Villette (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Charlotte Bronte

  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 Fanshawe’s 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 don’t 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 don’t 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 minute’s or a farthing’s credit for disinterestedness.’

  ‘Crabbed and crusty as ever!’ said she. ‘I expected as much: it would not be you if you did not snub one. 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 draught; hunger I had none, and with thirst I was parched. I don’t 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 like to let her take the lion’s 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 o’clock 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,eg 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 in whose style or sentiment the writer’s 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 shoulder, 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,’eh 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 practising,’ said I to her at once: ‘away with you to the little salon!’

  ‘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 fiddle-stick! Come, sheer off, Ginevra. I really don’t want your company.’

  ‘But when I want yours so much, ange farouche,ei what does a little reluctance on your part signify? Dieu merci! we know how to manoeuvre with our gifted compatriote—the learned “ourseej 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 behaviour the other night? Wasn’t 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 mama-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, don’t make yourself in the least uneasy: Mrs. Bretton will survive your sneer.’

  ‘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 can’t do that: but wasn’t 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 don’t 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 carr
iage: he broke from us, and would ride outside.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘Afterwards—when we 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, there’s a darling Timon.’

  ‘Conscientiously, I cannot, unless you assure me you have some heart.’

  ‘I have—such an immensity, you don’t 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 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 wouldn’t lie still?’

  ‘He wouldn’t 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! Can’t 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 circled your arm. Ginevra,’ (rising, and changing my tone) ‘come, we will have an end of this. Go away to your practising.’ And I opened the door.

  ‘But you’ve 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 was 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 nonchalante. 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 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 Rosine’s hand—the letter whose face of enamelled white and single Cyclop’s-eye of vermilion-redek 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 Heaven’s 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 savoury 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 him 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 Esau’s 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 as
hamed 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 ABC 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 Bretaigne”: they savoured 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 sprung from his estrade. The stove stood near my desk, and he attacked it; the little iron door was nearly dashed from its hinges, the fuel was made to fly.

  ‘Est-ce que vous avez l’intention de m‘insulter?’el said he to me, in a low, furious voice, as he thus outraged, under pretence of arranging, the fire.