Villette
filled with matrons in velvets and satins, in plumes and gems; the
benches in the foreground, to the Queen’s right hand, seemed devoted
exclusively to young girls, the flower—perhaps, I should rather say,
the bud—of Villette aristocracy. Here were no jewels, no head-dresses,
no velvet pile or silken sheen: purity, simplicity, and aërial grace
reigned in that virgin band. Young heads simply braided, and fair forms
(I was going to write _sylph_ forms, but that would have been quite
untrue: several of these “jeunes filles,” who had not numbered more
than sixteen or seventeen years, boasted contours as robust and solid
as those of a stout Englishwoman of five-and-twenty)—fair forms robed
in white, or pale rose, or placid blue, suggested thoughts of heaven
and angels. I knew a couple, at least, of these “rose et blanche”
specimens of humanity. Here was a pair of Madame Beck’s late
pupils—Mesdemoiselles Mathilde and Angélique: pupils who, during their
last year at school, ought to have been in the first class, but whose
brains never got them beyond the second division. In English, they had
been under my own charge, and hard work it was to get them to translate
rationally a page of _The Vicar of Wakefield_. Also during three months
I had one of them for my vis-à-vis at table, and the quantity of
household bread, butter, and stewed fruit, she would habitually consume
at “second déjeuner” was a real world’s wonder—to be exceeded only by
the fact of her actually pocketing slices she could not eat. Here be
truths—wholesome truths, too.
I knew another of these seraphs—the prettiest, or, at any rate, the
least demure and hypocritical looking of the lot: she was seated by the
daughter of an English peer, also an honest, though haughty-looking
girl: both had entered in the suite of the British embassy. She (_i.e._
my acquaintance) had a slight, pliant figure, not at all like the forms
of the foreign damsels: her hair, too, was not close-braided, like a
shell or a skull-cap of satin; it looked _like_ hair, and waved from
her head, long, curled, and flowing. She chatted away volubly, and
seemed full of a light-headed sort of satisfaction with herself and her
position. I did not look at Dr. Bretton; but I knew that he, too, saw
Ginevra Fanshawe: he had become so quiet, he answered so briefly his
mother’s remarks, he so often suppressed a sigh. Why should he sigh? He
had confessed a taste for the pursuit of love under difficulties; here
was full gratification for that taste. His lady-love beamed upon him
from a sphere above his own: he could not come near her; he was not
certain that he could win from her a look. I watched to see if she
would so far favour him. Our seat was not far from the crimson benches;
we must inevitably be seen thence, by eyes so quick and roving as Miss
Fanshawe’s, and very soon those optics of hers were upon us: at least,
upon Dr. and Mrs. Bretton. I kept rather in the shade and out of sight,
not wishing to be immediately recognised: she looked quite steadily at
Dr. John, and then she raised a glass to examine his mother; a minute
or two afterwards she laughingly whispered her neighbour; upon the
performance commencing, her rambling attention was attracted to the
platform.
On the concert I need not dwell; the reader would not care to have my
impressions thereanent: and, indeed, it would not be worth while to
record them, as they were the impressions of an ignorance crasse. The
young ladies of the Conservatoire, being very much frightened, made
rather a tremulous exhibition on the two grand pianos. M. Josef Emanuel
stood by them while they played; but he had not the tact or influence
of his kinsman, who, under similar circumstances, would certainly have
_compelled_ pupils of his to demean themselves with heroism and
self-possession. M. Paul would have placed the hysteric débutantes
between two fires—terror of the audience, and terror of himself—and
would have inspired them with the courage of desperation, by making the
latter terror incomparably the greater: M. Josef could not do this.
Following the white muslin pianistes, came a fine, full-grown, sulky
lady in white satin. She sang. Her singing just affected me like the
tricks of a conjuror: I wondered how she did it—how she made her voice
run up and down, and cut such marvellous capers; but a simple Scotch
melody, played by a rude street minstrel, has often moved me more
deeply.
Afterwards stepped forth a gentleman, who, bending his body a good deal
in the direction of the King and Queen, and frequently approaching his
white-gloved hand to the region of his heart, vented a bitter outcry
against a certain “fausse Isabelle.” I thought he seemed especially to
solicit the Queen’s sympathy; but, unless I am egregiously mistaken,
her Majesty lent her attention rather with the calm of courtesy than
the earnestness of interest. This gentleman’s state of mind was very
harrowing, and I was glad when he wound up his musical exposition of
the same.
Some rousing choruses struck me as the best part of the evening’s
entertainment. There were present deputies from all the best provincial
choral societies; genuine, barrel-shaped, native Labassecouriens. These
worthies gave voice without mincing the matter their hearty exertions
had at least this good result—the ear drank thence a satisfying sense
of power.
Through the whole performance—timid instrumental duets, conceited vocal
solos, sonorous, brass-lunged choruses—my attention gave but one eye
and one ear to the stage, the other being permanently retained in the
service of Dr. Bretton: I could not forget him, nor cease to question
how he was feeling, what he was thinking, whether he was amused or the
contrary. At last he spoke.
“And how do you like it all, Lucy? You are very quiet,” he said, in his
own cheerful tone.
“I am quiet,” I said, “because I am so very, _very_ much interested:
not merely with the music, but with everything about me.”
He then proceeded to make some further remarks, with so much equanimity
and composure that I began to think he had really not seen what I had
seen, and I whispered—“Miss Fanshawe is here: have you noticed her?”
“Oh, yes! and I observed that you noticed her too.”
“Is she come with Mrs. Cholmondeley, do you think?”
“Mrs. Cholmondeley is there with a very grand party. Yes; Ginevra was
in _her_ train; and Mrs. Cholmondeley was in Lady ——’s train, who was
in the Queen’s train. If this were not one of the compact little minor
European courts, whose very formalities are little more imposing than
familiarities, and whose gala grandeur is but homeliness in Sunday
array, it would sound all very fine.”
“Ginevra saw you, I think?”
“So do I think so. I have had my eye on her several times since you
withdrew yours; and I have had the honour of witnessing a little
spectacle which you were spared.”
I did not ask what; I waited voluntary information, which was presently
given.
“Miss Fanshawe,” he said, “has a companion with her—a lady of rank. I
happen to know Lady Sara by sight; her noble mother has called me in
professionally. She is a proud girl, but not in the least insolent, and
I doubt whether Ginevra will have gained ground in her estimation by
making a butt of her neighbours.”
“What neighbours?”
“Merely myself and my mother. As to me it is all very natural: nothing,
I suppose, can be fairer game than the young bourgeois doctor; but my
mother! I never saw her ridiculed before. Do you know, the curling lip,
and sarcastically levelled glass thus directed, gave me a most curious
sensation?”
“Think nothing of it, Dr. John: it is not worth while. If Ginevra were
in a giddy mood, as she is eminently to-night, she would make no
scruple of laughing at that mild, pensive Queen, or that melancholy
King. She is not actuated by malevolence, but sheer, heedless folly. To
a feather-brained school-girl nothing is sacred.”
“But you forget: I have not been accustomed to look on Miss Fanshawe in
the light of a feather-brained school-girl. Was she not my divinity—the
angel of my career?”
“Hem! There was your mistake.”
“To speak the honest truth, without any false rant or assumed romance,
there actually was a moment, six months ago, when I thought her divine.
Do you remember our conversation about the presents? I was not quite
open with you in discussing that subject: the warmth with which you
took it up amused me. By way of having the full benefit of your lights,
I allowed you to think me more in the dark than I really was. It was
that test of the presents which first proved Ginevra mortal. Still her
beauty retained its fascination: three days—three hours ago, I was very
much her slave. As she passed me to-night, triumphant in beauty, my
emotions did her homage; but for one luckless sneer, I should yet be
the humblest of her servants. She might have scoffed at _me_, and,
while wounding, she would not soon have alienated me: through myself,
she could not in ten years have done what, in a moment, she has done
through my mother.”
He held his peace awhile. Never before had I seen so much fire, and so
little sunshine in Dr. John’s blue eye as just now.
“Lucy,” he recommenced, “look well at my mother, and say, without fear
or favour, in what light she now appears to you.”
“As she always does—an English, middle-class gentlewoman; well, though
gravely dressed, habitually independent of pretence, constitutionally
composed and cheerful.”
“So she seems to me—bless her! The merry may laugh _with_ mamma, but
the weak only will laugh _at_ her. She shall not be ridiculed, with my
consent, at least; nor without my—my scorn—my antipathy—my—”
He stopped: and it was time—for he was getting excited—more it seemed
than the occasion warranted. I did not then know that he had witnessed
double cause for dissatisfaction with Miss Fanshawe. The glow of his
complexion, the expansion of his nostril, the bold curve which disdain
gave his well-cut under lip, showed him in a new and striking phase.
Yet the rare passion of the constitutionally suave and serene, is not a
pleasant spectacle; nor did I like the sort of vindictive thrill which
passed through his strong young frame.
“Do I frighten you, Lucy?” he asked.
“I cannot tell why you are so very angry.”
“For this reason,” he muttered in my ear. “Ginevra is neither a pure
angel, nor a pure-minded woman.”
“Nonsense! you exaggerate: she has no great harm in her.”
“Too much for me. _I_ can see where _you_ are blind. Now dismiss the
subject. Let me amuse myself by teasing mamma: I will assert that she
is flagging. Mamma, pray rouse yourself.”
“John, I will certainly rouse you if you are not better conducted. Will
you and Lucy be silent, that I may hear the singing?”
They were then thundering in a chorus, under cover of which all the
previous dialogue had taken place.
“_You_ hear the singing, mamma! Now, I will wager my studs, which are
genuine, against your paste brooch—”
“My paste brooch, Graham? Profane boy! you know that it is a stone of
value.”
“Oh! that is one of your superstitions: you were cheated in the
business.”
“I am cheated in fewer things than you imagine. How do you happen to be
acquainted with young ladies of the court, John? I have observed two of
them pay you no small attention during the last half-hour.”
“I wish you would not observe them.”
“Why not? Because one of them satirically levels her eyeglass at me?
She is a pretty, silly girl: but are you apprehensive that her titter
will discomfit the old lady?”
“The sensible, admirable old lady! Mother, you are better to me than
ten wives yet.”
“Don’t be demonstrative, John, or I shall faint, and you will have to
carry me out; and if that burden were laid upon you, you would reverse