Katherine Mansfield suggests several clues to Miss Brill’s mental status as well as her social portrait by applying different narrative styles to the short story, Miss Brill.  The narrator describes his/her surroundings and Miss Brill’s way of thinking also, so that the narrator can be identified with Miss Brill.  This identification vests readers with validity to reason that the changes in narrator’s tone, selective sensory perceptions, and other clues would play a crucial role to analyze Miss Brill’s psychology.  Here are some possible interpretations based upon textual evidences.

First, Miss Brill has a great ability to describe the objects she observes from her “special” seat(pp.231).  She seems to be proud of her voyeuristic observations in the sentence, “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.”(pp.231).  She regards her quality of ‘not being noticed’ is her specialty.  Overhearing other people’s conversation means not being actively involved in the events such as not getting out of one’s comfort zone.  The young couple’s conversation is based on their observation of ‘Miss Brill’.  Her unilateral voyeurism is disturbed by the young couple and therefore, loses her specialty of being unique “expert”(pp.231) in observing.  The whole process of Miss Brill’s peeping and her reaction to ‘being peeped’ implies that she is voyeuristic in some degree.

Second, Miss Brill’s dissatisfaction separates and isolates her from the outer space.  She does not have anyone to hear “ma petite cherie”(pp.233) from.  Her life is not intensely exciting that even “an almond [inside a slice of honeycake]”(pp.233) can be considered as “a tiny present”(pp.233).  There is nothing much to attract Miss Brill to her daily life.  This is why she sees other characters as substances with certain colours or animals as opposed to humans.  If she does not take others as humans, how could she understand them?  The narrator – or disguised Miss Brill – reveals the sense of distance as a result which she cannot make up:

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, she thought – though what they understand she didn’t know.

She cannot be one of “we”(pp.233).  The distance she keeps and the consequences of it make Miss Brill more difficult to settle in the society.  She puts herself into the “cupboard”(pp.233) just as she puts her fur into “the box”(pp.233).

Third, Miss Brill’s escapism to her “cupboard” induces her autistic behavior.  Her deliberate indifference originated from her unwillingness to accept the reality, stimulates her imagination.  Her imagination is almost the only thing she controls without risking anything.  She imagines herself as an actress in the following sentences: “It was like a play. … 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.””(pp.232)  This is not a positive either passionate way to solve her maladjustment problem.  It rather causes a doubt whether she should follow her mind or not because her decision is founded upon an actress’s acting which has no validity in reality.  She constantly tries to clarify her mental status or her own description by making a denial of the statement.  The statement of hers is similar to Mr. Stevens’ in Remains of the Day.  For example, she adds “no, not sad, exactly – something gentle seemed to move in her bosom”(pp.231) to her previous notion “something light and sad”(pp.231). 

Miss Brill’s pattern of self-disapproval can lead to autism if it is deepen.  There is no conversation between Miss Brill and other characters but only her monologue over the story.  The struggle between her multiple personalities are hidden beneath her pretence usually, but the reveal of oppression bursts when there is a stimulus strong enough to damage her deception.  The moment is described at the end of the story when Miss Brill has to face with reality: “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.”(pp.233)  The narrative style is noticeably different from the tone of the former part.  The tone used in the sentences “Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap at her again from the red eiderdown!”(pp.231) and “she lifted her head and smiled”(pp.231) seems to be another narrator’s voice.  The reason that she has “been an actress for a long time”(pp.232) brings her the manic-depressive behavior.

Works Cited 

Roberts, Edgar V.  Writing about Literature. Brief 11th edition.  Pearson Education.  New Jersey, 2005.


To read the full text of Miss Brill by Katherin Mansfield, click the link below.

Although it was so brilliantly fine — the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of light like wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques — Miss Brill was glad that she ha 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-was 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 cam 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 plying 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, to?  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, he thought, at listening as thought 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.  And 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 try 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 tiddle-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 paird 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 gaily 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 peformance — 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 know 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 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, she thought — though what they understood she didn’tknow.

Just at that moment a boy and girl came and sat down where the old couple had been.  They were beautifully dressed; there 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 sherie -“

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

On her way home she usually bought a slice of honeycake at the baker’s.  It was her Sunday treat.  Sometimes here 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.