{"id":7813,"date":"2025-10-22T09:54:01","date_gmt":"2025-10-22T13:54:01","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=7813"},"modified":"2025-10-22T09:54:05","modified_gmt":"2025-10-22T13:54:05","slug":"katherine-mansfield-poison","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/katherine-mansfield-poison\/7813\/","title":{"rendered":"Katherine Mansfield: Poison"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis<\/strong>: \u201cPoison\u201d<\/em> is a short story by Katherine Mansfield, published in 1924 in the collection Something Childish and Other Stories<\/em>. The story follows a couple living in a house in the south of France: she, who has had two husbands, moves confidently and fills every space; he, younger, is caught in the grip of an intense love. The morning is warm and bright. They talk about trivial matters, while she shows slight impatience at the postman’s delay. Everything seems calm, yet a shadow of unease begins to creep in.<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\n
\"Katherine<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

Poison<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Katherine Mansfield
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The post was very late. When we came back from our walk after lunch it still had not arrived.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPas encore, Madame,\u201d sang Annette, scurrying back to her cooking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We carried our parcels into the dining-room. The table was laid. As always, the sight of the table laid for two \u2014 for two people only \u2014 and yet so finished, so perfect, there was no possible room for a third, gave me a queer, quick thrill as though I\u2019d been struck by that silver lightning that quivered over the white cloth, the brilliant glasses, the shallow bowl of freezias.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBlow the old postman! Whatever can have happened to him?\u201d said Beatrice. \u201cPut those things down, dearest.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere would you like them…?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She raised her head; she smiled her sweet, teasing smile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnywhere \u2014 Silly.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I knew only too well that there was no such place for her, and I would have stood holding the squat liqueur bottle and the sweets for months, for years, rather than risk giving another tiny shock to her exquisite sense of order.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHere \u2014 I\u2019ll take them.\u201d She plumped them down on the table with her long gloves and a basket of figs. \u201cThe Luncheon Table. Short story by \u2014 by\u2014\u201d She took my arm. \u201cLet\u2019s go on to the terrace\u2014\u201d and I felt her shiver. \u201c\u00c7a sent,\u201d she said faintly, \u201cde la cuisine…\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I had noticed lately \u2014 we had been living in the south for two months \u2014 that when she wished to speak of food, or the climate, or, playfully, of her love for me, she always dropped into French.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We perched on the balustrade under the awning. Beatrice leaned over gazing down \u2014 down to the white road with its guard of cactus spears. The beauty of her ear, just her ear, the marvel of it was so great that I could have turned from regarding it to all that sweep of glittering sea below and stammered: \u201cYou know \u2014 her ear! She has ears that are simply the most…\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She was dressed in white, with pearls round her throat and lilies-of-the-valley tucked into her belt. On the third finger of her left hand she wore one pearl ring \u2014 no wedding ring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy should I, mon ami? Why should we pretend? Who could possibly care?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And of course I agreed, though privately, in the depths of my heart, I would have given my soul to have stood beside her in a large, yes, a large, fashionable church, crammed with people, with old reverend clergymen, with The Voice that breathed o\u2019er Eden, with palms and the smell of scent, knowing there was a red carpet and confetti outside, and somewhere, a wedding-cake and champagne and a satin shoe to throw after the carriage \u2014 if I could have slipped our wedding-ring on to her finger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not because I cared for such horrible shows, but because I felt it might possibly perhaps lessen this ghastly feeling of absolute freedom, her absolute freedom, of course.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oh, God! What torture happiness was \u2014 what anguish! I looked up at the villa, at the windows of our room hidden so mysteriously behind the green straw blinds. Was it possible that she ever came moving through the green light and smiling that secret smile, that languid, brilliant smile that was just for me? She put her arm round my neck; the other hand softly, terribly, brushed back my hair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWho are you?\u201d Who was she? She was \u2014 Woman.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…On the first warm evening in Spring, when lights shone like pearls through the lilac air and voices murmured in the fresh-flowering gardens, it was she who sang in the tall house with the tulle curtains. As one drove in the moonlight through the foreign city hers was the shadow that fell across the quivering gold of the shutters. When the lamp was lighted, in the new-born stillness her steps passed your door. And she looked out into the autumn twilight, pale in her furs, as the automobile swept by…<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In fact, to put it shortly, I was twenty-four at the time. And when she lay on her back, with the pearls slipped under her chin, and sighed \u201cI\u2019m thirsty, dearest. Donne-moi un orange,\u201d I would gladly, willingly, have dived for an orange into the jaws of a crocodile \u2014 if crocodiles ate oranges.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHad I two little feathery wings
And were a little feathery bird…\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

sang Beatrice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I seized her hand. \u201cYou wouldn\u2019t fly away?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot far. Not further than the bottom of the road.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy on earth there?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She quoted: \u201cHe cometh not, she said…\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWho? The silly old postman? But you\u2019re not expecting a letter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, but it\u2019s maddening all the same. Ah!\u201d Suddenly she laughed and leaned against me. \u201cThere he is \u2014 look \u2014 like a blue beetle.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And we pressed our cheeks together and watched the blue beetle beginning to climb.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDearest,\u201d breathed Beatrice. And the word seemed to linger in the air, to throb in the air like the note of a violin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d she laughed softly. \u201cA wave of \u2014 a wave of affection, I suppose.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I put my arm round her. \u201cThen you wouldn\u2019t fly away?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And she said rapidly and softly: \u201cNo! No! Not for worlds. Not really. I love this place. I\u2019ve loved being here. I could stay here for years, I believe. I\u2019ve never been so happy as I have these last two months, and you\u2019ve been so perfect to me, dearest, in every way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This was such bliss \u2014 it was so extraordinary, so unprecedented, to hear her talk like this that I had to try to laugh it off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t! You sound as if you were saying good-bye.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, nonsense, nonsense. You mustn\u2019t say such things even in fun!\u201d She slid her little hand under my white jacket and clutched my shoulder. \u201cYou\u2019ve been happy, haven\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHappy? Happy? Oh, God \u2014 if you knew what I feel at this moment…Happy! My Wonder! My Joy!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I dropped off the balustrade and embraced her, lifting her in my arms. And while I held her lifted I pressed my face in her breast and muttered: \u201cYou are mine?\u201d And for the first time in all the desperate months I\u2019d known her, even counting the last month of \u2014 surely \u2014 Heaven \u2014 I believed her absolutely when she answered:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, I am yours.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The creak of the gate and the postman\u2019s steps on the gravel drew us apart. I was dizzy for the moment. I simply stood there, smiling, I felt, rather stupidly. Beatrice walked over to the cane chairs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou go \u2014 go for the letters,\u201d said she.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I \u2014 well \u2014 I almost reeled away. But I was too late. Annette came running. \u201cPas de lettres\u201d said she.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My reckless smile in reply as she handed me the paper must have surprised her. I was wild with joy. I threw the paper up into the air and sang out:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo letters, darling!\u201d as I came over to where the beloved woman was lying in the long chair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For a moment she did not reply. Then she said slowly as she tore off the newspaper wrapper: \u201cThe world forgetting, by the world forgot.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There are times when a cigarette is just the very one thing that will carry you over the moment. It is more than a confederate, even; it is a secret, perfect little friend who knows all about it and understands absolutely. While you smoke you look down at it \u2014 smile or frown, as the occasion demands; you inhale deeply and expel the smoke in a slow fan. This was one of those moments. I walked over to the magnolia and breathed my fill of it. Then I came back and leaned over her shoulder. But quickly she tossed the paper away on to the stone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere\u2019s nothing in it,\u201d said she. \u201cNothing. There\u2019s only some poison trial. Either some man did or didn\u2019t murder his wife, and twenty thousand people have sat in court every day and two million words have been wired all over the world after each proceeding.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSilly world!\u201d said I, flinging into another chair. I wanted to forget the paper, to return, but cautiously, of course, to that moment before the postman came. But when she answered I knew from her voice the moment was over for now. Never mind. I was content to wait \u2014 five hundred years, if need be \u2014 now that I knew.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot so very silly,\u201d said Beatrice. \u201cAfter all it isn\u2019t only morbid curiosity on the part of the twenty thousand.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is it, darling?\u201d Heavens knows I didn\u2019t care.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGuilt!\u201d she cried. \u201cGuilt! Didn\u2019t you realise that? They\u2019re fascinated like sick people are fascinated by anything \u2014 any scrap of news about their own case. The man in the dock may be innocent enough, but the people in court are nearly all of them poisoners. Haven\u2019t you ever thought\u201d \u2014 she was pale with excitement\u2014 \u201cof the amount of poisoning that goes on? It\u2019s the exception to find married people who don\u2019t poison each other \u2014 married people and lovers. Oh,\u201d she cried, \u201cthe number of cups of tea, glasses of wine, cups of coffee that are just tainted. The number I\u2019ve had myself, and drunk, either knowing or not knowing \u2014 and risked it. The only reason why so many couples\u201d \u2014 she laughed\u2014 \u201csurvive, is because the one is frightened of giving the other the fatal dose. That dose takes nerve! But it\u2019s bound to come sooner or later. There\u2019s no going back once the first little dose has been given. It\u2019s the beginning of the end, really \u2014 don\u2019t you agree? Don\u2019t you see what I mean?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She didn\u2019t wait for me to answer. She unpinned the lilies-of-the-valley and lay back, drawing them across her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBoth my husbands poisoned me,\u201d said Beatrice. \u201cMy first husband gave me a huge dose almost immediately, but my second was really an artist in his way. Just a tiny pinch, now and again, cleverly disguised \u2014 Oh, so cleverly! \u2014 until one morning I woke up and in every single particle of me, to the ends of my fingers and toes, there was a tiny grain. I was just in time…\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I hated to hear her mention her husbands so calmly, especially to-day. It hurt. I was going to speak, but suddenly she cried mournfully:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy! Why should it have happened to me? What have I done? Why have I been all my life singled out by…It\u2019s a conspiracy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I tried to tell her it was because she was too perfect for this horrible world \u2014 too exquisite, too fine. It frightened people. I made a little joke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut I \u2014 I haven\u2019t tried to poison you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Beatrice gave a queer small laugh and bit the end of a lily stem.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou!\u201d said she. \u201cYou wouldn\u2019t hurt a fly!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Strange. That hurt, though. Most horribly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Just then Annette ran out with our ap\u00e9ritifs. Beatrice leaned forward and took a glass from the tray and handed it to me. I noticed the gleam of the pearl on what I called her pearl finger. How could I be hurt at what she said?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd you,\u201d I said, taking the glass, \u201cyou\u2019ve never poisoned anybody.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That gave me an idea; I tried to explain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou \u2014 you do just the opposite. What is the name for one like you who, instead of poisoning people, fills them \u2014 everybody, the postman, the man who drives us, our boatman, the flower-seller, me \u2014 with new life, with something of her own radiance, her beauty, her\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dreamily she smiled; dreamily she looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat are you thinking of \u2014 my lovely darling?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI was wondering,\u201d she said, \u201cwhether, after lunch, you\u2019d go down to the post-office and ask for the afternoon letters. Would you mind, dearest? Not that I\u2019m expecting one \u2014 but \u2014 I just thought, perhaps \u2014 it\u2019s silly not to have the letters if they\u2019re there. Isn\u2019t it? Silly to wait till to-morrow.\u201d She twirled the stem of the glass in her fingers. Her beautiful head was bent. But I lifted my glass and drank, sipped rather \u2014 sipped slowly, deliberately, looking at that dark head and thinking of \u2014 postmen and blue beetles and farewells that were not farewells and…<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Good God! Was it fancy? No, it wasn\u2019t fancy. The drink tasted chill, bitter, queer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END <\/p>\n\n\n\n

(1921)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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