Villette
flight to the waste—bringing all round her a sphere of air borrowed of
eternal summer; bringing perfume of flowers which cannot fade—fragrance
of trees whose fruit is life; bringing breezes pure from a world whose
day needs no sun to lighten it. My hunger has this good angel appeased
with food, sweet and strange, gathered amongst gleaning angels,
garnering their dew-white harvest in the first fresh hour of a heavenly
day; tenderly has she assuaged the insufferable fears which weep away
life itself—kindly given rest to deadly weariness—generously lent hope
and impulse to paralyzed despair. Divine, compassionate, succourable
influence! When I bend the knee to other than God, it shall be at thy
white and winged feet, beautiful on mountain or on plain. Temples have
been reared to the Sun—altars dedicated to the Moon. Oh, greater glory!
To thee neither hands build, nor lips consecrate: but hearts, through
ages, are faithful to thy worship. A dwelling thou hast, too wide for
walls, too high for dome—a temple whose floors are space—rites whose
mysteries transpire in presence, to the kindling, the harmony of
worlds!
Sovereign complete! thou hadst, for endurance, thy great army of
martyrs; for achievement, thy chosen band of worthies. Deity
unquestioned, thine essence foils decay!
This daughter of Heaven remembered me to-night; she saw me weep, and
she came with comfort: “Sleep,” she said. “Sleep, sweetly—I gild thy
dreams!”
She kept her word, and watched me through a night’s rest; but at dawn
Reason relieved the guard. I awoke with a sort of start; the rain was
dashing against the panes, and the wind uttering a peevish cry at
intervals; the night-lamp was dying on the black circular stand in the
middle of the dormitory: day had already broken. How I pity those whom
mental pain stuns instead of rousing! This morning the pang of waking
snatched me out of bed like a hand with a giant’s gripe. How quickly I
dressed in the cold of the raw dawn! How deeply I drank of the ice-cold
water in my carafe! This was always my cordial, to which, like other
dram-drinkers, I had eager recourse when unsettled by chagrin.
Ere long the bell rang its _réveillée_ to the whole school. Being
dressed, I descended alone to the refectory, where the stove was lit
and the air was warm; through the rest of the house it was cold, with
the nipping severity of a continental winter: though now but the
beginning of November, a north wind had thus early brought a wintry
blight over Europe: I remember the black stoves pleased me little when
I first came; but now I began to associate with them a sense of
comfort, and liked them, as in England we like a fireside.
Sitting down before this dark comforter, I presently fell into a deep
argument with myself on life and its chances, on destiny and her
decrees. My mind, calmer and stronger now than last night, made for
itself some imperious rules, prohibiting under deadly penalties all
weak retrospect of happiness past; commanding a patient journeying
through the wilderness of the present, enjoining a reliance on faith—a
watching of the cloud and pillar which subdue while they guide, and awe
while they illumine—hushing the impulse to fond idolatry, checking the
longing out-look for a far-off promised land whose rivers are, perhaps,
never to be reached save in dying dreams, whose sweet pastures are to
be viewed but from the desolate and sepulchral summit of a Nebo.
By degrees, a composite feeling of blended strength and pain wound
itself wirily round my heart, sustained, or at least restrained, its
throbbings, and made me fit for the day’s work. I lifted my head.
As I said before, I was sitting near the stove, let into the wall
beneath the refectory and the carré, and thus sufficing to heat both
apartments. Piercing the same wall, and close beside the stove, was a
window, looking also into the carré; as I looked up a cap-tassel, a
brow, two eyes, filled a pane of that window; the fixed gaze of those
two eyes hit right against my own glance: they were watching me. I had
not till that moment known that tears were on my cheek, but I felt them
now.
This was a strange house, where no corner was sacred from intrusion,
where not a tear could be shed, nor a thought pondered, but a spy was
at hand to note and to divine. And this new, this out-door, this male
spy, what business had brought him to the premises at this unwonted
hour? What possible right had he to intrude on me thus? No other
professor would have dared to cross the carré before the class-bell
rang. M. Emanuel took no account of hours nor of claims: there was some
book of reference in the first-class library which he had occasion to
consult; he had come to seek it: on his way he passed the refectory. It
was very much his habit to wear eyes before, behind, and on each side
of him: he had seen me through the little window—he now opened the
refectory door, and there he stood.
“Mademoiselle, vous êtes triste.”
“Monsieur, j’en ai bien le droit.”
“Vous êtes malade de cœur et d’humeur,” he pursued. “You are at once
mournful and mutinous. I see on your cheek two tears which I know are
hot as two sparks, and salt as two crystals of the sea. While I speak
you eye me strangely. Shall I tell you of what I am reminded while
watching you?”
“Monsieur, I shall be called away to prayers shortly; my time for
conversation is very scant and brief at this hour—excuse——”
“I excuse everything,” he interrupted; “my mood is so meek, neither
rebuff nor, perhaps, insult could ruffle it. You remind me, then, of a
young she wild creature, new caught, untamed, viewing with a mixture of
fire and fear the first entrance of the breaker-in.”
Unwarrantable accost!—rash and rude if addressed to a pupil; to a
teacher inadmissible. He thought to provoke a warm reply; I had seen
him vex the passionate to explosion before now. In me his malice should
find no gratification; I sat silent.
“You look,” said he, “like one who would snatch at a draught of sweet
poison, and spurn wholesome bitters with disgust.”
“Indeed, I never liked bitters; nor do I believe them wholesome. And to
whatever is sweet, be it poison or food, you cannot, at least, deny its
own delicious quality—sweetness. Better, perhaps, to die quickly a
pleasant death, than drag on long a charmless life.”
“Yet,” said he, “you should take your bitter dose duly and daily, if I
had the power to administer it; and, as to the well-beloved poison, I
would, perhaps, break the very cup which held it.”
I sharply turned my head away, partly because his presence utterly
displeased me, and partly because I wished to shun questions: lest, in
my present mood, the effort of answering should overmaster
self-command.
“Come,” said he, more softly, “tell me the truth—you grieve at being
parted from friends—is it not so?”
The insinuating softness was not more acceptable than the inquisitorial
curiosity. I was silent. He came into the room, sat down on the bench
about two yards from me, and persevered long, and, for him, patiently,
in attempts to draw me into conversation—attempts necessarily
unavailing, because I _could_ not talk. At last I entreated to be let
alone. In uttering the request, my voice faltered, my head sank on my
arms and the table. I wept bitterly, though quietly. He sat a while
longer. I did not look up nor speak, till the closing door and his
retreating step told me that he was gone. These tears proved a relief.
I had time to bathe my eyes before breakfast, and I suppose I appeared
at that meal as serene as any other person: not, however, quite as
jocund-looking as the young lady who placed herself in the seat
opposite mine, fixed on me a pair of somewhat small eyes twinkling
gleefully, and frankly stretched across the table a white hand to be
shaken. Miss Fanshawe’s travels, gaieties, and flirtations agreed with
her mightily; she had become quite plump, her cheeks looked as round as
apples. I had seen her last in elegant evening attire. I don’t know
that she looked less charming now in her school-dress, a kind of
careless peignoir of a dark-blue material, dimly and dingily plaided
with black. I even think this dusky wrapper gave her charms a triumph;
enhancing by contrast the fairness of her skin, the freshness of her
bloom, the golden beauty of her tresses.
“I am glad you are come back, Timon,” said she. Timon was one of her
dozen names for me. “You don’t know how often I have wanted you in this
dismal hole.”
“Oh, have you? Then, of course, if you wanted me, you have something
for me to do: stockings to mend, perhaps.” I never gave Ginevra a
minute’s or a farthing’s credit for disinterestedness.
“Crabbed and crusty as ever!” said she. “I expected as much: it would
not be you if you did not snub one. But now, come, grand-mother, I hope
you like coffee as much, and pistolets as little as ever: are you
disposed to barter?”
“Take your own way.”
This way consisted in a habit she had of making me convenient. She did
not like the morning cup of coffee; its school brewage not being strong
or sweet enough to suit her palate; and she had an excellent appetite,
like any other healthy school-girl, for the morning pistolets or rolls,
which were new-baked and very good, and of which a certain allowance
was served to each. This allowance being more than I needed, I gave
half to Ginevra; never varying in my preference, though many others
used to covet the superfluity; and she in return would sometimes give
me a portion of her coffee. This morning I was glad of the draught;
hunger I had none, and with thirst I was parched. I don’t know why I
chose to give my bread rather to Ginevra than to another; nor why, if
two had to share the convenience of one drinking-vessel, as sometimes
happened—for instance, when we took a long walk into the country, and
halted for refreshment at a farm—I always contrived that she should be
my convive, and rather liked to let her take the lion’s share, whether
of the white beer, the sweet wine, or the new milk: so it was, however,
and she knew it; and, therefore, while we wrangled daily, we were never
alienated.
After breakfast my custom was to withdraw to the first classe, and sit
and read, or think (oftenest the latter) there alone, till the
nine-o’clock bell threw open all doors, admitted the gathered rush of
externes and demi-pensionnaires, and gave the signal for entrance on
that bustle and business to which, till five P.M., there was no relax.
I was just seated this morning, when a tap came to the door.
“Pardon, Mademoiselle,” said a pensionnaire, entering gently; and
having taken from her desk some necessary book or paper, she withdrew
on tip-toe, murmuring as she passed me, “Que mademoiselle est
appliquée!”
Appliquée, indeed! The means of application were spread before me, but
I was doing nothing; and had done nothing, and meant to do nothing.
Thus does the world give us credit for merits we have not. Madame Beck
herself deemed me a regular bas-bleu, and often and solemnly used to
warn me not to study too much, lest “the blood should all go to my
head.” Indeed, everybody in the Rue Fossette held a superstition that
“Meess Lucie” was learned; with the notable exception of M. Emanuel,
who, by means peculiar to himself, and quite inscrutable to me, had
obtained a not inaccurate inkling of my real qualifications, and used
to take quiet opportunities of chuckling in my ear his malign glee over
their scant measure. For my part, I never troubled myself about this
penury. I dearly like to think my own thoughts; I had great pleasure in
reading a few books, but not many: preferring always those on whose
style or sentiment the writer’s individual nature was plainly stamped;
flagging inevitably over characterless books, however clever and