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MISS BRILL.
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. |
