Villette
“Then it is not necessary that I should cut out any portion—saying,
this part is not mine: it was plaited under the idea and for the
adornment of another?”
“By no means. It is neither necessary, nor would it be just.”
“This object is _all_ mine?”
“That object is yours entirely.”
Straightway Monsieur opened his paletôt, arranged the guard splendidly
across his chest, displaying as much and suppressing as little as he
could: for he had no notion of concealing what he admired and thought
decorative. As to the box, he pronounced it a superb bonbonnière—he was
fond of bonbons, by the way—and as he always liked to share with others
what pleased himself, he would give his “dragées” as freely as he lent
his books. Amongst the kind brownie’s gifts left in my desk, I forgot
to enumerate many a paper of chocolate comfits. His tastes in these
matters were southern, and what we think infantine. His simple lunch
consisted frequently of a “brioche,” which, as often as not, he shared
with some child of the third division.
“A présent c’est un fait accompli,” said he, re-adjusting his paletôt;
and we had no more words on the subject. After looking over the two
volumes he had brought, and cutting away some pages with his penknife
(he generally pruned before lending his books, especially if they were
novels, and sometimes I was a little provoked at the severity of his
censorship, the retrenchments interrupting the narrative), he rose,
politely touched his bonnet-grec, and bade me a civil good-day.
“We are friends now,” thought I, “till the next time we quarrel.”
We _might_ have quarrelled again that very same evening, but, wonderful
to relate, failed, for once, to make the most of our opportunity.
Contrary to all expectation, M. Paul arrived at the study-hour. Having
seen so much of him in the morning, we did not look for his presence at
night. No sooner were we seated at lessons, however, than he appeared.
I own I was glad to see him, so glad that I could not help greeting his
arrival with a smile; and when he made his way to the same seat about
which so serious a misunderstanding had formerly arisen, I took good
care not to make too much room for him; he watched with a jealous,
side-long look, to see whether I shrank away, but I did not, though the
bench was a little crowded. I was losing the early impulse to recoil
from M. Paul. Habituated to the paletôt and bonnet-grec, the
neighbourhood of these garments seemed no longer uncomfortable or very
formidable. I did not now sit restrained, “asphyxiée” (as he used to
say) at his side; I stirred when I wished to stir, coughed when it was
necessary, even yawned when I was tired—did, in short, what I pleased,
blindly reliant upon his indulgence. Nor did my temerity, this evening
at least, meet the punishment it perhaps merited; he was both indulgent
and good-natured; not a cross glance shot from his eyes, not a hasty
word left his lips. Till the very close of the evening, he did not
indeed address me at all, yet I felt, somehow, that he was full of
friendliness. Silence is of different kinds, and breathes different
meanings; no words could inspire a pleasanter content than did M.
Paul’s worldless presence. When the tray came in, and the bustle of
supper commenced, he just said, as he retired, that he wished me a good
night and sweet dreams; and a good night and sweet dreams I had.
CHAPTER XXX.
M. PAUL.
Yet the reader is advised not to be in any hurry with his kindly
conclusions, or to suppose, with an over-hasty charity, that from that
day M. Paul became a changed character—easy to live with, and no longer
apt to flash danger and discomfort round him.
No; he was naturally a little man of unreasonable moods. When
over-wrought, which he often was, he became acutely irritable; and,
besides, his veins were dark with a livid belladonna tincture, the
essence of jealousy. I do not mean merely the tender jealousy of the
heart, but that sterner, narrower sentiment whose seat is in the head.
I used to think, as I sat looking at M. Paul, while he was knitting his
brow or protruding his lip over some exercise of mine, which had not as
many faults as he wished (for he liked me to commit faults: a knot of
blunders was sweet to him as a cluster of nuts), that he had points of
resemblance to Napoleon Bonaparte. I think so still.
In a shameless disregard of magnanimity, he resembled the great
Emperor. M. Paul would have quarrelled with twenty learned women, would
have unblushingly carried on a system of petty bickering and
recrimination with a whole capital of coteries, never troubling himself
about loss or lack of dignity. He would have exiled fifty Madame de
Staëls, if they had annoyed, offended, outrivalled, or opposed him.
I well remember a hot episode of his with a certain Madame Panache—a
lady temporarily employed by Madame Beck to give lessons in history.
She was clever—that is, she knew a good deal; and, besides, thoroughly
possessed the art of making the most of what she knew; of words and
confidence she held unlimited command. Her personal appearance was far
from destitute of advantages; I believe many people would have
pronounced her “a fine woman;” and yet there were points in her robust
and ample attractions, as well as in her bustling and demonstrative
presence, which, it appeared, the nice and capricious tastes of M. Paul
could not away with. The sound of her voice, echoing through the carré,
would put him into a strange taking; her long free step—almost
stride—along the corridor, would often make him snatch up his papers
and decamp on the instant.
With malicious intent he bethought himself, one day, to intrude on her
class; as quick as lightning he gathered her method of instruction; it
differed from a pet plan of his own. With little ceremony, and less
courtesy, he pointed out what he termed her errors. Whether he expected
submission and attention, I know not; he met an acrid opposition,
accompanied by a round reprimand for his certainly unjustifiable
interference.
Instead of withdrawing with dignity, as he might still have done, he
threw down the gauntlet of defiance. Madame Panache, bellicose as a
Penthesilea, picked it up in a minute. She snapped her fingers in the
intermeddler’s face; she rushed upon him with a storm of words. M.
Emanuel was eloquent; but Madame Panache was voluble. A system of
fierce antagonism ensued. Instead of laughing in his sleeve at his fair
foe, with all her sore amour-propre and loud self-assertion, M. Paul
detested her with intense seriousness; he honoured her with his earnest
fury; he pursued her vindictively and implacably, refusing to rest
peaceably in his bed, to derive due benefit from his meals, or even
serenely to relish his cigar, till she was fairly rooted out of the
establishment. The Professor conquered, but I cannot say that the
laurels of this victory shadowed gracefully his temples. Once I
ventured to hint as much. To my great surprise he allowed that I might
be right, but averred that when brought into contact with either men or
women of the coarse, self-complacent quality, whereof Madame Panache
was a specimen, he had no control over his own passions; an unspeakable
and active aversion impelled him to a war of extermination.
Three months afterwards, hearing that his vanquished foe had met with
reverses, and was likely to be really distressed for want of
employment, he forgot his hatred, and alike active in good and evil, he
moved heaven and earth till he found her a place. Upon her coming to
make up former differences, and thank him for his recent kindness, the
old voice—a little loud—the old manner—a little forward—so acted upon
him that in ten minutes he started up and bowed her, or rather himself,
out of the room, in a transport of nervous irritation.
To pursue a somewhat audacious parallel, in a love of power, in an
eager grasp after supremacy, M. Emanuel was like Bonaparte. He was a
man not always to be submitted to. Sometimes it was needful to resist;
it was right to stand still, to look up into his eyes and tell him that
his requirements went beyond reason—that his absolutism verged on
tyranny.
The dawnings, the first developments of peculiar talent appearing
within his range, and under his rule, curiously excited, even disturbed
him. He watched its struggle into life with a scowl; he held back his
hand—perhaps said, “Come on if you have strength,” but would not aid
the birth.
When the pang and peril of the first conflict were over, when the
breath of life was drawn, when he saw the lungs expand and contract,
when he felt the heart beat and discovered life in the eye, he did not
yet offer to foster.
“Prove yourself true ere I cherish you,” was his ordinance; and how
difficult he made that proof! What thorns and briers, what flints, he
strewed in the path of feet not inured to rough travel! He watched
tearlessly—ordeals that he exacted should be passed through—fearlessly.
He followed footprints that, as they approached the bourne, were
sometimes marked in blood—followed them grimly, holding the austerest
police-watch over the pain-pressed pilgrim. And when at last he allowed
a rest, before slumber might close the eyelids, he opened those same
lids wide, with pitiless finger and thumb, and gazed deep through the
pupil and the irids into the brain, into the heart, to search if
Vanity, or Pride, or Falsehood, in any of its subtlest forms, was
discoverable in the furthest recess of existence. If, at last, he let
the neophyte sleep, it was but a moment; he woke him suddenly up to
apply new tests: he sent him on irksome errands when he was staggering
with weariness; he tried the temper, the sense, and the health; and it
was only when every severest test had been applied and endured, when
the most corrosive aquafortis had been used, and failed to tarnish the
ore, that he admitted it genuine, and, still in clouded silence,
stamped it with his deep brand of approval.
I speak not ignorant of these evils.
Till the date at which the last chapter closes, M. Paul had not been my
professor—he had not given me lessons, but about that time,
accidentally hearing me one day acknowledge an ignorance of some branch
of education (I think it was arithmetic), which would have disgraced a
charity-school boy, as he very truly remarked, he took me in hand,
examined me first, found me, I need not say, abundantly deficient, gave
me some books and appointed me some tasks.
He did this at first with pleasure, indeed with unconcealed exultation,
condescending to say that he believed I was “bonne et pas trop faible”
(i.e. well enough disposed, and not wholly destitute of parts), but,
owing he supposed to adverse circumstances, “as yet in a state of
wretchedly imperfect mental development.”
The beginning of all effort has indeed with me been marked by a
preternatural imbecility. I never could, even in forming a common
acquaintance, assert or prove a claim to average quickness. A
depressing and difficult passage has prefaced every new page I have
turned in life.
So long as this passage lasted, M. Paul was very kind, very good, very
forbearing; he saw the sharp pain inflicted, and felt the weighty
humiliation imposed by my own sense of incapacity; and words can hardly
do justice to his tenderness and helpfulness. His own eyes would
moisten, when tears of shame and effort clouded mine; burdened as he
was with work, he would steal half his brief space of recreation to
give to me.
But, strange grief! when that heavy and overcast dawn began at last to
yield to day; when my faculties began to struggle themselves, free, and
my time of energy and fulfilment came; when I voluntarily doubled,
trebled, quadrupled the tasks he set, to please him as I thought, his