[adapted]

by
Katherine Mansfield

That evening for the first time in his life, as he pushed through the swing door and went down the three wide steps to the sidewalk, old Mr. Neave felt he was too old for the spring. Spring — warm, excited, lively — was there, waiting for him in the golden light, ready in front of everybody to run up, to blow in his white beard, to pull gently on his arm. And he couldn’t meet her, no; he couldn’t face her once more and walk off, cheerful as a young man.

He was tired and, although the late sun was still shining, strangely cold, with a numb feeling all over. Quite suddenly he didn’t have the energy, he didn’t want to stand this happiness and bright movement any longer; it confused him. He wanted to stand still, to wave it away with his walking stick, to say, “Go away!” Suddenly it was very hard to greet as usual — tipping his hat with his stick — all the people he knew, the friends, people he knew a little, shopkeepers, postmen, drivers.

But the bright look that went with the movement, the kind twinkle that seemed to say, “I am as good as any of you, and better” — that old Mr. Neave could not do at all. He walked along heavily, lifting his knees high as if he were walking through air that had somehow become heavy and thick like water. And the crowd going home hurried by, the trams rattled, the light carts rattled, the big swinging cabs moved along with that wild, bold not caring that you know only in dreams....

It had been a day like other days at the office. Nothing special had happened. Harold hadn’t come back from lunch until nearly four. Where had he been? What had he been doing? He wasn’t going to let his father know. Old Mr. Neave was in the entrance hall, saying good-bye to a visitor, when Harold walked in slowly, very well dressed as usual, calm and confident, smiling that strange little half-smile that women found so attractive.

Ah, Harold was too handsome, much too handsome; that was the trouble the whole time. No man should have such eyes, such eyelashes, and such lips; it was strange. As for his mother, his sisters, and the servants, you could even say they treated him like a young god; they admired Harold, they forgave him everything; and he had needed to be forgiven ever since the time when he was thirteen and he had stolen his mother’s purse, taken the money, and hidden the purse in the cook’s bedroom. Old Mr. Neave hit hard with his stick on the edge of the pavement.

But it was not only his family who spoiled Harold, he thought, it was everyone; he only had to look and to smile, and they gave in to him. So perhaps it was no surprise that he expected the office to keep the tradition. H’m, h’m! But it could not be done. No business — not even a successful, well-known company that made a lot of money — could be played with. A man had either to put his whole heart and soul into it, or it fell apart before his eyes....

And then Charlotte and the girls were always telling him to give it all to Harold, to retire, and to spend his time having fun. Enjoying himself! Old Mr. Neave stopped suddenly under a group of very old cabbage palms outside the Government buildings! Enjoying himself! The evening wind shook the dark leaves to a thin, light laugh. Sitting at home, doing nothing, knowing all the time that his life’s work was being lost, melting, disappearing through Harold’s fine fingers, while Harold smiled....

“Why will you be so difficult, father? There is no need at all for you to go to the office. It only makes it very hard for us when people keep on saying how tired you look. Here is this very big house and garden. Surely you could be happy in — in — enjoying it for a change. Or you could start some hobby.”

And Lola the baby had added proudly, “All men should have hobbies. It makes life impossible if they don’t.”

Well, well! He couldn’t help a sad smile as with pain he began to climb the hill that led to Harcourt Avenue. Where would Lola and her sisters and Charlotte be if he had spent time on hobbies, he wondered? Hobbies could not pay for the town house and the bungalow by the sea, and their horses, and their golf, and the sixty-guinea record player in the music room for them to dance to.

Not that he minded them having these things. No, they were smart, good-looking girls, and Charlotte was a special woman; it was natural for them to be part of everything. In fact, no other house in the town was as popular as theirs; no other family gave so many parties. And how many times old Mr. Neave, pushing the cigar box across the smoking room table, had listened to people praising his wife, his girls, even himself.

“You’re a perfect family, sir, a perfect family. It’s like something people read about or see in a play.”

“That’s all right, my boy,” old Mr. Neave would reply. “Try one of those; I think you’ll like them. And if you want to smoke in the garden, you’ll find the girls on the grass, I think.”

That was why the girls had never married, so people said. They could have married anyone. But they had too much fun at home. They were too happy together, the girls and Charlotte. H’m, h’m! Well, well. Perhaps so....

By this time he had walked the length of rich Harcourt Avenue; he had reached the corner house, their house. The gates for the carriage were pushed back; there were fresh wheel marks on the driveway. And then he faced the big white-painted house, with its wide-open windows, its thin net curtains floating outwards, its blue jars of hyacinth flowers on the wide sills. On either side of the porch for the carriage their hydrangeas — famous in the town — were starting to flower; the pinkish, bluish big groups of flowers lay like light among the wide leaves. And somehow, it seemed to old Mr. Neave that the house and the flowers, and even the fresh marks on the driveway, were saying, “There is young life here. There are girls — ”

The hall, as always, was dim with coats, umbrellas, gloves, piled on the wooden chests. From the music room came the sound of the piano, quick, loud and impatient. Through the living room door that was half open voices came.

“And were there ice creams?” asked Charlotte. Then the creak, creak of her rocking chair.

“Ice creams!” called Ethel. “My dear mother, you never saw such ice creams. Only two kinds. And one was a common little strawberry shop ice cream, in a very wet frill.”

“The food altogether was too awful,” said Marion.

“But it’s a bit early for ice creams,” said Charlotte calmly.

“But why, if anyone has them at all....” started Ethel.

“Oh, yes, darling,” said Charlotte softly.

Suddenly the music room door opened and Lola ran out quickly. She jumped, she nearly screamed, when she saw old Mr. Neave.

“Oh, father! You gave me a big scare! Have you just come home? Why isn’t Charles here to help you take off your coat?”

Her cheeks were red from playing, her eyes shone, her hair fell over her forehead. And she breathed as if she had been running through the dark and was scared. Old Mr. Neave looked at his youngest daughter; he felt he had never seen her before. So that was Lola, then? But it seemed she had forgotten her father; she was not waiting there for him.

Now she put the end of her wrinkled handkerchief between her teeth and pulled it angrily. The telephone rang. A-ah! Lola gave a cry like a sob and ran past him. The door of the telephone-room shut with a bang, and at the same moment Charlotte called, “Is that you, father?”

“You’re tired again,” said Charlotte in an annoyed way, and she stopped the rocking chair and offered her warm cheek like a plum. Bright-haired Ethel kissed his beard quickly, Marion’s lips touched his ear.

“Did you walk back, father?” asked Charlotte.

“Yes, I walked home,” said old Mr. Neave, and he sat down in one of the very large living room chairs.

“But why didn’t you take a cab?” said Ethel. “There are hundreds of cabs around at that time.”

“My dear Ethel,” said Marion, “if father likes to make himself tired, I really don’t see why it is our business to get involved.”

“Children, children?” said Charlotte softly.

But Marion would not stop. “No, mother, you spoil father, and it’s not right. You should be stricter with him. He’s very naughty.” She laughed her hard, bright laugh and patted her hair in a mirror. Strange! When she was a little girl she had such a soft, shy voice; she had even stuttered, and now, whatever she said — even if it was only “Jam, please, father” — it sounded loud and clear as if she was on the stage.

“Did Harold leave the office before you, dear?” asked Charlotte, starting to rock again.

“I’m not sure,” said Old Mr. Neave. “I’m not sure. I didn’t see him after four o’clock.”

“He said — ” began Charlotte.

But at that moment Ethel, who was turning the pages of some paper, ran to her mother and sat down beside her chair.

“There, you see,” she said. “That’s what I mean, mummy. Yellow, with a little silver. Do you agree?”

“Give it to me, love,” said Charlotte. She felt for her glasses and put them on, gave the page a little tap with her plump small fingers, and pressed her lips together. “Very sweet!” she said softly, not clearly; she looked at Ethel over her glasses. “But I shouldn’t have the train.”

“Not the train!” cried Ethel sadly. “But the train’s the main thing.”

“Here, mother, let me decide.” Marion took the paper in a fun way from Charlotte. “I agree with mother,” she cried happily. “The train makes it too heavy.”

Old Mr. Neave, forgotten, sank into the wide seat of his chair, and, half asleep, heard them as if he dreamed. There was no doubt about it, he was tired out; he could not keep up. Even Charlotte and the girls were too much for him to-night. They were too... too.... But all his sleepy brain could think of was — too much for him. And somewhere at the back of everything he was watching a little dried-up old man climbing up endless stairs. Who was he?

“I won’t dress tonight,” he said quietly.

“What do you say, father?”

“Eh, what, what?” Old Mr. Neave woke up suddenly and looked across at them. “I won’t dress tonight,” he repeated.

“But, father, we have Lucile coming, and Henry Davenport, and Mrs. Teddie Walker.”

“It will look so very out of place.”

“Don’t you feel well, dear?”

“You don’t need to try. What is Charles for?”

“But if you’re really not able to do it,” Charlotte said.

“Very well! Very well!” Old Mr. Neave got up and went to join that little old man who was climbing only as far as his dressing room....

There young Charles was waiting for him. Carefully, as if everything depended on it, he was wrapping a towel around the hot-water can. Young Charles had been a favourite of his ever since, as a little red-faced boy, he had come into the house to look after the fires. Old Mr. Neave sat down in the cane seat by the window, stretched out his legs, and made his little evening joke, “Dress him up, Charles!” And Charles, breathing hard and frowning, bent forward to take the pin out of his tie.

H’m, h’m! Well, well! It was nice by the open window, very nice — a fine warm evening. They were cutting the grass on the tennis court below; he heard the soft sound of the lawn mower. Soon the girls would begin their tennis parties again. And when he thought of this he seemed to hear Marion’s voice call out, “Good for you, partner…. Oh, played, partner…. Oh, very nice indeed.” Then Charlotte calling from the porch, “Where is Harold?” And Ethel, “He’s really not here, mother.” And Charlotte’s unclear, “He said — ”

Old Mr. Neave let out a sigh, got up, and putting one hand under his beard, he took the comb from young Charles, and carefully combed the white beard over. Charles gave him a folded handkerchief, his watch and charms, and glasses case.

“That is enough, my boy.” The door shut, he sat back, he was alone....