The Ideal Family

by Katherine Mansfield

That evening for the first time in his life, as he passed through the door and went down the three broad steps to the pavement, old Mr. Neave felt he was too old for the spring. Spring - warm, eager, restless - was there, waiting for him in the golden light, ready in front of everybody to run up, to blow in his white beard, to drag sweetly on his arm. And he couldn't meet her, no; he couldn't straighten up once more and walk off like a young man.

He was tired and, although the late sun was still shining, he was curiously cold and numb all over. Quite suddenly he hadn't the energy, he hadn't the courage to stand this brightness any longer; it confused him. He wanted to stand still, to push it away with his stick, to say, "Leave me alone!" Suddenly it was a terrible effort to greet as usual all the people he knew, the friends, acquaintances, shopkeepers, postmen, drivers. He moved along, lifting his knees high as if he were walking through air that had somehow grown heavy and as solid as water. And the homeward-looking crowd hurried by, the big cabs raced along with that reckless indifference that one knows only in dreams ...

It had been a day like other days at the office. Nothing special had happened. Harold hadn't come back from lunch until nearly four. Where had he been? What had he been up to? He wasn't going to let his father know. Old Mr. Neave happened to be in reception, saying good-bye to a caller, when Harold wandered in, perfectly dressed as usual, cool, smiling that little half-smile that women found so fascinating.

Ah, Harold was too handsome, too handsome by far; that had always been the trouble. No man had a right to such eyes and such lips. As for his mother, his sisters and the servants, it was not too much to say they made a young god of him. They worshipped Harold, they forgave him everything; and he had needed some forgiving ever since the time when he was thirteen and he had stolen his mother's purse, taken the money, and hidden the purse in the cook's bedroom. Old Mr. Neave hit the pavement sharply with his stick. But it wasn't only his family who spoiled Harold, he thought, it was everybody. So perhaps it wasn't surprising that he expected the office to copy the custom. But it couldn't be done. No business – not even a successful, established one – could be played with. A man had to put his heart into it, or it fell apart before his eyes.

And then Charlotte and the girls were always telling him to make the whole thing over to Harold, to retire and to spend his time enjoying himself. Enjoying himself! Old Mr. Neave stopped dead under a group of ancient trees outside the Government buildings. Enjoying himself! The evening wind shook the dark leaves. Sitting at home, twiddling his thumbs, conscious that his life's work was disappearing through Harold's fine fingers, while Harold smiled ...

"Why will you be so unreasonable, father? There's absolutely no need for you to go to the office. It only makes it very awkward for us when people say how tired you're looking. Here's this huge house and garden. Surely you could be happy appreciating it for a change. Or you could take up some hobby."

And Lola the baby had added, "All men ought to have hobbies. It makes life impossible if they haven't."

Well, well! He couldn't help a smile as painfully he began to climb the hill that led into Harcourt Avenue. Where would Lola and her sisters and Charlotte be if he'd had hobbies, he'd like to know? Hobbies couldn't pay for the town house and the seaside bungalow, and their horses, and their golf, and the sixty-pound sterling gramophone in the music-room for them to dance to. Not that he grudged them these things. No, they were smart, good-looking girls and Charlotte was a remarkable woman. It was natural for them to be fashionable. As a matter of fact, no other house in the town was as popular as theirs; no other family entertained so much. And how many times old Mr. Neave had listened to people praising his wife, his girls, himself even.

"You're an ideal family, sir, an ideal family. It's like something one reads about in books."

"That's all right," old Mr. Neave would reply. "Try one of those cigars. I think you'll like them. And if you want to smoke in the garden, you'll find the girls outside, I expect."

That was why the girls had never married, so people said. They could have married anybody. But they had too good a time at home. They were too happy together, the girls and Charlotte. Well, well. Perhaps so ...

By this time he had walked all the way along fashionable Harcourt Avenue; he had reached the corner house, their house. And then he faced the big white-painted house, with its wide-open windows, its curtains floating outwards, its blue jars of hyacinths. On either side of the front door their hydrangeas – famous in the town – were coming into flower; the pinkish, bluish masses of flower lay like light among the leaves. And somehow, it seemed to Mr. Neave that the house and the flowers were saying, "There’s young life here. There are girls."

From the music-room sounded the piano, quick, loud and impatient. Through the drawing-room door that was ajar voices floated.

"And were there ice creams?" came from Charlotte.

"Ice creams!" cried Ethel. "My dear mother, you never saw such terrible ice creams. Only two kinds."

"The food was appalling," came from Marion.

"Still, it's rather early for ice creams," said Charlotte easily.

Suddenly the music-room door opened and Lola dashed out. She nearly screamed at the sight of Mr. Neave.

"Father! What a fright you gave me! Have you just come home?"

Her cheeks were crimson from playing, her eyes glittered, the hair fell over her forehead. And she breathed as though she had come running through the dark and was frightened. Old Mr. Neave stared at his youngest daughter; he felt he’d never seen her before. So that was Lola, was it? But she seemed to have forgotten her father; she was not waiting there for him. The telephone rang. Lola gave a cry and dashed past him. The door slammed and, at the same moment, Charlotte called, "Is that you, dear?"

"You're tired again," said Charlotte reproachfully, and she offered her warm cheek. Bright-haired Ethel kissed his beard, Marion's lips brushed his ear.

"Did you walk back, father?" asked Charlotte.

"Yes, I walked home," said old Mr. Neave, as he sat in one of the comfortable living-room chairs.

"But why didn't you take a cab?" said Ethel. "There are hundreds of cabs about at that time."

"My dear Ethel," cried Marion, "if father prefers to tire himself out, I really don't see what business of ours it is to interfere."

"Children, children?" complained Charlotte.

But Marion wouldn't be stopped. "No, mother, you spoil father and it's not right. You ought to be stricter with him. He's very naughty." She laughed her hard, bright laugh and looked at her hair in a mirror. Strange! When she was a little girl she had such a soft, hesitating voice; she had even stuttered, and now, whatever she said – even if it was only "Jam, please, father" – it sounded as though she were in the theatre.

"Did Harold leave the office before you, dear?" asked Charlotte.

"I'm not sure," said Old Mr. Neave. "I'm not sure. I didn't see him after four o'clock."

"He said ..." began Charlotte.

But at that moment Ethel, who was looking through some paper or other, ran to her mother and sat down beside her chair.

"There, you see," she cried. "That's what I mean, mummy. Yellow, with touches of silver. Don't you agree?"

"Give it to me, love," said Charlotte. She looked for her glasses and put them on. "Very sweet!" she said and looked at Ethel over her glasses.

Old Mr. Neave, forgotten, sank into his chair, and, dozing, heard them as though he was dreaming. There was no doubt about it, he was tired out; he had lost control. Even Charlotte and the girls were too much for him tonight. They were too ... too ... But all his exhausted brain could think of was – too rich for him. And somewhere at the back of everything he was watching an ancient little man climbing up endless stairs. Who was he?

"I shan't change tonight," he muttered.

"What do you say, father?"

"Eh, what, what?" Old Mr. Neave woke and stared across at them. "I shan't change tonight," he repeated.

"But, father, we've got Lucile coming and Henry Davenport and Mrs.Teddie Walker."

"Don't you feel well, dear?"

"You needn't make any effort. What is Charles for?"

"Very well! Very well!" Old Mr. Neave got up and went to join that little old man climbing the stairs.

There young Charles was waiting for him. Young Charles had been a favourite of his ever since as a little red-faced boy he had come into the house to look after the coal. Old Mr. Neave sat in the lounge by the window and made his little evening joke, "Make me look young, Charles!"

Well, well! It was pleasant by the open window, very pleasant - a fine evening. They were cutting the grass below. Soon the girls would begin their tennis parties again. And at the thought he seemed to hear Marion's voice, "Good for you, partner ... Oh, very nice indeed." Then Charlotte calling from the veranda, "Where is Harold?" And Ethel, "He's certainly not here, mother." And Charlotte's vague, "He said…"

Old Mr. Neave sighed and got up. Charles gave him a handkerchief, his watch and glasses.

"That will do, my lad." The door shut, he sank back, he was alone ...

And now that ancient little man was climbing down endless stairs that led to a glittering dining-room. What legs he had! They were like a spider's - thin, withered.

"You're an ideal family, sir, an ideal family."

But if that were true, why didn't Charlotte or the girls stop him? Why was he all alone, climbing up and down? Where was Harold? Ah, it was no good expecting anything from Harold. Down, down went the little old spider, and then, to his horror, old Mr. Neave saw him slip past the dining-room and make for the front door, the gates, the office. Stop him, stop him, somebody!

Old Mr. Neave awoke suddenly. It was dark in his room; the window shone pale. How long had he been asleep? He listened, and through the big, airy, darkened house there were far-away voices, far-away sounds. Perhaps, he thought, he had been asleep for a long time. He'd been forgotten. What had all this to do with him – this house and Charlotte, the girls and Harold – what did he know about them? They were strangers to him. Life had passed him by. Charlotte was not his wife.

... A dark doorway, half hidden by a tree that looked so sad, as though it understood. Small, warm arms were round his neck. A face, little and pale, lifted to his, and a voice breathed, "Good-bye, my darling."

My darling! "Good-bye, my darling!" Which of them had spoken? Why had they said good-bye? There had been some terrible mistake. She was his wife, that little pale girl, and all the rest of his life had been a dream.

Then the door opened, and young Charles, standing in the light, put his hands by his side and shouted like a young soldier, "Dinner is on the table, sir."

"I'm coming, I'm coming," said old Mr. Neave.