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    The Garden Party and Other Stories
    The Garden Party and Other Stories
    The Garden Party and Other Stories
    Ebook214 pages4 hours

    The Garden Party and Other Stories

    By Katherine Mansfield

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    Katherine Mansfield (1888-1923) is credited alongside James Joyce as the creator of the modern short story. The New Zealand-born Englishwoman embraced a Bohemian lifestyle and became involved in a series of scandalous relationships, which greatly influenced some of her most significant work. Her best-known writings were produced in her final years, as she was plagued by illness. Her fiction is dominated by themes of male-female relationships, sexual ambivalence and gender roles. Most of her work focuses on female protagonists and demonstrates the problems of social relationships. This collection, written between 1920-1922, includes “At the Bay,” a story that proposes there is more to a woman's life than marriage and motherhood; “The Garden Party,” which explores class differences; “The Daughters of the Late Colonel,” a story about life and death; “Marriage à la Mode,” about the dissolution of a relationship; “Miss Brill,” Mansfield's memorable tale of the lonely woman, and several more.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDigireads.com Publishing
    Release dateJan 1, 2011
    ISBN9781420943740
    Author

    Katherine Mansfield

    Kathleen Mansfield Beauchamp was born in New Zealand in 1888. Her father sent her and her sisters to school in London, where she was editor of the school newspaper. Back in New Zealand, she started to write short stories but she grew tired of her life there. She returned to Europe in 1908 and went on to live in France, Italy, Germany and Switzerland. A restless soul who had many love affairs, her modernist writing was admired by her peers such as Leonard and Virginia Woolf, who published her story ‘Prelude’ on their Hogarth Press. In 1917 she was diagnosed with tuberculosis and she died in France aged only thirty-four.

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    Reviews for The Garden Party and Other Stories

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    • 4/5
      A collection of short stories, each a an exquisite portrait of a person and a situation. Issues of class and its impact upon lives explored. It often portrays the gap between dream and reality. I found the stories most intriguing for their superb portraits and psychological insight.
    • 4/5
      An influence for D.H Lawrence. Some poignant stories, studies of class.
    • 4/5
      Katharine Mansfield has a lovely writing style. Her short stories are poignant, subtle, and easy to move through. I was definitely left wishing for more.
    • 5/5
      Utterly fantastic. These stories are top-drawer examples of fiction writing, which might be the best compliment I can pay them. Virginia Woolf is the unavoidable point of comparisson here, and Mansfield's prose has the same touch of modernist brightness about them that Woolf's best stuff has. The stories in "The Garden Party" are largely written in the third person, and so it's not surprising that Mansfield's characters lack the full-on sense of interiority that Lily Briscoe and Clarissa Dalloway had. Still, her focus is on the full range of human experience: her descriptions seem at once sensuous and wonderfully far-reaching. Mansfield's themes are typically modernist -- Empire, class, as-yet-unarticulated social stressors -- and so this book will certainly appeal to fans of that period. Honestly, a few of these stories are no more than sketches, but they don't seem like mere sketches: Mansfield most extraordinary quality might be her seemingly effortlessly concision. The worlds of her characters seem to turn on a phrase, and she has the ability to describe their entire worldviews in just a few sentences. The jacket copy of my copy of "The Garden Party" refers to "pastels," and while that's not inaccurate, her writing's economy points to something else. If, in "To the Lighthouse," Lily Briscoe sought to paint a picture with "one colour melting into another like the colours on a butterfly’s wing; but beneath the fabric must be clamped together with bolts of iron... a thing you could ruffle with your breath; and a thing you could not dislodge with a team of horses," there's a fair bit more iron in Mansfield's writing than there is in Woolf's. These miniatures are both delicate and tough-minded. Highly recommended.
    • 5/5
      I do not enjoy short stories, but these were beautifully written, and pulled me in and had me so involved within seconds... I wish she had written novels. She didn't did she? I'm not missing out on something somewhere? But I can she why she and Virginia Woolf saw each other as equals.
    • 3/5
      One of the early modernists, she is not a particularly astute psychologist nor does she do much with story, but the descriptions and urgency of her scenes where by sheer energy she tries to lift a moment through the screen is astonishing. She has these long rolling abundant sentences that are all about making the moment startlingly vivid and fresh. She died in her early thirties and may have gotten TB from DH Lawrence and that plus the death of her younger brother cast a long shadow. Things must be memorialized because there isn't much time and/or death lurks right in the next room. if it isnt' front and center it is still the predominant influence. The structure of the title story could not be more straightforward and you can't convince me she didn't have much fondness for her people, but still it has the same verve, that singular instance that the moment be fully displayed that reminds me of Joyce. The Voyage too was good. There are a few stories and then some things that didn't feel like much more than sketches but again, the sentences. Wow.
    • 5/5
      Ahh, the joy of lacking formal education: a perpetual state of rapt discovery. Every book a favourite. Every author the greatest. Oh, oh, this! ... no, wait, this!

      I had to abandon after only a few pages my practice of copying down the most sparkling sentences, because in this case it would have amounted to wholesale transcription. Bubbly, effervescent sentences. Dazzling ones that make you giddy. Ones that make you exhale and put your book down. Endings that deliver.

      The phrase "prose stylist" is bandied about too readily on book jackets these days but it couldn't be more aptly applied to Mansfield, whose sharp prose glitters whether she is confiding warmly or taking the top of your head off.
    • 2/5
      I was bored and couldn't get into the story at all. It seemed totally pointless. Overly descriptive with nothing actually happening.
    • 4/5
      Interesting and thought provoking short story
    • 5/5
      St. Barth trip Book #2: Wow...I loved this book. I know i read at least 2 of these stories back in school, or I assume i did because the story titles seemed familiar to me, but i had no recollection of them. My favorites were: The Garden Party; Miss Brill; Marriage A La Mode; & The Stranger. Many of these stories had a biting commentary on the ridiculousness of strict societal standards that lead people to behave merely for purposes of appearance to others, and in doing so, completely stifle their genuine humanity. And the stories are all very subtle. I felt i knew many of the characters quite well in the brief time i spent with them. I have learned that there are several other collections by Katherine Mansfield and i will be sure to hunt them down...soon!
    • 4/5
      This was an interesting and diverse collection of short stories, most of them pretty great. They deal with loneliness, class issues and growing-up experiences, usually by presenting a snapshot of someone’s life, or by telling of a jarring transition. What struck me most was Mansfield’s carefulness in writing: the way she cares for her characters and her economy of expression I can only call “professional” -- it’s masterfully done.

      The first time I read something by Mansfield was when one or two of her short stories were assigned for a short story class at uni. I can see why: her stories work really great as exemplary illustrations of the genre. This was her third short story collection (apparently she called her first one, In a german pension “immature”), but these stories are definitely all grown up!
    • 4/5
      "Garden Party" illustrates many themes: wealth versus poverty, insensitivity versus compassion, death versus life.
      Wealthy Mrs. Sheridan has been preparing for an elaborate garden party with flowers and tents, food and music. Servants and gardeners and workers toil like busy bees here, there, and everywhere setting up chairs, organizing the musicians, placing the flowers just so. The excitement catches with her four children, too. But when a terrible accident leaves a man dead right outside their gates daughter Laura doesn't thinks it's appropriate for the show to go on. She questions the sensitivity of their actions. Later Mrs. Sheridan allows Laura to bring a basket of food to the dead man's family. Walking through the poor neighborhood gives Laura a new perspective and in the face of mortality she learns about living.
    • 5/5
      The Garden Party - like Bliss - is dominated by an extended story drawn from the author's childhood, in this case "At the bay", where the family we met in "Prelude" are staying in a summer-house by the sea, and once again we discover mostly through indirect signs - the plants, the beach, the play of the children - the invisible rifts that run between the members of the apparently harmonious family group.

      The title-story is one of Mansfield's most anthologised stories, so you'll have read it twenty years ago and answered exam questions on Mansfield's death-imagery, but it's worth coming back to. It seems to have just about everything - endless quantities of plants, a significant piece of music, failures of communication within a bourgeois family, incomprehension between rich and poor, the well-intentioned action that is undermined by its initiator's realisation that she's being patronising. But it never reads like just a text for an Eng Lit paper: it's a story you can't help engaging with emotionally.

      There are plenty more gems in this collection as well: "The singing lesson" is a miracle of construction, which works despite the fact that you can almost see the gears turning to keep it going; "Miss Brill" and "The Lady's Maid" are both beautiful examples of texts where the reader has to create the story despite the narrator. And I don't see how anyone can fail to enjoy "The Voyage" or "Her First Ball".
    • 4/5
      For the past month I have been dipping in and out of this collection of short stories and for the most part I have found that each and every one had something about it that made it both readable and interesting. Some of my favorites were “Miss Brill”, “The Daughters of the Late Colonel” and “Her First Ball”. But my whole point of reading this collection was to read “The Garden Party” so I am commenting on that particular story here.

      Originally published in 1922, [The Garden Party] is a deceptively simple story that combines the themes of class difference with that of learning of one’s own mortality. The opening setting is one of luxury as a family is preparing for their annual garden party. With a marquee being raised, sandwiches being labelled with little flags and the piano being tuned, daughters Laura and Jose along with their mother Mrs. Sheridan are hoping for a successful social gathering. When news comes of the death of a working class neighbour, Laura feels that the party should be cancelled but her mother and sister over-ride this opinion. After the party, Laura’s mother puts together a basket of leftovers and sends her daughter to take this to the widow and offer the family’s condolences. Laura comes face to face with death and senses her own mortality. On her way home, she meets her brother but she is unable to put her thoughts into words. Yet her statement of “Isn’t life ____?” appears to be perfectly understood by him and it’s left for us to fill in the blank.

      Katherine Mansfield writes with both skill and style and in The Garden Party she conveys some major insights about life and living. I thought the author painted a vivid picture of life’s inequality through class and then just as vividly showed us that we are all equal in death. Although there was a sense of “old-fashioned-ness” about these stories, this collection was well worth reading.

    Book preview

    The Garden Party and Other Stories - Katherine Mansfield

    THE GARDEN PARTY AND OTHER STORIES

    BY KATHERINE MANSFIELD

    A Digireads.com Book

    Digireads.com Publishing

    Print ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-4301-6

    Ebook ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-4374-0

    This edition copyright © 2012

    Please visit www.digireads.com

    CONTENTS

    AT THE BAY

    THE GARDEN PARTY

    THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

    MR. AND MRS. DOVE

    THE YOUNG GIRL

    LIFE OF MA PARKER

    MARRIAGE À LA MODE

    THE VOYAGE

    MISS BRILL

    HER FIRST BALL

    THE SINGING LESSON

    THE STRANGER

    BANK HOLIDAY

    AN IDEAL FAMILY

    THE LADY'S MAID

    AT THE BAY

    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 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. 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.

    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.

    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. 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.

    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

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