Gardening-(Illustrated Edition)

Author: (English) Katherine Mansfield / Country: Mainland China
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2006-07-01
Features: British novels have traditionally been long-form works. In the early 20th century, a female writer renowned for her short stories appeared on the British literary scene like a comet. In her brief 14-year career, she wrote 88 short stories, a vast amount of literary criticism, diaries, letters, notes, and unique poetry. She made bold explorations in short story writing, earning the title "Chekhov of the English-speaking world," and has had a profound and lasting influence. She is Katherine Mansfield. This book is part of the "20th Century Masterpieces of Foreign Writers" series, selecting 26 representative works from different creative periods of the author, including many of her outstanding works such as Garden Party, A Cup of Tea, The Fly, The Baron, The Governess, and others. Her stories often resemble more atmosphere than narratives, revealing novelty amidst simplicity. Her writing mirrors her personality. The short stories of Mansfield, a British female writer and master of the short story, are as ethereal and captivating as she herself was. Mansfield appeared on the British literary scene like a comet in the early 20th century, leaving behind many outstanding works during her short career and earning the reputation of "Chekhov of Britain." This book selects 26 representative works from different creative periods of the author, which either depict the fate of life (such as Garden Party, Park Mom's Lifetime) or explore love and marriage (Happiness, Naive but Very Natural). Her keen observations and exceptional artistic talent make these stories true masterpieces of the world.
"What kind of person is he?" I asked. "Why does he always sit there all alone, with his back to us?"
"Oh!" said Frau Oberregierungsratsherrin quietly. "He is a baron." She looked at me very seriously, yet her expression seemed to carry a slight disdain, as if she could not believe I did not see it at once.
"But poor thing, he didn’t choose to be a baron himself,” I said. “Even in such misfortune, one shouldn’t isolate him like this.” If she hadn’t been holding a fork, I believe she would have made the sign of the cross on her chest.
"You certainly don’t understand. He is one of the first barons." She was embarrassed by my words and turned to Frau Doktorowa, who was sitting to her left.
"My pancakes have no filling—no filling!" she protested. "I’ve already tried three."
I glanced at the first baron. He was eating lettuce—forking up a whole lettuce leaf like a rabbit and chewing slowly, which was quite fascinating. He was short, with sparse black hair and a pale complexion, always dressed in black flannel, a coarse linen shirt, black shoes, and the largest black glasses I had ever seen.
Mr. Oberregierungsratsherrn, sitting opposite me, smiled kindly. "Dear lady, it must be very interesting for you to sit here and watch everything, of course. This is a very distinguished apartment. In the summer, a lady from the Spanish court stayed here. She had liver disease. We often chatted together."
I felt pleased and also conscious of my own insignificance.
"Well, in your ‘apartment’ in England, you can’t find people as distinguished as in Germany.”
"That’s true," I replied. The baron, who looked like a little yellow silkworm, completely captivated me.
"The baron comes every year," Mr. Oberregierungsratsherrn continued. "To rest his mind. He has never spoken to any of the guests who stay here." A faint smile crossed his face. I seemed to see his fantasy reaching its peak in silence—imagining himself exchanging pleasantries with the baron in the distant future, abandoning the newspaper he was reading to converse with this great man, hearing him say "thank you," and passing on this glory to posterity.
At that moment, a postman, who looked like a German officer, delivered the mail. He tossed my letters into my milk pudding and then turned to whisper something to the maid. She hurried away.
The landlord entered, carrying a small tray with a landscape postcard. He bowed respectfully and handed the postcard to the baron. I was disappointed because there was no 25-gun salute.
After the meal, we had coffee. I noticed the baron took three sugar cubes, put two into his cup, and took a handkerchief from his suit pocket, wrapping the third cube in one corner of it. He was always the first to enter the dining room and the last to leave; he also placed his small black briefcase on an empty chair beside him.
In the afternoon, leaning by the window, I saw him carrying the briefcase and shuffling along the street. Every time he passed a lamppost, he would step back as if the post was about to strike him, or as if he feared this vulgar object would soil him.
I wondered where he was going and why he was carrying the briefcase. I had never seen him go to a gambling house or a spa. With his slippers dragging, he looked quite forlorn. I found myself sympathizing with this baron.
That evening, our group gathered in the hall, lively and discussing the "latest news." Frau Oberregierungsratsherrn sat beside me, knitting a shawl for the youngest of her nine daughters. The older girl was pregnant.
"This marriage must be very happy," she said to me. "My dear girl married a banker—she always dreamed of that."
There were about a dozen people there. The married ones talked among themselves about their husbands—what underwear they wore, their peculiarities, etc.—while the unmarried ones discussed their ideal partners—what clothes they wore and what special charm they possessed.
"I knit them all myself," Frau Rehrl said loudly. "With gray woolen yarn. And I’ve made two soft collars. He wears one a month."
Later, Lisa whispered, "Then he told me, 'You make me so happy. I might write to your mother.'"
It was a small piece of advice, and it was no wonder we were a little excited.
The door burst open, and the baron entered. Then there was a moment of silence. He walked in slowly, hesitated, then picked up a toothpick from a plate on the piano and walked out again. After the door closed, we gave a triumphant shout. It was the first time he had entered the drawing room. Who could say what might happen in the future!
P4-P6