The Tiredness of Rosabel
Mansfield

  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 A_n_n_a__L_o_m_b_a_r_d_ 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! Rosabel stirred
suddenly and unfastened the two top buttons of her coat...she
felt almost stifled. Through her half-closed eyes the whole
row of people on the opposite seat seemed to resolve into one
fatuous, staring face....
  And this was her corner. She stumbled a little on her way
out and lurched against the girl next her. "I beg your pardon,"
said Rosabel, but the girl did not even look up. Rosabel saw
that she was smiling as she read.
  Westbourne Grove looked as she had always imagined
Venice to look at night, mysterious, dark, even the hansoms
were like gondolas dodging up and down, and the lights trailing
luridly -- tongues of flame licking the wet street -- magic fish
swimming in the Grand Canal. She was more than glad to
reach Richmond Road, but from the corner of the street until
she came to No. 26 she thought of those four flights of stairs.
Oh, why four flights! It was really criminal to expect people to
live so high up. Every house ought to have a lift, something
simple and inexpensive, or else an electric staircase like the one
at Earl's Court -- but four flights! When she stood in the hall
and saw the first flight ahead of her and the stuffed albatross
head on the landing, glimmering ghost-like in the light of the
little gas jet, she almost cried. Well, they had to be faced; it
was very like bicycling up a steep hill, but there was not the
satisfaction of flying down the other side....
  Her own room at last! She closed the door, lit the gas, took
off her hat and coat, skirt, blouse, unhooked her old flannel
dressing-gown from behind the door, pulled it on, then unlaced
her boots -- on consideration her stockings were not wet enough
to change. She went over to the wash-stand. The jug had not
been filled again to-day. There was just enough water to soak
the sponge, and the enamel was coming off the basin -- that was
the second time she had scratched her chin.
  It was just seven o'clock. If she pulled the blind up and put
out the gas it was much more restful -- Rosabel did not want to


read. So she knelt down on the floor, pillowing her arms on
the window-sill...just one little sheet of glass between her and
the great wet world outside!
  She began to think of all that had happened during the day.
Would she ever forget that awful woman in the grey mackintosh
who had wanted a trimmed motor-cap -- "something purple
with something rosy each side" -- or the girl who had tried on
every hat in the shop and then said she would "call in tomorrow
and decide definitely." Rosabel could not help smiling;
the excuse was worn so thin....
  But there had been one other -- a girl with beautiful red hair
and a white skin and eyes the colour of that green ribbon shot
with gold they had got from Paris last week. Rosabel had
seen her electric brougham at the door; a man had come in
with her, quite a young man, and so well dressed.
  "What is it exactly that I want, Harry?" she had said, as
Rosabel took the pins out of her hat, untied her veil, and gave
her a hand-mirror.
  "You must have a black hat," he had answered, "a black
hat with a feather that goes right round it and then round your
neck and ties in a bow under your chin, and the ends tuck into
your belt -- a decent-sized feather."
  The girl glanced at Rosabel laughingly.   "Have you any
hats like that?"
  They had been very hard to please; Harry would demand
the impossible, and Rosabel was almost in despair. Then she
remembered the big, untouched box upstairs.
  "Oh, one moment, Madam," she had said. "I think perhaps
I can show you something that will please you better." She had
run up, breathlessly, cut the cords, scattered the tissue paper, and
yes, there was the very hat -- rather large, soft, with a great, curled
feather, and a black velvet rose, nothing else. They had been
charmed. Th girl had put it on and then handed it to Rosabel.
  "Let me see how it looks on you," she said, frowning a little,
very serious indeed.


  Rosabel turned to the mirror and placed it on her brown
hair, then faced them.
  "Oh, Harry, is'nt it adorable," the girl cried, "I must have
that!" She smiled again at Rosabel. "It suits you beautifully."
,
  A sudden, ridiculous feeling of anger has seized Rosabel,
She longed to throw the lovely, perishable thing in the girl's
face, and bent over the hat, flushing.
  "It's exquisitely finished off inside, Madam," she said. The
girl swept out to her brougham, and left Harry to pay and bring
the box with him.
  "I shall go straight home and put it on before I come out to
lunch with you," Rosabel heard her say.
  The man leant over her as she made out the bill, then, as
he counted the money into her hand -- "Ever been painted?"
he said.
  "No," said Rosabel shortly, realising the swift change in his
voice, the slight tinge of insolence, of familiarity.
  "Oh, well you ought to be," said Harry. "You've got such
a damned pretty little figure."
  Rosabel did not pay the slightest attention. How handsome
he had been!! She had thought of no one else all day; his face
fascinated her; she could see clearly his fine, straight eyebrows,
and his hair grew back from his forehead with just the slightest
suspicion of crisp curl, his laughing, disdainful mouth. She
saw again his slim hands counting the money into hers....
Rosabel suddenly pushed the hair back from her face, her
forehead was hot...if those slim hands could rest one moment
...the luck of that girl!
  Suppose they changed places. Rosabel would drive home
with him, of course they were in love with each other, but not
engaged, very nearly, and she would say -- "I won't be one
moment." He would wait in the brougham while her maid took
the hat-box up the stairs, following Rosabel. Then the great,
white and pink bedroom with roses everywhere in dull silver


vases. She wold sit down before the mirror and the little
French maid would fasten her hat and find her a thin, fine veil
and another pair of white sue>de gloves -- a button had come off
the gloves she had worn that morning. She had scented her
furs and gloves and handerkerchief, taken a big muff and run
downstairs. The butler opened the door, Harry was waiting,
they drove away together....T_h_a_t_ was life, thought Rosabel!
On the way to the Carlton they stopped at Gerard's, Harry
bought her great sprays of Parma violets, filled her hands with
them.
  "Oh, they are sweet!" she said, holding them against her
face.
  "It is as you always should be," said Harry, "with your
hands full of violets."
  (Rosabel realised that her knees were getting stiff; she sat
down on the floor and leant her head against the wall.) Oh, that
lunch! The table covered with flowers, a band hidden behind a
grove of palms playing music that fired her blood like wine --
the soup, and oysters, and pigeons, and creamed potatoes, and
champagne, of course, and afterwards coffee and cigarettes.
She would lean over the table fingering her glass with one hand,
talking with that charming gaiety which Harry so appreciated.
Afterwards a matine\e, something that gripped them both, and
then tea at the "Cottage."
  "Sugar? Milk? Cream?" The little homely questions
seemed to suggest a joyous intimacy. And then home again
in the dusk, and the scent of the Parma violets seemed to drench
the air with their sweetness.
  "I'll call for you at nine," he said as he left her.
  The fire had been lighted in her boudoir, the curtains drawn,
there were a great pile of letters waiting her -- invitations for
the Opera, dinners, balls, a week-end on the river, a motor
tour -- she glanced through them listlessly as she went upstairs
to dress. A fire in her bedroom, too, and her beautiful, shining
dress spread on the bed -- white tulle over silver, silver shoes,


silver scarf, a little silver fan. Rosabel knew that she was the
most famous woman at the ball that night; men paid her
homage, a foreign Prince desired to be presented to this English
wonder. Yes, it was a voluptuous night, a band playing, and
h_e_r_ lovely white shoulders....
  But she became very tired. Harry took her home, and came
in with her for just one moment. The fire was out in the drawing-room,
but the sleepy maid waited for her in her boudoir.
She took off her cloak, dismissed the servant, and went over to
the fire-place, and stood peeling off her gloves; the firelight
shone on her hair, Harry came across the room and caught her
in his arms -- "Rosabel, Rosabel, Rosabel...." Oh, the haven
of those arms, and she was very tired.
  (The real Rosabel, the girl crouched on the floor in the dark,
laughed aloud, and put her hand up to her hot mouth.)
  Of course they rode in the park next morning, the engagement
had been announced in the C_o_u_r_t_ C_i_r_c_u_l_a_r_, all the world
knew, all the world was shaking hands with her....
  They were married shortly afterwards at St. George's, Hanover
Square, and motored down to Harry's old ancestral home for the
honeymoon; the peasants in the village curtseyed to them as
they passed; under the folds of the rug he pressed her hands
convulsively. And that night she wore again her white and
silver frock. She was tired after the journey and went upstairs
to bed...quite early....
  The real Rosabel got up from the floor and undressed slowly,
folding her clothes over the back of a chair. She slipped over
her head her coarse, calico night-dress, and took the pins out
of her hair -- the soft, brown flood of it fell round her, warmly.
Then she blew out the candle and groped her way into bed,
pulling the blankets and grimy "honeycomb" quilt closely
round her neck, cuddling down in the darkness....
  So she slept and dreamed, and smiled in her sleep, and once
threw out her arm to feel for something which was not there,
dreaming still.



  And the night passed. Presently the cold fingers of dawn
closed over her uncovered hand; grey light flooded the dull
room. Rosabel shivered, drew a little gasping breath, sat up.
And because her heritage was that tragic optimism, which is all
too often the only inheritance of youth, still half asleep, she
smiled, with a little nervous tremor round her mouth.