The Little Nursery Governess

by J. M. Barrie

THE LITTLE NURSERY GOVERNESS

By J. M. Barrie

(Reprinted from THE SPEAKER, by arrangement with the Author.)

EVERY lawful day, at five minutes past three, I ring a bell and the little nursery governess at once rounds the corner of the street. She never hears the bell, for I am at a club window ringing for coffee, but five minutes past three is her time, and thus she seems to answer my summons daily. While I am saying “Black coffee and a cigarette” to George, the little nursery governess is crossing to the post-office. “Fivepence, sir,” says George; and now the little nursery governess is taking six last looks at the letter. I carefully select the one suitable lump of sugar, and the little nursery governess is making sure that the stamp is sticking nicely. I light my cigarette, and she is reading the address as if it were music. I stir my coffee, and she has dropped the letter into the slit. I lie back in my chair, and she is listening to hear whether the postal authorities have come for her letter. I scowl at a fellow-member who has entered the smoking-room, and her two little charges are pulling her away from the post-office. When I look out at the window again she is gone, but I shall ring for her to-morrow at five minutes past three.

The little nursery governess must have passed the window many times before I took note of her. The sex interests me not; long ago I gave women up; I have a spite against them. I have no idea where she lives, though I suppose it is hard by; and I only know that she is a nursery governess because the little boy and girl bully her. She is giving them the air when she posts the letter, and she ought to look crushed and faded. No doubt her mistress overworks her. The other servants will often tell her what they think of her. Certainly her duty is to be sad. So I thought of the little nursery governess while I sipped my coffee; and as for her daily letter, I regarded it not. In time I noticed that she had occasionally many letters to post and that only the posting of the one was a process. The others were shot down the hole together, but the one went after them slowly. They, doubtless, were her mistress’s, but it was her own. After she had posted it, she laughed gaily to herself, and tripped off quite coquettishly with her charges. This absurd little nursery governess was brimming over with happiness, and for no earthly reason, mark you, but that a foolish lump of a man loved her. She had the privilege of writing to him nearly every day, and so, instead of crying because she was a poor nursery governess, she must trip jauntily into this street, with a rather smart bonnet on her head, and the air of an engaged woman who likes it. I rather think the nursery governess is pretty; but as for the colour of her hair and eyes, and whether there is character in her chin, I know nothing, because I have no desire to know. I like to sip my coffee dreamily, and her obtrusive happiness annoys me. At least, I thought so until the tragedy occurred.

Thursday is the great day of the little nursery governess. Then she comes into the street in answer to my bell, but not as on other days. She has an hour to herself every Thursday afternoon; perhaps she works overtime for it. Then is she arrayed in comparative splendour, with a cap of blue feathers on her head instead of a bonnet, and the neatest umbrella in her hand, and a look of expectation on her face that is as absurd as anything in Euclid. On ordinary days the little nursery governess at least tries to look demure, but on Thursdays she has positively the assurance to use the glass door of the club as a mirror in which she may see how she likes her trim trifle of a figure to-day. Were there sufficient cause for this exultation, I would not frown at my coffee spoon; but there is no cause, none worth speaking of; only, indeed, the hulking lout of a man who is waiting for her at the post-office door. This is the creature she writes to, and every Thursday she walks out with him. He is tremendously brushed, looking as if a blast of wind had hit him full in the face; and if she is not at the post-office when he puffs up the street, he takes off his hat to see that there is no mud on it. It is a silk hat, and I think he wears it by request. He has not the refined look of the little nursery governess; and when he leans his hand on the post-office window, I can fancy him saying, “And the next article?” I almost turn up my lip at the girl for being so joyous because this commonplace man is engaged to her, but I see (by the way his nose turns up) that he is honest. It nearly puts my cigarette out to observe how deceitful the little nursery governess is. The moment she turns the corner of the street she looks at the post-office, and sees him plainly. Then she looks straight before her, and he sees her, and rushes across the street to her in a glory, and she starts—positively starts—as if he had taken her by surprise. I am so ashamed of the little nursery governess’s duplicity that I stir my coffee violently. He gazes down at her in such rapture that he is in everyone’s way, and then she takes his arm as if it were her property, and off they go together, she doing nine-tenths of the talking, and he with his head in the air like a man who has won the Derby. I dare say she has not a relative in the world, and slaves from morning till midnight, and yet he thinks she is the pick of the universe, while she blushes with pride every time she looks up and he looks down, which is ridiculously often. If I had not grown accustomed to this chair, I would certainly change it for one further from the window.

You see, I have not an atom of sympathy with the little nursery governess, to whom London is only famous as the residence of an over-brushed young man. At the same time, I became used to her; and when one day, nearly a month ago, she passed the post-office without gradually posting a letter, I was indignant. She had no right to come into my life for five minutes every day, and then suddenly go out of it. I laid down my cigarette. Undoubtedly she was passing the post-office. Her two charges, who usually played a game while she posted her letter, were as surprised as I, and the boy pointed questioningly to the slit, at which she shook her head. I saw tears rise to her eyes, and so she passed from the street. Next day the same thing happened—indeed, something worse happened, for I bit through my cigarette and neglected to order another one. Thursday came, when I expected there would be an end of this annoyance—but no. He did not appear in the street; neither did she. Had they changed their place of meeting and their post-office? No; for her eyes were red every day, and heavy was her silly little heart. Love had put out his lights, and the little nursery governess walked in darkness. The geese had quarrelled, and only one of them wanted to make it up. I set my teeth at that long-legged selfish fellow, who had spoiled my coffee. These lovers never think of anybody but themselves.

I could forget the little nursery governess, as in time I could do without sugar in my coffee. She is nothing to me. But, with a woman’s want of consideration for others, she insists on bringing her charges almost daily through this street, and crying, or very nearly crying, as her eyes light on the post-office. As if this were not sufficient, I have discovered that every Thursday from three to four, she wanders back and forward at the top of the street, looking hopelessly at the romantic spot where she and he will meet no more. The nursery governess is now such a sad little figure that I think she cannot live long without the over-brushed young man, and nowadays I try all the seats in the smoking-room, and thunder at George because the coffee has become undrinkable. This is a wet Thursday, and from the smoking-room window where I write I can see the little nursery governess beginning her hopeless walk at the top of the street. That it is hopeless I cannot doubt; she will meet her lover no more. Of course it is nothing to me. I am only writing of her and her fickle swain because I have given up coffee and a cigarette between three and four, and so find time a burden. Now, I will post this across the way, and hurry from the street of the little nursery governess.

 

[The above communication reached The Speaker office in a very muddy envelope at six o’clock on Thursday. By a later post on the same evening arrived the following]:—

 

Since I posted a paper entitled “The Little Nursery Governess,” something remarkable has happened. I think I said at the end of the paper that I was to post it myself. However, I put it in my pocket, and at once forgot it. I dare say I was thinking of the forlorn little governess; at all events, I marched off down the street to get away from her. Suddenly I struck against—the young man. I hit out at him with my umbrella, passed on, and then stood looking at him. He was no longer nicely brushed; his hat was splashed with mud, and he had the face of a man who turns often in his bed at nights. He was hollow-eyed, and stood against a lamp-post, glaring at the post-office. This was the man who had spoilt my coffee, but he seemed so despairing that I could not hate him. I wriggled my umbrella back and forward, and pondered; and, of course, I saw that he still loved my little nursery governess. Whatever their quarrel had been about, he was as anxious as she to accept the blame, and doubtless he had been at this end of the street every Thursday while she was at the other end. He had hoped against hope to see his lady at the post-office, when he would have rushed to her, and she had hoped against hope to see him there. But from where these two selfish creatures stood or walked up and down they could not see each other.

You must have observed that I care not a jot for the little nursery governess. Still I despise even more this stupid young man, and therefore I would not give him the satisfaction of knowing that she was waiting for him. No, he must go to the post-office, and she would see him from the top of the street, and after that—well, then I should be done with them. But how to get him to the post-office without giving him my secret? I think that what I did was quite clever. I dropped my letter to The Speaker at his feet, and as soon as he picked it up I strolled back to the club. You see, a man who finds a letter in the street is bound to post it—and he will naturally post it at the nearest office.

With my hat on I hurried to the smoking-room window. I gave not a glance to the post-office. I looked for the little nursery governess. I saw her as woebegone as ever—then suddenly—she put her hand to her heart——

“George,” I said, “black coffee.” She was crying outright, and he was holding both her hands. It was a disgraceful exhibition. “And a cigarette, sir?” asked George. The young man would evidently explode if he did not kiss her at once. She must die if she could not lay her head on his breast. I must admit that the dunderhead rose to the situation; he hailed a hansom. “Yes, George, and a cigarette.”

The affair is nothing to me. I merely add this to explain why the first envelope doubtless reached the office in a muddy condition.

J. M. Barrie

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