Villette
ever seen; a third person in a pink dress and black lace mantle.
I noted them all—the third person as well as the other two—and for the
fraction of a moment believed them all strangers, thus receiving an
impartial impression of their appearance. But the impression was hardly
felt and not fixed, before the consciousness that I faced a great
mirror, filling a compartment between two pillars, dispelled it: the
party was our own party. Thus for the first, and perhaps only time in
my life, I enjoyed the “giftie” of seeing myself as others see me. No
need to dwell on the result. It brought a jar of discord, a pang of
regret; it was not flattering, yet, after all, I ought to be thankful;
it might have been worse.
At last, we were seated in places commanding a good general view of
that vast and dazzling, but warm and cheerful hall. Already it was
filled, and filled with a splendid assemblage. I do not know that the
women were very beautiful, but their dresses were so perfect; and
foreigners, even such as are ungraceful in domestic privacy, seem to
possess the art of appearing graceful in public: however blunt and
boisterous those every-day and home movements connected with peignoir
and papillotes, there is a slide, a bend, a carriage of the head and
arms, a mien of the mouth and eyes, kept nicely in reserve for gala
use—always brought out with the grande toilette, and duly put on with
the “parure.”
Some fine forms there were here and there, models of a peculiar style
of beauty; a style, I think, never seen in England; a solid, firm-set,
sculptural style. These shapes have no angles: a caryatid in marble is
almost as flexible; a Phidian goddess is not more perfect in a certain
still and stately sort. They have such features as the Dutch painters
give to their madonnas: low-country classic features, regular but
round, straight but stolid; and for their depth of expressionless calm,
of passionless peace, a polar snow-field could alone offer a type.
Women of this order need no ornament, and they seldom wear any; the
smooth hair, closely braided, supplies a sufficient contrast to the
smoother cheek and brow; the dress cannot be too simple; the rounded
arm and perfect neck require neither bracelet nor chain.
With one of these beauties I once had the honour and rapture to be
perfectly acquainted: the inert force of the deep, settled love she
bore herself, was wonderful; it could only be surpassed by her proud
impotency to care for any other living thing. Of blood, her cool veins
conducted no flow; placid lymph filled and almost obstructed her
arteries.
Such a Juno as I have described sat full in our view—a sort of mark for
all eyes, and quite conscious that so she was, but proof to the
magnetic influence of gaze or glance: cold, rounded, blonde, and
beauteous as the white column, capitalled with gilding, which rose at
her side.
Observing that Dr. John’s attention was much drawn towards her, I
entreated him in a low voice “for the love of heaven to shield well his
heart. You need not fall in love with _that_ lady,” I said, “because, I
tell you beforehand, you might die at her feet, and she would not love
you again.”
“Very well,” said he, “and how do you know that the spectacle of her
grand insensibility might not with me be the strongest stimulus to
homage? The sting of desperation is, I think, a wonderful irritant to
my emotions: but” (shrugging his shoulders) “you know nothing about
these things; I’ll address myself to my mother. Mamma, I’m in a
dangerous way.”
“As if that interested me!” said Mrs. Bretton.
“Alas! the cruelty of my lot!” responded her son. “Never man had a more
unsentimental mother than mine: she never seems to think that such a
calamity can befall her as a daughter-in-law.”
“If I don’t, it is not for want of having that same calamity held over
my head: you have threatened me with it for the last ten years. ‘Mamma,
I am going to be married soon!’ was the cry before you were well out of
jackets.”
“But, mother, one of these days it will be realized. All of a sudden,
when you think you are most secure, I shall go forth like Jacob or
Esau, or any other patriarch, and take me a wife: perhaps of these
which are of the daughters of the land.”
“At your peril, John Graham! that is all.”
“This mother of mine means me to be an old bachelor. What a jealous old
lady it is! But now just look at that splendid creature in the pale
blue satin dress, and hair of paler brown, with ‘reflets satinés’ as
those of her robe. Would you not feel proud, mamma, if I were to bring
that goddess home some day, and introduce her to you as Mrs. Bretton,
junior?”
“You will bring no goddess to La Terrasse: that little château will not
contain two mistresses; especially if the second be of the height,
bulk, and circumference of that mighty doll in wood and wax, and kid
and satin.”
“Mamma, she would fill your blue chair so admirably!”
“Fill my chair? I defy the foreign usurper! a rueful chair should it be
for her: but hush, John Graham! Hold your tongue, and use your eyes.”
During the above skirmish, the hall, which, I had thought, seemed full
at the entrance, continued to admit party after party, until the
semicircle before the stage presented one dense mass of heads, sloping
from floor to ceiling. The stage, too, or rather the wide temporary
platform, larger than any stage, desert half an hour since, was now
overflowing with life; round two grand pianos, placed about the centre,
a white flock of young girls, the pupils of the Conservatoire, had
noiselessly poured. I had noticed their gathering, while Graham and his
mother were engaged in discussing the belle in blue satin, and had
watched with interest the process of arraying and marshalling them. Two
gentlemen, in each of whom I recognised an acquaintance, officered this
virgin troop. One, an artistic-looking man, bearded, and with long
hair, was a noted pianiste, and also the first music-teacher in
Villette; he attended twice a week at Madame Beck’s pensionnat, to give
lessons to the few pupils whose parents were rich enough to allow their
daughters the privilege of his instructions; his name was M. Josef
Emanuel, and he was half-brother to M. Paul: which potent personage was
now visible in the person of the second gentleman.
M. Paul amused me; I smiled to myself as I watched him, he seemed so
thoroughly in his element—standing conspicuous in presence of a wide
and grand assemblage, arranging, restraining, over-aweing about one
hundred young ladies. He was, too, so perfectly in earnest—so
energetic, so intent, and, above all, so absolute: and yet what
business had he there? What had he to do with music or the
Conservatoire—he who could hardly distinguish one note from another? I
knew that it was his love of display and authority which had brought
him there—a love not offensive, only because so naive. It presently
became obvious that his brother, M. Josef, was as much under his
control as were the girls themselves. Never was such a little hawk of a
man as that M. Paul! Ere long, some noted singers and musicians dawned
upon the platform: as these stars rose, the comet-like professor set.
Insufferable to him were all notorieties and celebrities: where he
could not outshine, he fled.
And now all was prepared: but one compartment of the hall waited to be
filled—a compartment covered with crimson, like the grand staircase and
doors, furnished with stuffed and cushioned benches, ranged on each
side of two regal chairs, placed solemnly under a canopy.
A signal was given, the doors rolled back, the assembly stood up, the
orchestra burst out, and, to the welcome of a choral burst, enter the
King, the Queen, the Court of Labassecour.
Till then, I had never set eyes on living king or queen; it may
consequently be conjectured how I strained my powers of vision to take
in these specimens of European royalty. By whomsoever majesty is beheld
for the first time, there will always be experienced a vague surprise
bordering on disappointment, that the same does not appear seated, en
permanence, on a throne, bonneted with a crown, and furnished, as to
the hand, with a sceptre. Looking out for a king and queen, and seeing
only a middle-aged soldier and a rather young lady, I felt half
cheated, half pleased.
Well do I recall that King—a man of fifty, a little bowed, a little
grey: there was no face in all that assembly which resembled his. I had
never read, never been told anything of his nature or his habits; and
at first the strong hieroglyphics graven as with iron stylet on his
brow, round his eyes, beside his mouth, puzzled and baffled instinct.
Ere long, however, if I did not know, at least I felt, the meaning of
those characters written without hand. There sat a silent sufferer—a
nervous, melancholy man. Those eyes had looked on the visits of a
certain ghost—had long waited the comings and goings of that strangest
spectre, Hypochondria. Perhaps he saw her now on that stage, over
against him, amidst all that brilliant throng. Hypochondria has that
wont, to rise in the midst of thousands—dark as Doom, pale as Malady,
and well-nigh strong as Death. Her comrade and victim thinks to be
happy one moment—“Not so,” says she; “I come.” And she freezes the
blood in his heart, and beclouds the light in his eye.
Some might say it was the foreign crown pressing the King’s brows which
bent them to that peculiar and painful fold; some might quote the
effects of early bereavement. Something there might be of both these;
but these are embittered by that darkest foe of humanity—constitutional
melancholy. The Queen, his wife, knew this: it seemed to me, the
reflection of her husband’s grief lay, a subduing shadow, on her own
benignant face. A mild, thoughtful, graceful woman that princess
seemed; not beautiful, not at all like the women of solid charms and
marble feelings described a page or two since. Hers was a somewhat
slender shape; her features, though distinguished enough, were too
suggestive of reigning dynasties and royal lines to give unqualified
pleasure. The expression clothing that profile was agreeable in the
present instance; but you could not avoid connecting it with remembered
effigies, where similar lines appeared, under phase ignoble; feeble, or
sensual, or cunning, as the case might be. The Queen’s eye, however,
was her own; and pity, goodness, sweet sympathy, blessed it with
divinest light. She moved no sovereign, but a lady—kind, loving,
elegant. Her little son, the Prince of Labassecour, and young Duc de
Dindonneau, accompanied her: he leaned on his mother’s knee; and, ever
and anon, in the course of that evening, I saw her observant of the
monarch at her side, conscious of his beclouded abstraction, and
desirous to rouse him from it by drawing his attention to their son.
She often bent her head to listen to the boy’s remarks, and would then
smilingly repeat them to his sire. The moody King started, listened,
smiled, but invariably relapsed as soon as his good angel ceased
speaking. Full mournful and significant was that spectacle! Not the
less so because, both for the aristocracy and the honest bourgeoisie of
Labassecour, its peculiarity seemed to be wholly invisible: I could not
discover that one soul present was either struck or touched.
With the King and Queen had entered their court, comprising two or
three foreign ambassadors; and with them came the elite of the
foreigners then resident in Villette. These took possession of the
crimson benches; the ladies were seated; most of the men remained
standing: their sable rank, lining the background, looked like a dark
foil to the splendour displayed in front. Nor was this splendour
without varying light and shade and gradation: the middle distance was