Villette (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Charlotte Bronte

  Well, I was sitting wondering at it (as the bench was there, I thought I might as well take advantage of its accommodation), and thinking that while some of the details—as roses, gold cups, jewels, &:c.—were very prettily painted, it was on the whole an enormous piece of claptrap; the room, almost vacant when I entered, began to fill. Scarcely noticing this circumstance (as, indeed, it did not matter to me) I retained my seat; rather to rest myself than with a view to studying this huge, dark-complexioned gipsy-queen; of whom, indeed, I soon tired, and betook myself for refreshment to the contemplation of some exquisite little pictures of still life: wild-flowers, wild-fruit, mossy wood-nests, casketing eggs that looked like pearls seen through clear green sea-water; all hung modestly beneath that coarse and preposterous canvass.

  Suddenly a light tap visited my shoulder. Starting, turning, I met a face bent to encounter mine; a frowning, almost a shocked face it was.

  ‘Que faites vous ici?’ said a voice.

  ‘Mais, monsieur, je m’amuse.’

  ‘Vous vous amusez! et à quoi, s’il vous plait? Mais d‘abord, faites-moi le plaisir de vous lever: prenez mon bras, et allons de l’autre cote.’du

  I did precisely as I was bid. M. Paul Emanuel (it was he) returned from Rome, and now a travelled man, was not likely to be less tolerant of insubordination now, than before this added distinction laurelled his temples.

  ‘Permit me to conduct you to your party,’ said he, as we crossed the room.

  ‘I have no party.’

  ‘You are not alone?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur.’

  ‘Did you come here unaccompanied?’

  ‘No, monsieur. Dr. Bretton brought me here.’

  ‘Dr. Bretton and Madame his mother, of course?’

  ‘No; only Dr. Bretton.’

  ‘And he told you to look at that picture?’

  ‘By no means: I found it out for myself.’

  M. Paul’s hair was shorn close as raven down, or I think it would have bristled on his head. Beginning now to perceive his drift, I had a certain pleasure in keeping cool, and working him up.

  ‘Astounding insular audacity!’ cried the Professor. ‘Singulieres femmes que ces Anglaises!’

  ‘What is the matter, monsieur?’

  ‘Matter! How dare you, a young person, sit coolly down, with the self-possession of a garçon, and look at that picture?’

  ‘It is a very ugly picture, but I cannot at all see why I should not look at it.’

  ‘Bon! bon! Speak no more of it. But you ought not to be here alone.’

  ‘If, however, I have no society—no party, as you say? And then, what does it signify whether I am alone, or unaccompanied? nobody meddles with me.’

  ‘Taisez-vous, et asseyez-vous la—la!’ Setting down a chair with emphasis in a particularly dull corner, before a series of most specially dreary ‘cadres.’

  ‘Mais, monsieur.’

  ‘Mais, mademoiselle, asseyez vous, et ne bougez pas—en-tendez-vous? jusqu’ à ce qu’on vienne vous chercher, ou que je vous donne la permission.’

  ‘Quel triste coin!’ cried I, ‘et quels laids tableaux!’dv

  And ‘laids,’ indeed, they were; being a set of four, denominated in the catalogue ‘La vie d’une femme.‘dw They were painted rather in a remarkable style—flat, dead, pale and formal. The first represented a ‘Jeune Fille,’ coming out of a church-door, a missal in her hand, her dress very prim, her eyes cast down, her mouth pursed up—the image of a most villanous little precocious she-hypocrite. The second, a ‘Mariée’ with a long white veil, kneeling at a prie-dieu in her chamber, holding her hands plastered together, finger to finger, and showing the whites of her eyes in a most exasperating manner. The third, a ‘Jeune Mere,’ hanging disconsolate over a clayey and puffy baby with a face like an unwholesome full moon. The fourth, a ‘Veuve,’ being a black woman, holding by the hand a black little girl, and the twain studiously surveying an elegant French monument, set up in a corner of some Père la Chaise.dx All these four ‘Anges’dy were grim and gray as burglars, and cold and vapid as ghosts. What women to live with! insincere, ill-humoured, bloodless, brainless nonentities! As bad in their way as the indolent gipsy-giantess, the Cleopatra, in hers.

  It was impossible to keep one’s attention long confined to these masterpieces, and so, by degrees, I veered round, and surveyed the gallery.

  A perfect crowd of spectators was by this time gathered round the Lioness, from whose vicinage I had been banished; nearly half this crowd were ladies, but M. Paul afterwards told me, these were ‘des dames,’ and it was quite proper for them to contemplate what no ‘demoiselle’ ought to glance at. I assured him plainly I could not agree in this doctrine, and did not see the sense of it; whereupon, with his usual absolutism, he merely requested my silence, and also, in the same breath, denounced my mingled rashness and ignorance. A more despotic little man than M. Paul never filled a professor’s chair. I noticed, by the way, that he looked at the picture himself quite at his ease, and for a very long while: he did not, however, neglect to glance from time to time my way, in order, I suppose, to make sure that I was obeying orders, and not breaking bounds. By and by, he again accosted me.

  ‘Had I not been ill?’ he wished to know: ‘he understood I had.’

  ‘Yes, but I was now quite well.’

  ‘Where had I spent the vacation?’

  ‘Chiefly in the Rue Fossette; partly with Madame Bretton.’

  ‘He had heard that I was left alone in the Rue Fossette; was that so?’

  ‘Not quite alone: Marie Broc’ (the cretin) ‘was with me.’

  He shrugged his shoulders; varied and contradictory expressions played rapidly over his countenance. Marie Broc was well known to M. Paul; he never gave a lesson in the third division (containing the least advanced pupils), that she did not occasion in him a sharp conflict between antagonistic impressions. Her personal appearance, her repulsive manners, her often unmanageable disposition, irritated his temper, and inspired him with strong antipathy; a feeling he was too apt to conceive when his taste was offended or his will thwarted. On the other hand, her misfortunes constituted a strong claim on his forbearance and compassion—such a claim as it was not in his nature to deny; hence resulted almost daily drawn battles between impatience and disgust on the one hand, pity and a sense of justice on the other; in which, to his credit be it said, it was very seldom that the former feelings prevailed: when they did, however, M. Paul showed a phase of character which had its terrors. His passions were strong, his aversions and attachments alike vivid; the force he exerted in holding both in check, by no means mitigated an observer’s sense of their vehemence. With such tendencies, it may well be supposed he often excited in ordinary minds fear and dislike; yet it was an error to fear him: nothing drove him so nearly frantic as the tremor of an apprehensive and distrustful spirit; nothing soothed him like confidence tempered with gentleness. To evince these sentiments, however, required a thorough comprehension of his nature; and his nature was of an order rarely comprehended.

  ‘How did you get on with Marie Broc?’ he asked, after some minutes’ silence.

  ‘Monsieur, I did my best; but it was terrible to be alone with her!’

  ‘You have, then, a weak heart! You lack courage; and, perhaps, charity. Yours are not the qualities which might constitute a Sister of Mercy.’

  [He was a religious little man, in his way: the self-denying and self-sacrificing part of the Catholic religion commanded the homage of his soul.]

  ‘I don’t know, indeed: I took as good care of her as I could; but when her aunt came to fetch her away, it was a great relief.’

  ‘Ah! you are an egotist. There are women who have nursed hospitals-full of similar unfortunates. You could not do that?’

  ‘Could Monsieur do it himself?’

  ‘Women who are worthy the name ought infinitely to surpass our coarse, fallible, self-indulgent sex, in the power to perform such duties.’

  ‘I was
hed her, I kept her clean, I fed her, I tried to amuse her; but she made mouths at me instead of speaking.’

  ‘You think you did great things?’

  ‘No; but as great as I could do.’

  ‘Then limited are your powers, for in tending one idiot, you fell sick.’

  ‘Not with that, monsieur; I had a nervous fever: my mind was ill.’

  ‘Vraiment! Vous valez peu de chose:dz You are not cast in an heroic mould; your courage will not avail to sustain you in solitude; it merely gives you the temerity to gaze with sang-froid at pictures of Cleopatra.’

  It would have been easy to show anger at the teasing, hostile tone of the little man. I had never been angry with him yet, however, and had no present disposition to begin.

  ‘Cleopatra!’ I repeated, quietly. ‘Monsieur, too, has been looking at Cleopatra; what does he think of her?’

  ‘Cela ne vaut rien,’ he responded. ‘Une femme superbe—une taille d’imperatrice, des formes de Junon, mais une personne dont je ne voudrais ni pour femme, ni pour fille, ni pour sœur. Aussi vous ne jeterez plus un seul coup d’ œil de sa cote.’ea

  ‘But I have looked at her a great many times while Monsieur has been talking: I can see her quite well from this corner.’

  ‘Turn to the wall and study your four pictures of a woman’s life.’

  ‘Excuse me, M. Paul; they are too hideous: but if you admire them, allow me to vacate my seat and leave you to their contemplation.’

  ‘Mademoiselle,’ he said, grimacing a half-smile, or what he intended for a smile, though it was but a grim and hurried manifestation. ‘You nurslings of Protestantism astonish me. You unguarded Englishwomen walk calmly amidst red-hot ploughshares and escape burning. I believe, if some of you were thrown into Nebuchadnezzar’s hottest furnace,6 you would issue forth untraversed by the smell of fire.’

  ‘Will Monsieur have the goodness to move an inch to one side?’

  ‘How! At what are you gazing now? You are not recognizing an acquaintance amongst that group of jeunes gens?’

  ‘I think so—Yes, I see there a person I know.’

  In fact, I had caught a glimpse of a head too pretty to belong to any other than the redoubted Colonel de Hamal. What a very finished, highly-polished little pate it was! What a figure, so trim and natty! What womanish feet and hands! How daintily he held a glass to one of his optics! with what admiration he gazed upon the Cleopatra! and then, how engagingly he tittered and whispered a friend at his elbow! Oh, the man of sense! Oh, the refined gentleman of superior taste and tact! I observed him for about ten minutes, and perceived that he was exceedingly taken with this dusk and portly Venus of the Nile. So much was I interested in his bearing, so absorbed in divining his character by his looks and movements, I temporarily forgot M. Paul; in the interim a group came between that gentleman and me; or possibly his scruples might have received another and worse shock from my present abstraction, causing him to withdraw voluntarily: at any rate, when I again looked round, he was gone.

  My eye, pursuant of the search, met not him, but another and dissimilar figure, well seen amidst the crowd, for the height as well as the port lent each its distinction. This way came Dr. John, in visage, in shape, in hue, as unlike the dark, acerb, and caustic little professor, as the fruit of the Hesperides might be unlike the sloe in the wild thicket; as the highcouraged but tractable Arabian is unlike the rude and stubborn ‘sheltie.’ He was looking for me, but had not yet explored the corner where the schoolmaster had just put me. I remained quiet; yet another minute I would watch.

  He approached de Hamal; he paused near him; I thought he had a pleasure in looking over his head; Dr. Bretton, too, gazed on the Cleopatra. I doubt if it were to his taste: he did not simper like the little Count; his mouth looked fastidious, his eye cool; without demonstration he stepped aside, leaving room for others to approach. I saw now that he was waiting, and, rising, I joined him.

  We took one turn round the gallery; with Graham it was very pleasant to take such a turn. I always liked dearly to hear what he had to say about either pictures or books; because, without pretending to be a connoisseur, he always spoke his thought, and that was sure to be fresh: very often it was also just and pithy. It was pleasant also to tell him some things he did not know—he listened so kindly, so teachably; unformalized by scruples lest so to bend his bright handsome head, to gather a woman’s rather obscure and stammering explanation, should emperil the dignity of his manhood. And when he communicated information in return, it was with a lucid intelligence that left all his words clear graven on the memory: no explanation of his giving, no fact of his narrating, did I ever forget.

  As we left the gallery, I asked him what he thought of the Cleopatra (after making him laugh by telling him how Professor Emanuel had sent me to the right-about, and taking him to see the sweet series of pictures recommended to my attention).

  ‘Pooh!’ said he. ‘My mother is a better-looking woman. I heard some French fops, yonder, designating her as “le type du voluptueux;” if so, I can only say, “le voluptueux” is little to my liking. Compare that mulatto with Ginevra!’

  CHAPTER 20

  The Concert

  One morning, Mrs. Bretton, coming promptly into my room, desired me to open my drawers and show her my dresses; which I did, without a word.

  ‘That will do,’ said she, when she had turned them over. ‘You must have a new one.’

  She went out. She returned presently with a dress-maker. She had me measured. ‘I mean,’ said she, ‘to follow my own taste, and to have my own way in this little matter.’

  Two days after came home—a pink dress!

  ‘That is not for me,’ I said, hurriedly, feeling that I would almost as soon clothe myself in the costume of a Chinese lady of rank.

  ‘We shall see whether it is for you or not,’ rejoined my godmother, adding with her resistless decision. ‘Mark my words. You will wear it this very evening.’

  I thought I should not: I thought no human force should avail to put me into it. A pink dress! I knew it not. It knew not me. I had not proved it.

  My godmother went on to decree that I was to go with her and Graham to a concert that same night: which concert, she explained, was a grand affair to be held in the large salle, or hall of the principal musical society. The most advanced of the pupils of the Conservatoire were to perform: it was to be followed by a lottery ‘au benefice des pauvres;’eb and to crown all, the King, Queen, and Prince of Labassecour were to be present. Graham, in sending tickets, had enjoined attention to costume as a compliment due to royalty: he also recommended punctual readiness by seven o’clock.

  About six, I was ushered up-stairs. Without any force at all, I found myself led and influenced by another’s will, unconsulted, unpersuaded, quietly over-ruled. In short the pink dress went on, softened by some drapery of black lace. I was pronounced to be en grande ténue, and requested to look in the glass. I did so with some fear and trembling; with more fear and trembling, I turned away. Seven o’clock struck; Dr. Bretton was come; my godmother and I went down. She was clad in brown velvet; as I walked in her shadow, how I envied her those folds of grave, dark majesty! Graham stood in the drawing-room doorway.

  ‘I do hope he will not think I have been decking myself out to draw attention,’ was my uneasy aspiration.

  ‘Here, Lucy, are some flowers,’ said he, giving me a bouquet. He took no further notice of my dress than was conveyed in a kind smile and satisfied nod, which calmed at once my sense of shame and fear of ridicule. For the rest, the dress was made with extreme simplicity, guiltless of flounce or furbelow; it was but the light fabric and bright tint which scared me, and since Graham found in it nothing absurd, my own eye consented soon to become reconciled.

  I suppose people who go every night to places of public amusement, can hardly enter into the fresh gala feeling with which an opera or a concert is enjoyed by those for whom it is a rarity. I am not sure that I expected great pleasure from the concert, ha
ving but a very vague notion of its nature, but I liked the drive there well. The snug comfort of the close carriage on a cold though fine night, the pleasure of setting out with companions so cheerful and friendly, the sight of the stars glinting fitfully through the trees as we rolled along the avenue; then the freer burst of the night-sky when we issued forth to the open chaussée, the passage through the city gates, the lights there burning, the guards there posted, the pretence of inspection to which we there submitted, and which amused us so much—all these small matters had for me, in their novelty, a peculiar exhilarating charm. How much of it lay in the atmosphere of friendship diffused about me, I know not: Dr. John and his mother were both in their finest mood, contending animatedly with each other the whole way, and as frankly kind to me as if I had been of their kin.

  Our way lay through some of the best streets of Villette, streets brightly lit, and far more lively now than at high noon. How brilliant seemed the shops! How glad, gay, and abundant flowed the tide of life along the broad pavement! While I looked, the thought of the Rue Fossette came across me-of the walled-in garden and school-house, and of the dark, vast ‘classes,’ where, as at this very hour, it was my wont to wander all solitary, gazing at the stars through the high, blindless windows, and listening to the distant voice of the reader in the refectory, monotonously exercised upon the ‘lecture pieuse.’ Thus must I soon again listen and wander; and this shadow of the future stole with timely sobriety across the radiant present.