\u201cNo, no!\u201d says Mr. Bullen, and he leans over the other girl, puts his arms over her shoulders and plays the passage for her. The stupid \u2014 she\u2019s blushing! How ridiculous!<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Now the-girl-before-her has gone; the front door slams. Mr. Bullen comes back and walks up and down, very softly, waiting for her. What an extraordinary thing. Her fingers tremble so that she can\u2019t undo the knot in the music satchel. It\u2019s the wind… And her heart beats so hard she feels it must lift her blouse up and down. Mr. Bullen does not say a word. The shabby red piano seat is long enough for two people to sit side by side. Mr. Bullen sits down by her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShall I begin with scales?\u201d she asks, squeezing her hands together. \u201cI had some arpeggios, too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But he does not answer. She doesn\u2019t believe he even hears… and then suddenly his fresh hand with the ring on it reaches over and opens Beethoven.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLet\u2019s have a little of the old master,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But why does he speak so kindly \u2014 so awfully kindly \u2014 and as though they had known each other for years and years and knew everything about each other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He turns the page slowly. She watches his hand \u2014 it is a very nice hand and always looks as though it had just been washed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHere we are,\u201d says Mr. Bullen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Oh, that kind voice \u2014 Oh, that minor movement. Here come the little drums…<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShall I take the repeat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes, dear child.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His voice is far, far too kind. The crotchets and quavers are dancing up and down the stave like little black boys on a fence. Why is he so… She will not cry \u2014 she has nothing to cry about…<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat is it, dear child?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mr. Bullen takes her hands. His shoulder is there \u2014 just by her head. She leans on it ever so little, her cheek against the springy tweed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLife is so dreadful,\u201d she murmurs, but she does not feel it\u2019s dreadful at all. He says something about \u201cwaiting\u201d and \u201cmarking time\u201d and \u201cthat rare thing, a woman,\u201d but she does not hear. It is so comfortable… for ever…<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Suddenly the door opens and in pops Marie Swainson, hours before her time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTake the allegretto a little faster,\u201d says Mr. Bullen, and gets up and begins to walk up and down again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSit in the sofa corner, little lady,\u201d he says to Marie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The wind, the wind. It\u2019s frightening to be here in her room by herself. The bed, the mirror, the white jug and basin gleam like the sky outside. It\u2019s the bed that is frightening. There it lies, sound asleep… Does Mother imagine for one moment that she is going to darn all those stockings knotted up on the quilt like a coil of snakes? She\u2019s not. No, Mother. I do not see why I should… The wind \u2014 the wind! There\u2019s a funny smell of soot blowing down the chimney. Hasn\u2019t anyone written poems to the wind?… \u201cI bring fresh flowers to the leaves and showers.\u201d… What nonsense.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIs that you, Bogey?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCome for a walk round the esplanade, Matilda. I can\u2019t stand this any longer.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cRight-o. I\u2019ll put on my ulster. Isn\u2019t it an awful day!\u201d Bogey\u2019s ulster is just like hers. Hooking the collar she looks at herself in the glass. Her face is white, they have the same excited eyes and hot lips. Ah, they know those two in the glass. Good-bye, dears; we shall be back soon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThis is better, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHook on,\u201d says Bogey.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They cannot walk fast enough. Their heads bent, their legs just touching, they stride like one eager person through the town, down the asphalt zigzag where the fennel grows wild, and on to the esplanade. It is dusky \u2014 just getting dusky. The wind is so strong that they have to fight their way through it, rocking like two old drunkards. All the poor little pahutukawas on the esplanade are bent to the ground.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCome on! Come on! Let\u2019s get near.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Over by the breakwater the sea is very high. They pull off their hats and her hair blows across her mouth, tasting of salt. The sea is so high that the waves do not break at all; they thump against the rough stone wall and suck up the weedy, dripping steps. A fine spray skims from the water right across the esplanade. They are covered with drops; the inside of her mouth tastes wet and cold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Bogey\u2019s voice is breaking. When he speaks he rushes up and down the scale. It\u2019s funny \u2014 it makes you laugh \u2014 and yet it just suits the day. The wind carries their voices \u2014 away fly the sentences like narrow ribbons.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cQuicker! Quicker!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It is getting very dark. In the harbour the coal hulks show two lights \u2014 one high on a mast, and one from the stern.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLook, Bogey. Look over there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A big black steamer with a long loop of smoke streaming, with the portholes lighted, with lights everywhere, is putting out to sea. The wind does not stop her; she cuts through the waves, making for the open gate between the pointed rocks that leads to… It\u2019s the light that makes her look so awfully beautiful and mysterious… They are on board leaning over the rail arm in arm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201c… Who are they?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201c… Brother and sister.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLook, Bogey, there\u2019s the town. Doesn\u2019t it look small? There\u2019s the post office clock chiming for the last time. There\u2019s the esplanade where we walked that windy day. Do you remember? I cried at my music lesson that day \u2014 how many years ago! Good-bye, little island, good-bye…\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Now the dark stretches a wing over the tumbling water. They can\u2019t see those two any more. Good-bye, good-bye. Don\u2019t forget… But the ship is gone, now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The wind \u2014 the wind.<\/p>\n\n\n
![\"\"](\"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/divider2.png\")
<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\nBibliographic data<\/h4>\n\n\n\n
Author: Katherine Mansfield
Title: The Wind Blows
Published in: Signature, October 4, 1915<\/p>\n\n\n\n
[Full text]<\/p>\n\n\n
![\"Katherine](\"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/11\/Katherine-Mansfield-800x457-1-150x150.jpg\")
<\/figure>\n<\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"