The dominant perspective of the modern society is that which had been created by conservative followers who appeared to be content with dominion of power. The concept of female writing evidently shows that the sacrifice of the contentment with female submissiveness would unavoidably lead to the reviling of the social transformation of the modern era whilst reverting to structures of the preceding era, the Victorian period. Yet, quite conversely, this does not appear to be the case for female writers, such as Katherine Mansfield who undoubtedly has the ability to, despite the terseness of her literary works, provide and paint a succinct inspiration from targeting aspects of capitalism and class structures, the role of women and the elderly , and also provide an acute scenery and a precise meaning to the aspiration behind each story.

That which has emerged from feminism is feminist criticism, which has thus become a varied field of debate rather than an agreed position [such as Marxism, for instance]. Apart from the feminine qualities attributed to her descriptions of characters, the weather, and other forms of scenery in short stories, Mansfield presents a strengthened female character in the form of Laura Sheridan in The Garden Party.

This is just as it should be. On the other hand, Mansfield also utilises other, less central characters, to portray the stereotypical nature of females and the blinkeredness, or close to blindness of women who had been oppressed by the patriarchal system. Sheridan is the most direct transmitter of social prejudice and represents the prototype of the woman who internalizes patriarchal values to become her most fervent defendant. They cannot make their own choices and remain indecisive about the straightforward aspects in their lives. That was what they felt more than ever when, two mornings later, they went into his room to go through his things.

Driven by her indistinct liberal nature, Cooper elucidates that for Mansfield, experiences of feminism probably led to an ambivalent attitude towards the opportunities which such an enlightened approach could bring. Throughout her life, she was to vacillate between the desire to reject the conventional feminine role, and a desire to accept it. Her identification with this role borders on self-annihilation Like many of her other characters who grow old and self-reflect on their role in life, Mansfield provides an existential view on how the feminine has been concealed and how this void has turned into bareness and austerity.

Yet, this is the particular social norm of women which Mansfield exaggeratingly and creatively reproaches. I never see her. In Her First Ball, Leila is the protagonist who, despite the condescending conversation she endures from an old fat man, is able to overlook the age-old patriarchal influence of gloomy kismet talk. This would suggest that, despite he plays a central role in the story for a significant period, he is nevertheless deduced to be an insignificant character whose pessimism does not supersede the youthful Leila.


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Despite the verity that has come to substantiate that Mansfield is not a crusading feminist of her time, there remains an intricacy in the manner in which Mansfield handles the compelling grapples of the patriarchy which remains consistent throughout her short stories. Moreover, her elucidation is clear in that the reader is to experience his or her own revelation of what the stories have to offer.

In a balanced manner, Mansfield is neither a staunch feminist nor Marxist — she simply exposes the injustices of the modern era and occasionally over exaggerates or over expands on certain characters personalities or portrayals so as to reinforce the impression of inhibition and containment which her characters have to suffer under. The central theme of individuality remains an imperative outlook for each character, despite the fact that she does not portray female characters as totally ineffective, immobilised and crushed under the credence of men. Begotti, Caio and Carlos Conrado.

University of South Africa, June Drabble, Margaret and Jenny Stringer. Oxford Concise Companion to English Literature. Oxford University Press, Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. A Biography and Chronology. Significance as a Writer. Katherine Mansfield Birthplace Society Inc, The View From France.

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. 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.

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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. The three little girls stared. Why—you might find—" "But why does Rags have to keep on pouring water in? Keep it up, Rags. 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. 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. V As the morning lengthened whole parties appeared over the sand-hills and came down on the beach to bathe. It was understood that at eleven o'clock the women and children of the summer colony had the sea to themselves. The beach was strewn with little heaps of clothes and shoes; the big summer hats, with stones on them to keep them from blowing away, looked like immense shells. It was strange that even the sea seemed to sound differently when all those leaping, laughing figures ran into the waves.

Fairfield, in a lilac cotton dress and a black hat tied under the chin, gathered her little brood and got them ready. The little Trout boys whipped their shirts over their heads, and away the five sped, while their grandma sat with one hand in her knitting-bag ready to draw out the ball of wool when she was satisfied they were safely in. The firm compact little girls were not half so brave as the tender, delicate-looking boys. Pip and Rags, shivering, crouching down, slapping the water, never hesitated. But Isabel, who could swim twelve strokes, and Kezia, who could nearly swim eight, only followed on the strict understanding they were not to be splashed.

As for Lottie, she didn't follow at all. She liked to be left to go in her own way, please. And that way was to sit down at the edge of the water, her legs straight, her knees pressed together, and to make vague motions with her arms as if she expected to be wafted out to sea. But when a bigger wave than usual, an old whiskery one, came lolloping along in her direction, she scrambled to her feet with a face of horror and flew up the beach again. But aren't you going to bathe here? I'm going to bathe with Mrs. She disapproved of Mrs Harry Kember.

Poor old mother, she smiled, as she skimmed over the stones. Oh, what joy, what bliss it was to be young. She sat hunched up on the stones, her arms round her knees, smoking. Harry Kember's voice sounded as though she knew better than that. But then her voice always sounded as though she knew something more about you than you did yourself. She was a long, strange-looking woman with narrow hands and feet.

Her face, too, was long and narrow and exhausted-looking; even her fair curled fringe looked burnt out and withered. When she was not playing bridge—she played bridge every day of her life—she spent her time lying in the full glare of the sun. She could stand any amount of it; she never had enough. All the same, it did not seem to warm her. Parched, withered, cold, she stretched on the stones like a piece of tossed-up driftwood.

The women at the Bay thought she was very, very fast. Her lack of vanity, her slang, the way she treated men as though she was one of them, and the fact that she didn't care twopence about her house and called the servant Gladys "Glad-eyes," was disgraceful. Standing on the veranda steps Mrs. Kember would call in her indifferent, tired voice, "I say, Glad-eyes, you might heave me a handkerchief if I've got one, will you? It was an absolute scandal! True, she had no children, and her husband. Here the voices were always raised; they became fervent. How can he have married her? How can he, how can he?

It must have been money, of course, but even then! Kember's husband was at least ten years younger than she was, and so incredibly handsome that he looked like a mask or a most perfect illustration in an American novel rather than a man. Black hair, dark blue eyes, red lips, a slow sleepy smile, a fine tennis player, a perfect dancer, and with it all a mystery. Men couldn't stand him, they couldn't get a word out of the chap; he ignored his wife just as she ignored him. How did he live? Of course there were stories, but such stories! They simply couldn't be told. The women he's been seen with, the places he'd been seen in.

Some of the women at the Bay privately thought he'd commit a murder one day. Yes, even while they talked to Mrs. Kember and took in the awful concoction she was wearing, they saw her, stretched as she lay on the beach; but cold, bloody, and still with a cigarette stuck in the corner of her mouth. Kember rose, yawned, unsnapped her belt buckle, and tugged at the tape of her blouse.

And Beryl stepped out of her skirt and shed her jersey, and stood up in her short white petticoat, and her camisole with ribbon bows on the shoulders. Harry Kember, "what a little beauty you are! Harry Kember, stamping on her own petticoat. A pair of blue cotton knickers and a linen bodice that reminded one somehow of a pillow-case. Kember, unfastening her own. Beryl turned her back and began the complicated movements of someone who is trying to take off her clothes and to pull on her bathing-dress all at one and the same time. I shan't eat you. I shan't be shocked like those other ninnies.

But Beryl was shy. She never undressed in front of anybody. Harry Kember made her feel it was silly, even something to be ashamed of. Why be shy indeed! She glanced quickly at her friend standing so boldly in her torn chemise and lighting a fresh cigarette; and a quick, bold, evil feeling started up in her breast. Laughing recklessly, she drew on the limp, sandy-feeling bathing-dress that was not quite dry and fastened the twisted buttons.

They began to go down the beach together. Somebody's got to tell you some day. It was that marvellous transparent blue, flecked with silver, but the sand at the bottom looked gold; when you kicked with your toes there rose a little puff of gold-dust. Now the waves just reached her breast. Don't you make a mistake, my dear. Then she flicked round and began swimming back.

She was going to say something else. Beryl felt that she was being poisoned by this cold woman, but she longed to hear. But oh, how strange, how horrible! Harry Kember came up close she looked, in her black waterproof bathing-cap, with her sleepy face lifted above the water, just her chin touching, like a horrible caricature of her husband. VI In a steamer chair, under a manuka tree that grew in the middle of the front grass patch, Linda Burnell dreamed the morning away.

She looked up at the dark, close, dry leaves of the manuka, at the chinks of blue between, and now and again a tiny yellowish flower dropped on her. Pretty—yes, if you held one of those flowers on the palm of your hand and looked at it closely, it was an exquisite small thing. The tiny tongue in the centre gave it the shape of a bell. And when you turned it over the outside was a deep bronze colour. But as soon as they flowered, they fell and were scattered. You brushed them off your frock as you talked; the horrid little things got caught in one's hair.

Why, then, flower at all? Who takes the trouble—or the joy—to make all these things that are wasted, wasted. On the grass beside her, lying between two pillows, was the boy. Sound asleep he lay, his head turned away from his mother. His fine dark hair looked more like a shadow than like real hair, but his ear was a bright, deep coral. Linda clasped her hands above her head and crossed her feet.

It was very pleasant to know that all these bungalows were empty, that everybody was down on the beach, out of sight, out of hearing. She had the garden to herself; she was alone. Dazzling white the picotees shone; the golden-eyed marigold glittered; the nasturtiums wreathed the veranda poles in green and gold flame.

If only one had time to look at these flowers long enough, time to get over the sense of novelty and strangeness, time to know them! But as soon as one paused to part the petals, to discover the under-side of the leaf, along came Life and one was swept away. And, lying in her cane chair, Linda felt so light; she felt like a leaf. Oh dear, would it always be so? Was there no escape? Now she sat on the veranda of their Tasmanian home, leaning against her father's knee. And he promised, "As soon as you and I are old enough, Linny, we'll cut off somewhere, we'll escape. I have a fancy I'd like to sail up a river in China.

She saw the yellow hats of the boatmen and she heard their high, thin voices as they called. Linda's father pulled her ear teasingly, in the way he had. And what was more she loved him. Not the Stanley whom everyone saw, not the everyday one; but a timid, sensitive, innocent Stanley who knelt down every night to say his prayers, and who longed to be good. If he believed in people—as he believed in her, for instance—it was with his whole heart.

He could not be disloyal; he could not tell a lie. And how terribly he suffered if he thought anyone—she—was not being dead straight, dead sincere with him! But the trouble was—here Linda felt almost inclined to laugh, though Heaven knows it was no laughing matter—she saw her Stanley so seldom. There were glimpses, moments, breathing spaces of calm, but all the rest of the time it was like living in a house that couldn't be cured of the habit of catching on fire, on a ship that got wrecked every day.

And it was always Stanley who was in the thick of the danger. Her whole time was spent in rescuing him, and restoring him, and calming him down, and listening to his story. And what was left of her time was spent in the dread of having children. Linda frowned; she sat up quickly in her steamer chair and clasped her ankles. Yes, that was her real grudge against life; that was what she could not understand.

That was the question she asked and asked, and listened in vain for the answer. It was all very well to say it was the common lot of women to bear children. She, for one, could prove that wrong. She was broken, made weak, her courage was gone, through child-bearing. And what made it doubly hard to bear was, she did not love her children. It was useless pretending. Even if she had had the strength she never would have nursed and played with the little girls.

As to the boy—well, thank Heaven, mother had taken him; he was mother's, or Beryl's, or anybody's who wanted him. She had hardly held him in her arms. She was so indifferent about him that as he lay there. The boy had turned over. He lay facing her, and he was no longer asleep. His dark-blue, baby eyes were open; he looked as though he was peeping at his mother.

And suddenly his face dimpled; it broke into a wide, toothless smile, a perfect beam, no less. But she checked herself and said to the boy coldly, "I don't like babies. Linda dropped off her chair on to the grass. He didn't believe a word she said. Ah no, be sincere. That was not what she felt; it was something far different, it was something so new, so. The tears danced in her eyes; she breathed in a small whisper to the boy, "Hallo, my funny! He was serious again. Something pink, something soft waved in front of him. He made a grab at it and it immediately disappeared.

But when he lay back, another, like the first, appeared. This time he determined to catch it. He made a tremendous effort and rolled right over. VII The tide was out; the beach was deserted; lazily flopped the warm sea. The sun beat down, beat down hot and fiery on the fine sand, baking the grey and blue and black and white-veined pebbles. It sucked up the little drop of water that lay in the hollow of the curved shells; it bleached the pink convolvulus that threaded through and through the sand-hills. Nothing seemed to move but the small sand-hoppers. They were never still.

Over there on the weed-hung rocks that looked at low tide like shaggy beasts come down to the water to drink, the sunlight seemed to spin like a silver coin dropped into each of the small rock pools. They danced, they quivered, and minute ripples laved the porous shores. Underneath waved the sea-forest—pink thread-like trees, velvet anemones, and orange berry-spotted weeds. Now a stone on the bottom moved, rocked, and there was a glimpse of a black feeler; now a thread-like creature wavered by and was lost.

Something was happening to the pink, waving trees; they were changing to a cold moonlight blue. And now there sounded the faintest "plop. What was going on down there? And how strong, how damp the seaweed smelt in the hot sun. The green blinds were drawn in the bungalows of the summer colony. Over the verandas, prone on the paddock, flung over the fences, there were exhausted-looking bathing-dresses and rough striped towels.

Each back window seemed to have a pair of sand-shoes on the sill and some lumps of rock or a bucket or a collection of pawa shells. The bush quivered in a haze of heat; the sandy road was empty except for the Trouts' dog Snooker, who lay stretched in the very middle of it. His blue eye was turned up, his legs stuck out stiffly, and he gave an occasional desperate-sounding puff, as much as to say he had decided to make an end of it and was only waiting for some kind cart to come along.

The little girl, wearing only her short drawers and her under-bodice, her arms and legs bare, lay on one of the puffed-up pillows of her grandma's bed, and the old woman, in a white ruffled dressing-gown sat in a rocker at the window, with a long piece of pink knitting in her lap. This room that they shared, like the other rooms of her bungalow, was of light varnished wood and the floor was bare.

The furniture was of the shabbiest, the simplest. The dressing-table, for instance, was a packing-case in a sprigged muslin petticoat, and the mirror above was very strange; it was as though a little piece of forked lightning was imprisoned in it. On the table there stood a jar of sea-pinks, pressed so tightly together they looked more like a velvet pincushion, and a special shell which Kezia had given her grandma for a pin-tray, and another even more special which she had thought would make a very nice place for a watch to curl up in.

The old woman sighed, whipped the wool twice round her thumb, and drew the bone needle through. She was casting on. Kezia blinked and considered the picture again. It was the old woman's turn to consider. Did it make her sad? To look back, back. To stare down the years, as Kezia had seen her doing. To look after them as a woman does, long after they were out of sight.

No, life was like that. She lifted one bare arm and began to draw things in the air.

Katherine Mansfield

Fairfield began counting the stitches in threes. She didn't want to die. It meant she would have to leave here, leave everywhere, for ever, leave—leave her grandma. She rolled over quickly. You couldn't leave me. You couldn't not be there. The old woman went on knitting. Kezia rolled off her bed; she couldn't bear it any longer, and lightly she leapt on to her grandma's knees, clasped her hand round the old woman's throat and began kissing her, under the chin, behind the ear, and blowing down her neck. And then she began, very softly and lightly, to tickle her grandma.

She swung back in the rocker. She began to tickle Kezia. That's enough, my wild pony! Fairfield, setting her cap straight. VIII The sun was still full on the garden when the back door of the Burnells' shut with a bang, and a very gay figure walked down the path to the gate. It was Alice, the servant-girl, dressed for her afternoon out. She wore a white cotton dress with such large red spots on it and so many that they made you shudder, white shoes and a leghorn turned up under the brim with poppies. Of course she wore gloves, white ones, stained at the fastenings with iron-mould, and in one hand she carried a very dashed-looking sunshade which she referred to as her perishall.

Beryl, sitting in the window, fanning her freshly-washed hair, thought she had never seen such a guy. If Alice had only blacked her face with a piece of cork before she started out, the picture would have been complete. And where did a girl like that go to in a place like this? She supposed Alice had picked up some horrible common larrikin and they'd go off into the bush together. Pity to have made herself so conspicuous; they'd have hard work to hide with Alice in that rig-out. But no, Beryl was unfair. Alice was going to tea with Mrs Stubbs, who'd sent her an "invite" by the little boy who called for orders.

She had taken ever such a liking to Mrs. Stubbs ever since the first time she went to the shop to get something for her mosquitoes. Stubbs had clapped her hand to her side. You might have been attacked by canningbals. Made her feel so queer, having nobody behind her. Made her feel all weak in the spine. She couldn't believe that someone wasn't watching her. And yet it was silly to turn round; it gave you away. She pulled up her gloves, hummed to herself and said to the distant gum-tree, "Shan't be long now. Stubbs's shop was perched on a little hillock just off the road.

It had two big windows for eyes, a broad veranda for a hat, and the sign on the roof, scrawled MRS. Even then it was the rarest thing to find the left that belonged to the right. So many people had lost patience and gone off with one shoe that fitted and one that was a little too big. Stubbs prided herself on keeping something of everything.

The two windows, arranged in the form of precarious pyramids, were crammed so tight, piled so high, that it seemed only a conjurer could prevent them from toppling over. In the left-hand corner of one window, glued to the pane by four gelatine lozenges, there was—and there had been from time immemorial—a notice. Alice pressed open the door. The bell jangled, the red serge curtains parted, and Mrs. With her broad smile and the long bacon knife in her hand, she looked like a friendly brigand.

Alice was welcomed so warmly that she found it quite difficult to keep up her "manners. Tea was laid on the parlour table—ham, sardines, a whole pound of butter, and such a large johnny cake that it looked like an advertisement for somebody's baking-powder. But the Primus stove roared so loudly that it was useless to try to talk above it.

Alice sat down on the edge of a basket-chair while Mrs. Stubbs pumped the stove still higher.


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Stubbs whipped the cushion off a chair and disclosed a large brown-paper parcel. How many there were! There were three dozzing at least. And she held it up to the light. Stubbs sat in an arm-chair, leaning very much to one side. There was a look of mild astonishment on her large face. For though the arm-chair stood on a carpet, to the left of it, miraculously skirting the carpet-border, there was a dashing water-fall.

On her right stood a Grecian pillar with a giant fern-tree on either side of it, and in the background towered a gaunt mountain, pale with snow. Stubbs, beginning to pour out. I'm having an enlargemint. All very well for Christmas cards, but I never was the one for small photers myself. You get no comfort out of them.

To say the truth, I find them dis'eartening. That was what my poor dear husband was always saying. He couldn't stand anything small. Gave him the creeps. And, strange as it may seem my dear"—here Mrs. Stubbs creaked and seemed to expand herself at the memory—"it was dropsy that carried him off at the larst. Many's the time they drawn one and a half pints from 'im at the 'ospital. It seemed like a judgemint.

She ventured, "I suppose it was water. Stubbs fixed Alice with her eyes and replied meaningly, "It was liquid , my dear. Alice jumped away from the word like a cat and came back to it, nosing and wary. Just below, in silver letters on a red cardboard ground, were the words, "Be not afraid, it is I. The pale-blue bow on the top of Mrs.

Stubbs's fair frizzy hair quivered. She arched her plump neck. What a neck she had! It was bright pink where it began and then it changed to warm apricot, and that faded to the colour of a brown egg and then to a deep creamy. Alice gave a loud, silly little titter. Her mind flew back to her own kitching.

She wanted to be back in it again. IX A strange company assembled in the Burnells' washhouse after tea. Round the table there sat a bull, a rooster, a donkey that kept forgetting it was a donkey, a sheep and a bee. The washhouse was the perfect place for such a meeting because they could make as much noise as they liked, and nobody ever interrupted.

Against the wall there was a deep trough and in the corner a copper with a basket of clothes-pegs on top of it. The little window, spun over with cobwebs, had a piece of candle and a mouse-trap on the dusty sill. There were clothes-lines criss-crossed overhead and, hanging from a peg on the wall, a very big, a huge, rusty horseshoe. The table was in the middle with a form at either side. A bee's not an animal. A tiny bee, all yellow-furry, with striped legs. She drew her legs up under her and leaned over the table.

She felt she was a bee. It's not like a fish. And he gave such a tremendous bellow—how did he make that noise? With her red cheeks and bright eyes she looked like a rooster. It had to be an easy one. You can't forget that. It was he who had the cards. He waved them round his head. Now, if you put that card in the middle and somebody else has one with two spots as well, you say 'Hee-haw,' and the card's yours. Just for the game, see?

Just while we're playing. Lottie looked at both of them. Then she hung her head; her lip quivered. The others glanced at one another like conspirators. All of them knew what that meant. She would go away and be discovered somewhere standing with her pinny thrown over her head, in a corner, or against a wall, or even behind a chair. It's quite easy," said Kezia. I'll give you the first one. It's mine, really, but I'll give it to you. Lottie revived at that. But now she was in another difficulty. I've got a little starfish inside I'm going to try and tame.

You've got to keep your hands under the table till I say 'Go. They tried with all their might to see, but Pip was too quick for them. It was very exciting, sitting there in the washhouse; it was all they could do not to burst into a little chorus of animals before Pip had finished dealing. You mustn't look first. You must turn it the other way over. The bull was terrible. He charged over the table and seemed to eat the cards up. Isabel stood up in her excitement and moved her elbows like wings.

She had hardly any cards left. Be a dog instead!

The Garden Party, and Other Stories.

But when she and Kezia both had a one Kezia waited on purpose. The others made signs to Lottie and pointed. Lottie turned very red; she looked bewildered, and at last she said, "Hee-haw! What do you mean? The bee gave a shudder. Oh, why, why had they shut the door? While they were playing, the day had faded; the gorgeous sunset had blazed and died. And now the quick dark came racing over the sea, over the sand-hills, up the paddock. You were frightened to look in the corners of the washhouse, and yet you had to look with all your might. And somewhere, far away, grandma was lighting a lamp.

The blinds were being pulled down; the kitchen fire leapt in the tins on the mantelpiece. Our Min told us she'd seen a spider as big as a saucer, with long hairs on it like a gooseberry. Oh, those grown-ups, laughing and snug, sitting in the lamp-light, drinking out of cups! They'd forgotten about them. No, not really forgotten. They had decided to leave them there all by themselves. Suddenly Lottie gave such a piercing scream that all of them jumped off the forms, all of them screamed too. It was true, it was real. Pressed against the window was a pale face, black eyes, a black beard.

He had come to take the little boys home. X He had meant to be there before, but in the front garden he had come upon Linda walking up and down the grass, stopping to pick off a dead pink or give a top-heavy carnation something to lean against, or to take a deep breath of something, and then walking on again, with her little air of remoteness.

Over her white frock she wore a yellow, pink-fringed shawl from the Chinaman's shop. And Jonathan whipped off his shabby panama, pressed it against his breast, dropped on one knee, and kissed Linda's hand. Greeting, my Celestial Peach Blossom!

See a Problem?

Have you come to borrow something? But Jonathan only answered, "A little love, a little kindness;" and he walked by his sister-in-law's side. Linda dropped into Beryl's hammock under the manuka tree, and Jonathan stretched himself on the grass beside her, pulled a long stalk and began chewing it. They knew each other well. The voices of children cried from the other gardens.

A fisherman's light cart shook along the sandy road, and from far away they heard a dog barking; it was muffled as though the dog had its head in a sack. If you listened you could just hear the soft swish of the sea at full tide sweeping the pebbles. The sun was sinking. Linda swung a little. Would ye have me weep? One gets used to anything.

It was strange to think that he was only an ordinary clerk, that Stanley earned twice as much money as he. What was the matter with Jonathan? He had no ambition; she supposed that was it. And yet one felt he was gifted, exceptional. He was passionately fond of music; every spare penny he had went on books. He was always full of new ideas, schemes, plans. But nothing came of it all. The new fire blazed in Jonathan; you almost heard it roaring softly as he explained, described and dilated on the new thing; but a moment later it had fallen in and there was nothing but ashes, and Jonathan went about with a look like hunger in his black eyes.

At these times he exaggerated his absurd manner of speaking, and he sang in church—he was the leader of the choir—with such fearful dramatic intensity that the meanest hymn put on an unholy splendour. It's a queer use to make of one's. Or do I fondly dream? The only difference I can see is that I put myself in jail and nobody's ever going to let me out.

That's a more intolerable situation than the other. For if I'd been—pushed in, against my will—kicking, even—once the door was locked, or at any rate in five years or so, I might have accepted the fact and begun to take an interest in the flight of flies or counting the warder's steps along the passage with particular attention to variations of tread and so on.

But as it is, I'm like an insect that's flown into a room of its own accord. I dash against the walls, dash against the windows, flop against the ceiling, do everything on God's earth, in fact, except fly out again. And all the while I'm thinking, like that moth, or that butterfly, or whatever it is, 'The shortness of life!

The shortness of life! There's the maddening, mysterious question. Why don't I fly out again? There's the window or the door or whatever it was I came in by. It's not hopelessly shut—is it? Why don't I find it and be off? Answer me that, little sister. For some reason"—Jonathan paused between the words—"it's not allowed, it's forbidden, it's against the insect law, to stop banging and flopping and crawling up the pane even for an instant. Why don't I leave the office? Why don't I seriously consider, this moment, for instance, what it is that prevents me leaving?

It's not as though I'm tremendously tied. I've two boys to provide for, but, after all, they're boys. I could cut off to sea, or get a job up-country, or—" Suddenly he smiled at Linda and said in a changed voice, as if he were confiding a secret, "Weak. No guiding principle, let us call it. The sun had set. In the western sky there were great masses of crushed-up rose-coloured clouds. Broad beams of light shone through the clouds and beyond them as if they would cover the whole sky. Sometimes when those beams of light show in the sky they are very awful.

They remind you that up there sits Jehovah, the jealous God, the Almighty, Whose eye is upon you, ever watchful, never weary. You remember that at His coming the whole earth will shake into one ruined graveyard; the cold, bright angels will drive you this way and that, and there will be no time to explain what could be explained so simply. But tonight it seemed to Linda there was something infinitely joyful and loving in those silver beams. And now no sound came from the sea. It breathed softly as if it would draw that tender, joyful beauty into its own bosom.

He bent towards her, he passed his hand over his head. She had no idea that he was grey. And yet, as he stood up beside her and sighed and stretched, she saw him, for the first time, not resolute, not gallant, not careless, but touched already with age. XI Light shone in the windows of the bungalow.

Two square patches of gold fell upon the pinks and the peaked marigolds. Florrie, the cat, came out on to the veranda, and sat on the top step, her white paws close together, her tail curled round. She looked content, as though she had been waiting for this moment all day. Presently there sounded the rumble of the coach, the crack of Kelly's whip. It came near enough for one to hear the voices of the men from town, talking loudly together. It stopped at the Burnells' gate. Stanley was half-way up the path before he saw Linda.

She was enfolded in that familiar, eager, strong embrace. You can't have forgotten," cried Stanley Burnell. I've had the hell of a day. I made up my mind to dash out and telegraph, and then I thought the wire mightn't reach you before I did. I've been in tortures, Linda. I can't imagine how I can have done such a thing. My confounded temper, of course. But—well"—and he sighed and took her in his arms again—"I've suffered for it enough today.

What are you smiling at? You don't think it was wrong of me, do you? She was still smiling. Stanley wanted to say, "I was thinking of you the whole time I bought them. XII Why does one feel so different at night? Why is it so exciting to be awake when everybody else is asleep? Late—it is very late! And yet every moment you feel more and more wakeful, as though you were slowly, almost with every breath, waking up into a new, wonderful, far more thrilling and exciting world than the daylight one.

And what is this queer sensation that you're a conspirator? Lightly, stealthily you move about your room. You take something off the dressing-table and put it down again without a sound. And everything, even the bed-post, knows you, responds, shares your secret. You're not very fond of your room by day. You never think about it. You're in and out, the door opens and slams, the cupboard creaks. You sit down on the side of your bed, change your shoes and dash out again.

A dive down to the glass, two pins in your hair, powder your nose and off again. But now—it's suddenly dear to you. Oh, what a joy it is to own things! No, of course, that had nothing to do with it. That was all nonsense and rubbish. But, in spite of herself, Beryl saw so plainly two people standing in the middle of her room. Her arms were round his neck; he held her. And now he whispered, "My beauty, my little beauty! But the beautiful night, the garden, every bush, every leaf, even the white palings, even the stars, were conspirators too.

So bright was the moon that the flowers were bright as by day; the shadow of the nasturtiums, exquisite lily-like leaves and wide-open flowers, lay across the silvery veranda.

AND OTHER STORIES

The manuka-tree, bent by the southerly winds, was like a bird on one leg stretching out a wing. But when Beryl looked at the bush, it seemed to her the bush was sad. It is true when you are by yourself and you think about life, it is always sad. Of course, there are relations, friends, heaps of them; but that's not what she means. She wants someone who will find the Beryl they none of them know, who will expect her to be that Beryl always.

She wants a lover. Let us go far away. Let us live our life, all new, all ours, from the very beginning. Let us make our fire. Let us sit down to eat together. Let us have long talks at night. Don't be a prude, my dear. You enjoy yourself while you're young. Harry Kember's loud, indifferent neigh. You see, it's so frightfully difficult when you've nobody. You're so at the mercy of things. You can't just be rude. And you've always this horror of seeming inexperienced and stuffy like the other ninnies at the Bay. And—and it's fascinating to know you've power over people.

Yes, that is fascinating. Oh why, oh why doesn't "he" come soon? But Beryl dismissed it. She couldn't be left. Other people, perhaps, but not she. It wasn't possible to think that Beryl Fairfield never married, that lovely fascinating girl. As if I could forget her! It was one summer at the Bay that I saw her. She was standing on the beach in a blue"—no, pink—"muslin frock, holding on a big cream"—no, black—"straw hat. But it's years ago now. As she gazed, she saw somebody, a man, leave the road, step along the paddock beside their palings as if he was coming straight towards her.

Who could it be? It couldn't be a burglar, certainly not a burglar, for he was smoking and he strolled lightly. Beryl's heart leapt; it seemed to turn right over, and then to stop. Come for a walk—at that time of night! It's such a fine night. There's not a soul about. But already something stirred in her, something reared its head.

The voice said, "Frightened? As she spoke that weak thing within her seemed to uncoil, to grow suddenly tremendously strong; she longed to go! And just as if this was quite understood by the other, the voice said, gently and softly, but finally, "Come along! He was there before her. The moonlight stared and glittered; the shadows were like bars of iron.

Her hand was taken. We'll just go as far as that fuchsia bush. It fell over the fence in a shower. There was a little pit of darkness beneath. For a moment Harry Kember didn't answer. Then he came close to her, turned to her, smiled and said quickly, "Don't be silly! That bright, blind, terrifying smile froze her with horror.

What was she doing? How had she got here? But Beryl was strong. She slipped, ducked, wrenched free. XIII A cloud, small, serene, floated across the moon. Then the cloud sailed away, and the sound of the sea was a vague murmur, as though it waked out of a dark dream. They could not have had a more perfect day for a garden-party if they had ordered it.

Windless, warm, the sky without a cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze of light gold, as it is sometimes in early summer. The gardener had been up since dawn, mowing the lawns and sweeping them, until the grass and the dark flat rosettes where the daisy plants had been seemed to shine. As for the roses, you could not help feeling they understood that roses are the only flowers that impress people at garden-parties; the only flowers that everybody is certain of knowing. Hundreds, yes, literally hundreds, had come out in a single night; the green bushes bowed down as though they had been visited by archangels.

Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the marquee. I'm determined to leave everything to you children this year. Forget I am your mother. Treat me as an honoured guest. She had washed her hair before breakfast, and she sat drinking her coffee in a green turban, with a dark wet curl stamped on each cheek.

The Garden Party

Jose, the butterfly, always came down in a silk petticoat and a kimono jacket. It's so delicious to have an excuse for eating out of doors, and besides, she loved having to arrange things; she always felt she could do it so much better than anybody else. Four men in their shirt-sleeves stood grouped together on the garden path. They carried staves covered with rolls of canvas, and they had big tool-bags slung on their backs. Laura wished now that she was not holding that piece of bread-and-butter, but there was nowhere to put it, and she couldn't possibly throw it away. She blushed and tried to look severe and even a little bit short-sighted as she came up to them.

But that sounded so fearfully affected that she was ashamed, and stammered like a little girl, "Oh—er—have you come—is it about the marquee?