Villette
wealth, not supported by some consciousness of name or connection,
could maintain an attitude of reasonable integrity. As for me, it quite
sufficed to my mental tranquillity that I was known where it imported
that known I should be; the rest sat on me easily: pedigree, social
position, and recondite intellectual acquisition, occupied about the
same space and place in my interests and thoughts; they were my
third-class lodgers—to whom could be assigned only the small
sitting-room and the little back bedroom: even if the dining and
drawing-rooms stood empty, I never confessed it to them, as thinking
minor accommodations better suited to their circumstances. The world, I
soon learned, held a different estimate: and I make no doubt, the world
is very right in its view, yet believe also that I am not quite wrong
in mine.
There are people whom a lowered position degrades morally, to whom loss
of connection costs loss of self-respect: are not these justified in
placing the highest value on that station and association which is
their safeguard from debasement? If a man feels that he would become
contemptible in his own eyes were it generally known that his ancestry
were simple and not gentle, poor and not rich, workers and not
capitalists, would it be right severely to blame him for keeping these
fatal facts out of sight—for starting, trembling, quailing at the
chance which threatens exposure? The longer we live, the more our
experience widens; the less prone are we to judge our neighbour’s
conduct, to question the world’s wisdom: wherever an accumulation of
small defences is found, whether surrounding the prude’s virtue or the
man of the world’s respectability, there, be sure, it is needed.
We reached the Hôtel Crécy; Paulina was ready; Mrs. Bretton was with
her; and, under her escort and that of M. de Bassompierre, we were soon
conducted to the place of assembly, and seated in good seats, at a
convenient distance from the Tribune. The youth of the Athénée were
marshalled before us, the municipality and their bourgmestre were in
places of honour, the young princes, with their tutors, occupied a
conspicuous position, and the body of the building was crowded with the
aristocracy and first burghers of the town.
Concerning the identity of the professor by whom the “discours” was to
be delivered, I had as yet entertained neither care nor question. Some
vague expectation I had that a savant would stand up and deliver a
formal speech, half dogmatism to the Athenians, half flattery to the
princes.
The Tribune was yet empty when we entered, but in ten minutes after it
was filled; suddenly, in a second of time, a head, chest, and arms grew
above the crimson desk. This head I knew: its colour, shape, port,
expression, were familiar both to me and Miss Fanshawe; the blackness
and closeness of cranium, the amplitude and paleness of brow, the
blueness and fire of glance, were details so domesticated in the
memory, and so knit with many a whimsical association, as almost by
this their sudden apparition, to tickle fancy to a laugh. Indeed, I
confess, for my part, I did laugh till I was warm; but then I bent my
head, and made my handkerchief and a lowered veil the sole confidants
of my mirth.
I think I was glad to see M. Paul; I think it was rather pleasant than
otherwise, to behold him set up there, fierce and frank, dark and
candid, testy and fearless, as when regnant on his estrade in class.
His presence was such a surprise: I had not once thought of expecting
him, though I knew he filled the chair of Belles Lettres in the
college. With _him_ in that Tribune, I felt sure that neither formalism
nor flattery would be our doom; but for what was vouchsafed us, for
what was poured suddenly, rapidly, continuously, on our heads—I own I
was not prepared.
He spoke to the princes, the nobles, the magistrates, and the burghers,
with just the same ease, with almost the same pointed, choleric
earnestness, with which he was wont to harangue the three divisions of
the Rue Fossette. The collegians he addressed, not as schoolboys, but
as future citizens and embryo patriots. The times which have since come
on Europe had not been foretold yet, and M. Emanuel’s spirit seemed new
to me. Who would have thought the flat and fat soil of Labassecour
could yield political convictions and national feelings, such as were
now strongly expressed? Of the bearing of his opinions I need here give
no special indication; yet it may be permitted me to say that I
believed the little man not more earnest than right in what he said:
with all his fire he was severe and sensible; he trampled Utopian
theories under his heel; he rejected wild dreams with scorn;—but when
he looked in the face of tyranny—oh, then there opened a light in his
eye worth seeing; and when he spoke of injustice, his voice gave no
uncertain sound, but reminded me rather of the band-trumpet, ringing at
twilight from the park.
I do not think his audience were generally susceptible of sharing his
flame in its purity; but some of the college youth caught fire as he
eloquently told them what should be their path and endeavour in their
country’s and in Europe’s future. They gave him a long, loud, ringing
cheer, as he concluded: with all his fierceness, he was their favourite
professor.
As our party left the Hall, he stood at the entrance; he saw and knew
me, and lifted his hat; he offered his hand in passing, and uttered the
words “Qu’en dites vous?”—question eminently characteristic, and
reminding me, even in this his moment of triumph, of that inquisitive
restlessness, that absence of what I considered desirable self-control,
which were amongst his faults. He should not have cared just then to
ask what I thought, or what anybody thought, but he _did_ care, and he
was too natural to conceal, too impulsive to repress his wish. Well! if
I blamed his over-eagerness, I liked his _naiveté_. I would have
praised him: I had plenty of praise in my heart; but, alas! no words on
my lips. Who _has_ words at the right moment? I stammered some lame
expressions; but was truly glad when other people, coming up with
profuse congratulations, covered my deficiency by their redundancy.
A gentleman introduced him to M. de Bassompierre; and the Count, who
had likewise been highly gratified, asked him to join his friends (for
the most part M. Emanuel’s likewise), and to dine with them at the
Hôtel Crécy. He declined dinner, for he was a man always somewhat shy
at meeting the advances of the wealthy: there was a strength of sturdy
independence in the stringing of his sinews—not obtrusive, but pleasant
enough to discover as one advanced in knowledge of his character; he
promised, however, to step in with his friend, M. A——, a French
Academician, in the course of the evening.
At dinner that day, Ginevra and Paulina each looked, in her own way,
very beautiful; the former, perhaps, boasted the advantage in material
charms, but the latter shone pre-eminent for attractions more subtle
and spiritual: for light and eloquence of eye, for grace of mien, for
winning variety of expression. Ginevra’s dress of deep crimson relieved
well her light curls, and harmonized with her rose-like bloom.
Paulina’s attire—in fashion close, though faultlessly neat, but in
texture clear and white—made the eye grateful for the delicate life of
her complexion, for the soft animation of her countenance, for the
tender depth of her eyes, for the brown shadow and bounteous flow of
her hair—darker than that of her Saxon cousin, as were also her
eyebrows, her eyelashes, her full irids, and large mobile pupils.
Nature having traced all these details slightly, and with a careless
hand, in Miss Fanshawe’s case; and in Miss de Bassompierre’s, wrought
them to a high and delicate finish.
Paulina was awed by the savants, but not quite to mutism: she conversed
modestly, diffidently; not without effort, but with so true a
sweetness, so fine and penetrating a sense, that her father more than
once suspended his own discourse to listen, and fixed on her an eye of
proud delight. It was a polite Frenchman, M. Z——, a very learned, but
quite a courtly man, who had drawn her into discourse. I was charmed
with her French; it was faultless—the structure correct, the idioms
true, the accent pure; Ginevra, who had lived half her life on the
Continent, could do nothing like it not that words ever failed Miss
Fanshawe, but real accuracy and purity she neither possessed, nor in
any number of years would acquire. Here, too, M. de Bassompierre was
gratified; for, on the point of language, he was critical.
Another listener and observer there was; one who, detained by some
exigency of his profession, had come in late to dinner. Both ladies
were quietly scanned by Dr. Bretton, at the moment of taking his seat
at the table; and that guarded survey was more than once renewed. His
arrival roused Miss Fanshawe, who had hitherto appeared listless: she
now became smiling and complacent, talked—though what she said was
rarely to the purpose—or rather, was of a purpose somewhat mortifyingly
below the standard of the occasion. Her light, disconnected prattle
might have gratified Graham once; perhaps it pleased him still: perhaps
it was only fancy which suggested the thought that, while his eye was
filled and his ear fed, his taste, his keen zest, his lively
intelligence, were not equally consulted and regaled. It is certain
that, restless and exacting as seemed the demand on his attention, he
yielded courteously all that was required: his manner showed neither
pique nor coolness: Ginevra was his neighbour, and to her, during
dinner, he almost exclusively confined his notice. She appeared
satisfied, and passed to the drawing-room in very good spirits.
Yet, no sooner had we reached that place of refuge, than she again
became flat and listless: throwing herself on a couch, she denounced
both the “discours” and the dinner as stupid affairs, and inquired of
her cousin how she could hear such a set of prosaic “gros-bonnets” as
her father gathered about him. The moment the gentlemen were heard to
move, her railings ceased: she started up, flew to the piano, and
dashed at it with spirit. Dr. Bretton entering, one of the first, took
up his station beside her. I thought he would not long maintain that
post: there was a position near the hearth to which I expected to see
him attracted: this position he only scanned with his eye; while _he_
looked, others drew in. The grace and mind of Paulina charmed these
thoughtful Frenchmen: the fineness of her beauty, the soft courtesy of
her manner, her immature, but real and inbred tact, pleased their
national taste; they clustered about her, not indeed to talk science;
which would have rendered her dumb, but to touch on many subjects in
letters, in arts, in actual life, on which it soon appeared that she
had both read and reflected. I listened. I am sure that though Graham
stood aloof, he listened too: his hearing as well as his vision was
very fine, quick, discriminating. I knew he gathered the conversation;
I felt that the mode in which it was sustained suited him
exquisitely—pleased him almost to pain.
In Paulina there was more force, both of feeling and character; than
most people thought—than Graham himself imagined—than she would ever
show to those who did not wish to see it. To speak truth, reader, there
is no excellent beauty, no accomplished grace, no reliable refinement,
without strength as excellent, as complete, as trustworthy. As well
might you look for good fruit and blossom on a rootless and sapless
tree, as for charms that will endure in a feeble and relaxed nature.
For a little while, the blooming semblance of beauty may flourish round
weakness; but it cannot bear a blast: it soon fades, even in serenest