The Garden Party and Other Stories. Katherine MansfieldЧитать онлайн книгу.

      The Garden Party and Other Stories

      THE GARDEN PARTY and Other Stories

      Short stories can be like photographs, catching people at some moment in their lives and trapping the memory for ever. There they are, smiling or frowning, looking sad, happy, serious, surprised … And behind those smiles and those frowns lie all the experiences of life, the fears and delights, the hopes and the dreams.

      These sensitive and delicate stories give us pictures of ordinary people, and of the small, unimportant events that shape their lives. There is a garden party and a death, a desperate search for work, a journey alone across Europe by train, a meeting with a woman who has a dangerous secret. There are children being cruel, the feelings of a young girl at her first dance, the thoughts of a lady’s maid, and of a woman on a lonely farm in New Zealand.

      We begin in an artist’s studio in Paris, with a young man who is a mystery to the women around him …

      Feuille d’Album

      He really was an impossible person. Too shy, and he had nothing at all to say. When he came to your studio, he just sat there, silent. When he finally went, blushing red all over his face, you wanted to scream and throw something at him.

      The strange thing was that at first sight he looked most interesting. Everybody agreed about that. You saw him in a café one evening, sitting in a corner with a glass of coffee in front of him. He was a thin, dark boy, who always wore a blue shirt and a grey jacket that was a little too small for him. He looked just like a boy who has decided to run away to sea. You expected him to get up at any moment, and walk out into the night and be drowned.

      He had short black hair, grey eyes, white skin and a mouth that always looked ready for tears. Oh, just to see him did something to your heart! And he had this habit of blushing. If a waiter spoke to him, he turned red!

      ‘Who is he, my dear? Do you know?’

      ‘Yes. His name is Ian French. He paints. They say he’s very clever. Someone I know tried to mother him. She asked him how often he had a letter from home, if he had enough blankets on his bed, how much milk he drank. Then she went to his studio to make sure he had enough clean shirts. She rang and rang the bell, but nobody came to the door, although she was sure he was there … Hopeless!’

      Someone else decided he ought to fall in love. She called him to her, took his hand, and told him how wonderful life can be for those who are brave. But when she went to his studio one evening, she rang and rang … Hopeless.

      ‘What the poor boy really needs is excitement,’ a third woman said. She took him to cafés and night-clubs, dark places where the drinks cost too much and there were always stories of a shooting the night before. Once he got very drunk, but still he said nothing, and when she took him home to his studio, he just said ‘goodnight’ and left her outside in the street … Hopeless.

      Other women tried to help him – women can be very kind – but finally they, too, were defeated. We are all busy people, and why should we spend our valuable time on someone who refuses to be helped?

      ‘And anyway, I think there is something rather odd about him, don’t you agree? He can’t be as innocent as he looks. Why come to Paris if you don’t intend to have any fun?’

      He lived at the top of a tall, ugly building, near the river. As it was so high, the studio had a wonderful view. From the two big windows he could see boats on the river and an island covered with trees. From the side window he looked across to a smaller and uglier house, and down below there was a flower market. You could see the tops of huge umbrellas with bright flowers around them, and plants in boxes. Old women moved backwards and forwards among the flowers. Really, he didn’t need to go out. There was always something to draw.

      If any kind woman had been able to get into his studio, she would have had a surprise. He kept it as neat as a pin. Everything was arranged in its place, exactly like a painting – the bowl of eggs, the cups and the teapot on the shelf, the books and the lamp on the table. There was a red Indian cover on his bed, and on the wall by the bed there was a small, neatly written notice: GET UP AT ONCE.

      Every day was the same. When the light was good he painted, then cooked a meal and tidied the studio. In the evenings he went to the café or sat at home reading or writing a list which began: ‘What I can afford to spend’. The list ended ‘I promise not to spend more this month. Signed, Ian French.’

      Nothing odd about that; but the women were right. There was something else.

      One evening he was sitting at the side window eating an apple and looking down on to the tops of the huge umbrellas in the empty flower market. It had been raining, the first spring rain of the year, and the air smelled of plants and wet earth. Down below in the market, the trees were covered in new green. ‘What kind of trees are they?’ he wondered. He stared down at the small ugly house, and suddenly two windows opened like wings and a girl came out on to the balcony, carrying a pot of daffodils. She was a strangely thin girl in a dark dress, with a pink handkerchief tied over her hair.

      ‘Yes, it is warm enough. It will do them good,’ she said, putting down the pot, and turning to someone in the room inside. As she turned, she put her hands up to her hair to tidy it, and looked down at the market and up at the sky. She did not look at the house opposite. Then she disappeared.