons may peruse
at their first entrance into the house; and having thence acquainted themselves with the
entertainment which they may expect, may either stay and regale with what is provided for them, or
may depart to some other ordinary better accommodated to their taste.
As we do not disdain to borrow wit or wisdom from any man who is capable of lending us either,
we have condescended to take a hint from these honest victuallers, and shall prefix not only a
general bill of fare to our whole entertainment, but shall likewise give the reader particular bills to
every course which is to be served up in this and the ensuing volumes.
The provision, then, which we have here made is no other thanHuman Nature. Nor do I fear that
my sensible reader, though most luxurious in his taste, will start, cavil, or be offended, because I
have named but one article. The tortoiseas the alderman of Bristol, well learned in eating, knows
by much experiencebesides the delicious calipash and calipee, contains many different kinds of
food; nor can the learned reader be ignorant, that in human nature, though here collected under one
general name, is such prodigious variety, that a cook will have sooner gone through all the several
species of animal and vegetable food in the world, than an author will be able to exhaust so
extensive a subject.
An objection may perhaps be apprehended from the more delicate, that this dish is too common and
vulgar; for what else is the subject of all the romances, novels, plays, and poems, with which the
stalls abound? Many exquisite viands might be rejected by the epicure, if it was a sufficient cause
for his contemning of them as common and vulgar, that something was to be found in the most
paltry alleys under the same name. In reality, true nature is as difficult to be met with in authors, as
the Bayonne ham, or Bologna sausage, is to be found in the shops.
But the whole, to continue the same metaphor, consists in the cookery of the author; for, as Mr Pope
tells us
"True wit is nature to advantage drest;
What oft was thought, but ne'er so well exprest."
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perfection, if it can be called one, without contempt; and would often thank God she was not as
handsome as Miss Such-a-one, whom perhaps beauty had led into errors which she might have
otherwise avoided. Miss Bridget Allworthy (for that was the name of this lady) very rightly
conceived the charms of person in a woman to be no better than snares for herself, as well as for
others; and yet so discreet was she in her conduct, that her prudence was as much on the guard as if
she had all the snares to apprehend which were ever laid for her whole sex. Indeed, I have observed,
though it may seem unaccountable to the reader, that this guard of prudence, like the trained bands,is always readiest to go on duty where there is the least danger. It often basely and cowardly deserts
those paragons for whom the men are all wishing, sighing, dying, and spreading, every net in their
power; and constantly attends at the heels of that higher order of women for whom the other sex
have a more distant and awful respect, and whom (from despair, I suppose, of success) they never
venture to attack.
Reader, I think proper, before we proceed any farther together, to acquaint thee that I intend to
digress, through this whole history, as often as I see occasion, of which I am myself a better judge
than any pitiful critic whatever; and here I must desire all those critics to mind their own business,
and not to intermeddle with affairs or works which no ways concern them; for till they produce the
authority by which they are constituted judges, I shall not plead to their jurisdiction.
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Robert Browning, My Last Duchess, 1842
Ferrara
That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Fr Pandolf's handsWorked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Fr Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myselfthey turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Fr Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
Over my Lady's wrist too much," or "Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A hearthow shall I say?too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terraceall and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men,good! but thanked
SomehowI know not howas if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skillIn speech(which I have not)to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark"and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
--E'en then would be some stooping, and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she standsAs if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
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The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
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Philip Larkin, Church Going, 1954
Once I am sure there's nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cutFor Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence.
Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new -
Cleaned, or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce'Here endeth' much more loudly than I'd meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.
Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches will fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,Their parchment, plate and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?
Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,
A shape less recognisable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiffOf gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,
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Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation - marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these - for which was builtThis special shell? For, though I've no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;
A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognized, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.