The Garden Party(园会)

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The Garden Party

By Katherine Mansfield

The Garden Party

1. AT THE BAY.

Chapter 1.I.

Very early morning. The sun was not yet risen, and the whole of

Crescent Bay was hidden under a white sea-mist. The big bush-covered

hills at the back were smothered. You could not see where they ended

and the paddocks and bungalows began. The sandy road was gone and

the paddocks and bungalows the other side of it; there were no white

dunes covered with reddish grass beyond them; there was nothing to mark

which was beach and where was the sea. A heavy dew had fallen. The

grass was blue. Big drops hung on the bushes and just did not fall; the

silvery, fluffy toi-toi was limp on its long stalks, and all the marigolds and

the pinks in the bungalow gardens were bowed to the earth with wetness.

Drenched were the cold fuchsias, round pearls of dew lay on the flat

nasturtium leaves. It looked as though the sea had beaten up softly in the

darkness, as though one immense wave had come rippling, rippling--how

far? Perhaps if you had waked up in the middle of the night you might

have seen a big fish flicking in at the window and gone again...

Ah-Aah! sounded the sleepy sea. And from the bush there came the

sound of little streams flowing, quickly, lightly, slipping between the

smooth stones, gushing into ferny basins and out again; and there was the

splashing of big drops on large leaves, and something else--what was it?--

a faint stirring and shaking, the snapping of a twig and then such silence

that it seemed some one was listening.

Round the corner of Crescent Bay, between the piled-up masses of

broken rock, a flock of sheep came pattering. They were huddled

together, a small, tossing, woolly mass, and their thin, stick-like legs

trotted along quickly as if the cold and the quiet had frightened them.

Behind them an old sheep-dog, his soaking paws covered with sand, ran

along with his nose to the ground, but carelessly, as if thinking of

something else. And then in the rocky gateway the shepherd himself

appeared. He was a lean, upright old man, in a frieze coat that was

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covered with a web of tiny drops, velvet trousers tied under the knee, and

a wide-awake with a folded blue handkerchief round the brim. One hand

was crammed into his belt, the other grasped a beautifully smooth yellow

stick. And as he walked, taking his time, he kept up a very soft light

whistling, an airy, far-away fluting that sounded mournful and tender.

The old dog cut an ancient caper or two and then drew up sharp, ashamed

of his levity, and walked a few dignified paces by his master's side.

The sheep ran forward in little pattering rushes; they began to bleat, and

ghostly flocks and herds answered them from under the sea. "Baa!

Baaa!" For a time they seemed to be always on the same piece of ground.

There ahead was stretched the sandy road with shallow puddles; the same

soaking bushes showed on either side and the same shadowy palings.

Then something immense came into view; an enormous shock- haired

giant with his arms stretched out. It was the big gum-tree outside Mrs.

Stubbs' shop, and as they passed by there was a strong whiff of eucalyptus.

And now big spots of light gleamed in the mist. The shepherd stopped

whistling; he rubbed his red nose and wet beard on his wet sleeve and,

screwing up his eyes, glanced in the direction of the sea. The sun was

rising. It was marvellous how quickly the mist thinned, sped away,

dissolved from the shallow plain, rolled up from the bush and was gone as

if in a hurry to escape; big twists and curls jostled and shouldered each

other as the silvery beams broadened. The far-away sky--a bright, pure

blue--was reflected in the puddles, and the drops, swimming along the

telegraph poles, flashed into points of light. Now the leaping, glittering

sea was so bright it made one's eyes ache to look at it. The shepherd

drew a pipe, the bowl as small as an acorn, out of his breast pocket,

fumbled for a chunk of speckled tobacco, pared off a few shavings and

stuffed the bowl. He was a grave, fine-looking old man. As he lit up

and the blue smoke wreathed his head, the dog, watching, looked proud of

him.

"Baa! Baaa!" The sheep spread out into a fan. They were just

clear of the summer colony before the first sleeper turned over and lifted a

drowsy head; their cry sounded in the dreams of little children...who lifted

their arms to drag down, to cuddle the darling little woolly lambs of sleep.

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Then the first inhabitant appeared; it was the Burnells' cat Florrie, sitting

on the gatepost, far too early as usual, looking for their milk- girl. When

she saw the old sheep-dog she sprang up quickly, arched her back, drew in

her tabby head, and seemed to give a little fastidious shiver. "Ugh!

What a coarse, revolting creature!" said Florrie. But the old sheep-dog,

not looking up, waggled past, flinging out his legs from side to side.

Only one of his ears twitched to prove that he saw, and thought her a silly

young female.

The breeze of morning lifted in the bush and the smell of leaves and

wet black earth mingled with the sharp smell of the sea. Myriads of birds

were singing. A goldfinch flew over the shepherd's head and, perching

on the tiptop of a spray, it turned to the sun, ruffling its small breast

feathers. And now they had passed the fisherman's hut, passed the

charred- looking little whare where Leila the milk-girl lived with her old

Gran. The sheep strayed over a yellow swamp and Wag, the sheep-dog,

padded after, rounded them up and headed them for the steeper, narrower

rocky pass that led out of Crescent Bay and towards Daylight Cove.

"Baa! Baa!" Faint the cry came as they rocked along the fast-drying

road. The shepherd put away his pipe, dropping it into his breast-pocket

so that the little bowl hung over. And straightway the soft airy whistling

began again. Wag ran out along a ledge of rock after something that

smelled, and ran back again disgusted. Then pushing, nudging, hurrying,

the sheep rounded the bend and the shepherd followed after out of sight.

Chapter 1.II.

A few moments later the back door of one of the bungalows opened,

and a figure in a broad-striped bathing suit flung down the paddock,

cleared the stile, rushed through the tussock grass into the hollow,

staggered up the sandy hillock, and raced for dear life over the big porous

stones, over the cold, wet pebbles, on to the hard sand that gleamed like

oil. Splish- Splosh! Splish-Splosh! The water bubbled round his legs

as Stanley Burnell waded out exulting. First man in as usual! He'd

beaten them all again. And he swooped down to souse his head and

neck.

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"Hail, brother! All hail, Thou Mighty One!" A velvety bass voice

came booming over the water.

Great Scott! Damnation take it! Stanley lifted up to see a dark head

bobbing far out and an arm lifted. It was Jonathan Trout--there before

him! "Glorious morning!" sang the voice.

"Yes, very fine!" said Stanley briefly. Why the dickens didn't the

fellow stick to his part of the sea? Why should he come barging over to

this exact spot? Stanley gave a kick, a lunge and struck out, swimming

overarm. But Jonathan was a match for him. Up he came, his black

hair sleek on his forehead, his short beard sleek.

"I had an extraordinary dream last night!" he shouted.

What was the matter with the man? This mania for conversation

irritated Stanley beyond words. And it was always the same--always

some piffle about a dream he'd had, or some cranky idea he'd got hold of,

or some rot he'd been reading. Stanley turned over on his back and

kicked with his legs till he was a living waterspout. But even then..."I

dreamed I was hanging over a terrifically high cliff, shouting to some one

below." You would be! thought Stanley. He could stick no more of it.

He stopped splashing. "Look here, Trout," he said, "I'm in rather a hurry

this morning."

"You're WHAT?" Jonathan was so surprised--or pretended to be--that

he sank under the water, then reappeared again blowing.

"All I mean is," said Stanley, "I've no time to--to--to fool about. I

want to get this over. I'm in a hurry. I've work to do this morning--

see?"

Jonathan was gone before Stanley had finished. "Pass, friend!" said

the bass voice gently, and he slid away through the water with scarcely a

ripple...But curse the fellow! He'd ruined Stanley's bathe. What an

unpractical idiot the man was! Stanley struck out to sea again, and then

as quickly swam in again, and away he rushed up the beach. He felt

cheated.

Jonathan stayed a little longer in the water. He floated, gently

moving his hands like fins, and letting the sea rock his long, skinny body.

It was curious, but in spite of everything he was fond of Stanley Burnell.

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True, he had a fiendish desire to tease him sometimes, to poke fun at him,

but at bottom he was sorry for the fellow. There was something pathetic

in his determination to make a job of everything. You couldn't help

feeling he'd be caught out one day, and then what an almighty cropper he'd

come! At that moment an immense wave lifted Jonathan, rode past him,

and broke along the beach with a joyful sound. What a beauty! And

now there came another. That was the way to live--carelessly, recklessly,

spending oneself. He got on to his feet and began to wade towards the

shore, pressing his toes into the firm, wrinkled sand. To take things easy,

not to fight against the ebb and flow of life, but to give way to it--that was

what was needed. It was this tension that was all wrong. To live--to

live! And the perfect morning, so fresh and fair, basking in the light, as

though laughing at its own beauty, seemed to whisper, "Why not?"

But now he was out of the water Jonathan turned blue with cold. He

ached all over; it was as though some one was wringing the blood out of

him. And stalking up the beach, shivering, all his muscles tight, he too

felt his bathe was spoilt. He'd stayed in too long.

Chapter 1.III.

Beryl was alone in the living-room when Stanley appeared, wearing a

blue serge suit, a stiff collar and a spotted tie. He looked almost

uncannily clean and brushed; he was going to town for the day.

Dropping into his chair, he pulled out his watch and put it beside his plate.

"I've just got twenty-five minutes," he said. "You might go and see if

the porridge is ready, Beryl?"

"Mother's just gone for it," said Beryl. She sat down at the table and

poured out his tea.

"Thanks!" Stanley took a sip. "Hallo!" he said in an astonished

voice, "you've forgotten the sugar."

"Oh, sorry!" But even then Beryl didn't help him; she pushed the

basin across. What did this mean? As Stanley helped himself his blue

eyes widened; they seemed to quiver. He shot a quick glance at his

sister-in- law and leaned back.

"Nothing wrong, is there?" he asked carelessly, fingering his collar.

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Beryl's head was bent; she turned her plate in her fingers.

"Nothing," said her light voice. Then she too looked up, and smiled

at Stanley. "Why should there be?"

"O-oh! No reason at all as far as I know. I thought you seemed

rather--"

At that moment the door opened and the three little girls appeared,

each carrying a porridge plate. They were dressed alike in blue jerseys

and knickers; their brown legs were bare, and each had her hair plaited and

pinned up in what was called a horse's tail. Behind them came Mrs.

Fairfield with the tray.

"Carefully, children," she warned. But they were taking the very

greatest care. They loved being allowed to carry things. "Have you

said good morning to your father?"

"Yes, grandma." They settled themselves on the bench opposite

Stanley and Beryl.

"Good morning, Stanley!" Old Mrs. Fairfield gave him his plate.

"Morning, mother! How's the boy?"

"Splendid! He only woke up once last night. What a perfect

morning!" The old woman paused, her hand on the loaf of bread, to gaze

out of the open door into the garden. The sea sounded. Through the

wide-open window streamed the sun on to the yellow varnished walls and

bare floor. Everything on the table flashed and glittered. In the middle

there was an old salad bowl filled with yellow and red nasturtiums. She

smiled, and a look of deep content shone in her eyes.

"You might cut me a slice of that bread, mother," said Stanley. "I've

only twelve and a half minutes before the coach passes. Has anyone

given my shoes to the servant girl?"

"Yes, they're ready for you." Mrs. Fairfield was quite unruffled.

"Oh, Kezia! Why are you such a messy child!" cried Beryl

despairingly.

"Me, Aunt Beryl?" Kezia stared at her. What had she done now?

She had only dug a river down the middle of her porridge, filled it, and

was eating the banks away. But she did that every single morning, and

no one had said a word up till now.

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"Why can't you eat your food properly like Isabel and Lottie?" How

unfair grown-ups are!

"But Lottie always makes a floating island, don't you, Lottie?"

"I don't," said Isabel smartly. "I just sprinkle mine with sugar and put

on the milk and finish it. Only babies play with their food."

Stanley pushed back his chair and got up.

"Would you get me those shoes, mother? And, Beryl, if you've

finished, I wish you'd cut down to the gate and stop the coach. Run in to

your mother, Isabel, and ask her where my bowler hat's been put. Wait a

minute--have you children been playing with my stick?"

"No, father!"

"But I put it here." Stanley began to bluster. "I remember distinctly

putting it in this corner. Now, who's had it? There's no time to lose.

Look sharp! The stick's got to be found."

Even Alice, the servant-girl, was drawn into the chase. "You haven't

been using it to poke the kitchen fire with by any chance?"

Stanley dashed into the bedroom where Linda was lying. "Most

extraordinary thing. I can't keep a single possession to myself. They've

made away with my stick, now!"

"Stick, dear? What stick?" Linda's vagueness on these occasions

could not be real, Stanley decided. Would nobody sympathize with him?

"Coach! Coach, Stanley!" Beryl's voice cried from the gate.

Stanley waved his arm to Linda. "No time to say good-bye!" he cried.

And he meant that as a punishment to her.

He snatched his bowler hat, dashed out of the house, and swung down

the garden path. Yes, the coach was there waiting, and Beryl, leaning

over the open gate, was laughing up at somebody or other just as if

nothing had happened. The heartlessness of women! The way they

took it for granted it was your job to slave away for them while they didn't

even take the trouble to see that your walking-stick wasn't lost. Kelly

trailed his whip across the horses.

"Good-bye, Stanley," called Beryl, sweetly and gaily. It was easy

enough to say good-bye! And there she stood, idle, shading her eyes

with her hand. The worst of it was Stanley had to shout good-bye too,

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for the sake of appearances. Then he saw her turn, give a little skip and

run back to the house. She was glad to be rid of him!

Yes, she was thankful. Into the living-room she ran and called "He's

gone!" Linda cried from her room: "Beryl! Has Stanley gone?" Old

Mrs. Fairfield appeared, carrying the boy in his little flannel coatee.

"Gone?"

"Gone!"

Oh, the relief, the difference it made to have the man out of the house.

Their very voices were changed as they called to one another; they

sounded warm and loving and as if they shared a secret. Beryl went over

to the table. "Have another cup of tea, mother. It's still hot." She

wanted, somehow, to celebrate the fact that they could do what they liked

now. There was no man to disturb them; the whole perfect day was

theirs.

"No, thank you, child," said old Mrs. Fairfield, but the way at that

moment she tossed the boy up and said "a-goos-a-goos-a-ga!" to him

meant that she felt the same. The little girls ran into the paddock like

chickens let out of a coop.

Even Alice, the servant-girl, washing up the dishes in the kitchen,

caught the infection and used the precious tank water in a perfectly

reckless fashion.

"Oh, these men!" said she, and she plunged the teapot into the bowl

and held it under the water even after it had stopped bubbling, as if it too

was a man and drowning was too good for them.

Chapter 1.IV.

"Wait for me, Isa-bel! Kezia, wait for me!"

There was poor little Lottie, left behind again, because she found it so

fearfully hard to get over the stile by herself. When she stood on the first

step her knees began to wobble; she grasped the post. Then you had to

put one leg over. But which leg? She never could decide. And when

she did finally put one leg over with a sort of stamp of despair--then the

feeling was awful. She was half in the paddock still and half in the

tussock grass. She clutched the post desperately and lifted up her voice.

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"Wait for me!"

"No, don't you wait for her, Kezia!" said Isabel. "She's such a little

silly. She's always making a fuss. Come on!" And she tugged Kezia's

jersey. "You can use my bucket if you come with me," she said kindly.

"It's bigger than yours." But Kezia couldn't leave Lottie all by herself.

She ran back to her. By this time Lottie was very red in the face and

breathing heavily.

"Here, put your other foot over," said Kezia.

"Where?"

Lottie looked down at Kezia as if from a mountain height.

"Here where my hand is." Kezia patted the place.

"Oh, there do you mean!" Lottie gave a deep sigh and put the second

foot over.

"Now--sort of turn round and sit down and slide," said Kezia.

"But there's nothing to sit down on, Kezia," said Lottie.

She managed it at last, and once it was over she shook herself and

began to beam.

"I'm getting better at climbing over stiles, aren't I, Kezia?"

Lottie's was a very hopeful nature.

The pink and the blue sunbonnet followed Isabel's bright red

sunbonnet up that sliding, slipping hill. At the top they paused to decide

where to go and to have a good stare at who was there already. Seen

from behind, standing against the skyline, gesticulating largely with their

spades, they looked like minute puzzled explorers.

The whole family of Samuel Josephs was there already with their lady-

help, who sat on a camp-stool and kept order with a whistle that she wore

tied round her neck, and a small cane with which she directed operations.

The Samuel Josephs never played by themselves or managed their own

game. If they did, it ended in the boys pouring water down the girls'

necks or the girls trying to put little black crabs into the boys' pockets.

So Mrs. S. J. and the poor lady-help drew up what she called a

"brogramme" every morning to keep them "abused and out of bischief."

It was all competitions or races or round games. Everything began with a

piercing blast of the lady-help's whistle and ended with another. There

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TheGardenParty1TheGardenPartyByKatherineMansfieldTheGardenParty21.ATTHEBAY.Chapter1.I.Veryearlymorning.Thesunwasnotyetrisen,andthewholeofCrescentBaywashiddenunderawhitesea-mist.Thebigbush-coveredhillsatthebackweresmothered.Youcouldnotseewheretheyendedandthepaddocksandbungalowsbegan.Thesandyroadwasgo...

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