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Something Childish and other Stories
Title Page
Something Childish and other Stories
Katherine Mansfield
W
Copyright
Katherine Mansfield
Something Childish and other Stories
W
Wisehouse Classics
© 2020 Wisehouse Publishing | Sweden
All rights reserved without exception.
ISBN 978-91-7637-863-2
Contents
HOW PEARL BUTTON WAS KIDNAPPED
SOMETHING CHILDISH BUT VERY NATURAL
Dedication
A little bird was asked: Why are your songs so short?
He replied: I have many songs to sing, and I should like to sing them all.
—Anton Tchehov
—————
To
H. M. Tomlinson
—————
THE TIREDNESS OF ROSABEL
At the corner of Oxford Circus Rosabel bought a bunch of violets, and that was practically the reason why she had so little tea—for a scone and a boiled egg and a cup of cocoa at Lyons are not ample sufficiency after a hard day’s work in a millinery establishment. As she swung on to the step of the Atlas ‘bus, grabbed her skirt with one hand and clung to the railing with the other, Rosabel thought she would have sacrificed her soul for a good dinner—roast duck and green peas, chestnut stuffing, pudding with brandy sauce—something hot and strong and filling. She sat down next to a girl very much her own age who was reading Anna Lombard in a cheap, paper-covered edition, and the rain had tear-spattered the pages. Rosabel looked out of the windows; the street was blurred and misty, but light striking on the panes turned their dullness to opal and silver, and the jewellers’ shops seen through this, were fairy palaces. Her feet were horribly wet, and she knew the bottom of her skirt and petticoat would be coated with black, greasy mud. There was a sickening smell of warm humanity—it seemed to be oozing out of everybody in the ‘bus—and everybody had the same expression, sitting so still, staring in front of them. How many times had she read these advertisements— “Sapolio Saves Time, Saves Labour”— “Heinz’s Tomato Sauce”—and the inane, annoying dialogue between doctor and judge concerning the superlative merits of “Lamplough’s Pyretic Saline.” She glanced at the book which the girl read so earnestly, mouthing the words in a way that Rosabel detested, licking her first finger and thumb each time that she turned the page. She could not see very clearly; it was something about a hot, voluptuous night, a band playing, and a girl with lovely, white shoulders. Oh, Heavens!
