MISS BRILL — Katherine Mansfield
A lonely woman enjoys her Sunday afternoon outings to the park until her encounter with a thoughtless young couple.
1Although it was so brilliantly fine—the blue sky powdered with gold and
2great spots of light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publics—Miss
3Brill was glad that she had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but
4when you opened your mouth there was just a faint chill, like a chill from a
5glass of iced water before you sip, and now and again a leaf came
6drifting—from nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brill put up her hand and
7touched her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice to feel it again. She had taken it
8out of its box that afternoon, shaken out the moth-powder, given it a good
9brush, and rubbed the life back into the dim little eyes. “What has been
10happening to me?” said the sad little eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them
11snap at her again from the red eiderdown! . . . But the nose, which was of
12some black composition, wasn’t at all firm. It must have had a knock,
13somehow. Never mind—a little dab of black sealing-wax when the time
14came—when it was absolutely necessary. . . . Little rogue! Yes, she really
15felt like that about it. Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She could
16have taken it off and laid it on her lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in
17her hands and arms, but that came from walking, she supposed. And when
18she breathed, something light and sad—no, not sad, exactly—something
19gentle seemed to move in her bosom.
20There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last
21Sunday. And the band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the
22Season had begun. For although the band played all the year round on
23Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It was like some one playing
24with only the family to listen; it didn’t care how it played if there weren’t any
25strangers present. Wasn’t the conductor wearing a new coat, too? She was
26sure it was new. He scraped with his foot and flapped his arms like a rooster
27about to crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the green rotunda blew out
28their cheeks and glared at the music. Now there came a little “flutey” bit—
29very pretty!—a little chain of bright drops. She was sure it would be
30repeated. It was; she lifted her head and smiled.
31Only two people shared her “special” seat: a fine old man in a velvet
32coat, his hands clasped over a huge carved walking-stick, and a big old
33woman, sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on her embroidered apron.
34They did not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss Brill always looked
35forward to the conversation. She had become really quite expert, she
36thought, at listening as though she didn’t listen, at sitting in other people’s
37lives just for a minute while they talked round her.
38She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon.
39Last Sunday, too, hadn’t been as interesting as usual. An Englishman and his
40wife, he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and she button boots. And she’d
41gone on the whole time about how she ought to wear spectacles; she
42knew she needed them; but that it was no good getting any; they’d be sure
43to break and they’d never keep on. And he’d been so patient. He’d
44suggested everything—gold rims, the kind that curved round your ears, little
45pads inside the bridge. No, nothing would please her. “They’ll always be
46sliding down my nose!” Miss Brill had wanted to shake her.
47The old people sat on the bench, still as statues. Never mind, there was
48always the crowd to watch. To and fro, in front of the flower-beds and the
49band rotunda, the couples and groups paraded, stopped to talk, to greet, to
50buy a handful of flowers from the old beggar who had his tray fixed to the
51railings. Little children ran among them, swooping and laughing; little
52boys with big white silk bows under their chins, little girls, little French
53dolls, dressed up in velvet and lace. And sometimes a tiny staggerer came
54suddenly rocking into the open from under the trees, stopped, stared, as
55suddenly sat down “flop,” until its small high-stepping mother, like a young
56hen, rushed scolding to its rescue. Other people sat on the benches and
57green chairs, but they were nearly always the same, Sunday after Sunday,
58and—Miss Brill had often noticed—there was something funny about nearly
59all of them. They were odd, silent, nearly all old, and from the way they
60stared they looked as though they’d just come from dark little rooms or
61even—even cupboards!
62Behind the rotunda the slender trees with yellow leaves down
63drooping, and through them just a line of sea, and beyond the blue sky with
64gold-veined clouds.
65Tum-tum-tum tiddle-um! tiddle-um! tum tiddley-um tum ta! blew the
66band.
67Two young girls in red came by and two young soldiers in blue met
68them, and they laughed and paired and went off arm-in-arm. Two peasant
69women with funny straw hats passed, gravely, leading beautiful smoke-
70coloured donkeys. A cold, pale nun hurried by. A beautiful woman came
71along and dropped her bunch of violets, and a little boy ran after to hand
72them to her, and she took them and threw them away as if they’d been
73poisoned. Dear me! Miss Brill didn’t know whether to admire that or not!
74And now an ermine toque and a gentleman in grey met just in front of her.
75He was tall, stiff, dignified, and she was wearing the ermine toque she’d
76bought when her hair was yellow. Now everything, her hair, her face, even
77her eyes, was the same colour as the shabby ermine, and her hand, in its
78cleaned glove, lifted to dab her lips, was a tiny yellowish paw. Oh, she was
79so pleased to see him—delighted! She rather thought they were going to
80meet that afternoon. She described where she’d been—everywhere, here,
81there, along by the sea. The day was so charming—didn’t he agree? And
82wouldn’t he, perhaps? . . . But he shook his head, lighted a cigarette, slowly
83breathed a great deep puff into her face, and, even while she was still
84talking and laughing, flicked the match away and walked on. The ermine
85toque was alone; she smiled more brightly than ever. But even the band
86seemed to know what she was feeling and played more softly, played
87tenderly, and the drum beat, “The Brute! The Brute!” over and over. What
88would she do? What was going to happen now? But as Miss Brill wondered,
89the ermine toque turned, raised her hand as though she’d seen some one
90else, much nicer, just over there, and pattered away. And the band
91changed again and played more quickly, more gaily than ever, and the old
92couple on Miss Brill’s seat got up and marched away, and such a funny old
93man with long whiskers hobbled along in time to the music and was
94nearly knocked over by four girls walking abreast.
95Oh, how fascinating it was! How she enjoyed it! How she loved sitting
96here, watching it all! It was like a play. It was exactly like a play. Who could
97believe the sky at the back wasn’t painted? But it wasn’t till a little brown dog
98trotted on solemn and then slowly trotted off, like a little “theatre” dog, a little
99dog that had been drugged, that Miss Brill discovered what it was that made
100it so exciting. They were all on the stage. They weren’t only the audience,
101not only looking on; they were acting. Even she had a part and came every
102Sunday. No doubt somebody would have noticed if she hadn’t been there;
103she was part of the performance after all. How strange she’d never thought
104of it like that before! And yet it explained why she made such a point of
105starting from home at just the same time each week—so as not to be late for
106the performance—and it also explained why she had quite a queer, shy
107feeling at telling her English pupils how she spent her Sunday afternoons. No
108wonder! Miss Brill nearly laughed out loud. She was on the stage. She
109thought of the old invalid gentleman to whom she read the newspaper four
110afternoons a week while he slept in the garden. She had got quite used to the
111frail head on the cotton pillow, the hollowed eyes, the open mouth and the
112high pinched nose. If he’d been dead she mightn’t have noticed for weeks;
113she wouldn’t have minded. But suddenly he knew he was having the paper
114read to him by an actress! “An actress!” The old head lifted; two points of
115light quivered in the old eyes. “An actress—are ye?” And Miss Brill smoothed
116the newspaper as though it were the manuscript of her part and said gently:
117“Yes, I have been an actress for a long time.”
118The band had been having a rest. Now they started again. And what
119they played was warm, sunny, yet there was just a faint chill—a something,
120what was it?—not sadness—no, not sadness—a something that made you
121want to sing. The tune lifted, lifted, the light shone; and it seemed to Miss
122Brill that in another moment all of them, all the whole company, would
123begin singing. The young ones, the laughing ones who were moving
124together, they would begin, and the men’s voices, very resolute and brave,
125would join them. And then she too, she too, and the others on the
126benches—they would come in with a kind of accompaniment—something
127low, that scarcely rose or fell, something so beautiful—moving. . . . And
128Miss Brill’s eyes filled with tears and she looked smiling at all the other
129members of the company. Yes, we understand, we understand, she
130thought—though what they understood she didn’t know.
131Just at that moment a boy and girl came and sat down where the old
132couple had been. They were beautifully dressed; they were in love. The
133hero and heroine, of course, just arrived from his father’s yacht. And still
134soundlessly singing, still with that trembling smile, Miss Brill prepared to
135listen.
136“No, not now,” said the girl. “Not here, I can’t.”
137“But why? Because of that stupid old thing at the end there?” asked the
138boy. “Why does she come here at all—who wants her? Why doesn’t she
139keep her silly old mug at home?”
140“It’s her fu-fur which is so funny,” giggled the girl. “It’s exactly like a
141fried whiting.”
142“Ah, be off with you!” said the boy in an angry whisper. Then: “Tell me,
143ma petite chérie—”
144“No, not here,” said the girl. “Not yet.”
145On her way home she usually bought a slice of honey-cake at the
146baker’s. It was her Sunday treat. Sometimes there was an almond in her
147slice, sometimes not. It made a great difference. If there was an almond it
148was like carrying home a tiny present—a surprise—something that might
149very well not have been there. She hurried on the almond Sundays and
150struck the match for the kettle in quite a dashing way.
151But to-day she passed the baker’s by, climbed the stairs, went into the
152little dark room—her room like a cupboard—and sat down on the red
153eiderdown. She sat there for a long time. The box that the fur came out of
154was on the bed. She unclasped the necklet quickly; quickly, without
155looking, laid it inside. But when she put the lid on she thought she heard
156something crying.