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.
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