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 Ethical Decision Making for the 21st
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1. From Kitchener’s Ethical Justification Model, which virtue means to treat people fairly?
a. Nonmaleficence
b. Autonomy
c. Beneficence
*d. Justice

2. You were speaking to a friend about Betan’s Hermeneutic Model when the term hermeneutic came
up. Your friend immediately asked what the term meant. You told them that the term roughly meant
when translated from Greek:
*a. Interpretation
b. To do no harm
c. To analyze
d. To be ethical

3. In Jordan and Meara (1990) Virtue Ethics, the authors suggest that instead of focusing on what should
be done, counselors should focus on:
a. What can be done
b. What has been done
*c. What the counselor should be
d. How the counselor has been

4. In Sileo and Kopala (1993) A-B-C-D-E worksheet, what does “B” stand for?
a. Behavior
*b. Benefit
c. Beneficence
d. Benevolence

5. With regard to the Corey, Corey, and Callahan (2003) model, which is NOT one of the eight steps
identified in the text:
a. Identify the problem
b. Review the relevant ethical codes
*c. Apply the ACA Code of Ethics
d. Decide on what appears to be the best course of action
6. Forester-Miller and Davis (1996) suggested that counselors are most likely making an ethical choice if
they are operating in the best interest of the client rather than the counselor, match the decision to best
practices, and are
a. Open
*b. Honest
c. Transparent
d. Trustworthy
7. During the first stage of the Tarvydas (2012) Integrative Decision Making Model of Ethical Behavior,
counselors work:
a. Individually
b. In focus groups
*c. Collaborative
d. Asynchronously

8. All of the following are steps in the model developed by Kocet, McCauley, and Thomspon’s (2009)
Ethical Decision Making for Student Affairs except:
a. Develop an ethical worldview
b. Choose a course of action
c. Examine potential cultural/contextual issues impacting the ethical dilemma
*d. All are included in the model

9. Social constructivism is founded on ideas that allow for all conclusions about human functioning to be
understood based on the and factors that affect behavior.
*a. Biological, Social
b. Psychological, Social
c. Physiological, Social
d. Neurological, Social

10. All of the following are part of the Transcultural Integrative Model except:
a. Formulating an ethical decision
b. Weighing competing, nonmoral values and affirming the course of action
c. Planning and executing the selected course of action
*d. Determine possible ethical traps

11. is the third stage of Tarvydas (2012) Integrative Decision Making Model of Ethical Behavior.
a. Formulating an ethical decision
*b. Selecting an action by weighing competing non-moral values, personal blind spots, or prejudices
c. Interpreting the situation through awareness and fact finding
d. Planning and executing the selected course of action

12. The authors suggested that the American Counseling Association (ACA) endorses which ethical
decision making model
a. Theory Based Decision Making Models
b. Practice Based Decision Making Models
c. Cultural Based Decision Making Models
*d. The ACA does not endorse any models

13. Kitchener’s (1984) virtue of Beneficence means:

a. To do no harm
b. Treat people fairly
*c. To do good
d. Freedom to choose

14. Marian has been a counselor for approximately five years. During this time, she discovered that she
can really relate to theory-based ethical decision making models. One of the models she applies most is
Betan’s Hermeneutic Model. Marian would say all of the following statements about Betan’s
Hermeneutic Model except:
a. “You really bring your own story to the therapeutic relationship with the client”
b. “You really have to engage in ongoing examination and self-exploration
*c. “Overall, you need to focus on what the counselor should do”
d. “It’s neat because it isn’t a step-by-step approach”

15. Bill was speaking to Juan about practice-based ethical decision making models over lunch. During the
conversation, Bill would have told Juan about all of the following models, except:
a. Sileo and Kopala (1993) A-B-C-D-E Worksheet
*b. Jordan and Meara (1990) Virtue Ethics
c. Corey, Corey, and Callahan (2003)
d. Forester-Miller and Davis (1996)

16. Within Tarvydas’ (2012) Integrative Decision Making Model of Ethical Behavior, counselors are asked
to formulate a decision. All are involved in formulating a decision except:
a. Playing through each possibility and considering both negative and positive impacts
b. Consultation with other professionals who can help weigh in on the decision
c. Weigh all relevant codes and laws to consider the possible action to take
*d. All are involved

17. Within cultural-based ethical decision making models, this model relies on reflection on the culture
involved:
*a. Tarvydas Integrative Model
b. Cattone’s (2004) Social Constructivism Model
c. Garcia, Cartwright, Winston, and Borzuchowska (2003) Transcultural Integrative Model
d. Kocet, McCauley, and Thompson (2009) Ethical Decision Making for Student Affairs

18. As a crisis counselor, you have been asked to help in the community after a tornado has touched
down. You know that there are 10 steps involved for ethical decision making in crisis situations. Which
of the steps are not part of the 10?
a. Identify the ethical concern within the context of the disaster
b. Identify the code(s) of ethics involved
c. Frame a preliminary response
*d. Identify and Prioritize guiding principles
19. The text covered several types of ethical decision making models. Which type were NOT covered in
the text:
a. Theory Based
*b. Psychosocial Based
c. Practice Based
d. Cultural Based

20. As a counselor working in addictions, you have become familiar with the model proposed by the
Center for Education and Drug Abuse Research (CEDAR). Which of the following steps would be the third
step in the model?
*a. Developing an ethical plan of action
b. Evaluating the outcome
c. Increasing ethical sensitivity
d. Identifying and prioritizing guiding principles

21. True or False. From Kitchener’s Ethical Justification model, beneficence means to do no harm.
*a. True
b. False

22. True or False. Jordan and Meara (1990) Virtue Ethics model suggested that we should focus on what
the counselors should do in the model rather than what the counselor should be.
a. True
*b. False

23. True or False. In Betan’s Hermeneutic Model counselors are not required to engage in ongoing
examination and self-exploration.
a. True
*b. False

24. True or False. With practice-based models, many of the challenges of the more abstract theoretical
approaches are eliminated through step-by-step guides.
*a. True
b. False

25. True or False. Sileo and Kopala (1993) A-B-C-D-E Worksheet is a model made up of many existing
models.
*a. True
b. False

26. True or False. According to Forester-Miller and Davis (1996), counselors in the same situation may
arrive at different conclusions.
*a. True
b. False

27. True or False. The Tarvydas (2012) Integrative Decision Making Model of Ethical Behavior adds a
reflective perspective to address the dilemma from multiple lenses.
*a. True
b. False

28. True or False. The Kocet, McCauley, and Thompson (2009) Ethical Decision Making for Student
Affairs model is strictly for student affairs.
a. True
*b. False

29. True or False. Using the Social Constructivism Model means that instead of making an ethical
decision for the client and other stakeholder, the decision is made with these parties.
*a. True
b. False

30. True or False. According to Garcia, Cartwright, Winston, and Borzuchowska (2003) Transcultural
Integrative Model, culturally competent counselors should make culturally responsive ethical decisions.
*a. True
b. False

Type: E
31. In Kitchener’s Ethical Justification Model (1984), four virtues are included in ethical decision making.
Describe the four virtues discussed and explain why they are essential to the ethical decision making
process.
*a. Answers Vary

Type: E
32. Betan’s Hermeneutic Model asks counselors to acknowledge their personal reactions to professional
issues as they make ethical decisions and receive training that highlights the limited black and white
options that are present within ethical dilemmas. Explain why this would be important.
*a. Answers Vary

Type: E
33. Chapter two addresses three theory based ethical decision making models (Kitchener’s Ethical
Justification Model, Betan’s Hermeneutic Model, and Jordan and Meara (1990) Virtue Ethics). Explain
the three models. Speak about the similarities and differences in the three theory based models listed.
*a. Answers Vary

Type: E
34. Sileo and Kopala (1993) A-B-C-D-E Worksheet is an amalgamation of many models. Walk through the
steps of the model and clearly articulate what A-B-C-D-E means and provide an example for each. Also,
address the pros and cons of this particular model.
*a. Answers Vary

Type: E
35. The Corey, Corey and Callahan (2003) model is a step-by-step approach that has been revised
throughout the years that can be used by counselors. Explain the eight steps of the model. Explain
whether the steps must always be followed in the same order. What are the pros and cons listed by the
textbook? Explain how this model differs from other practice-based ethical decision making models
*a. Answers Vary

Type: E
36. While the American Counseling Association (ACA) does not subscribe to one ethical decision making
model, Forester-Miller and Davis’ (1996) model has been incorporated into a document conceptualized
and developed by the ACA Ethics Committee. Work through the principles and steps of this model.
Describe each step in a way that someone with no experience with the counseling profession could
understand and apply the model.
*a. Answers Vary

Type: E
37. Within the Tarvydas (2012) Integrative Decision Making Model of Ethical Behavior, the counselor
works beyond the application of ethical codes and laws, to include values, prejudices, and biases as well
as cultural and societal context. What are the four stages in the Tarvydas model? Describe which stage
of the model involves the reflective process. What is the significance of this?
*a. Answers Vary

Type: E
38. Cottone’s (2004) Social Constructivism Model posits that our understanding of an individual is based
on relationships. The authors describe the model as an interactive process and the client’s culture is
intertwined in the decision making process. How would this approach help the decision making process?
Are there any drawbacks?
*a. Answers Vary

Type: E
39. Garcia, Cartwright, Winston, and Borzuchowska’s (2003) Transcultural Integrative Model places
great importance on culture and suggests that culturally competent counselors should make culturally
responsible ethical decision. Explain the four steps of the model and give examples of each step.
*a. Answers Vary

Type: E
40. Consider a crisis, list the 10 steps involved for ethical decision making in crisis situations. Be sure to
provide a clear concrete example and apply the 10 steps.
*a. Answers Vary

Type: E
41. Addictions counseling can prove challenging with ethical difficulties. The National Institute on Drug
Abuse published an ethical decision making model specific for addictions professionals. List the five
steps and create a scenario in which you can apply the steps listed.
*a. Answers Vary

Type: E
42. Describe theory based decision making models, practice based decision making models, and cultural
based decision making models. What are the advantages and limitations of each?
*a. Answers Vary

Type: E
43. Choose one theory-based decision making theory and one practice based decision making model.
Compare and contrast the strengths and weaknesses of these models.
*a. Answers Vary

Type: E
44. Choose one practice based decision making model and choose one cultural based decision making
model. What are the strengths and weaknesses of these models?
*a. Answers Vary

Type: E
45. Explain the importance of knowing how to access and apply the American Counseling Association’s
(ACA) Code of Ethics when it comes to applying ethical decision making models.
*a. Answers Vary
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The well of
loneliness
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: The well of loneliness

Author: Radclyffe Hall

Commentator: Havelock Ellis

Release date: February 26, 2024 [eBook #73042]

Most recently updated: March 20, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Blue Ribbon Books, 1928

Credits: This ebook was produced by: Al Haines, Jen Haines &
the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at
pgdpcanada.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WELL OF

LONELINESS ***
 Dedicated to
O U R T H R E E S E LV E S

Other novels by Radclyffe Hall

 THE UNLIT LAMP
ADAM’S BREED
THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE

The Well of LONELINESS

By R A D C L Y F F E H A L L
With a Commentary
by Havelock Ellis
Blue Ribbon Books, Garden City, New
York

Copyright 1928
By Radclyffe Hall

CL
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

COMMENTARY
I HAVE read The Well of Loneliness with great
interest because—apart from its fine qualities as a
novel by a writer of accomplished art—it possesses a
notable psychological and sociological significance.
So far as I know, it is the first English novel which
presents, in a completely faithful and
uncompromising form, one particular aspect of
sexual life as it exists among us to-day. The relation
of certain people—who while different from their
fellow human beings, are sometimes of the highest
character and the finest aptitudes—to the often
hostile society in which they move, presents difficult
and still unsolved problems. The poignant situations
which thus arise are here set forth so vividly, and yet
with such complete absence of offence, that we must
place Radclyffe Hall’s book on a high level of
distinction.
Havelock Ellis

AUTHOR’S NOTE
A LL the characters in this book are purely
imaginary, and if the author in any instance has
used names that may suggest a reference to living
persons, she has done so inadvertently.
A motor ambulance unit of British women drivers
did very fine service upon the Allied front in France
during the later months of the war, but although the
unit mentioned in this book, of which Stephen
Gordon becomes a member, operates in much the
same area, it has never had any existence save in
the author’s imagination.
 BOOK ONE

CHAPTER 1

N ot very far from Upton-on-Severn—between it, in fact, and the

Malvern Hills—stands the country seat of the Gordons of
Bramley; well-timbered, well-cottaged, well-fenced and well-
watered, having, in this latter respect, a stream that forks in exactly
the right position to feed two large lakes in the grounds.
The house itself is of Georgian red brick, with charming circular
windows near the roof. It has dignity and pride without ostentation,
self-assurance without arrogance, repose without inertia; and a
gentle aloofness that, to those who know its spirit, but adds to its
value as a home. It is indeed like certain lovely women who, now
old, belong to a bygone generation—women who in youth were
passionate but seemly; difficult to win but when won, all-fulfilling.
They are passing away, but their homesteads remain, and such an
homestead is Morton.
To Morton Hall came the Lady Anna Gordon as a bride of just
over twenty. She was lovely as only an Irish woman can be, having
that in her bearing that betokened quiet pride, having that in her
eyes that betokened great longing, having that in her body that
betokened happy promise—the archetype of the very perfect
woman, whom creating God has found good. Sir Philip had met her
away in County Clare—Anna Molloy, the slim virgin thing, all chastity,
and his weariness had flown to her bosom as a spent bird will fly to
its nest—as indeed such a bird had once flown to her, she told him,
taking refuge from the perils of a storm.
Sir Philip was a tall man and exceedingly well-favoured, but his
charm lay less in feature than in a certain wide expression, a tolerant
expression that might almost be called noble, and in something sad
yet gallant in his deep-set hazel eyes. His chin, which was firm, was
very slightly cleft, his forehead intellectual, his hair tinged with
auburn. His wide-nostrilled nose was indicative of temper, but his lips
were well-modelled and sensitive and ardent—they revealed him as
a dreamer and a lover.
Twenty-nine when they had married, he had sown no few wild
oats, yet Anna’s true instinct made her trust him completely. Her
guardian had disliked him, opposing the engagement, but in the end
she had had her own way. And as things turned out her choice had
been happy, for seldom had two people loved more than they did;
they loved with an ardour undiminished by time; as they ripened, so
their love ripened with them.
Sir Philip never knew how much he longed for a son until, some
ten years after marriage, his wife conceived a child; then he knew
that this thing meant complete fulfilment, the fulfilment for which
they had both been waiting. When she told him, he could not find
words for expression, and must just turn and weep on her shoulder.
It never seemed to cross his mind for a moment that Anna might
very well give him a daughter; he saw her only as a mother of sons,
nor could her warnings disturb him. He christened the unborn infant
Stephen, because he admired the pluck of that Saint. He was not a
religious man by instinct, being perhaps too much of a student, but
he read the Bible for its fine literature, and Stephen had gripped his
imagination. Thus he often discussed the future of their child: ‘I
think I shall put Stephen down for Harrow,’ or: ‘I’d rather like
Stephen to finish off abroad, it widens one’s outlook on life.’
And listening to him, Anna also grew convinced; his certainty
wore down her vague misgivings, and she saw herself playing with
this little Stephen, in the nursery, in the garden, in the sweet-
smelling meadows. ‘And himself the lovely young man,’ she would
say, thinking of the soft Irish speech of her peasants: ‘And himself
with the light of the stars in his eyes, and the courage of a lion in his
heart!’
When the child stirred within her she would think it stirred
strongly because of the gallant male creature she was hiding; then
her spirit grew large with a mighty new courage, because a man-
child would be born. She would sit with her needlework dropped on
her knees, while her eyes turned away to the long line of hills that
stretched beyond the Severn valley. From her favourite seat
underneath an old cedar, she would see these Malvern Hills in their
beauty, and their swelling slopes seemed to hold a new meaning.
They were like pregnant women, full-bosomed, courageous, great
green-girdled mothers of splendid sons! Thus through all those
summer months, she sat and watched the hills, and Sir Philip would
sit with her—they would sit hand in hand. And because she felt
grateful she gave much to the poor, and Sir Philip went to church,
which was seldom his custom, and the Vicar came to dinner, and just
towards the end many matrons called to give good advice to Anna.
But: ‘Man proposes—God disposes,’ and so it happened that on
Christmas Eve, Anna Gordon was delivered of a daughter; a narrow-
hipped, wide-shouldered little tadpole of a baby, that yelled and
yelled for three hours without ceasing, as though outraged to find
itself ejected into life.

Anna Gordon held her child to her breast, but she grieved while it
drank, because of her man who had longed so much for a son. And
seeing her grief, Sir Philip hid his chagrin, and he fondled the baby
and examined its fingers.
‘What a hand!’ he would say. ‘Why it’s actually got nails on all its
ten fingers: little, perfect, pink nails!’
Then Anna would dry her eyes and caress it, kissing the tiny
hand.
He insisted on calling the infant Stephen, nay more, he would
have it baptized by that name. ‘We’ve called her Stephen so long,’ he
told Anna, ‘that I really can’t see why we shouldn’t go on—’
Anna felt doubtful, but; Sir Philip was stubborn, as he could be at
times over whims.
The Vicar said that it was rather unusual, so to mollify him they
must add female names. The child was baptized in the village church
as Stephen Mary Olivia Gertrude—and she throve, seeming strong,
and when her hair grew it was seen to be auburn like Sir Philip’s.
There was also a tiny cleft in her chin, so small just at first that it
looked like a shadow; and after a while when her eyes lost the
blueness that is proper to puppies and other young things, Anna saw
that her eyes were going to be hazel—and thought that their
expression was her father’s. On the whole she was quite a well-
behaved baby, owing, no doubt, to a fine constitution. Beyond that
first energetic protest at birth she had done very little howling.
It was happy to have a baby at Morton, and the old house
seemed to become more mellow as the child, growing fast now and
learning to walk, staggered or stumbled or sprawled on the floors
that had long known the ways of children. Sir Philip would come
home all muddy from hunting and would rush into the nursery
before pulling off his boots, then down he would go on his hands
and knees while Stephen clambered on to his back. Sir Philip would
pretend to be well corned up, bucking and jumping and kicking
wildly, so that Stephen must cling to his hair or his collar, and thump
him with hard little arrogant fists. Anna, attracted by the outlandish
hubbub, would find them, and would point to the mud on the carpet.
She would say: ‘Now, Philip, now, Stephen, that’s enough! It’s
time for your tea,’ as though both of them were children. Then Sir
Philip would reach up and disentangle Stephen, after which he
would kiss Stephen’s mother.

The son that they waited for seemed long a-coming; he had not
arrived when Stephen was seven. Nor had Anna produced other
female offspring. Thus Stephen remained cock of the roost. It is
doubtful if any only child is to be envied, for the only child is bound
to become introspective; having no one of its own ilk in whom to
confide, it is apt to confide in itself. It cannot be said that at seven
years old the mind is beset by serious problems, but nevertheless it
is already groping, may already be subject to small fits of dejection,
may already be struggling to get a grip on life—on the limited life of
its surroundings. At seven there are miniature loves and hatreds,
which, however, loom large and are extremely disconcerting. There
may even be present a dim sense of frustration, and Stephen was
often conscious of this sense, though she could not have put it into
words. To cope with it, however, she would give way at times to
sudden fits of hot temper, working herself up over everyday trifles
that usually left her cold. It relieved her to stamp and then burst into
tears at the first sign of opposition. After such outbreaks she would
feel much more cheerful, would find it almost easy to be docile and
obedient. In some vague, childish way she had hit back at life, and
this fact had restored her self-respect.
 Anna would send for her turbulent offspring and would say:
‘Stephen darling, Mother’s not really cross—tell Mother what makes
you give way to these tempers; she’ll promise to try to understand if
you’ll tell her—’
But her eyes would look cold, though her voice might be gentle,
and her hand when it fondled would be tentative, unwilling. The
hand would be making an effort to fondle, and Stephen would be
conscious of that effort. Then looking up at the calm, lovely face,
Stephen would be filled with a sudden contrition, with a sudden
deep sense of her own shortcomings; she would long to blurt all this
out to her mother, yet would stand there tongue-tied, saying nothing
at all. For these two were strangely shy with each other—it was
almost grotesque, this shyness of theirs, as existing between mother
and child. Anna would feel it, and through her Stephen, young as
she was, would become conscious of it; so that they held a little
aloof when they should have been drawing together.
Stephen, acutely responsive to beauty, would be dimly longing to
find expression for a feeling almost amounting to worship, that her
mother’s face had awakened. But Anna, looking gravely at her
daughter, noting the plentiful auburn hair, the brave hazel eyes that
were so like her father’s, as indeed were the child’s whole expression
and bearing, would be filled with a sudden antagonism that came
very near to anger.
She would awake at night and ponder this thing, scourging
herself in an access of contrition; accusing herself of hardness of
spirit, of being an unnatural mother. Sometimes she would shed
slow, miserable tears, remembering the inarticulate Stephen.
She would think: ‘I ought to be proud of the likeness, proud and
happy and glad when I see it!’ Then back would come flooding that
queer antagonism that amounted almost to anger.
It would seem to Anna that she must be going mad, for this
likeness to her husband would strike her as an outrage—as though
the poor, innocent seven-year-old Stephen were in some way a
caricature of Sir Philip; a blemished, unworthy, maimed reproduction
—yet she knew that the child was handsome. But now there were
times when the child’s soft flesh would be almost distasteful to her;
when she hated the way Stephen moved or stood still, hated a
certain largeness about her, a certain crude lack of grace in her
movements, a certain unconscious defiance. Then the mother’s mind
would slip back to the days when this creature had clung to her
breast, forcing her to love it by its own utter weakness; and at this
thought her eyes must fill again, for she came of a race of devoted
mothers. The thing had crept on her like a foe in the dark—it had
been slow, insidious, deadly; it had waxed strong as Stephen herself
had waxed strong, being part, in some way, of Stephen.
Restlessly tossing from side to side, Anna Gordon would pray for
enlightenment and guidance; would pray that her husband might
never suspect her feelings towards his child. All that she was and
had been he knew; in all the world she had no other secret save this
one most unnatural and monstrous injustice that was stronger than
her will to destroy it. And Sir Philip loved Stephen, he idolized her; it
was almost as though he divined by instinct that his daughter was
being secretly defrauded, was bearing some unmerited burden. He
never spoke to his wife of these things, yet watching them together,
she grew daily more certain that his love for the child held an
element in it that was closely akin to pity.

CHAPTER 2

A t about this time Stephen first became conscious of an urgent

necessity to love. She adored her father, but that was quite
different; he was part of herself, he had always been there, she
could not envisage the world without him—it was other with Collins,
the housemaid. Collins was what was called ‘second of three’; she
might one day hope for promotion. Meanwhile she was florid, full-
lipped and full-bosomed, rather ample indeed for a young girl of
twenty, but her eyes were unusually blue and arresting, very pretty
inquisitive eyes. Stephen had seen Collins sweeping the stairs for
two years, and had passed her by quite unnoticed; but one morning,
when Stephen was just over seven, Collins looked up and suddenly
smiled, then all in a moment Stephen knew that she loved her—a
staggering revelation!
Collins said politely: ‘Good morning, Miss Stephen.’
She had always said: ‘Good morning, Miss Stephen,’ but on this
occasion it sounded alluring—so alluring that Stephen wanted to
touch her, and extending a rather uncertain hand she started to
stroke her sleeve.
Collins picked up the hand and stared at it. ‘Oh, my!’ she
exclaimed, ‘what very dirty nails!’ Whereupon their owner flushed
painfully crimson and dashed upstairs to repair them.
‘Put them scissors down this minute, Miss Stephen!’ came the
nurse’s peremptory voice, while her charge was still busily engaged
on her toilet.
But Stephen said firmly: ‘I’m cleaning my nails ’cause Collins
doesn’t like them—she says they’re dirty!’
‘What impudence!’ snapped the nurse, thoroughly annoyed. ‘I’ll
thank her to mind her own business!’
Having finally secured the large cutting-out scissors, Mrs.
Bingham went forth in search of the offender; she was not one to
tolerate any interference with the dignity of her status. She found
Collins still on the top flight of stairs, and forthwith she started to
upbraid her: ‘putting her back in her place,’ the nurse called it; and
she did it so thoroughly that in less than five minutes the ‘second-of-
three’ had been told of every fault that was likely to preclude
promotion.
Stephen stood still in the nursery doorway. She could feel her
heart thumping against her side, thumping with anger and pity for
Collins who was answering never a word. There she knelt mute, with
her brush suspended, with her mouth slightly open and her eyes
rather scared; and when at long last she did manage to speak, her
voice sounded humble and frightened. She was timid by nature, and
the nurse’s sharp tongue was a byword throughout the household.
Collins was saying: ‘Interfere with your child? Oh, no, Mrs.
Bingham, never! I hope I knows my place better than that—Miss
Stephen herself showed me them dirty nails; she said: “Collins, just
look, aren’t my nails awful dirty!” And I said: “You must ask Nanny
about that, Miss Stephen.” Is it likely that I’d interfere with your
work? I’m not that sort, Mrs. Bingham.’
Oh, Collins, Collins, with those pretty blue eyes and that funny
alluring smile! Stephen’s own eyes grew wide with amazement, then
they clouded with sudden and disillusioned tears, for far worse than
Collins’ poorness of spirit was the dreadful injustice of those lies—yet
this very injustice seemed to draw her to Collins, since despising,
she could still love her.
For the rest of that day Stephen brooded darkly over Collins’
unworthiness; and yet all through that day she still wanted Collins,
and whenever she saw her she caught herself smiling, quite unable,
in her turn, to muster the courage to frown her innate disapproval.
And Collins smiled too, if the nurse was not looking, and she held up
her plump red fingers, pointing to her nails and making a grimace at
the nurse’s retreating figure. Watching her, Stephen felt unhappy
and embarrassed, not so much for herself as for Collins; and this
feeling increased, so that thinking about her made Stephen go hot
down her spine.
In the evening, when Collins was laying the tea, Stephen
managed to get her alone. ‘Collins,’ she whispered, ‘you told an
untruth—I never showed you my dirty nails!’
‘ ’Course not!’ murmured Collins, ‘but I had to say something—
you didn’t mind, Miss Stephen, did you?’ And as Stephen looked
doubtfully up into her face, Collins suddenly stooped and kissed her.
 Stephen stood speechless from a sheer sense of joy, all her
doubts swept completely away. At that moment she knew nothing
but beauty and Collins, and the two were as one, and the one was
Stephen—and yet not Stephen either, but something more vast, that
the mind of seven years found no name for.
The nurse came in grumbling: ‘Now then, hurry up, Miss
Stephen! Don’t stand there as though you were daft! Go and wash
your face and hands before tea—how many times must I tell you the
same thing?’
‘I don’t know—’ muttered Stephen. And indeed she did not; she
knew nothing of such trifles at that moment.

From now on Stephen entered a completely new world, that turned

on an axis of Collins. A world full of constant exciting adventures; of
elation, of joy, of incredible sadness, but withal a fine place to be
dashing about in like a moth who is courting a candle. Up and down
went the days; they resembled a swing that soared high above the
tree-tops, then dropped to the depths, but seldom if ever hung
midway. And with them went Stephen, clinging to the swing, waking
up in the mornings with a thrill of vague excitement—the sort of
excitement that belonged by rights to birthdays, and Christmas, and
a visit to the pantomime at Malvern. She would open her eyes and
jump out of bed quickly, still too sleepy to remember why she felt so
elated; but then would come memory—she would know that this day
she was actually going to see Collins. The thought would set her
splashing in her sitz-bath, and tearing the buttons off her clothes in
her haste, and cleaning her nails with such ruthlessness and vigour
that she made them quite sore in the process.
She began to be very inattentive at her lessons, sucking her
pencil, staring out of the window, or what was far worse, not
listening at all, except for Collins’ footsteps. The nurse slapped her
hands, and stood her in the corner, and deprived her of jam, but all
to no purpose; for Stephen would smile, hugging closer her secret—
it was worth being punished for Collins.
She grew restless and could not be induced to sit still even when
her nurse read aloud. At one time she had very much liked being
read to, especially from books that were all about heroes; but now
such stories so stirred her ambition, that she longed intensely to live
them. She, Stephen, now longed to be William Tell, or Nelson, or the
whole Charge of Balaclava; and this led to much foraging in the
nursery rag-bag, much hunting up of garments once used for
charades, much swagger and noise, much strutting and posing, and
much staring into the mirror. There ensued a period of general
confusion when the nursery looked as though smitten by an
earthquake; when the chairs and the floor would be littered with
oddments that Stephen had dug out but discarded. Once dressed,
however, she would walk away grandly, waving the nurse
peremptorily aside, going, as always, in search of Collins, who might
have to be stalked to the basement.
Sometimes Collins would play up, especially to Nelson. ‘My, but
you do look fine!’ she would exclaim. And then to the cook: ‘Do
come here, Mrs. Wilson! Doesn’t Miss Stephen look exactly like a
boy? I believe she must be a boy with them shoulders, and them
funny gawky legs she’s got on her!’
And Stephen would say gravely: ‘Yes, of course I’m a boy. I’m
young Nelson, and I’m saying: “What is fear?” you know, Collins—I
must be a boy, ’cause I feel exactly like one, I feel like young Nelson
in the picture upstairs.’
Collins would laugh and so would Mrs. Wilson, and after Stephen
had gone they would get talking, and Collins might say: ‘She is a
queer kid, always dressing herself up and play-acting—it’s funny.’
But Mrs. Wilson might show disapproval: ‘I don’t hold with such
nonsense, not for a young lady. Miss Stephen’s quite different from
other young ladies—she’s got none of their pretty little ways—it’s a
pity!’
 There were times, however, when Collins seemed sulky when
Stephen could dress up as Nelson in vain. ‘Now, don’t bother me,
Miss, I’ve got my work to see to!’ or: ‘You go and show Nurse—yes, I
know you’re a boy, but I’ve got my work to get on with. Run away.’
And Stephen must slink upstairs thoroughly deflated, strangely
unhappy and exceedingly humble, and must tear off the clothes she
so dearly loved donning, to replace them by the garments she
hated. How she hated soft dresses and sashes, and ribbons, and
small coral beads, and openwork stockings! Her legs felt so free and
comfortable in breeches; she adored pockets too, and these were
forbidden—at least really adequate pockets. She would gloom about
the nursery because Collins had snubbed her, because she was
conscious of feeling all wrong, because she so longed to be some
one quite real, instead of just Stephen pretending to be Nelson. In a
quick fit of anger she would go to the cupboard, and getting out her
dolls would begin to torment them. She had always despised the
idiotic creatures which, however, arrived with each Christmas and
birthday.
‘I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!’ she would mutter thumping
their innocuous faces.
But one day, when Collins had been crosser than usual, she
seemed to be filled with a sudden contrition. ‘It’s me housemaid’s
knee,’ she confided to Stephen, ‘It’s not you, it’s me housemaid’s
knee, dearie.’
‘Is that dangerous?’ demanded the child, looking frightened.
Then Collins, true to her class, said: ‘It may be—it may mean an
’orrible operation, and I don’t want no operation.’
‘What’s that?’ inquired Stephen.
‘Why, they’d cut me,’ moaned Collins; ‘they’d ’ave to cut me to let
out the water.’
‘Oh, Collins! What water?’
 ‘The water in me kneecap—you can see if you press it, Miss
Stephen.’
They were standing alone in the spacious night-nursery, where
Collins was limply making the bed. It was one of those rare and
delicious occasions when Stephen could converse with her goddess
undisturbed, for the nurse had gone out to post a letter. Collins
rolled down a coarse woollen stocking and displayed the afflicted
member; it was blotchy and swollen and far from attractive, but
Stephen’s eyes filled with quick, anxious tears as she touched the
knee with her finger.
‘There now!’ exclaimed Collins, ‘See that dent? That’s the water!’
And she added: ‘It’s so painful it fair makes me sick. It all comes
from polishing them floors, Miss Stephen; I didn’t ought to polish
them floors.’
Stephen said gravely: ‘I do wish I’d got it—I wish I’d got your
housemaid’s knee, Collins, ’cause that way I could bear it instead of
you. I’d like to be awfully hurt for you, Collins, the way that Jesus
was hurt for sinners. Suppose I pray hard, don’t you think I might
catch it? Or supposing I rub my knee against yours?’
‘Lord bless you!’ laughed Collins, ‘it’s not like the measles; no,
Miss Stephen, it’s caught from them floors.’
That evening Stephen became rather pensive, and she turned to
the Child’s Book of Scripture Stories and she studied the picture of
the Lord on His Cross, and she felt that she understood Him. She
had often been rather puzzled about Him, since she herself was
fearful of pain—when she barked her shins on the gravel in the
garden, it was not always easy to keep back her tears—and yet
Jesus had chosen to bear pain for sinners, when He might have
called up all those angels! Oh, yes, she had wondered a great deal
about Him, but now she no longer wondered.
At bedtime, when her mother came to hear her say her prayers—
as custom demanded—Stephen’s prayers lacked conviction. But
when Anna had kissed her and had turned out the light, then it was
that Stephen prayed in good earnest—with such fervour, indeed, that
she dripped perspiration in a veritable orgy of prayer.
‘Please, Jesus, give me a housemaid’s knee instead of Collins—
do, do, Lord Jesus. Please, Jesus, I would like to bear all Collins’ pain
the way You did, and I don’t want any angels! I would like to wash
Collins in my blood, Lord Jesus—I would like very much to be a
Saviour to Collins—I love her, and I want to be hurt like You were;
please, dear Lord Jesus, do let me. Please give me a knee that’s all
full of water, so that I can have Collins’ operation. I want to have it
instead of her, ’cause she’s frightened—I’m not a bit frightened!’
This petition she repeated until she fell asleep, to dream that in
some queer way she was Jesus, and that Collins was kneeling and
kissing her hand, because she, Stephen, had managed to cure her
by cutting off her knee with a bone paper-knife and grafting it on to
her own. The dream was a mixture of rapture and discomfort, and it
stayed quite a long time with Stephen.
The next morning she awoke with the feeling of elation that
comes only in moments of perfect faith. But a close examination of
her knees in the bath, revealed them to be flawless except for old
scars and a crisp, brown scab from a recent tumble—this, of course,
was very disappointing. She picked off the scab, and that hurt her a
little, but not, she felt sure, like a real housemaid’s knee. However,
she decided to continue in prayer, and not to be too easily
downhearted.
For more than three weeks she sweated and prayed, and
pestered poor Collins with endless daily questions: ‘Is your knee
better yet?’ ‘Don’t you think my knee’s swollen?’ ‘Have you faith?
’Cause I have—’ ‘Does it hurt you less, Collins?’
But Collins would always reply in the same way: ‘It’s no better,
thank you, Miss Stephen.’
At the end of the fourth week Stephen suddenly stopped praying,
and she said to Our Lord: ‘You don’t love Collins, Jesus, but I do,
and I’m going to get housemaid’s knee. You see if I don’t!’ Then she
felt rather frightened, and added more humbly: ‘I mean, I do want
to—You don’t mind, do You, Lord Jesus?’
The nursery floor was covered with carpet, which was obviously
rather unfortunate for Stephen; had it only been parquet like the
drawing-room and study, she felt it would better have served her
purpose. All the same it was hard if she knelt long enough—it was
so hard, indeed, that she had to grit her teeth if she stayed on her
knees for more than twenty minutes. This was much worse than
barking one’s shins in the garden; it was much worse even than
picking off a scab! Nelson helped her a little. She would think: ‘Now
I’m Nelson. I’m in the middle of the Battle of Trafalgar—I’ve got
shots in my knees!’ But then she would remember that Nelson had
been spared such torment. However, it was really rather fine to be
suffering—it certainly seemed to bring Collins much nearer; it
seemed to make Stephen feel that she owned her by right of this
diligent pain.
There were endless spots on the old nursery carpet, and these
spots Stephen could pretend to be cleaning; always careful to copy
Collins’ movements, rubbing backwards and forwards while groaning
a little. When she got up at last, she must hold her left leg and limp,
still groaning a little. Enormous new holes appeared in her stockings,
through which she could examine her aching knees, and this led to
rebuke: ‘Stop your nonsense, Miss Stephen! It’s scandalous the way
you’re tearing your stockings!’ But Stephen smiled grimly and went
on with the nonsense, spurred by love to an open defiance. On the
eighth day, however, it dawned upon Stephen that Collins should be
shown the proof of her devotion. Her knees were particularly
scarified that morning, so she limped off in search of the
unsuspecting housemaid.
Collins stared: ‘Good gracious, whatever’s the matter? Whatever
have you been doing, Miss Stephen?’
Then Stephen said, not without pardonable pride: ‘I’ve been
getting a housemaid’s knee, like you, Collins!’ And as Collins looked
stupid and rather bewildered—‘You see, I wanted to share your
suffering. I’ve prayed quite a lot, but Jesus won’t listen, so I’ve got
to get housemaid’s knee my own way—I can’t wait any longer for
Jesus!’
‘Oh, hush!’ murmured Collins, thoroughly shocked. ‘You mustn’t
say such things: it’s wicked, Miss Stephen.’ But she smiled a little in
spite of herself, then she suddenly hugged the child warmly.
All the same, Collins plucked up her courage that evening and
spoke to the nurse about Stephen. ‘Her knees was all red and
swollen, Mrs. Bingham. Did ever you know such a queer fish as she
is? Praying about my knee too. She’s a caution! And now if she isn’t
trying to get one! Well, if that’s not real loving then I don’t know
nothing.’ And Collins began to laugh weakly.
After this Mrs. Bingham rose in her might, and the self-imposed
torture was forcibly stopped. Collins, on her part, was ordered to lie,
if Stephen continued to question. So Collins lied nobly: ‘It’s better,
Miss Stephen, it must be your praying—you see Jesus heard you. I
expect He was sorry to see your poor knees—I know as I was when
I saw them!’
‘Are you telling me the truth?’ Stephen asked her, still doubting,
still mindful of that first day of Love’s young dream.
‘Why, of course I’m telling you the truth, Miss Stephen.’
And with this Stephen had to be content.

Collins became more affectionate after the incident of the

housemaid’s knee; she could not but feel a new interest in the child
whom she and the cook had now labelled as ‘queer,’ and Stephen
basked in much surreptitious petting, and her love for Collins grew
daily.
It was spring, the season of gentle emotions, and Stephen, for
the first time, became aware of spring. In a dumb, childish way she
was conscious of its fragrance, and the house irked her sorely, and
she longed for the meadows, and the hills that were white with
thorn-trees. Her active young body was for ever on the fidget, but
her mind was bathed in a kind of soft haze, and this she could never
quite put into words, though she tried to tell Collins about it. It was
all part of Collins, yet somehow quite different—it had nothing to do
with Collins’ wide smile, nor her hands which were red, nor even her
eyes which were blue, and very arresting. Yet all that was Collins,
Stephen’s Collins, was also a part of these long, warm days, a part
of the twilights that came in and lingered for hours after Stephen
had been put to bed; a part too, could Stephen have only known it,
of her own quickening childish perceptions. This spring, for the first
time, she thrilled to the cuckoo, standing quite still to listen, with her
head on one side; and the lure of that far-away call was destined to
remain with her all her life.
There were times when she wanted to get away from Collins, yet
at others she longed intensely to be near her, longed to force the
response that her loving craved for, but quite wisely, was very
seldom granted.
She would say: ‘I do love you awfully, Collins. I love you so much
that it makes me want to cry.’
And Collins would answer: ‘Don’t be silly, Miss Stephen,’ which
was not satisfactory—not at all satisfactory.
Then Stephen might suddenly push her, in anger: ‘You’re a beast!
How I hate you, Collins!’
And now Stephen had taken to keeping awake every night, in
order to build up pictures: pictures of herself companioned by Collins
in all sorts of happy situations. Perhaps they would be walking in the
garden, hand in hand, or pausing on a hill-side to listen to the
cuckoo; or perhaps they would be skimming over miles of blue
ocean in a queer little ship with a leg-of-mutton sail, like the one in
the fairy story. Sometimes Stephen pictured them living alone in a
low thatched cottage by the side of a mill stream—she had seen
such a cottage not very far from Upton—and the water flowed
quickly and made talking noises; there were sometimes dead leaves
on the water. This last was a very intimate picture, full of detail,
even to the red china dogs that stood one at each end of the high
mantelpiece, and the grandfather clock that ticked loudly. Collins
would sit by the fire with her shoes off. ‘Me feet’s that swollen and
painful,’ she would say. Then Stephen would go and cut rich bread
and butter—the drawing-room kind, little bread and much butter—
and would put on the kettle and brew tea for Collins, who liked it
very strong and practically boiling, so that she could sip it from her
saucer. In this picture it was Collins who talked about loving, and
Stephen who gently but firmly rebuked her: ‘There, there, Collins,
don’t be silly, you are a queer fish!’ And yet all the while she would
be longing to tell her how wonderful it was, like honeysuckle
blossom—something very sweet like that—or like fields smelling
strongly of new-mown hay, in the sunshine. And perhaps she would
tell her, just at the very end—just before this last picture faded.

In these days Stephen clung more closely to her father, and this in a
way was because of Collins. She could not have told you why it
should be so, she only felt that it was. Sir Philip and his daughter
would walk on the hillsides, in and out of the blackthorn and young
green bracken; they would walk hand in hand with a deep sense of
friendship, with a deep sense of mutual understanding.
Sir Philip knew all about wild flowers and berries, and the ways of
young foxes and rabbits and such people. There were many rare
birds, too, on the hills near Malvern, and these he would point out to
Stephen. He taught her the simpler laws of nature, which, though
simple, had always filled him with wonder: the law of the sap as it
flowed through the branches, the law of the wind that came stirring
the sap, the law of bird life and the building of nests, the law of the
cuckoo’s varying call, which in June changed to ‘Cuckoo-kook!’ He
taught out of love for both subject and pupil, and while he thus
taught he watched Stephen.
Sometimes, when the child’s heart would feel full past bearing,
she must tell him her problems in small, stumbling phrases. Tell him
how much she longed to be different, longed to be some one like
Nelson.
She would say: ‘Do you think that I could be a man, supposing I
thought very hard—or prayed, Father?’
Then Sir Philip would smile and tease her a little, and would tell
her that one day she would want pretty frocks, and his teasing was
always excessively gentle, so that it hurt not at all.
But at times he would study his daughter gravely, with his strong,
cleft chin tightly cupped in his hand. He would watch her at play
with the dogs in the garden, watch the curious suggestion of
strength in her movements, the long line of her limbs—she was tall
for her age—and the poise of her head on her over-broad shoulders.
Then perhaps he would frown and become lost in thought, or
perhaps he might suddenly call her:
‘Stephen, come here!’
She would go to him gladly, waiting expectant for what he should
say; but as likely as not he would just hold her to him for a moment,
and then let go of her abruptly. Getting up he would turn to the
house and his study, to spend all the rest of that day with his books.
A queer mixture, Sir Philip, part sportsman, part student. He had
one of the finest libraries in England, and just lately he had taken to
reading half the night, which had not hitherto been his custom.
Alone in that grave-looking, quiet study, he would unlock a drawer in
his ample desk, and would get out a slim volume recently acquired,
and would read and re-read it in the silence. The author was a
German, Karl Heinrich Ulrichs, and reading, Sir Philip’s eyes would
grow puzzled; then groping for a pencil he would make little notes
all along the immaculate margins. Sometimes he would jump up and
pace the room quickly, pausing now and again to stare at a picture—
the portrait of Stephen painted with her mother, by Millais, the
previous year. He would notice the gracious beauty of Anna, so
perfect a thing, so completely reassuring; and then that indefinable
quality in Stephen that made her look wrong in the clothes she was
wearing, as though she and they had no right to each other, but
above all no right to Anna. After a while he would steal up to bed,
being painfully careful to tread very softly, fearful of waking his wife
who might question: ‘Philip darling, it’s so late—what have you been
reading?’ He would not want to answer, he would not want to tell
her; that was why he must tread very softly.
The next morning, he would be very tender to Anna—but even
more tender to Stephen.

As the spring waxed more lusty and strode into summer, Stephen
grew conscious that Collins was changing. The change was almost
intangible at first, but the instinct of children is not mocked. Came a
day when Collins turned on her quite sharply, nor did she explain it
by a reference to her knee.
‘Don’t be always under my feet now, Miss Stephen. Don’t follow
me about and don’t be always staring. I ’ates being watched—you
run up to the nursery, the basement’s no place for young ladies.’
After which such rebuffs were of frequent occurrence, if Stephen
went anywhere near her.
Miserable enigma! Stephen’s mind groped about it like a little
blind mole that is always in darkness. She was utterly confounded,
while her love grew the stronger for so much hard pruning, and she
tried to woo Collins by offerings of bull’s-eyes and chocolate drops,
which the maid took because she liked them. Nor was Collins so
blameworthy as she appeared, for she, in her turn, was the puppet
of emotion. The new footman was tall and exceedingly handsome.
He had looked upon Collins with eyes of approval. He had said: ‘Stop
that damned kid hanging around you; if you don’t she’ll go blabbing
about us.’
And now Stephen knew very deep desolation because there was
no one in whom to confide. She shrank from telling even her father
—he might not understand, he might smile, he might tease her—if
he teased her, however gently, she knew that she could not keep
back her tears. Even Nelson had suddenly become quite remote.
What was the good of trying to be Nelson? What was the good of
dressing up any more—what was the good of pretending? She
turned from her food, growing pasty and languid; until, thoroughly
alarmed, Anna sent for the doctor. He arrived, and prescribed a dose
of Gregory powder, finding nothing much wrong with the patient.
Stephen tossed off the foul brew without a murmur—it was almost
as though she liked it!
The end came abruptly as is often the way, and it came when the
child was alone in the garden, still miserably puzzling over Collins,
who had been avoiding her for days. Stephen had wandered to an
old potting-shed, and there, whom should she see but Collins and
the footman; they appeared to be talking very earnestly together, so
earnestly that they failed to hear her. Then a really catastrophic
thing happened, for Henry caught Collins roughly by the wrists, and
he dragged her towards him, still handling her roughly, and he
kissed her full on the lips. Stephen’s head felt suddenly hot and
dizzy, she was filled with a blind, uncomprehending rage; she
wanted to cry out, but her voice failed completely, so that all she
could do was to splutter. But the very next moment she had seized a
broken flower-pot and had hurled it hard and straight at the
footman. It struck him in the face, cutting open his cheek, down
which the blood trickled slowly. He stood as though stunned, gently
mopping the cut, while Collins stared dumbly at Stephen. Neither of
them spoke, they were feeling too guilty—they were also too much
astonished.
Then Stephen turned and fled from them wildly. Away and away,
anyhow, anywhere, so long as she need not see them! She sobbed