Spring Pictures
Mansfield

  It is raining. Big soft drops splash on the people's hands
and cheeks; immense warm drops like melted stars. "Here
are roses! Here are lilies! Here are violets!" caws the old
hag in the gutter. But the lilies, bunched together in a frill of
green, looked more like faded cauliflowers. Up and down she
drags the creaking barrow. A bad, sickly smell comes from it.
Nobody wants to buy. You must walk in the middle of the
road, for there is no room on the pavement. Every single shop
brims over; every shop shows a tattered frill of soiled lace and
dirty ribbon to charm and entice you. There are tables set out
with toy cannons and soldiers and Zeppelins and photograph
frames complete with ogling beauties. There are immense
baskets of yellow straw hats piled up like pyraminds of pastry,
and strings of coloured boots and shoes so small that nobody
could wear them. One shop is full of little squares of mackintosh,
blue ones for girls and pink ones for boys with B_e\_b_e\_
printed in the middle of each....
  "Here are lilies! Here are roses! Here are pretty violets!"
warbles the old hag, bumping into another barrow. But this
barrow is still. It is heaped with lettuces. Its owner, a fat old
woman, sprawls across, fast asleep, her nose in the lettuce roots.
...Who is ever going to buy anything here...? The sellers
are women. They sit on little canvas stools, dreamy and
vacant-looking. Now and again one of them gets up and takes
a feather duster, like a smoky torch, and flicks it over a thing
or two and then sits down again. Even the old man in tangerine
spectacles with a balloon of a belly, who turns the revolting
stand of "comic" postcards round and round, cannot decide....
  Suddenly, from the empty shop at the corner a piano strikes
up, and a violin and flute join in. The windows of the shop
are scrawled over -- N_e_w_ S_o_n_g_s_. F_i_r_s_t_F_l_o_o_r_.
E_n_t_r_a_n_c_e_ F_r_e_e_.
But the windows of the first floor being open, nobody bothers
to go up. They hang about grinning as the harsh voices float
out into the warm rainy air. At the doorway there stands a
lean man in a pair of burst carpet slippers. He has stuck a
feather through the broken rim of his hat; with what an air
he wears it! The feather is magnificent. It is gold epaulettes,
frogged coat, white kid gloves, gilded cane. He swaggers under
it and the voice rolls off his chest, rich and ample.
  "Come up' Come up! Here are the new songs! Each
singer is an artiste of European reputation. The orchestra is


famous and second to none. You can stay as long as you like.
It is the chance of a lifetime, and once missed never to return!"
But nobody moves. Why should they? They know all about
those girls -- those famous artistes. One is dressed in cream
cashmere and one in blue. Both have dark crimped hair and
a pink rose pinned over the ear....They know all about the
pianist's button boots -- the left foot -- the pedal foot -- burst
over the bunion on his big toe. The violinist's bitten nails, the
long, far too long cuffs of the flute player -- all these things are
as old as the new songs.
  For a long time the music goes on and the proud voice
thunders. Then somebody calls down the stairs and showman,
still with his grand air, disappears. The voices cease. The
piano, the violin and the flute dribble into quiet. Only the lace
curtain gives a wavy sign of life from the first floor.
  It is raining still; it is getting dusky....Here are roses!
Here are lilies! Who will buy my violets?...
  Hope! You misery -- you sentimental, faded female! Break
your last string and have done with it. I shall go mad with
your endless thrumming; my heart throbs to it and every little
pulse beats in time. It is morning. I lie in the empty bed --
the huge bed big as a field and as cold and unsheltered. Through
the shutters the sunlight comes up from the river and flows
over the ceiling in trembling waves. I hear from outside a
hammer tapping and far below in the house a door swings open
and shuts. Is this my room? Are those my clothes folded over
an arm-chair? Under the pillow, sign and symbol of a lonely
woman, ticks my watch. The bell jangles. Ah! At last! I
leap out of bed and run to the door. Play faster -- faster --
Hope!
  "Your milk, Mademoiselle," says the concierge, gazing at me
severely.


  "Ah, thank you," I cry, gaily swinging the milk bottle. "No
letters for me?"
  "Nothing, Mademoiselle."
  "But the postman -- he has called already?"
  "A long half-hour ago, Mademoiselle."
  Shut the door, Stand in the little passage a moment. Listen
 -- listen for her hated twanging. Coax her -- court her -- implore
her to play just once that charming little thing for one string
only. In vain.
  Across the river, on the narrow stone path that fringes the
bank, a woman is walking. She came down the steps from the
Quay, walking slowly, one hand on her hip. It is a beautiful
evening; the sky is the colour of lilac and the river of violet
leaves. There are big bright trees along the path full of trembling
light, and the boats, dancing up and down, send heavy
curls of foam rippling almost to her feet. Now she has stopped.
Now she has turned suddenly. She is leaning up against a tree,
her hands over her face; she is crying. And now she is walking
up and down wringing her hands. Again she leans against the
tree, her back against it, her head raised and her hands clasped
as though she leaned against someone dear. Round her shoulders
she wears a little grey shawl; she covers her face with the ends
of it and rocks to and fro.
  But one cannot cry for ever, so at last she becomes serious
and quiet, patting her hair into place, smoothing her apron.
She walks a step or two. No, too soon, too soon! Again her
arms fly up -- she runs back -- again she is blotted against the
tall tree. Squares of gold light show in the houses; the street
lamps gleam through the new leaves; yellow fans of light
follow the dancing boats. For a moment she is a blur against
the tree, white, grey and black, melting into the stones and the
shadows. And then she is gone.