Bio

Background

Books

Other work

Bibliography

Interviews

Essays and Academic

Free Classics!

Links

Agent and representation

Mail this site

Download the pdf:

Born in New Zealand in 1888, Kathering Mansfield Beauchamp was primarily a write of short stories. She had studied music for two years in London before turning away to pursue her literary ideas. Many refer to her work as original and Chekhovian, which is a contradiction in terms till you read them. She published Prelude and The Garden Party and Other Stories before her premature death from TB in 1923. One more book (Something Childish) and her journal and letters were published posthumously. NB: Only the first part is here: the whole text is available as a PDF via the link at the end.

The Garden Party by Katherine Mansfield

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 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.

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.

"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.

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!" 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.
"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 were even prizes--large,
rather dirty paper parcels which the lady-help with a sour little smile
drew out of a bulging string kit. The Samuel Josephs fought fearfully for
the prizes and cheated and pinched one another's arms--they were all expert
pinchers. The only time the Burnell children ever played with them Kezia
had got a prize, and when she undid three bits of paper she found a very
small rusty button-hook. She couldn't understand why they made such a
fuss...

But they never played with the Samuel Josephs now or even went to their
parties. The Samuel Josephs were always giving children's parties at the
Bay and there was always the same food. A big washhand basin of very brown
fruit-salad, buns cut into four and a washhand jug full of something the
lady-help called "Limonadear." And you went away in the evening with half
the frill torn off your frock or something spilled all down the front of
your open-work pinafore, leaving the Samuel Josephs leaping like savages on
their lawn. No! They were too awful.

On the other side of the beach, close down to the water, two little boys,
their knickers rolled up, twinkled like spiders. One was digging, the
other pattered in and out of the water, filling a small bucket. They were
the Trout boys, Pip and Rags. But Pip was so busy digging and Rags was so
busy helping that they didn't see their little cousins until they were
quite close.

"Look!" said Pip. "Look what I've discovered." And he showed them an old
wet, squashed-looking boot. The three little girls stared.

"Whatever are you going to do with it?" asked Kezia.

"Keep it, of course!" Pip was very scornful. "It's a find--see?"

Yes, Kezia saw that. All the same...

"There's lots of things buried in the sand," explained Pip. "They get
chucked up from wrecks. Treasure. Why--you might find--"

"But why does Rags have to keep on pouring water in?" asked Lottie.

"Oh, that's to moisten it," said Pip, "to make the work a bit easier. Keep
it up, Rags."

And good little Rags ran up and down, pouring in the water that turned
brown like cocoa.

"Here, shall I show you what I found yesterday?" said Pip mysteriously, and
he stuck his spade into the sand. "Promise not to tell."

They promised.

"Say, cross my heart straight dinkum."

The little girls said it.

Pip took something out of his pocket, rubbed it a long time on the front of
his jersey, then breathed on it and rubbed it again.

"Now turn round!" he ordered.

They turned round.

"All look the same way! Keep still! Now!"

And his hand opened; he held up to the light something that flashed, that
winked, that was a most lovely green.

"It's a nemeral," said Pip solemnly.

"Is it really, Pip?" Even Isabel was impressed.

The lovely green thing seemed to dance in Pip's fingers. Aunt Beryl had a
nemeral in a ring, but it was a very small one. This one was as big as a
star and far more beautiful.

Read more? Download the pdf: