{"id":7888,"date":"2025-03-06T14:46:52","date_gmt":"2025-03-06T18:46:52","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=7888"},"modified":"2025-10-21T20:39:55","modified_gmt":"2025-10-22T00:39:55","slug":"katherine-mansfield-bliss","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/katherine-mansfield-bliss\/7888\/","title":{"rendered":"Katherine Mansfield: Bliss"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis<\/strong>: \u201cBliss\u201d <\/em>is a short story by Katherine Mansfield published in August 1918 in the English Review<\/em>. It recounts a day in the life of Bertha Young, a thirty-year-old woman who experiences overwhelming happiness and a deep sense of fulfillment. While organizing a dinner party at home, her joy is reflected in the small details of everyday life: her tenderness towards her daughter, her satisfaction with her marriage, and the beauty of her garden, where a pear tree in bloom seems to symbolize her state of mind. However, among the gestures and glances of the guests, an unexpected detail threatens to alter her harmony.<\/p>\n\n\n

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

Bliss <\/h2>\n\n\n\n

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

Although Bertha Young was thirty she still had moments like this when she wanted to run instead of walk, to take dancing steps on and off the pavement, to bowl a hoop, to throw something up in the air and catch it again, or to stand still and laugh at\u2014nothing\u2014at nothing, simply.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What can you do if you are thirty and, turning the corner of your own street, you are overcome, suddenly, by a feeling of bliss\u2014absolute bliss!\u2014as though you\u2019d suddenly swallowed a bright piece of that late afternoon sun and it burned in your bosom, sending out a little shower of sparks into every particle, into every finger and toe? . . .<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oh, is there no way you can express it without being \u201cdrunk and disorderly\u201d? How idiotic civilization is! Why be given a body if you have to keep it shut up in a case like a rare, rare fiddle?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, that about the fiddle is not quite what I mean,\u201d she thought, running up the steps and feeling in her bag for the key\u2014she\u2019d forgotten it, as usual\u2014and rattling the letter-box. \u201cIt\u2019s not what I mean, because\u2014\u2014 Thank you, Mary\u201d\u2014she went into the hall. \u201cIs nurse back?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, M\u2019m.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd has the fruit come?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, M\u2019m. Everything\u2019s come.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBring the fruit up to the dining-room, will you? I\u2019ll arrange it before I go upstairs.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was dusky in the dining-room and quite chilly. But all the same Bertha threw off her coat; she could not bear the tight clasp of it another moment, and the cold air fell on her arms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But in her bosom there was still that bright glowing place\u2014that shower of little sparks coming from it. It was almost unbearable. She hardly dared to breathe for fear of fanning it higher, and yet she breathed deeply, deeply. She hardly dared to look into the cold mirror\u2014but she did look, and it gave her back a woman, radiant, with smiling, trembling lips, with big, dark eyes and an air of listening, waiting for something . . . divine to happen . . . that she knew must happen . . . infallibly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mary brought in the fruit on a tray and with it a glass bowl, and a blue dish, very lovely, with a strange sheen on it as though it had been dipped in milk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShall I turn on the light, M\u2019m?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, thank you. I can see quite well.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There were tangerines and apples stained with strawberry pink. Some yellow pears, smooth as silk, some white grapes covered with a silver bloom and a big cluster of purple ones. These last she had bought to tone in with the new dining-room carpet. Yes, that did sound rather far-fetched and absurd, but it was really why she had bought them. She had thought in the shop: \u201cI must have some purple ones to bring the carpet up to the table.\u201d And it had seemed quite sense at the time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When she had finished with them and had made two pyramids of these bright round shapes, she stood away from the table to get the effect\u2014and it really was most curious. For the dark table seemed to melt into the dusky light and the glass dish and the blue bowl to float in the air. This, of course in her present mood, was so incredibly beautiful… She began to laugh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, no. I\u2019m getting hysterical.\u201d And she seized her bag and coat and ran upstairs to the nursery.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nurse sat at a low table giving Little B her supper after her bath. The baby had on a white flannel gown and a blue woollen jacket, and her dark, fine hair was brushed up into a funny little peak. She looked up when she saw her mother and began to jump.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNow, my lovey, eat it up like a good girl,\u201d said Nurse, setting her lips in a way that Bertha knew, and that meant she had come into the nursery at another wrong moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHas she been good, Nanny?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe\u2019s been a little sweet all the afternoon,\u201d whispered Nanny. \u201cWe went to the park and I sat down on a chair and took her out of the pram and a big dog came along and put its head on my knee and she clutched its ear, tugged it. Oh, you should have seen her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bertha wanted to ask if it wasn\u2019t rather dangerous to let her clutch at a strange dog\u2019s ear. But she did not dare to. She stood watching them, her hands by her side, like the poor little girl in front of the rich little girl with the doll.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The baby looked up at her again, stared, and then smiled so charmingly that Bertha couldn\u2019t help crying:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, Nanny, do let me finish giving her her supper while you put the bath things away.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, M\u2019m, she oughtn\u2019t to be changed hands while she\u2019s eating,\u201d said Nanny, still whispering. \u201cIt unsettles her; it\u2019s very likely to upset her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How absurd it was. Why have a baby if it has to be kept\u2014not in a case like a rare, rare fiddle\u2014but in another woman\u2019s arms?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, I must!\u201d said she.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Very offended, Nanny handed her over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNow, don\u2019t excite her after her supper. You know you do, M\u2019m. And I have such a time with her after!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Thank heaven! Nanny went out of the room with the bath towels.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNow I\u2019ve got you to myself, my little precious,\u201d said Bertha, as the baby leaned against her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She ate delightfully, holding up her lips for spoon and then waving her hands. Sometimes she wouldn\u2019t let the spoon go; and sometimes, just as Bertha had filled it, she waved it away to the four winds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When the soup was finished Bertha turned round to the fire.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re nice\u2014you\u2019re very nice!\u201d said she, kissing her warm baby. \u201cI\u2019m fond of you. I like you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And, indeed, she loved Little B so much\u2014her neck as she bent forward, her exquisite toes as they shone transparent in the firelight\u2014that all her feeling of bliss came back again, and again she didn\u2019t know how to express it\u2014what to do with it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re wanted on the telephone,\u201d said Nanny, coming back in triumph and seizing her<\/em> Little B.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Down she flew. It was Harry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, is that you, Ber? Look here. I\u2019ll be late. I\u2019ll take a taxi and come along as quickly as I can, but get dinner put back ten minutes\u2014will you? All right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, perfectly. Oh, Harry!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What had she to say? She\u2019d nothing to say. She only wanted to get in touch with him for a moment. She couldn\u2019t absurdly cry: \u201cHasn\u2019t it been a divine day!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is it?\u201d rapped out the little voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNothing. Entendu<\/em>,\u201d said Bertha, and hung up the receiver, thinking how more than idiotic civilization was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They had people coming to dinner. The Norman Knights\u2014a very sound couple\u2014he was about to start a theatre, and she was awfully keen on interior decoration, a young man, Eddie Warren, who had just published a little book of poems and whom everybody was asking to dine, and a \u201cfind\u201d of Bertha\u2019s called Pearl Fulton. What Miss Fulton did, Bertha didn\u2019t know. They had met at the club and Bertha had fallen in love with her, as she always did fall in love with beautiful women who had something strange about them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The provoking thing was that, though they had been about together and met a number of times and really talked, Bertha couldn\u2019t yet make her out. Up to a certain point Miss Fulton was rarely, wonderfully frank, but the certain point was there, and beyond that she would not go.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Was there anything beyond it? Harry said \u201cNo.\u201d Voted her dullish, and \u201ccold like all blond women, with a touch, perhaps, of an\u00e6mia of the brain.\u201d But Bertha wouldn\u2019t agree with him; not yet, at any rate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, the way she has of sitting with her head a little on one side, and smiling, has something behind it, Harry, and I must find out what that something is.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMost likely it\u2019s a good stomach,\u201d answered Harry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He made a point of catching Bertha\u2019s heels with replies of that kind . . . \u201cliver frozen, my dear girl,\u201d or \u201cpure flatulence,\u201d or \u201ckidney disease,\u201d . . . and so on. For some strange reason Bertha liked this, and almost admired it in him very much.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She went into the drawing-room and lighted the fire; then, picking up the cushions, one by one, that Mary had disposed so carefully, she threw them back on to the chairs and the couches. That made all the difference; the room came alive at once. As she was about to throw the last one she surprised herself by suddenly hugging it to her, passionately, passionately. But it did not put out the fire in her bosom. Oh, on the contrary!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The windows of the drawing-room opened on to a balcony overlooking the garden. At the far end, against the wall, there was a tall, slender pear tree in fullest, richest bloom; it stood perfect, as though becalmed against the jade-green sky. Bertha couldn\u2019t help feeling, even from this distance, that it had not a single bud or a faded petal. Down below, in the garden beds, the red and yellow tulips, heavy with flowers, seemed to lean upon the dusk. A grey cat, dragging its belly, crept across the lawn, and a black one, its shadow, trailed after. The sight of them, so intent and so quick, gave Bertha a curious shiver.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat creepy things cats are!\u201d she stammered, and she turned away from the window and began walking up and down…<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How strong the jonquils smelled in the warm room. Too strong? Oh, no. And yet, as though overcome, she flung down on a couch and pressed her hands to her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m too happy\u2014too happy!\u201d she murmured.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And she seemed to see on her eyelids the lovely pear tree with its wide open blossoms as a symbol of her own life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Really\u2014really\u2014she had everything. She was young. Harry and she were as much in love as ever, and they got on together splendidly and were really good pals. She had an adorable baby. They didn\u2019t have to worry about money. They had this absolutely satisfactory house and garden. And friends\u2014modern, thrilling friends, writers and painters and poets or people keen on social questions\u2014just the kind of friends they wanted. And then there were books, and there was music, and she had found a wonderful little dressmaker, and they were going abroad in the summer, and their new cook made the most superb omelettes…<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m absurd. Absurd!\u201d She sat up; but she felt quite dizzy, quite drunk. It must have been the spring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Yes, it was the spring. Now she was so tired she could not drag herself upstairs to dress.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A white dress, a string of jade beads, green shoes and stockings. It wasn\u2019t intentional. She had thought of this scheme hours before she stood at the drawing-room window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her petals rustled softly into the hall, and she kissed Mrs. Norman Knight, who was taking off the most amusing orange coat with a procession of black monkeys round the hem and up the fronts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c. . . Why! Why! Why is the middle-class so stodgy\u2014so utterly without a sense of humour! My dear, it\u2019s only by a fluke that I am here at all\u2014Norman being the protective fluke. For my darling monkeys so upset the train that it rose to a man and simply ate me with its eyes. Didn\u2019t laugh\u2014wasn\u2019t amused\u2014that I should have loved. No, just stared\u2014and bored me through and through.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut the cream of it was,\u201d said Norman, pressing a large tortoiseshell-rimmed monocle into his eye, \u201cyou don\u2019t mind me telling this, Face, do you?\u201d (In their home and among their friends they called each other Face and Mug.) \u201cThe cream of it was when she, being full fed, turned to the woman beside her and said: \u2018Haven\u2019t you ever seen a monkey before?\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, yes!\u201d Mrs. Norman Knight joined in the laughter. \u201cWasn\u2019t that too absolutely creamy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And a funnier thing still was that now her coat was off she did look like a very intelligent monkey\u2014who had even made that yellow silk dress out of scraped banana skins. And her amber ear-rings; they were like little dangling nuts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis is a sad, sad fall!\u201d said Mug, pausing in front of Little B\u2019s perambulator. \u201cWhen the perambulator comes into the hall\u2014\u2014\u201d and he waved the rest of the quotation away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The bell rang. It was lean, pale Eddie Warren (as usual) in a state of acute distress.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt is<\/em> the right house, isn\u2019t<\/em> it?\u201d he pleaded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, I think so\u2014I hope so,\u201d said Bertha brightly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI have had such a dreadful<\/em> experience with a taxi-man; he was most<\/em> sinister. I couldn\u2019t get him to stop.<\/em> The more<\/em> I knocked and called the faster<\/em> he went. And in<\/em> the moonlight this bizarre<\/em> figure with the flattened<\/em> head crouching<\/em> over the lit-tle<\/em> wheel. . .\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He shuddered, taking off an immense white silk scarf. Bertha noticed that his socks were white, too\u2014most charming.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut how dreadful!\u201d she cried.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, it really was,\u201d said Eddie, following her into the drawing-room. \u201cI saw myself driving<\/em> through Eternity in a timeless<\/em> taxi.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He knew the Norman Knights. In fact, he was going to write a play for N. K. when the theatre scheme came off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, Warren, how\u2019s the play?\u201d said Norman Knight, dropping his monocle and giving his eye a moment in which to rise to the surface before it was screwed down again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And Mrs. Norman Knight: \u201cOh, Mr. Warren, what happy socks?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI am<\/em> so glad you like them,\u201d said he, staring at his feet. \u201cThey seem to have got so much<\/em> whiter since the moon rose.\u201d And he turned his lean sorrowful young face to Bertha. \u201cThere is<\/em> a moon, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She wanted to cry: \u201cI am sure there is\u2014often\u2014often!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He really was a most attractive person. But so was Face, crouched before the fire in her banana skins, and so was Mug, smoking a cigarette and saying as he flicked the ash: \u201cWhy doth the bridegroom tarry?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere he is, now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bang went the front door open and shut. Harry shouted: \u201cHullo, you people. Down in five minutes.\u201d And they heard him swarm up the stairs. Bertha couldn\u2019t help smiling; she knew how he loved doing things at high pressure. What, after all, did an extra five minutes matter? But he would pretend to himself that they mattered beyond measure. And then he would make a great point of coming into the drawing-room, extravagantly cool and collected.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Harry had such a zest for life. Oh, how she appreciated it in him. And his passion for fighting\u2014for seeking in everything that came up against him another test of his power and of his courage\u2014that, too, she understood. Even when it made him just occasionally, to other people, who didn\u2019t know him well, a little ridiculous perhaps… For there were moments when he rushed into battle where no battle was… She talked and laughed and positively forgot until he had come in (just as she had imagined) that Pearl Fulton had not turned up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI wonder if Miss Fulton has forgotten?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI expect so,\u201d said Harry. \u201cIs she on the \u2019phone?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAh! There\u2019s a taxi, now.\u201d And Bertha smiled with that little air of proprietorship that she always assumed while her women finds were new and mysterious. \u201cShe lives in taxis.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe\u2019ll run to fat if she does,\u201d said Harry coolly, ringing the bell for dinner. \u201cFrightful danger for blond women.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHarry\u2014don\u2019t,\u201d warned Bertha, laughing up at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Came another tiny moment, while they waited, laughing and talking, just a trifle too much at their ease, a trifle too unaware. And then Miss Fulton, all in silver, with a silver fillet binding her pale blond hair, came in smiling, her head a little on one side.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAm I late?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, not at all,\u201d said Bertha. \u201cCome along.\u201d And she took her arm and they moved into the dining-room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What was there in the touch of that cool arm that could fan\u2014fan\u2014start blazing\u2014blazing\u2014the fire of bliss that Bertha did not know what to do with?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Fulton did not look at her; but then she seldom did look at people directly. Her heavy eyelids lay upon her eyes and the strange half smile came and went upon her lips as though she lived by listening rather than seeing. But Bertha knew, suddenly, as if the longest, most intimate look had passed between them\u2014as if they had said to each other: \u201cYou, too?\u201d\u2014that Pearl Fulton stirring the beautiful red soup in the grey plate was feeling just what she was feeling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And the others? Face and Mug, Eddie and Harry, their spoons rising and falling\u2014dabbing their lips with their napkins, crumbling bread, fiddling with the forks and glasses and talking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI met her at the Alpha show\u2014the weirdest little person. She\u2019d not only cut off her hair, but she seemed to have taken a dreadfully good snip off her legs and arms and her neck and her poor little nose as well.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIsn\u2019t she very li\u00e9e<\/em> with Michael Oat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe man who wrote Love in False Teeth?<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe wants to write a play for me. One act. One man. Decides to commit suicide. Gives all the reasons why he should and why he shouldn\u2019t. And just as he has made up his mind either to do it or not to do it\u2014curtain. Not half a bad idea.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s he going to call it\u2014\u2018Stomach Trouble\u2019?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI think<\/em> I\u2019ve come across the same idea<\/em> in a lit-tle French review, quite<\/em> unknown in England.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No, they didn\u2019t share it. They were dears\u2014dears\u2014and she loved having them there, at her table, and giving them delicious food and wine. In fact, she longed to tell them how delightful they were, and what a decorative group they made, how they seemed to set one another off and how they reminded her of a play by Tchekof!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Harry was enjoying his dinner. It was part of his\u2014well, not his nature, exactly, and certainly not his pose\u2014his\u2014something or other\u2014to talk about food and to glory in his \u201cshameless passion for the white flesh of the lobster\u201d and \u201cthe green of pistachio ices\u2014green and cold like the eyelids of Egyptian dancers.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When he looked up at her and said: \u201cBertha, this is a very admirable souffl\u00e9e!<\/em>\u201d she almost could have wept with child-like pleasure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oh, why did she feel so tender towards the whole world to-night? Everything was good\u2014was right. All that happened seemed to fill again her brimming cup of bliss.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And still, in the back of her mind, there was the pear tree. It would be silver now, in the light of poor dear Eddie\u2019s moon, silver as Miss Fulton, who sat there turning a tangerine in her slender fingers that were so pale a light seemed to come from them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What she simply couldn\u2019t make out\u2014what was miraculous\u2014was how she should have guessed Miss Fulton\u2019s mood so exactly and so instantly. For she never doubted for a moment that she was right, and yet what had she to go on? Less than nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI believe this does happen very, very rarely between women. Never between men,\u201d thought Bertha. \u201cBut while I am making the coffee in the drawing-room perhaps she will \u2018give a sign.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What she meant by that she did not know, and what would happen after that she could not imagine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

While she thought like this she saw herself talking and laughing. She had to talk because of her desire to laugh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI must laugh or die.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But when she noticed Face\u2019s funny little habit of tucking something down the front of her bodice\u2014as if she kept a tiny, secret hoard of nuts there, too\u2014Bertha had to dig her nails into her hands\u2014so as not to laugh too much.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was over at last. And: \u201cCome and see my new coffee machine,\u201d said Bertha.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe only have a new coffee machine once a fortnight,\u201d said Harry. Face took her arm this time; Miss Fulton bent her head and followed after.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The fire had died down in the drawing-room to a red, flickering \u201cnest of baby ph\u0153nixes,\u201d said Face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t turn up the light for a moment. It is so lovely.\u201d And down she crouched by the fire again. She was always cold . . . \u201cwithout her little red flannel jacket, of course,\u201d thought Bertha.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At that moment Miss Fulton \u201cgave the sign.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHave you a garden?\u201d said the cool, sleepy voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This was so exquisite on her part that all Bertha could do was to obey. She crossed the room, pulled the curtains apart, and opened those long windows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere!\u201d she breathed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And the two women stood side by side looking at the slender, flowering tree. Although it was so still it seemed, like the flame of a candle, to stretch up, to point, to quiver in the bright air, to grow taller and taller as they gazed\u2014almost to touch the rim of the round, silver moon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How long did they stand there? Both, as it were, caught in that circle of unearthly light, understanding each other perfectly, creatures of another world, and wondering what they were to do in this one with all this blissful treasure that burned in their bosoms and dropped, in silver flowers, from their hair and hands?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For ever\u2014for a moment? And did Miss Fulton murmur: \u201cYes. Just that.<\/em>\u201d Or did Bertha dream it?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then the light was snapped on and Face made the coffee and Harry said: \u201cMy dear Mrs. Knight, don\u2019t ask me about my baby. I never see her. I shan\u2019t feel the slightest interest in her until she has a lover,\u201d and Mug took his eye out of the conservatory for a moment and then put it under glass again and Eddie Warren drank his coffee and set down the cup with a face of anguish as though he had drunk and seen the spider.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat I want to do is to give the young men a show. I believe London is simply teeming with first-chop, unwritten plays. What I want to say to \u2019em is: \u2018Here\u2019s the theatre. Fire ahead.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou know, my dear, I am going to decorate a room for the Jacob Nathans. Oh, I am so tempted to do a fried-fish scheme, with the backs of the chairs shaped like frying pans and lovely chip potatoes embroidered all over the curtains.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe trouble with our young writing men is that they are still too romantic. You can\u2019t put out to sea without being seasick and wanting a basin. Well, why won\u2019t they have the courage of those basins?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA dreadful<\/em> poem about a girl<\/em> who was violated<\/em> by a beggar without a nose in a lit-tle wood…\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Fulton sank into the lowest, deepest chair and Harry handed round the cigarettes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From the way he stood in front of her shaking the silver box and saying abruptly: \u201cEgyptian? Turkish? Virginian? They\u2019re all mixed up,\u201d Bertha realized that she not only bored him; he really disliked her. And she decided from the way Miss Fulton said: \u201cNo, thank you, I won\u2019t smoke,\u201d that she felt it, too, and was hurt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, Harry, don\u2019t dislike her. You are quite wrong about her. She\u2019s wonderful, wonderful. And, besides, how can you feel so differently about someone who means so much to me. I shall try to tell you when we are in bed to-night what has been happening. What she and I have shared.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At those last words something strange and almost terrifying darted into Bertha\u2019s mind. And this something blind and smiling whispered to her: \u201cSoon these people will go. The house will be quiet\u2014quiet. The lights will be out. And you and he will be alone together in the dark room\u2014the warm bed…\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She jumped up from her chair and ran over to the piano.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat a pity someone does not play!\u201d she cried. \u201cWhat a pity somebody does not play.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For the first time in her life Bertha Young desired her husband.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oh, she\u2019d loved him\u2014she\u2019d been in love with him, of course, in every other way, but just not in that way. And, equally, of course, she\u2019d understood that he was different. They\u2019d discussed it so often. It had worried her dreadfully at first to find that she was so cold, but after a time it had not seemed to matter. They were so frank with each other\u2014such good pals. That was the best of being modern.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But now\u2014ardently! ardently! The word ached in her ardent body! Was this what that feeling of bliss had been leading up to? But then then\u2014\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy dear,\u201d said Mrs. Norman Knight, \u201cyou know our shame. We are the victims of time and train. We live in Hampstead. It\u2019s been so nice.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ll come with you into the hall,\u201d said Bertha. \u201cI loved having you. But you must not miss the last train. That\u2019s so awful, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHave a whisky, Knight, before you go?\u201d called Harry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, thanks, old chap.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bertha squeezed his hand for that as she shook it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood night, good-bye,\u201d she cried from the top step, feeling that this self of hers was taking leave of them for ever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When she got back into the drawing-room the others were on the move.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c. . . Then you can come part of the way in my taxi.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI shall be so<\/em> thankful not<\/em> to have to face another<\/em> drive alone<\/em> after my dreadful<\/em> experience.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou can get a taxi at the rank just at the end of the street. You won\u2019t have to walk more than a few yards.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s a comfort. I\u2019ll go and put on my coat.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Fulton moved towards the hall and Bertha was following when Harry almost pushed past.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLet me help you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bertha knew that he was repenting his rudeness\u2014she let him go. What a boy he was in some ways\u2014so impulsive\u2014so\u2014simple.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And Eddie and she were left by the fire.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI wonder<\/em> if you have seen Bilks\u2019 new<\/em> poem called Table d\u2019H\u00f4te<\/em>,\u201d said Eddie softly. \u201cIt\u2019s so<\/em> wonderful. In the last Anthology. Have you got a copy? I\u2019d so<\/em> like to show<\/em> it to you. It begins with an incredibly<\/em> beautiful line: \u2018Why Must it Always be Tomato Soup?\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\u201d said Bertha. And she moved noiselessly to a table opposite the drawing-room door and Eddie glided noiselessly after her. She picked up the little book and gave it to him; they had not made a sound.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

While he looked it up she turned her head towards the hall. And she saw . . . Harry with Miss Fulton\u2019s coat in his arms and Miss Fulton with her back turned to him and her head bent. He tossed the coat away, put his hands on her shoulders and turned her violently to him. His lips said: \u201cI adore you,\u201d and Miss Fulton laid her moonbeam fingers on his cheeks and smiled her sleepy smile. Harry\u2019s nostrils quivered; his lips curled back in a hideous grin while he whispered: \u201cTo-morrow,\u201d and with her eyelids Miss Fulton said: \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHere it is,\u201d said Eddie. \u201c\u2018Why Must it Always be Tomato Soup?\u2019 It\u2019s so deeply<\/em> true, don\u2019t you feel? Tomato soup is so dreadfully<\/em> eternal.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf you prefer,\u201d said Harry\u2019s voice, very loud, from the hall, \u201cI can phone you a cab to come to the door.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, no. It\u2019s not necessary,\u201d said Miss Fulton, and she came up to Bertha and gave her the slender fingers to hold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood-bye. Thank you so much.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood-bye,\u201d said Bertha.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Fulton held her hand a moment longer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour lovely pear tree!\u201d she murmured.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then she was gone, with Eddie following, like the black cat following the grey cat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ll shut up shop,\u201d said Harry, extravagantly cool and collected.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour lovely pear tree\u2014pear tree\u2014pear tree!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bertha simply ran over to the long windows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, what is going to happen now?\u201d she cried.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But the pear tree was as lovely as ever and as full of flower and as still.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cBliss\u201d is a short story by Katherine Mansfield published in August 1918 in the English Review. It recounts a day in the life of Bertha Young, a thirty-year-old woman who experiences overwhelming happiness and a deep sense of fulfillment. While organizing a dinner party at home, her joy is reflected in the small details of everyday life: her tenderness towards her daughter, her satisfaction with her marriage, and the beauty of her garden, where a pear tree in bloom seems to symbolize her state of mind. However, among the gestures and glances of the guests, an unexpected detail threatens to alter her harmony.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":20523,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[587,588,630],"class_list":["post-7888","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-katherine-mansfield-en","tag-new-zealand","tag-realism","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":587,"label":"Katherine Mansfield"},{"value":588,"label":"New Zealand"},{"value":630,"label":"Realism"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/03\/Katherine-Mansfield-Extasis.webp",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":419,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":419,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":587,"name":"Katherine Mansfield","slug":"katherine-mansfield-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":587,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":5,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":588,"name":"New Zealand","slug":"new-zealand","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":588,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":5,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":630,"name":"Realism","slug":"realism","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":630,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":52,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7888","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=7888"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7888\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/20523"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7888"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7888"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7888"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}