[adapted]

by
Katherine Mansfield

Even though the weather was beautiful—the blue sky covered with golden light, and big spots of sunshine shining like splashes of white wine over the Jardins Publiques—Miss Brill was glad she had decided to wear her fur. The air was still, but when she opened her mouth, she could feel a slight chill, like the coolness of an iced drink before taking a sip. Now and then, a single leaf floated down from the sky, as if from nowhere.

Miss Brill touched her fur with her hand. Dear little thing! It felt so nice to have it again. That afternoon, she had taken it out of its box, shaken off the moth powder, given it a good brush, and brought life back into its small, faded eyes. “What has been happening to me?” the sad little eyes seemed to ask. Oh, how lovely it was to see them sparkle at her again from the red eiderdown! But the nose, made of some black material, was not very firm. It must have been bumped or damaged somehow. Never mind—a little touch of black sealing wax would fix it when it was really needed. Little rascal! Yes, that was how she felt about it—her little rascal, biting its own 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 she supposed that was just from walking. And when she breathed in, something light and soft—no, not exactly sad—but something gentle moved inside her chest.

There were so many people out this afternoon—far more than last Sunday. And the band sounded louder and happier. That was because the Season had begun. The band played every Sunday, all year long, but during the off-season, it was never the same. It was like someone playing only for their family—they didn’t try as hard if there weren’t any strangers listening.

Wasn’t the conductor wearing a new coat? She was sure it was new. He scraped his foot on the ground and waved his arms like a rooster about to crow, while the musicians sitting in the green bandstand puffed out their cheeks and stared at the sheet music.

Now there came a soft, flute-like tune—very pretty! A little chain of bright, delicate notes. She was sure it would be played again. And it was. She lifted her head and smiled.

Only two people shared Miss Brill’s “special” seat: a distinguished old man in a velvet coat, his hands resting on a large, 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, because Miss Brill always looked forward to hearing conversations. She had become quite skilled, she thought, at listening without looking like she was listening, at quietly stepping into other people’s lives for just a moment while they talked around her.

She glanced sideways at the old couple. Maybe they would leave soon. Last Sunday had also not been as interesting as usual. That time, an Englishman and his wife had sat there. He had worn a terrible-looking Panama hat, and she had worn buttoned boots. She had talked nonstop about how she should wear glasses, how she knew she needed them, but how there was no point in buying any because they would surely break and never stay in place. The husband had been so patient. He had suggested everything—gold-rimmed glasses, the kind that hooked around the ears, or ones with little pads inside the bridge. But nothing pleased her. “They’ll always slide down my nose!” she had complained. Miss Brill had wanted to shake her.

The old couple on the bench remained completely still, like statues. Oh well, at least there was still the crowd to watch.

People walked back and forth in front of the flower beds and the bandstand, stopping to chat, to greet each other, or to buy flowers from an old beggar who had his tray attached to the railings. Small children ran among them, laughing and playing. Little boys wore big white silk bows under their chins, and little girls looked like French dolls, dressed in velvet and lace.

Now and then, a tiny toddler would wobble out from under the trees, suddenly stop, stare around, and then plop down on the ground—until its quick-moving mother, like a young hen, came rushing over to scold and pick it up.

Other people sat on the benches and green chairs, but they were almost always the same people, Sunday after Sunday. And Miss Brill had noticed something odd about most of them. They were silent, almost all old, and the way they stared made them look as if they had just come out of dark little rooms—or even worse, cupboards!

Behind the bandstand, the thin trees with drooping yellow leaves swayed gently. Through them, Miss Brill could see a thin line of the sea, and beyond that, the blue sky, streaked with golden clouds.

Tum-tum-tum tiddle-um! tiddle-um! tum tiddley-um tum ta! played the band.

Two young girls in red walked by, and two young soldiers in blue met them. They laughed, paired up, and walked away arm in arm. Two peasant women in funny straw hats passed by, leading beautiful grey donkeys. A pale, serious-looking nun hurried past. Then, a beautiful woman walked by and dropped a bunch of violets. A little boy ran after her to return them, but she took the flowers and threw them away as if they were poisoned. Dear me! Miss Brill wasn’t sure if she should admire that or disapprove!

Just then, a woman in an ermine hat and a gentleman in grey met right in front of Miss Brill. He was tall, stiff, and serious, while she wore the same ermine hat she had bought long ago when her hair was still yellow. But now, everything about her—her hair, face, and even her eyes—was the same faded color as the worn-out ermine hat. Her gloved hand, as she dabbed her lips, looked like a tiny yellowish paw.

She was so happy to see him—excited! She even thought they had planned to meet that afternoon. She chattered cheerfully about all the places she had been—here, there, along by the sea. The day was so lovely—didn’t he think so too? And wouldn’t he, perhaps…?

But he shook his head, lit a cigarette, and blew a long puff of smoke into her face. Even while she was still talking and smiling, he flicked the match away and walked off.

The woman in the ermine hat stood there alone. She kept smiling, even brighter than before, but Miss Brill could see through it. It was as if even the band understood what had happened, because they started playing more softly, almost sadly, while the drumbeat seemed to whisper over and over, “The Brute! The Brute!”

What would she do now? What was going to happen? But before Miss Brill could wonder too much, the ermine-hat woman suddenly turned, raised her hand, as if she had just spotted someone else—someone much nicer—and hurried away.

The band changed the tune and played faster, livelier than ever. The old couple sitting on Miss Brill’s bench stood up and left, and just then, a funny old man with long whiskers hobbled along, trying to walk in time to the music, but he was almost knocked over by four young girls walking side by side.

Oh, how fascinating it all was! How much she enjoyed it! How she loved sitting there, watching everything! It was like a play. It was exactly like a play. Who could believe that the sky in the background wasn’t painted scenery?

But it wasn’t until a small brown dog trotted on, looking serious, then slowly trotted off again, like a theater dog—a little dog that had been trained or given something to make it sleepy—that Miss Brill suddenly realized what made everything so exciting.

They were all on stage! They weren’t just the audience, sitting and watching—they were acting. Even she had a part! She came every Sunday, just like the others. And surely, if she didn’t show up one day, someone would notice—because she was part of the performance too!

How strange that she had never thought of it this way before! And yet, this explained everything—why she always left home at the same time every week, so she wouldn’t be late for the performance. It also explained why she felt a little shy when talking to her English students about how she spent her Sunday afternoons.

No wonder! Miss Brill almost laughed out loud.

She was an actress!

She thought of the old sick man she read the newspaper to four afternoons a week, while he lay half-asleep in the garden. She had gotten so used to him—his thin head resting on the pillow, his hollow eyes, his open mouth, and his sharp, bony nose.

If he had died, she might not have noticed for weeks. And honestly, she wouldn’t have cared.

But suddenly, she imagined him realizing that he was being read to by an actress!

“An actress!” The old man’s head lifted; his dim eyes lit up, and a tiny spark of life appeared in them.

“An actress, are you?”

And Miss Brill, as if holding a script in her hands, smoothed out the newspaper as if it were the lines of a play, and gently replied:

“Yes, I have been an actress for a long time.”

The band had been resting, but now they started playing again. The music was warm and bright, like sunlight, but there was also a faint chill—something, but what was it? It wasn’t sadness, no, not sadness—it was something that made you want to sing. The tune rose higher and higher, the light shone, and Miss Brill felt that in just another moment, everyone—the whole crowd—would start singing together.

The young people, the laughing couples, moving so happily, they would begin the song. Then the men’s voices, strong and brave, would join in. And then she, too—she and the others sitting on the benches—they would all sing along, like a soft harmony, something gentle and beautiful, something that moved the soul…

Miss Brill’s eyes filled with tears, but she was smiling as she looked at all the others around her.

Yes, we understand, we understand, she thought—though she didn’t really know what it was they all understood.

Just at that moment, a young boy and girl came and sat down where the old couple had been sitting. They were beautifully dressed, and they were clearly in love. The hero and heroine of the story, of course—just arrived from his father’s yacht. Still silently singing to herself, still with that gentle, trembling smile, Miss Brill prepared to listen to them.

“No, not now,” said the girl. “Not here, I can’t.”

“But why? Because of that stupid old thing sitting at the end?” asked the boy. “Why does she even come here? Who wants her? Why doesn’t she just stay at home and keep her silly old face out of sight?”

“It’s her f-fur that’s so funny,” giggled the girl. “It looks exactly like a fried fish!”

“Ah, stop it!” the boy whispered, annoyed. Then, turning back to her, he said, “Tell me, my little darling—”

“No, not here,” the girl repeated. “Not yet.”

On her way home, Miss Brill usually bought a slice of honey cake from the bakery. It was her Sunday treat. Sometimes, there was an almond inside her slice, and sometimes there wasn’t. It made a big difference. If she found an almond, it felt like a little gift—a surprise, something special that might not have been there at all. On those days, she walked faster, excited to get home, and when she lit the kettle, she struck the match with extra energy.

But today, she walked past the bakery without stopping. She climbed the stairs, entered her small, dark room—a room that felt as small as a cupboard—and sat down on the red eiderdown. She sat there for a long time.

The box that held her fur necklet was on the bed. She unclasped the fur quickly and, without looking, placed it inside the box. But when she put the lid on, she thought she heard something crying.