On Conversation - thoughts from Katherine Mansfield
I'm currently writing an essay on some of KM's short stories (which I highly recommend), and wanted to share the following extract from "Psychology" with anyone who has the time to read it through. I've cut out as much as I can bear to, which somewhat spoils it and removes its actual point as a story, but so it must be for brevity's sake and the aspect I want to bring out. It appears a little cheesy at the very beginning, but try to put that aside if possible, and not to read it as a romance story, which I don't think it's really meant to be.
Alternatively, if you're short of time, the quote at the top, from a letter of KM's to a friend in 1921, summarises pretty much what the story says.
* * * * *
"How strange talking is - what mists rise and fall - how one loses the other and then thinks to have found the other - then down comes another soft final curtain."
* * * * *
When she opened the door and saw him standing there she was more pleased than ever before, and he, too, as he followed her into the studio, seemed very, very happy to have come.
“Not busy?”
“No. Just going to have tea.”
“And you are not expecting anybody?”
“Nobody at all.”
“Ah! That’s good.”
He laid aside his coat and hat gently, lingeringly, as though he had time and to spare for everything, or as though he were taking leave of them for ever, and came over to the fire and held out his hands to the quick, leaping flame.
Just for a moment both of them stood silent in that leaping light. Still, as it were, they tasted on their smiling lips the sweet shock of their greeting. Their secret selves whispered:
“Why should we speak? Isn’t this enough?”
“More than enough. I never realised until this moment…”
“Like this…”
“It’s more than enough.”
But suddenly he turned and looked at her and she moved quickly away.
“Have a cigarette? I’ll put the kettle on. Are you longing for tea?
“No. Not longing.”
“Well, I am.”
(…) He sat up clasping his knees. It was delightful – this business of having tea – and she always had delicious things to eat (…) but it was an interruption. He wanted it over, the table pushed away, their two chairs drawn up to the light, and the moment come when he took out his pipe, filled it, and said, pressing the tobacco tight into the bowl: “I have been thinking over what you said last time and it seems to me…”
Yes, that was what he waited for and so did she. (…) And yet she couldn’t hurry. She could almost have cried: “Give me time.” She wanted time to free herself from these familiar things with which she lived so vividly. For all these gay things round her were part of her – her offspring – and they knew it and made the largest, most vehement claims. But now they must go. They must be swept away, shooed away – like children, sent up the shadowy stairs, packed into bed and commanded to go to sleep – at once – without a murmer!
For the special thrilling quality of their friendship was in their complete surrender. Like two open cities in the midst of some vast plain their two minds lay open to each other. (…) they were eager, serious travellers, absorbed in understanding what was to be seen and discovering what was hidden – making the most of this extraordinary absolute chance which made it possibly for him to be utterly truthful to her and for her to be utterly sincere with him.
And the best of it was they were both of them old enough to enjoy their adventure to the full without any stupid emotional complication. Passion would have ruined everything; they quite saw that. Besides, all that sort of thing was over and done with for both of them – he was thiry-one, she was thirty – they had had their experiences, and very rich and varied they had been, but now it was time for harvest – harvest.
(…smalltalk…)
"Here's another queer thing. If I shut my eyes I can see this place down to every detail - every detail....Now I come to think of it - I've never realised this consciously before. Often when I am away from here I revisit it in spirit - wander about among your red chairs, stare at the bowl of fruit on the black table - and just touch, very lightly, that marvel of a sleeping boy's head."
He looked at it as he spoke. It stood on the corner of the mantelpiece; the head to one side down-drooping, the lips parted, as though in his sleep the little boy listened to some sweet sound....
"I love that little boy," he murmered. And then they both were silent.
A new silence came between them. Nothing in the least like the satisfactory pause that had followed their greetings – the “Well, here we are together again, and there’s no reason why we shouldn’t go on from just where we left off last time.” That silence could be contained in the circle of warm, delightful fire and lamplight. How many times hadn't they flung something into it just for the fun of watching the ripples break on the easy shores. but into this unfamiliar pool the head of the little boy sleeping his timeless sleep dropped - and the ripples flowed away, away - boundlessly far - into deep glittering darkness.
And then both of them broke it. She said: “I must make up the fire,” and he said: “I have been trying a new…” Both of them escaped. She made up the fire and put the table back (…) Quickly! Quickly! They must stop it from happening again.
“Well, I read the book you left last time.”
“Oh, what do you think of it?”
They were off and all was as usual. But was it? Weren’t they just a little too quick, too prompt with their replies, too ready to take each other up? Was this really anything more than a wonderfully good imitation of other occasions? His hear beat, her cheek burned, and the stupid thing was she could not discover where exactly they were or what exactly was happening. She hadn't time to glance back. And just as she had got so far it happened again. They faltered, wavered, broke down, were silent. Again they were conscious of the boundless, questioning dark. Again, there they were - two hunters, bending over their fire, but hearing suddenly from the jungle beyond a shake of wind and a loud, questioning cry....
She lifted her head. "It's raining," she murmered. And her voice was like his when he had said: "I love that little boy."
Well. Why didn't they just give way to it - yield - and see what will happen then? But no. Vague and troubled though they were, they knew enough to realise their precious friendship was in danger. (...)
He got up, knocked out his pipe, ran his hand through his hair and said: "I have been wondering very much lately whether the novel of the future will be a psychological novel or not." (...)
On the talk went. And now it seemed they really had succeeded. She turned in her chair to look at him while she answered. Her smile said: "We have won." And he smiled back, confident: "Absolutely."
But the smile undid them. It lasted too long; it became a grin. They saw themselves as two little grinning puppets jigging away in nothingness.
"What have we been talking about?" thought he. He was so utterly bored he almost groaned.
"What a spectacle we have made of ourselves," thought she. (...) They were silent this time from sheer dismay.
And now the silence put a spell upon them like solemn music. It was anguish - anguish for her to bear it and he would die - he'd die if it were broken....And yet he longed to break it. Not by speech. At any rate not by their ordinary maddening chatter. There was another way for them to speak to each other, and in the new way he wanted to murmer: "Do you feel this too? Do you understand it at all?"....
Instead, to his horror, he heard himself say: "I must be off; I'm metting Brand at six."
What devil made him say that instead of the other? She jumped - simply jumped out of her chair, and he heard her crying: "You must rush, then. He's so punctual. Why didn't you say so before?"
"You've hurt me; you've hurt me! We've failed!" said her secret self while she handed him his hat and stick, smiling gaily. (...)
Alternatively, if you're short of time, the quote at the top, from a letter of KM's to a friend in 1921, summarises pretty much what the story says.
* * * * *
"How strange talking is - what mists rise and fall - how one loses the other and then thinks to have found the other - then down comes another soft final curtain."
* * * * *
When she opened the door and saw him standing there she was more pleased than ever before, and he, too, as he followed her into the studio, seemed very, very happy to have come.
“Not busy?”
“No. Just going to have tea.”
“And you are not expecting anybody?”
“Nobody at all.”
“Ah! That’s good.”
He laid aside his coat and hat gently, lingeringly, as though he had time and to spare for everything, or as though he were taking leave of them for ever, and came over to the fire and held out his hands to the quick, leaping flame.
Just for a moment both of them stood silent in that leaping light. Still, as it were, they tasted on their smiling lips the sweet shock of their greeting. Their secret selves whispered:
“Why should we speak? Isn’t this enough?”
“More than enough. I never realised until this moment…”
“Like this…”
“It’s more than enough.”
But suddenly he turned and looked at her and she moved quickly away.
“Have a cigarette? I’ll put the kettle on. Are you longing for tea?
“No. Not longing.”
“Well, I am.”
(…) He sat up clasping his knees. It was delightful – this business of having tea – and she always had delicious things to eat (…) but it was an interruption. He wanted it over, the table pushed away, their two chairs drawn up to the light, and the moment come when he took out his pipe, filled it, and said, pressing the tobacco tight into the bowl: “I have been thinking over what you said last time and it seems to me…”
Yes, that was what he waited for and so did she. (…) And yet she couldn’t hurry. She could almost have cried: “Give me time.” She wanted time to free herself from these familiar things with which she lived so vividly. For all these gay things round her were part of her – her offspring – and they knew it and made the largest, most vehement claims. But now they must go. They must be swept away, shooed away – like children, sent up the shadowy stairs, packed into bed and commanded to go to sleep – at once – without a murmer!
For the special thrilling quality of their friendship was in their complete surrender. Like two open cities in the midst of some vast plain their two minds lay open to each other. (…) they were eager, serious travellers, absorbed in understanding what was to be seen and discovering what was hidden – making the most of this extraordinary absolute chance which made it possibly for him to be utterly truthful to her and for her to be utterly sincere with him.
And the best of it was they were both of them old enough to enjoy their adventure to the full without any stupid emotional complication. Passion would have ruined everything; they quite saw that. Besides, all that sort of thing was over and done with for both of them – he was thiry-one, she was thirty – they had had their experiences, and very rich and varied they had been, but now it was time for harvest – harvest.
(…smalltalk…)
"Here's another queer thing. If I shut my eyes I can see this place down to every detail - every detail....Now I come to think of it - I've never realised this consciously before. Often when I am away from here I revisit it in spirit - wander about among your red chairs, stare at the bowl of fruit on the black table - and just touch, very lightly, that marvel of a sleeping boy's head."
He looked at it as he spoke. It stood on the corner of the mantelpiece; the head to one side down-drooping, the lips parted, as though in his sleep the little boy listened to some sweet sound....
"I love that little boy," he murmered. And then they both were silent.
A new silence came between them. Nothing in the least like the satisfactory pause that had followed their greetings – the “Well, here we are together again, and there’s no reason why we shouldn’t go on from just where we left off last time.” That silence could be contained in the circle of warm, delightful fire and lamplight. How many times hadn't they flung something into it just for the fun of watching the ripples break on the easy shores. but into this unfamiliar pool the head of the little boy sleeping his timeless sleep dropped - and the ripples flowed away, away - boundlessly far - into deep glittering darkness.
And then both of them broke it. She said: “I must make up the fire,” and he said: “I have been trying a new…” Both of them escaped. She made up the fire and put the table back (…) Quickly! Quickly! They must stop it from happening again.
“Well, I read the book you left last time.”
“Oh, what do you think of it?”
They were off and all was as usual. But was it? Weren’t they just a little too quick, too prompt with their replies, too ready to take each other up? Was this really anything more than a wonderfully good imitation of other occasions? His hear beat, her cheek burned, and the stupid thing was she could not discover where exactly they were or what exactly was happening. She hadn't time to glance back. And just as she had got so far it happened again. They faltered, wavered, broke down, were silent. Again they were conscious of the boundless, questioning dark. Again, there they were - two hunters, bending over their fire, but hearing suddenly from the jungle beyond a shake of wind and a loud, questioning cry....
She lifted her head. "It's raining," she murmered. And her voice was like his when he had said: "I love that little boy."
Well. Why didn't they just give way to it - yield - and see what will happen then? But no. Vague and troubled though they were, they knew enough to realise their precious friendship was in danger. (...)
He got up, knocked out his pipe, ran his hand through his hair and said: "I have been wondering very much lately whether the novel of the future will be a psychological novel or not." (...)
On the talk went. And now it seemed they really had succeeded. She turned in her chair to look at him while she answered. Her smile said: "We have won." And he smiled back, confident: "Absolutely."
But the smile undid them. It lasted too long; it became a grin. They saw themselves as two little grinning puppets jigging away in nothingness.
"What have we been talking about?" thought he. He was so utterly bored he almost groaned.
"What a spectacle we have made of ourselves," thought she. (...) They were silent this time from sheer dismay.
And now the silence put a spell upon them like solemn music. It was anguish - anguish for her to bear it and he would die - he'd die if it were broken....And yet he longed to break it. Not by speech. At any rate not by their ordinary maddening chatter. There was another way for them to speak to each other, and in the new way he wanted to murmer: "Do you feel this too? Do you understand it at all?"....
Instead, to his horror, he heard himself say: "I must be off; I'm metting Brand at six."
What devil made him say that instead of the other? She jumped - simply jumped out of her chair, and he heard her crying: "You must rush, then. He's so punctual. Why didn't you say so before?"
"You've hurt me; you've hurt me! We've failed!" said her secret self while she handed him his hat and stick, smiling gaily. (...)
posted by Kat | 3/29/2005 12:15:00 pm
2 Comments:
I remember reading this in 7th form English, it makes so much more sense now :)
This post looked lonely. I thought I would comment, especially after discussing it with you in such depth. I agree, it makes more sense now than it would back in 7th form. :)
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