Story World: Miss Brill.

- The splendor of the story of the world's best creators ...

- Original Creator - Kathleen Mansfield Introduction-Paresh Vyas

- 'All the things in life that we really accept need to change.' - Kathleen Mansfield

- The box from which the fur coat was taken fell on the bed. He quickly removed the furcoat from his throat, quickly, and arranged it in a box without seeing it.

'Varta' was created for the first time in Gujarati language. It was 100 years old last year. On this occasion, a unique celebration was held by publishing classic stories of famous creators of Gujarat in 'Gujarat Samachar'. A treasure trove of Gujarati stories received a warm response from readers. After that, it is now presented to the readers of 'Gujarat Samachar' - the splendor of the works of the world's foremost storytellers ...

Part 2 and final

(Flowing story: old age and loneliness and its description in this story. Nothing happens in speed. It doesn't seem to be a story but an observation of a scene. But when it comes to old age, it is dullness. Miss Brill lives in a town in France.) She is an English teacher. She lives alone in her small room. As I said before, this is a modernist story writing, so not everything is told directly. The story is told by an unfamiliar spokesperson who may even know Miss Brill's thoughts.

It's Sunday afternoon and Miss Brill's going to the public garden, listening to the band's chords, observing people, talking if possible, telling her own story in conversation, etc. has become a ritual. Spring is coming after the harsh winter but there is a glimmer of cold. It is said that a fur coat or a fur dupatta wrapped around the neck is a living thing. It stays in the Y box. Miss Brill lives in a small room. But the public garden here is huge and there are a lot of people in it and .. now on)

Oh, what a mesmerizing thing that was! And what fun she was having! How he loved to sit there and watch everything! As if this was a play that was being played. Everything was just like drama. Who would have thought that the sky behind is not a painted canopy? This was not the case, however, until a small brown dog ran seriously and then slowly moved on, as if a small play dog ​​that had been intoxicated so as not to disturb the play. . This was a new discovery for Miss Brill. A different understanding of visual viewing. And so it was all very exciting for her. They were all on the same stage right now. Not all the spectators who were here were just watching the play. He himself was also acting in it. After all, Miss Brill herself was a part of the play and came here every Sunday. There was no doubt that someone's attention was definitely on him, if he were not here because he was, after all, a character in the play being played now. How strange it was that he had never thought of this before! And yet now it was clear why she had to leave her home at a certain time every week because she had to take part in the play when it was played, she had to arrive on time, not be late.

And now she was getting a clue as to why she felt a little strange, a little embarrassed when she told her English students how she was spending her Sunday afternoons. No wonder! This is drama. Miss Brill almost laughed out loud. It is on the stage. She thought of the old, weak gentleman she read to the newspaper four times a week. He was sleeping in the garden of his house. He was accustomed to his lean head lying on a pillow full of rupees, his eyes drooping, his mouth open, and his nose constricted by a cold. If he had died, he would not have known for weeks, although he did not mind. But all of a sudden, the old man realizes that she is an actress who reads the newspaper! 'An Actress!' So what So his old face gets a little taller, shivering and his old eyes sparkle. 'An actress-are you?' And Miss Brill wrapped up the pages of the newspaper as if it were a script for a play, and then lightly replied, "Yes, I've been an actress for a long time."

The band was eating porridge. But now he is playing music again. And the tune they played was warm, like sunshine, and yet there was a slight chill in it - something like that - what was that? Not sad ના no, not sad પણ but something that tells you to come and sing.

The speed and volume of the tune increased, the intensity increased, the excitement also increased and Miss Brill felt that at a later time all these people gathered here would start singing in a group. The little ones who had been laughing so far, making fun of the storm, would start singing first, then the men, joining in the singing in their strong and courageous voices. And then he himself, and the others sitting on the bench, will join in some way, in a low voice, one that rarely goes high or low, and never comes down so low, and thus something very beautiful-heartbreaking. Her eyes filled with tears and she looked at the other members of the group with a smile. Yes, we also understood, understood your feelings, but Miss Brill did not know what they understood.

Just then, a boy and a girl came and sat in the same place where the old couple was sitting. They wore very beautiful clothes. Apparently they were in love. The hero and heroine, of course, may have just arrived from his father's privately owned boat. And now, there was Miss Brill, still singing without a sound, in her mind, still with the same trembling smile. Miss Brill listened intently to the young couple who had just arrived.

'No, not now,' said the girl. 'Not here, I can't.'

'But why not? Because that stupid old doshi is sitting at the other end? ' The boy asked. 'What is this Doshi doing here? What was left without coming here. Who needs it? Why don't you just keep the old one at home and stay there? '

'It's a fur coat, it's so funny,' the girl giggled. 'It's as white as lime powder.'

'Ah, let's go.' The boy said angrily. Then: 'Now tell me my dear girl ..'

'No, no! Not here, 'said the girl. 'Not now.'

When she returned home, she usually bought honey-cakes from bakeries along the way. For that, the cake was her Sunday party. Sometimes the nuts come out in a slice of cake, sometimes not. Even a small thing would make a big difference. If the nuts came out, it was as if she was taking home a small gift - a surprise - something that had never happened before. And on a Sunday when she would find the nuts hidden in the cake slices, she would go home with great vigor and put the kettle on the stove to make tea. But today the bus just passed by the bakers' shop. She climbed the stairs of her house and went to her small dark room - her room was like a closet - and then she sat on her red rugs.

She sat there for a long time. The box from which the furcoat was taken fell on the bed. He quickly removed the furcoat from his throat, quickly, and arranged it in a box without seeing it. But when he put the cover on her, she felt as if she could hear someone crying.

(Finished)

Introduction to the Creator

Kathleen Mansfield

Born: 19 October 19

Death: January 6, 19 New Zealand-born and raised Kathleen Mansfield Murray was a renowned 'Modernist' writer. Modernist in literature means a radical change in prose (and verse) literature, abandoning the old methods of storytelling in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. According to the motto of the American poet Ezra Pound, 'Make it new'. Kathleen left New Zealand under British rule when she was 18 and settled in England. Here he met the well-known literary creators d. H. Came in contact with Lawrence, Virginia Woolf, etc. They created an abundance of short stories and poems. Among his well-known stories are 'A Deal Pickle', 'Mr. And Mrs. Dove ',' The Fly 'and' The Garden Party 'are the main ones. He was diagnosed with TB when he was just 3 years old and died at the age of 7.