داستانهای کوتاه انگلیسی همراه با ترجمه فارسی

[Mohamad]

Miss Brill Summary دستان کوتاه ترجمه فارسی و بررسی و .. MISS BRILL

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 [Page 183] 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 ******er. 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. [Page 184]
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 curve 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 a 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, 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, [Page 185] 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 gray 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 [Page 186] 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 someone else, much nicer, just over there, and pattered away. And the band changed again and played more quickly, more ******ly 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 a************.
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 [Page 187] that made it so exciting. They were all on 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 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 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, [Page 188] 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?" [Page 189]
"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 chère–"
"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 there 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.

Miss Brill Summary | Detailed Summary

When Miss Brill sets out for her usual Sunday afternoon at the Jardins Publiques (Public Gardens), she notices a slight chill in the air. It is early fall, and she decides to bring out her favorite fur stole from its box. She shakes out the moth powder, combs out its fur, shines its unseeing eyes and contemplates gluing its nose firmly in place, as it appears to be loosening. Armed against the slight chill in the air with her "little rogue," as she calls it, she sets out. Her fur stole gives her great pleasure, and she almost wishes she could have "taken it off and laid it on her lap and stroked it." As she ponders her fur stole, she experiences a feeling that she will not allow herself to identify as sadness: "something gentle" in her bosom.
She reaches the Jardins Publiques, and settles herself in her "special" seat. She notes that there are many more people out than there were on the previous Sunday, and supposes that the "season" has officially begun. She also notices how the band plays so much better when there are more people around to listen to it, and how even the conductor of the band seems to be looking smarter than usual.
Miss Brill begins to take note of the people around her, as per her usual Sunday routine. There are only two other people sharing her "special" seat, a fine old man with a walking stick, and a large woman with knitting needles. She is disappointed that the two do not speak to each other, as she "had become really quite expert…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 recalls the couple that shared her seat the previous Sunday, how the woman had moaned incessantly to her husband about needing eyeglasses and how patient her husband had been in spite of her bad-tempered discourse.
She begins to look around her at the passers-by. She watches the poor man selling flowers, the young boys and girls playing together shyly, and the watchful mothers minding their children. Miss Brill notices then that the people sitting on the benches and chairs all had a similar quality: "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!"
She continues to watch the people as they pass by her. She sees two girls meet their lovers and continue on their way. She sees a small child run to rescue some flowers a beautiful lady has dropped, and then she sees the beautiful lady throw them away once again, in front of the disappointed child. She sees an elderly woman in an ermine toque brushed off by a distinguished man in a gray suit. She shares the woman's annoyance for a moment and imagines that the band plays more slowly in commiseration.
It occurs to Miss Brill as the old couple sitting next to her rise to leave that they are all like actors in a play, acting on a stage, each with his or her own part to play. She reasons that if everyone around her is an actor in the play, then she too must have a small role. She rejoices in the fact that, if she did not show up faithfully each Sunday, then people would notice her absence and the play would not be complete. She suddenly understands why she feels compelled to come to the Jardins Publiques at exactly the same time every Sunday, "so as not to be late for the performance." She thinks how differently people in her everyday life might treat her if they realized that she was an "actress." She once again feels something she refuses to identify as sadness, calling it instead a desire to sing. Her eyes fill with tears as she feels again that she is part of a larger cast of actors, and that a mutual understanding bonds them, although she is not sure what it is they all understand.
A boy and girl sit down where the old couple had sat previously. They are obviously in love, and Miss Brill imagines that they are the hero and heroine of the play. She begins to listen to their conversation, as she usually does with those who share her "special" seat, only to find that they are talking about her. The girl is refusing the boy's advances, telling him that she "can't." He responds angrily, "But why? Because of that stupid old thing at the end there? Why does she come here at all-who wants her? Why doesn't she keep her silly old mug at home? " The girl laughingly responds that it is her fur stole that she finds to be so amusing, and compares it to "fried whiting."
At the end of Miss Brill's Sunday excursions to the Jardins Publiques, she usually treats herself to a slice of honeycake at the bakery on her way home, which she especially enjoys if there is an almond in her slice. On this particular Sunday however, she goes straight home. Her room now seems like a cupboard to her, and she sits down on the red eiderdown. She sits quietly for a long while, and then she quickly unclasps her fur stole, and without even looking at it returns it to its box, from which she had so lovingly removed it just that morning. As she puts the lid on the box, she thinks that she can hear something crying from inside.


Themes
“Miss Brill” presents an afternoon in the life of a middle-aged spinster. On her usual Sunday visit to the park, she imagines the she and the people in the park are characters in a play. Contributing to her good mood is the fact that she is wearing her prized fur stole. Anticipating the conversation of two strangers who sit down next to her, Miss Brill’s vivacious mood is shattered by the couple’s ridicule for her and her fur. She returns to her tiny apartment and places the fur back in its box, imagining that she hears it crying.
Alienation and Loneliness
Though Miss Brill does not reveal it in her thoughts, her behavior indicates that she is a lonely woman. She thinks of no family members during her Sunday outing, instead focusing on her few students and the elderly man to whom she reads the newspaper several times a week. Even her name, Miss Brill, suggests an isolating formality; with the absence of a first name, the reader is never introduced to her on a personal level. Her fantasy, in which she imagines the people in the park as characters in a play connected in some psychological and physical way to one another, reveals her loneliness in a creative way. Yet, her manufactured sense of connection to these strangers is shattered when she is insulted by the young couple that sit next to her on the bench. When her fantasy of playacting is crushed by the conversation of the romantic couple, she is shown to be alienated from her environment — estranged and apart from the others in the park, to whom she only imagined a connection. Symbolically, this sense of alienation is heightened at the end of the story when Miss Brill returns her fur to its box quickly and without looking at it. This action is in stark contrast to her playful conversation with it earlier in the day, when she called it her “little rogue.” The final action of the story completes the characterization of Miss Brill as an alienated and lonely individual when she believes that she hears her beloved fur crying as she returns it to its box, just as she herself has returned to her “room like a cupboard.”
Appearances and Reality
Through the stream-of-consciousness narrative in “Miss Brill,” Mansfield creates a story in which the stark contrast between appearances and reality are manifest through the thoughts of the main character. At the beginning of the story, Miss Brill is perturbed by the old couple sitting on the bench near her. Their silence makes eavesdropping on their lives difficult. Yet, she does not realize that their behavior echoes her own silent existence. Similarly, Miss Brill notices that the other people sitting on chairs in the park are “odd, silent, nearly all old” and “looked as though they’d just come from dark little rooms or even — even cupboards!” The irony that she is one of these odd people who lives in a cupboard is not recognized. She also notices an old woman wearing a fur hat, which she calls a “shabby ermine,” bought when the woman’s hair was yellow. When the woman raises her hand to her lips, Miss Brill compares it to a “tiny yellowish paw.” While making fun of this woman in her own mind, the comparisons between the “ermine toque” and her own appearance go unnoticed. Later, when Miss Brill’s imagination concocts the metaphor of the park visitors as actors in a play, she thinks of them as connected to her in a harmonious way: “we understand, we understand, she thought.” Yet, the attractive couple whom she imagines to be the hero and heroine of the play are revealed through their conversation to not be part of this “appearance” of a stage play. In the reality of their cruel comments, they are not “members of the company” who “understand.” This strong illusion of playacting Miss Brill has envisioned has been dismantled through the harsh words of the boy and girl. In reality, they think of her not as a fellow actress, but as a “stupid old thing” whose fur resembles a “fried whiting.” The play — a metaphor which produced a moment of epiphany for Miss Brill — has taken place only in her mind. Thus, this contrast between appearance and reality in “Miss Brill” further illustrates the story’s theme of alienation — the idea that Miss Brill is separated and estranged from her environment.
Topics for Further Study
· Explain how the narration of the story can be both third-person and stream-of-conscious-ness. How would the story be different if it had been written in first person? Do you think it would have been as successful?
· If the story was written today, where might it take place and how might Miss Brill be dressed?
· Mansfield stated that “One writes (one reason why is) because one does care so passionately that one must show it — one must declare one’s love.” Miss Brill is a character who desperately seeks love, but is incapable of giving or receiving it. What events in the story illustrate this?

ترجمه کامل داستان

برگردان: ارژنگ درچه‌زاده

با اینکه هوا خیلی عالی بود - آسمان آبی با نقاط درشت نورانی و طلایی که مثل شراب سفید بر باغ ملی افشانده شده بودند- دوشیزه بریل خوشحال بود که توانسته بود تصمیمش را در مورد پوست خزش بگیرد. هوا ساکن بود، اما با دهان باز میشد خنکای ملایمی‌را حس کرد، مثل خنکای لیوان آب یخ قبل از اینکه جرعه ای از آن نوشیده شود، و گهگاهی برگی معلق در هوا می‌آمد، از یک جایی، از آسمان. دوشیزه بریل با دست خزش را لمس کرد. آخی! لمس دوباره آن خیلی لذت داشت. بعد از ظهر همان روز از جعبه درش آورده بود، گرد بید کش را از آن تکانده بود، ماهوت پاک کن بهش زده بود و دوباره به چشمان کوچک کم فروغ آن زندگی بخشیده بود. چشمان کوچک غمگین گفتند:"چه بر سر من آمده بود؟" اوه! چه شیرین بود که دوباره از بستر پرقوی قرمز او را دید می‌زدند. اما بینی اش، که از چیز سیاهی ساخته شده بود، اصلاً سر جایش سفت نبود. حتما یک طوری بهش ضربه خورده بود. عیبی ندارد! یک ذره موم آب بندی مشکی، موقعی که وقتش بشود، وقتی که خیلی لازم باشد.....شیطون کوچولو! آره، واقعا در موردش همین جور احساس می‌کرد. شیطون کوچولویی که دم خودش را درست در کنار گوش چپ او گاز میگرفت. خوب بود پیش تر هم آن را درآورده بود وروی دامنش نوازش کرده بود. در دست ها و بازویش احساس خارش کرد و با خود فکر کرد مال راه رفتن است. وقتی که نفس میکشید چیزی سبک و غمگین – نه! نه دقیقا غمگین!- به نظر می‌آمد که چیز لطیفی روی سینه اش حرکت میکند.

در آن بعد از ظهر جماعتی بیرون بودند، خیلی بیشتر از یکشنبه قبل. و گروه نوازندگان بشاش تر و بلند آواتر به نظر میرسید. دلیلش هم این بود که «فصل» آغاز شده بود. چون گروه نوازندگان در طول سال هر یکشنبه برنامه داشت، اما هیچ وقت خارج از فصل اینطور نبود. مثل کسی که تنها برای افراده خانواده اش می‌نوازد و اگر هیچ غریبه ای حاضر نباشد، اهمیتی ندارد که چطور بنوازد. کتی که رهبر ارکستر به تن داشت نو نبود؟ مطمئنا نو بود.او کف کفشش را به زمین کشید و مانند خروسی که بخواهد بخواند دست هایش را گشود، و نوازندگان که زیر کلاه فرنگی سبزرنگ نشسته بودند لپ های خود را باد کردند و به نت های موسیقی چشم دوختند. صدای فلوت مانندی بلند شد، خیلی زیبا! زنجیره کوچکی از قطعات شفاف. او مطمئن بود که که تکرار میشود. همین طور هم شد. سرش را بلند کرد و لبخند زد.

تنها دو نفر بر روی نیمکت «مخصوص»ش با او شریک شده بودند: پیر مرد ریزه ای با کت مخملی که دست هایش به دور عصای کنده کاری شده حلقه شده بود، و پیرزن چاقی که سیخ نشسته بود وحلقه بافتنی روی پیشبند گل دوزی شده اش قرار داشت. آن‌ها صحبت نمی‌کرند و این دوشیزه بریل را که همیشه مشتاق شنیدن گفتگو بود دلخور می‌کرد. با خود فکر کرد که چه مهارتی پیدا کرده در اینکه وانمود کند که گوش نمی‌کند و در ظرف یک دقیقه که مردم در کنارش صحبت می‌کنند در زندگی آن‌ها شریک شود.

از گوشه چشم نگاهی به زوج پیر انداخت. احتمالا به زودی از آنجا می‌رفتند. یکشنبه پیش هم به دلچسبی همیشه نبود. مردی انگلیسی که کلاه پانامای وحشتناکی به سر داشت و همسرش با چکمه دکمه دار. تمام مدت حرف خانم این بود که عینک لازم دارد، ولی هیچ عینکی را نمی‌پسندید. مطمئنا همه شان شکستنی بودند و هیچ یک درست سر جایش قرار نمی‌گرفت. و آقا خیلی صبر به خرج میداد. هر چیزی را که می‌توانست به خانم پیشنهاد کرد- قاب طلایی، مدلی که به دور گوش می‌پیچد، لایه نرمی‌که در پل عینک تعبیه شده یاشد. نه! هیچ چیز خانم را راضی نمیکرد. "عینک از روی دماغم می‌آید پایین!" دوشیزه بریل دیگر واقعا میخواست یک چیزی بهش بگوید.

زوج سالخورده روی نیمکت نشسته بودند و هنوزهم مثل مجسمه بودند. ولی عیبی نداشت، برای تماشا کردن همیشه جمعیتی وجود دارد. جلو باغچه گل کاری شده و گروه موسیقی، مردم زوج زوج و دسته دسته به این سو و آنسو جولان می‌دادند. می‌ایستادند که باهم حرف بزنند، سلام و احوال پرسی کنند یا از گدایی که سینی اش را به نرده ها نصب کرده بود دسته ای گل بخرند. در میان آن‌ها بچه های کوچک خندان می‌دویدند، پسر بچه ها با پاپیون های بزرگ سفید رنگ زیر چانه شان و دختر بچه ها، عروسک های کوچک فرانسوی، با لباس های توری و مخملی . و گاهی کوچولوی گیجی از زیر درختان به بیرون تلو تلو می‌خورد، می‌ایستاد، با تعجب نگاه می‌کرد تا درحالی که ناگهان" تلپی" زمین می‌خورد، مادر کوچک اندامش با گامهای بلند مثل مرغی جوان با اوقات تلخی وعجله به کمکش بیاید. بقیه مردم روی نیمکتها و صندلی های سبزرنگ نشسته بودند، اما همآن‌هایی بودند که تقریبا هر یکشنبه آنجا بودند. و دوشیزه بریل اغلب متوجه چیزهای جالبی در مورد تقریبا همه آن‌ها میشد. آن‌ها عجیب، ساکت و تقریبا همه پیر بودند و طوری نگاه میکردند که انگار تازه از اتاق های کوچک و تاریک یا حتی - حتی ازتوی گنجه ها- بیرون آمده اند.

پشت کلاه فرنگی، درخت های باریک با برگ های زردی که به پایین آویزان بودند و از میانشان خط دریا پیدا بود، و در فراسوی آن ها آسمان آبی و ابرهایی با رگه های طلایی.

گروه نوازندگان مینواخت: تام تام تام تادالام! تادالام! تام تیدی یام تام تا!

دو دختر جوان قرمزپوش از یک سو و دو سرباز جوان آبی پوش از سوی دیگر، به هم رسیدند. خنده کنان دست در دست هم انداختند و دور شدند.

دو زن روستایی با کلاههای حصیری بامزه، پیشاپیش الاغ های دودی رنگشان، با گام های سنگین رد شدند. راهبه رنگ پریده و نچسبی با عجله گذشت.

زن زیبایی رسید و دسته بنفشه هایش از دستش افتاد، پسر کوچکی دنبالش دوید تا بنفشه ها را به او بدهد، اما زن زیبا آن‌ها را گرفت و انگار که زهرآلود باشند، انداختشان دور. حیف! دوشیزه بریل نمیدانست که کار خوبی بود یا نه. و حالا زنی با کلاه بی لبه از خزقاقم و آقایی خاکستری پوش درست جلو او به هم رسیدند. مرد، بلند قد و جدی و باوقار بود و خانم کلاه بی لبه قاقم را زمانی خریده بود که موهایش بور بودند. حالا دیگر همه چیزش: کلاه، مو، چهره و حتی چشمانش به همان رنگ ژنده قاقمی‌بودند، و دستش را که با دستکش تمیزش بالا آورد و به لب مالید، پنجه ای حقیر و زرد گونه یود. و چقدر هم از دیدن مرد خوشحال و خرسند شد. از قبل به فکرش رسیده بود که در آن بعد از ظهر به ملاقات یکدیگر نائل می‌شوند. از جاهایی که رفته بود تعریف کرد – اینجا، آنجا، تا کنار دریا، همه جا. آیا مرد هم موافق بود که روز دلپذیری است یا نه؟ و آیا مایل بود که....؟ اما مرد سرش را تکان داد، سیگاری روشن کرد و بازدم عمیقی از دود آن را به صورت خانم فوت کرد وحتی با این که زن هنوز داشت صحبت میکرد و میخندید، کبریت را دور انداخت و به راه خود ادامه داد. حالا کلاه قاقمی‌تنها بود؛ لبخندی زد دلپذیر ترازهمیشه. اما به نظر می‌رسید که حتی گروه نوازندگان هم احساس او را درک می‌کرد و ملایم تر و مهربانانه مینواخت. طبل داشت پشت سر هم این طور میزد: " سنگ دل! سنگ دل!". حالا زن چه کارمیکرد؟ بعد ازآن چه می‌شد؟ دوشیزه بریل دراین فکرها بود، که کلاه قاقمی‌برگشت و دستش را بالا آورد و انگار که درست در آن طرف کس خیلی خوب تر دیگری را دیده باشد ، به سرعت دور شد. گروه نوازندگان دوباره آهنگ را تغیییر داد و تندتر و شادتر از همیشه نواخت. زوج سالخورده از نیمکت دوشیزه بریل بلند شدند و قدم زنان رفتند. پیرمرد مضحکی با ریش تنک و بلند چنان هماهنگ با موسیقی می‌لنگید و می‌رفت که نزدیک بود با چهار دختری که شانه به شانه هم حرکت میکردند برخورد کند.

اوه، چه جذاب بود! چقدر برایش لذت بخش بود! چقدر دوست داشت که اینجا بنشیند و همه چیز را تماشا کند! مثل نمایش بود. دقیقا مثل نمایش بود. چه کسی میتوانست باور کند که در پشت صحنه آسمان نقاشی نشده باشد؟ یک سگ کوچک قهوه ای، مثل سگهای کوچک تئاتری که تخدیر شده باشند، داشت موقرانه یورتمه میرفت. و دوشیزه بریل این را که دید تازه فهمید که همین بود که همه چیز را اینطور شگفت انگیز کرده بود. همه اینها بر روی صحنه نمایش بودند. آن‌ها تنها تماشاگر و ناظر نبودند، آن‌ها خودشان بازیگر بودند. حتی خود دوشیزه بریل هم هر یکشنبه نقشی را بر عهده داشت. بی شک اگر یک روز نمی‌آمد کسی متوجه غیبتش میشد.

هر چه باشد، او هم بخشی از نمایش بود. چقدرعجیب که تا حالا این طوری فکر نکرده بود! در واقع به همین دلیل بود که هر هفته در همین ساعت از خانه به راه می‌افتاد تا با تاخیر در صحنه نمایش حاضر نشود و برای همین بود که هر هفته با احساس شرم و ناراحتی برای شاگردان انگلیسی اس تعریف می‌کرد که بعد از ظهر یکشنبه گذشته را چطور گذرانده است. پس اینطور! دوشیزه بریل با صدای تقریبا بلند خندید. او روی صحنه نمایش بود. یاد پیرمرد علیلی افتاد که چهار بعد از ظهر در هفته برایش - در حالی که در باغ خواب بود - روزنامه میخواند. او به سر نحیفش روی بالش پنبه ای، چشمان گود افتاده اش، دهان باز و دماغ بلند و باریکش کاملا عادت کرده بود. اگر پیرمرد می‌مرد او تا چند هفته نمی‌فهمید و توجهش جلب نمی‌شد! ولی پیرمرد ناگهان متوجه شد که کسی که برایش روزنامه میخواند یک بازیگر است. "بازیگر!" کله پیر از روی بالش بلند شد، دو نقطه نور در چشمان پیرش لرزیدند. " تو بازیگر هستی؟" و دوشیزه بریل روزنامه را صاف کرد انگار که متن نمایش اوست و به نرمی‌گفت: "بله، من خیلی وقته که بازیگر هستم."

گروه نوازندگان در حال استراحت بود. حالا دوباره مشغول شدند. چیزی که مینواختند گرم و آفتابی بود، اما یک جور سردی ملایمی‌هم در آن بود. این چه میتوانست باشد؟ اندوه نبود – نه اندوه نبود – چیزی بود که باعث می‌شد احساس کنی می‌خواهی آواز بخوانی. طنین بالاتر و بالاتر می‌رفت، نور می‌تابید و دوشیزه بریل حس کرد که الان یکدفعه تمام آن ها، همه بازیگران، مشغول خواندن خواهند شد. اول جوان ها، آن هایی که با هم راه می‌رفتند و می‌خندیدند، شروع خواهند کرد و بعد صدای دلیرانه و مصمم مردان هم به آنان خواهد پیوست. و بعد خود دوشیزه بریل هم ، خود او هم، و بقیه که روی نیمکت ها نشسته بودند هم با آن‌ها همراه خواهند شد. تم ضعیفی که خیلی کم بالا و پایین می‌شد، چیزی بسیار زیبا – هیجان آور....چشمان دوشیزه بریل پر از اشک شد و با لبخند به دیگر هم آوازان نگاه کرد. با خود فکر کرد: ما درک می‌کنیم، ما درک می‌کنیم – در حالی که نمی‌دانست بقیه چه چیزی درک می‌کنند.

در همین لحظه دختر و پسری رسیدند و در جایی نشستند که پیشتر زوج پیر نشسته بودند. آن‌ها لباس های زیبایی به تن داشتند و عاشق هم بودند. این قهرمان و شیردختر، حتما تازه از قایق پدر پسر پیاده شده بودند. و دوشیزه بریل، همچنان که بی صدا آواز می‌خواند، با همان تبسم لرزان آماده گوش دادن شد.

دختر گفت:"نه، الان نه ... اینجا نه، نمی‌تونم."

پسر پرسید: "آخه چرا؟ به خاطر اون پیر احمق که اون ته نشسته؟ ... اصلاً برا چی میاد اینجا؟ کی اونو اینجا می‌خواد؟ چرا اون قیافه پیر احمقانه شو تو خونه نگه نمی‌داره؟"

دختر با خنده گفت:" خزززززش چقدر خنده داره! درست مثل ماهی سرخ شده می‌مونه."

پسر با پچ پچ غضب آلودی گفت: "اه! برو پی کارت" بعد گفت" ma petite chère(کوچولوی عزیزمن)، بگو که ..."

دختر گفت:" نه، اینجا نه، هنوز نه."

دوشیزه بریل همیشه سر راهش به خانه یک قطعه کیک عسلی از نانوایی می‌خرید. این سور چرانی یکشنبه هایش بود. گاهی در کیکش بادام هم بود، گاهی هم نبود. و این برایش خیلی فرق می‌کرد. بادام اگر بود برایش مثل این بود که دارد بک جور هدیه کوچک، یک مژدگانی به خانه می‌برد، چیزی که خوب ممکن بود در خانه نباشد. در یکشنبه های بادام دار به شتاب و با زنده دلی، کبریتی زیر کتری روشن میکرد.
اما امروز از نانوایی گذشت، از پله ها بالا رفت و داخل اتاق کوچک تاریک شد- اتاقش که مثل گنجه بود – و روی بستر پرقوی قرمز نشست. مدت زیادی همان جا نشست. جعبه ای که پوست خز از آن درآمده بود روی تخت بود. تند و تند گره ی بند آن را از گردن باز کرد و به سرعت، بدون آن که نگاهش کند، آن را توی جعبه گذاشت. ولی وقتی که چفت جعبه را بست احساس کرد صدای گریه چیزی را می‌شنود.