as first published in

Scribner's Magazine, July, 1891

The view from Mrs. Manstey's window was not a striking one, but

to her at least it was full of interest and beauty. Mrs. Manstey

occupied the back room on the third floor of a New York boarding-

house, in a street where the ash-barrels lingered late on the

sidewalk and the gaps in the pavement would have staggered a

Quintus Curtius. She was the widow of a clerk in a large

wholesale house, and his death had left her alone, for her only

daughter had married in California, and could not afford the long

journey to New York to see her mother. Mrs. Manstey, perhaps,

might have joined her daughter in the West, but they had now been

so many years apart that they had ceased to feel any need of each

other's society, and their intercourse had long been limited to

the exchange of a few perfunctory letters, written with

indifference by the daughter, and with difficulty by Mrs.

Manstey, whose right hand was growing stiff with gout. Even had

she felt a stronger desire for her daughter's companionship, Mrs.

Manstey's increasing infirmity, which caused her to dread the

three flights of stairs between her room and the street, would

have given her pause on the eve of undertaking so long a journey;

and without perhaps, formulating these reasons she had long since

accepted as a matter of course her solitary life in New York.

She was, indeed, not quite lonely, for a few friends still toiled

up now and then to her room; but their visits grew rare as the

years went by. Mrs. Manstey had never been a sociable woman, and

during her husband's lifetime his companionship had been all-

sufficient to her. For many years she had cherished a desire to

live in the country, to have a hen-house and a garden; but this

longing had faded with age, leaving only in the breast of the

uncommunicative old woman a vague tenderness for plants and

animals. It was, perhaps, this tenderness which made her cling

so fervently to her view from her window, a view in which the

most optimistic eye would at first have failed to discover

anything admirable.

Mrs. Manstey, from her coign of vantage (a slightly projecting

bow-window where she nursed an ivy and a succession of

unwholesome-looking bulbs), looked out first upon the yard of her

own dwelling, of which, however, she could get but a restricted

glimpse. Still, her gaze took in the topmost boughs of the

ailanthus below her window, and she knew how early each year the

clump of dicentra strung its bending stalk with hearts of pink.

But of greater interest were the yards beyond. Being for the

most part attached to boarding-houses they were in a state of

chronic untidiness and fluttering, on certain days of the week,

with miscellaneous garments and frayed table-cloths. In spite of

this Mrs. Manstey found much to admire in the long vista which

she commanded. Some of the yards were, indeed, but stony wastes,

with grass in the cracks of the pavement and no shade in spring

save that afforded by the intermittent leafage of the clothes-

lines. These yards Mrs. Manstey disapproved of, but the others,

the green ones, she loved. She had grown used to their disorder;

the broken barrels, the empty bottles and paths unswept no longer

annoyed her; hers was the happy faculty of dwelling on the

pleasanter side of the prospect before her.

In the very next enclosure did not a magnolia open its hard white

flowers against the watery blue of April? And was there not, a

little way down the line, a fence foamed over every May be lilac

waves of wistaria? Farther still, a horse-chestnut lifted its

candelabra of buff and pink blossoms above broad fans of foliage;

while in the opposite yard June was sweet with the breath of a

neglected syringa, which persisted in growing in spite of the

countless obstacles opposed to its welfare.

But if nature occupied the front rank in Mrs. Manstey's view,

there was much of a more personal character to interest her in

the aspect of the houses and their inmates. She deeply

disapproved of the mustard-colored curtains which had lately been

hung in the doctor's window opposite; but she glowed with

pleasure when the house farther down had its old bricks washed

with a coat of paint. The occupants of the houses did not often

show themselves at the back windows, but the servants were always

in sight. Noisy slatterns, Mrs. Manstey pronounced the greater

number; she knew their ways and hated them. But to the quiet

cook in the newly painted house, whose mistress bullied her, and

who secretly fed the stray cats at nightfall, Mrs. Manstey's

warmest sympathies were given. On one occasion her feelings were

racked by the neglect of a housemaid, who for two days forgot to

feed the parrot committed to her care. On the third day, Mrs.

Manstey, in spite of her gouty hand, had just penned a letter,

beginning: "Madam, it is now three days since your parrot has

been fed," when the forgetful maid appeared at the window with a

cup of seed in her hand.

But in Mrs. Manstey's more meditative moods it was the narrowing

perspective of far-off yards which pleased her best. She loved,

at twilight, when the distant brown-stone spire seemed melting in

the fluid yellow of the west, to lose herself in vague memories

of a trip to Europe, made years ago, and now reduced in her

mind's eye to a pale phantasmagoria of indistinct steeples and

dreamy skies. Perhaps at heart Mrs. Manstey was an artist; at

all events she was sensible of many changes of color unnoticed by

the average eye, and dear to her as the green of early spring was

the black lattice of branches against a cold sulphur sky at the

close of a snowy day. She enjoyed, also, the sunny thaws of

March, when patches of earth showed through the snow, like ink-

spots spreading on a sheet of white blotting-paper; and, better

still, the haze of boughs, leafless but swollen, which replaced

the clear-cut tracery of winter. She even watched with a certain

interest the trail of smoke from a far-off factory chimney, and

missed a detail in the landscape when the factory was closed and

the smoke disappeared.

Mrs. Manstey, in the long hours which she spent at her window,

was not idle. She read a little, and knitted numberless

stockings; but the view surrounded and shaped her life as the sea

does a lonely island. When her rare callers came it was

difficult for her to detach herself from the contemplation of the

opposite window-washing, or the scrutiny of certain green points

in a neighboring flower-bed which might, or might not, turn into

hyacinths, while she feigned an interest in her visitor's

anecdotes about some unknown grandchild. Mrs. Manstey's real

friends were the denizens of the yards, the hyacinths, the

magnolia, the green parrot, the maid who fed the cats, the doctor

who studied late behind his mustard-colored curtains; and the

confidant of her tenderer musings was the church-spire floating

in the sunset.

One April day, as she sat in her usual place, with knitting cast

aside and eyes fixed on the blue sky mottled with round clouds, a

knock at the door announced the entrance of her landlady. Mrs.

Manstey did not care for her landlady, but she submitted to her

visits with ladylike resignation. To-day, however, it seemed

harder than usual to turn from the blue sky and the blossoming

magnolia to Mrs. Sampson's unsuggestive face, and Mrs. Manstey

was conscious of a distinct effort as she did so.

"The magnolia is out earlier than usual this year, Mrs. Sampson,"

she remarked, yielding to a rare impulse, for she seldom alluded

to the absorbing interest of her life. In the first place it was

a topic not likely to appeal to her visitors and, besides, she

lacked the power of expression and could not have given utterance

to her feelings had she wished to.

"The what, Mrs. Manstey?" inquired the landlady, glancing about

the room as if to find there the explanation of Mrs. Manstey's

statement.

"The magnolia in the next yard--in Mrs. Black's yard," Mrs.

Manstey repeated.

"Is it, indeed? I didn't know there was a magnolia there," said

Mrs. Sampson, carelessly. Mrs. Manstey looked at her; she did

not know that there was a magnolia in the next yard!

"By the way," Mrs. Sampson continued, "speaking of Mrs. Black

reminds me that the work on the extension is to begin next week."

"The what?" it was Mrs. Manstey's turn to ask.

"The extension," said Mrs. Sampson, nodding her head in the

direction of the ignored magnolia. "You knew, of course, that

Mrs. Black was going to build an extension to her house? Yes,

ma'am. I hear it is to run right back to the end of the yard.

How she can afford to build an extension in these hard times I

don't see; but she always was crazy about building. She used to

keep a boarding-house in Seventeenth Street, and she nearly

ruined herself then by sticking out bow-windows and what not; I

should have thought that would have cured her of building, but I

guess it's a disease, like drink. Anyhow, the work is to begin

on Monday."

Mrs. Manstey had grown pale. She always spoke slowly, so the

landlady did not heed the long pause which followed. At last

Mrs. Manstey said: "Do you know how high the extension will be?"

"That's the most absurd part of it. The extension is to be built

right up to the roof of the main building; now, did you ever?"

"Mrs. Manstey paused again. "Won't it be a great annoyance to

you, Mrs. Sampson?" she asked.

"I should say it would. But there's no help for it; if people

have got a mind to build extensions there's no law to prevent

'em, that I'm aware of." Mrs. Manstey, knowing this, was silent.

"There is no help for it," Mrs. Sampson repeated, "but if I AM a

church member, I wouldn't be so sorry if it ruined Eliza Black.

Well, good-day, Mrs. Manstey; I'm glad to find you so

comfortable."

So comfortable--so comfortable! Left to herself the old woman

turned once more to the window. How lovely the view was that

day! The blue sky with its round clouds shed a brightness over

everything; the ailanthus had put on a tinge of yellow-green, the

hyacinths were budding, the magnolia flowers looked more than

ever like rosettes carved in alabaster. Soon the wistaria would

bloom, then the horse-chestnut; but not for her. Between her

eyes and them a barrier of brick and mortar would swiftly rise;

presently even the spire would disappear, and all her radiant

world be blotted out. Mrs. Manstey sent away untouched the

dinner-tray brought to her that evening. She lingered in the

window until the windy sunset died in bat-colored dusk; then,

going to bed, she lay sleepless all night.

Early the next day she was up and at the window. It was raining,

but even through the slanting gray gauze the scene had its charm--

and then the rain was so good for the trees. She had noticed

the day before that the ailanthus was growing dusty.

"Of course I might move," said Mrs. Manstey aloud, and turning

from the window she looked about her room. She might move, of

course; so might she be flayed alive; but she was not likely to

survive either operation. The room, though far less important to

her happiness than the view, was as much a part of her existence.

She had lived in it seventeen years. She knew every stain on the

wall-paper, every rent in the carpet; the light fell in a certain

way on her engravings, her books had grown shabby on their

shelves, her bulbs and ivy were used to their window and knew

which way to lean to the sun. "We are all too old to move," she

said.

That afternoon it cleared. Wet and radiant the blue reappeared

through torn rags of cloud; the ailanthus sparkled; the earth in

the flower-borders looked rich and warm. It was Thursday, and on

Monday the building of the extension was to begin.

On Sunday afternoon a card was brought to Mrs. Black, as she was

engaged in gathering up the fragments of the boarders' dinner in

the basement. The card, black-edged, bore Mrs. Manstey's name.

"One of Mrs. Sampson's boarders; wants to move, I suppose. Well,

I can give her a room next year in the extension. Dinah," said

Mrs. Black, "tell the lady I'll be upstairs in a minute."

Mrs. Black found Mrs. Manstey standing in the long parlor

garnished with statuettes and antimacassars; in that house she

could not sit down.

Stooping hurriedly to open the register, which let out a cloud of

dust, Mrs. Black advanced on her visitor.

"I'm happy to meet you, Mrs. Manstey; take a seat, please," the

landlady remarked in her prosperous voice, the voice of a woman

who can afford to build extensions. There was no help for it;

Mrs. Manstey sat down.

"Is there anything I can do for you, ma'am?" Mrs. Black

continued. "My house is full at present, but I am going to build

an extension, and--"

"It is about the extension that I wish to speak," said Mrs.

Manstey, suddenly. "I am a poor woman, Mrs. Black, and I have

never been a happy one. I shall have to talk about myself first

to--to make you understand."

Mrs. Black, astonished but imperturbable, bowed at this

parenthesis.

"I never had what I wanted," Mrs. Manstey continued. "It was

always one disappointment after another. For years I wanted to

live in the country. I dreamed and dreamed about it; but we

never could manage it. There was no sunny window in our house,

and so all my plants died. My daughter married years ago and

went away--besides, she never cared for the same things. Then my

husband died and I was left alone. That was seventeen years ago.

I went to live at Mrs. Sampson's, and I have been there ever

since. I have grown a little infirm, as you see, and I don't get

out often; only on fine days, if I am feeling very well. So you

can understand my sitting a great deal in my window--the back

window on the third floor--"

"Well, Mrs. Manstey," said Mrs. Black, liberally, "I could give

you a back room, I dare say; one of the new rooms in the ex--"

"But I don't want to move; I can't move," said Mrs. Manstey,

almost with a scream. "And I came to tell you that if you build

that extension I shall have no view from my window--no view! Do

you understand?"

Mrs. Black thought herself face to face with a lunatic, and she

had always heard that lunatics must be humored.

"Dear me, dear me," she remarked, pushing her chair back a little

way, "that is too bad, isn't it? Why, I never thought of that.

To be sure, the extension WILL interfere with your view, Mrs.

Manstey."

"You do understand?" Mrs. Manstey gasped.

"Of course I do. And I'm real sorry about it, too. But there,

don't you worry, Mrs. Manstey. I guess we can fix that all

right."

Mrs. Manstey rose from her seat, and Mrs. Black slipped toward

the door.

"What do you mean by fixing it? Do you mean that I can induce

you to change your mind about the extension? Oh, Mrs. Black,

listen to me. I have two thousand dollars in the bank and I

could manage, I know I could manage, to give you a thousand if--"

Mrs. Manstey paused; the tears were rolling down her cheeks.

"There, there, Mrs. Manstey, don't you worry," repeated Mrs.

Black, soothingly. "I am sure we can settle it. I am sorry that

I can't stay and talk about it any longer, but this is such a

busy time of day, with supper to get--"

Her hand was on the door-knob, but with sudden vigor Mrs. Manstey

seized her wrist.

"You are not giving me a definite answer. Do you mean to say

that you accept my proposition?"

"Why, I'll think it over, Mrs. Manstey, certainly I will. I

wouldn't annoy you for the world--"

"But the work is to begin to-morrow, I am told," Mrs. Manstey

persisted.

Mrs. Black hesitated. "It shan't begin, I promise you that; I'll

send word to the builder this very night." Mrs. Manstey

tightened her hold.

"You are not deceiving me, are you?" she said.

"No--no," stammered Mrs. Black. "How can you think such a thing

of me, Mrs. Manstey?"

Slowly Mrs. Manstey's clutch relaxed, and she passed through the

open door. "One thousand dollars," she repeated, pausing in the

hall; then she let herself out of the house and hobbled down the

steps, supporting herself on the cast-iron railing.

"My goodness," exclaimed Mrs. Black, shutting and bolting the

hall-door, "I never knew the old woman was crazy! And she looks

so quiet and ladylike, too."

Mrs. Manstey slept well that night, but early the next morning

she was awakened by a sound of hammering. She got to her window

with what haste she might and, looking out saw that Mrs. Black's

yard was full of workmen. Some were carrying loads of brick from

the kitchen to the yard, others beginning to demolish the old-

fashioned wooden balcony which adorned each story of Mrs. Black's

house. Mrs. Manstey saw that she had been deceived. At first

she thought of confiding her trouble to Mrs. Sampson, but a

settled discouragement soon took possession of her and she went

back to bed, not caring to see what was going on.

Toward afternoon, however, feeling that she must know the worst,

she rose and dressed herself. It was a laborious task, for her

hands were stiffer than usual, and the hooks and buttons seemed

to evade her.

When she seated herself in the window, she saw that the workmen

had removed the upper part of the balcony, and that the bricks

had multiplied since morning. One of the men, a coarse fellow

with a bloated face, picked a magnolia blossom and, after

smelling it, threw it to the ground; the next man, carrying a

load of bricks, trod on the flower in passing.

"Look out, Jim," called one of the men to another who was smoking

a pipe, "if you throw matches around near those barrels of paper

you'll have the old tinder-box burning down before you know it."

And Mrs. Manstey, leaning forward, perceived that there were

several barrels of paper and rubbish under the wooden balcony.

At length the work ceased and twilight fell. The sunset was

perfect and a roseate light, transfiguring the distant spire,

lingered late in the west. When it grew dark Mrs. Manstey drew

down the shades and proceeded, in her usual methodical manner, to

light her lamp. She always filled and lit it with her own hands,

keeping a kettle of kerosene on a zinc-covered shelf in a closet.

As the lamp-light filled the room it assumed its usual peaceful

aspect. The books and pictures and plants seemed, like their

mistress, to settle themselves down for another quiet evening,

and Mrs. Manstey, as was her wont, drew up her armchair to the

table and began to knit.

That night she could not sleep. The weather had changed and a

wild wind was abroad, blotting the stars with close-driven

clouds. Mrs. Manstey rose once or twice and looked out of the

window; but of the view nothing was discernible save a tardy

light or two in the opposite windows. These lights at last went

out, and Mrs. Manstey, who had watched for their extinction,

began to dress herself. She was in evident haste, for she merely

flung a thin dressing-gown over her night-dress and wrapped her

head in a scarf; then she opened her closet and cautiously took

out the kettle of kerosene. Having slipped a bundle of wooden

matches into her pocket she proceeded, with increasing

precautions, to unlock her door, and a few moments later she was

feeling her way down the dark staircase, led by a glimmer of gas

from the lower hall. At length she reached the bottom of the

stairs and began the more difficult descent into the utter

darkness of the basement. Here, however, she could move more

freely, as there was less danger of being overheard; and without

much delay she contrived to unlock the iron door leading into the

yard. A gust of cold wind smote her as she stepped out and

groped shiveringly under the clothes-lines.

That morning at three o'clock an alarm of fire brought the

engines to Mrs. Black's door, and also brought Mrs. Sampson's

startled boarders to their windows. The wooden balcony at the

back of Mrs. Black's house was ablaze, and among those who

watched the progress of the flames was Mrs. Manstey, leaning in

her thin dressing-gown from the open window.

The fire, however, was soon put out, and the frightened occupants

of the house, who had fled in scant attire, reassembled at dawn

to find that little mischief had been done beyond the cracking of

window panes and smoking of ceilings. In fact, the chief

sufferer by the fire was Mrs. Manstey, who was found in the

morning gasping with pneumonia, a not unnatural result, as

everyone remarked, of her having hung out of an open window at

her age in a dressing-gown. It was easy to see that she was very

ill, but no one had guessed how grave the doctor's verdict would

be, and the faces gathered that evening about Mrs. Sampson's

table were awestruck and disturbed. Not that any of the boarders

knew Mrs. Manstey well; she "kept to herself," as they said, and

seemed to fancy herself too good for them; but then it is always

disagreeable to have anyone dying in the house and, as one lady

observed to another: "It might just as well have been you or me,

my dear."

But it was only Mrs. Manstey; and she was dying, as she had

lived, lonely if not alone. The doctor had sent a trained nurse,

and Mrs. Sampson, with muffled step, came in from time to time;

but both, to Mrs. Manstey, seemed remote and unsubstantial as the

figures in a dream. All day she said nothing; but when she was

asked for her daughter's address she shook her head. At times

the nurse noticed that she seemed to be listening attentively for

some sound which did not come; then again she dozed.

The next morning at daylight she was very low. The nurse called

Mrs. Sampson and as the two bent over the old woman they saw her

lips move.

"Lift me up--out of bed," she whispered.

They raised her in their arms, and with her stiff hand she

pointed to the window.

"Oh, the window--she wants to sit in the window. She used to sit

there all day," Mrs. Sampson explained. "It can do her no harm,

I suppose?"

"Nothing matters now," said the nurse.

They carried Mrs. Manstey to the window and placed her in her

chair. The dawn was abroad, a jubilant spring dawn; the spire

had already caught a golden ray, though the magnolia and horse-

chestnut still slumbered in shadow. In Mrs. Black's yard all was

quiet. The charred timbers of the balcony lay where they had

fallen. It was evident that since the fire the builders had not

returned to their work. The magnolia had unfolded a few more

sculptural flowers; the view was undisturbed.

It was hard for Mrs. Manstey to breathe; each moment it grew more

difficult. She tried to make them open the window, but they

would not understand. If she could have tasted the air, sweet

with the penetrating ailanthus savor, it would have eased her;

but the view at least was there--the spire was golden now, the

heavens had warmed from pearl to blue, day was alight from east

to west, even the magnolia had caught the sun.

Mrs. Manstey's head fell back and smiling she died.

That day the building of the extension was resumed.

The End