Articoli correlati a Mrs. Golightly and Other Stories
The eighteen pieces collected in Mrs. Golightly and Other Stories bring together the many and subtle voices of Ethel Wilson, demonstrating her extraordinary range as a writer. From the gentle mockery of the title story to the absurdist reportage of “Mr. Sleepwalker,” Wilson exerts unerring narrative control. Revealing what is “simple and complicated and timeless” in everyday life, these stories also venture into irrational realms of experience where chance encounters assume a malevolent form and coincidence transmuted into nightmare.
First published in 1961, Mrs. Golightly and Other Stories is a diverse and rewarding collection, unified by Ethel Wilson’s distinct and engaging wit.
First published in 1961, Mrs. Golightly and Other Stories is a diverse and rewarding collection, unified by Ethel Wilson’s distinct and engaging wit.
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L'autore:
ETHEL WILSON was born in Port Elizabeth, South Africa, in 1888. In 1898, she moved to Vancouver to live with her maternal grandmother. In the 1930s Wilson published a few short stories and began a series of family reminiscences, which were later transformed into The Innocent Traveller. Her first published novel, Hetty Dorval, appeared in 1947, and her fiction career ended fourteen years later with the publication of her story collection, Mrs. Golightly and Other Stories.
DAVID STOUCK is a professor of English at Simon Fraser University.
Estratto. © Riproduzione autorizzata. Diritti riservati.:
DAVID STOUCK is a professor of English at Simon Fraser University.
Mrs. Golightly and the First Convention
Mrs. Golightly was a shy woman. She lived in Vancouver. Her husband, Tommy Golightly, was not shy. He was personable and easy to like. He was a consulting engineer who was consulted a great deal by engineering firms, construction firms, logging firms in particular, any firm that seemed to have problems connected with traction. When he was not being consulted he played golf, tennis, or bridge according to whether the season was spring, summer, autumn or winter. Any time that was left over he spent with his wife and three small children of whom he was very fond. When he was with them, it seemed that that was what he liked best. He was a very extroverted sort of man, easy and likeable, and his little wife was so shy that it just was not fair.
At the period of which I write, Conventions had not begun to take their now-accepted place in life on the North American continent. I am speaking of Conventions with a capital C. Conventions with a small c have, of course, always been with us, but not as conspicuously now as formerly. In those days, when a man said rather importantly I am going to a Convention, someone was quite liable to ask What is a Convention? Everyone seemed to think that they must be quite a good thing, which of course they are. We now take them for granted.
Now Mr. Golightly was admirably adapted to going to Conventions. His memory for names and faces was good; he liked people, both in crowds and separately; he collected acquaintances who rapidly became friends. Everyone liked him.
One day he came home and said to his wife, “How would you like a trip to California?”
Mrs. Golightly gave a little gasp. Her face lighted up and she said, “Oh Tom . . . !”
“There’s a Western and Middle Western Convention meeting at Del Monte the first week of March, and you and I are going down,” said Mr. Golightly.
Mrs. Golightly’s face clouded and she said in quite a different tone and with great alarm, “Oh Tom . . . !”
“Well, what?” said her husband.
Mrs. Golightly began the sort of hesitation that so easily overcame her. “Well, Tom,” she said, “I’d have to get a hat, and I suppose a suit and a dinner dress, and Emmeline isn’t very good to leave with the children and you know I’m no good with crowds and people, I never know what to say, and –”
“Well, get a new hat,” said her husband, “get one of those hats I see women wearing with long quills on. And get a new dress. Get twenty new dresses. And Emmeline’s fine with the children and what you need’s a change, and I’m the only one in my profession invited from British Columbia. You get a hat with the longest feather in town and a nice dinner dress!” Mr. Golightly looked fondly at his wife and saw with new eyes that she appeared anxious and not quite as pretty as she sometimes was. He kissed her and she promised that she would get the new hat, but he did not know how terrified she was of the Convention and all the crowds of people, and that she suffered at the very thought of going. She could get along all right at home, but small talk with strangers – oh, poor Mrs. Golightly. These things certainly are not fair. However, she got the dress, and a new hat with the longest quill in town. She spent a long time at the hairdresser’s; and how pretty she looked and how disturbed she felt! “I’ll break the quill every time I get into the car, Tom,” she said.
“Non-sense,” said her husband, and they set off in the car for California.
Mrs. Golightly travelled in an old knitted suit and a felt hat pulled down on her head in observance of a theory which she had inherited from her mother that you must never wear good clothes when travelling. The night before arriving at Del Monte a car passing them at high speed side-swiped them ever so little, but the small damage and fuss that resulted from that delayed them a good deal. The result was that they got late to bed that night, slept little, rose early, and had to do three hundred miles before lunch. Mrs. Golightly began to feel very tired in spite of some mounting excitement, but this did not make her forget to ask her husband to stop at the outskirts of Del Monte so that she could take her new hat out of the bag and put it on. Mr. Golightly was delighted with the way his wife was joining in the spirit of the thing. “Good girl,” he said, which pleased her, and neither of them noticed that nothing looked right about Mrs. Golightly except her hat, and even smart hats, worn under those circumstances, look wrong.
How impressive it was to Mrs. Golightly, supported by her hat, to approach the portals of the fashionable Del Monte Hotel. Large cars reclined in rows, some sparkling, some dimmed by a film of dust, all of them costly. Radiant men and women, expensively dressed (the inheritors of the earth, evidently), strolled about without a care in the world, or basked on the patio, scrutinizing new arrivals with experienced eyes. Mrs. Golightly had already felt something formidably buoyant in the air of California, accustomed as she was to the mild, soft and (to tell the truth) sometimes deliciously drowsy air of the British Columbia coast. The air she breathed in California somehow alarmed her. Creatures customarily breathing this air must, she thought, by nature, be buoyant, self-confident – all the things that Mrs. Golightly was not. Flowers bloomed, trees threw their shade, birds cleft the air, blue shone the sky, and Mrs. Golightly, dazzled, knocked her hat crooked as she got out of the car, and she caught the long quill on the door. She felt it snick. Oh, she thought, my darling quill!
No sooner had they alighted from their car, which was seized on all sides by hotel minions of great competence, than her husband was surrounded by prosperous men who said, “Well Tom! And how’s the boy! Say Tom this is great!” And Tom turned from side to side greeting, expansive, the most popular man in view. Mrs. Golightly had no idea that Tom had so many business friends that loved him dearly. And then with one accord these prosperous men turned their kindly attention to Mrs. Golightly. It overwhelmed her but it really warmed her heart to feel that they were all so pleased that she had come, and that she had come so far, and although she felt shy, travel-worn and tired, she tried to do her best and her face shone sweetly with a desire to please.
“Now,” said the biggest of the men, “the boys are waiting for you, Tom. Up in one three three. Yes in one three three. And Mrs. Golightly I want you to meet Mrs. Allyman of the Ladies’ Committee. Mrs. Allyman meet Mrs. Tom Golightly from British Columbia. Will you just register her please, we’ve planned a good time for the ladies, Tom . . . we’ll take good care of Tom, Mrs. Golightly.” And Mr. Golightly said, “But my wife . . .” and then a lot of people streamed in, and Tom and the other men said, “Well, well, well, so here’s Ed! Say, Ed . . .” and the words streamed past Mrs. Golightly and Tom was lost to her view.
A lump that felt large came in her throat because she was so shy, and Tom was not to be seen, but Mrs. Allyman was very kind and propelled her over to a group of ladies and said, “Oh this is the lady from British Columbia, the name is Golightly isn’t it? Mrs. Golightly I want you to meet Mrs. Finkel and Mrs. Connelly and Mrs. Magnus and – pardon me I didn’t catch the name – Mrs. Sloper from Colorado. Oh there’s the President’s wife Mrs. Bagg. Well Mrs. Bagg did you locate Mr. Bagg after all, no doubt he’s in one three three. Mrs. Golightly I’d like to have you meet Mrs. Bagg and Mrs. Simmons, Mrs. Bagg, Mrs. Finkel, Mrs. Bagg, and Mrs. Sloper, Mrs. Bagg. Mrs. Golightly is all the way from British Columbia, I think that’s where you come from, Mrs. Golightly?” Mrs. Allyman, speaking continually, seemed to say all this in one breath. By the time that Mrs. Golightly’s vision had cleared (although she felt rather dizzy), she saw that all these ladies were chic, and that they wore hats with very long quills, longer even than hers, which made her feel much more secure. However, her exhilaration was passing; she realized that she was quite tired, and she said, smiling sweetly, “I think I’d better find my room.” The hubbub in the hotel rotunda increased and increased.
When she reached her room she found that Tom had sent the bags up, and she thought she would unpack, and lie down for a bit to get rested, and then go down and have a quiet lunch. Perhaps she would see Tom somewhere. But first she went over to the window and looked out upon the incredible radiance of blue and green and gold, and the shine of the ethereal air. She looked at the great oak trees and the graceful mimosa trees and she thought, After I’ve tidied up and had some lunch I’ll just go and sit under one of those beautiful mimosa trees and drink in this . . . this largesse of air and scent and beauty. Mrs. Golightly had never seen anything like it. The bright air dazzled her, and made her sad and gay. Just then the telephone rang. A man’s strong and purposeful voice said, “Pardon me, but may I speak to Tom?”
“Oh I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Golightly, “Tom’s not here.”
“Can you tell me where I can get him?” asked the voice very urgently.
“I’m so sorry . . . ,” faltered Mrs. Golightly.
“Sorry to troub . . .” said the voice and the telephone clicked off.
There. The Convention had invaded the bedroom, the azure sky, and the drifting grace of the mimosa tree outside the bedroom window.
“I think,” said Mrs. Golightly to herself, “if I had a bath it would freshen me, I’m beginning to have a headache.” She went into the bathroom and gazed with pleasure on its paleness and coolness and shiningness, on the lavish array of towels, and an uneven picture entered and left her mind of the bathroom at home, full, it seemed to her, of the essentials for cleaning and dosing a father and mother and three small children, non-stop. The peace! The peace of it! She lay in the hot water regarding idly and alternately the soap which floated agreeably upon the water, and the window through which she saw blue sky of an astonishing azure.
The telephone rang. She dripped to the telephone. “Is that Mrs. Goodman?” purred a voice.
“No no, not Mrs. Goodman,” said Mrs. Golightly, wrapped in a towel.
“I’m so sorry,” purred the voice.
Mrs. Golightly got thankfully into the bath and turned on some more hot water.
The telephone rang.
She scrambled out, “Hello, hello?”
“There’s a wire at the desk for Mr. Golightly,” said a voice, “shall we send it up?”
“Oh dear, oh dear,” said Mrs. Golightly, wrapped in a towel, “well . . . not yet . . . not for half an hour.”
“Okay,” said the voice.
She got back into the bath. She closed her eyes in disturbed and recovered bliss.
The telephone rang.
“Hello, hello,” said Mrs. Golightly plaintively, wrapped in a very damp towel.
“Is that Mrs. Golightly?” said a kind voice.
“Yes, oh yes,” agreed Mrs. Golightly.
“Well, this is Mrs. Porter speaking and we’d be pleased if you’d join Mrs. Bagg and Mrs. Wilkins and me in the Tap Room and meet some of the ladies and have a little drink before lunch.”
“Oh thank you, thank you, that will be just lovely, I’d love to,” said Mrs. Golightly. Away went the sky, away went the birds, away went the bath, and away went the mimosa tree.
“Well, that will be lovely,” said Mrs. Porter, “in about half an hour?”
“Oh thank you, thank you, that will be lovely . . . !” said Mrs. Golightly, repeating herself considerably.
She put on her new gray flannel suit which was only slightly rumpled, and straightened the tip of her quill as best she could. She patted her rather aching forehead with cold water and felt somewhat refreshed. She paid particular and delicate attention to her face, and left her room looking and feeling quite pretty but agitated.
When she got down to the Tap Room everyone was having Old-Fashioneds and a little woman in gray came up and said, “Pardon me but are you Mrs. Golightly from British Columbia? Mrs. Golightly, I’d like to have you meet Mrs. Bagg (our President’s wife) and Mrs. Gillingham from St. Louis, Mrs. Wilkins from Pasadena; Mrs. Golightly, Mrs. Finkel and – pardon me? – Mrs. Connelly and Mrs. Allyman of Los Angeles.”
Mrs. Golightly felt confused, but she smiled at each lady in turn, saying “How do you do,” but neglected to remember or repeat their names because she was so inexperienced. She slipped into a chair and a waiter brought her an Old-Fashioned. She then looked round and tried hard to memorize the ladies nearly all of whom had stylish hats with tall quills on. Mrs. Bagg very smart. Mrs. Wilkins with pince-nez. Little Mrs. Porter in gray. Mrs. Simmons, Mrs. Connelly and Mrs. Finkel in short fur capes. Mrs. Finkel was lovely, of a gorgeous pale beauty. Mrs. Golightly sipped her Old-Fashioned and tried to feel very gay indeed. She and Mrs. Connelly who came from Chicago found that each had three small children, and before they had finished talking a waiter brought another Old-Fashioned. Then Mrs. Connelly had to speak to a lady on her other side, and Mrs. Golightly turned to the lady on her left. This lady was not talking to anyone but was quietly sipping her Old-Fashioned. By this time Mrs. Golightly was feeling unusually bold and responsible, and quite like a woman of the world. She thought to herself, Come now, everyone is being so lovely and trying to make everyone feel at home, and I must try too.
So she said to the strange lady, “I don’t think we met, did we? My name is Mrs. Golightly and I come from British Columbia.” And the lady said, “I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Mrs. Gampish and I come from Toledo, Ohio.” And Mrs. Golightly said, “Oh isn’t this a beautiful hotel and wouldn’t you like to see the gardens?” and then somehow everyone was moving.
When Mrs. Golightly got up she felt as free as air, but as if she was stepping a little high. When they reached the luncheon table there must have been about a hundred ladies and of course everyone was talking. Mrs. Golightly was seated between two perfectly charming people, Mrs. Carillo from Little Rock, Arkansas, and Mrs. Clark from Phoenix, Arizona. They both said what a cute English accent she had and she had to tell them because she was so truthful that she had never been in England. It was a little hard to talk as there was an orchestra and Mrs. Golightly and Mrs. Carillo and Mrs. Clark were seated just below the saxophones. Mrs. Golightly couldn’t quite make out whether she had no headache at all, or the worst headache of her life. This is lovely, she thought as she smiled back at her shouting companions, but how nice it would be to go upstairs and lie down. Just for half an hour after lunch, before I go and sit under the mimosa tree.
But when the luncheon was over, Mrs. Wilkins clapped her hands and said, “Now Ladies, cars are waiting at the door and w...
Mrs. Golightly was a shy woman. She lived in Vancouver. Her husband, Tommy Golightly, was not shy. He was personable and easy to like. He was a consulting engineer who was consulted a great deal by engineering firms, construction firms, logging firms in particular, any firm that seemed to have problems connected with traction. When he was not being consulted he played golf, tennis, or bridge according to whether the season was spring, summer, autumn or winter. Any time that was left over he spent with his wife and three small children of whom he was very fond. When he was with them, it seemed that that was what he liked best. He was a very extroverted sort of man, easy and likeable, and his little wife was so shy that it just was not fair.
At the period of which I write, Conventions had not begun to take their now-accepted place in life on the North American continent. I am speaking of Conventions with a capital C. Conventions with a small c have, of course, always been with us, but not as conspicuously now as formerly. In those days, when a man said rather importantly I am going to a Convention, someone was quite liable to ask What is a Convention? Everyone seemed to think that they must be quite a good thing, which of course they are. We now take them for granted.
Now Mr. Golightly was admirably adapted to going to Conventions. His memory for names and faces was good; he liked people, both in crowds and separately; he collected acquaintances who rapidly became friends. Everyone liked him.
One day he came home and said to his wife, “How would you like a trip to California?”
Mrs. Golightly gave a little gasp. Her face lighted up and she said, “Oh Tom . . . !”
“There’s a Western and Middle Western Convention meeting at Del Monte the first week of March, and you and I are going down,” said Mr. Golightly.
Mrs. Golightly’s face clouded and she said in quite a different tone and with great alarm, “Oh Tom . . . !”
“Well, what?” said her husband.
Mrs. Golightly began the sort of hesitation that so easily overcame her. “Well, Tom,” she said, “I’d have to get a hat, and I suppose a suit and a dinner dress, and Emmeline isn’t very good to leave with the children and you know I’m no good with crowds and people, I never know what to say, and –”
“Well, get a new hat,” said her husband, “get one of those hats I see women wearing with long quills on. And get a new dress. Get twenty new dresses. And Emmeline’s fine with the children and what you need’s a change, and I’m the only one in my profession invited from British Columbia. You get a hat with the longest feather in town and a nice dinner dress!” Mr. Golightly looked fondly at his wife and saw with new eyes that she appeared anxious and not quite as pretty as she sometimes was. He kissed her and she promised that she would get the new hat, but he did not know how terrified she was of the Convention and all the crowds of people, and that she suffered at the very thought of going. She could get along all right at home, but small talk with strangers – oh, poor Mrs. Golightly. These things certainly are not fair. However, she got the dress, and a new hat with the longest quill in town. She spent a long time at the hairdresser’s; and how pretty she looked and how disturbed she felt! “I’ll break the quill every time I get into the car, Tom,” she said.
“Non-sense,” said her husband, and they set off in the car for California.
Mrs. Golightly travelled in an old knitted suit and a felt hat pulled down on her head in observance of a theory which she had inherited from her mother that you must never wear good clothes when travelling. The night before arriving at Del Monte a car passing them at high speed side-swiped them ever so little, but the small damage and fuss that resulted from that delayed them a good deal. The result was that they got late to bed that night, slept little, rose early, and had to do three hundred miles before lunch. Mrs. Golightly began to feel very tired in spite of some mounting excitement, but this did not make her forget to ask her husband to stop at the outskirts of Del Monte so that she could take her new hat out of the bag and put it on. Mr. Golightly was delighted with the way his wife was joining in the spirit of the thing. “Good girl,” he said, which pleased her, and neither of them noticed that nothing looked right about Mrs. Golightly except her hat, and even smart hats, worn under those circumstances, look wrong.
How impressive it was to Mrs. Golightly, supported by her hat, to approach the portals of the fashionable Del Monte Hotel. Large cars reclined in rows, some sparkling, some dimmed by a film of dust, all of them costly. Radiant men and women, expensively dressed (the inheritors of the earth, evidently), strolled about without a care in the world, or basked on the patio, scrutinizing new arrivals with experienced eyes. Mrs. Golightly had already felt something formidably buoyant in the air of California, accustomed as she was to the mild, soft and (to tell the truth) sometimes deliciously drowsy air of the British Columbia coast. The air she breathed in California somehow alarmed her. Creatures customarily breathing this air must, she thought, by nature, be buoyant, self-confident – all the things that Mrs. Golightly was not. Flowers bloomed, trees threw their shade, birds cleft the air, blue shone the sky, and Mrs. Golightly, dazzled, knocked her hat crooked as she got out of the car, and she caught the long quill on the door. She felt it snick. Oh, she thought, my darling quill!
No sooner had they alighted from their car, which was seized on all sides by hotel minions of great competence, than her husband was surrounded by prosperous men who said, “Well Tom! And how’s the boy! Say Tom this is great!” And Tom turned from side to side greeting, expansive, the most popular man in view. Mrs. Golightly had no idea that Tom had so many business friends that loved him dearly. And then with one accord these prosperous men turned their kindly attention to Mrs. Golightly. It overwhelmed her but it really warmed her heart to feel that they were all so pleased that she had come, and that she had come so far, and although she felt shy, travel-worn and tired, she tried to do her best and her face shone sweetly with a desire to please.
“Now,” said the biggest of the men, “the boys are waiting for you, Tom. Up in one three three. Yes in one three three. And Mrs. Golightly I want you to meet Mrs. Allyman of the Ladies’ Committee. Mrs. Allyman meet Mrs. Tom Golightly from British Columbia. Will you just register her please, we’ve planned a good time for the ladies, Tom . . . we’ll take good care of Tom, Mrs. Golightly.” And Mr. Golightly said, “But my wife . . .” and then a lot of people streamed in, and Tom and the other men said, “Well, well, well, so here’s Ed! Say, Ed . . .” and the words streamed past Mrs. Golightly and Tom was lost to her view.
A lump that felt large came in her throat because she was so shy, and Tom was not to be seen, but Mrs. Allyman was very kind and propelled her over to a group of ladies and said, “Oh this is the lady from British Columbia, the name is Golightly isn’t it? Mrs. Golightly I want you to meet Mrs. Finkel and Mrs. Connelly and Mrs. Magnus and – pardon me I didn’t catch the name – Mrs. Sloper from Colorado. Oh there’s the President’s wife Mrs. Bagg. Well Mrs. Bagg did you locate Mr. Bagg after all, no doubt he’s in one three three. Mrs. Golightly I’d like to have you meet Mrs. Bagg and Mrs. Simmons, Mrs. Bagg, Mrs. Finkel, Mrs. Bagg, and Mrs. Sloper, Mrs. Bagg. Mrs. Golightly is all the way from British Columbia, I think that’s where you come from, Mrs. Golightly?” Mrs. Allyman, speaking continually, seemed to say all this in one breath. By the time that Mrs. Golightly’s vision had cleared (although she felt rather dizzy), she saw that all these ladies were chic, and that they wore hats with very long quills, longer even than hers, which made her feel much more secure. However, her exhilaration was passing; she realized that she was quite tired, and she said, smiling sweetly, “I think I’d better find my room.” The hubbub in the hotel rotunda increased and increased.
When she reached her room she found that Tom had sent the bags up, and she thought she would unpack, and lie down for a bit to get rested, and then go down and have a quiet lunch. Perhaps she would see Tom somewhere. But first she went over to the window and looked out upon the incredible radiance of blue and green and gold, and the shine of the ethereal air. She looked at the great oak trees and the graceful mimosa trees and she thought, After I’ve tidied up and had some lunch I’ll just go and sit under one of those beautiful mimosa trees and drink in this . . . this largesse of air and scent and beauty. Mrs. Golightly had never seen anything like it. The bright air dazzled her, and made her sad and gay. Just then the telephone rang. A man’s strong and purposeful voice said, “Pardon me, but may I speak to Tom?”
“Oh I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Golightly, “Tom’s not here.”
“Can you tell me where I can get him?” asked the voice very urgently.
“I’m so sorry . . . ,” faltered Mrs. Golightly.
“Sorry to troub . . .” said the voice and the telephone clicked off.
There. The Convention had invaded the bedroom, the azure sky, and the drifting grace of the mimosa tree outside the bedroom window.
“I think,” said Mrs. Golightly to herself, “if I had a bath it would freshen me, I’m beginning to have a headache.” She went into the bathroom and gazed with pleasure on its paleness and coolness and shiningness, on the lavish array of towels, and an uneven picture entered and left her mind of the bathroom at home, full, it seemed to her, of the essentials for cleaning and dosing a father and mother and three small children, non-stop. The peace! The peace of it! She lay in the hot water regarding idly and alternately the soap which floated agreeably upon the water, and the window through which she saw blue sky of an astonishing azure.
The telephone rang. She dripped to the telephone. “Is that Mrs. Goodman?” purred a voice.
“No no, not Mrs. Goodman,” said Mrs. Golightly, wrapped in a towel.
“I’m so sorry,” purred the voice.
Mrs. Golightly got thankfully into the bath and turned on some more hot water.
The telephone rang.
She scrambled out, “Hello, hello?”
“There’s a wire at the desk for Mr. Golightly,” said a voice, “shall we send it up?”
“Oh dear, oh dear,” said Mrs. Golightly, wrapped in a towel, “well . . . not yet . . . not for half an hour.”
“Okay,” said the voice.
She got back into the bath. She closed her eyes in disturbed and recovered bliss.
The telephone rang.
“Hello, hello,” said Mrs. Golightly plaintively, wrapped in a very damp towel.
“Is that Mrs. Golightly?” said a kind voice.
“Yes, oh yes,” agreed Mrs. Golightly.
“Well, this is Mrs. Porter speaking and we’d be pleased if you’d join Mrs. Bagg and Mrs. Wilkins and me in the Tap Room and meet some of the ladies and have a little drink before lunch.”
“Oh thank you, thank you, that will be just lovely, I’d love to,” said Mrs. Golightly. Away went the sky, away went the birds, away went the bath, and away went the mimosa tree.
“Well, that will be lovely,” said Mrs. Porter, “in about half an hour?”
“Oh thank you, thank you, that will be lovely . . . !” said Mrs. Golightly, repeating herself considerably.
She put on her new gray flannel suit which was only slightly rumpled, and straightened the tip of her quill as best she could. She patted her rather aching forehead with cold water and felt somewhat refreshed. She paid particular and delicate attention to her face, and left her room looking and feeling quite pretty but agitated.
When she got down to the Tap Room everyone was having Old-Fashioneds and a little woman in gray came up and said, “Pardon me but are you Mrs. Golightly from British Columbia? Mrs. Golightly, I’d like to have you meet Mrs. Bagg (our President’s wife) and Mrs. Gillingham from St. Louis, Mrs. Wilkins from Pasadena; Mrs. Golightly, Mrs. Finkel and – pardon me? – Mrs. Connelly and Mrs. Allyman of Los Angeles.”
Mrs. Golightly felt confused, but she smiled at each lady in turn, saying “How do you do,” but neglected to remember or repeat their names because she was so inexperienced. She slipped into a chair and a waiter brought her an Old-Fashioned. She then looked round and tried hard to memorize the ladies nearly all of whom had stylish hats with tall quills on. Mrs. Bagg very smart. Mrs. Wilkins with pince-nez. Little Mrs. Porter in gray. Mrs. Simmons, Mrs. Connelly and Mrs. Finkel in short fur capes. Mrs. Finkel was lovely, of a gorgeous pale beauty. Mrs. Golightly sipped her Old-Fashioned and tried to feel very gay indeed. She and Mrs. Connelly who came from Chicago found that each had three small children, and before they had finished talking a waiter brought another Old-Fashioned. Then Mrs. Connelly had to speak to a lady on her other side, and Mrs. Golightly turned to the lady on her left. This lady was not talking to anyone but was quietly sipping her Old-Fashioned. By this time Mrs. Golightly was feeling unusually bold and responsible, and quite like a woman of the world. She thought to herself, Come now, everyone is being so lovely and trying to make everyone feel at home, and I must try too.
So she said to the strange lady, “I don’t think we met, did we? My name is Mrs. Golightly and I come from British Columbia.” And the lady said, “I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Mrs. Gampish and I come from Toledo, Ohio.” And Mrs. Golightly said, “Oh isn’t this a beautiful hotel and wouldn’t you like to see the gardens?” and then somehow everyone was moving.
When Mrs. Golightly got up she felt as free as air, but as if she was stepping a little high. When they reached the luncheon table there must have been about a hundred ladies and of course everyone was talking. Mrs. Golightly was seated between two perfectly charming people, Mrs. Carillo from Little Rock, Arkansas, and Mrs. Clark from Phoenix, Arizona. They both said what a cute English accent she had and she had to tell them because she was so truthful that she had never been in England. It was a little hard to talk as there was an orchestra and Mrs. Golightly and Mrs. Carillo and Mrs. Clark were seated just below the saxophones. Mrs. Golightly couldn’t quite make out whether she had no headache at all, or the worst headache of her life. This is lovely, she thought as she smiled back at her shouting companions, but how nice it would be to go upstairs and lie down. Just for half an hour after lunch, before I go and sit under the mimosa tree.
But when the luncheon was over, Mrs. Wilkins clapped her hands and said, “Now Ladies, cars are waiting at the door and w...
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- EditoreNew Canadian Library
- Data di pubblicazione2010
- ISBN 10 0771094809
- ISBN 13 9780771094804
- RilegaturaCopertina flessibile
- Numero di pagine248
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Mrs. Golightly and Other Stories
Editore:
New Canadian Library
(2010)
ISBN 10: 0771094809
ISBN 13: 9780771094804
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Quantità: 1
Da:
Valutazione libreria
Descrizione libro Condizione: New. Codice articolo 22094902-n
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EUR 36,13
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