Lesson 2 Assignment 1

POV is my worst nighmare! I'm sure you remember I had to do those assignments over and over in Sunrise. I'm not sure I'll ever get it, but here goes:

Lesson Two Assignment #1

1. Choose a story you know well, written in third person limited (single POV); it can be one of your own or someone else’s story. Write down the title and author’s name of the story.
Miss Brill
by Katherine Mansfield

2. List the POV character and the names of the other major characters in the story.
Miss Brill
Old Man in Velvet Coat
Old Woman with Yarn
An Englishman
Englishman's wife

There are other characters as the story progresses...the young couple in love, children...all seen as Miss Brill percieves them.They are not found in the first four paragraphs so I have not included them.

First four paragraphs of the story:
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.

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.

3. Imagine the story told from the POV of a character the author did not choose as the POV character and re-write the first three or four paragraphs from this different character’s POV.
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 I felt this Sunday would be much like any other Sunday albeit was somewhat chillier. The air was motionless, but when I opened my 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.

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? I 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. I was sure it would be repeated. It was. That part was for all the feminine listeners, I suppose. A quaint hint of a smile touched my lips.

Just as always there were only two of us on the park bench. I with my hands clasped over my large, carved walking-stick, and a big old woman, sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on her embroidered apron. We did not speak. We never did. It was the same every Sunday. Speaking of same, here comes Miss Brill. She too, always occupies the same seat.

She doesn't say much, just seems to take in all around her. She is wearing that horrible ragged old fox fur today. The fur is ratty and the poor thing looks as if it has been in a terrible battle with its nose hanging to one side. It makes me think the hounds have taken their anger out on the poor thing more than once. I wonder if she is aware of just how tattered it is. I notice her reaching up stroking it as if it were a dear pet. I wonder if she is in her right mind.

I glanced, sideways, at the odd women. 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 petite button boots had wandered by. The wife had 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 muc more patient than I ever would have. 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!" I had wanted to shake her. But perhaps if I had a wife that beautiful I would be content to listen too.



4. Was the story much different? Was the scene emphasized more, or was it emphasized less? Did the meaning of the story change? Answer these questions in a paragraph after the scene.

The story was vastly different. The scene was emphasized less and the story was entirely different as seen through the old man's point of view. Miss Brill just fades into the background without her thoughts being known.