The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. Muriel Spark

of the other girls in the Junior School were Brownies.

      “For those who like that sort of thing,” said Miss Brodie in her best Edinburgh voice, “that is the sort of thing they like.”

      So Brownies and Guides were ruled out. Sandy recalled Miss Brodie’s admiration for Mussolini’s marching troops, and the picture she had brought back from Italy showing the triumphant march of the black uniforms in Rome.

      “These are the fascisti,” said Miss Brodie, and spelt it out. “What are these men, Rose?”

      “The fascisti, Miss Brodie.”

      They were dark as anything and all marching in the straightest of files, with their hands raised at the same angle, while Mussolini stood on a platform like a gym teacher or a Guides mistress and watched them. Mussolini had put an end to unemployment with his fascisti and there was no litter in the streets. It occurred to Sandy, there at the end of the Middle Meadow Walk, that the Brodie set was Miss Brodie’s fascisti, not to the naked eye, marching along, but all knit together for her need and in another way, marching along. That was all right, but it seemed, too, that Miss Brodie’s disapproval of the Girl Guides had jealousy in it, there was an inconsistency, a fault. Perhaps the Guides were too much a rival fascisti, and Miss Brodie could not bear it. Sandy thought she might see about joining the Brownies. Then the group-fright seized her again, and it was necessary to put the idea aside, because she loved Miss Brodie.

      “We make good company for each other, Sandy,” said Alan Breck, crunching beneath his feet the broken glass in the blood on the floor of the ship’s round-house. And taking a knife from the table, he cut off one of the silver buttons from his coat. “Wherever you show that button,” he said, “the friends of Alan Breck will come around you.”

      “We turn to the right,” said Miss Brodie.

      They approached the Old Town which none of the girls had properly seen before, because none of their parents was so historically minded as to be moved to conduct their young into the reeking network of slums which the Old Town constituted in those years. The Canongate, The Grassmarket, The Lawnmarket, were names which betokened a misty region of crime and desperation: “Lawnmarket Man Jailed.”

      Only Eunice Gardiner and Monica Douglas had already traversed the High Street on foot on the Royal Mile from the Castle or Holyrood. Sandy had been taken to Holyrood in an uncle’s car and had seen the bed, too short and too broad, where Mary Queen of Scots had slept, and the tiny room, smaller than their own scullery at home, where the Queen had played cards with Rizzio.

      Now they were in a great square, the Grassmarket, with the Castle, which was in any case everywhere, rearing between a big gap in the houses where the aristocracy used to live. It was Sandy’s first experience of a foreign country, which intimates itself by its new smells and shapes and its new poor. A man sat on the icy-cold pavement, he just sat. A crowd of children, some without shoes, were playing some fight game, and some boys shouted after Miss Brodie’s violet-clad company, with words that the girls had not heard before, but rightly understood to be obscene. Children and women with shawls came in and out of the dark closes. Sandy found she was holding Mary’s hand in her bewilderment, all the girls were holding hands, while Miss Brodie talked of history. Into the High Street, and “John Knox,” said Miss Brodie, “was an embittered man. He could never be at ease with the gay French Queen. We of Edinburgh owe a lot to the French. We are Europeans.” The smell was amazingly terrible. In the middle of the road farther up the High Street a crowd was gathered. “Walk past quietly,” said Miss Brodie.

      A man and a woman stood in the midst of the crowd which had formed a ring round them. They were shouting at each other and the man hit the woman twice across the head. Another woman, very little, with cropped black hair, a red face and a big mouth, came forward and took the man by the arm. She said:

      “I’ll be your man.”

      From time to time throughout her life Sandy pondered this, for she was certain that the little woman’s words were “I’ll be your man,” not “I’ll be your woman,” and it was never explained.