Life Lines

A Shared Reading activity pack

to read wherever you are
Issue 48

For more Shared Reading, poems and texts,

email us at: coronavirus@thereader.org.uk
.
 “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.”

Miss Brill, Katherine Mansfield

The Reader is a charity which usually brings people together to listen

to stories, extracts and poems in free, weekly Shared Reading
groups. In these Life Lines activity packs we hope to offer everyone
the same comfort, meaning and connection through great literature
that our reading groups provide – wherever it finds you.
Each Life Lines pack will bring you some of a story and a poem,
which you can read in your own time. Along with the reading, you’ll
find a selection of thoughts and feelings shared by other fellow
readers about the chosen pieces. We suggest that reading the poem
or the story out loud is a great way to fully immerse yourself in the
reading experience and discover your own personal connections with
the material. It may feel strange but it does make a difference, so do
please give it a try!

This week’s story is ‘Miss Brill’ by Katherine Mansfield. Miss Brill

enjoys her weekly trips to the Jardins Publiques, a place where she
listens to a band playing, enjoys a spot of people watching and is
content to be among life as it happens around her. On this particular
visit, she comes to a realisation of exactly why she might like her
routine so much. But then a small moment causes her to reconsider...

Feel free to make notes on your own thoughts and feelings as you go,
perhaps marking words or sentences that particularly stand out to
you…

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‘Miss Brill’ by Katherine Mansfield

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.

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A Pause for Thought…

Well, what do we make of Miss Brill so far from these first impressions? We
see that she is taking some time in getting herself ready, and pays particular
attention to the fur she is wearing. Indeed, she almost seems to treat it like a
living thing, calling it ‘Dear little thing!’ and ‘little rogue’, and she makes a point
of rubbing ‘the life back into the dim little eyes’ as she takes it out once more.
Does this say something about her and what kind of person she might be?

It appears that she has been going to this place for some time, long enough to
be aware of ‘the Season’ coming and going. There’s something comforting in
habits and routines; might this be the case for Miss Brill? Can we identify with
that ourselves? That she has a ‘special’ seat that is only shared with two
other people seems to make this particular place somewhere of great
significance for Miss Brill.

That last line is quite intriguing: ‘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.’ What do we make of that?
Is there something special in this quality of listening and ‘sitting in other
people’s lives’, do we think? If she has been going to this place and seeing
the same people for quite a time, why might she just listen and not start a
conversation with anyone?

Let’s read on, and find out a little more about Miss Brill.

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,
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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.
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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."

A Pause for Thought…

Can we recognise the act of crowd-watching, like Miss Brill does? What
might this do for her, do we think? She seems to take in a lot of detail about
the people she watches, noting ‘there was something funny about nearly all
of them’. What might this be, and why should Miss Brill notice those things
in particular, or even find them ‘funny’?
Though she is generally quite attentive, Miss Brill’s focus sharpens when
observing certain people, the encounter between the ‘ermine toque’ and
‘gentleman in grey’ seeming to be one which holds her attention in
particular. Why might that be? Perhaps there is something in their
encounter, or a connection she recognises between herself and the lady
wearing the ermine toque?

Then there is Miss Brill’s revelation: ‘They were all on the stage. They

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weren’t only the audience, not only looking on; they were acting.’ What do we
make of this? Have we ever felt like that ourselves, as though we were
playing a part in a scene? It might be an exciting thought, perhaps. It seems
to have a special significance for Miss Brill; we see how she imagines
relaying it to the old man she reads to throughout the week. What do we
make of that fact; does it tell us anything more about Miss Brill as a person?
Let’s get back to Miss Brill, and her story.

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
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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.

A Final Pause for Thought…

Miss Brill seems to be quite swept up in her daydream, and indeed it has a
strong impact on her: her ‘eyes filled with tears and she looked smiling at all
the other members of the company.’ Can we empathise with that feeling?
Perhaps something we have encountered in our own lives has made us feel
similar.
The idea of understanding is quite striking here: ‘Yes, we understand, we
understand, she thought – though what they understood she didn’t know.’
Have we ever had that kind of feeling ourselves, almost like an instinct or
realisation that couldn’t be put into words? Could we take a guess at what it
might be that Miss Brill has come to understand?
After being on such a high, Miss Brill is brought back down to earth quite
harshly by the unkind remarks of the young couple. What do we make of
what they say, and the effect that it has on Miss Brill? It can only take
something small – a few words, or even a look or a silence - to change our
mood.
It does feel like something has changed as we end the story, when Miss Brill
returns home and sits for a long time. How do we feel about Miss Brill now?
What about that last line: ‘But when she put the lid on she thought she heard
something crying.’ What might that be, do we think?
The story of Miss Brill might stay with us for a little while!

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Time for a poem …

We’ll pick up with another story again in our next issue, but now a pause
for some poetry. Poetry isn’t always easy for everyone to get going with.
In our Shared Reading groups we read a poem out loud a few times, to
give ourselves a bit of time to hear it aloud. Give this a go yourself and
see if it helps you to feel comfortable with the words, even if you’re still
not sure what it’s all about!

We aren’t looking to find an answer here, or what the person writing it

might have meant when they wrote it. We’re just looking to see if any
feelings or ideas come up when we read it – and often we find that the
more time you allow yourself to simply be with the poem, the more
thoughts and feelings will come through.

One of the keys is to enjoy yourself: take your time, read it out loud, have
a think about any bits you like, or that puzzle you, then… have another
read!

This week's Featured Poem is ‘Moments of Vision’ by Thomas Hardy.

Throughout our lives we can experience revelations, at times when we
might not be expecting them or perhaps when being confronted with
them leads to us feeling difficult emotions. How might we deal with these
instances, and what consequences might they have for us? Let’s take a
read of this poem and see what we can get out of it.

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Moments of Vision by Thomas Hardy
That mirror
Which makes of men a transparency,
Who holds that mirror
And bids us such a breast-bare spectacle see
Of you and me?

That mirror
Whose magic penetrates like a dart,
Who lifts that mirror
And throws our mind back on us, and our heart,
until we start?

That mirror
Works well in these night hours of ache;
Why in that mirror
Are tincts we never see ourselves once take
When the world is awake?

That mirror
Can test each mortal when unaware;
Yea, that strange mirror
May catch his last thoughts, whole life foul or fair,
Glassing it — where?

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Do we get any first impressions from this poem? Any words or lines that
stand out straight away, perhaps? If not, then that’s okay – it’s always worth
reading through again, a second or third time. You could even circle a word
or line and then come back to it if you’re not quite sure.

The ‘mirror’ seems to be quite important here. What comes to mind when
we think about mirrors? Reflection, seeing yourself, perhaps noticing things
that you hadn’t before…

These lines are quite intriguing: ‘Who holds that mirror / And bids us such a
breast-bare spectacle see / Of you and me?’ What could a ‘breast-bare
spectacle’ be, I wonder? It’s also interesting that the mirror isn’t just
reflecting one person.

What about the mirror having ‘magic’? That’s not something I’ve ever
considered before. The idea of it not only showing us our physical reflection,
but also ‘our mind’ and ‘our heart’ is a puzzling one to think about too.
Perhaps we see more than we really expect to when we look in the mirror?
Or it could just depend on the day and the time.

I’m really interested in the idea of things looking or feeling different in the
night than they are in the day. ‘Why in that mirror / Are tincts we never see
ourselves once take / When the world is awake?’ Why might we do things
or think about things differently during the night than in the day? It’s almost
like we might have a completely different outlook.

The idea of the mirror testing us is a strange one too, on the surface, and
those last few lines are puzzling. I think I need to read that last bit a few
times to try and unpick it. I’m not sure that I’ll ever think of a mirror in the
same way again!

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We’ve left this page blank for you to make notes, draw a picture, have a
go at writing yourself or jot down something you’d like to tell us…

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As well as reading materials, we’ve also included a puzzle for you to
have a go at while you’re having a cuppa. In the story, Miss Brill listens
to a band playing every week. Below are ten musical instruments which
have been jumbled up. See if you can put them the right way round.

1. IGTURA

2. NAIPO

3. EMUTTPR

4. OIVINL

5. APOSHONEX

6. INLAETCR

7. TINMOBURAE

8. EULFT

9. SLYBACM

10. JBNAO

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