LITMIR.BIZ

      BLISS, AND OTHER STORIES

       Table of Contents

       Bliss

       Prelude

       Je ne Parle pas Français

       The Wind Blows

       Psychology

       Pictures

       The Man without a Temperament

       Mr. Reginald Peacock’s Day

       Sun and Moon

       Feuille d’Album

       A Dill Pickle

       The Little Governess

       Revelations

       The Escape

      “. . . but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle danger, we pluck this flower, safety.”

BLISS

       Table of Contents

      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—nothing—at nothing, simply.

      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—absolute bliss!—as though you’d 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? . . .

      Oh, is there no way you can express it without being “drunk and disorderly”? 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?

      “No, that about the fiddle is not quite what I mean,” she thought, running up the steps and feeling in her bag for the key—she’d forgotten it, as usual—and rattling the letter-box. “It’s not what I mean, because—— Thank you, Mary”—she went into the hall. “Is nurse back?”

      “Yes, M’m.”

      “And has the fruit come?”

      “Yes, M’m. Everything’s come.”

      “Bring the fruit up to the dining-room, will you? I’ll arrange it before I go upstairs.”

      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.

      But in her bosom there was still that bright glowing place—that shower of little sparks coming from it. It was almost unbearable. She hardly

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