PART – II – FOUNDATION ENGLISH

I YEAR – I SEMESTER – ENGLISH – I

UNIT – IV

1. SELECTED SNOBBERIES – ALDOUS HUXLEY

2. IN SEARCH OF GOD – SWAMI VIVEKANANDA

3. A CUP OF TEA – KATHERINE MANSFIELD

4. BLENDING WORDS

1
 1. SELECTED SNOBBERIES
- ALDOUS HUXLEY
All men are snobs about something. One is almost tempted to add. There
is nothing about which men cannot feel snobbish. But this would doubtless be an
exaggeration. There are certain disfiguring and mortal diseases about which there
has probably never been any snobbery. I cannot imagine, for example, that there
are any leprosy-snobs. More picturesque disease, even when they are dangerous,
and less dangerous diseases, particularly when they are the disease of the rich,
can be and very frequently are a source of Snow be self-importance. I have met
several adolescent consumption-snobs, who thought that it would be romantic to
fade away in the flower of youth, like Keats or Marie Bashkirtseff. Alas, the final
stage of the consumptive fadings is generally a good deal less romantic than these
ingenuous young tubercle-snobs seem to imagine. To anyone who has actually
witnessed this final stage, the complacent Poeticizing of these adolescents must
seem as exasperating as they are profoundly pathetic. In the case of those
commoner disease-snobs, whose claim to distinction is that they suffer from one
of the maladies of the rich, exasperation is not tempered by very much sympathy.
People who possess sufficient leisure, sufficient wealth, mot to mention sufficient
health, to go traveling from spa to spa, from doctor to fashionable doctor, in
search of cures from problematical diseases (which, in so far as they exist at all,
probably have their sources in overheating) cannot expect us to be very lavish in
our solicitude and pity.

Disease-snobbery is only one out of a great multitude of snobberies, now

some now others take pride of place in general esteem. For snobberies ebb and
flow; their empire rises, declines, and falls in the most approved historical
manner. What were good snobberies a hundred years ago are now out of fashion.
Thus, the snobbery of the family is everywhere on the decline. The snobbery of
ignorance and stupidity unique, so far as I know, in the whole history.

Modernity-snobbery, though not exclusive to our age, has come to assume

unprecedented importance. The reasons for this are simple and of a strictly
economic character. Thanks to modern machinery, production is out of running
consumption. Organized waste among consumers is the first condition of our
industrial prosperity. The sooner a consumer throws away the object he has
bought and buys another, the better for the producer must do his bit by producing

2
nothing but the most perishable articles. The man who builds a skyscraper to last
for more than forty years is a traitor to the building trade. The words are those of
great American contractors. Substitute motor car, boot, suit of clothes, etc., for a
skyscraper, and one year, three months, six months, and so on for forty years, and
you have the gospel of any leader of any modern industry. The moderinity-snob,
it is obvious, is the industrialist’s best friend. Modernity-snobs naturally tend to
throw away their old possession and buy new ones at a greater rate than those
who are not modernity snobs. Therefore it is in the producer’s interest to
encourage modernity-snobbery which is in fact he does do — on an enormous
scale and to the tune of millions and millions a year-by means of advertising. The
newspaper does their best to help them, and to the food of advertisement is added
a flood of less directly paid-for propaganda in favour of modernity-snobbery. The
public is taught that up-to-dateness is one of the first duties of man. Docile, it
accepts the reiterated suggestion. We are all modernity-snobs now.

Most of us are also art-snobs. There are two varieties of art-snobbery —

the platonic and the unplatonic. Platonic art-snobbery merely ‘take an interest’ in
art. Unplatonic art-snobs go further and actually buy art. Platonic art-snobbery is
a branch of culture-snobbery. Unplatonic art-snobbery is hybrid or mule; for it is
simultaneously a sub-species of culture-snobbery and of possession-snobbery. A
collection of work of art is a collection of cultural symbol and culture still carry
social prestige it is also a collection of wealth-symbol for an art-collection
represent money more effectively than a whole fleet of motor cars.

The value of snobbery in general, its humanistic point, consist of its power
to stimulate activity. A society with plenty of snobberies is like a dog with plenty
of fleas: it is not likely to become comatose. Every snobbery demands of its
devotee's unceasing efforts, a succession of sacrifices. The society snob must be
perpetually lion-hunting; the modernity-snob can never rest from trying to be up-
to-date. Swiss doctors and the best that has been thought or said must be the daily
and nightly preoccupation of all the snobs respectively of disease and culture.

If we regard activity as being in itself a good; for all provoke activity. If

with the Buddhists, we regard all activity in this world of illusion as bad, then we
shall condemn all snobberies out of hand. Most of us, I suppose, take up our
position somewhere between the two extremes. We regard some activities as
good, others as indifferent or downright bad. Our approval will be given only to

3
such snobberies as excite what we regard as the better activities; the others we
shall tolerate or detest. For example, most professional intellectuals will approve
of culture-snobbery (even while intensely disliking most individual culture-
snobs), because it compels things of the mind and so helps to make the world less
dangerously unsafe for ideas than it otherwise might have been. A manufacturer
of motor cars, on the other hand, will rank the robbery of possessions above
culture-snobbery; he will do his best to persuade people that those who have
fewer possessions, particularly possessions on four wheels, are inferior to those
who have more possessions. And so on. Each hierarchy culminates in its own
particular Pope.

4
5
6
7
 A CUP OF TEA
- Katherine Mansfield

Rosemary Fell was not exactly beautiful. No, you couldn’t 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 . . . artists—
quaint 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. No, not
Peter—Michael. And her husband absolutely adored her. They were rich, really
rich, not just comfortably well off, which is odious and stuffy and sounds like
one’s grandparents. But if Rosemary wanted to shop she would go to Paris as you
and I would go to Bond Street. If she wanted to buy flowers, the car pulled up at
that perfect shop in Regent Street, and Rosemary inside the shop just gazed in her
dazzled, rather exotic way, and said: “I want those and those and those. Give me
four bunches of those. And that jar of roses. Yes, I’ll have all the roses in the jar.
No, no lilac. I hate lilac. It’s got no shape.” The attendant bowed and put the lilac
out of sight, as though this was only too true; lilac was dreadfully shapeless. “Give
me those stumpy little tulips. Those red and white ones.” And she was followed
to the car by a thin shopgirl staggering under an 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. 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 . . .
“You see, madam,” he would explain in his low respectful tones, “I 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 . . . .” 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 round his neck. Her

8
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 couldn’t 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: “If I may
venture to point out to madam, the flowers on the little lady’s bodice.”
“Charming!” Rosemary admired the flowers. But what was the price? For
a moment the shopman did not seem to hear. Then a murmur reached her.
“Twenty-eight guineas, madam.”
“Twenty-eight guineas.” 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 a plump tea-kettle like a plump hen above the
shopman’s head, and her voice was dreamy as she answered: “Well, keep it for
me—will you? I’ll . . .”
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 for
ever.
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. She’d 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 it’s
awful. One oughtn’t 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,
shadowy—where had she come from?—was standing at Rosemary’s elbow and
a voice like a sigh, almost like a sob, breathed: “Madam, may I speak to you a
moment?”
“Speak to me?” Rosemary turned. She saw a little battered creature with
enormous eyes, someone quite young, no older than herself, who clutched at her

9
coat-collar with reddened hands, and shivered as though she had just come out of
the water.
“M-madam,” stammered the voice. “Would you let me have the price of a
cup of tea?”
“A cup of tea?” There was something simple, sincere in that voice; it
wasn’t in the least the voice of a beggar. “Then have you no money at all?” asked
Rosemary.
“None, madam,” came the answer.
“How extraordinary!” 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 novel by Dostoevsky,
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: “I simply took her home with me,” as she stepped
forward and said to that dim person beside her: “Come home to tea with me.”
The girl drew back startled. She even stopped shivering for a moment.
Rosemary put out a hand and touched her arm. “I mean it,” she said, smiling. And
she felt how simple and kind her smile was. “Why won’t you? Do. Come home
with me now in my car and have tea.”
“You—you don’t mean it, madam,” said the girl, and there was pain in her
voice.
“But I do,” cried Rosemary. “I want you to. To please me. Come along.”
The girl put her fingers to her lips and her eyes devoured Rosemary. “You’re—
you’re not taking me to the police station?” she stammered.
“The police station!” Rosemary laughed out. “Why should I be so cruel? No, I
only want to make you warm and to hear— anything you care to tell me.”
Hungry people are easily led. The footman held the door of the car open,
and a moment later they were skimming through the dusk.
“There!” said Rosemary. She had a feeling of triumph as she slipped her
hand through the velvet strap. She could have said, “Now I’ve got you,” 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 that—wonderful things did
happen in life, that—fairy godmothers were real, that— rich people had hearts,
and that women were sisters. She turned impulsively, saying: “Don’t be
frightened. After all, why shouldn’t you come back with me? We’re both women.
If I’m the more fortunate, you ought to expect . . .”

10
 But happily at that moment, for she didn’t 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 rich little girl in her nursery with all the cupboards
to open, all the boxes to unpack.
“Come, come upstairs,” said Rosemary, longing to begin to be generous.
“Come up to my room.” 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 “There!” 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 didn’t
mind that.
“Come and sit down,” she cried, dragging her big chair up to the fire, “in
this comfy chair. Come and get warm. You look so dreadfully cold.”
“I daren’t, madam,” said the girl, and she edged backwards.
“Oh, please,”—Rosemary ran forward— “you mustn’t be frightened, you
mustn’t, really. Sit down, and when I’ve taken off my things we shall go into the
next room and have tea and be cosy. Why are you afraid?” And gently she half
pushed the thin figure into its 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 wouldn’t acknowledge it. She leant over her, saying:
“Won’t you take off your hat? Your pretty hair is all wet. And one is so much
more comfortable without a hat, isn’t one?”
There was a whisper that sounded like “Very good, madam,” and the
crushed hat was taken off.
“And let me help you off with your coat, too,” 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
Rosemary’s 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

11
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: “I’m very sorry, madam, but I’m going to faint. I shall go off, madam,
if I don’t have something.”
“Good heavens, how thoughtless I am!” Rosemary rushed to the bell.
“Tea! Tea at once! And some brandy immediately!”
The maid was gone again, but the girl almost cried out. “No, I don’t want
no brandy. I never drink brandy. It’s a cup of tea I want, madam.” And she burst
into tears.
It was a terrible and fascinating moment. Rosemary knelt beside her chair.
“Don’t cry, poor little thing,” she said. “Don’t cry.” And she gave the other
her lace handkerchief. She really was touched beyond words. She put her arm
round those thin, bird-like shoulders.
Now at last the other forgot to be shy, forgot everything except that they
were both women, and gasped out: “I can’t go on no longer like this. I can’t bear
it. I can’t bear it. I shall do away with myself. I can’t bear no more.”
“You shan’t have to. I’ll look after you. Don’t cry any more. Don’t you see
what a good thing it was that you met me? We’ll have tea and you’ll tell me
everything. And I shall arrange something. I promise. Do stop crying. It’s so
exhausting. Please!”
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 didn’t eat; she smoked and looked away tactfully
so that the other should not be shy.
And really the effect of that slight meal was marvellous. 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.
“And when did you have your last meal?” she asked softly.
But at that moment the door-handle turned. “Rosemary, may I come in?”
It was Philip.
“Of course.”
He came in. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said, and stopped and stared.
“It’s quite all right,” said Rosemary smiling. “This is my friend, Miss—”

12
 “Smith, madam,” said the languid figure, who was strangely still and
unafraid.
“Smith,” said Rosemary. “We are going to have a little talk.”
“Oh, yes,” said Philip. “Quite,” 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. “It’s a beastly
afternoon,” he said curiously, still looking at that listless figure, looking at its
hands and boots, and then at Rosemary again.
“Yes, isn’t it?” said Rosemary enthusiastically. “Vile.”
Philip smiled his charming smile. “As a matter of fact,” said he, “I wanted
you to come into the library for a moment. Would you? Will Miss Smith excuse
us?”
The big eyes were raised to him, but Rosemary answered for her. “Of
course she will.” And they went out of the room together.
“I say,” said Philip, when they were alone. “Explain. Who is she? What
does it all mean?”
Rosemary, laughing, leaned against the door and said: “I picked her up in
Curzon Street. Really. She’s a real pick-up. She asked me for the price of a cup
of tea, and I brought her home with me.”
“But what on earth are you going to do with her?” cried Philip.
“Be nice to her,” said Rosemary quickly. “Be frightfully nice to her. Look
after her. I don’t know how. We haven’t talked yet. But show her—treat her—
make her feel——”
“My darling girl,” said Philip, “you’re quite mad, you know. It simply can’t
be done.”
“I knew you’d say that,” retorted Rosemary. “Why not? I want to. Isn’t that
a reason? And besides, one’s always reading about these things. I decided——”
“But,” said Philip slowly, and he cut the end of a cigar, “she’s so
astonishingly pretty.”
“Pretty?” Rosemary was so surprised that she blushed. “Do you think so?
I—I hadn’t thought about it.”
“Good Lord!” Philip struck a match. “She’s absolutely lovely. Look again,
my child. I was bowled over when I came into your room just now. However . . .
I think you’re making a ghastly mistake. Sorry, darling, if I’m 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 Milliner’s Gazette.”
“You absurd creature!” 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.

13
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 holding 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.
“I only wanted to tell you,” said she, and she leaned against the door again
and looked at him with her dazzled exotic gaze, “Miss Smith won’t dine with us
tonight.”
Philip put down the paper. “Oh, what’s happened? Previous engagement?”
Rosemary came over and sat down on his knee. “She insisted on going,”
said she, “so I gave the poor little thing a present of money. I couldn’t keep her
against her will, could I?” 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 Philip’s cheeks.
“Do you like me?” said she, and her tone, sweet, husky, troubled him.
“I like you awfully,” he said, and he held her tighter. “Kiss me.”
There was a pause. Then Rosemary said dreamily. “I saw a fascinating
little box today. It cost twenty-eight guineas. May I have it?”
Philip jumped her on his knee. “You may, little wasteful one,” said he.
But that was not really what Rosemary wanted to say.
“Philip,” she whispered, and she pressed his head against her bosom, “am
I pretty?”

14