Dark Novels are looking for authors willing to share a short story or two with our readers. Dark and up to 3,000 words. We love it if there’s a kick at the end.
‘Miss Brill’ by Katherine Mansfield
Although it was so brilliantly nuanced—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 firm. It must have had a knock, somehow. Never mind—a little dab of black sealing wax when the time came—when it was necessary. Little rogue. Yes, she felt like that about it. Little rogue biting its tail by her left ear. She could have taken it off, laid it on her lap, and stroked it. Instead, 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 several people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday. And the band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the season had begun. Although the band played all year round on Sundays, out of season, it was never the same. It was like someone 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. A little ‘flutey’ bit—beautiful—a little chain of bright drops came. 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 vast carved walking stick, and a big old woman sitting upright with a knitting roll on her embroidered apron. They did not speak. This wasn’t very reassuring, for Miss Brill always looked forward to the conversation. She had become quite an 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 around her.
She glanced sideways at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last Sunday, too, hadn’t been as enjoyable 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 that curved around your ears, little pads inside the bridge. But, no, nothing would please her. ‘They’ll always be sliding down my nose!’ Miss Brill had wanted to shake her.
The older people sat on the bench, still as statues. Never mind, there was always the crowd to watch. 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 rocking into the open from under the trees, stopped, stared, and 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 always the same, Sunday after Sunday, and—Miss Brill had often noticed—there was something funny about all of them. They were odd, silent, all old, and from how they stared, they looked as though they’d come from dark little rooms or cupboards!
Behind the rotunda were slender trees with yellow leaves drooping, and through them, a line of the 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, leading beautiful smoke-coloured donkeys. A cold, pale nun hurried past. 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 drunk poison. Dear me. Miss Brill didn’t know whether to admire that or not! And now an ermine toque and a gentleman in grey met in front of her. He was tall, stiff, and 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. She was so pleased to see him. She was—delighted! She instead thought they were going to meet that afternoon. She described where she’d been—everywhere, here, and along the sea. The day was so charming—didn’t he agree? And wouldn’t he? But he shook his head, lighted a cigarette, 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, 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 someone much nicer 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. Such a funny older man with long whiskers hobbled along in time to the music and wobbled, 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 solemnly 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 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 a faint chill—a something, what was it?—not sadness—no, not sadness— something that made you want to sing. The tune lifted, and the light shone; it seemed to Miss Brill that the whole company would begin singing in another moment. The young ones, the laughing ones who were moving together, would begin, and the men’s voices, very persistent and brave, would join them. And then 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.
At that moment, a boy and girl sat down where the old couple had been. They dressed beautifully; they were in love. The hero and heroine, of course, arrived from his father’s yacht. And still soundlessly singing, 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?’ 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 chérie—’
‘No, not here,’ said the girl. ‘Not yet.’
On her way home, she usually bought a slice of honeycake from the bakers. It was her Sunday treat. Sometimes there was an almond in her portion, sometimes not. It made a tremendous difference. If there was an almond, it was like carrying home a small present—a surprise—something that might not have been there. So she hurried on the almond Sundays and struck the match for the kettle in quite a dashing way.
But today, she passed the bakers 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, without looking, laid it inside. But she thought she heard something crying when she put the lid on.
Published 1920, © Public Domain
What did you think of that tale? Was she about to end it all? We’d love to hear your thoughts. – Ed.