The Garden Party

by Katherine Mansfield


They could not have had a more perfect day for a garden-party. It was warm and there was no wind, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. The gardener had been up since dawn, cutting the grass until it seemed to shine. The roses appeared to understand that they were the only flowers that everyone loved at garden-parties; the only flowers that everybody was certain of knowing.

The men came to put up the tent before breakfast was finished. But Meg could not possibly go and supervise them. She had washed her hair before breakfast, and she sat drinking her coffee with dark wet hair on each cheek. Jane, the butterfly, always came down in just a silk skirt.

"You'll have to go, Laura. You're the artistic one."

Laura flew away, still holding her piece of bread and butter. It was delicious to have a reason for eating outdoors, and besides, she loved arranging things. She always felt she could do it better than anybody else.

Four men in their shirt-sleeves stood together on the garden path. They carried big tool-bags on their backs. They looked strong and manly. Laura wished now that she had not got the bread and butter, but there was nowhere to put it. She went slightly red and tried to look strict as she came up to them.

"Good morning," she said, copying her mother's voice. But she stammered like a little girl, "Oh – er – have you come – is it about the tent?"

"That's right, miss," said the tallest of the men and he smiled down at her.

His smile was so easy, so friendly that Laura felt better at once. What nice eyes he had, small, but such a dark blue! Now she looked at the others, they were smiling too.

"We won't hurt you, cheer up," their smile seemed to say.

How nice workmen were! And what a beautiful morning! She mustn't mention the morning. She must be business-like. The tent. Where should it stand?

"Well, what about the grass? Would that do?"

And she pointed to the grass with the hand that didn't hold the bread and butter. They turned, they stared. A little fat man pushed out his lip, and the tall fellow frowned.

"I don't like it," he said. "Not noticeable enough. You see, with a thing like a tent," and he turned to Laura in his easy way, "you want to put it somewhere where it'll look grand, if you follow me."

Laura's upbringing made her wonder for a moment whether it was respectful of a workman to tell her his opinion. But she did follow him.

"A corner of the tennis-court," she suggested. "But the band's going to be in one corner."

"Going to have a band, are you?" said another of the workmen. He was pale and looked tired as his dark eyes looked at the tennis-court. What was he thinking?

"Only a very small band," said Laura gently. Perhaps he wouldn't mind so much if the band was quite small. But the tall one interrupted.

"Look here, miss, that's the place. Against those trees. Over there. That'll do fine."

Against the karakas-trees. Then they would be hidden. And they were so lovely, with their broad leaves, and their yellow fruit. They were like trees you imagined growing on a desert island, proud, lifting their leaves and fruit to the sun. Must they be hidden by a tent?

They must. Already the men were walking towards the place. Only the tall man was left. He took some mint, put his thumb and finger to his nose and breathed in the smell. When Laura saw that, she forgot all about the karakas in her surprise about him caring for things like that – caring for the smell of mint. How many men that she knew would do such a thing? Oh, how very nice workmen were, she thought. Why couldn't she have workmen for her friends rather than the stupid boys who came to Sunday night supper? She would get on much better with men like these.

It's all the fault of these absurd class differences, she decided, as the tall man drew something on the back of an envelope. Well, she didn't feel the differences. Not a bit ... And now there came the noise of wooden hammers. Someone sang, another shouted out, "Are you alright there, mate?" The friendliness of it! – Just to prove how happy she was, just to show the tall man how at home she felt, and how she hated stupid conventions, Laura took a big bite of her bread as she stared at the little drawing. She felt just like a work-girl.

"Laura, Laura, where are you? Telephone, Lauraa voice cried from the house.

"Coming!" She ran, over the grass, up the path, up the steps and into the house. In the hall her father and Joe were putting on their coats ready to go to the office.

"Laura," said Joe very fast, "can you look at my jacket before this afternoon and see if it wants ironing?"

"Oh, I do love parties, don't you?" asked Laura.

"Of course" said Joe's warm, boyish voice, and he gave his sister a gentle push. "Hurry to the telephone, naughty girl."

The telephone. "Yes, yes; oh yes. Kitty? Good morning, dear. You want to come to lunch? Delighted, of course. It will only be a very casual meal – just sandwiches. Yes, isn't it a perfect morning?"

Laura sat up quickly. She was still, listening. All the doors in the house seemed to be open. The house was alive with soft, quick steps and running voices. And now there came a long sound. It was the heavy piano being moved. The front door bell rang, and she could hear Sadie's skirt on the stairs. A man's voice murmured. Sadie answered carelessly, "I'm sure I don't know. Wait. I'll ask Mrs. Sheridan."

"What is it, Sadie?" Laura came into the hall.

"It's the florist, Miss Laura."

It was. There, just inside the door, stood a wide box full of pink lilies. Nothing but lilies, big pink flowers, wide open, almost frighteningly alive.

"It's some mistake," she said quietly. "Nobody asked for so many. Sadie, go and find mother."

But at that moment Mrs. Sheridan joined them.

"It's quite right," she said calmly. "Yes, I wanted them. Aren't they lovely?" She pressed Laura's arm. "I was passing the shop yesterday, and I saw them in the window. And I suddenly thought I should have enough lilies. The garden-party will be a good reason."

"But I thought you said you wouldn't interfere," said Laura. Sadie had gone. The florist was still outside. She put her arm round her mother's neck and gently, very gently, she bit her mother's ear.

"My darling child, you wouldn't like a reasonable mother, would you? Don't do that. Here's the man."

He carried still more lilies.

"Put them just inside the door, on both sides, please," said Mrs. Sheridan.

"Don't you agree, Laura?"

"Oh, I do, mother."

In the living room Meg, Jane and little Hans had at last succeeded in moving the piano.

"Now, we'd better put this cupboard against the wall and move everything out of the room except the chairs, don't you think? Hans, move these tables into the smoking-room, and bring a broom to brush the carpet and - one moment, Hans - " Jane loved giving orders to the servants, and they loved obeying her. She always made them feel they were taking part in some drama. "Tell mother and Miss Laura to come here at once."

"Now, Laura," said her mother quickly, "come with me into the living room. I've got the names somewhere on the back of an envelope. You'll have to write them out for me. Meg, go upstairs this minute and take that wet towel off your head. Jane, run and finish dressing at once. Do you hear me, children, or shall I have to tell your father when he comes home tonight? And – and, Jane, keep the cook quiet if you do go into the kitchen, will you? I'm terrified of her this morning."

The envelope was found at last behind the dining-room clock, though how it had got there Mrs. Sheridan could not imagine.

"One of you children must have stolen it out of my bag, because I remember clearly – cream cheese. Have you done that?"

"Yes."

"Egg and..." Mrs. Sheridan held the envelope away from her. "It looks like mice. It can't be mice, can it?"

"Olive, darling," said Laura, looking over her shoulder.

"Yes, of course, olive. It sounds horrible. Egg and olive."

They were finished at last, and Laura took them off to the kitchen. She found Jane there calming the cook, who did not look at all terrifying.

"I have never seen such wonderful sandwiches," said Jane. "How many kinds did you say there were? Fifteen?"

"Fifteen, Miss Jane."

"Well, I congratulate you."

Cook smiled happily.

"Godber's has come," said Sadie. She had seen the man pass the window.

That meant the cream puffs had come. Godber's were famous for their cream puffs. Nobody ever thought of making them at home.

"Bring them in and put them on the table, my girl," ordered the cook.

Sadie brought them in. Of course Laura and Jane were too grown-up to really care about such things. All the same, they couldn't help agreeing that the cream puffs looked attractive. Very. Cook began arranging them, shaking off the extra sugar.

"Don't they remind you of all our parties?" said Laura.

"I suppose they do," said practical Jane, who never liked to remember the past. "They look beautifully light, I must say."

"Have one each, my dears," said cook in her comfortable voice. "Your mother won't know."

Oh, impossible. Cream puffs so soon after breakfast. All the same, two minutes later Jane and Laura were licking their fingers.

"Let's go into the garden, out by the back door," suggested Laura. "I want to see how the men are getting on with the tent. They're such nice men."

But the back door was blocked by cook, Sadie, Godber's man and Hans.

Something had happened.

"No, no, no," muttered cook. Sadie had her hand on her cheek as though she had toothache. Only Godber's man seemed to be enjoying himself; it was his story.

"What's happened? What's the matter?"

"There's been a horrible accident," said Cook. "A man killed."

"A man killed! Where? How? When?"

"Do you know those little cottages just below here, miss?" Know them? Of course, she knew them. "Well, there's a young man living there, name of Scott. His horse panicked when it saw a car at the corner of Hawke Street this morning, and he was thrown out of his cart on the back of his head. Killed."

"Dead!" Laura stared at Godber's man.

"Dead when they picked him up," said Godber's man with enjoyment. "They were taking the body home as I came up here." And he said to the cook, "He's left a wife and five little ones."

"Jane, come here." Laura caught hold of her sister's arm and pulled her through the kitchen to the other side of the green door. There she paused.

"Jane!" she said, horrified, "how are we going to stop the garden-party?"

"Stop the garden-party? My dear Laura, don't be so absurd. Of course we can't do anything like that. Nobody expects us to."

"But we can't possibly have a garden-party with a man dead just outside the front gate."

That really was an exaggeration, for the little cottages were by themselves in a lane at the very bottom of a hill that went up to the house. True, they were far too near. They were the greatest disgrace, and they shouldn't be in that neighbourhood at all. They were little houses painted brown, rather like chocolate. In the gardens they had nothing except cabbage, sick hens and tomatoes. Even the smoke coming out of their chimneys looked poor. Labourers lived there and a man who had tiny bird-cages all around the front of his house. There were children everywhere.

When the Sheridans were little, they were forbidden to go there because of the bad language and because they might catch diseases. But after they had grown up, Laura and Joe sometimes walked through. It was disgusting. They always came out of the place feeling dirty. But still one must go everywhere; one must see everything. So they went.

"And just think of what the band would sound like to that poor woman," said Laura.

"Oh, LauraJane began to be seriously annoyed. "If you're going to stop a band playing every time someone has an accident, you'll lead a very difficult life. I'm just as sorry about it as you." Her eyes hardened. She looked at her sister just as she used to when they were little and fighting together. "You won't bring a lazy workman back to life by being sentimental," she said softly.

"Lazy! Who said he was lazy?" Laura turned furiously on Jane. She said, just as they had used to say on those occasions, "I'm going straight to tell mother."

"Do, dear," said Jane.

"Mother, can I come into your room?"

"Of course, child. Why, what's the matter? What's given you such a colour?" And Mrs. Sheridan turned round from her mirror. She was trying a new hat.

"Mother, a man's been killed," began Laura.

"Not in the garden?" interrupted her mother.

"No, no!"

"Oh, what a fright you gave me!" Mrs. Sheridan took off the hat and held it on her knees.

"But listen, mother," said Laura. Breathless, she told the dreadful story. "Of course, we can't have our party, can we? The band and everybody arriving. They'd hear us, mother; they're nearly neighbours!"

To Laura's astonishment, her mother behaved just like Jane. It was harder because she seemed amused. She refused to take Laura seriously.

"But, my dear child, use your common sense. It's only by accident we've heard of it. If someone had died there normally – and I can't understand how they keep alive in those horrid little houses – we should still have our party, shouldn't we?"

Laura had to say "yes" to that, but she felt it was all wrong. She sat down on her mother's sofa.

"Mother, isn't it heartless of us?" she asked.

"Darling!" Mrs. Sheridan got up and came over to her, carrying the hat. Before Laura could stop her she had placed it on her head. "My child!" said her mother. "The hat is yours. It's made for you. It's much too young for me. I have never seen you look such a picture. Look at yourself!" And she held up her mirror.

"But, mother," Laura began again. She couldn't look at herself; she turned away.

This time Mrs. Sheridan lost patience just as Jane had done.

"You're being very silly, Laura," she said coldly. "People like that don't expect anything from us. And it's not very sympathetic to spoil everybody's enjoyment as you're doing now."

"I don't understand," said Laura, and she walked quickly out of the room into her own bedroom. There, by chance, the first thing she saw was this charming girl in the mirror, in her black hat with gold flowers. She had never imagined she could look like that. Is mother right?, she thought. And now she hoped her mother was right. Am I exaggerating? Just for a moment she had another glimpse of that poor woman and those little children, and the body carried into the house. But it all seemed unreal, like a picture in the newspaper. I'll remember it again after the party's over, she decided. And somehow that seemed the best plan.

Lunch was over by half-past one. By half-past two they were all ready. The band had arrived wearing green coats and were put in a corner of the tennis-court.

Joe arrived and waved at them on his way to dress. Laura remembered the accident again when she saw him. She wanted to tell him. If Joe agreed with the others, then it was sure to be all right. And she followed him into the hall.

"Joe!"

"Hallo!" He was half-way upstairs, but when he turned round and saw Laura he suddenly stopped. "My word, Laura! You do look lovely," said Joe. "What an absolutely wonderful hat!"

Laura said faintly "Is it?" and smiled up at Joe, and didn't tell him after all.

Soon after that people began coming. The band began to play; the waiters ran from the house to the tent. Wherever you looked there were couples strolling, smelling the flowers, moving over the grass. They were like bright birds that had stopped in the Sheridans' garden for this one afternoon, on their way to – where? Ah, what happiness it is to be with people who are happy, to shake hands, smile into eyes.

"Darling Laura, how well you look!"

"What a beautiful hat, child!"

"Laura, you look quite Spanish. I've never seen you look so wonderful."

And Laura, answered softly, "Have you had tea? Won't you have an ice-cream? They really are special." She ran to her father.

"Daddy darling, can't the band have something to drink?"

And the perfect afternoon slowly ripened, slowly faded.

"Never a more delightful garden-party ..."

"The greatest success ..."

Laura helped her mother with the good-byes. They stood side by side till it was all over.

"All over, all over, thank heaven," said Mrs. Sheridan. "Let's go and have some coffee. I'm exhausted. Yes, it's been very successful. But oh, these parties, these parties!" And they all sat down in the deserted tent.

"Have a sandwich, daddy."

"Thanks." Mr. Sheridan took a bite and the sandwich was gone. He took another. "I suppose you didn't hear of a terrible accident that happened today?" he said.

"My dear," said Mrs. Sheridan, holding up her hand, "we did. It nearly spoilt the party. Laura said we should cancel."

"Oh, mother!" Laura didn't want to talk about it.

"It was horrible," said Mr. Sheridan. "The man was married too. He lived just below us in the lane, and leaves a wife and half a dozen kids, they say."

An awkward little silence fell.

Suddenly she looked up. There on the table were all those sandwiches, cakes, all uneaten, all going to be wasted. She had one of her brilliant ideas.

"I know," she said. "Let's make a parcel. Let's send that poor woman some of this good food. Anyway, it will be great for the children. Don't you agree? And she's sure to have neighbours calling in and so on. Laura!" She jumped up. "Get me the big basket out."

"But, mother, do you really think it's a good idea?" said Laura.

Again, she seemed to be different from them all. To take left-overs from their party. Would the poor woman really like that?

"Of course! What's the matter with you today? An hour or two ago you said we must be sympathetic, and now!"

Oh well! Laura ran for the basket. It was filled.

"Take it yourself, darling," said she. "Run down."

"Take the basket, then. And, Laura!" – her mother followed her out of the tent - "don't..."

"What mother?"

"Nothing!"

Evening was just falling as Laura shut their garden gates. A big dog ran by like a shadow. The road shone and down below in the valley the little cottages were in deep shade. How quiet it seemed after the afternoon. Here she was going down the hill to somewhere where a man lay dead, and she couldn't realise it. Why couldn't she? She stopped a minute. And it seemed to her that kisses, voices, laughter, the smell of crushed mint were somehow inside her. She had no room for anything else. How strange! She looked up at the sky, and all she thought was, "Yes, it was the most successful party."

The lane began, smoky and dark. The children played in the doorways. A low hum came from the dirty little cottages. In some of them there was a light, and a shadow moved across the window. Laura hurried on. She wished now she had put on a coat. And the big hat with the flowers! Were the people looking at her? They must be. It was a mistake to come; she knew it was a mistake. Should she go back even now?

No, too late. This was the house. It must be. A group of people stood outside. Beside the gate an old, old woman sat in a chair, watching. She had her feet on a newspaper. The voices stopped as Laura got nearer. The group parted. It was as though she was expected, as though they had known she was coming here. Laura was terribly nervous.

She said to a woman standing near, "Is this Mrs. Scott's house?" and the woman, smiling, said, "It is, my girl."

She actually said, "Help me, God," as she walked up the path and knocked. I'll just leave the basket and go, she decided. I shan't even wait for it to be emptied.

Then the door opened. A little woman in black showed in the darkness.

Laura said, "Are you Mrs. Scott?" But the woman answered, "Walk in please, miss," and she was shut in.

"No," said Laura, "I don't want to come in. I only want to leave this basket. Mother sent this."

The little woman in the dark hall seemed not to hear her. "Step this way, please, miss," she said and Laura followed her.

She found herself in a little low kitchen, lighted by a smoky lamp. There was a woman sitting before the fire.

"Emma! It's a young lady." She turned to Laura. She said, "I'm her sister, miss. You'll forgive her, won't you?"

"Oh, but of course!" said Laura. "Please don't disturb her. I – I only want to leave..."

But at that moment the woman at the fire turned round. Her face, red, with swollen eyes and lips, looked terrible. She seemed as though she couldn't understand why Laura was there. What did it mean? Why was this stranger standing in the kitchen with a basket? What was it all about? And the poor face looked as if it was going to cry again.

"All right, my dear," said the other. "I'll thank the young lady."

And again she began, "You'll forgive her, miss, I'm sure," and her face, swollen too, tried a smile.

Laura only wanted to get out, to get away. She was back in the hall. The door opened. She walked straight into the bedroom, where the dead man was lying.

"You'd like a look at him, wouldn't you?" said Emma's sister, and she moved past Laura over to the bed. "Don't be afraid, my girl," – and her voice sounded kind, and she pulled down the sheet. "He looks a picture. There's nothing to show. Come along, my dear."

Laura came.

There lay a young man, fast asleep - sleeping so, so deeply that he was far, far away from them both. Oh, so far, so peaceful. He was dreaming. Never wake him up again. His eyes were closed; they were blind under the closed eyes. What did garden-parties and baskets and dresses matter to him? He was far from all those things. He was wonderful, beautiful. While they were laughing and while the band was playing, this marvel had come to the lane. Happy ... happy ... All is well, said that sleeping face. This is just as it should be. I am content.

But all the same you had to cry, and she couldn't go out of the room without saying something to him. Laura gave a loud childish sob.

"Forgive my hat," she said.

And this time she didn't wait for Emma's sister. She found her way out of the door, down the path, past all those people. At the corner of the lane she met Joe.

He stepped out of the shadow. "Is that you, Laura?"

"Yes."

"Mother was getting worried. Was it all right?"

"Yes. Oh, Joe!" She took his arm, she moved up against him.

"I say, you're not crying, are you?" asked her brother.

Laura shook her head. She was.

Joe put his arm round her shoulder. "Don't cry," he said in his warm, loving voice. "Was it awful?"

"No," sobbed Laura. "It was simply marvellous. But Joe..." She stopped, she looked at her brother. "Isn't life," she stammered, "isn't life...?" But what life was she couldn't explain. No matter. He quite understood.

"Isn't it, darling?" said Joe.