Villette (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Charlotte Bronte

  ‘What did Madame Beck mean by leaving you alone?’

  ‘Madame Beck could not foresee that I should fall ill.’

  ‘Your nervous system bore a good share of the suffering?’

  ‘I am not quite sure what my nervous system is, but I was dreadfully low-spirited.’

  ‘Which disables me from helping you by pill or potion. Medicine can give nobody good spirits. My art halts at the threshold of Hypochondria:dq she just looks in and sees a chamber of torture, but can neither say nor do much. Cheerful society would be of use; you should be as little alone as possible; you should take plenty of exercise.’

  Acquiescence and a pause followed these remarks. They sounded all right, I thought, and bore the safe sanction of custom, and the well worn stamp of use.

  ‘Miss Snowe,’ recommenced Dr. John—my health, nervous system included, being now somewhat to my relief, discussed and done with—‘is it permitted me to ask what your religion now is? Are you a Catholic?’

  I looked up in some surprise—‘A Catholic? No! Why suggest such an idea?’

  ‘The manner in which you were consigned to me last night, made me doubt.’

  ‘I consigned to you? But, indeed, I forget. It remains yet for me to learn how I fell into your hands.’

  ‘Why, under circumstances that puzzled me. I had been in attendance all day yesterday on a case of singularly interesting, and critical character; the disease being rare, and its treatment doubtful: I saw a similar and still finer case in a hospital at Paris; but that will not interest you. At last a mitigation of the patient’s most urgent symptoms (acute pain is one of its accompaniments) liberated me, and I set out homeward. My shortest way lay through the Basse Ville, and as the night was excessively dark, wild and wet, I took it. In riding past an old church belonging to a community of Béguines, I saw by a lamp burning over the porch or deep arch of the entrance, a priest lifting some object in his arms. The lamp was bright enough to reveal the priest’s features clearly, and I recognized him; he was a man I have often met by the sick beds of both rich and poor: and, chiefly, the latter. He is, I think, a good old man, far better than most of his class in this country; superior, indeed, in every way: better informed, as well as more devoted to duty. Our eyes met, he called on me to stop; what he supported was a woman, fainting or dying. I alighted.

  ‘ “This person is one of your countrywomen,” he said: “save her, if she is not dead.”’

  ‘My countrywoman, on examination, turned out to be the English teacher at Madame Beck’s pensionnat. She was perfectly unconscious, perfectly bloodless, and nearly cold.’

  ‘ “What does it all mean?”’ was my inquiry.

  ‘He communicated a curious account: that you had been to him that evening at confessional; that your exhausted and suffering appearance, coupled with some things you had said—’

  ‘Things I had said? I wonder what things!’

  ‘Awful crimes, no doubt; but he did not tell me what: there, you know, the seal of the confessional checked his garrulity and my curiosity. Your confidences, however, had not made an enemy of the good father; it seems he was so struck, and felt so sorry that you should be out on such a night alone, he had esteemed it a christian duty to watch when you quitted the church, and so to manage as not to lose sight of you, till you should have reached home. Perhaps the worthy man might, half unconsciously, have blent in this proceeding, some little of the subtility of his class: it might have been his resolve to learn the locality of your home—did you impart that in your confession?’

  ‘I did not: on the contrary, I carefully avoided the shadow of any indication; and as to my confession, Dr. John, I suppose you will think me mad for taking such a step, but I could not help it: I suppose it was all the fault of what you call my “nervous system.” I cannot put the case into words, but, my days and nights were grown intolerable; a cruel sense of desolation pained my mind: a feeling that would make its way, rush out, or kill me—like (and this you will understand, Dr. John) the current which passes through the heart, and which, if aneurism or any other morbid cause obstructs its natural channels, seeks abnormal outlet. I wanted companionship, I wanted friendship, I wanted counsel. I could find none of these in closet, or chamber, so I went and sought them in church and confessional. As to what I said, it was no confidence, no narrative. I have done nothing wrong: my life has not been active enough for any dark deed, either of romance or reality: all I poured out was a dreary, desperate complaint.’

  ‘Lucy, you ought to travel for about six months: why, your calm nature is growing quite excitable! Confound Madame Beck! Has the little buxom widow no bowels, to condemn her best teacher to solitary confinement?’

  ‘It was not Madame Beck’s fault,’ said I, ‘it is no living being’s fault, and I won’t hear any one blamed.’

  ‘Who is in the wrong then, Lucy?’

  ‘Me—Dr. John—me; and a great abstraction on whose wide shoulders I like to lay the mountains of blame they were sculptured to bear: me and Fate.’

  ‘“Me” must take better care in future,’ said Dr. John—smiling, I suppose, at my bad grammar.

  ‘Change of air—change of scene; those are my prescriptions,’ pursued the practical young doctor. ‘But to return to our muttons, Lucy. As yet, Père Silas, with all his tact (they say he is a Jesuit), is no wiser than you choose him to be; for, instead of returning to the Rue Fossette, your fevered wanderings—there must have been high fever—’

  ‘No, Dr. John: the fever took its turn that night—now, don’t make out that I was delirious, for I know differently.’

  ‘Good! you were as collected as myself at this moment, no doubt! Your wanderings had taken an opposite direction to the Pensionnat. Near the Béguinage, amidst the street of flood and gust, and in the perplexity of darkness, you had swooned and fallen. The priest came to your succour, and the physician, as we have seen, supervened. Between us we procured a fiacre and brought you here. Père Silas, old as he is, would carry you up stairs, and lay you on that couch himself. He would certainly have remained with you till suspended animation had been restored; and so should I, but, at that juncture, a hurried messenger arrived from the dying patient I had scarcely left—the last duties were called for—the physician’s last visit and the priest’s last rite; extreme unction could not be deferred. Père Silas and myself departed together, my mother was spending the evening abroad; we gave you in charge to Martha, leaving directions, which it seems she followed successfully. Now, are you a Catholic?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said I, with a smile. ‘And never let Père Silas know where I live, or he will try to convert me; but give him my best and truest thanks when you see him, and if ever I get rich I will send him money for his charities. See, Dr. John, your mother wakes; you ought to ring for tea.’

  Which he did; and, as Mrs. Bretton sat up—astonished and indignant at herself for the indulgence to which she had succumbed, and fully prepared to deny that she had slept at all—her son came gaily to the attack:

  ‘Hushaby, mama! Sleep again. You look the picture of innocence in your slumbers.’

  ‘My slumbers, John Graham! What are you talking about? You know I never do sleep by day: it was the slightest doze possible.’

  ‘Exactly! a seraph’s gentle lapse—a fairy’s dream. Mama, under such circumstances, you always remind me of Titania.’

  ‘That is because you, yourself, are so like Bottom.’dr

  ‘Miss Snowe—did you ever hear anything like mama’s wit? She is a most sprightly woman of her size and age.’

  ‘Keep your compliments to yourself, sir, and do not neglect your own size: which seems to me a good deal on the increase. Lucy, has he not rather the air of an incipient John Bull?ds He used to be slender as an eel, and now I fancy in him a sort of heavy-dragoon bent—a beef-eater tendency. Graham, take notice! If you grow fat I disown you.’

  ‘As if you could not sooner disown your own personality! I am indispensable to the old lady’s happiness, Lucy
. She would pine away in green and yellow melancholy if she had not my six feet of iniquity to scold. It keeps her lively—it maintains the wholesome ferment of her spirits.’

  The two were now standing opposite to each other, one on each side of the fire-place; their words were not very fond, but their mutual looks atoned for verbal deficiencies. At least, the best treasure of Mrs. Bretton’s life was certainly casketed in her son’s bosom; her dearest pulse throbbed in his heart. As to him, of course another love shared his feelings with filial love; and, no doubt, as the new passion was the latest born, so he assigned it in his emotions Benjamin’s portion.dt Ginevra! Ginevra! Did Mrs. Bretton yet know at whose feet her own young idol had laid his homage? Would she approve that choice? I could not tell; but I could well guess that if she knew Miss Fanshawe’s conduct towards Graham: her alternations between coldness and coaxing, and repulse and allurement; if she could at all suspect the pain with which she had tried him; if she could have seen, as I had seen, his fine spirits subdued and harassed, his inferior preferred before him, his subordinate made the instrument of his humiliation—then Mrs. Bretton would have pronounced Ginevra imbecile, or perverted, or both. Well—I thought so too.

  That second evening passed as sweetly as the first—more sweetly indeed: we enjoyed a smoother interchange of thought; old troubles were not reverted to, acquaintance was better cemented; I felt happier, easier, more at home. That night—instead of crying myself asleep—I went down to dream-land by a pathway bordered with pleasant thoughts.

  CHAPTER 18

  We Quarrel

  During the first days of my stay at the Terrace, Graham never took a seat near me, or in his frequent pacing of the room approached the quarter where I sat, or looked preoccupied, or more grave than usual, but I thought of Miss Fanshawe and expected her name to leap from his lips. I kept my ear and mind in perpetual readiness for the tender theme; my patience was ordered to be permanently under arms, and my sympathy desired to keep its cornucopia replenished and ready for outpouring. At last, and after a little inward struggle which I saw and respected, he one day launched into the topic. It was introduced delicately; anonymously as it were.

  ‘Your friend is spending her vacation in travelling, I hear?’ ‘Friend, forsooth!’ thought I to myself: but it would not do to contradict; he must have his own way; I must own the soft impeachment; friend let it be. Still, by way of experiment, I could not help asking whom he meant?

  He had taken a seat at my work-table; he now laid hands on a reel of thread which he proceeded recklessly to unwind.

  ‘Ginevra—Miss Fanshawe, has accompanied the Cholmondeleys on a tour through the south of France?’

  ‘She has.’

  ‘Do you and she correspond?’

  ‘It will astonish you to hear that I never once thought of making application for that privilege.’

  ‘You have seen letters of her writing?’

  ‘Yes; several to her uncle.’

  ‘They will not be deficient in wit and naivete; there is so much sparkle, and so little art in her soul?’

  ‘She writes comprehensibly enough when she writes to M. de Bassompierre: he who runs may read.’ (In fact, Ginevra’s epistles to her wealthy kinsman were commonly business documents, unequivocal applications for cash.)

  ‘And her handwriting? It must be pretty, light, ladylike, I should think?’

  It was, and I said so.

  ‘I verily believe that all she does is well done,’ said Dr. John; and as I seemed in no hurry to chime in with this remark, he added: ‘You, who know her, could you name a point in which she is deficient?’

  ‘She does several things very well.’ (‘Flirtation amongst the rest,’ subjoined I, in thought.)

  ‘When do you suppose she will return to town?’ he soon inquired.

  ‘Pardon me, Dr. John, I must explain. You honour me too much in ascribing to me a degree of intimacy with Miss Fanshawe I have not the felicity to enjoy. I have never been the depositary of her plans and secrets. You will find her particular friends in another sphere than mine: amongst the Cholmondeleys, for instance.’

  He actually thought I was stung with a kind of jealous pain similar to his own! ‘Excuse her;’ he said, judge her indulgently; the glitter of fashion misleads her, but she will soon find out that these people are hollow, and will return to you with augmented attachment and confirmed trust. I know something of the Cholmondeleys; superficial showy, selfish people: depend on it, at heart Ginevra values you beyond a score of such.’

  ‘You are very kind,’ I said briefly. A disclaimer of the sentiments attributed to me burned on my lips, but I extinguished the flame. I submitted to be looked upon as the humiliated, cast-off, and now pining confidante of the distinguished Miss Fanshawe: but, reader, it was a hard submission.

  ‘Yet, you see,’ continued Graham, ‘while I comfort you, I cannot take the same consolation to myself; I cannot hope she will do me justice. De Hamal is most worthless, yet I fear he pleases her: wretched delusion!’

  My patience really gave way, and without notice; all at once. I suppose illness and weakness had worn it and made it brittle.

  ‘Dr. Bretton,’ I broke out, ‘there is no delusion like your own. On all points but one you are a man, frank, healthful, right-thinking, clear-sighted: on this exceptional point you are but a slave. I declare, where Miss Fanshawe is concerned, you merit no respect; nor have you mine.’

  I got up, and left the room very much excited.

  This little scene took place in the morning; I had to meet him again in the evening, and then I saw I had done mischief. He was not made of common clay, not put together out of vulgar materials; while the outlines of his nature had been shaped with breadth and vigour, the details embraced workmanship of almost feminine delicacy: finer, much finer, than you could be prepared to meet with; than you could believe inherent in him, even after years of acquaintance. Indeed, till some over-sharp contact with his nerves had betrayed, by its effects, their acute sensibility, this elaborate construction must be ignored; and the more especially because the sympathetic faculty was not prominent in him: to feel, and to seize quickly another’s feelings, are separate properties; a few constructions possess both, some neither. Dr. John had the one gift in exquisite perfection; and because I have admitted that he was not endowed with the other in equal degree, the reader will considerately refrain from passing to an extreme, and pronouncing him unsympathizing, unfeeling: on the contrary, he was a kind, generous man. Make your need known, his hand was open. Put your grief into words, he turned no deaf ear. Except refinements of perception, miracles of intuition, and realize disappointment. This night, when Dr. John entered the room, and met the evening lamp, I saw well and at one glance his whole mechanism.

  To one who had named him ‘slave,’ and, on any point, banned him from respect, he must now have peculiar feelings. That the epithet was well applied, and the ban just, might be; he put forth no denial that it was so: his mind even candidly revolved that unmanning possibility. He sought in this accusation the cause of that ill-success which had got so galling a hold of his mental peace. Amid the worry of a self-condemnatory soliloquy, his demeanour seemed grave, perhaps cold, both to me and his mother. And yet there was no bad feeling, no malice, no rancour, no littleness in his countenance, beautiful with a man’s best beauty, even in its depression. When I placed his chair at the table, which I hastened to do, anticipating the servant, and when I handed him his tea, which I did with trembling care, he said—

  ‘Thank you, Lucy,’ in as kindly a tone of his full pleasant voice as ever my ear welcomed.

  For my part, there was only one plan to be pursued; I must expiate my culpable vehemence, or I must not sleep that night. This would not do at all; I could not stand it: I made no pretence of capacity to wage war on this footing. School solitude, conventual silence and stagnation, anything seemed preferable to living embroiled with Dr. John. As to Ginevra, she might take the silver wings of a dove, or any other fowl that
flies, and mount straight up to the highest place, among the highest stars, where her lover’s highest flight of fancy chose to fix the constellation of her charms: never more be it mine to dispute the arrangement. Long I tried to catch his eye. Again and again that eye just met mine; but, having nothing to say, it withdrew, and I was baffled. After tea, he sat, sad and quiet, reading a book. I wished I could have dared to go and sit near him, but it seemed that if I ventured to take that step, he would infallibly evince hostility and indignation. I longed to speak out, and I dared not whisper. His mother left the room; then, moved by insupportable regret, I just murmured the words,

  ‘Dr. Bretton.’

  He looked up from his book; his eyes were not cold or malevolent, his mouth was not cynical; he was ready and willing to hear what I might have to say: his spirit was of vintage too mellow and generous to sour in one thunder-clap.

  ‘Dr. Bretton, forgive my hasty words: do, do forgive them.’

  He smiled that moment I spoke. ‘Perhaps I deserved them, Lucy. If you don’t respect me, I am sure it is because I am not respectable. I fear, I am an awkward fool: I must manage badly in some way, for where I wish to please, it seems I don’t please.’

  ‘Of that you cannot be sure; and even if such be the case, is it the fault of your character, or of another’s perceptions? But now, let me unsay what I said in anger. In one thing, and in all things, I deeply respect you. If you think scarcely enough of yourself, and too much of others, what is that but an excellence?’

  ‘Can I think too much of Ginevra?’

  ‘I believe you may; you believe you can’t. Let us agree to differ. Let me be pardoned; that is what I ask.’

  ‘Do you think I cherish ill-will for one warm word?’