Villette (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Charlotte Bronte

  No sooner was the play over and well over, than the choleric and arbitrary M. Paul underwent a metamorphosis. His hour of managerial responsibility past, he at once laid aside his magisterial austerity; in a moment he stood amongst us, vivacious, kind, and social, shook hands with us all round, thanked us separately, and announced his determination that each of us should in turn be his partner in the coming ball. On his claiming my promise, I told him I did not dance. ‘For once I must,’ was the answer; and if I had not slipped aside and kept out of his way, he would have compelled me to this second performance. But I had acted enough for one evening; it was time I retired into myself and my ordinary life. My dun-coloured dress did well enough under a paletôt on the stage, but would not suit a waltz or a quadrille. Withdrawing to a quiet nook, whence unobserved I could observe—the ball, its splendours and its pleasures passed before me as a spectacle.

  Again Ginevra Fanshawe was the belle, the fairest and the gayest present; she was selected to open the ball: very lovely she looked, very gracefully she danced, very joyously she smiled. Such scenes were her triumphs—she was the child of pleasure. Work or suffering found her listless and dejected, powerless and repining; but gaiety expanded her butterfly’s wings, lit up their gold-dust and bright spots, made her flash like a gem, and flush like a flower. At all ordinary diet and plain beverage she would pout; but she fed on creams and ices like a humming-bird on honey-paste: sweet wine was her element and sweet cake her daily bread. Ginevra lived her full life in a ball-room; elsewhere she drooped dispirited.

  Think not, reader, that she thus bloomed and sparkled for the mere sake of M. Paul her partner, or that she lavished her best graces that night for the edification of her companions only, or for that of the parents and grand-parents, who filled the carré and lined the ball-room; under circumstances so insipid and limited, with motives so chilly and vapid, Ginevra would scarce have deigned to walk one quadrille, and weariness and fretfulness would have replaced animation and good-humour, but she knew of a leaven in the otherwise heavy festal mass which lightened the whole; she tasted a condiment which gave it zest; she perceived reasons justifying the display of her choicest attractions.

  In the ball-room, indeed, not a single male spectator was to be seen who was not married and a father—M. Paul excepted—that gentleman, too, being the sole creature of his sex permitted to lead out a pupil to the dance; and this exceptional part was allowed him, partly as a matter of old-established custom (for he was a kinsman of Madame Beck’s, and high in her confidence), partly because he would always have his own way and do as he pleased, and partly because—wilful, passionate, partial, as he might be—he was the soul of honour, and might be trusted with a regiment of the fairest and purest, in perfect security that under his leadership they would come to no harm. Many of the girls—it may be noted in parenthesis—were not pure-minded at all, very much otherwise; but they no more dare betray their natural coarseness in M. Paul’s presence, than they dare tread purposely on his corns, laugh in his face during a stormy apostrophe, or speak above their breath while some crisis of irritability was covering his human visage with the mask of an intelligent tiger. M. Paul, then, might dance with whom he would—and woe be to the interference which put him out of step.

  Others there were admitted as spectators—with (seeming) reluctance, through prayers, by influence, under restriction, by special and difficult exercise of Madame Beck’s gracious good-nature, and whom she all the evening—with her own personal surveillance—kept far aloof at the remotest, drearest, coldest, darkest side of the carré—a small, forlorn, band of ‘jeunes gens;’db these being all of the best families, grown-up sons of mothers present, and whose sisters were pupils in the school. That whole evening was madame on duty beside these jeunes gens‘—attentive to them as a mother, but strict with them as a dragon. There was a sort of cordon sketched before them, which they wearied her with prayers to be permitted to pass, and just to revive themselves by one dance with that ‘belle blonde,’ or that ‘jolie brune,’ or ‘cette jeune fille magnifique aux cheveux noirs comme le jais.’dc

  ‘Taisez-vous!’ madame would reply, heroically and inexorably. ‘Vous ne passerez pas à moins que ce ne soit sur mon cadavre, et vous ne danserez qu’avec la nonnette du jardin’dd (alluding to the legend). And she majestically walked to and fro along their disconsolate and impatient line, like a little Buonaparte in a mouse-coloured silk gown.

  Madame knew something of the world; madame knew much of human nature. I don’t think that another directress in Villette would have dared to admit a jeune homme’ within her walls; but madame knew that by granting such admission, on an occasion like the present, a bold stroke might be struck, and a great point gained.

  In the first place, the parents were made accomplices to the deed, for it was only through their mediation it was brought about. Secondly: the admission of these rattlesnakes, so fascinating and so dangerous, served to draw out madame precisely in her strongest character—that of a first-rate surveillante. Thirdly: their presence furnished a most piquant ingredient to the entertainment: the pupils knew it, and saw it, and the view of such golden apples shining afar off, animated them with a spirit no other circumstance could have kindled. The children’s pleasure spread to the parents; life and mirth circulated quickly round the ball-room; the jeunes gens’ themselves, though restrained, were amused: for madame never permitted them to feel dull—and thus Madame Beck’s fête annually ensured a success unknown to the fête of any other directress in the land.

  I observed that Dr. John was at first permitted to walk at large through the classes: there was about him a manly, responsible look, that redeemed his youth, and half-expiated his beauty; but as soon as the ball began, madame ran up to him.

  ‘Come, Wolf; come,’ said she, laughing: ‘You wear sheep’s clothing, but you must quit the fold notwithstanding. Come; I have a fine menagerie of twenty here in the carré: let me place you amongst my collection.’

  ‘But first suffer me to have one dance with one pupil of my choice.’

  ‘Have you the face to ask such a thing? It is madness: it is impiety. Sortez, sortez, et au plus vite.’de

  She drove him before her, and soon had him enclosed within the cordon.

  Ginevra being, I suppose, tired with dancing, sought me out in my retreat. She threw herself on the bench beside me, and (a demonstration I could very well have dispensed with) cast her arms round my neck.

  ‘Lucy Snowe! Lucy Snowe!’ she cried in a somewhat sobbing voice, half hysterical.

  ‘What in the world is the matter?’ I drily said.

  ‘How do I look—how do I look to-night?’ she demanded.

  ‘As usual,’ said I; ‘preposterously vain.’

  ‘Caustic creature! You never have a kind word for me; but in spite of you, and all other envious detractors, I know I am beautiful: I feel it, I see it—for there is a great looking-glass in the dressing-room, where I can view my shape from head to foot. Will you go with me now, and let us two stand before it?’

  ‘I will, Miss Fanshawe: you shall be humoured even to the top of your bent.’

  The dressing-room was very near, and we stepped in. Putting her arm through mine, she drew me to the mirror. Without resistance, remonstrance, or remark, I stood and let her self-love have its feast and triumph: curious to see how much it could swallow—whether it was possible it could feed to satiety—whether any whisper of consideration for others could penetrate her heart, and moderate its vain-glorious exultation.

  Not at all. She turned me and herself round; she viewed us both on all sides; she smiled, she waved her curls, she retouched her sash, she spread her dress, and finally, letting go my arm, and curtseying with mock respect, she said:

  ‘I would not be you for a kingdom.’

  The remark was too naïve to rouse anger; I merely said:

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘And what would you give to be ME?’ she inquired.

  ‘Not a bad sixpence—str
ange as it may sound,’ I replied. ‘You are but a poor creature.’

  ‘You don’t think so in your heart.’

  ‘No; for in my heart you have not the outline of a place: I only occasionally turn you over in my brain.’

  ‘Well, but,’ said she, in an expostulatory tone, ‘just listen to the difference of our positions, and then see how happy am I, and how miserable are you.’

  ‘Go on; I listen.’

  ‘In the first place: I am the daughter of a gentleman of family, and though my father is not rich, I have expectations from an uncle. Then, I am just eighteen, the finest age possible. I have had a continental education, and though I can’t spell, I have abundant accomplishments. I am pretty; you can’t deny that; I may have as many admirers as I choose. This very night I have been breaking the hearts of two gentlemen, and it is the dying look I had from one of them just now, which puts me in such spirits. I do so like to watch them turn red and pale, and scowl and dart fiery glances at each other, and languishing ones at me. There is me—happy ME; now for you, poor soul!

  ‘I suppose you are nobody’s daughter, since you took care of little children when you first came to Villette: you have no relations ; you can’t call yourself young at twenty-three; you have no attractive accomplishments—no beauty. As to admirers, you hardly know what they are; you can’t even talk on the subject : you sit dumb when the other teachers quote their conquests. I believe you never were in love, and never will be; you don’t know the feeling: and so much the better, for though you might have your own heart broken, no living heart will you ever break. Isn’t it all true?’

  ‘A good deal of it is true as gospel, and shrewd besides.

  There must be good in you, Ginevra, to speak so honestly; that snake, Zélie St. Pierre, could not utter what you have uttered. Still, Miss Fanshawe, hapless as I am, according to your showing, sixpence I would not give to purchase you, body and soul.’

  ‘Just because I am not clever, and that is all you think of. Nobody in the world but you cares for cleverness.’

  ‘On the contrary, I consider you are clever, in your way—very smart indeed. But you were talking of breaking hearts—that edifying amusement into the merits of which I don’t quite enter; pray on whom does your vanity lead you to think you have done execution to-night?’

  She approached her lips to my ear—‘Isidore and Alfred de Hamal are both here,’ she whispered.

  ‘Oh! they are? I should like to see them.’

  ‘There’s a dear creature! your curiosity is roused at last. Follow me, I will point them out.’

  She proudly led the way—‘But you cannot see them well from the classes,’ said she, turning, ‘Madame keeps them too far off. Let us cross the garden, enter by the corridor, and get close to them behind: we shall be scolded if we are seen, but never mind.’

  For once, I did not mind. Through the garden we went—penetrated into the corridor by a quiet private entrance, and approaching the carré, yet keeping in the corridor shade, commanded a near view of the band of jeunes gens.’

  I believe I could have picked out the conquering de Hamal even undirected. He was a straight-nosed, very correct-featured, little dandy. I say little dandy, though he was not beneath the middle standard in stature; but his lineaments were small, and so were his hands and feet; and he was pretty and smooth, and as trim as a doll: so nicely dressed, so nicely curled, so booted and gloved and cravated—he was charming indeed. I said so: ‘What a dear personage!’ cried I, and commended Ginevra’s taste warmly; and asked her what she thought de Hamal might have done with the precious fragments of that heart she had broken—whether he kept them in a scent-vial, and conserved them in otto of roses? I observed, too, with a deep rapture of approbation, that the colonel’s hands were scarce larger than Miss Fanshawe’s own, and suggested that this circumstance might be convenient, as he could wear her gloves at a pinch. On his dear curls, I told her I doated; and as to his low, Grecian brow, and exquisite classic head-piece, I confessed I had no language to do such perfections justice.

  ‘And if he were your lover?’ suggested the cruelly exultant Ginevra.

  ‘Oh! heavens, what bliss!’ said I; ‘but do not be inhuman, Miss Fanshawe: to put such thoughts into my head is like showing poor outcast Cain a far glimpse of Paradise.’

  ‘You like him then?’

  ‘As I like sweets, and jams, and comfits, and conservatory flowers.’

  Ginevra admired my taste, for all these things were her adoration ; she could then readily credit that they were mine too.

  ‘Now for Isidore,’ I went on. I own I felt still more curious to see him than his rival; but Ginevra was absorbed in the latter.

  ‘Alfred was admitted here to-night,’ said she, ‘through the influence of his aunt, Madame la Baronne de Dorlodot; and now, having seen him, can you not understand why I have been in such spirits all the evening, and acted so well and danced with such life, and why I am now happy as a queen? Dieu! Dieu! It was such good fun to glance first at him and then at the other, and madden them both.’

  ‘But that other—where is he? Show me Isidore.’

  ‘I don’t like.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I am ashamed of him.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘Because-because’ (in a whisper) ’he has such—such whiskers, orange—red—there now!’

  ‘The murder is out,’ I subjoined. ‘Never mind, show him, all the same; I engage not to faint.’

  She looked round. Just then an English voice spoke behind her and me.

  ‘You are both standing in a draught; you must leave this corridor.’

  ‘There is no draught, Dr. John,’ said I turning.

  ‘She takes cold so easily,’ he pursued, looking at Ginevra with extreme kindness. ‘She is delicate; she must be cared for: fetch her a shawl.’

  ‘Permit me to judge for myself,’ said Miss Fanshawe, with hauteur. ‘I want no shawl.’

  ‘Your dress is thin, you have been dancing, you are heated.’

  ‘Always preaching,’ retorted she; ‘always coddling and admonishing.’

  The answer Dr. John would have given, did not come; that his heart was hurt became evident in his eye; darkened and saddened, and pained, he turned a little aside, but was patient. I knew where there were plenty of shawls near at hand; I ran and fetched one.

  ‘She shall wear this if I have strength to make her,’ said I, folding it well round her muslin dress, covering carefully her neck and her arms. ‘Is that Isidore?’ I asked, in a somewhat fierce whisper.

  She pushed up her lip, smiled, and nodded.

  ‘Is that Isidore?’ I repeated, giving her a shake: I could have given her a dozen.

  ‘C’est lui-même,’ said she. ‘How coarse he is, compared with the Colonel-Count! And then—oh, ciel!df—the whiskers!’

  Dr. John now passed on.

  ‘The Colonel-Count!’ I echoed. ‘The doll—the puppet—the manikin—the poor inferior creature! A mere lackey for Dr. John: his valet, his foot-boy! Is it possible that fine generous gentleman—handsome as a vision—offers you his honourable hand and gallant heart, and promises to protect your flimsy person and wretchless mind through the storms and struggles of life—and you hang back—you scorn, you sting, you torture him! Have you power to do this? Who gave you that power? Where is it? Does it lie all in your beauty—your pink and white complexion and your yellow hair? Does this bind his soul at your feet, and bend his neck under your yoke? Does this purchase for you his affection, his tenderness, his thoughts, his hopes, his interest, his noble, cordial love—and will you not have it? Do you scorn it? You are only dissembling: you are not in earnest; you love him; you long for him; but you trifle with his heart to make him more surely yours?’

  ‘Bah! How you run on! I don’t understand half you have said.’

  I had got her out into the garden ere this. I now set her down on a seat and told her she should not stir till she had avowed which she meant in th
e end to accept—the man or the monkey.

  ‘Him you call the man,’ said she, ‘is bourgeois, sandy-haired, and answers to the name of John!—cela suffit: je n’en veux pas.dg Colonel de Hamal is a gentleman of excellent connections, perfect manners, sweet appearance, with pale interesting face, and hair and eyes like an Italian. Then too he is the most delightful company possible—a man quite in my way; not sensible and serious like the other, but one with whom I can talk on equal terms—who does not plague, and bore, and harass me with depths, and heights, and passions, and talents for which I have no taste. There now. Don’t hold me so fast.’

  I slackened my grasp, and she darted off. I did not care to pursue her.

  Somehow I could not avoid returning once more in the direction of the corridor to get another glimpse of Dr. John; but I met him on the garden-steps, standing where the light from a window fell broad. His well-proportioned figure was not to be mistaken, for I doubt whether there was another in that assemblage his equal. He carried his hat in his hand; his uncovered head, his face and fine brow were most handsome and manly. His features were not delicate, not slight like those of a woman, nor were they cold, frivolous, and feeble; though well cut, they were not so chiselled, so frittered away, as to lose in power and significance what they gained in unmeaning symmetry. Much feeling spoke in them at times, and more sat silent in his eye. Such at least were my thoughts of him: to me he seemed all this. An inexpressible sense of wonder occupied me as I looked at this man, and reflected that he could be slighted.

  It was not my intention to approach or address him in the garden, our terms of acquaintance not warranting such a step; I had only meant to view him in the crowd—myself unseen: coming upon him thus alone, I withdrew. But he was looking out for me, or rather for her who had been with me; therefore he descended the steps, and followed me down the alley.

  ‘You know Miss Fanshawe? I have often wished to ask whether you knew her,’ said he.