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-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.
