Villette
instantly took me down—down—down to the very kitchen. I thought I
should have gone to the cellar. The cook was imperatively ordered to
produce food, and I, as imperatively, was commanded to eat. To my great
joy this food was limited to coffee and cake: I had feared wine and
sweets, which I did not like. How he guessed that I should like a
_petit pâté à la crême_ I cannot tell; but he went out and procured me
one from some quarter. With considerable willingness I ate and drank,
keeping the _petit pâté_ till the last, as a _bonne bouche_. M. Paul
superintended my repast, and almost forced upon me more than I could
swallow.
“A la bonne heure,” he cried, when I signified that I really could take
no more, and, with uplifted hands, implored to be spared the additional
roll on which he had just spread butter. “You will set me down as a
species of tyrant and Bluebeard, starving women in a garret; whereas,
after all, I am no such thing. Now, Mademoiselle, do you feel courage
and strength to appear?”
I said, I thought I did; though, in truth, I was perfectly confused,
and could hardly tell how I felt: but this little man was of the order
of beings who must not be opposed, unless you possessed an all-dominant
force sufficient to crush him at once.
“Come then,” said he, offering his hand.
I gave him mine, and he set off with a rapid walk, which obliged me to
run at his side in order to keep pace. In the carré he stopped a
moment: it was lit with large lamps; the wide doors of the classes were
open, and so were the equally wide garden-doors; orange-trees in tubs,
and tall flowers in pots, ornamented these portals on each side; groups
of ladies and gentlemen in evening-dress stood and walked amongst the
flowers. Within, the long vista of the school-rooms presented a
thronging, undulating, murmuring, waving, streaming multitude, all
rose, and blue, and half translucent white. There were lustres burning
overhead; far off there was a stage, a solemn green curtain, a row of
footlights.
“N’est-ce pas que c’est beau?” demanded my companion.
I should have said it was, but my heart got up into my throat. M. Paul
discovered this, and gave me a side-scowl and a little shake for my
pains.
“I will do my best, but I wish it was over,” said I; then I asked: “Are
we to walk through that crowd?”
“By no means: I manage matters better: we pass through the
garden—here.”
In an instant we were out of doors: the cool, calm night revived me
somewhat. It was moonless, but the reflex from the many glowing windows
lit the court brightly, and even the alleys—dimly. Heaven was
cloudless, and grand with the quiver of its living fires. How soft are
the nights of the Continent! How bland, balmy, safe! No sea-fog; no
chilling damp: mistless as noon, and fresh as morning.
Having crossed court and garden, we reached the glass door of the first
classe. It stood open, like all other doors that night; we passed, and
then I was ushered into a small cabinet, dividing the first classe from
the grand salle. This cabinet dazzled me, it was so full of light: it
deafened me, it was clamorous with voices: it stifled me, it was so
hot, choking, thronged.
“De l’ordre! Du silence!” cried M. Paul. “Is this chaos?”, he demanded;
and there was a hush. With a dozen words, and as many gestures, he
turned out half the persons present, and obliged the remnant to fall
into rank. Those left were all in costume: they were the performers,
and this was the green-room. M. Paul introduced me. All stared and some
tittered. It was a surprise: they had not expected the Englishwoman
would play in a _vaudeville_. Ginevra Fanshawe, beautifully dressed for
her part, and looking fascinatingly pretty, turned on me a pair of eyes
as round as beads. In the highest spirit, unperturbed by fear or
bashfulness, delighted indeed at the thought of shining off before
hundreds—my entrance seemed to transfix her with amazement in the midst
of her joy. She would have exclaimed, but M. Paul held her and all the
rest in check.
Having surveyed and criticized the whole troop, he turned to me.
“You, too, must be dressed for your part.”
“Dressed—dressed like a man!” exclaimed Zélie St. Pierre, darting
forwards; adding with officiousness, “I will dress her myself.”
To be dressed like a man did not please, and would not suit me. I had
consented to take a man’s name and part; as to his dress—_halte là!_
No. I would keep my own dress, come what might. M. Paul might storm,
might rage: I would keep my own dress. I said so, with a voice as
resolute in intent, as it was low, and perhaps unsteady in utterance.
He did not immediately storm or rage, as I fully thought he would he
stood silent. But Zélie again interposed.
“She will make a capital _petit-mâitre_. Here are the garments, all—all
complete: somewhat too large, but—I will arrange all that. Come, chère
amie—belle Anglaise!”
And she sneered, for I was not “belle.” She seized my hand, she was
drawing me away. M. Paul stood impassable—neutral.
“You must not resist,” pursued St. Pierre—for resist I did. “You will
spoil all, destroy the mirth of the piece, the enjoyment of the
company, sacrifice everything to your _amour-propre_. This would be too
bad—monsieur will never permit this?”
She sought his eye. I watched, likewise, for a glance. He gave her one,
and then he gave me one. “Stop!” he said slowly, arresting St. Pierre,
who continued her efforts to drag me after her. Everybody awaited the
decision. He was not angry, not irritated; I perceived that, and took
heart.
“You do not like these clothes?” he asked, pointing to the masculine
vestments.
“I don’t object to some of them, but I won’t have them all.”
“How must it be, then? How accept a man’s part, and go on the stage
dressed as a woman? This is an amateur affair, it is true—a _vaudeville
de pensionnat;_ certain modifications I might sanction, yet something
you must have to announce you as of the nobler sex.”
“And I will, Monsieur; but it must be arranged in my own way: nobody
must meddle; the things must not be forced upon me. Just let me dress
myself.”
Monsieur, without another word, took the costume from St. Pierre, gave
it to me, and permitted me to pass into the dressing-room. Once alone,
I grew calm, and collectedly went to work. Retaining my woman’s garb
without the slightest retrenchment, I merely assumed, in addition, a
little vest, a collar, and cravat, and a paletôt of small dimensions;
the whole being the costume of a brother of one of the pupils. Having
loosened my hair out of its braids, made up the long back-hair close,
and brushed the front hair to one side, I took my hat and gloves in my
hand and came out. M. Paul was waiting, and so were the others. He
looked at me. “That may pass in a pensionnat,” he pronounced. Then
added, not unkindly, “Courage, mon ami! Un peu de sangfroid—un peu
d’aplomb, M. Lucien, et tout ira bien.”
St. Pierre sneered again, in her cold snaky manner.
I was irritable, because excited, and I could not help turning upon her
and saying, that if she were not a lady and I a gentleman, I should
feel disposed to call her out.
“After the play, after the play,” said M. Paul. “I will then divide my
pair of pistols between you, and we will settle the dispute according
to form: it will only be the old quarrel of France and England.”
But now the moment approached for the performance to commence. M. Paul,
setting us before him, harangued us briefly, like a general addressing
soldiers about to charge. I don’t know what he said, except that he
recommended each to penetrate herself with a sense of her personal
insignificance. God knows I thought this advice superfluous for some of
us. A bell tinkled. I and two more were ushered on to the stage. The
bell tinkled again. I had to speak the very first words.
“Do not look at the crowd, nor think of it,” whispered M. Paul in my
ear. “Imagine yourself in the garret, acting to the rats.”
He vanished. The curtain drew up—shrivelled to the ceiling: the bright
lights, the long room, the gay throng, burst upon us. I thought of the
black-beetles, the old boxes, the worm-eaten bureau. I said my say
badly; but I said it. That first speech was the difficulty; it revealed
to me this fact, that it was not the crowd I feared so much as my own
voice. Foreigners and strangers, the crowd were nothing to me. Nor did
I think of them. When my tongue once got free, and my voice took its
true pitch, and found its natural tone, I thought of nothing but the
personage I represented—and of M. Paul, who was listening, watching,
prompting in the side-scenes.
By-and-by, feeling the right power come—the spring demanded gush and
rise inwardly—I became sufficiently composed to notice my
fellow-actors. Some of them played very well; especially Ginevra
Fanshawe, who had to coquette between two suitors, and managed
admirably: in fact she was in her element. I observed that she once or
twice threw a certain marked fondness and pointed partiality into her
manner towards me—the fop. With such emphasis and animation did she
favour me, such glances did she dart out into the listening and
applauding crowd, that to me—who knew her—it presently became evident
she was acting _at_ some one; and I followed her eye, her smile, her
gesture, and ere long discovered that she had at least singled out a
handsome and distinguished aim for her shafts; full in the path of
those arrows—taller than other spectators, and therefore more sure to
receive them—stood, in attitude quiet but intent, a well-known
form—that of Dr. John.
The spectacle seemed somehow suggestive. There was language in Dr.
John’s look, though I cannot tell what he said; it animated me: I drew
out of it a history; I put my idea into the part I performed; I threw
it into my wooing of Ginevra. In the “Ours,” or sincere lover, I saw
Dr. John. Did I pity him, as erst? No, I hardened my heart, rivalled
and out-rivalled him. I knew myself but a fop, but where _he_ was
outcast _I_ could please. Now I know I acted as if wishful and resolute
to win and conquer. Ginevra seconded me; between us we half-changed the
nature of the _rôle_, gilding it from top to toe. Between the acts M.
Paul, told us he knew not what possessed us, and half expostulated.
“C’est peut-être plus beau que votre modèle,” said he, “mais ce n’est
pas juste.” I know not what possessed me either; but somehow, my
longing was to eclipse the “Ours,” _i.e._, Dr. John. Ginevra was
tender; how could I be otherwise than chivalric? Retaining the letter,
I recklessly altered the spirit of the _rôle_. Without heart, without
interest, I could not play it at all. It must be played—in went the
yearned-for seasoning—thus favoured, I played it with relish.
What I felt that night, and what I did, I no more expected to feel and
do, than to be lifted in a trance to the seventh heaven. Cold,
reluctant, apprehensive, I had accepted a part to please another: ere
long, warming, becoming interested, taking courage, I acted to please
myself. Yet the next day, when I thought it over, I quite disapproved
of these amateur performances; and though glad that I had obliged M.
Paul, and tried my own strength for once, I took a firm resolution,
never to be drawn into a similar affair. A keen relish for dramatic
expression had revealed itself as part of my nature; to cherish and
exercise this new-found faculty might gift me with a world of delight,
but it would not do for a mere looker-on at life: the strength and
longing must be put by; and I put them by, and fastened them in with
the lock of a resolution which neither Time nor Temptation has since
picked.
No sooner was the play over, and _well_ over, than the choleric and
arbitrary M. Paul underwent a metamorphosis. His hour of managerial