Villette
saw Graham Bretton; it was in looking up at him her aspect had caught
its lustre—the light repeated in _her_ eyes beamed first out of his.
It gave me strange pleasure to follow these friends viewlessly, and I
_did_ follow them, as I thought, to the park. I watched them alight
(carriages were inadmissible) amidst new and unanticipated splendours.
Lo! the iron gateway, between the stone columns, was spanned by a
flaming arch built of massed stars; and, following them cautiously
beneath that arch, where were they, and where was I?
In a land of enchantment, a garden most gorgeous, a plain sprinkled
with coloured meteors, a forest with sparks of purple and ruby and
golden fire gemming the foliage; a region, not of trees and shadow, but
of strangest architectural wealth—of altar and of temple, of pyramid,
obelisk, and sphinx: incredible to say, the wonders and the symbols of
Egypt teemed throughout the park of Villette.
No matter that in five minutes the secret was mine—the key of the
mystery picked up, and its illusion unveiled—no matter that I quickly
recognised the material of these solemn fragments—the timber, the
paint, and the pasteboard—these inevitable discoveries failed to quite
destroy the charm, or undermine the marvel of that night. No matter
that I now seized the explanation of the whole great fête—a fête of
which the conventual Rue Fossette had not tasted, though it had opened
at dawn that morning, and was still in full vigour near midnight.
In past days there had been, said history, an awful crisis in the fate
of Labassecour, involving I know not what peril to the rights and
liberties of her gallant citizens. Rumours of wars there had been, if
not wars themselves; a kind of struggling in the streets—a bustle—a
running to and fro, some rearing of barricades, some burgher-rioting,
some calling out of troops, much interchange of brickbats, and even a
little of shot. Tradition held that patriots had fallen: in the old
Basse-Ville was shown an enclosure, solemnly built in and set apart,
holding, it was said, the sacred bones of martyrs. Be this as it may, a
certain day in the year was still kept as a festival in honour of the
said patriots and martyrs of somewhat apocryphal memory—the morning
being given to a solemn Te Deum in St. Jean Baptiste, the evening
devoted to spectacles, decorations, and illuminations, such as these I
now saw.
While looking up at the image of a white ibis, fixed on a column—while
fathoming the deep, torch-lit perspective of an avenue, at the close of
which was couched a sphinx—I lost sight of the party which, from the
middle of the great square, I had followed—or, rather, they vanished
like a group of apparitions. On this whole scene was impressed a
dream-like character: every shape was wavering, every movement
floating, every voice echo-like—half-mocking, half-uncertain. Paulina
and her friends being gone, I scarce could avouch that I had really
seen them; nor did I miss them as guides through the chaos, far less
regret them as protectors amidst the night.
That festal night would have been safe for a very child. Half the
peasantry had come in from the outlying environs of Villette, and the
decent burghers were all abroad and around, dressed in their best. My
straw-hat passed amidst cap and jacket, short petticoat, and long
calico mantle, without, perhaps, attracting a glance; I only took the
precaution to bind down the broad leaf gipsy-wise, with a supplementary
ribbon—and then I felt safe as if masked.
Safe I passed down the avenues—safe I mixed with the crowd where it was
deepest. To be still was not in my power, nor quietly to observe. I
took a revel of the scene; I drank the elastic night-air—the swell of
sound, the dubious light, now flashing, now fading. As to Happiness or
Hope, they and I had shaken hands, but just now—I scorned Despair.
My vague aim, as I went, was to find the stone-basin, with its clear
depth and green lining: of that coolness and verdure I thought, with
the passionate thirst of unconscious fever. Amidst the glare, and
hurry, and throng, and noise, I still secretly and chiefly longed to
come on that circular mirror of crystal, and surprise the moon glassing
therein her pearly front.
I knew my route, yet it seemed as if I was hindered from pursuing it
direct: now a sight, and now a sound, called me aside, luring me down
this alley and down that. Already I saw the thick-planted trees which
framed this tremulous and rippled glass, when, choiring out of a glade
to the right, broke such a sound as I thought might be heard if Heaven
were to open—such a sound, perhaps, as _was_ heard above the plain of
Bethlehem, on the night of glad tidings.
The song, the sweet music, rose afar, but rushing swiftly on
fast-strengthening pinions—there swept through these shades so full a
storm of harmonies that, had no tree been near against which to lean, I
think I must have dropped. Voices were there, it seemed to me,
unnumbered; instruments varied and countless—bugle, horn, and trumpet I
knew. The effect was as a sea breaking into song with all its waves.
The swaying tide swept this way, and then it fell back, and I followed
its retreat. It led me towards a Byzantine building—a sort of kiosk
near the park’s centre. Round about stood crowded thousands, gathered
to a grand concert in the open air. What I had heard was, I think, a
wild Jäger chorus; the night, the space, the scene, and my own mood,
had but enhanced the sounds and their impression.
Here were assembled ladies, looking by this light most beautiful: some
of their dresses were gauzy, and some had the sheen of satin, the
flowers and the blond trembled, and the veils waved about their
decorated bonnets, as that host-like chorus, with its greatly-gathering
sound, sundered the air above them. Most of these ladies occupied the
little light park-chairs, and behind and beside them stood guardian
gentlemen. The outer ranks of the crowd were made up of citizens,
plebeians and police.
In this outer rank I took my place. I rather liked to find myself the
silent, unknown, consequently unaccosted neighbour of the short
petticoat and the sabot; and only the distant gazer at the silk robe,
the velvet mantle, and the plumed chapeau. Amidst so much life and joy,
too, it suited me to be alone—quite alone. Having neither wish nor
power to force my way through a mass so close-packed, my station was on
the farthest confines, where, indeed, I might hear, but could see
little.
“Mademoiselle is not well placed,” said a voice at my elbow. Who dared
accost _me_, a being in a mood so little social? I turned, rather to
repel than to reply. I saw a man—a burgher—an entire stranger, as I
deemed him for one moment, but the next, recognised in him a certain
tradesman—a bookseller, whose shop furnished the Rue Fossette with its
books and stationery; a man notorious in our pensionnat for the
excessive brittleness of his temper, and frequent snappishness of his
manner, even to us, his principal customers: but whom, for my solitary
self, I had ever been disposed to like, and had always found civil,
sometimes kind; once, in aiding me about some troublesome little
exchange of foreign money, he had done me a service. He was an
intelligent man; under his asperity, he was a good-hearted man; the
thought had sometimes crossed me, that a part of his nature bore
affinity to a part of M. Emanuel’s (whom he knew well, and whom I had
often seen sitting on Miret’s counter, turning over the current month’s
publications); and it was in this affinity I read the explanation of
that conciliatory feeling with which I instinctively regarded him.
Strange to say, this man knew me under my straw-hat and closely-folded
shawl; and, though I deprecated the effort, he insisted on making a way
for me through the crowd, and finding me a better situation. He carried
his disinterested civility further; and, from some quarter, procured me
a chair. Once and again, I have found that the most cross-grained are
by no means the worst of mankind; nor the humblest in station, the
least polished in feeling. This man, in his courtesy, seemed to find
nothing strange in my being here alone; only a reason for extending to
me, as far as he could, a retiring, yet efficient attention. Having
secured me a place and a seat, he withdrew without asking a question,
without obtruding a remark, without adding a superfluous word. No
wonder that Professor Emanuel liked to take his cigar and his lounge,
and to read his feuilleton in M. Miret’s shop—the two must have suited.
I had not been seated five minutes, ere I became aware that chance and
my worthy burgher friend had brought me once more within view of a
familiar and domestic group. Right before me sat the Brettons and de
Bassompierres. Within reach of my hand—had I chosen to extend it—sat a
figure like a fairy-queen, whose array, lilies and their leaves seemed
to have suggested; whatever was not spotless white, being forest-green.
My godmother, too, sat so near, that, had I leaned forward, my breath
might have stirred the ribbon of her bonnet. They were too near; having
been just recognised by a comparative stranger, I felt uneasy at this
close vicinage of intimate acquaintance.
It made me quite start when Mrs. Bretton, turning to Mr. Home, and
speaking out of a kind impulse of memory, said,—“I wonder what my
steady little Lucy would say to all this if she were here? I wish we
had brought her, she would have enjoyed it much.”
“So she would, so she would, in her grave sensible fashion; it is a
pity but we had asked her,” rejoined the kind gentleman; and added, “I
like to see her so quietly pleased; so little moved, yet so content.”
Dear were they both to me, dear are they to this day in their
remembered benevolence. Little knew they the rack of pain which had
driven Lucy almost into fever, and brought her out, guideless and
reckless, urged and drugged to the brink of frenzy. I had half a mind
to bend over the elders’ shoulders, and answer their goodness with the
thanks of my eyes. M. de Bassompierre did not well know _me_, but I
knew _him_, and honoured and admired his nature, with all its plain
sincerity, its warm affection, and unconscious enthusiasm. Possibly I
might have spoken, but just then Graham turned; he turned with one of
his stately firm movements, so different from those, of a
sharp-tempered under-sized man: there was behind him a throng, a
hundred ranks deep; there were thousands to meet his eye and divide its
scrutiny—why then did he concentrate all on me—oppressing me with the
whole force of that full, blue, steadfast orb? Why, if he _would_ look,
did not one glance satisfy him? why did he turn on his chair, rest his
elbow on its back, and study me leisurely? He could not see my face, I
held it down; surely, he _could_ not recognise me: I stooped, I turned,
I _would_ not be known. He rose, by some means he contrived to
approach, in two minutes he would have had my secret: my identity would
have been grasped between his, never tyrannous, but always powerful
hands. There was but one way to evade or to check him. I implied, by a
sort of supplicatory gesture, that it was my prayer to be let alone;
after that, had he persisted, he would perhaps have seen the spectacle
of Lucy incensed: not all that was grand, or good, or kind in him (and
Lucy felt the full amount) should have kept her quite tame, or
absolutely inoffensive and shadowlike. He looked, but he desisted. He
shook his handsome head, but he was mute. He resumed his seat, nor did
he again turn or disturb me by a glance, except indeed for one single
instant, when a look, rather solicitous than curious, stole my
way—speaking what somehow stilled my heart like “the south-wind