Elizabeth Bowen

Elizabeth Bowen

Description

Three short stories by Elizabeth Bowen (1899-1973).So Much Depends, The Easter Egg Party and The Needlecase.

Sujets

• Short story

Informations

• Publié par: Hearst Magazines UK
• Date de parution: 05 mars 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781909748057
• Langue: English

Extrait

Table of Contents
About Elizabeth Bowen
So Much Depends
The Easter Egg Party
The Needlecase
Copyright
About Elizabeth Bowen
1899 -1973
Elizabeth Dorothea Cole Bowen was an Anglo-Irish novelist and short-story writer, perhaps best known for her novels The Death of the Heart and The Heat of the Day , set in London between the World Wars and during the Blitz .
Bowen was born in Dublin, but was educated in England, at Downe House in Kent, spending her summers at Bowen’s Court in County Cork. She attended art school in London before deciding that her talent lay in writing. She mixed with the Bloomsbury Group, becoming good friends with Rose Macaulay, who helped her find a publisher for her first book, a collection of stories entitled Encounters (1923). Bowen remained based in England after inheriting Bowen’s Court in 1930, and during WWII worked for the British Ministry of Information, reporting on the issue of Irish neutrality.
Renowned for the beauty of her finely wrought prose and illuminating descriptions, especially in her many short stories, Bowen received Doctorates in Literature from Trinity College, Dublin (1949) and Oxford University (1952). She was also awarded the CBE and made a Companion of Literature by the Royal Society of Literature in 1965. She also wrote several works of non-fiction, as well as a children’s book, The Good Tiger , which was first published in 1965.
Bowen died in February 1973, aged 73.
So Much Depends
‘ P eople grow duller as they grow older,’ young Ellen wrote in the diary which was her confidant. ‘ They care less. One way or the other, nothing matters to them.’
This was, she decided, today’s Great Thought. She underlined it, added some exclamation marks, then slammed the book shut - with a bang so loud that two ladies, seated at the far end of the room, both turned to look at her with concern. This was by no means the first time she had disturbed them: in fact, for a long wet morning in a small guest-house drawing-room, a less ideal companion than Ellen was hard to find. Had it been a half-grown leopard who sprawled on the window-seat, Mrs Ordeyne and Miss Kerry (who, in their two arm-chairs, were respectively knitting and trying to read a novel) hardly could have been less at ease. This seventeen-year-old girl - with her long legs, shock of curls thrust on end, ever-jingling bangles, rumpled grey flannel skirt - seemed to be making a point of not settling down: nor, if others succeeded in doing so, would it be her fault. To start with, she had prowled round the centre table, listlessly but at the same time loudly turning over the pages of magazines. Next, she had made an inexpert attempt to smoke, striking many matches and then coughing. When at last she produced her diary and began to write, her two fellow-guests had hoped for some minutes’ peace. Clearly, however, this was not to be.
Mrs Ordeyne and Miss Kerry, all unaware of the drastic comment upon them Ellen had just indicted, did their best to remain (or appear) calm. Mrs Ordeyne, reaching into her knitting-bag for yet another ball of angora wool, told herself that one must make every allowance: it was hard on a girl being cooped up indoors like this, for day after day of a precious holiday. Yes, it was miserable for her. But what, on the other hand, had induced her to do such a silly thing as to come all alone to this guest-house, where she knew no-one, and where there were no other young people for her to get to know? The clientele of The Myrtles, at Seale-on-Sea, consisted of elderly, quiet folk, plus one or two married couples with small children. Had Ellen got friends staying elsewhere at Seale-on-Sea? If so, they must be letting her down.
Alas, thought the plump, kindly lady over her knitting, there it was: Ellen, unhappy during these days indoors, had become the admitted scourge of the guest-house. Her woebegone air and aggressive moodiness were not to be ignored. Should not someone advise her to make the best of things? Look at Miss Kerry, for instance, giving her whole mind to that no doubt very interesting book! Mrs Ordeyne, who practically never read, had the highest respect for those who did so.
Miss Kerry, if the truth were to be known, kept her eyes glued to the printed pages only by the strongest effort of will. Concentration became impossible; she had reached a stage when she could neither read nor fall back on her own thoughts. Younger by fifteen years than Mrs Ordeyne, and by temperament much less patient, Miss Kerry was more on edge than she cared to show. It was second nature with her to conceal feeling - the fact that, for good or ill, her entire future was to decide itself within the next few days was suspected, here at The Myrtles, by not a soul. Her habit of carrying round a book (which she read at meal-times, even, at her solitary table) earned her the reputation of being ‘clever’: in fact, the volume chiefly served as a barricade against people’s attempts to make conversation - behind it she could remain, as she wished, alone. Mrs Ordeyne had perceived, and at once respected, her fellow-guest’s wish to keep herself to herself: the two had drifted, during these last few days, into one of those friendships which are the result of circumstance. Mrs Ordeyne was happy to knit in silence; Miss Kerry, in her odd state of suspense, felt soothed by this easy companionship. She had no idea how intriguing, how mysterious she appeared sometimes, or how strong a curb Mrs Ordeyne - who loved to know people’s stories - often had to keep on her curiosity.
Young Ellen, of course, wrote Miss Kerry off as a thin and no doubt frustrated spinster. It was for Mrs Ordeyne, with a homely woman’s generous love of grace, to see that here was distinction - and, often, beauty. Erica Kerry’s blue-white hair framed a somewhat remote, fine-featured face, which youthfulness sometimes crossed like a flash of sunshine. Her eyes were a changing, intense blue. The unusual, subtle though inexpensive elegance of her dress set off her slender figure; nor could one fail to admire her feet and hands. As a rule, Erica Kerry wore a mask of irony and reserve: though the former might wear off, the latter did not. Mrs Ordeyne, in general, got the impressions that here, somewhere, was ice on the point of thawing; yet, at the same time, ice which dreaded to thaw. The few exterior facts which had been let drop were as follows - Miss Kerry worked in a London, office, supported her mother, was here for her annual holiday, and expected a friend to join her - she did not say who, or when.
Mrs Ordeyne, having long been happily married, was now a widow. She had raised satisfactory sons and daughters, who were now giving her grandchildren: contented, she nowadays asked no more of life.
These were the two who - when Ellen, having done with her diary, proceeded to fling it violently to the floor - once again turned round; this time not in silence.
‘What is the matter?’ exclaimed Miss Kerry.
‘My dear, is anything wrong?’ supplemented Mrs Ordeyne.
The girl on the window-seat, stretched at full length, rolled over on to one elbow to eye them blankly. “Wrong?” she repeated in a dumbfounded voice. ‘Matter?’ Words seemed to fail. Having reared herself up, shaking back her hair, she went on to direct a fierce, single, eloquent nod towards the outdoor scene framed by the window. ‘What about that ?’ she asked.
It was depressing enough. Rain hung in a chilling, sombre, steadily-falling veil over the garden’s sodden greenery, smoke-dark trees, beaten-down borders and spoiled roses. Beyond, where there should have been a smiling view of the sea, a sullen grey-brown smudge could be just perceived. And, the worst of this was that it was nothing new: today was the fourth wet day in succession. What an obliteration of summer hopes - was this not July, a holiday month, on the so-called sunny South Coast of England? Nor would the weather, even, be kept out: gloom from it, entering through large windows, overcast the shabby-elegant, pretty drawing room. From the washed-out cretonnes of the arm-chairs and sofa, all colour finally stole away; on the parquet flooring the faded rugs looked bleak. The fact that the Myrtles had once been a private house, and that its owner Miss Plackman still preferred to keep it much as it was in her father’s and mother’s time, proclaimed itself by gilt-framed water-colours, mirrored brackets and Oriental and other knick-knacks - but these, too, looked mournful and blotted out. In the elaborate turquoise-blue tiled grate a fire, lit by Miss Plackman’s orders, tried but failed to burn in the damp air - Mrs Ordeyne and Miss Kerry sat over it because the idea was cheerful, at any rate: little heat was sent out by the reality!
Trees soughed and dripped; a heavy, uneven trickle splashed past the windows from an upstairs balcony.
‘No, it certainly isn’t nice,’ Mrs Ordeyne agreed, with a slight shiver. ‘Just give the fire the weeniest little poke, dear,’ she went on, to Miss Kerry, ‘then we shall see what happens, it hardly could be worse. Poor Miss Plackman, always so kind and thoughtful! Now, she’s a person I really am sorry for: between ourselves, this year she’s having a shocking season. We are not by any means up to full numbers, and on top of that there’ve been several cancellations - people lose heart, this weather; they’d just as soon stay at home. I hate to think of that poor brave little creature fighting a losing game - and look how she works, never off her feet! It would be worry enough to own a place like this, when it’s going badly - all her savings are in it, I understand - without being manageress as well! How plucky she is, when one comes to think she was not brought up to this sort of thing. Her father, was, you know, a colonel, and her mother had money: they once used to live very comfortably in this house. How queer it must be for Miss Plackman, I sometimes think, to see all these rooms, with their m