Part Two
Appreciation of Selected Stories from New Zealand Literature
Unit 2
Frank Sargeson：“A Piece of Yellow Soap”
1.The Story
She is dead now， that woman who used to hold a great piece of soap in her hand as she stood at her kitchen door. I was a milkman in those days. The woman owed a bill to the firm I worked for， and each Saturday I was expected to collect a sum that would pay for the week's milk， and pay something off the amount overdue. Well， I never collected anything at all. It was because of that piece of yellow soap.
I shall never forget those Saturday mornings. The woman had two advantages over me. She used to stand at the top of the steps and I used to stand at the bottom； and she always came out holding a piece of yellow soap. We used to argue. I would always start off by being very firm. Didn't my living depend on my getting money out of the people I served? But out of this woman I never got a penny. The more I argued the tighter the woman would curl her fingers on to the soap； and her fingers， just out of the washtub， were always bloodless and shrunken. I knew what they must have felt like to her. I didn't like getting my own fingers bloodless and shrunken. My eyes would get fixed on her fingers and the soap， and after a few minutes I would lose all power to look the woman in the face. I would mumble something to myself and take myself off.
I have often wondered whether the woman knew anything about the power her piece of yellow soap had over me， whether she used it as effectively on other tradesmen as she used it on me. I can't help feeling that she did know. Sometimes I used to pass her along the street， out of working hours. She acknowledged me only by staring at me， her eyes like pieces of rock.
She had a way too of feeling inside her handbag as she passed me， and I always had the queer feeling that she carried there a piece of soap. It was her talisman powerful to work wonders， to create round her a circle through which the more desperate harshnesses of the world could never penetrate.
Well， she is dead now， that woman. If she has passed into Heaven I can't help wondering whether she passed in holding tight to a piece of yellow washing soap. I'm not sure that I believe I don't doubt that when he looked at that piece of yellow washing soap he felt ashamed of himself.
2. The Author
Frank Sargeson， a New Zealand writer， is the pen name of Frank Davey. He wrote several novels， autobiographies and a play， but it is the short stories that established his literary reputation. Though not very prolific， he is considered one of the foremost writers in New Zealand national literature. Sargeson has greatly influenced New Zealand fiction with his distinctive features of a new writing style： the working-class New Zealand language， the minimalistic narration and the use of a nave first-person narrator to tell the story.
3. Interpretation of the Story
“A Piece of Yellow Soap” is one-page mini story， nothing more than a “slice-of-life”. It gives an instance of the tragic fate of a washwoman who had a habit of holding a piece of yellow washing soap tightly in her hand. The narrator “I”， a young milkman， recalls the days when he went to collect payment for the week's milk and the silent resistance from the woman.
What， you may ask， does the author intend to say by writing this little piece? The story is set in the decade of 1930s when the Great Depression， the severest， longest and deepest economic recession of the 20<sup>th</sup> century， swept the whole Western World. New Zealand， heavily dependent on the export of its pastoral products and sensitive to the economic forces overseas， was hard hit. The New Zealand critic Wystan Curnow said：“Depression was an import we could scarcely refuse.” The Depression changed the attitudes of many writers， Sargeson included， who， with sharpened awareness of the immediate reality， turned left to the poor and the lowly， and to the signs of poverty and despair as materials for fiction.
“A Piece of Yellow Soap，” written and published in the midst of the Great Depression， is a short story characteristic of Sargeson theme and style of writing. It is a sketchy story told superficially by a narrator who is unaware of the symbolic significance of the event that he himself narrates. The narrator recounts a few encounters with the wash woman as part of his work experience：
I was a milkman in those days.The woman owed a bill to the firm I worked for， and each Saturday I was expected to collect a sum that would pay for the week's milk， and pay something off the amount overdue. Well， I never collected anything at all.
To the demand for payment， the womanreacts with one single action：
She always came out holding a piece of yellow soap. We used to argue. I would always start off by being very firm. Didn't my living depend on my getting money out of the people I served? But out of this woman I never got a penny. The more I argued the tighter the woman would curl her fingers on to the soap.
She never tells the narrator she is unable to pay.“She acknowledged me only by staring at me， her eyes like pieces of rock.” The character of the woman is not described but “emerges” from the simple narration. The milkman tells us about his failure in the money collecting task. “My eyes would get fixed on her fingers and the soap， and after a few minutes I would lose all power to look the woman in the face.” Why does he “lose all power”? We are not told， but need to imagine the reason. Nothing is explicitly said throughout the whole story. But readers may see the piece of yellow soap as a symbol of poverty and despair， which seems to have overwhelmed the narrator. He cannot but be touched by the image of the helpless laborer that the “desperate harshness of the world” has created.
We'll wind up this episode by quoting New Zealand critic D'Arcy Cresswell's comment. He spoke metaphorically of Sargeson's short stories， saying that they are “swarming wasps that disturb the world by their little humming and awake the sleeping consciousness by their painful stings”.
In the next episode， we shall further discuss the short story with special attention to the function of the narrator.
4. Function of the Narrator and the Artistic Effect
“A Piece of Yellow Soap” offers no more than a photographic snapshot， and you may ask： how is the artistic effect achieved?
First， the author's use of language helps create the desired effect. It is unaffected and informal， yet it nevertheless keeps the rhythms of ordinary speech that fits almost flawlessly the story that is presented in the first person narrative. The focus of the story never shifts from the young milkman， the nave narrator， and it is from his personal narration that the main character， the wash woman， comes live. Even though he makes some angry comments at the end， blaming God for being unfair， he does so without presenting his ideas clearly. Yet we know the facts he supplies are reliable. The story-teller has no coherent theory， or even a workable vocabulary with which to convey his feelings. The author hands over the meaning-finding job to the reader. While the author chooses a nave narrator， he creates two levels of understandings， the surface level of understanding and the deep level of understanding. A gap of understanding is thus created. Readers need to break the surface level of narration to find at the deep level the real meaning the narrator leaves. Let's have a closer look at some of his narrations and find how the surface narration and the buried voice work together.
I shall never forget those Saturday mornings. The woman had two advantages over me. She used to stand at the top of the steps and I used to stand at the bottom； and she always came out holding a piece of yellow soap.
Readers see nothing that can really be called as “advantages” and the statement reveals only the young man's own anxiety and worrisome state of mind. The narrator continues to tell us about his wonderings which an intelligent reader would not accept as being reasonable：
I have often wondered whether the woman knew anything about the power her piece of yellow soap had over me， whether she used it as effectively on other tradesmen as she used it on me. I can't help feeling that she did know. Sometimes I used to pass her along the street， out of working hours. She acknowledged me only by staring at me， her eyes like pieces of rock.
She had a way too of feeling inside her handbag as she passed me， and I always had the queer feeling that she carried there a piece of soap. It was her talisman powerful to work wonders...
Contrary to the stated explanation， the reader more likely sees the piece of washing soap as an evidence of life of desperation and a testimony to the failure of the colonial dream of an ideal society. The “power” of the soap is the power of compassion aroused by the sight of the bleak life. Readers are expected to see more behind the tragic story of a woman reduced to a silent slave of the washtub.
Frank Sargeson once spoke of his preference for his way of writing：“I learn to use imagination to assist me in becoming explicit on paper， while at the same time leaving a good deal to become intelligible to the reader only upon the condition of a halfway meeting： he must not expect much from me unless he used his imagination.” The author's manipulative use of the narrator greatly expands the thematic space and the reader is thus drawn in the story building and meaning construction.
5. After-Class Discussion
（1）How do we understand the angry comments that the narrator makes at the end? Is the reason for his anger clearly expressed?
Answer 1： As a milkman who spent most of his time delivering milk， street to street， day by day， he witnessed too much dim social reality in those narrow and dirty lanes. We can imagine how shocked he was when he saw the huge gap between the poor and the rich that the lower classes were unable to pay even a bottle of milk while the upper classes devoured and enjoyed everything they could. And the death of that poor washwoman exacerbated his negative feelings. He was totally fed up with these unfairness and miseries which he also suffered from， so he growled at the end of the story. Moreover， since he was poorly-educated and was unable to figure out who was to blame for， the only way for him to let off was to damn God， the only one he thought could save him.
Answer 2： In this story， the milkman was expected to collect a sum of money from the woman， to pay for the weeks milk， but he never did， because he always felt guilty and “everytime he looked at that piece of yellow soap he felt ashamed of himself”， because he knew how hard she much work for her hands to become “bloodless and shrunken” and he himself lived at the bottom of society and struggled to make a living. The angry comments at the end showed how the gap between rich and poor in the society hurt the poor and vulnerable people. What caused this misery? It was the backward society system and evil capitalism that led to the pain of poor people. But they didn't realize this because of limited education level and life experience， so what they could do is just to blame the God.
Answer 3： The milkman is a very compassionate person and very sympathetic to the cruel situation of the poor old washing woman.
（2）Does the piece of yellow washing soap have the“power” as the narrator tells us? What is the “power” that forces him to take off?
Answer：The piece of yellow washing soap is， of course， an ordinary one. The narrator is a “nave narrator” who believed that it had some sort of mysterious “power”， while the readers are expected to know better. This power comes from the narrator's deep sympathy for the tragic fate of the washing woman. Seeing the situation， he simply couldn't continue to demand the payment which he knew the woman was unable to produce.
（3）How do you understand the following sentences from the story?
“My eyes would get fixed on her fingers and the soap， and after a few minutes I would lose all power to look the woman in the face. I would mumble something to myself and take myself off.”
Answer： The narrator could not bear to look at this washing-tub slave for too long. He would have to find some excuse and leave. He could not push her over the cliff while she was standing on the verge of total desperation.
（4）Why does the author say“She had a way too of feeling inside her hand bag as she passed me， and I always had the queer feeling that she carried there a piece of soap”? What's your comprehension?
Answer：Possibly in the bag there were a few pennies that the woman had earned from her washing， and she was going to buy food or some necessities. Seeing the narrator， to whom she knew she owned money， she unconsciously or protectively put her hand in the bag. The narrator， being “naive”， misunderstood her reaction while they met in the street.
6. Extended Reading
Conversation with My Uncle
By Frank Sargeson
My uncle wears a hard knocker. His wife put him up to it. She says it's the thing for a man in his position， and my uncle's position is pretty good. He's a partner in one of those big firms. He grumbles a bit but who doesn't grumble a bit ? I admit that these days his trousers are a bit shiny but people don't look at his trousers. They look at his hard knocker.
It's difficult to have a talk with my uncle. You can walk under his nose in the street and he won't see you， and if you sit next to him on a tramcar he'll find out you're there just as soon as you tell him. It chills you a bit if you're a sensitive person. It's because he's got a lot to occupy his mind. He's often told me that. You see he's on the City Council and one of those Boards， the sort you get paid for being on. Once he stood for Parliament but he didn't get in.
It's very difficult to have a talk with my uncle. It doesn't interest him to listen to what you've got to say any more than it interests him to look into people's faces in the street. But he likes to get going himself. He loves the sound of his own voice and he's all the time waiting for you to finish so that he can get going himself. I know we're all like that a bit， but all of us aren't as commonplace as my uncle. Oh Lord! I hope not. He never reads a book-well， just a murder story now and then.
I've tried talking about lots of things with my uncle butit's too difficult. Once I asked him， suppose he went to a picnic and there was only one banana each， would he try to get two bananas for himself， or three or more ? He said he never went to picnics. Now you might think my uncle was trying to be funny. He wasn't. He can't suppose. So I said， say anyone went to a picnic they wouldn't try to monopolize the bananas， would they? Not if they were decent? He said， no， of course not. Then I asked him， what about the social picnic? Social picnic? He repeated the words. He didn't understand and I had to leave it at that. He was so puzzled I felt sorry for him.
Once or twiceI've tried talking to my uncle about risky subjects. Just out of devilment. He's an ascetic， my uncle is. He eats only a few mouthfuls of food a day. He's very thin， very cold to shake hands with. His wife says his hard knocker is the thing for a man in his position. I say it's the thing for a man with his asceticism too. He dislikes me when I bring up a risky subject. He says，change the subject. A decent man doesn't let his mind dwell on those things. He looks very serious， very responsible.
Oh Lord ! It's a good job everybody isn't like my uncle. We don't want a world full of dead men walking about in hard knockers.
At Christmastime our family always went to the beach. In those days there weren't the roads along the Gulf that there are now， so father would get a carrier to take our luggage down to the launch steps. And as my brother and I would always ride on the cart， that was the real beginning of our holidays.
It was a little bay a good distance out of the harbor that we'd go to， and of course the launch trip would be even more exciting than the ride on the carrier's cart. We'd always scare mother beforehand by telling her it was sure to be rough. Each year we rented the same bach and we'd stay right until our school holidays were up. All except father who used to have only a few days' holiday at Christmas. He'd give my brother and me a lecture about behaving ourselves and not giving mother any trouble， then he'd go back home. Of course we'd spend nearly all our time on the beach， and mother would have no more trouble with us than most mothers are quite used to having.
Well， it's all a long time ago. It's hard now to understand why the things that we occupied our time over should have given us so much happiness. But they did. As I'll tell you， I was back in that bay not long ago， and for all that I'm well on in years I was innocent enough to think that to be there again would be to experience something of that same happiness. Of course I didn't experience anything of the kind. And because I didn't I had some reflections instead that gave me the very reverse of happiness. But， this is by the way. I haven't set out to philosophize. I've set out to tell you about a woman who lived in a bach not far beyond that bay of ours， and who， an old woman now， lives there to this day.