Villette (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Charlotte Bronte

‘And you don’t like him now? What has he done?’

  ‘Nothing. Y-e-s, I like him a little; but we are grown strange to each other.’

  ‘Then rub it off, Polly: rub the rust and the strangeness off. Talk away when he is here, and have no fear of him!’

  ‘He does not talk much. Is he afraid of me, do you think, papa?’

  ‘Oh, to be sure! What man would not be afraid of such a lit tle silent lady?’

  ‘Then tell him some day not to mind my being silent. Say that it is my way, and that I have no unfriendly intention.’

  ‘Your way, you little chatter-box? So far from being your way, it is only your whim!’

  ‘Well, I’ll improve, papa.’

  And very pretty was the grace with which, the next day, she tried to keep her word. I saw her make the effort to converse affably with Dr. John on general topics. The attention called into her guest’s face a pleasurable glow; he met her with caution, and replied to her in his softest tones, as if there was a kind of gossamer happiness hanging in the air which he feared to disturb by drawing too deep a breath. Certainly, in her timid yet earnest advance to friendship, it could not be denied that there was a most exquisite and fairy charm.

  When the Doctor was gone, she approached her father’s chair.

  ‘Did I keep my word, papa? Did I behave better?’

  ‘My Polly behaved like a queen. I shall become quite proud of her if this improvement continues. By and by we shall see her receiving my guests with quite a calm, grand manner. Miss Lucy and I will have to look about us, and polish up all our best airs and graces lest we should be thrown into the shade. Still, Polly, there is a little flutter, a little tendency to stammer now and then, and even to lisp as you lisped when you were six years old.’

  ‘No, papa,’ interrupted she, indignantly, ‘that can’t be true.’

  ‘I appeal to Miss Lucy. Did she not, in answering Dr. Bretton’s question as to whether she had ever seen the palace of the Prince of Bois l’Etang, say “yeth,” she had been there “theveral” times.’

  ‘Papa, you are satirical, you are méchant! I can pronounce all the letters of the alphabet as clearly as you can. But tell me this: you are very particular in making me be civil to Dr. Bretton, do you like him yourself?’

  ‘To be sure: for old acquaintance sake I like him: then he is a very good son to his mother; besides being a kind-hearted fellow and clever in his profession: yes, the callant is well enough.’

  ‘Callant! Ah, Scotchman! Papa, is it the Edinburgh or the Aberdeen accent you have?’

  ‘Both, my pet, both; and doubtless the Glaswegian into the bargain: it is that which enables me to speak French so well: a gude Scots tongue always succeeds well at the French.’

  ‘The French! Scotch again: incorrigible, papa! You, too, need schooling.’

  ‘Well, Polly, you must persuade Miss Snowe to undertake both you and me; to make you steady and womanly, and me refined and classical.’

  The light in which M. de Bassompierre evidently regarded ‘Miss Snowe,’ used to occasion me much inward edification. What contradictory attributes of character we sometimes find ascribed to us, according to the eye with which we are viewed! Madame Beck esteemed me learned and blue; Miss Fanshawe, caustic, ironic, and cynical; Mr. Home, a model teacher, the essence of the sedate and discreet: somewhat conventional perhaps, too strict, limited and scrupulous, but still the pink and pattern of governess-correctness; whilst another person, Professor Paul Emanuel, to wit, never lost an opportunity of intimating his opinion that mine was rather a fiery and rash nature—adventurous, indocile, and audacious. I smiled at them all. If any one knew me it was little Paulina Mary.

  As I would not be Paulina’s nominal and paid companion, genial and harmonious as I began to find her intercourse, she persuaded me to join her in some study, as a regular and settled means of sustaining communication: she proposed the German language, which, like myself, she found difficult of mastery. We agreed to take our lessons in the Rue Crécy of the same mistress; this arrangement threw us together for some hours of every week. M. de Bassompierre seemed quite pleased: it perfectly met his approbation that Madame Minerva Gravity should associate a portion of her leisure with that of his fair and dear child.

  That other self-elected judge of mine, the professor in the Rue Fossette, discovering by some surreptitious, spying means, that I was no longer so stationary as hitherto, but went out regularly at certain hours of certain days, took it upon himself to place me under surveillance. People said M. Emanuel had been brought up amongst Jesuits. I should more readily have accredited this report had his manoeuvres been better masked. As it was I doubted it. Never was a more undisguised schemer, a franker, looser intriguer. He would analyze his own machinations: elaborately contrive plots, and forthwith indulge in explanatory boasts of their skill. I know not whether I was more amused or provoked, by his stepping up to me one morning and whispering solemnly that he ‘had his eye on me: he at least would discharge the duty of a friend and not leave me entirely to my own devices. My proceedings seemed at present very unsettled: he did not know what to make of them: he thought his cousin Beck very much to blame in suffering this sort of fluttering inconsistency in a teacher attached to her house. What had a person devoted to a serious calling, that of education, to do with Counts and Countesses, hotels and chateaux? To him, I seemed altogether “en l’air.” On his faith, he believed I went out six days in the seven.’

  I said, ‘Monsieur exaggerated. I certainly had enjoyed the advantage of a little change lately, but not before it had become necessary; and the privilege was by no means exercised in excess.’

  ‘Necessary! How was it necessary? I was well enough, he supposed? Change necessary! He would recommend me to look at the Catholic “religièuses,” and study their lives. They asked no change.’

  I am no judge of what expression crossed my face when he thus spoke, but it was one which provoked him: he accused me of being reckless, worldly, and epicurean; ambitious of greatness and feverishly athirst for the pomps and vanities of life. It seems I had no ‘dévouement,’ no ‘récueillement’ in my character; no spirit of grace, faith, sacrifice, or self-abasement. Feeling the inutility of answering these charges, I mutely continued the correction of a pile of English exercises.

  ‘He could see in me nothing Christian: like many other Protestants, I revelled in the pride and self-will of paganism.’

  I slightly turned from him, nestling still closer under the wing of silence.

  A vague sound grumbled between his teeth; it could not surely be a ‘juron:’ he was too religious for that; but I am certain I heard the word sacré. Grievous to relate, the same word was repeated, with the unequivocal addition of millefg something, when I passed him about two hours afterwards in the corridor, prepared to go and take my German lesson in the Rue Crécy. Never was a better little man, in some points, than M. Paul: never, in others, a more waspish little despot.

  Our German mistress, Fräulein Anna Braun, was a worthy, hearty woman, of about forty-five; she ought, perhaps, to have lived in the days of Queen Elizabeth, as she habitually consumed, for her first and second breakfast, beer and beef: also, her direct and downright Deutsch nature seemed to suffer a sensation of cruel restraint from what she called our English reserve; though we thought we were very cordial with her: but we did not slap her on the shoulder, and if we consented to kiss her cheek, it was done quietly, and without any explosive smack. These omissions oppressed and depressed her considerably; still, on the whole, we got on very well. Accustomed to instruct foreign girls, who hardly ever will think and study for themselves—who have no idea of grappling with a difficulty, and overcoming it by dint of reflection or application—our progress, which, in truth, was very leisurely, seemed to astound her. In her eyes, we were a pair of glacial prodigies, cold, proud, and preternatural.

  The young Countess was a little proud, a little fastidious: and perhaps, with her native delicacy and beauty, she had a right to these f
eelings; but I think it was a total mistake to ascribe them to me. I never evaded the morning salute, which Paulina would slip when she could; nor was a certain little manner of still disdain a weapon known in my armoury of defence; whereas, Paulina always kept it clear, fine and bright, and any rough German sally called forth at once its steely glisten.

  Honest Anna Braun, in some measure, felt this difference; and while she half-feared, half-worshipped Paulina, as a sort of dainty nymph—an Undine—she took refuge with me, as a being all mortal, and of easier mood.

  A book we liked well to read and translate was Schiller’s Ballads; Paulina soon learned to read them beautifully: the Fraulein would listen to her with a broad smile of pleasure, and say her voice sounded like music. She translated them too with a facile flow of language, and in a strain of kindred and poetic fervour: her cheek would flush, her lips tremblingly smile, her beauteous eyes kindle or melt as she went on. She learnt the best by heart, and would often recite them when we were alone together. One she liked well was ‘Des Mädchens Klage’: that is, she liked well to repeat the words, she found plaintive melody in the sound; the sense she would criticise. She murmured, as we sat over the fire one evening:—

  ‘Du Heilige, rufe dein Kind zurück,

  Ich habe genossen das irdische Glück,

  Ich habe gelebt und geliebet!’fh

  ‘Lived and loved!’ said she, ‘is that the summit of earthly happiness, the end of life—to love? I don’t think it is. It may be the extreme of mortal misery, it may be sheer waste of time, and fruitless torture of feeling. If Schiller had said to be loved—he might have come nearer the truth. Is not that another thing, Lucy, to be loved?’

  ‘I suppose it may be: but why consider the subject? What is love to you? What do you know about it?’

  She crimsoned, half in irritation, half in shame.

  ‘Now, Lucy,’ she said, ‘I won’t take that from you. It may be well for papa to look on me as a baby: I rather prefer that he

  ‘No matter if it were your twenty-ninth; we will anticipate no feelings by discussion and conversation: we will not talk about love.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed!’ said she—all in hurry and heat—‘you may think to check and hold me in, as much as you please; but I have talked about it, and heard about it too; and a great deal and lately, and disagreeably and detrimentally: and in a way you wouldn’t approve.’

  And the vexed, triumphant, pretty, naughty being laughed. I could not discern what she meant, and I would not ask her: I was nonplussed. Seeing, however, the utmost innocence in her countenance—combined with some transient perverseness and petulance—I said at last,—

  ‘Who talks to you disagreeably and detrimentally on such matters? Who that has near access to you would dare to do it?’

  ‘Lucy,’ replied she more softly, ‘it is a person who makes me miserable sometimes; and I wish she would keep away—I don’t want her.’

  ‘But who, Paulina, can it be? You puzzle me much.’

  ‘It is—it is my cousin Ginevra. Every time she has leave to visit Mrs. Cholmondeley she calls here, and whenever she finds me alone she begins to talk about her admirers. Love, indeed! You should hear all she has to say about love.’

  ‘Oh, I have heard it,’ said I, quite coolly; ‘and on the whole, perhaps, it is as well you should have heard it too: it is not to be regretted, it is all right. Yet, surely, Ginevra’s mind cannot influence yours. You can look over both her head and her heart.’

  ‘She does influence me very much. She has the art of disturbing my happiness and unsettling my opinions. She hurts me through the feelings and people dearest to me.’

  ‘What does she say, Paulina? Give me some idea. There may be counteraction of the damage done.’

  ‘The people I have longest and most esteemed are degraded by her. She does not spare Mrs. Bretton—she does not spare ... Graham.’

  ‘No, I dare say: and how does she mix up these with her sentiment and her ... love? She does mix them, I suppose?’

  ‘Lucy, she is insolent; and I believe, false. You know Dr. Bretton. We both know him. He may be careless and proud; but when was he ever mean or slavish? Day after day she shows him to me kneeling at her feet, pursuing her like her shadow. She—repulsing him with insult, and he imploring her with infatuation. Lucy, is it true? Is any of it true?’

  ‘It may be true that he once thought her handsome: does she give him out as still her suitor?’

  ‘She says she might marry him any day: he only waits her consent.’

  ‘It is these tales which have caused that reserve in your manner towards Graham which your father noticed.’

  ‘They have certainly made me all doubtful about his character. As Ginevra speaks, they do not carry with them the sound of unmixed truth: I believe she exaggerates—perhaps invents—but I want to know how far.’

  ‘Suppose we bring Miss Fanshawe to some proof. Give her an opportunity of displaying the power she boasts.’

  ‘I could do that to-morrow. Papa has asked some gentlemen to dinner, all savants. Graham who, papa is beginning to discover, is a savant, too—skilled, they say, in more than one branch of science-is among the number. Now I should be miserable to sit at table unsupported, amidst such a party. I could not talk to Messieurs A—and Z—, the Parisian academicians: all my new credit for manner would be put in peril. You and Mrs. Bretton must come for my sake; Ginevra, at a word, will join you.’

  ‘Yes; then I will carry a message of invitation, and she shall have the chance of justifying her character for veracity.’

  CHAPTER 27

  The Hôtel Crécy

  The morrow turned out a more lively and busy day than we—or than I, at least—had anticipated. It seems it was the birthday of one of the young princes of Labassecour—the eldest, I think, the Duc de Dindonneaux—and a general holiday was given in his honour at the schools, and especially at the principal ‘Athénée,’ or college. The youth of that institution had also concocted, and were to present a loyal address; for which purpose they were to be assembled in the public building where the yearly examinations were conducted, and the prizes distributed. After the ceremony of presentation, an oration, or ‘discours’ was to follow from one of the professors.

  Several of M. de Bassompierre’s friends—the savants—being more or less connected with the Athénée, they were expected to attend on this occasion; together with the worshipful municipality of Villette, M. le Chevalier Staas, the burgomaster, and the parents and kinsfolk of the Athenians in general. M. de Bassompierre was engaged by his friends to accompany them; his fair daughter would, of course, be of the party, and she wrote a little note to Ginevra and myself, bidding us come early that we might join her.

  As Miss Fanshawe and I were dressing in the dormitory of the Rue Fossette, she (Miss F.) suddenly burst into a laugh.

  ‘What now?’ I asked; for she had suspended the operation of arranging her attire, and was gazing at me.

  ‘It seems so odd,’ she replied, with her usual half-honest, half-insolent unreserve, ‘that you and I should now be so much on a level, visiting in the same sphere; having the same connections.’

  ‘Why yes,’ said I; ‘I had not much respect for the connections you chiefly frequented awhile ago: Mrs. Cholmondeley and Co. would never have suited me at all.’

  ‘Who are you, Miss Snowe?’ she inquired, in a tone of such undisguised and unsophisticated curiosity, as made me laugh in my turn.

  ‘You used to call yourself a nursery-governess; when you first came here you really had the care of the children in this house: I have seen you carry little Georgette in your arms, like a bonne—few governesses would have condescended so far—and now Madame Beck treats you with more courtesy than she treats the Parisienne, St. Pierre; and that proud chit, my cousin, makes you her bosom friend!’

  ‘Wonderful!’ I agreed, much amused at her mystification. ‘Who am I indeed? Perhaps a personage in disguise. Pity I don’t look the character.’

  ‘I
wonder you are not more flattered by all this,’ she went on: ‘you take it with strange composure. If you really are the nobody I once thought you, you must be a cool hand.’

  ‘The nobody you once thought me!’ I repeated, and my face grew a little hot; but I would not be angry: of what importance was a school-girl’s crude use of the terms nobody and somebody? I confined myself, therefore, to the remark that I had merely met with civility; and asked ‘what she saw in civility to throw the recipient into a fever of confusion?’

  ‘One can’t help wondering at some things,’ she persisted.

  ‘Wondering at marvels of your own manufacture. Are you ready at last?’

  ‘Yes; let me take your arm.’

  ‘I would rather not: we will walk side by side.’

  When she took my arm, she always leaned upon me her whole weight; and, as I was not a gentleman, or her lover, I did not like it.

  ‘There, again!’ she cried. ‘I thought, by offering to take your arm, to intimate approbation of your dress and general appearance: I meant it as a compliment.’

  ‘You did? You meant, in short, to express that you are not ashamed to be seen in the street with me? That if Mrs. Cholmondeley should be fondling her lap-dog at some window, or Colonel de Hamal picking his teeth in a balcony, and should catch a glimpse of us, you would not quite blush for your companion?’

  ‘Yes,’ said she, with that directness which was her best point—which gave an honest plainness to her very fibs when she told them—which was, in short, the salt, the sole preservative ingredient of a character otherwise not formed to keep.

  I delegated the trouble of commenting on this ‘yes’ to my countenance; or rather, my under-lip voluntarily anticipated my tongue: of course, reverence and solemnity were not the feelings expressed in the look I gave her.

  ‘Scornful, sneering creature!’ she went on, as we crossed a great square, and entered the quiet, pleasant park, our nearest way to the Rue Crécy. ‘Nobody in this world was ever such a Turk to me as you are!’