Tip:
Highlight text to annotate it
X
Miss Brill by Katherine Mansfield
Although it was so brilliantly fine—the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots
of light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques—Miss Brill was glad that
she had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there was just
a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and again
a leaf came drifting—from nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brill put up her hand and touched
her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice to feel it again. She had taken it out of its
box that afternoon, shaken out the moth-powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life
back into the dim little eyes. "What has been happening to me?" said the sad little eyes.
Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap at her again from the red eiderdown!... But the nose,
which was of some black composition, wasn't at all firm. It must have had a knock, somehow.
Never mind—a little dab of black sealing-wax when the time came—when it was absolutely
necessary... Little rogue! Yes, she really felt like that about it. Little rogue biting
its tail just by her left ear. She could have taken it off and laid it on her lap and stroked
it. She felt a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from walking, she supposed.
And when she breathed, something light and sad—no, not sad, exactly—something gentle
seemed to move in her ***. There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more
than last Sunday. And the band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the Season had
begun. For although the band played all the year round on Sundays, out of season it was
never the same. It was like some one playing with only the family to listen; it didn't
care how it played if there weren't any strangers present. Wasn't the conductor wearing a new
coat, too? She was sure it was new. He scraped with his foot and flapped his arms like a
rooster about to crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the green rotunda blew out their cheeks
and glared at the music. Now there came a little "flutey" bit—very pretty!—a little
chain of bright drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her head and
smiled. Only two people shared her "special" seat: a fine old man in a velvet coat, his
hands clasped over a huge carved walking-stick, and a big old woman, sitting upright, with
a roll of knitting on her embroidered apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing,
for Miss Brill always looked forward to the conversation. She had become really quite
expert, she thought, at listening as though she didn't listen, at sitting in other people's
lives just for a minute while they talked round her. She glanced, sideways, at the old
couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last Sunday, too, hadn't been as interesting as usual.
An Englishman and his wife, he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and she button boots. And she'd
gone on the whole time about how she ought to wear spectacles; she knew she needed them;
but that it was no good getting any; they'd be sure to break and they'd never keep on.
And he'd been so patient. He'd suggested everything—gold rims, the kind that curved round your ears,
little pads inside the bridge. No, nothing would please her. "They'll always be sliding
down my nose!" Miss Brill had wanted to shake her. The old people sat on the bench, still
as statues. Never mind, there was always the crowd to watch. To and fro, in front of the
flower-beds and the band rotunda, the couples and groups paraded, stopped to talk, to greet,
to buy a handful of flowers from the old beggar who had his tray fixed to the railings. Little
children ran among them, swooping and laughing; little boys with big white silk bows under
their chins, little girls, little French dolls, dressed up in velvet and lace. And sometimes
a tiny staggerer came suddenly rocking into the open from under the trees, stopped, stared,
as suddenly sat down "flop," until its small high-stepping mother, like a young hen, rushed
scolding to its rescue. Other people sat on the benches and green chairs, but they were
nearly always the same, Sunday after Sunday, and—Miss Brill had often noticed—there
was something funny about nearly all of them. They were odd, silent, nearly all old, and
from the way they stared they looked as though they'd just come from dark little rooms or
even—even cupboards! Behind the rotunda the slender trees with yellow leaves down
drooping, and through them just a line of sea, and beyond the blue sky with gold-veined
clouds. Tum-tum-tum tiddle-um! tiddle-um! tum tiddley-um tum ta! blew the band. Two
young girls in red came by and two young soldiers in blue met them, and they laughed and paired
and went off arm-in-arm. Two peasant women with funny straw hats passed, gravely, leading
beautiful smoke-coloured donkeys. A cold, pale nun hurried by. A beautiful woman came
along and dropped her bunch of violets, and a little boy ran after to hand them to her,
and she took them and threw them away as if they'd been poisoned. Dear me! Miss Brill
didn't know whether to admire that or not! And now an ermine toque and a gentleman in
grey met just in front of her. He was tall, stiff, dignified, and she was wearing the
ermine toque she'd bought when her hair was yellow. Now everything, her hair, her face,
even her eyes, was the same colour as the shabby ermine, and her hand, in its cleaned
glove, lifted to dab her lips, was a tiny yellowish paw. Oh, she was so pleased to see
him—delighted! She rather thought they were going to meet that afternoon. She described
where she'd been—everywhere, here, there, along by the sea. The day was so charming—didn't
he agree? And wouldn't he, perhaps?... But he shook his head, lighted a cigarette, slowly
breathed a great deep puff into her face, and even while she was still talking and laughing,
flicked the match away and walked on. The ermine toque was alone; she smiled more brightly
than ever. But even the band seemed to know what she was feeling and played more softly,
played tenderly, and the drum beat, "The Brute! The Brute!" over and over. What would she
do? What was going to happen now? But as Miss Brill wondered, the ermine toque turned, raised
her hand as though she'd seen some one else, much nicer, just over there, and pattered
away. And the band changed again and played more quickly, more gayly than ever, and the
old couple on Miss Brill's seat got up and marched away, and such a funny old man with
long whiskers hobbled along in time to the music and was nearly knocked over by four
girls walking abreast. Oh, how fascinating it was! How she enjoyed it! How she loved
sitting here, watching it all! It was like a play. It was exactly like a play. Who could
believe the sky at the back wasn't painted? But it wasn't till a little brown dog trotted
on solemn and then slowly trotted off, like a little "theatre" dog, a little dog that
had been drugged, that Miss Brill discovered what it was that made it so exciting. They
were all on the stage. They weren't only the audience, not only looking on; they were acting.
Even she had a part and came every Sunday. No doubt somebody would have noticed if she
hadn't been there; she was part of the performance after all. How strange she'd never thought
of it like that before! And yet it explained why she made such a point of starting from
home at just the same time each week—so as not to be late for the performance—and
it also explained why she had quite a ***, shy feeling at telling her English pupils
how she spent her Sunday afternoons. No wonder! Miss Brill nearly laughed out loud. She was
on the stage. She thought of the old invalid gentleman to whom she read the newspaper four
afternoons a week while he slept in the garden. She had got quite used to the frail head on
the cotton pillow, the hollowed eyes, the open mouth and the high pinched nose. If he'd
been dead she mightn't have noticed for weeks; she wouldn't have minded. But suddenly he
knew he was having the paper read to him by an actress! "An actress!" The old head lifted;
two points of light quivered in the old eyes. "An actress—are ye?" And Miss Brill smoothed
the newspaper as though it were the manuscript of her part and said gently; "Yes, I have
been an actress for a long time." The band had been having a rest. Now they started again.
And what they played was warm, sunny, yet there was just a faint chill—a something,
what was it?—not sadness—no, not sadness—a something that made you want to sing. The
tune lifted, lifted, the light shone; and it seemed to Miss Brill that in another moment
all of them, all the whole company, would begin singing. The young ones, the laughing
ones who were moving together, they would begin, and the men's voices, very resolute
and brave, would join them. And then she too, she too, and the others on the benches—they
would come in with a kind of accompaniment—something low, that scarcely rose or fell, something
so beautiful—moving... And Miss Brill's eyes filled with tears and she looked smiling
at all the other members of the company. Yes, we understand, we understand, she thought—though
what they understood she didn't know. Just at that moment a boy and girl came and sat
down where the old couple had been. They were beautifully dressed; they were in love. The
hero and heroine, of course, just arrived from his father's yacht. And still soundlessly
singing, still with that trembling smile, Miss Brill prepared to listen. "No, not now,"
said the girl. "Not here, I can't." "But why? Because of that stupid old thing at the end
there?" asked the boy. "Why does she come here at all—who wants her? Why doesn't she
keep her silly old mug at home?" "It's her fu-ur which is so funny," giggled the girl.
"It's exactly like a fried whiting." "Ah, be off with you!" said the boy in an angry
whisper. Then: "Tell me, ma petite chere—" "No, not here," said the girl. "Not yet."
***** On her way home she usually bought a slice of honey-cake at the baker's. It was
her Sunday treat. Sometimes there was an almond in her slice, sometimes not. It made a great
difference. If there was an almond it was like carrying home a tiny present—a surprise—something
that might very well not have been there. She hurried on the almond Sundays and struck
the match for the kettle in quite a dashing way. But to-day she passed the baker's by,
climbed the stairs, went into the little dark room—her room like a cupboard—and sat
down on the red eiderdown. She sat there for a long time. The box that the fur came out
of was on the bed. She unclasped the necklet quickly; quickly, without looking, laid it
inside. But when she put the lid on she thought she heard something crying.
This is the end of Miss Brill by Katherine Mansfield
�