Villette
carven lips and blank eye-balls, and breast like the stone face of a
tomb; and again, suddenly, at some turn, some sound, some
long-trembling sob of the wind, at some rushing past of an unseen
stream of electricity, the irrational demon would wake unsolicited,
would stir strangely alive, would rush from its pedestal like a
perturbed Dagon, calling to its votary for a sacrifice, whatever the
hour—to its victim for some blood, or some breath, whatever the
circumstance or scene—rousing its priest, treacherously promising
vaticination, perhaps filling its temple with a strange hum of oracles,
but sure to give half the significance to fateful winds, and grudging
to the desperate listener even a miserable remnant—yielding it
sordidly, as though each word had been a drop of the deathless ichor of
its own dark veins. And this tyrant I was to compel into bondage, and
make it improvise a theme, on a school estrade, between a Mathilde and
a Coralie, under the eye of a Madame Beck, for the pleasure, and to the
inspiration of a bourgeois of Labassecour!
Upon this argument M. Paul and I did battle more than once—strong
battle, with confused noise of demand and rejection, exaction and
repulse.
On this particular day I was soundly rated. “The obstinacy of my whole
sex,” it seems, was concentrated in me; I had an “orgueil de diable.” I
feared to fail, forsooth! What did it matter whether I failed or not?
Who was I that I should not fail, like my betters? It would do me good
to fail. He wanted to see me worsted (I knew he did), and one minute he
paused to take breath.
“Would I speak now, and be tractable?”
“Never would I be tractable in this matter. Law itself should not
compel me. I would pay a fine, or undergo an imprisonment, rather than
write for a show and to order, perched up on a platform.”
“Could softer motives influence me? Would I yield for friendship’s
sake?”
“Not a whit, not a hair-breadth. No form of friendship under the sun
had a right to exact such a concession. No true friendship would harass
me thus.”
He supposed then (with a sneer—M. Paul could sneer supremely, curling
his lip, opening his nostrils, contracting his eyelids)—he supposed
there was but one form of appeal to which I would listen, and of that
form it was not for him to make use.
“Under certain persuasions, from certain quarters, je vous vois d’ici,”
said he, “eagerly subscribing to the sacrifice, passionately arming for
the effort.”
“Making a simpleton, a warning, and an example of myself, before a
hundred and fifty of the ‘papas’ and ‘mammas’ of Villette.”
And here, losing patience, I broke out afresh with a cry that I wanted
to be liberated—to get out into the air—I was almost in a fever.
“Chut!” said the inexorable, “this was a mere pretext to run away; _he_
was not hot, with the stove close at his back; how could I suffer,
thoroughly screened by his person?”
“I did not understand his constitution. I knew nothing of the natural
history of salamanders. For my own part, I was a phlegmatic islander,
and sitting in an oven did not agree with me; at least, might I step to
the well, and get a glass of water—the sweet apples had made me
thirsty?”
“If that was all, he would do my errand.”
He went to fetch the water. Of course, with a door only on the latch
behind me, I lost not my opportunity. Ere his return, his half-worried
prey had escaped.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE DRYAD.
The spring was advancing, and the weather had turned suddenly warm.
This change of temperature brought with it for me, as probably for many
others, temporary decrease of strength. Slight exertion at this time
left me overcome with fatigue—sleepless nights entailed languid days.
One Sunday afternoon, having walked the distance of half a league to
the Protestant church, I came back weary and exhausted; and taking
refuge in my solitary sanctuary, the first classe, I was glad to sit
down, and to make of my desk a pillow for my arms and head.
Awhile I listened to the lullaby of bees humming in the berceau, and
watched, through the glass door and the tender, lightly-strewn spring
foliage, Madame Beck and a gay party of friends, whom she had
entertained that day at dinner after morning mass, walking in the
centre-alley under orchard boughs dressed at this season in blossom,
and wearing a colouring as pure and warm as mountain-snow at sun-rise.
My principal attraction towards this group of guests lay, I remember,
in one figure—that of a handsome young girl whom I had seen before as a
visitor at Madame Beck’s, and of whom I had been vaguely told that she
was a “filleule,” or god-daughter, of M. Emanuel’s, and that between
her mother, or aunt, or some other female relation of hers, and the
Professor, had existed of old a special friendship. M. Paul was not of
the holiday band to-day, but I had seen this young girl with him ere
now, and as far as distant observation could enable me to judge, she
seemed to enjoy him with the frank ease of a ward with an indulgent
guardian. I had seen her run up to him, put her arm through his, and
hang upon him. Once, when she did so, a curious sensation had struck
through me—a disagreeable anticipatory sensation—one of the family of
presentiments, I suppose—but I refused to analyze or dwell upon it.
While watching this girl, Mademoiselle Sauveur by name, and following
the gleam of her bright silk robe (she was always richly dressed, for
she was said to be wealthy) through the flowers and the glancing leaves
of tender emerald, my eyes became dazzled—they closed; my lassitude,
the warmth of the day, the hum of bees and birds, all lulled me, and at
last I slept.
Two hours stole over me. Ere I woke, the sun had declined out of sight
behind the towering houses, the garden and the room were grey, bees had
gone homeward, and the flowers were closing; the party of guests, too,
had vanished; each alley was void.
On waking, I felt much at ease—not chill, as I ought to have been after
sitting so still for at least two hours; my cheek and arms were not
benumbed by pressure against the hard desk. No wonder. Instead of the
bare wood on which I had laid them, I found a thick shawl, carefully
folded, substituted for support, and another shawl (both taken from the
corridor where such things hung) wrapped warmly round me.
Who had done this? Who was my friend? Which of the teachers? Which of
the pupils? None, except St. Pierre, was inimical to me; but which of
them had the art, the thought, the habit, of benefiting thus tenderly?
Which of them had a step so quiet, a hand so gentle, but I should have
heard or felt her, if she had approached or touched me in a day-sleep?
As to Ginevra Fanshawe, that bright young creature was not gentle at
all, and would certainly have pulled me out of my chair, if she had
meddled in the matter. I said at last: “It is Madame Beck’s doing; she
has come in, seen me asleep, and thought I might take cold. She
considers me a useful machine, answering well the purpose for which it
was hired; so would not have me needlessly injured. And now,”
methought, “I’ll take a walk; the evening is fresh, and not very
chill.”
So I opened the glass door and stepped into the berceau.
I went to my own alley: had it been dark, or even dusk, I should have
hardly ventured there, for I had not yet forgotten the curious illusion
of vision (if illusion it were) experienced in that place some months
ago. But a ray of the setting sun burnished still the grey crown of
Jean Baptiste; nor had all the birds of the garden yet vanished into
their nests amongst the tufted shrubs and thick wall-ivy. I paced up
and down, thinking almost the same thoughts I had pondered that night
when I buried my glass jar—how I should make some advance in life, take
another step towards an independent position; for this train of
reflection, though not lately pursued, had never by me been wholly
abandoned; and whenever a certain eye was averted from me, and a
certain countenance grew dark with unkindness and injustice, into that
track of speculation did I at once strike; so that, little by little, I
had laid half a plan.
“Living costs little,” said I to myself, “in this economical town of
Villette, where people are more sensible than I understand they are in
dear old England—infinitely less worried about appearance, and less
emulous of display—where nobody is in the least ashamed to be quite as
homely and saving as he finds convenient. House-rent, in a prudently
chosen situation, need not be high. When I shall have saved one
thousand francs, I will take a tenement with one large room, and two or
three smaller ones, furnish the first with a few benches and desks, a
black tableau, an estrade for myself; upon it a chair and table, with a
sponge and some white chalks; begin with taking day-pupils, and so work
my way upwards. Madame Beck’s commencement was—as I have often heard
her say—from no higher starting-point, and where is she now? All these
premises and this garden are hers, bought with her money; she has a
competency already secured for old age, and a flourishing establishment
under her direction, which will furnish a career for her children.
“Courage, Lucy Snowe! With self-denial and economy now, and steady
exertion by-and-by, an object in life need not fail you. Venture not to
complain that such an object is too selfish, too limited, and lacks
interest; be content to labour for independence until you have proved,
by winning that prize, your right to look higher. But afterwards, is
there nothing more for me in life—no true home—nothing to be dearer to
me than myself, and by its paramount preciousness, to draw from me
better things than I care to culture for myself only? Nothing, at whose
feet I can willingly lay down the whole burden of human egotism, and
gloriously take up the nobler charge of labouring and living for
others? I suppose, Lucy Snowe, the orb of your life is not to be so
rounded: for you, the crescent-phase must suffice. Very good. I see a
huge mass of my fellow-creatures in no better circumstances. I see that
a great many men, and more women, hold their span of life on conditions
of denial and privation. I find no reason why I should be of the few
favoured. I believe in some blending of hope and sunshine sweetening
the worst lots. I believe that this life is not all; neither the
beginning nor the end. I believe while I tremble; I trust while I
weep.”
So this subject is done with. It is right to look our life-accounts
bravely in the face now and then, and settle them honestly. And he is a
poor self-swindler who lies to himself while he reckons the items, and
sets down under the head—happiness that which is misery. Call
anguish—anguish, and despair—despair; write both down in strong
characters with a resolute pen: you will the better pay your debt to
Doom. Falsify: insert “privilege” where you should have written “pain;”
and see if your mighty creditor will allow the fraud to pass, or accept
the coin with which you would cheat him. Offer to the strongest—if the
darkest angel of God’s host—water, when he has asked blood—will he take
it? Not a whole pale sea for one red drop. I settled another account.
Pausing before Methusaleh—the giant and patriarch of the garden—and
leaning my brow against his knotty trunk, my foot rested on the stone
sealing the small sepulchre at his root; and I recalled the passage of
feeling therein buried; I recalled Dr. John; my warm affection for him;
my faith in his excellence; my delight in his grace. What was become of
that curious one-sided friendship which was half marble and half life;
only on one hand truth, and on the other perhaps a jest?
Was this feeling dead? I do not know, but it was buried. Sometimes I