THE FLY

Katherine Mansfield
Published in 1922
 Biography

Katherine Mansfield (1888–1923) is one of the most highly

regarded short story writers of the 20th century. A contemporary
of James Joyce, Virginia Woolf and D H Lawrence, she played her
part in shaping modernism by experimenting with style, subject
matter and theme in a body of work that re-defined the genre.
She is noted for her short stories with themes relating to
women's lives and social hierarchies as well as her sense of wit
and characterizations. As well as short stories she also wrote
letters, reviews and journals in a prolific career which was cut
short by her untimely death at the age of 34.

She was born Kathleen Mansfield Beauchamp in 1888 in

Wellington, New Zealand, the third child of Harold Beauchamp, a
prosperous businessman and banker, and Anne Burnell (Annie) Dyer. Her comfortable childhood
did little to prepare her for her later experiences of poverty, but provided rich material for her
stories.

Katherine Mansfield has played an important role in the genre of the short story. The New
Zealand-born writer, who spent much of her adulthood in Europe, "is a central figure in the
development of the modern short story," noted Twentieth-Century Literary Criticism. "An early
practitioner of stream-of-consciousness narration, she applied this technique to create stories
based on the illumination of character rather than the contrivances of plot." Mansfield also
attempted to free herself from the domination of her bourgeois family and the expectations for
women of her class. As a young woman she often heeded her own determined whims, but later
settled into a period of stability and literary creativity with her 1918 marriage to a fellow writer,
editor, and literary critic. Together they moved in social circles that included some of the most
acclaimed English-language writers of the early twentieth century.

Mansfield was born Kathleen Mansfield Beauchamp in Wellington, New Zealand, to a family of
English descent in 1888. Her father, Harold Beauchamp, was a successful merchant who
eventually became one of the English colony's most prominent citizens, rising to the position of
chair of the Bank of New Zealand. She once described her mother as "constantly suspicious,
constantly overbearingly tyrannous," and from an early age Mansfield seemed resentful toward
her middle-class provincial family. As a writer, she later explored the theme of the hierarchy of
class distinctions that restricted upbringings such as hers. As a teenager she was sent away to a
finishing school in London that was a more intellectually rigorous institution than most girls of
her class attended. There she became active in its magazine, for which she wrote several short
stories, and established a lifelong friendship with classmate Ida Baker. When her schooling came
to an end, Mansfield returned to her family's increasingly prosperous household in Wellington,
but was determined to take leave again permanently. Enrolling in secretarial and bookkeeping
courses, her parents allowed her to live abroad on her own, and in 1908 she returned to London.
There she resided in a hostel for young, unmarried women pursuing artistic careers (she herself
was an accomplished cellist) paid for by a stipend she received from her father until her death at
age 34.
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 The Fly

By Katherine Mansfield

" Y'ARE very snug in here," piped old Mr. Woodifield, and he peered out of the great,
green leather armchair by his friend the boss's desk as a baby peers out of its pram.
His talk was over; it was time for him to be off. But he did not want to go. Since he
had retired, since his... stroke, the wife and the girls kept him boxed up in the house
every day of the week except Tuesday. On Tuesday he was dressed and brushed and
allowed to cut back to the City for the day. Though what he did there the wife and
girls couldn't imagine. Made a nuisance of himself to his friends, they supposed ...
Well, perhaps so. All the same, we cling to our last pleasures as the tree clings to its
last leaves. So there sat old Woodifield, smoking a cigar and staring almost greedily
at the boss, who rolled in his office chair, stout, rosy, five years older than he, and
still going strong, still at the helm. It did one good to see him. Wistfully, admiringly,
the old voice added, " It's snug in here, upon my word ! "

" Yes, it's comfortable enough," agreed the boss, and he flipped the Financial Times
with a paper-knife. As a matter of fact he was proud of his room ; he liked to have it
admired, especially by old Woodifield. It gave him a feeling of deep, solid satisfaction
to be planted there in the midst of it in full view of that frail old figure in the muffler.

" I've had it done up lately," he explained, as he had explained for the past—how
many ?— weeks. " New carpet," and he pointed to the bright red carpet with a pattern
of large white rings. " New furniture," and he nodded towards the massive bookcase
and the table with legs like twisted treacle. " Electric heating ! " He waved almost
exultantly towards the five transparent, pearly sausages glowing so softly in the tilted
copper pan.

But he did not draw old Woodifield's attention to the photograph over the table of
a grave-looking boy in uniform standing in one of those spectral photographers'
parks with photographers' storm-clouds behind him. It was not new. It had been there
for over six years.
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" There was something I wanted to tell you," said old Woodifield, and his eyes grew
dim remembering. " Now what was it ? I had it in my mind when I started out this
morning." His hands began to tremble, and patches of red showed above his beard.

Poor old chap, he's on his last pins, thought the boss. And, feeling kindly, he winked
at the old man, and said jokingly, " I tell you what. I've got a little drop of something
here that'll do you good before you go out into the cold again. It's beautiful stuff. It
wouldn't hurt a child." He took a key off his watch-chain, unlocked a cupboard below
his desk, and drew forth a dark, squat bottle. " That's the medicine," said he. " And
the man from whom I got it told me on the strict Q.T. it came from the cellars at
Windsor Cassel."

Old Woodifield's mouth fell open at the sight. He couldn't have looked more surprised
if the boss had produced a rabbit.

" It's whisky, ain't it ? " he piped, feebly.

The boss turned the bottle and lovingly showed him the label. Whisky it was.

" D'you know," said he, peering up at the boss wonderingly, " they won't let me touch
it at home." And he looked as though he was going to cry.

" Ah, that's where we know a bit more than the ladies," cried the boss, swooping
across for two tumblers that stood on the table with the water-bottle, and pouring a
generous finger into each. " Drink it down. It'll do you good. And don't put any water
with it. It's sacrilege to tamper with stuff like this. Ah ! " He tossed off his, pulled out
his handkerchief, hastily wiped his moustaches, and cocked an eye at old Woodifield,
who was rolling his in his chaps.

The old man swallowed, was silent a moment, and then said faintly, " It's nutty ! "

But it warmed him ; it crept into his chill old brain—he remembered.

" That was it," he said, heaving himself out of his chair. " I thought you'd like to know.
The girls were in Belgium last week having a look at poor Reggie's grave, and they
happened to come across your boy's. They're quite near each other, it seems."

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Old Woodifield paused, but the boss made no reply. Only a quiver in his eyelids
showed that he heard.

" The girls were delighted with the way the place is kept," piped the old voice. "
Beautifully looked after. Couldn't be better if they were at home. You've not been
across, have yer ? "

" No, no ! " For various reasons the boss had not been across.

" There's miles of it," quavered old Woodifield, " and it's all as neat as a garden.
Flowers growing on all the graves. Nice broad paths." It was plain from his voice how
much he liked a nice broad path.

The pause came again. Then the old man brightened wonderfully.

" D'you know what the hotel made the girls pay for a pot of jam ? " he piped. " Ten
- francs! Robbery, I call it. It was a little pot, so Gertrude says, no bigger than a half-
crown. And she hadn't taken more than a spoonful when they charged her ten francs.
Gertrude brought the pot away with her to teach 'em a lesson. Quite right, too ; it's
trading on our feelings. They think because we're over there having a look round
we're ready to pay anything. That's what it is." And he turned towards the door.

" Quite right, quite right! " cried the boss, though what was quite right he hadn't the
least idea. He came round by his desk, followed the shuffling footsteps to the door,
and saw the old fellow out. Woodifield was gone.

For a long moment the boss stayed, staring at nothing, while the grey-haired office
messenger, watching him, dodged in and out of his cubby hole like a dog that expects
to be taken for a run. Then : " I'll see nobody for half an hour, Macey," said the boss.
" Understand ? Nobody at all."

" Very good, sir."

The door shut, the firm heavy steps recrossed the bright carpet, the fat body plumped
down in the spring chair, and leaning forward, the boss covered his face with his
hands. He wanted, he intended, he had arranged to weep...

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It had been a terrible shock to him when old Woodifield sprang that remark upon
him about the boy's grave. It was exactly as though the earth had opened and he
had seen the boy lying there with Woodifield's girls staring down at him. For it was
strange. Although over six years had passed away, the boss never thought of the boy
except as lying unchanged, unblemished in his uniform, asleep for ever. " My son ! "
groaned the boss. But no tears came yet. In the past, in the first months and even
years after the boy's death, he had only to say those words to be overcome by such
grief that nothing short of a violent fit of weeping could relieve him. Time, he had
declared then, he had told everybody, could make no difference. Other men perhaps
might recover, might live their loss down, but not he. How was it possible ? His boy
was an only son. Ever since his birth the boss had worked at building up this business
for him ; it had no other meaning if it was not for the boy. Life itself had come to
have no other meaning. How on earth could he have slaved, denied himself, kept
going all those years without the promise for ever before him of the boy's stepping
into his shoes and carrying on where he left off ?

And that promise had been so near being fulfilled. The boy had been in the office
learning the ropes for a year before the war. Every morning they had started off
together ; they had come back by the same train. And what congratulations he had
received as the boy's father ! No wonder ; he had taken to it marvellously. As to his
popularity with the staff, every man jack of them down to old Macey couldn't make
enough of the boy. And he wasn't in the least spoilt. No, he was just his bright, natural
self, with the right word for everybody, with that boyish look and his habit of saying,
" Simply splendid ! "

But all that was over and done with as though it never had been. The day had come
when Macey had handed him the telegram that brought the whole place crashing
about his head. " Deeply regret to inform you ..." And he had left the office a broken
man, with his life in ruins.

Six years ago, six years ... How quickly time passed ! It might have happened yesterday.
The boss took his hands from his face ; he was puzzled. Something seemed to be
wrong with him. He wasn't feeling as he wanted to feel. He decided to get up and
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have a look at the boy's photograph. But it wasn't a favourite photograph of his; the
expression was unnatural. It was cold, even stern-looking. The boy had never looked
like that.

At that moment the boss noticed that a fly had fallen into his broad inkpot, and was
trying feebly but desperately to clamber out again. Help ! help ! said those struggling
legs. But the sides of the inkpot were wet and slippery ; it fell back again and began
to swim. The boss took up a pen, picked the fly out of the ink, and shook it on to a
piece of blotting-paper. For a fraction of a second it lay still on the dark patch that
oozed round it. Then the front legs waved, took hold, and, pulling its small, sodden
body up it began the immense task of cleaning the ink from its wings. Over and
under, over and under, went a leg along a wing, as the stone goes over and under
the scythe. Then there was a pause, while the fly, seeming to stand on the tips of its
toes, tried to expand first one wing and then the other. It succeeded at last, and,
sitting down, it began, like a minute cat, to clean its face. Now one could imagine
that the little front legs rubbed against each other lightly, joyfully. The horrible danger
was over ; it had escaped ; it was ready for life again.

But just then the boss had an idea. He plunged his pen back into the ink, leaned his
thick wrist on the blotting paper, and as the fly tried its wings down came a great
heavy blot. What would it make of that ? What indeed ! The little beggar seemed
absolutely cowed, stunned, and afraid to move because of what would happen next.
But then, as if painfully, it dragged itself forward. The front legs waved, caught hold,
and, more slowly this time, the task began from the beginning.

He's a plucky little devil, thought the boss, and he felt a real admiration for the fly's
courage. That was the way to tackle things ; that was the right spirit. Never say die ;
it was only a question of ... But the fly had again finished its laborious task, and the
boss had just time to refill his pen, to shake fair and square on the new-cleaned body
yet another dark drop. What about it this time ? A painful moment of suspense
followed. But behold, the front legs were again waving ; the boss felt a rush of relief.
He leaned over the fly and said to it tenderly, " You artful little b . . ." And he actually
had the brilliant notion of breathing on it to help the drying process. All the same,
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there was something timid and weak about its efforts now, and the boss decided that
this time should be the last, as he dipped the pen deep into the inkpot.

It was. The last blot fell on the soaked blotting-paper, and the draggled fly lay in it
and did not stir. The back legs were stuck to the body; the front legs were not to be
seen.

" Come on," said the boss. " Look sharp ! " And he stirred it with his pen—in vain.
Nothing happened or was likely to happen. The fly was dead.

The boss lifted the corpse on the end of the paper-knife and flung it into the waste-
paper basket. But such a grinding feeling of wretchedness seized him that he felt
positively frightened. He started forward and pressed the bell for Macey.

" Bring me some fresh blotting-paper," he said, sternly, " and look sharp about it."
And while the old dog padded away he fell to wondering what it was he had been
thinking about before. What was it ? It was... He took out his handkerchief and passed
it inside his collar. For the life of him he could not remember.