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“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

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

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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

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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.”

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“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-fur 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 chère—”

“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.

Mansfield, Katherine. “Miss Brill.” The Garden Party and Other Stories, 1922. Project

Gutenberg, https://www.gutenberg.org/files/1429/1429-h/1429-h.htm#chap09.