Katherine Mansfield The unpublished manuscripts: Part VII Maata

Turnbull Library Record, Volume XII, Issue 1, 1 May 1979, Page 11

Katherine Mansfield The unpublished manuscripts: Part VII Maata

EDITED BY MARGARET SCOTT

Introduction The May 1974 issue of the Turnbull Library Record (vol 7, no. 1) carried the Turnbull’s ‘Maata’ manuscripts (Part VI of this series) and explained in an introductory note that we had been unable to locate or identify the owner of the main Maata manuscript of which ours is but a fragment. Since then, by an extraordinary chance —a long shot indeed —we have traced the manuscript (which is at present on deposit at the Newberry Library, Chicago) and been given permission to publish it in the Record.

It consists of Katherine Mansfield’s synopsis of 35 projected chapters of a novel, and a draft of Chapters I and 11. The Turnbull’s ‘Maata’ pieces, while seeming in some ways related to the plan of Chapter XII, are also sufficiently different from this material in style to suggest that they are later attempts at the story. For once K. M. has dated the work herself. According to her notes (herewith reproduced) she finished writing the ‘plan’ on the 2nd of August 1913, finished Chapter I on August 13 and Chapter II on November 16.

The girl Maata is based not on the real life Maata, K. M.’s New Zealand friend, but on herself; and the story, largely autobiographical, is concerned with the episode in her life when, having left New Zealand for the last time at the age of 19, she returned to London, and renewed relationships with Ida Baker and with the Trowell family. Mr Trowell had been K. M.’s music teacher in Wellington, and his twin sons had such promising musical talent that a public subscription in Wellington realised enough money to send them to London for further study. (The subscription list compiled at the time is now in the Turnbull’s manuscript collection, and among the many names on it are Harold Beauchamp and Alexander Turnbull.) Mr and Mrs Trowell and their daughter Dolly went with the boys and set up house in Hampstead where K.M. became almost one of the family on her return to London. Having been for a long time romantically interested in one of the twins—Tommy—she now fell in love with the other —Garnet. For a time, while he was touring the provinces in a theatre orchestra they pretended they were married, but then inevitably, she became pregnant and the relationship,

sagging under its own weight, came to grief. There was no heroic suicide, as in the fictionalised version, but there was, in all probability, betrayal, rejection, anguish and disillusion.

The names she has chosen for the characters in this story are worth a note. Rhoda Bendall is clearly based on Ida Baker and indeed this manuscript represents the only attempt K.M. made to describe Ida Baker’s feelings for her. It is important for that alone. ‘Bendall’, the name of a Wellington friend (‘E.K.B.’) was also a name she chose for the main character in an unfinished story about a woman and a little boy travelling in Germany (part IV of this series). And ‘Rhoda’ is presumably a reference to ‘the Rhodesian Mountain’, one of the names by which K.M. referred to Ida Baker in conversation with her friends. ‘Philip’, who owes a lot to K.M.’s brother Leslie, has a name which was used before in ‘Toots’ (part 111 of this series.) ‘Hal’ is the name by which K.M.’s father was known to his wife. ‘Ellie’ in the list of characters seems to have become ‘Mally’ in the text. Rachael West’s first appearance in the ‘plan’ is as Marion West.

‘Evershed’ is also the name of a similar anti-hero in ‘Brave Love’, with which this story has a number of other affinities. K.M. finished writing ‘Brave Love’ (first published in Landfall 101, March 1972) in January 1915. One must assume she began work on it soon after she abandoned ‘Maata’. In ‘Brave Love’ there are two South American young men who have no function at all in the story, and in the list of characters for ‘Maata’ there are ‘The Greek boys’ who make no appearance. In both stories the heroine is beautiful, cynical, self-absorbed, drawn to the innocent young lover, but destructive of him too. In both cases the young man is not only betrayed but also punished. The uncommon name Evershed was the middle name ofjames Evershed Agate, 1877-1947, essayist and dramatic critic.

Although one must be careful not to read too much autobiography into any Mansfield story, nevertheless it does seem likely that Evershed in both stories was suggested by George Bowden, and that Mildred in one and Rachael West in the other were suggested by Beatrice Hastings.

These two stories, ‘Brave Love’ and ‘Maata’ fill an important gap in our knowledge ofK.M.’s development of her art, and will repay critical study. I have enclosed in square brackets words or passages which have been crossed out in the text but which seem of sufficient interest to reproduce. Asterisks denote words of which my reading is uncertain. I am grateful to Vincent O’Sullivan and Professor lan Gordon for discussions and help in deciphering intractable words.

Maata : Plan

Maisie 14, Philip 19, Maata 19, Hal 17, Rhoda 19, Max 18. CHAPTER I Rhoda Bendall wakes up in the rain and remembers that it is the day of Maata’s arrival. A sort of a song of songs from Rhoda to Maata. A day of waiting. The past reviewed and Maata brought up to date. Ending with Rhoda at the station. / Aug 13th.

chapter II Philip and Maisie are waiting for Maata. She arrives. She sees them first. She is radiant, eager —her lovely voice like water. She goes off with Rhoda in a hansom through the wet sunshiny street to a room in the house by the canal. She half undresses and curls up on the bed. Sends Rhoda out for food. She is alone in a dusky room. The lights from the street come in. She rolls and stretches and flings out her arms —laughing and chuckling. / November 16th

CHAPTER ill Evening at the Closes. The old ghost wandering up and down. Ma, so excited. Father very flushed, and wheezing. Hal malicious, and Maisie romping. They watched her run up the steps. The door flew open. She was in Janey’s arms. She is introduced to May and Debussy. A tour of the house. Supper and stout and ale in the dining room. Before they go Hal plays his latest. She sits against the window curled in the blue chair, her arms along the sides, a bunch of violets falling from her fingers. Philip leans against the mantelpiece watching her, breathing to the rise and fall of her breath.

chapter iv The arrival of the piano. The room transformed. The blue bed-cover stitched with gold towers and minarets and a border of leopards. Chrysanthemums. A tiny fire. Maata in a grey and pink gown, in a cur-ious mood. She had spent yesterday shopping. She felt like she used to when she was a little girl and spoke her name and address outside the sweet shop. She pokes up the fire and sits down at the piano. ‘Mon coeur s’ouvre a ta voix.’ ‘I had no idea. I did not dream —and that you should need anythingyou with your voice. ’ ‘Listen, listen a moment, darling’. ‘To the Forest’. She ran forward and took Rhoda’s hand. ‘But that is nothing to what my voice is going to be likenothing. Just wait. I promise—promise — ’. She reverts always to money. ‘But you have some haven’t you? —I can’t explain but my spirit seems to need luxury. I can only expand © Estate of Katherine Mansfield.

among beautiful things’. ‘I understand —of course, it must be so.’ ‘And the absurd thing is that it’s only a question of time . . . and when I do have it I’ll have no more need of it’. Rhoda left her. On the canal bridge for the first time she refused a beggar. chapter v Sunday at the Close family. Hot and fine. The boys are late to breakfast —they do not wear collars and ties. Maisie in mignonette green. Be it known . . . that they have hereby decided to envelop the capillary substance of our illustrious craniums in the folds of the pellucid aqua purissima. The great event dinner. A joint and greens and plum pie. Debussy wears a bow tie. May’s strange dream. The knock at the area door.

Maata is very fine in a wine dark cloth dress with an astrakhan coat .... Afterwards she goes up and puts on a big apron and washes Hal’s hair. A walk to the Heath. Hal, Maisie, Maata and Philip. And after tea, while Mum and Dad are playing Halma and Maisie reads Dickens she and Philip play cribbage. In the evening Music. The old man* holds her ‘trembling with life’. CHAPTER vi The singing lesson and the concert. In the middle she leaves and wanders about, exhausted, unhappy. It is cold and windy. Why hadn’t she said she could not afford to pay so much. She arrives home draggled. Rhoda is there. She tells Rhoda. Rhoda persuades her to allow her to pay.

chapter vn Maata at the Closes. Only the mother is in. They have a long talk in the ugly dining-room with the darning basket. The family come in for tea. It brightens. She and Philip have another game and Maata is persuaded to stay for dinner. Hal sees her home. ‘What do you think of my brother?’ The letter from Rhoda.

chapter viii Philip surveys his life and his prospects. His loneliness—his lack of faith in himself. He hears Maisie singing in her room. He goes in to her. ‘No, I can’t go on with you listening.’ ‘Don’t be such a baby, kid.’ In his desire to stamp out the image of Maata he sits on Maisie’s bed with her curled up in his arms and plans her gorgeous life. She is happy beyond words. ‘And we’ll have a little house, girlie, on the shores of the Mediterranean and travel all over the world.’ ‘Just you and I, Pip.’ ‘Yes, yes, just you and I.’ He denies Maata. He hugs and kisses her. ‘Not enough, not enough’.

chapter ix Maata meets at the flat the dark strange boy Max Castello. Mally does not arrive. They sit and talk among the garden baskets of artificial flowers. Passion is the only thing in life. It is to dare everything. They are bitter and cold. His eyes shine as though by candlelight. They arrange to meet. chapter x What rubbish is this what rubbish, she stammered,

clenching her little hands in her astrakhan muff. It grows foggy. Outside the house Rhoda stands like a forlorn tree with a big box in her hands. She lights the fire for Maata and the box is opened. ‘How could you know —you fairy godmother!’ A black astrakhan coat lined with silver brocade sprigged with mignonette. It had little side pockets and a high collar. ‘I wanted to give you one that would cover your whole precious body but the pennies would not be found. You can wear this in the house too’. Maata puts it on. ‘Yes’, very satisfied, ‘that is you . She protests. ‘No, it is my Xmas present’. She is sweet, sweet to Rhoda. Maisie and Hal arrive, Hal very jolly. She is to go home to dinner. The fog deepens. They go out, arm in arm, coughing, and Rhoda disappears. ‘Extraordinary girl.’

chapter xi For three days the fog hung thick. Maata stayed in her room. She would see nobody. A hatred of the place and the people was on her. She told Mally she had a cold. She denied Rhoda. Walked up and down, up and down, staring in front of her. On the afternoon of the third day Mally came. She had a lesson in her room, and all her burdens somehow changed. She sang. Mally. ‘No, you need not look at me. Start where you like’. She sings. ‘Ah, you’re in love. Go on.’ She sang, lifting, lifting in song. Her colour came back. She went over to Mally, put her arm round her neck and hugged her, and when she had gone she ran up to the Closes. Janey was in the kitchen making an apple pie. Maata bubbled with joy. She inspected the whole house. Philip’s gratitude and admiration wrapped her. They played cribbage again, laughing. They walked home together, arm in arm. ‘Hook on, dear girl’ said Philip. They lost their way, and she held close to him under cover of laughter and cold. It took them a long time to get home. He left her on the doorstep. She promised faithfully to go again tomorrow at three.

chapter xii When Maisie came in next morning to wake Philip she found he was already up and dressed. He was sorting his music. Maisie had a duster in her hand and a blue handkerchief like a turban on her head. She was dusting the drawing room. She was amazed to see Pip dressed, and sat down on the floor to help him. He was rather quiet—very pale—with shaking hands. ‘Well, you are queer. What’s the matter?’ There was nothing. He says ‘When Maata comes this afternoon tell her to come straight up to my room. I’m going to work all day—and Pussy —see that nobody else butts in. I want to see her alone.’ Maisie makes big eyes of surprise. Then she blushes and says ‘Oh all right, I think it’s rather mean of you though’. She won’t help him any more. All day she watched her brother. He does not eat, he laughs stupidly, his hands shake. He roams up and down his room, up and down. Seven times during the

morning he tiptoes downstairs to look at the clock. Maata is very late coming. It is five o’clock. She goes straight to Philip. His room is in dark. He is practising. The violin case on the bed is like a tiny coffin. They comfort the loneliness in each other, she sitting at the table by the window, Philip on the bed. They grow very peaceful and quiet. He lights the gas for her to look at the shell he found when he was tidying up. They stand close together. Her hands shake. She holds it and turns it over. They look up at each other. He puts his arm round her shoulder. They smile timidly and kiss. He puts his arms round her and she lays her hand upon his cheek and gazes at him. He says ‘I worship you, girl’ and she nods and says breathlessly ‘I too. I too.’ ‘Maata —do you love me?’ Still with that mysterious smile she says ‘Of course I do.’ Hal interrupts. They tell the delighted family. Only Maisie bursts into tears and rushes to her room. ‘I can’t understand Maisie’ said Philip, puzzled. ‘Oh well, it will be a great change for her’ said the mother. ‘But why, Mum? How?’ ‘Oh well, least said spoils the broth, my son. You’ll understand some day.’ They have a merry dinner with Kola and stout. Mrs Close gets very confidential. Hal too. ‘Wait till you see the old ghost’s big toe, Maata’. The family leave them the dining room. They turn the gas low and lie down on the little green sofa, their bodies touching.

chapter xiii Rhoda spends the night with her mother. ‘I never seem to see you at all. You are always out or creeping about the staircase like a thief. What about that friend of yours? Why hasn’t she been to see me? Why can’t you be like other girls?’ She spends a dreadful night. When the mother sleeps she creeps into the drawing room and pulls up the blind and sees the night clear with stars. Life seems empty and horrible. She cries out for Maata. The moon comes throught the window. She lies flat on her back with her arms wide and stares up at the big round moon. I wish I was a spirit. Why have I got this body? I would like to be a spirit and watch near my darling. Maata you are not happy—some danger is near you. Maata what are you doing now? I shall draw some more money tomorrow and buy her that black scarf with moonstones. This moon is like me —so white and cold. Maata will wrap us round her little breast, in the black night of her scarf.

chapter xiv She was at the Bank before it opened, and with Maata before ten, Maata was dressing, leaning forward to tie her shoes. ‘l’ve something to tell you. You’ll be surprised. I’m going to marry Philip’. Rhoda is opposite a mirror. She watches herself. ‘Oh when was it arranged?’ ‘Late last evening’. Rhoda: ‘I knew’. Maata is intensely annoyed. ‘How could you know? They walk together to the Closes. But something has happened. ‘No, I won’t come in.

When shall I see you again?’ ‘Oh I don’t know. Sometime next week ... or come to tea on Sunday. Do.’

chapter xv The two children in love. Playing ball in the garden, in Pip’s room, going for walks. Raspberry Nose and old Winter. It seems that everybody loves us. They cannot bear to be separated. He tries for and obtains a position in a theatre orchestra. Steak sandwiches. They all prepare for Christmas. Maata is to spend it with them. Maisie is not well. She gets very thin. chapter xvi Mally goes to Rome until February to give singing lessons. At Maata’s last lesson Max is there. They have lentil soup with pieces of sausage in it. She wears her engagement ring. She is very happy but Mally shakes her head. ‘You couldn’t be poor’. ‘But why not? I’ll make money with my singing, Mally’. ‘You are not

made for such a marriage, my dear. You want a man who would throw you across the room and beat you. Nobody else will ever keep a woman like you.’ Max listens. ‘Where would you be without your fine clothes now?’ ‘I—I haven’t got any.’ ‘Pooh! I’ve been watching. Look at your coat —£10.10.0. Your hat —£5.5.0. Your shoes and gloves and today a gold purse. Monsieur ton mari won’t be able to provide such luxuries. Better stay as you are.’ ‘But surely you aren’t suggesting . . . ’. ‘Nothing at all, my dear, except that your own money does not buy them.’ Maata bristled. She was defiant. ‘I need these things. They help me, I can’t sing if I’m draggled and poor.’ ‘Tell it to somebody else. Pooh —what do you know of such things? What has money to do with it? Fine feathers don’t make fine artists, my dear.’ Mally gets up a terrible rage. Max leans back and laughs. Maata goes, half crying. Max and Mally are left alone. He soothes her, and strokes and strokes her, maliciously smiling.

chapter xvii Christmas Eve leading to Christmas day. By the gas fire in Maata’s room, wrapped in a rug. Low wind outside. Christmas Day. Happy fooling and a sad, lovely evening. Rhoda comes in the afternoon. Maisie fondles Rhoda. The two seem like friends. It is arranged that Maata shall go and stay at the Closes. chapter xviii Next day Rhoda packs for her. They spend the day together in the old happy way. They go out to tea and it is not until evening that they say goodbye. ‘Now I shall see even less of you. May I write?’ ‘Of course . . .’. Her room is very clean with mats everywhere. ‘Now I won’t even be surprised if you and Philip sleep in that very bed after you’re married.’ ‘Oh Mother, dear’. ‘Well, there’s no need to blush about it.’ She and Maisie make it up. chapter xix The visit to Co vent Garden. The return, heaped with flowers. Philip is asleep. They cover his bed. She gets frightened

and wakes him and kisses and kisses him. Invitation to the wedding. Mrs Close doesn’t want to accept. Hal to go too, and Father. chapter xx The departure of the three. The three are left in the house. Her happiness. It is early spring, and the sun shines on the drawing room carpet. Philip goes out, comes in late. They are lovers.

chapter xxi Maisie discovers them, but says nothing. She thinks they have been secretly married. She is full of the secret, and she can afford now to be nice to Maata and kiss her and hug her and help her to make Pip’s bed. chapter xxii The old people return, very crotchety. Everything goes wrong and Philip goes away. She begins taking lessons again. Max Castello sees her home. She feels shaken. Hal disapproves utterly of Max Castello. ‘I don’t think you’re fair on the old ghost, Maata.’ ‘Oh how absurd you are. What a baby you are!’ They start quarrelling. An uneasy gloom settles on the house. May is dismissed. They are sick of Maata’s fine ways. And she is sick of their commonness. She goes away for the weekend and comes back to find Ma wants the money for the washing. No, she won’t give it. How silent they are all growing. Only Maisie looks better and turns from Maata to her mother.

chapter xxiii Maisie tells of their love episode. The silence explodes. They are violent, hysterical, half mad. She is denied the house immediately and she goes away to Rhoda who finds her a horrible little poor room. chapterXXlV She cannot stand it and goes to Philip, to the theatre. He comes in and stands resining his bow, looking over the house. He sees her. They go back to the dirty ugly house and are wonderfully happy. chapter xxv The morning. He goes and he finds his mother’s letter. There is a scene. He leaves her early in the morning and on the train journey back to London she meets Marion West. They become very intimate. High falutin, false, and talk as the train shatters through the dark.

chapter xxvi Rhoda prepares for her home-coming*. Something* of sentimentality. Her children. The fire. The white lilac in a jar. Maata is cold and abstracted. Very beautiful. Before she goes to bed she writes Pip a letter. She wants him, wants him. Pip, I’m frightened. CHAPTER xxvil Next morning after the post has come and brought her no letter she leaves for Rachael West. What a fine house! And the jolly people. In the evening she sings—‘l met my love’. She wears a

yellow chrysanthemum in her hair. Rachael fusses and pets her to the hilt. She meets Mr Evershed. chapter xxvm I cannot come to London. Come here if you can. We have very good digs and Ma cooks poached egg. O.R. She shows that letter to Rachael who poisons her mind. But go. I would if I were you —you need to go this time and seejust how you stand. Rachael is smoking, her head thrown back, the lovely lines of her milky throat in the light. Mr Evershed sees her to the station. Books, flowers —everything she wants.

chapter xxix But it is raining, pouring with rain as Philip sets out to meet Maata. He is suspicious and cold: his heart eaten with fatigue. She is changed. Only when they are going to bed that night and her young husband takes her into his arms ... I think my heart will break for joy. They spend the week in gloom—what is the matter with you. On the morning of going away she wakes early and sees the sheep. She is cruel. ‘You’re your mother’s boy. And Maisie’s. What’s the good of pretending. I am not made to be poor’. She scolds, scolds all the way home from Charlie’s Aunt in the soaking rain.

chapter xxx Rhoda loses her. Writes to Pip. She has gone back to Mrs West’s. Please to go and see her. He writes, pleads. But she will not answer his letters. Then he is ill and there is silence. She goes for a walk and meets Maisie in the park. The sheep again. ‘l’ll not tell you —not I.’ Maisie is with Rhoda. She goes straight home. She and Rachael drink port. They sit on the sofa in Evershed’s room. He proposes, she accepts. They are married next afternoon. chapterxxxi Rhoda gains admittance. She sees the wedding ring. She is terribly hurt. She explains. Maata buries her head in the cushions. Did you ever hear of a broken heart? She promises to arrange a meeting. Does he know? Of course —he saw it in the paper. He had some sort of a breakdown. But better now. Says it is for the last time.

chapterxxxii The meeting in the spring. The walk on the heath. I want to tell you something. I have never lived with Evershed as his wife —never. Then rapture at last. They arrange to go to America. She will get the money. She can. He leaves her and Max Castello speaks to him and tells him the truth and gives him the letters. chapter xxxill She goes to Rhoda. It is all made plain. She is dying to spend the night with Rhoda. And tomorrow the money can be had. She went over all her plans and hopes. She falls asleep at last like a lovely little child. Rhoda lies on the floor by the dying fire —the supreme sacrifice made.

chapter xxxiv He did not know how he reached home. Yes, he had had supper. He goes upstairs to his room and burns his papers and [ indecipherable ] upon them downstairs —first to the kitchen — sees them all and the brightness. Hal is in the drawing room playing. Hallo old ghost. Going into the garden. There is a high white moon and the plane trees stand up in the blue air. He thinks they are very beautiful. His heart bursts with grief. He listens to Hal and by and by he takes out the revolver and puts the spout in his mouth and shoots himself.

chapter xxxv Rhoda sees Max and Maata and a lot of others after a concert. Maata speaks to her. There is only one thing. Are you happy. Life is not gay. Life is never gay. End of plan: August 2nd 1913

CHARACTERS Maata Nelson Rhoda Bendall Mrs Bendall (her mother) William Close Mrs Close Hal Close Maisie Close Philip, Pip Close Elena (Ellie) Thai Max Castello Rachael West Evershed The Greek boys Old Mrs Freeman (R.W.’s mother) Mrs Banks (M’s landlady) Bessie Banks (daughter) Raspberry Nose Old Wintergreen May (Mrs Close’s servant)

Maata

CHAPTER I The sound of rain woke Rhoda Bendall. It fell, quick and sharp, through the open window on to the polished floor. ‘Dear me’, she thought, ‘it’s raining’, and she lay still, mild and sleepy, listening to the quick patter. Every morning the effort to get up seemed greater and more dreadful. She dropped asleep like a tired beast dropping into a dark, soft pit and her heart turned faint before the struggle to raise up this long heavy body once again. ‘I must wake up. I must. It’s raining. The curtains will be quite wet, and so will the floor.’ She opened her eyes and stared into the dusky room. Her clothes lay in the middle of the floor, fan-shaped, white and grey. ‘They are like the plumage of some great bird,’ she thought, staring at the untidy bundle. ‘I am going to get up now and shut the window.’ But she did not move. Nothing helped her. There was no sound from the house. Her room, at the very top and overlooking garden strips and the backs of other houses, was remote as an empty nest in a bare tree. ‘I wonder what the time is. I ought to have a clock in this room: that would be a great help. It’s dark but I’m sure it’s late.’ A little puff of damp air blew in with the rain, making her shiver. She turned, sighed and sat up, shaking back [the loose mane of fair hair.] At the moment of raising herself Rhoda Bendall remembered. She flung out of bed, her eyes dilated, her nostrils quivered. Stretching

out her arms, smiling in ecstasy, she staggered forward. ‘Maata, my beloved, Maata, my adored one. It is your day—today we meet again.’ She leaned out of the window, feeling the rain whip up her sleepy blood. [Clumsily she pulled at the buttons of her night gown and bared her dead white throat and breast.] ‘A-ah,’ she breathed, in a surge of ecstasy. ‘I am baptized. I am baptized into a new day.’ Down in the garden the ivy wall gleamed like bronze; some birds fluffed their feathers in the broken fountain bowl. She could see each shining spear of grass. She saw herself walking down there in her white gown, with flowing hair —a saint in a holy picture of a garden, glorying and triumphant. ‘Maata! Maata! Can you hear me? My treasure, my beloved one —the day is beautiful with you. Your breath is in this [sweet] wind and the same rain falls on us both. On us both. Oh God, bring her quickly. Bring her quickly, God. Yes; I think you must,’ crooned Rhoda Bendall, walking up and down. ‘For she is of you. She is your spirit, your essence. She is God in woman. ’ In rapture she stopped before the mirror and stared into it, dreamily smiling. ‘I wish you could see me now, Maata

mine. lam almost beautiful I 100k —I 100k —’ and she parted her hair, holding it tight to her face with her large hands —‘like a Botticelli. Very nearly worthy of you. I have changed very much. I think, my soul, lam more what you would have me—a strong, silent force of Love.’

A picture of Maata stood on the writing desk and before it a shell with some incense dust. Rhoda kneeled down, her arms along the desk, her chin in her hands. ‘Good morning, beloved,’ she whispered, rocking to and fro on heavy unbreaking waves of love. ‘Why-so-sad? There is a shadow on your brow and eyes, and your mouth’ she said, drawing her lips along the backs of her hands, ‘has kissed sorrow.’ She crouched back. ‘Maata has never kissed me on the mouth, but I know what her lips feel like —they feel like carnations. I can see them’ she fluttered her eyelids—‘exquisite—exquisite—every little curve. Do not be sad, my darling. Let me keep away from you everything that is not beautiful and fitting. You are perfection. How can you help being hurt by this world Maata. It is my destiny to serve you. I was dead when you found me and without you I am nothing. Let me serve.’ While she pleaded a strange sensation of blind, tireless strength filled every particle of her. ‘Yes, Yes,’ she stammered, ‘I know you are near me, beloved. And I am here, waiting. Let me serve. Oh, Maata, I can tell you now. There is only one thing left that has any terror for me ... it is that you have grown too strong to need me. You are so terribly strong.’

She cringed before the picture and opened her hands [like a beggar]. ‘I cannot follow you on to the heights. Stoop sometimes to me. I know you cannot belong wholly to me —the great world needs you —but I am all yours.’ She sat quiet while the ecstasy ebbed away, leaving her cold and hungry, with all the long hours to wear through somehow until the late afternoon when Maata would arrive. ‘I must go and find the time’ she decided. But she did not move. [I see you Rhoda. Now you look like your normal self and you will sit there a long time making up your mind to dress and go slowly down all those gloomy stairs into the breakfast room.]

‘I don’t feel strong enough to bear the ordinary world today—l shrink from it. Not until I have seen you again, Maata. You see, Maata, it’s two years. What a long breath of you I had to take to last me for two whole years!’ Her slow mind began rebuilding the parting with Maata. They had taken a four-wheeler to the station because of the luggage. Maata’s voice: ‘The old ramshackle, Rhody. It’s like sitting on the lap of an old clothes woman.’ It had been a long day. Virginia Creeper moved over the houses. ‘Look at my flags, Rhody, all bloody.’ And a great many people at the station —crowds and crowds —such noise and confusion. And

through it all Maata had laughed. ‘I shall always be the same, Rhody—l can’t help it. Don’t be angry with me. It’s just at the last moment anything makes one happy—just at the moment of jumping you aren’t frightened any more —only terribly happy. Happy. And I’m coming back. Listen,’ she put her little warm hands on Rhoda’s shoulders. ‘l’m coming back. Yes, believe me. I’ll be back in two years—you do believe me.’ And she had answered ‘I have faith, beloved, but I can’t believe. I’m too broken just now.’ Remembering that, Rhoda struck her right palm with her clenched fist. ‘Fool! What weakness.’

She got up from the floor and dressed in the grey and white clothes and braided her hair round her head, burning with scorn for herself. ‘And I’ve forgotten to shut the window—the floor is soaking. Oh, well —it doesn’t matter.’ She hesitated, stepped to the window, stopped and turned to the door. ‘No—it’s no matter. Little, little trivial things. And besides, why shouldn’t rain come in through the windows. It has as much right as wind or scent, surely, surely.’

All the way down the gloomy stairs, past her mother’s bedroom door, past the deserted silent rooms, she carried the silly thought as a weapon against her dread. In the breakfast room the clock pointed to half past eleven. So late! She hovered over the untidy breakfast table and wished as she always wished that she had the courage to ask for some fresh tea. But it was unreasonable to be two hours late. ‘I will drink all the milk instead,’ she decided, ‘and eat. Yes —eat.’ She cut some rounds of bread, buttered them thickly and spread them with jam, and ate, stuffing her mouth full, washing it down with milk. ‘Dare I go on, dare I?’ The same battle was fought each morning between her violent bodily hunger and a wavering sense of shame. ‘I wonder why I have to eat so much. I suppose it is because I am so big and heavy. I never have enough to eat —never.’ She dropped some lumps of sugar in the milkjug and ate them with a spoon. ‘Now I shalljust have one more round of bread and butter to take away the taste of the sugar.’ As she finished the last crust the housemaid came in. ‘Telegram for you, Miss Rhoda.’ ‘Thank you Nellie.’ She tore it out of the envelope. ‘Pouring with rain. Arrive Charing X 4.30. Love. Maata.’ A-ah! It had come [it made the waiting bearable]. How like her to have put pouring with rain first. Just like her. She read and re-read it, walking up the stairs, thrust it into her blouse, took her hat and gloves and purse and walked out of the house to spend the day buying flowers for Maata’s new room and walking about idly and slowly, slowly dragging through the hours until it was time to go to the station.

CHAPTER II They walked up and down the platform —a curious couple. Philip very tall and thin in a buttoned frock coat and top hat; Maisie very short and fat in a blue sailor suit and a wide straw hat with a wreath round it. She held her brother’s arm and half danced and gazed up at him with big eyes of admiration. ‘Oh Pip! you do look fine. You look simply ripping. Much the handsomest man here. Ah! I wish you always wore a frock coat. And that blue tie. It makes your eyes all black.’ He gave her arm a squeeze and laughed at her. ‘Don’t, kid —you’re making me blush. People’ll think we’re a newly married couple.’ ‘Pip!’ Maisie shrieked withjoy. ‘Don’t be so absurd. I haven’t even got my hair tied back. And look at my skirt! Very short. I wish you could make Mum lengthen my skirts. She won’t realise I’m fourteen. It’s awful to wear these short things.’ ‘Well you are a Miss Blinge. If you could see your knees you wouldn’t want to wear any skirt at all.’ ‘What do you mean? My knees are different to other people’s are they?’ ‘Aren’t they. You look at most girls—they’re pigeon-kneed. Knees turn in like this.’ He stopped and showed her. ‘A fright. You’ve got knees like a little boy statue.’ ‘Have I?’ said Maisie, very pleased. ‘Well, fancy! I never knew.’

The station platform was crowded with people waiting for the boat train to come in. They stood together in little groups, the women talking with a great deal of animation, the men silent and bored-looking. In and out among them trundled the porters. ‘By your leave. By your leave. If you please.’ The clarion of voices that seemed to resolve curiously, if you listened, into one insistent strident voice was broken by the sound of bells and whistles and the shuffling blaring noise of the trains. White smoke floated up from somewhere and hung below the station roof like misty fires dissolving, came again in swaying wreaths. ‘Wonderfully beautiful’ thought Philip, ‘and so full of life.’ He pointed it out to Maisie. ‘Look girly, look at that smoke. [That is how the high notes on a fiddle played pianissimo ought to sound]’ But Maisie was tortured with impatience. ‘What’s the time, Philip, what’s the time? Why doesn’t that stupid old train come in? I’ll never come and wait for anybody again—as long as I live, never.’ ‘lt won’t be long now.’ And he said, to distract her, ‘Bet you won’t know Maata again!’ ‘Do you mean I’ll have forgotten what she looks like? You can’t mean that!’ ‘Yes I do. It’s five years since you saw her. If you jump back five times it makes you only nine.’ They stood still together, and he put his hand on her soft little shoulder and rubbed his fingers against her neck and tiny ear. ‘You can’t think what a sweet* you were then, kid.’ ‘Tell me,’ she said, basking like a kitten in his warm love. ‘Well, you were only about up to your own shoulder, and your hair

was fairer than it is now —not half so apricotty —more like butter beans. Mum used to tie it back with two yellow bows. And you had a white cashmere dress with a yellow sash and tan stockings and tan shoes and a paper umbrella with canaries flying round it. And you used to walk up and down Kitchener Road and then Hal and I used to come strolling up pretending to be two photographers.’ ‘Yes, go on,’ said Maisie. ‘Oh, I remember.’

The platform was getting very crowded. The train was expected. The pitch of the excited voices rose higher and stronger. Some broad beams of late sun struck through the glass roof of the station. Philip’s heart began to beat quickly. ‘Go on,’ said Maisie. ‘We would come up to you and then suddenly start back —like this —’. He started and put his hand to his heart, staring at Maisie. ‘And then we would take off our hats and say “Pardon Mamzelle. May we ’ave ze honour of photographing you? We are ze court photographers of ze Kaiser of Germany on tour’’. And then we’d set up the camera. Three clothes props and a soap box and the bit of black velvet off the top of the piano. And you would pose against old Mr Williams’s gate that had two stonejars on top ofit. I took the photographs and Hal used to arrange you. “ Ver’ good, ver’ good” said Philip, acting the part. ‘ “A leetle to the left foreground. Ze parasol oblique to foreshorten ze elbow.”

A bell clanged. There was a cry of‘Here comes the train’. ‘Philip, Philip—the train —look, look.’ Shejumped up and down, tugging his arm. A huge express swung into the station, slowed down, stopped. There were heads at every window. Endless it seemed to Maisie. ‘We’ll never find her,’ she wailed, ‘we’ll never find her, Phil.’ ‘Yes we will. Here, take my hand. We’ll run up and down. I’ve got an idea. Take off your hat. She’ll see your hair.’ Up and down they ran, dodging the greeting, kissing groups. No sign—no sign. Suddenly Maisie felt hands round her neck. She turned, was caught up tight, trembling, into Maata’s arms. ‘Maata, Maata, is it really you?’ And a laughing voice between kisses stammered, ‘You darling, you darling, I knew you by your hair.’

For ever afterwards Philip had only to shut his eyes and he saw the two again—in a world of people—Maata stooping and Maisie given* to her. He felt again that furious unbearable expectation until Maata straightened up and turned to him her warm beautiful face. She was dressed in grey. She wore a little hat with a wing in it and a dark silky veil pushed up just above her eyebrows. A bright colour shone beneath her brown skin —her lips were trembling—but her eyes laughed. Simply from access of amazement he could say nothing but ‘Yes, you’ve come, you’ve come’ and press her hands and laugh back at her. He had never in life imagined anyone could look so radiant and so triumphant. ‘Are you really Phil?’ she

said, in a shy voice, speaking very slowly. ‘I —I wouldn’t have known you. Oh —yes I would. When you smile —oh yes —but you’ve changed —changed—. He’s very nearly frightening, isn’t he Maisie?’ But Maisie had turned aside and seen Rhoda Bendall, standing apart, very pale, with a thin smile on her lips, waiting. She determined to capture Maata before Rhoda could speak to her. ‘Maata, you’re coming home with us now, aren’t you? They’re all expecting you. We promised to bring you.’ ‘Look here, dear girl, what about your luggage?’ asked Philip, grave and practical all of a sudden. At that Maata’s laughter bubbled up again, so sweet and delicious to hear that it started Pip and Maisie off, and the three, looking at each other, laughed like little children. ‘Of course—my luggage. I’d forgotten all about it, I’m a nice person to travel about all over the wicked world. It’s in the van Phil. Which is the van—back or front? I can’t remember.’ ‘Why,’ said Philip, waving his hand, ‘here’s Miss Bendall.’

What an extraordinary thing! How could it have happened? From the moment she had found Maisie and Phil Maata had quite forgotten Rhoda —forgotten all about her. ‘Rhody dear.’ She kissed Rhoda’s cold cheek. ‘Where have you been? Have you been looking for me all this time? I’d —I’d forgotten all about you.’ At the gay cruel words Rhoda grew paler and when she spoke it was in a musing* affected voice to hide her horrible agitation. ‘I didn’t see you at first and then —you had found Maisie and Mr Close. So I ran after your luggage. Two big yellow boxes and a hat box and a roll of rugs. I had them put in a hansom. It’s waiting. Was there anything else?’ ‘No, that was all. Oh Rhody dear how wonderful of you to have found them. Let me see. Now what had I better do?’ ‘Come to us, come to us’ said Maisie ‘and let Miss Bendall take your luggage.’ ‘What do you want to do?’ said Philip. She looked at him while she spoke. ‘I really ought to go off with Rhoda now and see my new rooms and unpack a little and come to you for supper if I may? Otherwise I shall have to go back late at night into a strange room not even knowing where the matches are kept, Maisie. Yes, that’s my best plan.’ ‘But the cake’ said Maisie. ‘There’s a cake with your name on it for tea.’ ‘We’ll hide it till supper,’ Philip consoled her. ‘Yes, that’s best. You’ll come as soon as you can, Maata?’ ‘As soon as I can,’ she answered. ‘Where’s the hansom, Rhoda?’ ‘Here quite close.’

Rhoda and Maata were alone, side by side in the jolting swaying hansom. ‘We have a long way to go,’ said Rhoda. ‘Have you enough room? Are you quite comfortable?’ Fearing to touch Maata she squeezed up to a corner and tried to stop the exhausted trembling of her body. Those moments at the station hurt her still. Her throat ached, tears pressed on her eyeballs. Courage, courage,

she said to herself. You have her. She is here. ‘Ah’ breathed Maata, lying back and folding her hands. ‘lt’s good to be here at last —Rhody. I love the sun shining. Has it been raining all day?’ ‘l’m not quite sure. I think it has.’ Rhoda frowned at herself but Maata did not seem to notice the stupid reply. She went on questioning Rhoda. Had Rhoda found her a nice room, was there a piano, how much did it cost, was the landlady pleasant, what did it look out on? And her manner and voice were so composed—almost languid—that Rhoda became calm. Her heart lifted and began to feed on joy. She wanted to be out of the hansom with Maata in her room, to help Maata off with her coat and hat, to do all the little

things for her, to see her, to watch her move. All the while she drank that lovely voice. ‘We are nearly there now. Look, here is the river’, as though she had put the river there so that Maata might care for it. ‘Your sitting-room faces the river. In the winter the birds come right up to the window —sometimes they fly through, so Mrs Banks your landlady told me.’ Maata said, ‘I like rivers’. The hansom slowed down before a big grey stone house. ‘This is your key,’ said Rhoda. ‘Your rooms are on the first floor. Will you go straight up and let me settle with the man and see about the luggage?’ Maata gave Rhoda her purse. On the first floor, when she had finished with the boxes she knocked at the sitting-room door. ‘Come in.’ Maata stood at the window. She had not even raised her

veil or taken off her gloves. ‘You—you do not like it,’ stammered Rhoda. ‘You’re disappointed.’ For answer Maata stepped forward and laid her hands on Rhoda’s shoulders. ‘Thank you, my friend,’ she said. The sitting-room was a studio, scantily furnished, with brown paper walls and black paint. It was very pleasant in a detached unlittered way. A little fire burned in the grate and some pots of flowering heath, pink and white, gave it a still, chaste charm. A bedroom, a kitchen [a lavatory] completed the tiny flat. Each bore evidence of Rhoda’s devotion. There was even hot water in the wash basin covered in a pink and white towel, and a tea tray was ready in the kitchen and the kettle sang on a pinch of gas. ‘Yes, oh yes,’ said Maata, waltzing about, ‘I shall be happy here. This is quite right Rhody. It’s all lovely. And when I have my piano in the

studio and cover the couch and have my books and pictures about, it will be a good room to work in. There —take my bags—undo the lock and give me what I want. I’m going to wash and change into that green dress near the top.’ Rhoda knelt on the floor and handled her darling possessions as though these were all—every one —more precious than gold. Then she crouched back watching Maata step out of her grey skirt, slip off her blouse, and, standing before the mirror, let down her torrent of black silky hair. There was not very much light in the bedroom and Maata’s skin flamed like yellow

roses. The scent of her, like musk and spice, was on the air. When she brushed her hair she talked to Rhoda, to that silent adoring image crouched on the floor with wide eyes and pale lips. At last Maata, shaking her powder puff, noticed. ‘What is the matter, dear?’ she said, and smiled at Rhoda who clasped her hands and smiled back. ‘I never dreamed —no I never ever dreamed that you were so beautiful Maata. I never ever dreamed that your voice was so wonderful nor your movements —every supple movement —nor your skin so gleaming nor your hair. Your —your drowning* hair. I’d forgotten or just dimly remembered the way your little hands move, so sure and dainty—my little angel—everything about you

. . But Maata sat forward and took Rhoda’s heavy head in her hands and laughed. ‘You mustn’t flatter me so darling, really not.’ And she said, still laughing ‘Oh, it’s so good to be spoiled, Rhody! But help me to dress now and bring me some of those violets out of the sitting-room. I’ll wear them.’ ‘Yes, dear.’ ‘Thank you. How nice to feel your capable hands again. Were you surprised when Maisie and Philip were down at the station?’ ‘Yes, perhaps a little,’ said Rhoda. ‘I telegraphed them from Plymouth. I don’t know why exactly, but you know they are such darlings—all of them —and they and you are my only people in London.’ ‘Of course, dear, I quite understand.’ ‘And then, at Plymouth today England suddenly stopped being Queen Victoria and turned into a most unworthy creature and I got homesick for some of my own people.’ Rhoda brought her the violets. ‘I suppose you’re dreadfully disappointed that I’m going out tonight,’ said Maata. ‘But I can come with you to the gate can’t I?’ said Rhoda. ‘Of course you can. But tell me, are you disappointed?’ Rhoda looked down into Maata’s half shut eyes. ‘I do not allow myself to be disappointed. You are not to bother your wise head over me and my concerns. I am here to make you happy and to be with you when you want me, but I am not here to be like any other, remembering the world—-just considered—because—’. Her eyes dropped and an expression of tragic caresses came into her face. ‘Don’t you understand little sweetheart —I love you. That merely to see you, to be able to —to put my hand on your coat like that and know it is warm with you