A Cup of Tea
The Storyteller, vol. 31, issue 182 (1922)
Pages 121-125
Introduction
âThe Story Teller was the best all-round all-fiction magazine of its day.â The editor, Newman Flower, pursued âall new fiction mostly by big names,â from Arthur Conan Doyle to Rudyard Kipling and everyone in-between (Ashley 191). The quintessence, and indeed the strength, of the magazine was found within its stories. In a collected analysis of British fiction magazines, Mike Ashley wrote the following about The Story Teller:
âAlthough they published a range of fiction that would fall into several categoriesâsports stories, romances, mysteries, adventures, humour, supernaturalâwhat was more important was that each story was inspiring. What Flower wanted were stories where humans had to show ingenuity and courage in overcoming unusual and sometimes extreme problems. He did not want straight love stories or slice-of-life dramas. He wanted what became known as âcleverâ stories,â and this became the magazineâs hallmark.â (Ashley 182)
These âcleverâ stories continued to be developed and refined as the decade brought great societal changes. Because female readership increased during and after World War I, efforts were made to include more stories that would pique the interest of women. This was more than ensuring an abundance of romance stories; âFlower looked for stories of clever and intrepid women.â(Ashley 193) Moreover, he looked for stories by such women.
Described as âan intense realist, with a superb sense of ironic humour,â Katherine Mansfieldâs writing was deeply feminist with a dusting of wit and a âtouch of the surreal(Tomalin). The âcleverâ short stories she wrote perfectly epitomize the modernist movement while highlighting various matters, such as the ambivalences of sexuality and gender and the complexities of class. One such story is âA Cup of Tea,â which was initially published in The Story Teller in May of 1922.
Throughout the story, Mansfield manifests the insecurity of the mentioned motifs of class and gender. These thematic elements echo Mansfieldâs own experiencesâher parents, having great financial and social aspirations, played Mansfield as a chess piece throughout her childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood, steering her towards a life of wealth and social elitism. Aided by her escape, Mansfieldâs writing carefully explores the cage of society with a precision only experienced avoidance can offer.
This recurrent exposition, as exemplified in âA Cup of Tea,â aids in the portrayal of the main character, Rosemary. Imprisoned in the very existence which Mansfield fled, we find Rosemary to be preoccupied with material objects and with playing her part as a wealthy wife. After her well-meaning, if misguided, attempt to play the part of jolly do-gooder, the story (in true modernist fashion) intimates that Rosemary is completely unaware that she is being played as a chess piece by her husband: when she fails to acquiesce to his request, he plays on her insecurities and jealousies in order to orchestrate his desired outcome.
This manipulation and control of women by men, and the subsequent replication of the behavior in matters of class and social standing illustrated within this short story are exemplary of Katherine Mansfieldâs thematic prowess. Indeed, this story brilliantly underscores the deprivation and manipulation of women, much like âThe Daughters of the Late Colonel,â published two years previously in 1920. This overt commentary on the insubstantial social institutions provides greater insight to the modernist short story as well as Katherine Mansfieldâs works as a whole.
Works Cited
Ashley, Mike. âThe Age of Storytellers: British Popular Fiction Magazines 1880-1950.â The British Library and Oak Knoll Press. 2006.
Tomalin, Claire. âMurry , Kathleen [Katherine Mansfield] (1888â1923).â Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. Ed. H. C. G. Matthew and Brian Harrison. Oxford: OUP, 2004.
Original Document
Transcription
Rosemary Fell was not exactly beautiful. No, you couldnât have called her beautiful. Pretty? Well, if you took her to pieces . . . But why be so cruel as to take anyone to pieces? She was young, brilliant, extremely modern, exquisitely well dressed, amazingly well read in the newest of the new books, and her parties were the most delicious mixture of the really important people and . . . artistsâquaint creatures, discoveries of hers, some of them too terrifying for words, but others quite presentable and amusing.
Rosemary had been married two years. She had a duck of a boy.[1]âDuckyâ means pleasant, full of fun, jolly, all things to all people; âduck of a boyâ describes a man who is life of the party, an encourager, the sunshine in an otherwise uninteresting and lifeless environment. [Cambridge Dictionary] No, not PeterâMichael. And her husband absolutely adored her. They were rich, really rich, not just comfortably well off, which is odious and stuffy and sounds like oneâs grandparents. But if Rosemary wanted to shop she would go to Paris as you and I would go to Bond Street.[2] Bond Street is a major street in the West End of London known for its high-end shopping. If she wanted to buy flowers, the car pulled up at the perfect shop in Regent Street,[3]Another major shopping street in London. and Rosemary inside the shop just gazed in her dazzled, rather exotic way, and said: âI want those and those and those. Give me four bunches of those. And that jar of roses. Yes, Iâll have all the roses in the jar. No, no lilac. I hate lilac. Itâs got no shape.â The attendant bowed and put the lilac out of sight, as though, this was only too true; lilac was dreadfully shapeless. âGive me those stumpy little tulips. Those red and white ones.â And she was followed to the car by a thin shopgirl staggering under and immense white paper armful that looked like a baby in long clothes . . .
One winter afternoon she had been buying something in a little antique shop in Curzon Street.[4]Located in the exclusive Mayfair district of London. It was a shop she liked. For one thing, one usually had it to oneself. And then the man who kept it was ridiculously fond of serving her. He beamed whenever she came in. He clasped his hands; he was so gratified he could scarcely speak. Flattery, of course. All the same, there was something . . .
âYou see, madam,â he would explain in his low respectful tones, âI love my things. I would rather not part with them than sell them to someone who does not appreciate them, who has not that fine feeling which is so rare . . .â And, breathing deeply, he unrolled a tiny square of blue velvet and pressed it on the glass counter with his pale finger-tips.
Today it was a little box. He had been keeping it for her. He had shown it to nobody as yet. An exquisite little enamel box with a glaze so fine it looked as though it had been baked in cream. On the lid a minute creature stood under a flowery tree, and a more minute creature still had her arms around his neck. Her hat, really no bigger than a geranium petal, hung from a branch; it had green ribbons. And there was a pink cloud like a watchful cherub floating above their heads. Rosemary took her hands out of her long gloves. She always took off her gloves to examine such things. Yes, she liked it very much. She loved it; it was a great duck. She must have it. And, turning the creamy box, opening and shutting it, she couldnât help noticing how charming her hands were against the blue velvet. The shopman, in some dim cavern of his mind, may have dared to think so too. For he took a pencil, leant over the counter, and his pale bloodless fingers crept timidly towards those rosy, flashing ones, as he murmured gently: âIf I may venture to point out to madam, the flowers on the little ladyâs bodice.â
âCharming!â Rosemary admired the flowers. But what was the price? For a moment the shopman did not seem to hear. Then a murmur reached her. âTwenty-eight guineas, madam.â
âTwenty-eight guineas.â[5]A third of a guinea was exactly seven shillings. In the 1930s, the exchange rate to U.S. dollars was approximately $5.25. The enamel box, accordingly, was selling for $147. Rosemary gave no sign. She laid the little box down; she buttoned her gloves again. Twenty-eight guineas. Even if one is rich . . . She looked vague. She stared at the plump tea-kettle like a plump hen above the shopmanâs head, and her voice was dreamy as she answered: âWell, keep it for meâwill you? Iâll . . .â
But the shopman had already bowed as though keeping it for her was all any human being could ask. He would be willing, of course, to keep it for her forever.
The discreet door shut with a click. She was outside on the step, gazing at the winter afternoon. Rain was falling, and with the rain it seemed the dark came too, spinning down like ashes. There was a cold bitter taste in the air, and the new-lighted lamps looked sad. Sad were the lights in the houses opposite. Dimly they burned as if regretting something. And people hurried by, hidden under their hateful umbrellas. Rosemary felt a strange pang. She pressed her muff against her breast; she wished she had the little box, too, to cling to. Of course, the car was there. Sheâd only to cross the pavement. But still she waited. There are moments, horrible moments in life, when one emerges from shelter and looks out, and itâs awful. One oughtnât to give way to them. One ought to go home and have an extra-special tea. But at the very instant of thinking that, a young girl thin, dark, shadowyâwhere had she come from?âwas standing at Rosemaryâs elbow and a voice like a sigh, almost like a sob, breathed: âMadam, may I speak to you a moment?â
âSpeak to me?â Rosemary turned. She saw a little battered creature with enormous eyes, someone quite young, no older than herself, who clutched at her coat-collar with reddened hands, and shivered as though she had just come out of the water.
âM-madam,â stammered the voice. âWould you let me have the price of a cup of tea?â
âA cup of tea?â There was something simple, sincere in that voice; it wasnât in the least the voice of a beggar. âThen have you no money at all?â asked Rosemary.
âNone, madam,â came the answer.
âHow extraordinary!â Rosemary peered through the dusk, and the girl gazed back at her. How more than extraordinary! And suddenly it seemed to Rosemary such an adventure. It was like something out of a Dostoevsky,[6]Fyodor Dostoevsky was a famous Russian author who explored the societal differences between the rich and the poor through a lens of literary realism and naturalism. this meeting in the dusk. Supposing she took the girl home? Supposing she did do one of those things she was always reading about or seeing on the stage, what would happen? It would be thrilling. And she heard herself saying afterwards to the amazement of her friends: âI simply took her home with me,â as she stepped forward and said to that dim person beside her: âCome home to tea with me.â
The girl drew back startled. She even stopped shivering for a moment. Rosemary put out her hand and touched her arm. âI mean it,â she said, smiling. And she felt how simple and kind her smile was. âWhy wonât you? Do. Come home with me now in my car and have tea.â
âYouâyou donât mean it, madam,â said the girl, and there was pain in her voice.
âBut I do,â cried Rosemary. âI want you to. To please me. Come along.â
The girl put her fingers to her lips and her eyes devoured Rosemary. âYouâreâyouâre not taking me to the police station?â she stammered.
âThe police station!â Rosemary laughed out. âWhy should I be so cruel? No, I only want to make you warm and to hearâanything you care to tell me.â
Hungry people are easily led. The footman held the door of the car open, and a moment later they were skimming through the dusk.
âThere!â said Rosemary. She had a feeling of triumph as she slipped her hand through the velvet strap. She could have said, âNow Iâve got you,â as she gazed at the little captive she had netted. But of course she meant it kindly. Oh, more than kindly. She was going to prove to this girl thatâwonderful things did happen in life, thatâfairy godmothers were real, thatârich people had hearts, and that women were sisters. She turned impulsively, saying: âDonât be frightened. After all, why shouldnât you come back with me? Weâre both women. If Iâm the more fortunate, you ought to expect . . .â
But happily at that moment, for she didnât know how the sentence was going to end, the car stopped. The bell was rung, the door opened, and with a charming, protecting, almost embracing movement, Rosemary drew the other into the hall. Warmth, softness, light, a sweet scent, all those things so familiar to her she never even thought about them, she watched that other receive. It was fascinating. She was like the little rich girl in her nursery with all the cupboards to open, all the boxes to unpack.
âCome, come upstairs,â said Rosemary, longing to begin to be generous. âCome up to my room.â And, besides, she wanted to spare this poor little thing from being stared at by the servants; she decided as they mounted the stairs she would not even ring for Jeanne, but take off her things by herself. The great thing was to be natural!
And âThere!â cried Rosemary again, as they reached her beautiful big bedroom with the curtains drawn, the fire leaping on her wonderful lacquer furniture, her gold cushions and the primrose and blue rugs.
The girl stood just inside the door; she seemed dazed. But Rosemary didnât mind that.
âCome and sit down,â she cried, dragging her big chair up to the fire, âin this comfy chair. Come and get warm. You look so dreadfully cold.â
âI darenât, madam,â said the girl, and she edged backwards.
âOh, please,ââRosemary ran forwardââyou mustnât be frightened, you mustnât, really. Sit down, and when Iâve taken off my things we shall go into the next room and have tea and be cosy. Why are you afraid?â And gently she half pushed the thin figure into the deep cradle.
But there was no answer. The girl stayed just as she had been put, with her hands by her sides and her mouth slightly open. To be quite sincere, she looked rather stupid. But Rosemary wouldnât acknowledge it. She leant over her, saying: âWonât you take off your hat? Your pretty hair is all wet. And one is so much more comfortable without a hat, isnât one?â
There was a whisper that sounded like, âVery good, madam,â and the crushed hat was taken off.
âAnd let me help you off with your coat, too,â said Rosemary.
The girl stood up. But she held on to the chair with one hand and let Rosemary pull. It was quite an effort. The other scarcely helped her at all. She seemed to stagger like a child, and the thought came and went through Rosemaryâs mind that if people wanted helping they must respond a little, just a little, otherwise it became very difficult indeed. And what was she to do with the coat now? She left it on the floor, and the hat too. She was just going to take a cigarette off the mantelpiece when the girl said quickly, but so lightly and strangely: âI am very sorry, madam, but Iâm going to faint. I shall go off, madam, if I donât have something.â
âGood heavens, how thoughtless I am!â Rosemary rushed to the bell.
âTea! Tea at once! And some brandy immediately!â
The maid was gone again, but the girl almost cried out. âNo, I donât want no brandy. I never drink brandy. Itâs a cup of tea I want, madam.â And she burst into tears.
It was a terrible and fascinating moment. Rosemary knelt beside her chair.
âDonât cry, poor little thing,â she said. âDonât cry.â And she gave the other her lace handkerchief. She really was touched beyond words. She her arm round those thing, bird-like shoulders.
Now at last the other forgot to be shy, forgot everything except they were both women, and gasped out: âI canât go on no longer like this. I canât bear it. I canât bear it. I shall do away with myself. I canât bear no more.â
âYou shanât have to. Iâll look after you. Donât cry any more. Donât you see what a good thing it was that you met me? Weâll have tea and youâll tell me everything. And I shall arrange something. I promise. Do stop crying. Itâs so exhausting. Please!â
The other did stop just in time for Rosemary to get up before the tea came. She had the table placed between them. She plied the poor little creature with everything, all the sandwiches, all the bread and butter, and every time her cup was empty she filled it with tea, cream, and sugar. People always said sugar was so nourishing. As for herself she didnât eat; she smoked and looked away tactfully so that the other should not be shy.
And really the effect of that slight meal was marvelous. When the tea-table was carried away a new being, a light, frail creature with tangled hair, dark lips, deep, lighted eyes, lay back in the big chair in a kind of sweet languor, looking at the blaze. Rosemary lit a fresh cigarette; it was time to begin.
âAnd when did you have your last meal?â she asked softly.
But at that moment the door-handle turned.
âRosemary, may I come in?â It was Philip.
âOf course.â
He came in. âOh, Iâm so sorry,â he said, and stopped and stared.
âItâs quite all right,â said Rosemary, smiling. âThis is my friend, Missâââ
âSmith, madam,â said the languid figure, who was strangely still and unafraid.
âSmith,â said Rosemary. âWe are going to have a little talk.â
âOh, yes,â said Philip. âQuite,â and his eye caught sight of the coat and hat on the floor. He came over to the fire and turned his back to it. âItâs a beastly afternoon,â he said curiously, still looking at the listless figure, looking at its hand and boots, and then at Rosemary again.
âYes, isnât it?â said Rosemary enthusiastically. âVile.â
Phillip smiled his charming smile. âAs a matter of fact,â said he, âI wanted you to come into the library for a moment. Would you? Will Miss Smith excuse us?â
The big eyes were raised to him, but Rosemary answered for her. âOf course she will.â And they went out of the room together.
âI say,â said Philip, when they were alone. âExplain. Who is she? What does it all mean?â
Rosemary, laughing, leaned against the door and said: âI picked her up on Curzon Street. Really. Sheâs a real pick-up. She asked me for the price of a cup of tea, and I brought her home with me.â
âBut what on earth are you going to do with her?â cried Philip.
âBe nice to her,â said Rosemary quickly. âBe frightfully nice to her. Look after her. I donât know how. We havenât talked yet. But show herâtreat herâmake her feelâââ
âMy darling girl,â said Philip, âyouâre quite mad, you know. It simply canât be done.â
âI knew youâd say that,â retorted Rosemary. âWhy not? I want to. Isnât that a reason? And besides, oneâs always reading about these things. I decidedâââ
âBut,â said Philip slowly, and he cut the end of a cigar, âsheâs so astonishingly pretty.â
âPretty?â Rosemary was so surprised that she blushed. âDo you think so? IâI hadnât thought about it.â
âGood Lord!â Philip struck a match. âSheâs absolutely lovely. Look again, my child. I was bowled over when I came into your room just now. However . . . I think youâre making a ghastly mistake. Sorry, darling, if Iâm crude and all that. But let me know if Miss Smith is going to dine with us in time for me to look up The Millinerâs Gazette.â[7]At the time, milliners and shop assistants were considered loosely equivalent to prostitutes. By sarcastically suggesting he pick up The Millinerâs Gazette, Philip is suggesting that Miss Smith is a prostitute.
âYou absurd creature!â said Rosemary, and she went out of the library, but not back to her bedroom. She went to her writing-room and sat down at her desk. Pretty! Absolutely lovely! Bowled over! Her heart beat like a heavy bell. Pretty! Lovely! She drew her cheque-book towards her. But no, cheques would be no use, of course. She opened a drawer and took out five pound notes, looked at them, put two back, and hold the three squeezed in her hand, she went back to her bedroom.
Half an hour later Philip was still in the library, when Rosemary came in.
âI only wanted to tell you,â said she, and she leaned against the door again and looked at him with her dazzled exotic gaze, âMiss Smith wonât dine with us to-night.â
Philip put down the paper. âOh, whatâs happened? Previous engagement?â
Rosemary came over and sat down on his knee. âShe insisted on going,â said she, âso I gave the poor little thing a present of money. I couldnât keep her against her will, could I?â she added softly.
Rosemary had just done her hair, darkened her eyes a little, and put on her pearls. She put up her hands and touched Philipâs cheeks.
âDo you like me?â said she, and her tone, sweet, husky, troubled him.
âI like you awfully,â he said, and he held her tighter. âKiss me.â
There was a pause.
Then Rosemary said dreamily. âI saw a fascinating little box to-day. It cost twenty-eight guineas. May I have it?â
Philip jumped her on his knee. âYou may, little wasteful one,â said he.
But that was not really what Rosemary wanted to say.
âPhilip,â she whispered, and she pressed his head against her bosom, âam I pretty?â
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How To Cite (MLA Format)
Mansfield, Katherine. "A Cup of Tea." The Storyteller 31, 182 (1922): 121-5. Edited by Isaac Robertson. Modernist Short Story Project, 4 January 2025, https://mssp.byu.edu/title/a-cup-of-tea/.
Contributors
Isaac Robertson
Megan Komm
Posted on 24 March 2018.
Last modified on 3 January 2025.
References
â1 | âDuckyâ means pleasant, full of fun, jolly, all things to all people; âduck of a boyâ describes a man who is life of the party, an encourager, the sunshine in an otherwise uninteresting and lifeless environment. [Cambridge Dictionary] |
---|---|
â2 | Bond Street is a major street in the West End of London known for its high-end shopping. |
â3 | Another major shopping street in London. |
â4 | Located in the exclusive Mayfair district of London. |
â5 | A third of a guinea was exactly seven shillings. In the 1930s, the exchange rate to U.S. dollars was approximately $5.25. The enamel box, accordingly, was selling for $147. |
â6 | Fyodor Dostoevsky was a famous Russian author who explored the societal differences between the rich and the poor through a lens of literary realism and naturalism. |
â7 | At the time, milliners and shop assistants were considered loosely equivalent to prostitutes. By sarcastically suggesting he pick up The Millinerâs Gazette, Philip is suggesting that Miss Smith is a prostitute. |