“The whole matter is going to fail,’ he began. ‘Louise Vanderkelkov has fallen ill—at least so her ridiculous mother asserts ; for my part, I feel sure she might play if she would: it is only good-will that lacks. She was charged with a rôle, as you know, or do not know—it is equal: without that rôle the play is stopped. There are now but a few hours in which to learn it: not a girl in this school would hear reason, and accept the task. Forsooth, it is not an interesting, not an amiable, part; their vile amour-propre—that base quality of which women have so much—would revolt from it. Englishwomen are either the best or the worst of their sex. Dieu sait que je les déteste comme la peste, ordinairement‘cs (this between his recreant teeth). ‘I apply to an Englishwoman to rescue me. What is her answer—Yes, or No?’
A thousand objections rushed into my mind. The foreign language, the limited time, the public display ... Inclination recoiled, Ability faltered, Self-respect (that ‘vile quality’) trembled. ‘Non, non, non!’ said all these; but looking up at M. Paul, and seeing in his vexed, fiery, and searching eye, a sort of appeal behind all its menace—my lips dropped the word ‘oui.’ For a moment, his rigid countenance relaxed with a quiver of content: quickly bent up again, however, he went on,—
‘Vîte à l’ouvrage!ct Here is the book; here is your rôle: read.’ And I read. He did not commend; at some passages he scowled and stamped. He gave me a lesson: I diligently imitated. It was a disagreeable part,—a man’s—an empty-headed fop’s. One could put into it neither heart nor soul: I hated it. The play—a mere trifle—ran chiefly on the efforts of a brace of rivals to gain the hand of a fair coquette. One lover was called the ‘Ours,’ a good and gallant but unpolished man, a sort of diamond in the rough; the other was a butterfly, a talker, and a traitor: and I was to be the butterfly, talker, and traitor.
I did my best—which was bad, I know: it provoked M. Paul; he fumed. Putting both hands to the work, I endeavoured to do better than my best; I presume he gave me credit for good intentions; he professed to be partially content. ‘Ça ira!’ he cried; and as voices began sounding from the garden, and white dresses fluttering among the trees, he added: ‘You must withdraw: you must be alone to learn this. Come with me.’
Without being allowed time or power to deliberate, I found myself in the same breath convoyed along as in a species of whirlwind, up stairs, up two pair of stairs, nay, actually up three (for this fiery little man seemed as by instinct to know his way everywhere); to the solitary and lofty attic was I borne, put in and locked in, the key being on the door, and that key he took with him, and vanished.
The attic was no pleasant place: I believe he did not know how unpleasant it was, or he never would have locked me in with so little ceremony. In this summer weather, it was hot as Africa; as in winter, it was always cold as Greenland. Boxes and lumber filled it; old dresses draped its unstained wall—cobwebs its unswept ceiling. Well was it known to be tenanted by rats, by black beetles, and by cockroaches—nay, rumour affirmed that the ghostly Nun of the garden had once been seen here. A partial darkness obscured one end, across which, as for deeper mystery, an old russet curtain was drawn, by way of screen to a sombre band of winter cloaks, pendant each from its pin—like a malefactor from his gibbet. From amongst these cloaks, and behind that curtain, the Nun was said to issue. I did not believe this, nor was I troubled by apprehension thereof; but I saw a very dark and large rat, with a long tail, come gliding out from that squalid alcove; and, moreover, my eye fell on many a black beetle, dotting the floor. These objects discomposed me more, perhaps, than it would be wise to say, as also did the dust, lumber, and stifling heat of the place. The last inconvenience would soon have become intolerable, had I not found means to open and prop up the sky-light, thus admitting some freshness. Underneath this aperture I pushed a large empty chest, and having mounted upon it a smaller box, and wiped from both the dust, I gathered my dress (my best, the reader must remember, and therefore a legitimate object of care) fastidiously round me, ascended this species of extempore throne, and being seated, commenced the acquisition of my task; while I learned, not forgetting to keep a sharp look-out on the black beetles and cockroaches, of which, more even, I believe, than of the rats, I sat in mortal dread.
My impression at first was that I had undertaken what it really was impossible to perform, and I simply resolved to do my best and be resigned to fail. I soon found, however, that one part in so short a piece was not more than memory could master at a few hours’ notice. I learned and learned on, first in a whisper, and then aloud. Perfectly secure from human audience, I acted my part before the garret-vermin. Entering into its emptiness, frivolity, and falsehood, with a spirit inspired by scorn and impatience, I took my revenge on this ‘fat,’ by making him as fatuitous as I possibly could.
In this exercise the afternoon passed: day began to glide into evening; and I, who had eaten nothing since breakfast, grew excessively hungry. Now I thought of the collation, which doubtless they were just then devouring in the garden far below. (I had seen in the vestibule a basketful of small pâtés à la crême, than which nothing in the whole range of cookery seemed to me better) . A pâté, or a square of cake, it seemed to me would come very apropos; and as my relish for these dainties increased, it began to appear somewhat hard that I should pass my holiday, fasting and in prison. Remote as was the attic from the street-door and vestibule, yet the ever-tinkling bell was faintly audible here; and also the ceaseless roll of wheels on the tormented pavement. I knew that the house and garden were thronged, and that all was gay and glad below; here it began to grow dusk: the beetles were fading from my sight; I trembled lest they should steal on me a march, mount my throne unseen, and unsuspected, invade my skirts. Impatient and apprehensive, I recommenced the rehearsal of my part merely to kill time. Just as I was concluding, the long-delayed rattle of the key in the lock came to my ear—no unwelcome sound. M. Paul (I could just see through the dusk that it was M. Paul, for light enough still lingered to show the velvet blackness of his close shorn head, and the sallow ivory of his brow) looked in.
‘Brava!’ cried he, holding the door open, and remaining at the threshold. ‘J’ai tout entendu. C‘est assez bien. Encore!’
A moment I hesitated.
‘Encore!’ said he sternly. ‘Et point de grimaces! A bas la timidité!’cu
Again I went through the part, but not half so well as I had spoken it alone.
‘Enfin, elle le sait,’cv said he, half dissatisfied, ‘and one cannot be fastidious or exacting under the circumstances.’ Then he added, ‘You may yet have twenty minutes for preparation: au revoir!’ And he was going.
‘Monsieur,’ I called out, taking courage.
‘Eh bien. Qu’est ce que c‘est, mademoiselle?’
‘J’ai bien faim.’
‘Comment, vous avez faim! Et la collation?’cw
‘I know nothing about it. I have not seen it, shut up here.’
‘Ah! C’est vrai,’cx cried he.
In a moment my throne was abdicated, the attic evacuated; an inverse repetition of the impetus which had brought me up into the attic, instantly took me down—down—down to the very kitchen. I thought I should have gone to the cellar. The cook was imperatively ordered to produce food, and I, as imperatively, was commanded to eat. To my great joy this food was limited to coffee and cake: I had feared wine and sweets, which I did not like. How he guessed that I should like a petit pâté à la crême I cannot tell; but he went out and procured me one from some quarter. With considerable willingness I ate and drank, keeping the petit pâté till the last, as a bonne bouche. M. Paul superintended my repast, and almost forced upon me more than I could swallow.
‘A la bonne heure,’ he cried, when I signified that I really could take no more, and, with uplifted hands, implored to be spared the additional roll on which he had just spread butter. ‘You will set me down as a species of tyrant and Blue-beard, starving women in a garret; whereas, after all, I am no such thing. Now, madem
oiselle, do you feel courage and strength to appear?’
I said, I thought I did; though, in truth, I was perfectly confused, and could hardly tell how I felt: but this little man was of the order of beings who must not be opposed, unless you possessed an all-dominant force sufficient to crush him at once.
‘Come then,’ said he, offering his hand.
I gave him mine, and he set off with a rapid walk, which obliged me to run at his side in order to keep pace. In the carré he stopped a moment; it was lit with large lamps; the wide doors of the classes were open, and so were the equally wide garden-doors ; orange-trees in tubs, and tall flowers in pots, ornamented these portals on each side; groups of ladies and gentlemen in evening-dress stood and walked amongst the flowers. Within, the long vista of the school-rooms presented a thronging, undulating, murmuring, waving, streaming multitude, all rose, and blue, and half translucent white. There were lustres burning overhead; far off there was a stage, a solemn green curtain, a row of foot-lights.
‘N’est ce pas que c‘est beau?’cy demanded my companion.
I should have said it was, but my heart got up into my throat. M. Paul discovered this, and gave me a side-scowl and a little shake for my pains.
‘I will do my best, but I wish it was over,’ said I; then I asked: ‘Are we to walk through that crowd?’
‘By no means: I manage matters better: we pass through the garden—here.’
In an instant we were out of doors; the cool, calm night revived me somewhat. It was moonless, but the reflex from the many glowing windows lit the court brightly, and even the alleys—dimly. Heaven was cloudless, and grand with the quiver of its living fires. How soft are the nights of the continent! How bland, balmy, safe! No sea-fog; no chilling damp: mistless as noon, and fresh as morning.
Having crossed court and garden, we reached the glass door of the first classe. It stood open, like all other doors that night; we passed, and then I was ushered into a small cabinet, dividing
‘De l’ordre! Du silence!’ cried M. Paul. ‘Is this chaos?’ he demanded; and there was a hush. With a dozen words, and as many gestures, he turned out half the persons present, and obliged the remnant to fall into rank. Those left were all in costume : they were the performers, and this was the greenroom.
M. Paul introduced me. All stared and some tittered. It was a surprise: they had not expected the Englishwoman would play in a vaudeville. Ginevra Fanshawe, beautifully dressed for her part, and looking fascinatingly pretty, turned on me a pair of eyes as round as beads. In the highest spirit, unperturbed by fear or bashfulness, delighted indeed at the thought of shining off before hundreds—my entrance seemed to transfix her with amazement in the midst of her joy. She would have exclaimed, but M. Paul held her and all the rest in check.
Having surveyed and criticised the whole troop, he turned to me.
‘You, too, must be dressed for your part.’
‘Dressed—dressed like a man!’ exclaimed Zélie St. Pierre, darting forwards; adding with officiousness, ‘I will dress her myself.’
To be dressed like a man did not please, and would not suit me. I had consented to take a man’s name and part; as to his dress—halte là! No. I would keep my own dress; come what might. M. Paul might storm, might rage: I would keep my own dress. I said so, with a voice as resolute in intent, as it was low, and perhaps unsteady, in utterance.
He did not immediately storm or rage, as I fully thought he would: he stood silent. But Zélie again interposed.
‘She will make a capital petit-maître. Here are the garments, all—all complete: somewhat too large, but I will arrange all that. Come chère amie—belle Anglaise!’
And she sneered, for I was not ‘belle.’ She seized my hand, she was drawing me away. M. Paul stood impassible—neutral.
‘You must not resist,’ pursued St. Pierre—for resist I did. ‘You will spoil all, destroy the mirth of the piece, the enjoyment of the company, sacrifice everything to your amour-propre. This would be too bad—monsieur will never permit this?’
She sought his eye. I watched, likewise, for a glance. He gave her one, and then he gave me one. ‘Stop!’ he said slowly, arresting St. Pierre, who continued her efforts to drag me after her. Everybody awaited the decision. He was not angry, not irritated ; I perceived that and took heart.
‘You do not like these clothes?’ he asked, pointing to the masculine vestments.
‘I don’t object to some of them, but I won’t have them all.’
‘How must it be, then? How, accept a man’s part, and go on the stage dressed as a woman? This is an amateur affair, it is true—a vaudeville de pensionnat, certain modifications I might sanction, yet something you must have to announce you as of the nobler sex.’
‘And I will, monsieur; but it must be arranged in my own way: nobody must meddle; the things must not be forced upon me. Just let me dress myself.’
Monsieur, without another word, took the costume from St. Pierre, gave it to me, and permitted me to pass into the dressing-room. Once alone, I grew calm, and collectedly went to work. Retaining my woman’s garb without the slightest retrenchment, I merely assumed in addition, a little vest, a collar, and cravat, and a paletôt of small dimensions; the whole being the costume of a brother of one of the pupils. Having loosened my hair out of its braids, made up the long back hair close, and brushed the front hair to one side, I took my hat and gloves in my hand and came out. M. Paul was waiting and so were the others. He looked at me. ‘That may pass in a Pensionnat,’ he pronounced. Then added, not unkindly, ‘Courage, mon ami! Un peu de sang froid—un peu d’aplomb, M. Lucien, et tout ira bien.’cz
St. Pierre sneered again, in her cold, snaky manner.
I was irritable, because excited, and I could not help turning upon her and saying, that if she were not a lady and I a gentleman, I should feel disposed to call her out.
‘After the play, after the play,’ said M. Paul. ‘I will then divide my pair of pistols between you, and we will settle the dispute according to form: it will only be the old quarrel of France and England.’
But now the moment approached for the performance to commence. M. Paul setting us before him, harangued us briefly, like a general addressing soldiers about to charge. I don’t know what he said, except that he recommended each to penetrate herself well with a sense of her personal significance. God knows, I thought this advice superfluous for some of us. A bell tinkled. I and two more were ushered on to the stage. The bell tinkled again. I had to speak the very first words.
‘Do not look at the crowd, nor think of it,’ whispered M. Paul in my ear. ‘Imagine yourself in the garret, acting to the rats.’
He vanished. The curtain drew up—shrivelled to the ceiling ; the bright lights, the long room, the gay throng burst upon us. I thought of the black beetles, the old boxes, the worm-eaten bureaux. I said my say badly; but I said it. That first speech was the difficulty; it revealed to me this fact, that it was not the crowd I feared, so much as my own voice. Foreigners and strangers, the crowd were nothing to me. Nor did I think of them. When my tongue once got free, and my voice took its true pitch, and found its natural tone, I thought of nothing but the personage I represented—and of M. Paul, who was listening, watching, prompting in the side-scenes.
By-and-by, feeling the right power come—the spring demanded gush and rise inwardly—I became sufficiently composed to notice my fellow-actors. Some of them played very well; especially Ginevra Fanshawe, who had to coquette between two suitors, and managed admirably: in fact she was in her element. I observed that she once or twice threw a certain marked fondness, and pointed partiality into her manner towards me—the fop. With such emphasis and animation did she favour me, such glances did she dart out into the listening and applauding crowd, that to me—who knew her—it presently became evident she was acting at some one; and I followed her eye, her smile, her gesture, and ere long discovered that she had at least singled out a handsome and distinguished aim for her shafts; full in the path
of those arrows—taller than other spectators, and therefore more sure to receive them—stood, in attitude quiet but intent, a well-known form—that of Dr. John.
The spectacle seemed somehow suggestive. There was language in Dr. John’s look, though I cannot tell what he said; it animated me: I drew out of it a history; I put my idea into the part I performed; I threw it into my wooing of Ginevra. In the ‘Ours,’ or sincere lover, I saw Dr. John. Did I pity him, as erst? No, I hardened my heart, rivalled and out-rivalled him. I knew myself but a fop, but where he was outcast I could please. Now I know I acted as if wishful and resolute to win and conquer. Ginevra seconded me; between us we half-changed the nature of the rôle, gliding it from top to toe. Between the acts M. Paul told us he knew not what possessed us, and half expostulated, ‘C’est, peutêtre plus beau que votre modèle,’ said he, ‘mais ce n‘est pas juste.’da I know not what possessed me either; but somehow, my longing was to eclipse the ‘Ours:’ i.e., Dr. John. Ginevra was tender; how could I be otherwise than chivalric? Retaining the letter, I recklessly altered the spirit of the rôle. Without heart, without interest, I could not play it at all. It must be played—in went the yearned-for seasoning—thus flavoured, I played it with relish.
What I felt that night, and what I did, I no more expected to feel and do, than to be lifted in a trance to the seventh heaven. Cold, reluctant, apprehensive, I had accepted a part to please another: ere long, warming, becoming interested, taking courage, I acted to please myself. Yet the next day, when I thought it over, I quite disapproved of these amateur performances ; and though glad that I had obliged M. Paul, and tried my own strength for once, I took a firm resolution never to be drawn into a similar affair. A keen relish for dramatic expression had revealed itself as part of my nature; to cherish and exercise this new-found faculty might gift me with a world of delight, but it would not do for a mere looker-on at life: the strength and longing must be put by; and I put them by, and fastened them in with the lock of a resolution which neither Time nor Temptation has since picked.
Villette (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 19
