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Viewed from the drawing-room door,
the members of the “Advanced” presented a fantastic
appearance, for they crouched in chintz-covered armchairs, their
heads only being visible, for
all the world like a company of garish snails browsing on the Brussels
roses. One man stood
in an upright position guarding the fire, his eyes following a little
maidservant who wandered
familiarly among the tables, turning over newspapers and magazines
as though they were
pieces of bread in the process of toasting. Voice from a lady decorated
with red quills : “Oh,
they’re much worse abroad.” Tense companion : “Are
they ?” “My dear, you can’t go out of
your hotel in comfort. Followed everywhere. And the eyes! There
is really only one word to
describe them.” “But,” leaning forward, “I
suppose they never make any definite . . .?” The
red quills quivered “Of course they do. I was walking underneath
a railway bridge...” -
followed a whisper proper, on receipt of which the tense companion
fell back into her chair.
“No !” “Perfectly true, my dear; you can imagine
my horror.” She took up a cigarette and
smiled at it. “He was frightfully good-looking.” “What
type ?” asked the tense companion,
feigning indifference. “Oh, dark - you know - awfully passionate
! Foreigners are
good-looking; I rather like the way Russians have of parting their
beards down the middle,
don’t you?” A lady in a grey motor veil approached the
masculine fireguard. “So sorry to
hear
about poor dear Mamie,” she said, in a voice of great satisfaction.
“Hey? What’s that? Oh,
she’s all right,”answered the fireguard, taking some
eyeglasses from a waistcoat pocket and
blowing on them. “Do her good. Cure her indigestion. Last
time she was there she never had
a touch of it until that wretched ’welcome breakfast’
at the Holborn. Girl got excited -
stodged, and started the whole game again.” The motor veil
looked damped, but said
nothing. “By the way-saw your husband at the club last night:
he’s looking very white about
the gills. I told him about those charcoal biscuits again, but he
doesn’t seem keen on ’em;
says they stick to his teeth.” She murmured confidingly: ‘’Harry
hasn’t any teeth of his own,
you know. They’re very good, aren’t they?” He
looked in the eye-glasses, and looked
thunderstruck. “By Jove, you do surprise me! That’s
an astonishing thing! But that seems to
me to simplify the biscuit trouble. He could take them out afterwards
and pour the tap over
’em. What?” “I hardly consider that suggestion
appropriate or feasible,” she said. And she
thinned her lips and drifted away from him towards a copy of “Votes
for Women.” “Did you
hear that man by the fire?” whispered one of two young green
things without collars ; “aren’t
men extraordinarily coarse? Fancy having to - to share a room with
a person who might grate
on your soul like that:” “Yes, but I wouldn’t.
At any rate, I’ve always decided ever since I
was about fifteen to have separate beds, Have you read Masefield’s
last poem? Isn’t it
marvellous ?” “Yes, simply wonderful. Did you see that
picture of him? I don’t know why,
but it reminds me of a dandelion.” “Oh, my dear, how
wonderful of you. I never thought of it
before, but I can see it immediately you say so. Quite ordinary
in a. way, and yet with a sort
of glowing beauty in it.” “Not ordinary. I’d rather
say wistful. There is only seed cake in this
tray. Do you hate it?” “Not me!” exclaimed an
elderly lady with a moustache. “They think
they have but they haven‘t, and I don’t think they ever
will. As our lovers they are too
occupied in getting us into their arms ; as our husbands they are
too busy in endeavouring to
escape from our legalised embraces: they never see us in a normal
state at all. Supposing we
don’t succumb to or pursue their fascinating qualities their
pride is hurt and we’re voted
cold-blooded or physiological freaks.” She sat up and punched
a leather cushion. “The fact
is, sex is the only weapon we’ve got, and the sooner we realise
that the better. Acceptance
isn’t subservience. As the slave ministers to his master so
must we make man minister to our
needs. I’m all against this suppression of the subject. The
pangs of sex are as natural and as
inevitable as the pangs of hunger.” “Oh, but Mrs. Cartwright,”
said a Bright Creature, “that
almost reaches the Oriental standpoint. We can’t lie about
on Persian pillows nowadays and
kiss our lovers between mouthfuls of Turkish delight. Men can choose
to realise it or not, but
we’re on the battlefield as surely as they are - all of us
- here, for instance!” she waved her
glove, embracing by gesture the entire room. “Why,”
cried a Laughing Voice, “just imagine
if we sat here in chintz-covered chairs and talked about nothing
but men all the afternoon.
Pooh, they’re not worth it! Preposterous idea! ”
KATHERINE MANSFIELD |
