Villette
Pierre possessed, in an almost unique degree, the power of keeping
order amongst her undisciplined ranks of scholars. A certain petrifying
influence accompanied and surrounded her: without passion, noise, or
violence, she held them in check as a breezeless frost-air might still
a brawling stream. She was of little use as far as communication of
knowledge went, but for strict surveillance and maintenance of rules
she was invaluable. “Je sais bien qu’elle n’a pas de principes, ni,
peut-être, de moeurs,” admitted Madame frankly; but added with
philosophy, “son maintien en classe est toujours convenable et rempli
même d’une certaine dignité: c’est tout ce qu’il faut. Ni les élèves ni
les parents ne regardent plus loin; ni, par conséquent, moi non plus.”
A strange, frolicsome, noisy little world was this school: great pains
were taken to hide chains with flowers: a subtle essence of Romanism
pervaded every arrangement: large sensual indulgence (so to speak) was
permitted by way of counterpoise to jealous spiritual restraint. Each
mind was being reared in slavery; but, to prevent reflection from
dwelling on this fact, every pretext for physical recreation was seized
and made the most of. There, as elsewhere, the CHURCH strove to bring
up her children robust in body, feeble in soul, fat, ruddy, hale,
joyous, ignorant, unthinking, unquestioning. “Eat, drink, and live!”
she says. “Look after your bodies; leave your souls to me. I hold their
cure—guide their course: I guarantee their final fate.” A bargain, in
which every true Catholic deems himself a gainer. Lucifer just offers
the same terms: “All this power will I give thee, and the glory of it;
for that is delivered unto me, and to whomsoever I will I give it. If
thou, therefore, wilt worship me, all shall be thine!”
About this time—in the ripest glow of summer—Madame Beck’s house became
as merry a place as a school could well be. All day long the broad
folding-doors and the two-leaved casements stood wide open: settled
sunshine seemed naturalized in the atmosphere; clouds were far off,
sailing away beyond sea, resting, no doubt, round islands such as
England—that dear land of mists—but withdrawn wholly from the drier
continent. We lived far more in the garden than under a roof: classes
were held, and meals partaken of, in the “grand berceau.” Moreover,
there was a note of holiday preparation, which almost turned freedom
into licence. The autumnal long vacation was but two months distant;
but before that, a great day—an important ceremony—none other than the
fête of Madame—awaited celebration.
The conduct of this fête devolved chiefly on Mademoiselle St. Pierre:
Madame herself being supposed to stand aloof, disinterestedly
unconscious of what might be going forward in her honour. Especially,
she never knew, never in the least suspected, that a subscription was
annually levied on the whole school for the purchase of a handsome
present. The polite tact of the reader will please to leave out of the
account a brief, secret consultation on this point in Madame’s own
chamber.
“What will you have this year?” was asked by her Parisian lieutenant.
“Oh, no matter! Let it alone. Let the poor children keep their francs,”
And Madame looked benign and modest.
The St. Pierre would here protrude her chin; she knew Madame by heart;
she always called her airs of “bonté”—“des grimaces.” She never even
professed to respect them one instant.
“Vite!” she would say coldly. “Name the article. Shall it be jewellery
or porcelain, haberdashery or silver?”
“Eh bien! Deux ou trois cuillers, et autant de fourchettes en argent.”
And the result was a handsome case, containing 300 francs worth of
plate.
The programme of the fête-day’s proceedings comprised: Presentation of
plate, collation in the garden, dramatic performance (with pupils and
teachers for actors), a dance and supper. Very gorgeous seemed the
effect of the whole to me, as I well remember. Zélie St. Pierre
understood these things and managed them ably.
The play was the main point; a month’s previous drilling being there
required. The choice, too, of the actors required knowledge and care;
then came lessons in elocution, in attitude, and then the fatigue of
countless rehearsals. For all this, as may well be supposed, St. Pierre
did not suffice: other management, other accomplishments than hers were
requisite here. They were supplied in the person of a master—M. Paul
Emanuel, professor of literature. It was never my lot to be present at
the histrionic lessons of M. Paul, but I often saw him as he crossed
the _carré_ (a square hall between the dwelling-house and
school-house). I heard him, too, in the warm evenings, lecturing with
open doors, and his name, with anecdotes of him, resounded in ones ears
from all sides. Especially our former acquaintance, Miss Ginevra
Fanshawe,—who had been selected to take a prominent part in the
play—used, in bestowing upon me a large portion of her leisure, to lard
her discourse with frequent allusions to his sayings and doings. She
esteemed him hideously plain, and used to profess herself frightened
almost into hysterics at the sound of his step or voice. A dark little
man he certainly was; pungent and austere. Even to me he seemed a harsh
apparition, with his close-shorn, black head, his broad, sallow brow,
his thin cheek, his wide and quivering nostril, his thorough glance,
and hurried bearing. Irritable he was; one heard that, as he
apostrophized with vehemence the awkward squad under his orders.
Sometimes he would break out on these raw amateur actresses with a
passion of impatience at their falseness of conception, their coldness
of emotion, their feebleness of delivery. “Ecoutez!” he would cry; and
then his voice rang through the premises like a trumpet; and when,
mimicking it, came the small pipe of a Ginevra, a Mathilde, or a
Blanche, one understood why a hollow groan of scorn, or a fierce hiss
of rage, rewarded the tame echo.
“Vous n’êtes donc que des poupées,” I heard him thunder. “Vous n’avez
pas de passions—vous autres. Vous ne sentez donc rien? Votre chair est
de neige, votre sang de glace! Moi, je veux que tout cela s’allume,
qu’il ait une vie, une âme!”
Vain resolve! And when he at last found it _was_ vain, he suddenly
broke the whole business down. Hitherto he had been teaching them a
grand tragedy; he tore the tragedy in morsels, and came next day with a
compact little comic trifle. To this they took more kindly; he
presently knocked it all into their smooth round pates.
Mademoiselle St. Pierre always presided at M. Emanuel’s lessons, and I
was told that the polish of her manner, her seeming attention, her tact
and grace, impressed that gentleman very favourably. She had, indeed,
the art of pleasing, for a given time, whom she would; but the feeling
would not last: in an hour it was dried like dew, vanished like
gossamer.
The day preceding Madame’s fête was as much a holiday as the fête
itself. It was devoted to clearing out, cleaning, arranging and
decorating the three schoolrooms. All within-doors was the gayest
bustle; neither up-stairs nor down could a quiet, isolated person find
rest for the sole of her foot; accordingly, for my part, I took refuge
in the garden. The whole day did I wander or sit there alone, finding
warmth in the sun, shelter among the trees, and a sort of companionship
in my own thoughts. I well remember that I exchanged but two sentences
that day with any living being: not that I felt solitary; I was glad to
be quiet. For a looker-on, it sufficed to pass through the rooms once
or twice, observe what changes were being wrought, how a green-room and
a dressing-room were being contrived, a little stage with scenery
erected, how M. Paul Emanuel, in conjunction with Mademoiselle St.
Pierre, was directing all, and how an eager band of pupils, amongst
them Ginevra Fanshawe, were working gaily under his control.
The great day arrived. The sun rose hot and unclouded, and hot and
unclouded it burned on till evening. All the doors and all the windows
were set open, which gave a pleasant sense of summer freedom—and
freedom the most complete seemed indeed the order of the day. Teachers
and pupils descended to breakfast in dressing-gowns and curl-papers:
anticipating “avec délices” the toilette of the evening, they seemed to
take a pleasure in indulging that forenoon in a luxury of slovenliness;
like aldermen fasting in preparation for a feast. About nine o’clock
A.M., an important functionary, the “coiffeur,” arrived. Sacrilegious
to state, he fixed his head-quarters in the oratory, and there, in
presence of _bénitier_, candle, and crucifix, solemnised the mysteries
of his art. Each girl was summoned in turn to pass through his hands;
emerging from them with head as smooth as a shell, intersected by
faultless white lines, and wreathed about with Grecian plaits that
shone as if lacquered. I took my turn with the rest, and could hardly
believe what the glass said when I applied to it for information
afterwards; the lavished garlandry of woven brown hair amazed me—I
feared it was not all my own, and it required several convincing pulls
to give assurance to the contrary. I then acknowledged in the coiffeur
a first-rate artist—one who certainly made the most of indifferent
materials.
The oratory closed, the dormitory became the scene of ablutions,
arrayings and bedizenings curiously elaborate. To me it was, and ever
must be an enigma, how they contrived to spend so much time in doing so
little. The operation seemed close, intricate, prolonged: the result
simple. A clear white muslin dress, a blue sash (the Virgin’s colours),
a pair of white, or straw-colour kid gloves—such was the gala uniform,
to the assumption whereof that houseful of teachers and pupils devoted
three mortal hours. But though simple, it must be allowed the array was
perfect—perfect in fashion, fit, and freshness; every head being also
dressed with exquisite nicety, and a certain compact taste—suiting the
full, firm comeliness of Labassecourien contours, though too stiff for
any more flowing and flexible style of beauty—the general effect was,
on the whole, commendable.
In beholding this diaphanous and snowy mass, I well remember feeling
myself to be a mere shadowy spot on a field of light; the courage was
not in me to put on a transparent white dress: something thin I must
wear—the weather and rooms being too hot to give substantial fabrics
sufferance, so I had sought through a dozen shops till I lit upon a
crape-like material of purple-gray—the colour, in short, of dun mist,
lying on a moor in bloom. My _tailleuse_ had kindly made it as well as
she could: because, as she judiciously observed, it was “si triste—si
pen voyant,” care in the fashion was the more imperative: it was well
she took this view of the matter, for I, had no flower, no jewel to
relieve it: and, what was more, I had no natural rose of complexion.
We become oblivious of these deficiencies in the uniform routine of
daily drudgery, but they _will_ force upon us their unwelcome blank on
those bright occasions when beauty should shine.
However, in this same gown of shadow, I felt at home and at ease; an
advantage I should not have enjoyed in anything more brilliant or
striking. Madame Beck, too, kept me in countenance; her dress was
almost as quiet as mine, except that she wore a bracelet, and a large
brooch bright with gold and fine stones. We chanced to meet on the
stairs, and she gave me a nod and smile of approbation. Not that she
thought I was looking well—a point unlikely to engage her interest—but
she considered me dressed “convenablement,” “décemment,” and la
Convenance et la Décence were the two calm deities of Madame’s worship.