The Garden Party, and Other Stories. Katherine Mansfield

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      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.

      “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, 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!” СКАЧАТЬ