Read Online The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark - Free Book Online
Authors: Muriel Spark
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and with them a glowing amber necklace which was of such real amber that, as she once showed them, it had magnetic properties when rubbed and then applied to a piece of paper.
The change in Miss Brodie was best discerned by comparison with the other teachers in the Junior school. If you looked at them and then looked at Miss Brodie it was more possible to imagine her giving herself up to kissing.
Jenny and Sandy wondered if Mr. Lloyd and Miss Brodie had gone further that day in the art room, and had been swept away by passion. They kept an eye on Miss Brodie’s stomach to see if it showed signs of swelling. Some days, if they were bored, they decided it had begun to swell. But on Miss Brodie’s entertaining days they found her stomach as flat as ever and at these times even agreed together that Monica Douglas had been telling a lie.
The other Junior school teachers said good morning to Miss Brodie, these days, in a more than Edinburgh manner, that is to say it was gracious enough, and not one of them omitted to say good morning at all; but Sandy, who had turned eleven, perceived that the tone of “morning” in good morning made the word seem purposely to rhyme with “scorning,” so that these colleagues of Miss Brodie’s might just as well have said, “I scorn you,” instead of good morning. Miss Brodie’s reply was more anglicised in its accent than was its usual proud wont. “Good mawning,” she replied, in the corridors, flattening their scorn beneath the chariot wheels of her superiority, and deviating her head towards them no more than an insulting half-inch. She held her head up, up, as she walked, and often, when she reached and entered her own classroom, permitted herself to sag gratefully against the door for an instant. She did not frequent the staff common rooms in the free periods when her class was taking its singing or sewing lessons, but accompanied them.
Now the two sewing teachers were somewhat apart from the rest of the teaching staff and were not taken seriously. They were the two younger sisters of a third, dead, elder sister whose guidance of their lives had never been replaced. Their names were Miss Ellen and Miss Alison Kerr; they were incapable of imparting any information whatsoever, so flustered were they, with their fluffed-out hair, dry blue-grey skins and birds’ eyes; instead of teaching sewing they took each girl’s work in hand, one by one, and did most of it for her. In the worst cases they unstitched what had been done and did it again, saying, “This’ll not do,” or, “That’s never a run and fell seam.” The sewing sisters had not as yet been induced to judge Miss Brodie since they were by nature of the belief that their scholastic colleagues were above criticism. Therefore the sewing lessons were a great relaxation to all, and Miss Brodie in the time before Christmas used the sewing period each week to read Jane Eyre to her class who, while they listened, pricked their thumbs as much as was bearable so that interesting little spots of blood might appear on the stuff they were sewing, and it was even possible to make blood-spot designs.
The singing lessons were far different. Some weeks after the report of her kissing in the art room it gradually became plain that Miss Brodie was agitated before, during, and after the singing lessons. She wore her newest clothes on singing days.
Sandy said to Monica Douglas, “Are you sure it was Mr. Lloyd who kissed her? Are you sure it wasn’t Mr. Lowther?”
“It was Mr. Lloyd,” said Monica, “and it was in the art room, not the music room. What would Mr. Lowther have been doing in the art room?”
“They look alike, Mr. Lloyd and Mr. Lowther,” Sandy said.
Monica’s anger was rising in her face. “It was Mr. Lloyd with his one arm round her,” she said. “I saw them. I’m sorry I ever told you. Rose is the only one that believes me.”
Rose Stanley believed her, but this was because she was indifferent. She was
The change in Miss Brodie was best discerned by comparison with the other teachers in the Junior school. If you looked at them and then looked at Miss Brodie it was more possible to imagine her giving herself up to kissing.
Jenny and Sandy wondered if Mr. Lloyd and Miss Brodie had gone further that day in the art room, and had been swept away by passion. They kept an eye on Miss Brodie’s stomach to see if it showed signs of swelling. Some days, if they were bored, they decided it had begun to swell. But on Miss Brodie’s entertaining days they found her stomach as flat as ever and at these times even agreed together that Monica Douglas had been telling a lie.
The other Junior school teachers said good morning to Miss Brodie, these days, in a more than Edinburgh manner, that is to say it was gracious enough, and not one of them omitted to say good morning at all; but Sandy, who had turned eleven, perceived that the tone of “morning” in good morning made the word seem purposely to rhyme with “scorning,” so that these colleagues of Miss Brodie’s might just as well have said, “I scorn you,” instead of good morning. Miss Brodie’s reply was more anglicised in its accent than was its usual proud wont. “Good mawning,” she replied, in the corridors, flattening their scorn beneath the chariot wheels of her superiority, and deviating her head towards them no more than an insulting half-inch. She held her head up, up, as she walked, and often, when she reached and entered her own classroom, permitted herself to sag gratefully against the door for an instant. She did not frequent the staff common rooms in the free periods when her class was taking its singing or sewing lessons, but accompanied them.
Now the two sewing teachers were somewhat apart from the rest of the teaching staff and were not taken seriously. They were the two younger sisters of a third, dead, elder sister whose guidance of their lives had never been replaced. Their names were Miss Ellen and Miss Alison Kerr; they were incapable of imparting any information whatsoever, so flustered were they, with their fluffed-out hair, dry blue-grey skins and birds’ eyes; instead of teaching sewing they took each girl’s work in hand, one by one, and did most of it for her. In the worst cases they unstitched what had been done and did it again, saying, “This’ll not do,” or, “That’s never a run and fell seam.” The sewing sisters had not as yet been induced to judge Miss Brodie since they were by nature of the belief that their scholastic colleagues were above criticism. Therefore the sewing lessons were a great relaxation to all, and Miss Brodie in the time before Christmas used the sewing period each week to read Jane Eyre to her class who, while they listened, pricked their thumbs as much as was bearable so that interesting little spots of blood might appear on the stuff they were sewing, and it was even possible to make blood-spot designs.
The singing lessons were far different. Some weeks after the report of her kissing in the art room it gradually became plain that Miss Brodie was agitated before, during, and after the singing lessons. She wore her newest clothes on singing days.
Sandy said to Monica Douglas, “Are you sure it was Mr. Lloyd who kissed her? Are you sure it wasn’t Mr. Lowther?”
“It was Mr. Lloyd,” said Monica, “and it was in the art room, not the music room. What would Mr. Lowther have been doing in the art room?”
“They look alike, Mr. Lloyd and Mr. Lowther,” Sandy said.
Monica’s anger was rising in her face. “It was Mr. Lloyd with his one arm round her,” she said. “I saw them. I’m sorry I ever told you. Rose is the only one that believes me.”
Rose Stanley believed her, but this was because she was indifferent. She was
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