Villette
pupils turned out into the court for a quarter of an hour’s recreation;
she and I remained in the first classe alone: when I met her eye, her
thoughts forced themselves partially through her lips.
“Il y a,” said she, “quelquechose de bien remarquable dans le caractère
Anglais.”
“How, Madame?”
She gave a little laugh, repeating the word “how” in English.
“Je ne saurais vous dire ‘how;’ mais, enfin, les Anglais ont des idées
à eux, en amitié, en amour, en tout. Mais au moins il n’est pas besoin
de les surveiller,” she added, getting up and trotting away like the
compact little pony she was.
“Then I hope,” murmured I to myself, “you will graciously let alone my
letters for the future.”
Alas! something came rushing into my eyes, dimming utterly their
vision, blotting from sight the schoolroom, the garden, the bright
winter sun, as I remembered that never more would letters, such as she
had read, come to me. I had seen the last of them. That goodly river on
whose banks I had sojourned, of whose waves a few reviving drops had
trickled to my lips, was bending to another course: it was leaving my
little hut and field forlorn and sand-dry, pouring its wealth of waters
far away. The change was right, just, natural; not a word could be
said: but I loved my Rhine, my Nile; I had almost worshipped my Ganges,
and I grieved that the grand tide should roll estranged, should vanish
like a false mirage. Though stoical, I was not quite a stoic; drops
streamed fast on my hands, on my desk: I wept one sultry shower, heavy
and brief.
But soon I said to myself, “The Hope I am bemoaning suffered and made
me suffer much: it did not die till it was full time: following an
agony so lingering, death ought to be welcome.”
Welcome I endeavoured to make it. Indeed, long pain had made patience a
habit. In the end I closed the eyes of my dead, covered its face, and
composed its limbs with great calm.
The letters, however, must be put away, out of sight: people who have
undergone bereavement always jealously gather together and lock away
mementos: it is not supportable to be stabbed to the heart each moment
by sharp revival of regret.
One vacant holiday afternoon (the Thursday) going to my treasure, with
intent to consider its final disposal, I perceived—and this time with a
strong impulse of displeasure—that it had been again tampered with: the
packet was there, indeed, but the ribbon which secured it had been
untied and retied; and by other symptoms I knew that my drawer had been
visited.
This was a little too much. Madame Beck herself was the soul of
discretion, besides having as strong a brain and sound a judgment as
ever furnished a human head; that she should know the contents of my
casket, was not pleasant, but might be borne. Little Jesuit
inquisitress as she was, she could see things in a true light, and
understand them in an unperverted sense; but the idea that she had
ventured to communicate information, thus gained, to others; that she
had, perhaps, amused herself with a companion over documents, in my
eyes most sacred, shocked me cruelly. Yet, that such was the case I now
saw reason to fear; I even guessed her confidant. Her kinsman, M. Paul
Emanuel, had spent yesterday evening with her: she was much in the
habit of consulting him, and of discussing with him matters she
broached to no one else. This very morning, in class, that gentleman
had favoured me with a glance which he seemed to have borrowed from
Vashti, the actress; I had not at the moment comprehended that blue,
yet lurid, flash out of his angry eye; but I read its meaning now.
_He_, I believed, was not apt to regard what concerned me from a fair
point of view, nor to judge me with tolerance and candour: I had always
found him severe and suspicious: the thought that these letters, mere
friendly letters as they were, had fallen once, and might fall again,
into his hands, jarred my very soul.
What should I do to prevent this? In what corner of this strange house
was it possible to find security or secresy? Where could a key be a
safeguard, or a padlock a barrier?
In the grenier? No, I did not like the grenier. Besides, most of the
boxes and drawers there were mouldering, and did not lock. Rats, too,
gnawed their way through the decayed wood; and mice made nests amongst
the litter of their contents: my dear letters (most dear still, though
Ichabod was written on their covers) might be consumed by vermin;
certainly the writing would soon become obliterated by damp. No; the
grenier would not do—but where then?
While pondering this problem, I sat in the dormitory window-seat. It
was a fine frosty afternoon; the winter sun, already setting, gleamed
pale on the tops of the garden-shrubs in the “allée défendue.” One
great old pear-tree—the nun’s pear-tree—stood up a tall dryad skeleton,
grey, gaunt, and stripped. A thought struck me—one of those queer
fantastic thoughts that will sometimes strike solitary people. I put on
my bonnet, cloak, and furs, and went out into the city.
Bending my steps to the old historical quarter of the town, whose hoar
and overshadowed precincts I always sought by instinct in melancholy
moods, I wandered on from street to street, till, having crossed a half
deserted “place” or square, I found myself before a sort of broker’s
shop; an ancient place, full of ancient things. What I wanted was a
metal box which might be soldered, or a thick glass jar or bottle which
might be stoppered or sealed hermetically. Amongst miscellaneous heaps,
I found and purchased the latter article.
I then made a little roll of my letters, wrapped them in oiled silk,
bound them with twine, and, having put them in the bottle, got the old
Jew broker to stopper, seal, and make it air-tight. While obeying my
directions, he glanced at me now and then suspiciously from under his
frost-white eyelashes. I believe he thought there was some evil deed on
hand. In all this I had a dreary something—not pleasure—but a sad,
lonely satisfaction. The impulse under which I acted, the mood
controlling me, were similar to the impulse and the mood which had
induced me to visit the confessional. With quick walking I regained the
pensionnat just at dark, and in time for dinner.
At seven o’clock the moon rose. At half-past seven, when the pupils and
teachers were at study, and Madame Beck was with her mother and
children in the salle-à-manger, when the half-boarders were all gone
home, and Rosine had left the vestibule, and all was still—I shawled
myself, and, taking the sealed jar, stole out through the first-classe
door, into the berceau and thence into the “allée défendue.”
Methusaleh, the pear-tree, stood at the further end of this walk, near
my seat: he rose up, dim and gray, above the lower shrubs round him.
Now Methusaleh, though so very old, was of sound timber still; only
there was a hole, or rather a deep hollow, near his root. I knew there
was such a hollow, hidden partly by ivy and creepers growing thick
round; and there I meditated hiding my treasure. But I was not only
going to hide a treasure—I meant also to bury a grief. That grief over
which I had lately been weeping, as I wrapped it in its winding-sheet,
must be interred.
Well, I cleared away the ivy, and found the hole; it was large enough
to receive the jar, and I thrust it deep in. In a tool-shed at the
bottom of the garden, lay the relics of building-materials, left by
masons lately employed to repair a part of the premises. I fetched
thence a slate and some mortar, put the slate on the hollow, secured it
with cement, covered the hole with black mould, and, finally, replaced
the ivy. This done, I rested, leaning against the tree; lingering, like
any other mourner, beside a newly-sodded grave.
The air of the night was very still, but dim with a peculiar mist,
which changed the moonlight into a luminous haze. In this air, or this
mist, there was some quality—electrical, perhaps—which acted in strange
sort upon me. I felt then as I had felt a year ago in England—on a
night when the aurora borealis was streaming and sweeping round heaven,
when, belated in lonely fields, I had paused to watch that mustering of
an army with banners—that quivering of serried lances—that swift ascent
of messengers from below the north star to the dark, high keystone of
heaven’s arch. I felt, not happy, far otherwise, but strong with
reinforced strength.
If life be a war, it seemed my destiny to conduct it single-handed. I
pondered now how to break up my winter-quarters—to leave an encampment
where food and forage failed. Perhaps, to effect this change, another
pitched battle must be fought with fortune; if so, I had a mind to the
encounter: too poor to lose, God might destine me to gain. But what
road was open?—what plan available?
On this question I was still pausing, when the moon, so dim hitherto,
seemed to shine out somewhat brighter: a ray gleamed even white before
me, and a shadow became distinct and marked. I looked more narrowly, to
make out the cause of this well-defined contrast appearing a little
suddenly in the obscure alley: whiter and blacker it grew on my eye: it
took shape with instantaneous transformation. I stood about three yards
from a tall, sable-robed, snowy-veiled woman.
Five minutes passed. I neither fled nor shrieked. She was there still.
I spoke.
“Who are you? and why do you come to me?”
She stood mute. She had no face—no features: all below her brow was
masked with a white cloth; but she had eyes, and they viewed me.
I felt, if not brave, yet a little desperate; and desperation will
often suffice to fill the post and do the work of courage. I advanced
one step. I stretched out my hand, for I meant to touch her. She seemed
to recede. I drew nearer: her recession, still silent, became swift. A
mass of shrubs, full-leaved evergreens, laurel and dense yew,
intervened between me and what I followed. Having passed that obstacle,
I looked and saw nothing. I waited. I said,—“If you have any errand to
men, come back and deliver it.” Nothing spoke or re-appeared.
This time there was no Dr. John to whom to have recourse: there was no
one to whom I dared whisper the words, “I have again seen the nun.”
Paulina Mary sought my frequent presence in the Rue Crécy. In the old
Bretton days, though she had never professed herself fond of me, my
society had soon become to her a sort of unconscious necessary. I used
to notice that if I withdrew to my room, she would speedily come
trotting after me, and opening the door and peeping in, say, with her
little peremptory accent,—“Come down. Why do you sit here by yourself?
You must come into the parlour.”
In the same spirit she urged me now—“Leave the Rue Fossette,” she said,
“and come and live with us. Papa would give you far more than Madame
Beck gives you.”
Mr. Home himself offered me a handsome sum—thrice my present salary—if
I would accept the office of companion to his daughter. I declined. I
think I should have declined had I been poorer than I was, and with
scantier fund of resource, more stinted narrowness of future prospect.
I had not that vocation. I could teach; I could give lessons; but to be
either a private governess or a companion was unnatural to me. Rather
than fill the former post in any great house, I would deliberately have
taken a housemaid’s place, bought a strong pair of gloves, swept
bedrooms and staircases, and cleaned stoves and locks, in peace and
independence. Rather than be a companion, I would have made shirts and
starved.
I was no bright lady’s shadow—not Miss de Bassompierre’s. Overcast
enough it was my nature often to be; of a subdued habit I was: but the
dimness and depression must both be voluntary—such as kept me docile at