Villette (2nd American edition) by Charlotte BRONTE CONTINUED 1 COMPLIMENTS OF WIKISOURCE CHAPTER XXI. REACTION. YET three days, and then I must go back to the Pensionnat. I almost numbered the moments of these days upon the clock; fain would I have retarded their flight; but they glided by while I watched them; they were already gone while I yet feared their departure. Lucy will not leave us to-day, said Mrs. Bretton, coaxingly at breakfast; she knows we can procure a second respite. I would not ask for one if I might have it for a word, said I. I long to get the good-bye over and to be settled in the Rue Fossette again. I must go this morning; I must go directly; my trunk is packed and corded. It appeared, however, that my going depended upon Graham; he had said he would accompany me, and it so fell out that he was engaged all day, and only returned home at dusk. Then ensued a little combat of words. Mrs. Bretton and her son pressed me to remain one night more. I could have cried, so irritated and eager was I to be gone. I longed to leave them as the criminal on the scaffold longs for the ax to descend—that is, I wished the pang over. How much I wished it, they could not tell. On these points, mine was a state of mind out of their experience. It was dark when Dr. John handed me from the carriage at Madame Becks door. The lamp above was lit; it rained a November drizzle, as it had rained all day: the lamplight gleamed on the wet pavement. Just such a night was it as that on which, not a year ago, I had first stopped at this very threshold; just similar was the scene. I remembered the very shapes of the paving-stones which I had noted with idle eye while, with a thick-beating heart, I waited the unclosing of that door at which I stood—a solitary and a suppliant. On that night, too, I had briefly met him who now stood with me. Had I ever reminded him of that rencontre, or explained it? I had not, nor ever felt the inclination to do so: it was a pleasant thought, laid by in my own mind, and best kept there. Graham rung the bell. The door was instantly opened, for it was just that period of the evening when the half-boarders took their departure—consequently, Rosine was on the alert. Dont come in, said I to him; but he stepped a moment into the well-lighted vestibule. I had not wished him to see that the water stood in my eyes, for his was too kind a nature ever to be needlessly shown such signs of sorrow. He always wished to heal—to relieve—when, physician as he was, neither cure nor alleviation were, perhaps, in his power. Keep up your courage, Lucy. Think of my mother and myself as true friends. We will not forget you. Nor will I forget you, Dr. John. My trunk was now brought in. We had shaken hands; he had turned to go, but he was not satisfied; he had not done or said enough to content his generous impulses. Lucy,—stepping after me—shall you feel very solitary here? At first I shall. Well, my mother will soon call to see you, and, meantime, Ill tell you what Ill do. Ill write—just any cheerful nonsense that comes into my head—shall I? Good, gallant heart! thought I to myself; but I shook my head smiling, and said, Never think of it: impose on yourself no such task. You write to me?—youll not have time. Oh! I will find or make time. Good-bye! He was gone. The heavy door crashed to: the ax had fallen—the pang was experienced. Allowing myself no time to think or feel—swallowing tears as if they had been wine—I passed to madames sitting-room to pay the necessary visit of ceremony and respect. She received me with perfectly well-acted cordiality—was even demonstrative, though brief, in her welcome. In ten minutes I was dismissed. From the salle-à-manger I proceeded to the refectory, where pupils and teachers were now assembled for evening study: again I had a welcome, and one not, I think, quite hollow. That over, I was free to repair to the dormitory. And will Graham really write? I questioned, as I sunk tired on the edge of the bed. Reason, coming stealthily up to me through the twilight of that long, dim chamber, whispered sedately—He may write once. So kind is his nature, it may stimulate him for once to make the effort. But it cannot be continued—it may not be repeated. Great were that folly which should build on such a promise—insane that credulity which should mistake the transitory rain-pool, holding in its hollow one fraught, for the perennial spring, yielding the supply of seasons. I bent my head: I sat thinking an hour longer. Reason still whispered me, laying on my shoulder a withered hand, and frostily touching my ear with the chill blue lips of eld. If, muttered she, if he should write, what then? Do you meditate pleasure in replying? Ah, fool! I warn you! Brief be your answer. Hope no delight of heart—no indulgence of intellect: grant no expansion to feeling—give holiday to no single faculty: dally with no friendly exchange—foster no genial intercommunion.... But I have talked to Graham and you did not chide, I pleaded. No, said she, I needed not. Talk for you is good for discipline. You converse imperfectly. While you speak, there can be no oblivion of inferiority—no encouragement to delusion: pain, privation, penury stamp your language.... But, I again broke in, where the bodily presence is weak and the speech contemptible, surely there cannot be error in making written language the medium of better utterance than faltering lips can achieve? Reason only answered, At your peril you cherish that idea, or suffer its influence to animate any writing of yours! But if I feel, may I never express? Never! declared Reason. I groaned under her bitter sternness. Never—never—oh, hard word! This hag, this Reason, would not let me look up, or smile, or hope: she could not rest unless I were altogether crushed, cowed, broken-in, and broken-down. According to her, I was born only to work for a piece of bread, to await the pains of death, and steadily through all life to despond. Reason might be right; yet no wonder we are glad at times to defy her, to rush from under her rod and give a truant hour to Imagination—her soft, bright foe, oursweet Help, our divine Hope. We shall and must break bounds at intervals, despite the terrible revenge that awaits our return. Reason is vindictive as a devil: for me, she was always envenomed as a step-mother. If I have obeyed her it has chiefly been with the obedience of fear, not of love. Long ago I should have died of her ill-usage, her stint, her chill, her barren board, her icy bed, her savage, ceaseless blows; but for that kinder Power who holds my secret and sworn allegiance. Often has Reason turned me out by night, in mid-winter, on cold snow, flinging for sustenance the gnawed bone dogs had forsaken: sternly has she vowed her stores held nothing more for me—harshly denied my right to ask better things.... Then, looking up, have I seen in the sky a head amidst circling stars, of which the midmost and the brightest lent a ray sympathetic and attent: a spirit, softer and better than Human Reason, has ascended with quiet flight to the waste—bringing all round her a sphere of air borrowed of eternal summer; bringing perfume of flowers which cannot fade—fragrance of trees whose fruit is life; bringing breezes pure from a world whose day needs no sun to lighten it. My hunger has this good angel appeased with food, sweet and strange, gathered amongst gleaning angels, garnering their dew-white harvest in the first fresh hour of a heavenly day—tenderly has she assuaged the insufferable fears which weep away life itself—kindly given rest to deadly weariness—generously lent hope and impulse to paralyzed despair. Divine, compassionate, succorable influence! When I bend the knee to other than God it shall be at thy white and winged feet, beautiful on mountain or on plain. Temples have been reared to the Sun—altars dedicated to the Moon. Oh, greater glory! To thee neither hands build, nor lips consecrate; but hearts through ages are faithful to thy worship. A dwelling thou hast, too wide for walls—too high for dome—a temple whose floors are space—rites whose mysteries transpire in presence, to the kindling, the harmony of worlds! Sovereign complete! thou hadst, for endurance, thy great army of martyrs; for achievement, thy chosen band of worthies. Deity unquestioned, thine essence foils decay! This daughter of Heaven remembered me to-night; she saw me weep and she came with comfort: Sleep, she said. Sleep, sweetly—I gild thy dreams! She kept her word, and watched me through a nights rest, but at dawn Reason relieved the guard. I awoke with a sort of start; the rain was dashing against the panes, and the wind uttering a peevish cry at intervals; the night-lamp was dying on the black circular stand in the middle of the dormitory, day had already broken. How I pity those whom mental pain stuns instead of rousing! This morning the pang of waking snatched me out of bed like a hand with a giants gripe. How quickly I dressed in the cold of the raw dawn! How deeply I drank of the ice-cold water in my carafe! This was always my cordial to which, like other dram-drinkers, I had eager recourse when unsettled by chagrin. Ere long the bell rang its réveillée to the whole school. Being dressed, I descended alone to the refectory, where the stove was lit and the air was warm; through the rest of the house it was cold, with the nipping severity of a continental winter: though now but the beginning of November, a north wind had thus early brought a wintry blight over Europe. I remember the black stoves pleased me little when I first came; but now I began to associate with them a sense of comfort, and liked them, as in England we like a fireside. Sitting down before this dark comforter, I presently fell into a deep argument with myself on life and its chances, on destiny and her decrees. My mind, calmer and stronger now than last night, made for itself some imperious rules, prohibiting under deadly penalties all weak retrospect of happiness past, commanding a patient journeying through the wilderness of the present, enjoining a reliance on faith, a watching of the cloud and pillar which subdue while they guide, and awe while they illumine—hushing the impulse to fond idolatry, checking the longing out-look for a far-off promised land whose rivers are, perhaps, never to be reached, save in dying dreams, whose sweet pastures are to be viewed but from the desolate and sepulchral summit of a Nebo. By degrees, a composite feeling of blended strength and pain wound itself wirily round my heart, sustained, or at least restrained, its throbbings, and made me fit for the days work. I lifted my head. As I said before, I was sitting near the stove, let into the wall beneath the refectory and the carré, and thus sufficing to heat both apartments. Piercing the same wall, and close beside the stove, was a window, looking also into the carré; as I looked up, a cap-tassel, a brow, two eyes filled a pane of that window; the fixed gaze of those two eyes hit right against my own glance: they were watching me. I had not till that moment known that tears were on my cheek, but I felt them now. This was a strange house, where no corner was sacred from intrusion, where not a tear could be shed, nor a thought pondered, but a spy was at hand to note and to divine. And this new, this out-door, this male spy, what business had brought him to the premises at this unwonted hour? What possible right had he to intrude on me thus? No other professor would have dared to cross the carré before the class-bell rang. M. Emanuel took no account of hours nor of claims: there was some book of reference in the first-class library which he had occasion to consult—he had come to seek it: on his way he passed the refectory. It was very much his habit to wear eyes before, behind, and on each side of him: he had seen me through the little window—he now opened the refectory door, and there he stood. Mademoiselle, vous êtes triste. Monsieur, jen ai bien le droit. Vous êtes malade de cœur et dhumeur. he pursued. You are at once mournful and mutinous. I see on your cheek two tears which I know are hot as two sparks, and salt as two crystals of the sea. While I speak you eye me strangely. Shall I tell you of what I am reminded while watching you? Monsieur, I shall be called away to prayers shortly; my time for conversation is very scant and brief at this hour—excuse—— I excuse everything, he interrupted; my mood is so meek, neither rebuff nor, perhaps, insult could ruffle it. You remind me, then, of a young she wild creature, new caught, untamed, viewing with a mixture of fire and fear the first entrance of the breaker-in. Unwarrantable accost!—rash and rude if addressed to a pupil; to a teacher inadmissible. He thought to provoke a warm reply; I had seen him vex the passionate to explosion before now. In me his malice should find no gratification; I sat silent. You look, said he, like one who would snatch at a drought of sweet poison, and spurn wholesome bitters with disgust. Indeed, I never liked bitters, nor do I believe them wholesome. And to whatever is sweet, be it poison or food, you cannot, at least, deny its own delicious quality—sweetness. Better, perhaps, to die quickly a pleasant death, than drag on long a charmless life. Yet, said he, you should take your bitter dose duly and daily if I had the power to administer it, and, as to the well-beloved poison, I would, perhaps, break the very cup which held it. I sharply turned my head away, partly because his presence utterly displeased me, and partly because I wished to shun questions lest, in my present mood, the effort of answering should overmaster self-command. Come, said he, more softly, tell me the truth—you grieve at being parted from friends—is it not so? The insinuating softness was not more acceptable than the inquisitorial curiosity. I was silent. He came into the room, sat down on the bench about two yards from me, and persevered long and, for him, patiently, in attempts to draw me into conversation—attempts necessarily unavailing, because I could not talk. At last I entreated to be let alone. In uttering the request, my voice faltered, my head sank on my arms and the table. I wept bitterly, though quietly. He sat a while longer. I did not look up nor speak till the closing door and his retreating step told me that he was gone. These tears proved a relief. I had time to bathe my eyes before breakfast, and I suppose I appeared at that meal as serene as any other person; not, however, quite as jocund-looking as the young lady who placed herself in the seat opposite mine, fixed on me a pair of somewhat small eyes twinkling gleefully, and frankly stretched across the table a white hand to be shaken. Miss Fanshawes travels, gaieties, and flirtations agreed with her mightily; she had become quite plump, her cheeks looked as round as apples. I had seen her last in elegant evening attire. I dont know that she looked less charming now in her school-dress, a kind of careless peignoir of a dark-blue material, dimly and dingily plaided with black. I even think this dusky wrapper gave her charms a triumph; enhancing by contrast the fairness of her skin, the freshness of her bloom, the golden beauty of her tresses. I am glad you are come back, Timon, said she. Timon was one of her dozen names for me. You dont know how often I have wanted you in this dismal hole. Oh! have you? Then, of course, if you wanted me, you have something for me to do; stockings to mend, perhaps? I never gave Ginevra a minutes or a farthings credit for disinterestedness. Crabbed and crusty as ever! said she. I expected as much; it would not be you if you did not snub me. But now, come, grandmother, I hope you like coffee as much and pistolets as little as ever; are you disposed to barter? Take your own way. This way consisted in a habit she had of making me convenient. She did not like the morning cup of coffee; its school brewage not being strong or sweet enough to suit her palate; and she had an excellent appetite, like any other healthy school-girl, for the morning pistolets or rolls, which were new-baked and very good, and of which a certain allowance was served to each. This allowance being more than I needed, I gave half to Ginevra, never varying in my preference, though many others used to covet the superfluity, and she in return would sometimes give me a portion of her coffee. This morning I was glad of the drought; hunger I had none, and with thirst I was parched. I dont know why I chose to give my bread rather to Ginevra than to another; nor why, if two had to share the convenience of one drinking-vessel, as sometimes happened; for instance, when we took a long walk into the country, and halted for refreshment at a farm, I always contrived that she should be my convive, and rather liked to let her take the lions share, whether of the white beer, the sweet wine, or the new milk; so it was, however, and she knew it: and, therefore, while we wrangled daily, we were never alienated. After breakfast my custom was to withdraw to the first classe, and sit and read or think (oftenest the latter) there alone till the nine-oclock bell threw open all doors, admitted the gathered rush of externes and demi-pensionnaires, and gave the signal for entrance on that bustle and business to which, till five P.M., there was no relax. I was just seated this morning, when a tap came to the door. Pardon, Mademoiselle, said a pensionnaire, entering gently, and having taken from her desk some necessary book or paper, she withdrew on tip-toe, murmuring, as she passed me, Que mademoiselle est appliquée! Appliquée, indeed! The means of application were spread before me, but I was doing nothing, and had done nothing, and meant to do nothing. Thus does the world give us credit for merits we have not. Madame Beck herself deemed me a regular bas-bleu, and often and solemnly used to warn me not to study too much, lest the blood should all go to my head. Indeed, everybody in the Rue Fossette held a superstition that Meess Lucie was learned, with the notable exception of M. Emanuel, who, by means peculiar to himself, and quite inscrutable to me, had obtained a not inaccurate inkling of my real qualifications, and used to take quiet opportunities of chuckling in my ear his malign glee over their scant measure. For my part, I never troubled myself about this penury, I dearly like to think my own thoughts; I had great pleasure in reading a few books, but not many—preferring always those on whose style or sentiment the writers individual nature was plainly stamped—flagging inevitably over characterless books, however clever and meritorious, perceiving well that, as far as my own mind was concerned, God had limited its powers and its action—thankful, I trust, for the gift bestowed, but unambitious of higher endowments, not restlessly eager after higher culture. The polite pupil was scarcely gone, when, unceremoniously, without tap, in burst a second intruder. Had I been blind I should have known who this was. A constitutional reserve of manner had by this time told with wholesome and, for me, commodious effect on the manners of my co-inmates; rarely did I now suffer from rude or intrusive treatment. When I first came, it would happen once and again that a blunt German would clap me on the shoulders, and ask me to run a race, or a riotous Labassecourienne, seize me by the arm and drag me towards the play-ground; urgent proposals to take a swing at the Pas de Géant, or to join in a certain romping hide-and-seek game called Un, deux, trois, were formerly also of hourly occurrence; but all these little attentions had ceased some time ago—ceased, too, without my finding it necessary to be at the trouble of point-blank cutting them short. I had now no familiar demonstration to dread or endure, save from one quarter, and as that was English I could bear it. Ginevra Fanshawe made no scruple of—at times—catching me as I was crossing the carré, whirling me round in a compulsory waltz, and heartily enjoying the mental and physical discomfiture her proceeding induced. Ginevra Fanshawe it was who now broke in upon my learned leisure. She carried a huge music-book under her arm. Go to your practicing, said I to her at once;away with you to the little saloon! Not till I have had a talk with you, chère amie. I know where you have been spending your vacation, and how you have commenced sacrificing to the graces, and enjoying life like any other belle. I saw you at the concert the other night, dressed, actually, like anybody else. Who is your tailleuse? Tittle-tattle; how prettily it begins! My tailleuse!—a fiddlestick! Come, sheer off, Ginevra. I really dont want your company. But when I want yours so much, ange farouche, what does a little reluctance on your part signify? Dieu merci! we know how to manœuvre with our gifted compatriote—the learned ourse Britannique. And so, Ourson, you know Isidore? I know John Bretton. Oh, hush! (putting her fingers in her ears) you crack my tympanums with your rude Anglicisms. But, how is our well-beloved John? Do tell me about him. The poor man must be in a sad way. What did he say to my behavior the other night? Wasnt I cruel? Do you think I noticed you? It was a delightful evening. Oh, that divine de Hamal! And then to watch the other sulking and dying in the distance, and the old lady—my future mamma-in-law! But I am afraid I and Lady Sara were a little rude in quizzing her. Lady Sara never quizzed her at all; and for what you did, dont make yourself in the least uneasy: Mrs. Bretton will survive yoursneer. She may; old ladies are tough; but that poor son of hers! Do tell me what he said; I saw he was terribly cut up. He said you looked as if, at heart, you were already Madame de Hamal. Did he? she cried, with delight. He noticed that? How charming! I thought he would be mad with jealousy? Ginevra, have you seriously done with Dr. Bretton? Do you want him to give you up? Oh! you know he cant do that; but wasnt he mad? Quite mad, I assented; as mad as a March hare. Well, and how ever did you get him home? How ever, indeed! Have you no pity on his poor mother and me? Fancy us holding him tight down in the carriage, and he raving between us, fit to drive everybody delirious. The very coachman went wrong, somehow, and we lost our way. You dont say so? You are laughing at me. Now, Lucy Snowe—— I assure you it is fact—and fact, also, that Dr. Bretton would not stay in the carriage; he broke from us, and would ride outside. And afterwards? Afterwards—when he did reach home—the scene transcends description. Oh, but describe it—you know it is such fun! Fun for you, Miss Fanshawe; but (with stern gravity) you know the proverb—What is sport to one may be death to another. Go on, theres a darling Timon. Conscientiously, I can not, unless you assure me you have some heart. I have—such an immensity, you dont know! Good! In that case, you will be able to conceive Dr. Graham Bretton rejecting his supper in the first instance—the chicken, the sweet-bread prepared for his refreshment left on the table untouched. Then——but it is of no use dwelling at length on the harrowing details. Suffice it to say, that never, in the most stormy fits and moments of his infancy, had his mother such work to tuck the sheets about him as she had that night. He wouldnt lie still? He wouldnt lie still: there it was. The sheets might be tucked in, but the thing was to keep them tucked in. And what did he say? Say! Cant you imagine him demanding his divine Ginevra, anathematizing that demon, de Hamal—raving about golden locks, blue eyes, white arms, glittering bracelets? No, did he? He saw the bracelet? Saw the bracelet? Yes, as plain as I saw it, and, perhaps, for the first time, he saw also the brand-mark with which its pressure has encircled your arm. Ginevra (rising, and changing my tone), come, we will have an end of this. Go away to your practicing. And I opened the door. But you have not told me all. You had better not wait until I do tell you all. Such extra communicativeness could give you no pleasure. March! Cross thing! said she; but she obeyed, and, indeed, the first classe is my territory, and she could not there legally resist a notice of quittance from me. Yet, to speak the truth, never had I been less dissatisfied with her than I was then. There was pleasure in thinking of the contrast between the reality and my description—to remember Dr. John enjoying the drive home, eating his supper with relish, and retiring to rest with Christian composure. It was only when I saw him really unhappy that I felt really vexed with the fair, frail cause of his suffering. ________________________________________ A fortnight passed; I was getting once more inured to the harness of school, and lapsing from the passionate pain of change to the palsy of custom. One afternoon in crossing the carré, on my way to the first class, where I was expected to assist at a lesson of style and literature, I saw, standing by one of the long and large windows, Rosine, the portress. Her attitude, as usual, was quite nonchalant. She always stood at ease; one of her hands rested in her apron-pocket, the other, at this moment, held to her eyes a letter, whereof Mademoiselle Olive coolly perused the address, and deliberately studied the seal. A letter! The shape of a letter similar to that had haunted my brain in its very core for seven days past. I had dreamed of a letter last night. Strong magnetism drew me to that letter now; yet, whether I should have ventured to demand of Rosine so much as a glance at that white envelope, with the spot of red wax in the middle, I know not. No; I think I should have sneaked past in terror of a rebuff from Disappointment; my heart throbbed now as if I already heard the tramp of her approach. Nervous mistake! It was the rapid step of the Professor of Literature measuring the corridor. I fled before him. Could I but be seated quietly at my desk before his arrival, with the class under my orders all in disciplined readiness, he would, perhaps, exempt me from notice; but, if caught lingering in the carré, I should be sure to come in for a special harangue. I had time to get seated, to enforce perfect silence, to take out my work, and to commence it amidst the profoundest and best trained hush, ere M. Emanuel entered with his vehement burst of latch and panel, and his deep, redundant bow, prophetic of choler. As usual he broke upon us like a clap of thunder; but instead of flashing lightning-wise from the door to the estrade, his career halted midway at my desk. Setting his face towards me and the window, his back to the pupils and the room, he gave me a look—such a look as might have licensed me to stand straight up and demand what he meant—a look of scowling distrust. Voilà! pour vous, said he, drawing his hand from his waistcoat, and placing on my desk a letter—the very letter I had seen in Rosines hand—the letter whose face of enameled white and single Cyclops-eye of vermilion-red had printed themselves so clear and perfect on the retina of an inward vision. I knew it, I felt it to be the letter of my hope, the fruition of my wish, the release from my doubt, the ransom from my terror. This letter M. Paul, with his unwarrantably interfering habits, had taken from the portress, and now delivered it himself. I might have been angry, but had not a second for the sensation. Yes: I held in my hand not a slight note, but an envelope which must, at least, contain a sheet; it felt not flimsy, but firm, substantial, satisfying. And here was the direction, Miss Lucy Snowe, in a clean, clear, equal, decided hand; and here was the seal, round, full, deftly dropped by untremulous fingers, stamped with the well-cut impress of initials, J. G. B. I experienced a happy feeling, a glad emotion which went warm to my heart and ran lively through all my veins. For once a hope was realized. I held in my hand a morsel of real solid joy, not a dream, not an image of the brain, not one of those shadowy chances imagination pictures, and on which humanity starves, but cannot live; not a mess of that manna I drearily eulogized awhile ago, which, indeed, at first melts on the lips with an unspeakable and preternatural sweetness, but which, in the end, our souls full surely loathe, longing deliriously for natural and earth-grown food, wildly praying Heavens Spirits to reclaim their own spirit-dew and essence—an aliment divine, but for mortals deadly. It was neither sweet hail, nor small coriander-seed; neither slight wafer, nor luscious honey, I had lighted on; it was the wild savory mess of the hunter, nourishing and salubrious meat, forest-fed or desert-reared, fresh, healthful, and life-sustaining. It was what the old dying patriarch demanded of his son Esau, promising in requital the blessing of his last breath. It was a godsend, and I inwardly thanked the God who had vouchsafed it. Outwardly I only thanked man, crying, Thank you, thank you, Monsieur! Monsieur curled his lip, gave me a vicious glance of the eye, and strode to his estrade. M. Paul was not at all a good little man, though he had good points. Did I read my letter there and then? Did I consume the venison at once and with haste, as if Esaus shaft flew every day? I knew better. The cover with its address; the seal, with its three clear letters, was bounty and abundance for the present. I stole from the room, I procured the key of the great dormitory which was kept locked by day. I went to my bureau, with a sort of haste and trembling lest madame should creep up-stairs and spy me, I opened a drawer, unlocked a box and took out a case, and having feasted my eyes with one more look, and approached the seal with a mixture of awe and shame and delight, to my lips—I folded the untasted treasure, yet all fair and inviolate, in silver paper, committed it to the case, shut up box and drawer, reclosed, relocked the dormitory, and returned to class, feeling as if fairy tales were true and fairy gifts no dream. Strange, sweet insanity; and this letter, the source of my joy, I had not yet read, did not yet know the number of its lines. When I re-entered the school-room, behold M. Paul raging like a pestilence! Some pupil had not spoken audibly or distinctly enough to suit his ear and taste, and now she and others were weeping, and he was raving from his estrade almost livid. Curious to mention, as I appeared, he fell on me. Was I the mistress of these girls? Did I profess to teach them the conduct befitting ladies?—and did I permit, and, he doubted not, encourage them to strangle their mother-tongue in their throats, to mince and mash it between their teeth, as if they had some base cause to be ashamed of the words they uttered? Was this modesty? He knew better. It was a vile pseudo-sentiment—the offspring or the forerunner of evil. Rather than submit to this mopping and mowing, this mincing and grimacing, this grinding of a noble tongue, this general affectation and sickening stubbornness of the pupils of the first class, he would throw them up for a set of insupportable petites maîtresses, and confine himself to teaching the A B C to the babies of the third division. What could I say to all this? Really nothing; and I hoped he would allow me to be silent. The storm recommenced. Every answer to his queries was then refused? It seemed to be considered in that place—that conceited boudoir of a first class, with its pretentious book-cases, its green-baized desks, its rubbish of flower-stands, its trash of framed pictures and maps, and its foreign surveillante, forsooth!—it seemed to be the fashion to think there that the Professor of Literature was not worthy of a reply! These were new ideas; imported, he did not doubt, straight from la Grande Bretagne; they savored of island-insolence and arrogance. Lull the second—the girls, not one of whom was ever known to weep a tear for the rebukes of any other master, now all melting like snow-statues before the intemperate heat of M. Emanuel: I, not yet much shaken, sitting down, and venturing to resume my work. Something—either in my continued silence or in the movement of my hand, stitching—transported M. Emanuel beyond the last boundary of patience, he actually sprang from his estrade. The stove stood near my desk, he attacked it; the little iron door was nearly dashed from its hinges, the fuel was made to fly. Est-ce que vous avez lintention de minsulter? said he to me in a low, furious voice, as he thus outraged, under pretense of arranging the fire. It was time to soothe him a little if possible. Mais, monsieur, said I, I would not insult you for the world. I remember too well that you once said we should be friends. I did not intend my voice to falter, but it did, more, I think, through the agitation of late delight than in any spasm of present fear. Still there certainly was something in M. Pauls anger—a kind of passion of emotion—that specially tended to draw tears. I was not unhappy, nor much afraid, yet I wept. Allons, allons! said he presently, looking round and seeing the deluge universal. Decidedly I am a monster and a ruffian. I have only one pocket-handkerchief, he added, but if I had twenty, I would offer you each one. Your teacher shall be your representative. Here, Miss Lucy. And he took forth and held out to me a clean silk handkerchief. Now a person who did not know M. Paul, who was unused to him and his impulses, would naturally have bungled at this offer—declined accepting the same—etcetera. But I too plainly felt this would never do; the slightest hesitation would have been fatal to the incipient treaty of peace. I rose and met the handkerchief half-way, received it with decorum, wiped therewith my eyes, and, resuming my seat, and retaining the flag of truce in my hand and on my lap, took especial care during the remainder of the lesson to touch neither needle nor thimble, scissors nor muslin. Many a jealous glance did M. Paul cast at these implements; he hated them mortally, considering sewing a source of distraction from the attention due to himself. A very eloquent lesson he gave, and very kind and friendly was he to the close. Ere he had done, the clouds were dispersed and the sun shining out—tears were exchanged for smiles. In quitting the room he paused once more at my desk. And your letter? said he, this time not quite fiercely. I have not yet read it, monsieur. Ah! it is too good to read at once; you save it, as when I was a boy, I used to save a peach whose bloom was very ripe? The guess came so near the truth, I could not prevent a suddenly-rising warmth in my face from revealing as much. You promise yourself a pleasant moment, said he, in reading that letter; you will open it when alone—nest-ce pas? Ah! a smile answers. Well, well! one should not be too harsh; la jeunesse na quun temps. Monsieur, monsieur! I cried, or rather whispered after him, as he turned to go, do not leave me under a mistake. This is merely a friends letter. Without reading it, I can vouch for that. Je conçois, on sait ce que cest quun ami, bon-jour, mademoiselle! But, monsieur, here is your handkerchief. Keep it, keep it, till the letter is read, then bring it me; I shall read the billets tenor in your eyes. When he was gone, the pupils having already poured out of the school-room into the berceau, and thence into the garden and court to take their customary recreation before the five-oclock dinner, I stood a moment thinking, and absently twisting the handkerchief round my arm. For some reason—gladdened, I think, by a sudden return of the golden glimmer of childhood, roused by an unwonted renewal of its buoyancy, made merry by the liberty of the closing hour, and, above all, solaced at heart by the joyous consciousness of that treasure in the case, box, drawer up-stairs,—I fell to playing with the handkerchief as if it were a ball, casting it into the air and catching it as it fell. The game was stopped by another hand than mine-a hand emerging from a paletôt-sleeve and stretched over my shoulder; it caught the extemporized plaything and bore it away with these sullen words: Je vois bien que vous vous moquez de moi et de mes effets. Really that little man was dreadful: a mere sprite of caprice and, ubiquity: one never knew either his whim or his whereabout. CHAPTER XXII. THE LETTER. WHEN all was still in the house; when dinner was over and the noisy recreation-hour past; when darkness had set in, and the quiet lamp of study was lit in the refectory; when the externes were gone home, the clashing door and clamorous bell hushed for the evening; when madame was safely settled in the salle-à-manger in company with her mother and some friends; I then glided to the kitchen, begged a bougie for one half-hour for a particular occasion, found acceptance of my petition at the hands of my friend Goton, who answered, Mais certainement, chou-chou, vous en aurez deux, si vous voulez. And, light in hand, I mounted noiseless to the dormitory. Great was my chagrin to find in that apartment a pupil gone to bed indisposed,—greater when I recognized amid the muslin night-cap borders, the figure chiffonnée of Mistress Ginevra Fanshawe—supine at this moment, it is true—but certain to wake and overwhelm me with chatter when the interruption would be least acceptable; indeed, as I watched her, a slight twinkling of the eyelids warned me that the present appearance of repose might be but a ruse, assumed to cover sly vigilance over Timons movements; she was not to be trusted. And I had so wished to be alone, just to read my precious letter in peace. Well, I must go to the classes. Having sought and found my prize in its casket, I descended. Ill-luck pursued me. The classes were undergoing sweeping and purification by candle-light according to hebdomadal custom. Benches were piled on desks, the air was dim with dust, damp coffee-grounds (used by Labassecourien housemaids instead of tea-leaves) darkened the floor; all was hopeless confusion. Baffled, but not beaten, I withdrew, bent as resolutely as ever on finding solitude somewhere. Taking a key whereof I knew the repository, I mounted three staircases in succession, reached a dark, narrow, silent landing, opened a worm-eaten door, and dived into the deep, black, cold garret. Here none would follow me—none interrupt—not madame herself. I shut the garret-door; I placed my light on a doddered and moldy chest of drawers; I put on a shawl, for the air was ice-cold; I took my letter; trembling with sweet impatience, I broke its seal. Will it be long—will it be short? thought I, passing my hand across my eyes to dissipate the silvery dimness of a suave, south-wind shower. It was long. Will it be cool? Will it be kind? It was kind. To my checked, bridled, disciplined expectation, it seemed very kind; to my longing and famished thought it seemed, perhaps, kinder than it was. So little had I hoped, so much had I feared. There was a fullness of delight in this taste of fruition—such, perhaps, as many a human being passes through life without ever knowing. The poor English teacher in the frosty garret, reading by a dim candle guttering in the wintry air, a letter simply good-natured—nothing more—though that good-nature then seemed to me godlike, was happier than most queens in palaces. Of course, happiness of such shallow origin could be but brief; yet while it lasted, it was genuine and exquisite: a bubble—but a sweet bubble—of real honey-dew. Dr. John had written to me at length; he had written to me with pleasure; he had written in benignant mood, dwelling with sunny satisfaction on scenes that had passed before his eyes and mine,—on places we had visited together—on conversations we had held—on all the little subject-matter, in short, of the last few halcyon weeks. But the cordial core of the delight was, a conviction the blithe, genial language generously imparted, that it had been poured out not merely to content me—but to gratify himself. A gratification he might never more desire, never more seek—an hypothesis in every point of view approaching the certain; but that concerned the future. This present moment had no pain, no blot, no want; full, pure, perfect, it deeply blessed me. A passing seraph seemed to have rested beside me, leaned towards my heart, and reposed on its throb a softening, cooling, healing, hallowing wing. Dr. John, you pained me afterwards: forgiven be every ill—freely forgiven—for the sake of that one dear remembered good! Are there wicked things, not human, which envy human bliss? Are there evil influences haunting the air, and poisoning it for man? What was near me? Something in that vast solitary garret sounded strangely. Most surely and certainly I heard, as it seemed, a stealthy foot on that floor, a sort of gliding out from the direction of the black recess haunted by the malefactor cloaks. I turned: my light was dim; the room was long—but as I live! I saw in the middle of that ghostly chamber a figure all black and white; the skirts straight, narrow, black; the head bandaged, veiled, white. Say what you will, reader—tell me I was nervous or mad; affirm that I was unsettled by the excitement of that letter; declare that I dreamed: this I vow—I saw there—in that room—on that night—an image like—a NUN. I cried not; I sickened. Had the shape approached me I might have swooned. It receded; I made for the door. How I descended all the stairs I know not. By instinct I shunned the refectory, and shaped my course to madames sitting-room: I burst in. I said— There is something in the grenier: I have been there: I saw something. Go and look at it, all of you! I said, All of you; for the room seemed to me full of people, though, in truth there were but four present: Madame Beck; her mother, Madame Kint, who was out of health, and now staying with her on a visit, her brother, M. Victor Kint, and another gentleman, who, when I entered the room, was conversing with the old lady, and had his back towards the door. My mortal fear and faintness must have made me deadly pale. I felt cold and shaking. They all rose in consternation, they surrounded me. I urged them to go to the grenier; the sight of the gentlemen did me good and gave me courage; it seemed as if there were some help and hope with men at hand. I turned to the door, beckoning them to follow. They wanted to stop me; but I said they must come this way; they must see what I had seen—something strange, standing in the middle of the garret. And, now, I remembered my letter, left on the drawers with the light. This precious letter! Flesh or spirit must be defied for its sake. I flew up-stairs, hastening the faster as I knew I was followed: they were obliged to come. Lo! when I reached the garret-door, all within was dark as a pit: the light was out. Happily, some one, madame, I think, with her usual calm sense, had brought a lamp from the room; speedily, therefore, as they came up, a ray pierced the opaque blackness; there stood the bougie quenched on the drawers; but where was the letter? And I looked for that now, and not for the nun. My letter! my letter! I panted and plained, almost beside myself. I groped on the floor, wringing my hands wildly. Cruel, cruel doom! To have my bit of comfort preternaturally snatched from me ere I had well tasted its virtue! I dont know what the others were doing; I could not watch them; they asked me questions I did not answer; they ransacked all corners; they prattled about this and that, disarrangement of cloaks, a breach or crack in the sky-light—I know not what. Something or somebody has been here, was sagely averred. Oh! they have taken my letter! cried the groveling, groping, monomaniac. What letter, Lucy? My dear girl, what letter? asked a known voice in my ear. Could I believe that ear? No: and I looked up. Could I trust my eyes? Had I recognized the tone? Did I now look on the face of the writer of that very letter? Was this gentleman near me in this dim garret—John Graham—Dr. Bretton himself? Yes; it was. He had been called in that very evening to prescribe for some access of illness in old Madame Kint; he was the second gentleman present in the salle-à-manger when I entered. Was it my letter, Lucy? Your own: yours—the letter you wrote to me. I had come here to read it quietly. I could not find another spot where it was possible to have it to myself. I had saved it all day—never opened it till this evening: it was scarcely glanced over; I cannot bearto lose it. Oh, my letter! Hush! dont cry and distress yourself so cruelly. What is it worth? Hush! Come out of this cold room; they are going to send for the police now to examine further; we need not stay here—come, we will go down. A warm hand, taking my cold fingers, led me down to a room where there was a fire. Dr. John and I sat before the stove. He talked to me and soothed me with unutterable goodness, promising me twenty letters for the one lost. If there are words and wrongs like knives, whose deep- inflicted lacerations never heal—cutting injuries and insults of serrated and poison-dripping edge—so, too, there are consolations of tone too fine for the ear not fondly and for ever to retain their echo—caressing kindnesses—loved, lingered over through a whole life, recalled with unfaded tenderness, and answering the call with undimmed shine, out of that raven cloud foreshadowing Death himself. I have been told since that Dr. Bretton was not nearly so perfect as I thought him; that his actual character lacked the depth, height, compass, and endurance it possessed in my creed. I dont know: he was as good to me as the well is to the parched wayfarer—as the sun to the shivering jail-bird. I remember him heroic. Heroic at this moment will I hold him to be. He asked me, smiling, why I cared for his letter so very much. I thought, but did not say, that I prized it like the blood in my veins. I only answered that I had so few letters to care for. I am sure you did not read it, said he, or you would think nothing of it! I read it, but only once. I want to read it again. I am sorry it is lost. And I could not help weeping afresh. Lucy, Lucy, my poor little god-sister (if there be such a relationship), here—here is your letter. Why is it not better worth such tears, and such tenderly exaggerating faith? Curious, characteristic manœuvre! His quick eye had seen the letter on the floor where I sought it: his hand, as quick, had snatched it up. He had hidden it in his waistcoat pocket. If my trouble had wrought with a whit less stress and reality, I doubt whether he would ever have acknowledged or restored it. Tears of temperature one degree cooler than those I shed would only have amused Dr. John. Pleasure at regaining made me forget merited reproach for the teasing torment; my joy was great; it could not be concealed; yet I think it broke out more in countenance than language. I said little. Are you satisfied now? asked Dr. John. I replied that I was—satisfied and happy. Well then, he proceeded, how do you feel physically? Are you growing calmer? Not much; for you tremble like a leaf still. It seemed to me, however, that I was sufficiently calm, at least I felt no longer terrified. I expressed myself composed. You are able, consequently, to tell me what you saw? Your account was quite vague, do you know? You looked white as the wall, but you only spoke of something, not defining what. Was it a man? Was it an animal? What was it? I never will tell exactly what I saw, said I, unless some else sees it too, and then I will give corroborative testimony; but otherwise, I shall be discredited and accused of dreaming. Tell me, said Dr. Bretton; I will hear it in my professional character: I look on you now from a professional point of view, and I read, perhaps, all you would conceal—in your eye, which is curiously vivid and restless; in your cheek, which the blood has forsaken; in your hand, which you cannot steady. Come, Lucy, speak and tell me. You would laugh—— If you dont tell me you shall have no more letters. You are laughing now. I will again take away that single epistle; being mine, I think I have a right to reclaim it. I felt raillery in his words: it made me grave and quiet, but I folded up the letter and covered it from sight. You may hide it, but I can possess it any moment I choose. You dont know my skill in sleight of hand. I might practice as a conjurer if I liked. Mamma says sometimes, too, that I have a harmonizing property of tongue and eye—but you never saw that in me—did you, Lucy? Indeed—indeed—when you were a mere boy I used to see both, far more then than now—for now you are strong, and strength dispenses with subtlety. But still, Dr. John, you have what they call in this country un air fin, that nobody can, mistake. Madame Beck saw it, and—— And liked it, said he, laughing, because she has it herself. But, Lucy, give me that letter—you dont really care for it. To this provocative speech I made no answer. Graham in mirthful mood must not be humored too far. Just now there was a new sort of smile playing about his lips—very sweet, but it grieved me somehow—a new sort of light sparkling in his eyes, not hostile, but not reassuring. I rose to go—I bid him good-night a little sadly. His sensitiveness—that peculiar, apprehensive, detective faculty of his—felt in a moment the unspoken complaint—the scarce-thought reproach. He asked quietly if I was offended. I shook my head as implying a negative. Permit me, then, to speak a little seriously to you before you go. You are in a highly nervous state. I feel sure from what is apparent in your look and manner, however well-controlled—that whilst alone this evening in that dismal, perishing, sepulchral garret—that dungeon under the leads, smelling of damp and mold, rank with pthisis and catarrh—a place you never ought to enter—that you saw, or thought you saw, some appearance peculiarly calculated to impress the imagination. I know that you arenot, nor ever were, subject to material terrors, fears of robbers, &c.—I am not so sure that a visitation, bearing a spectral character, would not shake your very mind. Be calm now. This is all a matter of the nerves, I see; but just specify the vision. You will tell nobody? Nobody—most certainly. You may trust me as implicitly as you did Père Silas. Indeed, the doctor is perhaps the safer confessor of the two, though he has not gray hair. You will not laugh? Perhaps I may, to do you good, but not in scorn. Lucy, I feel as a friend towards you, though your timid nature is slow to trust. He now looked like a friend: that indescribable smile and sparkle were gone; those formidable arched curves of lip, nostril, eyebrow were depressed; repose marked his attitude—attention sobered his aspect. Won to confidence, I told him exactly what I had seen: ere now I had narrated to him the legend of the house—whiling away with that narrative an hour of a certain mild October afternoon, when be and I rode through Bois lEtang. He sat and thought, and while he thought, we heard them all coming down-stairs. Are they going to interrupt? said he, glancing at the door with an annoyed expression. They will not come here, I answered, for we were in the little salon where madame never sat in the evening, and where it was by mere chance that heat was still lingering in the stove. They passed the door and went on to the salle-à-manger. Now, he pursued, they will talk about thieves, burglars, and so on: let them do so—mind you say nothing, and keep your resolution of describing your nun to nobody. She may appear to you again: dont start, You think then, I said, with secret horror, she came out of my brain, and is now gone in there, and may glide out again at an hour and a day when I look not for her? I think it a case of spectral illusion; I fear, following on and resulting from long-continued mental conflict. Oh, Doctor John—I shudder at the thought of being liable to such an illusion! It seemed so real. Is there no cure?—no preventive? Happiness is the cure—a cheerful mind the preventive—cultivate both. No mockery in this world ever sounds to me so hollow as that of being told to cultivate happiness. What does such advice mean? Happiness is not a potato, to be planted in mold, and tilled with manure. Happiness is a glory shining far down upon us out of Heaven. She is a divine dew which the soul, on certain of its summer mornings, feels dropping upon it from the amaranth bloom and golden fruitage of Paradise. Cultivate happiness! I said briefly to the doctor; do you cultivate happiness? How do you manage? I am a cheerful fellow by nature; and then ill-luck has never dogged me. Adversity gave me and my mother one passing scowl and brush, but we defied her, or rather laughed at her, and she went by. There is no cultivation in all this. I do not give way to melancholy. Yes: I have seen you subdued by that feeling. About Ginevra Fanshawe—eh? Did she not sometimes make you miserable? Pooh! stuff! nonsense! You see I am better now. If a laughing eye with a lively light, and a face, bright with beaming and healthy energy, could attest that he was better, better he certainly was. You do not look much amiss, or greatly out of condition, I allowed. And why, Lucy, cant you look and feel as I do—buoyant, courageous, and fit to defy all the nuns and flirts in Christendom? I would give gold on the spot just to see you snap your fingers. Try the manœuvre. If I were to bring Miss Fanshawe into your presence just now? I vow, Lucy, she should not move me; or, she should move me but by one thing—true, yes, and passionate love. I would accord forgiveness at no less a price. Indeed! a smile of hers would have been a fortune to you a while since. Transformed, Lucy, transformed! Remember, you once called me a slave! but I am a free man now! He stood up: in the port of his head, the carriage of his figure, in his beaming eye and mien, there revealed itself a liberty which was more than ease—a mood which was disdain of his past bondage. Miss Fanshawe, he pursued, has led me through a phase of feeling which is over: I have entered another condition, and am now much disposed to exact love for love—passion for passion—and good measure of it, too. Ah, Doctor! Doctor! you said it was your nature to pursue Love under difficulties—to be charmed by a proud insensibility!. He laughed, and answered, My nature varies: the mood of one hour is sometimes the mockery of the next. Well, Lucy (drawing on his gloves), will the Nun come again to-night, think you? I dont think she will. Give her my compliments, if she does—Dr. Johns compliments—and entreat her to have the goodness to wait a visit from him. Lucy, was she a pretty nun? Had she a pretty face? You have not told me that yet; and that is the really important point. She had a white cloth over her face, said I, but her eyes glittered. Confusion to her goblin trappings! cried he, irreverently, but at least she had handsome eyes—bright and soft. Cold and fixed, was the reply. No, no, well none of her; she shall not haunt you, Lucy. Give her that shake of the hand, if she comes again. Will she standthat, do you think? I thought it too kind and cordial for a ghost to stand; and so was the smile which matched it, and accompanied his Good-night. ________________________________________ And had there been anything in the garret? What did they discover? I believe, on the closest examination, their discoveries amounted to very little. They talked, at first, of the cloaks being disturbed; but Madame Beck told me afterwards she thought they hung much as usual: and as for the broken pane in the skylight, she affirmed that aperture was rarely without one or more panes broken or cracked: and besides, a heavy hail-storm had fallen a few days ago. Madame questioned me very closely as to what I had seen, but I only described an obscure figure clothed in black; I took care not to breathe the word nun, certain that this word would at once suggest to her mind an idea of romance and unreality. She charged me to say nothing on the subject to any servant, pupil, or teacher, and highly commended my discretion in coming to her private salle-à-manger, instead of carrying the tale of horror to the school refectory. Thus the subject dropped. I was left secretly and sadly to wonder, in my own mind, whether that strange thing was of this world, or of a realm beyond the grave, or whether indeed it was only the child of malady, and I of that malady the prey. TO BE CONTINUED
Posted on: Wed, 06 Nov 2013 15:37:28 +0000
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