Miss Brill

It was a brilliantly fine Sunday, blue sky powdered with gold, and the light fell like white wine over the public gardens. The air was cold — though it was so beautifully bright — and Miss Brill was glad that she had decided on her fur. 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. Dear little thing! It was nice to feel it again. 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, 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 chest.

There were a number of people out that afternoon, far more than the Sunday before. And the band sounded louder and gayer. The season had begun. Miss Brill took her usual seat — the same special seat — and prepared to listen, as she always did, to the conversations going on around her.

Two people shared her bench: a fine old man in a velvet coat 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 round at the crowd — the people strolling, the children, the women in their bright dresses, the old couples on the green benches. And then it suddenly came to her, the thing that made it all so exciting. They were all on a 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 had 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. It explained, too, why she had 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. 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. And it was as if the whole performance had been put on for her — even she had a part. She was an actress, reading the paper aloud as though it were a play.

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 — something, what was it? — not sadness, no, not sadness — something that made you want to sing. And it seemed to Miss Brill that in another moment all of them, all the whole company, would begin singing together. 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 a 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.

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. But today 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.