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 bosom.
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 queer, 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.
- by Katherine Mansfield, 1922, from The Garden Party.