[adapted]

by
Katherine Mansfield

Eleven o’clock. A knock at the door.

... hope I haven’t bothered you, madam. You weren’t asleep — were you? But I have just given my lady her tea, and there was a very nice cup left over, I thought, maybe....

... Not at all, madam. I always make a cup of tea before bed. She drinks it in bed after her prayers to warm her up. I put the kettle on when she kneels down and I say to it, “Now you don’t need to be in too much of a hurry to say your prayers.” But it’s always boiling before my lady is halfway through. You see, madam, we know so many people, and we have to pray for them all — every one. My lady keeps a list of the names in a little red book. Oh dear! whenever someone new has been to see us and my lady says after that, “Ellen, give me my little red book,” I feel very upset, I do. “There’s another,” I think, “keeping her out of her bed in any weather.”

And she won’t have a cushion, you know, madam; she kneels on the hard carpet. It worries me very much to see her, because I know her well. I’ve tried to trick her; I’ve spread out the soft quilt. But the first time I did it — oh, she gave me such a look — it was a holy look, madam. “Did our Lord have a soft quilt, Ellen?” she said. But — I was younger at the time — I wanted to say, “No, but our Lord wasn’t your age, and he didn’t know what it was to have your back pain.” Bad — wasn’t it? But she’s too good, you know, madam. When I covered her up just now and seen — saw her lying back, her hands outside and her head on the pillow — so pretty — I could not stop thinking, “Now you look just like your dear mother when I prepared her body out!”

... Yes, madam, it was all left to me. Oh, she did look sweet. I did her hair, soft-like, round her forehead, all in small and pretty curls, and just to one side of her neck I put a bunch of most beautiful purple pansies. Those pansies made her look like a picture, madam! I will never forget them. I thought tonight, when I looked at my lady, “Now, if only the pansies was there no one could tell the difference.”

... Only the last year, madam. Only after she’d got a little — well — weak, as you might say. Of course, she was never dangerous; she was the sweetest old lady. But the way it was with her was — she thought she’d lost something. She couldn’t keep still, she couldn’t rest. All day long she’d be up and down, up and down; you’d meet her everywhere, — on the stairs, in the porch, going to the kitchen. And she’d look up at you, and she’d say — just like a child, “I’ve lost it, I’ve lost it.” “Come along,” I’d say, “come along, and I’ll set out your cards for you.” But she’d take me by the hand — I was a favourite of hers — and whisper, “Find it for me, Ellen. Find it for me.” Sad, wasn’t it?

... No, she never got better, madam. She had a stroke at the end. Last words she ever said was — very slow, “Look in — the — Look — in — ” And then she was gone.

... No, madam, I didn’t really notice it. Maybe some girls. But you see, it’s like this, I have nobody but my lady. My mother died of tuberculosis when I was four, and I lived with my grandfather, who had a hairdresser’s shop. I used to spend all my time in the shop under a table doing my doll’s hair — copying the assistants, I suppose. They were very kind to me. Used to make me little wigs, all colours, the latest styles and all. And there I would sit all day, quiet as quiet — the customers never knew. Only now and then I would take a peek from under the tablecloth.

... But one day I was able to get a pair of scissors and — can you believe it, madam? I cut off all my hair; cut it off all in little pieces, like the little monkey I was. Grandfather was very angry! He took the tongs — I will never forget it — grabbed me by the hand and shut my fingers in them. “That’ll teach you!” he said. It was a bad burn. I still have the mark of it today.

... Well, you see, madam, he had been so proud of my hair. He used to sit me up on the shop counter, before the customers came, and make it very beautiful — big, soft curls and waves over the top. I remember the assistants standing around, and me very serious with the penny grandfather gave me to hold while he was doing it.... But he always took the penny back afterwards. Poor grandfather! He was very angry, because I had given him such a fright. But he frightened me that time. Do you know what I did, madam? I ran away. Yes, I did, around the corners, in and out, I don’t know how far I ran. Oh, dear, I must have looked terrible, with my hand rolled up in my apron and my hair sticking out. People must have laughed when they saw me....

... No, madam, grandfather never could forget it. He couldn’t look at me after. Couldn’t eat his dinner, even, if I was there. So my aunt took me. She was disabled, and she covered sofas and chairs. Tiny! She had to stand on the sofas when she wanted to cut out the backs. And while helping her I met my lady....

... Not so very, madam. I had just turned thirteen. And I don’t remember ever feeling — well — like a child, as you might say. You see there was my uniform, and other things. My lady made me wear collars and cuffs from the start. Oh yes — once I did! That was — funny! It was like this. My lady had her two little nieces staying with her — we were at Sheldon at the time — and there was a fair on the common land.

“Now, Ellen,” she said, “I want you to take the two young ladies for a ride on the donkeys.” Off we went; serious little dears they were; each held a hand. But when we came to the donkeys they were too shy to get on. So we stood and watched instead. Those donkeys were beautiful! They were the first I had seen not pulling a cart — for fun, you might say. They were a lovely silver-grey, with little red saddles and blue head straps and bells jing-a-jingling on their ears. And quite big girls — older than me, even — were riding them, very happy. Not at all rough, I don’t mean, madam, just enjoying themselves. And I don’t know what it was, but the way the little feet went, and the eyes — so gentle — and the soft ears — made me want to get on a donkey more than anything in the world!

... Of course, I couldn’t. I had to look after my young ladies. And what would I have looked like sitting up there in my uniform? But all the rest of the day it was donkeys — donkeys on my mind with me. I felt I would burst if I didn’t tell some one; and who was there to tell? But when I went to bed — I was sleeping in Mrs. James’s bedroom, who was our cook then, at the time — as soon as the lights was out, there they were, my donkeys, going along, with their neat little feet and sad eyes…. Well, madam, would you believe it, I waited for a long time and pretended to be asleep, and then suddenly I sat up and called out as loud as I could, “I do want to go on a donkey. I do want a donkey-ride!” You see, I had to say it, and I thought they wouldn’t laugh at me if they knew I was only dreaming. Clever — wasn’t it? Just what a silly child would think....

... No, madam, never now. Of course, I did think of it once. But it did not happen. He had a little flower-shop just down the road and across from where we was living. Funny — wasn’t it? And I liked flowers so much. We were having a lot of visitors at the time, and I was in and out of the shop most of the time, as people say. And Harry and I (his name was Harry) got to arguing about how things should be arranged — and that began it. Flowers! you wouldn’t believe it, madam, the flowers he used to bring me.

He would do anything. It was lilies of the valley more than once, and I’m not joking! Well, of course, we were going to be married and live over the shop, and it was all going to be just right, and I was to arrange the window.... Oh, how I have done that window on a Saturday! Not really, of course, madam, just dreaming, you might say. I’ve done it for Christmas — a sign made of holly, and everything — and I’ve had my Easter lilies with a beautiful star all daffodils in the middle. I’ve hung — well, that’s enough of that. The day came when he was to come for me to choose the furniture. Will I ever forget it? It was a Tuesday.

My lady wasn’t her usual self that afternoon. Not that she’d said anything, of course; she never does or will. But I knew by the way that she kept wrapping herself up and asking me if it was cold — and her little nose looked... thin and tight. I didn’t like leaving her; I knew I’d be worrying all the time. At last I asked her if she’d rather I wait. “Oh no, Ellen,” she said, “you mustn’t worry about me. You mustn’t disappoint your young man.” And so cheerful, you know, madam, never thinking about herself. It made me feel worse than ever. I began to wonder... then she dropped her hanky and began to bend down to pick it up herself — a thing she never did. “Whatever are you doing!” I cried, running to stop her. “Well,” she said, smiling, you know, madam, “I will have to start to practise.” Oh, it was very hard not to start crying.

I went over to the dressing table and pretended to clean the silver, and I couldn’t stop myself, and I asked her if she would rather I... didn’t get married. “No, Ellen,” she said — that was her voice, madam, like I’m giving you — “No, Ellen, not for the whole world!” But while she said it, madam — I was looking in her mirror; of course, she didn’t know I could see her — she put her little hand on her heart just like her dear mother used to, and lifted her eyes... Oh, madam!

When Harry came I had his letters all ready, and the ring and a cute little pin he’d given me — it was a silver bird, with a chain in its beak, and at the end of the chain a heart with a knife. Very nice! I opened the door to him. I did not give him time to say a word. “There you are,” I said. “Take them all back,” I said, “it’s all over. I’m not going to marry you,” I said, “I can’t leave my lady.” White! he turned as white as a woman. I had to shut the door hard, and there I stood, shaking all over, till I knew he had gone. When I opened the door — believe me or not, madam — that man was gone! I ran out into the road just as I was, in my apron and my slippers, and there I stayed in the middle of the road... staring. People must have laughed if they saw me....

... my! — What’s that? It’s the clock ringing! And here I’ve been keeping you awake. Oh, madam, you should have stopped me.... Can I tuck your feet in? I always tuck in my lady’s feet, every night, the same way. And she says, “Good night, Ellen. Sleep well and wake early!” I don’t know what I would do if she didn’t say that, now.

... Oh dear, I sometimes think... what would I do if anything happened…. But then, thinking is no use to anyone — is it, madam? Thinking won’t help. Not that I do it often. And if ever I do I stop myself quickly, “Now, then, Ellen. Doing it again — you silly girl! If you can’t find anything better to do than to start thinking!...”