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The Professor
By
Charlotte Brontë
Contents
THE other day, in looking over my
papers, I found in my desk the following copy of a letter, sent by me a year
since to an old school acquaintance: - ‘
‘It is a long time since I w=
rote
to you, and a still longer time since I saw you. Chancing to take up a
newspaper of your county the other day, my eye fell upon your name. I began=
to
think of old times; to run over the events which have transpired since we
separated; and I sat down and commenced this letter. What you have been doi=
ng I
know not; but you shall hear, if you choose to listen, how the world has wa=
gged
with me.
‘First, after leaving Eton, I
had an interview with my maternal uncles, Lord Tynedale and the Hon. John
Seacombe. They asked me if I would enter the Church, and my uncle the noble=
man
offered me the living of Seacombe, which is in his gift, if I would; then my
other uncle, Mr Seacombe, hinted that when I became rector of
Seacombe-cum-Scaife, I might perhaps be allowed to take, as mistress of my
house and head of my parish, one of my six cousins, his daughters, all of w=
hom
I greatly dislike.
‘I declined both the Church =
and
matrimony. A good clergyman is a good thing, but I should have made a very =
bad
one. As to the wife - oh how like a night-mare is the thought of being bound
for life to one of my cousins! No doubt they are accomplished and pretty; b=
ut
not an accomplishment, not a charm of theirs, touches a chord in my bosom. =
To
think of passing the winter evenings by the parlour fire-side of Seacombe
Rectory alone with one of them - for instance, the large and well-modelled
statue, Sarah - no; I should be a bad husband, under such circumstances, as
well as a bad clergyman.
‘When I had declined my uncl=
es'
offers they asked me 'what I intended to do?' I said I should reflect. They
reminded me that I had no fortune, and no expectation of any, and, after a
considerable pause, Lord Tynedale demanded sternly, 'Whether I had thoughts=
of
following my father's steps and engaging in trade?' Now, I had had no thoug=
hts
of the sort. I do not think that my turn of mind qualifies me to make a good
tradesman; my taste, my ambition does not lie in that way; but such was the
scorn expressed in Lord Tynedale's countenance as he pronounced the word TR=
ADE
- such the contemptuous sarcasm of his tone - that I was instantly decided.=
My
father was but a name to me, yet that name I did not like to hear mentioned
with a sneer to my very face. I answered then, with haste and warmth, 'I ca=
nnot
do better than follow in my father's steps; yes, I will be a tradesman.' My
uncles did not remonstrate; they and I parted with mutual disgust. In revie=
wing
this transaction, I find that I was quite right to shake off the burden of
Tynedale's patronage, but a fool to offer my shoulders instantly for the
reception of another burden - one which might be more intolerable, and which
certainly was yet untried.
‘I wrote instantly to Edward=
- you
know Edward - my only brother, ten years my senior, married to a rich
mill-owner's daughter, and now possessor of the mill and business which was=
my
father's before he failed. You are aware that my father-once reckoned a Cro=
esus
of wealth - became bankrupt a short time previous to his death, and that my
mother lived in destitution for some six months after him, unhelped by her
aristocratical brothers, whom she had mortally offended by her union with
Crimsworth, the - - shire manufacturer. At the end o=
f the
six months she brought me into the world, and then herself left it without,=
I
should think, much regret, as it contained little hope or comfort for her. =
‘My father's relations took
charge of Edward, as they did of me, till I was nine years old. At that per=
iod
it chanced that the representation of an important borough in our county fe=
ll vacant;
Mr Seacombe stood for it. My uncle Crimsworth, an astute mercantile man, to=
ok
the opportunity of writing a fierce letter to the candidate, stating that i=
f he
and Lord Tynedale did not consent to do something towards the support of th=
eir
sister's orphan children, he would expose their relentless and malignant
conduct towards that sister, and do his best to turn the circumstances agai=
nst Mr
Seacombe's election. That gentleman and Lord T. knew well enough that the
Crimsworths were an unscrupulous and determined race; they knew also that t=
hey
had influence in the borough of X -
- ; and, making a virtue of necessity, they consented to defray the
expenses of my education. I was sent to Eton, where I remained ten years,
during which space of time Edward and I never met. He, when he grew up, ent=
ered
into trade, and pursued his calling with such diligence, ability, and succe=
ss,
that now, in his thirtieth year, he was fast making a fortune. Of this I was
apprised by the occasional short letters I received from him, some three or
four times a year; which said letters never concluded without some expressi=
on
of determined enmity against the house of Seacombe, and some reproach to me=
for
living, as he said, on the bounty of that house. At first, while still in b=
oyhood,
I could not understand why, as I had no parents, I should not be indebted t=
o my
uncles Tynedale and Seacombe for my education; but as I grew up, and heard =
by
degrees of the persevering hostility, the hatred till death evinced by them
against my father - of the sufferings of my mother - of all the wrongs, in
short, of our house - then did I conceive shame of the dependence in which I
lived, and form a resolution no more to take bread from hands which had ref=
used
to minister to the necessities of my dying mother. It was by these feelings=
I
was influenced when I refused the Rectory of Seacombe, and the union with o=
ne
of my patrician cousins.
‘An irreparable breach thus
being effected between my uncles and myself, I wrote to Edward; told him wh=
at
had occurred, and informed him of my intention to follow his steps and be a
tradesman. I asked, moreover, if he could give me employment. His answer
expressed no approbation of my conduct, but he said I might come down to -&=
nbsp;
- shire, if I liked, and he would 'see what could be done in the way=
of
furnishing me with work.' I repressed all - even mental comment on his note=
- packed
my trunk and carpet-bag, and started for the North directly.
‘After two days' travelling
(railroads were not then in existence) I arrived, one wet October afternoon=
, in
the town of X - - . I had alw=
ays
understood that Edward lived in this town, but on inquiry I found that it w=
as
only Mr Crimsworth's mill and warehouse which were situated in the smoky
atmosphere of Bigben Close; his RESIDENCE lay four miles out, in the countr=
y.
‘It was late in the evening =
when
I alighted at the gates of the habitation designated to me as my brother's.=
As
I advanced up the avenue, I could see through the shades of twilight, and t=
he
dark gloomy mists which deepened those shades, that the house was large, and
the grounds surrounding it sufficiently spacious. I paused a moment on the =
lawn
in front, and leaning my back against a tall tree which rose in the centre,=
I
gazed with interest on the exterior of Crimsworth Hall.
‘Edward is rich,’ thou=
ght
I to myself. 'I believed him to be doing well - but I did not know he was
master of a mansion like this.' Cutting short all marvelling; speculation,
conjecture, &c., I advanced to the front door and rang. A man-servant o=
pened
it - I announced myself - he relieved me of my wet cloak and carpet-bag, and
ushered me into a room furnished as a library, where there was a bright fire
and candles burning on the table; he informed me that his master was not yet
returned from X - - market, but that he would certainly=
be at
home in the course of half an hour.
‘Being left to myself, I took
the stuffed easy chair, covered with red morocco, which stood by the firesi=
de,
and while my eyes watched the flames dart from the glowing coals, and the
cinders fall at intervals on the hearth, my mind busied itself in conjectur=
es
concerning the meeting about to take place. Amidst much that was doubtful in
the subject of these conjectures, there was one thing tolerably certain - I=
was
in no danger of encountering severe disappointment; from this, the moderati=
on
of my expectations guaranteed me. I anticipated no overflowings of fraternal
tenderness; Edward's letters had always been such as to prevent the engende=
ring
or harbouring of delusions of this sort. Still, as I sat awaiting his arriv=
al,
I felt eager - very eager - I cannot tell you why; my hand, so utterly a
stranger to the grasp of a kindred hand, clenched itself to repress the tre=
mor
with which impatience would fain have shaken it.
‘I thought of my uncles; and=
as
I was engaged in wondering whether Edward's indifference would equal the co=
ld
disdain I had always experienced from them, I heard the avenue gates open:
wheels approached the house; Mr Crimsworth was arrived; and after the lapse=
of some
minutes, and a brief dialogue between himself and his servant in the hall, =
his
tread drew near the library door - that tread alone announced the master of=
the
house.
‘I still retained some confu=
sed
recollection of Edward as he was ten years ago - a tall, wiry, raw youth; N=
OW,
as I rose from my seat and turned towards the library door, I saw a
fine-looking and powerful man, light-complexioned, well-made, and of athlet=
ic
proportions; the first glance made me aware of an air of promptitude and
sharpness, shown as well in his movements as in his port, his eye, and the
general expression of his face. He greeted me with brevity, and, in the mom=
ent
of shaking hands, scanned me from head to foot; he took his seat in the mor=
occo
covered arm-chair, and motioned me to another sent.
‘'I expected you would have
called at the counting-house in the Close,' said he; and his voice, I notic=
ed,
had an abrupt accent, probably habitual to him; he spoke also with a guttur=
al
northern tone, which sounded harsh in my ears, accustomed to the silvery
utterance of the South.
‘'The landlord of the inn, w=
here
the coach stopped, directed me here,' said I. 'I doubted at first the accur=
acy
of his information, not being aware that you had such a residence as this.'=
‘'Oh, it is all right!' he
replied, 'only I was kept half an hour behind time, waiting for you - that =
is
all. I thought you must be coming by the eight o'clock coach.'
‘I expressed regret that he =
had
had to wait; he made no answer, but stirred the fire, as if to cover a move=
ment
of impatience; then he scanned me again.
‘I felt an inward satisfacti=
on
that I had not, in the first moment of meeting, betrayed any warmth, any
enthusiasm; that I had saluted this man with a quiet and steady phlegm.
‘'Have you quite broken with=
Tynedale
and Seacombe?' he asked hastily.
‘'I do not think I shall have
any further communication with them; my refusal of their proposals will, I
fancy, operate as a barrier against all future intercourse.'
‘'Why,' said he, 'I may as w=
ell
remind you at the very outset of our connection, that ‘no man can ser=
ve
two masters.’ Acquaintance with Lord Tynedale will be incompatible wi=
th
assistance from me.' There was a kind of gratuitous menace in his eye as he
looked at me in finishing this observation.
‘Feeling no disposition to r=
eply
to him, I contented myself with an inward speculation on the differences wh=
ich
exist in the constitution of men's minds. I do not know what inference Mr
Crimsworth drew from my silence - whether he considered it a symptom of con=
tumacity
or an evidence of my being cowed by his peremptory manner. After a long and
hard stare at me, he rose sharply from his seat.
‘'To-morrow,' said he, 'I sh=
all
call your attention to some other points; but now it is supper time, and Mrs
Crimsworth is probably waiting; will you come?'
‘He strode from the room, an=
d I
followed. In crossing the hall, I wondered what Mrs Crimsworth might be. 'Is
she,' thought I, 'as alien to what I like as Tynedale, Seacombe, the Misses
Seacombe - as the affectionate relative now striding before me? or is she
better than these? Shall I, in conversing with her, feel free to show somet=
hing
of my real nature; or - ' Fur=
ther
conjectures were arrested by my entrance into the dining-room.
‘A lamp, burning under a sha=
de
of ground-glass, showed a handsome apartment, wainscoted with oak; supper w=
as
laid on the table; by the fire-place, standing as if waiting our entrance,
appeared a lady; she was young, tall, and well shaped; her dress was handso=
me
and fashionable: so much my first glance sufficed to ascertain. A gay
salutation passed between her and Mr Crimsworth; she chid him, half playful=
ly,
half poutingly, for being late; her voice (I always take voices into the
account in judging of character) was lively - it indicated, I thought, good
animal spirits. Mr Crimsworth soon checked her animated scolding with a kis=
s - a
kiss that still told of the bridegroom (they had not yet been married a yea=
r);
she took her seat at the supper-table in first-rate spirits. Perceiving me,=
she
begged my pardon for not noticing me before, and then shook hands with me, =
as
ladies do when a flow of good-humour disposes them to be cheerful to all, e=
ven
the most indifferent of their acquaintance. It was now further obvious to me
that she had a good complexion, and features sufficiently marked but agreea=
ble;
her hair was red - quite red.=
She
and Edward talked much, always in a vein of playful contention; she was vex=
ed,
or pretended to be vexed, that he had that day driven a vicious horse in the
gig, and he made light of her fears. Sometimes she appealed to me.
‘'Now, Mr William, isn't it
absurd in Edward to talk so? He says he will drive Jack, and no other horse,
and the brute has thrown him twice already.
‘She spoke with a kind of li=
sp,
not disagreeable, but childish. I soon saw also that there was more than
girlish - a somewhat infantine expression in her by no means small features;
this lisp and expression were, I have no doubt, a charm in Edward's eyes, a=
nd
would be so to those: of most men, but they were not to mine. I sought her =
eye,
desirous to read there the intelligence which I could not discern in her fa=
ce
or hear in her conversation; it was merry, rather small; by turns I saw
vivacity, vanity, coquetry, look out through its irid, but I watched in vain
for a glimpse of soul. I am no Oriental; white necks, carmine lips and chee=
ks,
clusters of bright curls, do not suffice for me without that Promethean spa=
rk
which will live after the roses and lilies are faded, the burnished hair gr=
own
grey. In sunshine, in prosperity, the flowers are very well; but how many w=
et
days are there in life - November seasons of disaster, when a man's hearth =
and
home would be cold indeed, without the clear, cheering gleam of intellect. =
‘Having perused the fair pag=
e of
Mrs Crimsworth's face, a deep, involuntary sigh announced my disappointment;
she took it as a homage to her beauty, and Edward, who was evidently proud =
of
his rich and handsome young wife, threw on me a glance - half ridicule, half
ire.
‘I turned from them both, and
gazing wearily round the room, I saw two pictures set in the oak panelling =
- one
on each side the mantel-piece. Ceasing to take part in the bantering
conversation that flowed on between Mr and Mrs Crimsworth, I bent my though=
ts
to the examination of these pictures. They were portraits - a lady and a
gentleman, both costumed in the fashion of twenty years ago. The gentleman =
was
in the shade. I could not see him well. The lady had the benefit of a full =
beam
from the softly shaded lamp. I presently recognised her; I had seen this
picture before in childhood; it was my mother; that and the companion pictu=
re
being the only heir-looms saved out of the sale of my father's property.
‘The face, I remembered, had
pleased me as a boy, but then I did not understand it; now I knew how rare =
that
class of face is in the world, and I appreciated keenly its thoughtful, yet
gentle expression. The serious grey eye possessed for me a strong charm, as=
did
certain lines in the features indicative of most true and tender feeling. I=
was
sorry it was only a picture.
‘I soon left Mr and Mrs
Crimsworth to themselves; a servant conducted me to my bed-room; in closing=
my
chamber-door, I shut out all intruders - you, Charles, as well as the rest.=
‘Good-bye for the present, &=
#8216;WILLIAM
CRIMSWORTH.’
To this letter I never got an answ=
er;
before my old friend received it, he had accepted a Government appointment =
in
one of the colonies, and was already on his way to the scene of his official
labours. What has become of him since, I know not.
The leisure time I have at command,
and which I intended to employ for his private benefit, I shall now dedicat=
e to
that of the public at large. My narrative is not exciting, and above all, n=
ot
marvellous; but it may interest some individuals, who, having toiled in the
same vocation as myself, will find in my experience frequent reflections of
their own. The above letter will serve as an introduction. I now proceed.
A FINE October morning succeeded to
the foggy evening that had witnessed my first introduction to Crimsworth Ha=
ll.
I was early up and walking in the large park-like meadow surrounding the ho=
use.
The autumn sun, rising over the -&=
nbsp;
- shire hills, disclosed a pleasant country; woods brown and mellow
varied the fields from which the harvest had been lately carried; a river,
gliding between the woods, caught on its surface the somewhat cold gleam of=
the
October sun and sky; at frequent intervals along the banks of the river, ta=
ll,
cylindrical chimneys, almost like slender round towers, indicated the facto=
ries
which the trees half concealed; here and there mansions, similar to Crimswo=
rth
Hall, occupied agreeable sites on the hill-side; the country wore, on the
whole, a cheerful, active, fertile look. Steam, trade, machinery had long b=
anished
from it all romance and seclusion. At a distance of five miles, a valley,
opening between the low hills, held in its cups the great town of X - - . A dense, permanent vapour broo=
ded
over this locality - there lay Edward's ‘Concern.’
I forced my eye to scrutinize this
prospect, I forced my mind to dwell on it for a time, and when I found that=
it
communicated no pleasurable emotion to my heart - that it stirred in me non=
e of
the hopes a man ought to feel, when he sees laid before him the scene of hi=
s life's
career - I said to myself, ‘William, you are a rebel against
circumstances; you are a fool, and know not what you want; you have chosen
trade and you shall be a tradesman. Look!’ I continued mentally - =
217;Look
at the sooty smoke in that hollow, and know that there is your post! There =
you
cannot dream, you cannot speculate and theorize - there you shall out and w=
ork!’
Thus self-schooled, I returned to =
the
house. My brother was in the breakfast-room. I met him collectedly - I could
not meet him cheerfully; he was standing on the rug, his back to the fire -=
how
much did I read in the expression of his eye as my glance encountered his, =
when
I advanced to bid him good morning; how much that was contradictory to my
nature! He said ‘Good morning’ abruptly and nodded, and then he
snatched, rather than took, a newspaper from the table, and began to read it
with the air of a master who seizes a pretext to escape the bore of convers=
ing
with an underling. It was well I had taken a resolution to endure for a tim=
e, or
his manner would have gone far to render insupportable the disgust I had ju=
st
been endeavouring to subdue. I looked at him: I measured his robust frame a=
nd
powerful proportions; I saw my own reflection in the mirror over the
mantel-piece; I amused myself with comparing the two pictures. In face I
resembled him, though I was not so handsome; my features were less regular;=
I
had a darker eye, and a broader brow - in form I was greatly inferior - thi=
nner,
slighter, not so tall. As an animal, Edward excelled me far; should he prov=
e as
paramount in mind as in person I must be a slave - for I must expect from h=
im
no lion-like generosity to one weaker than himself; his cold, avaricious ey=
e,
his stern, forbidding manner told me he would not spare. Had I then force of
mind to cope with him? I did not know; I had never been tried.
Mrs Crimsworth's entrance diverted=
my
thoughts for a moment. She looked well, dressed in white, her face and her
attire shining in morning and bridal freshness. I addressed her with the de=
gree
of ease her last night's careless gaiety seemed to warrant, but she replied
with coolness and restraint: her husband had tutored her; she was not to be=
too
familiar with his clerk.
As soon as breakfast was over Mr
Crimsworth intimated to me that they were bringing the gig round to the doo=
r,
and that in five minutes he should expect me to be ready to go down with hi=
m to
X - - . I did not keep him wa=
iting;
we were soon dashing at a rapid rate along the road. The horse he drove was=
the
same vicious animal about which Mrs Crimsworth had expressed her fears the
night before. Once or twice Jack seemed disposed to turn restive, but a
vigorous and determined application of the whip from the ruthless hand of h=
is
master soon compelled him to submission, and Edward's dilated nostril expre=
ssed
his triumph in the result of the contest; he scarcely spoke to me during the
whole of the brief drive, only opening his lips at intervals to damn his ho=
rse.
X - - was all stir and bustle when we ent=
ered
it; we left the clean streets where there were dwelling-houses and shops,
churches, and public buildings; we left all these, and turned down to a reg=
ion
of mills and warehouses; thence we passed through two massive gates into a
great paved yard, and we were in Bigben Close, and the mill was before us,
vomiting soot from its long chimney, and quivering through its thick brick
walls with the commotion of its iron bowels. Workpeople were passing to and
fro; a waggon was being laden with pieces. Mr Crimsworth looked from side to
side, and seemed at one glance to comprehend all that was going on; he
alighted, and leaving his horse and gig to the care of a man who hastened to
take the reins from his hand, he bid me follow him to the counting-house. We
entered it; a very different place from the parlours of Crimsworth Hall - a
place for business, with a bare, planked floor, a safe, two high desks and
stools, and some chairs. A person was seated at one of the desks, who took =
off
his square cap when Mr Crimsworth entered, and in an instant was again abso=
rbed
in his occupation of writing or calculating - I know not which.
Mr Crimsworth, having removed his
mackintosh, sat down by the fire. I remained standing near the hearth; he s=
aid
presently -
‘Steighton, you may leave the
room; I have some business to transact with this gentleman. Come back when =
you
hear the bell.’
The individual at the desk rose and
departed, closing the door as he went out. Mr Crimsworth stirred the fire, =
then
folded his arms, and sat a moment thinking, his lips compressed, his brow k=
nit.
I had nothing to do but to watch him - how well his features were cut! what=
a
handsome man he was! Whence, then, came that air of contraction - that narr=
ow
and hard aspect on his forehead, in all his lineaments?
Turning to me he began abruptly: <= o:p>
‘You are come down to -&=
nbsp;
- shire to learn to be a tradesman?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Have you made up your mind =
on
the point? Let me know that at once.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I am not bound to help
you, but I have a place here vacant, if you are qualified for it. I will ta=
ke
you on trial. What can you do? Do you know anything besides that useless tr=
ash
of college learning - Greek, Latin, and so forth?’
‘I have studied mathematics.=
’
‘Stuff! I dare say you have.=
’
‘I can read and write French=
and
German.’
‘Hum!’ He reflected a
moment, then opening a drawer in a desk near him took out a letter, and gav=
e it
to me.
‘Can you read that?’ he
asked.
It was a German commercial letter;=
I
translated it; I could not tell whether he was gratified or not - his count=
enance
remained fixed.
‘It is well;’ he-said,
after a pause, ‘that you are acquainted with something useful, someth=
ing
that may enable you to earn your board and lodging: since you know French a=
nd
German, I will take you as second clerk to manage the foreign correspondenc=
e of
the house. I shall give you a good salary - 90l. a year - and now,’ he
continued, raising his voice, ‘hear once for all what I have to say a=
bout
our relationship, and all that sort of humbug! I must have no nonsense on t=
hat
point; it would never suit me. I shall excuse you nothing on the plea of be=
ing
my brother; if I find you stupid, negligent, dissipated, idle, or possessed=
of
any faults detrimental to the interests of the house, I shall dismiss you a=
s I
would any other clerk. Ninety pounds a year are good wages, and I expect to
have the full value of my money out of you; remember, too, that things are =
on a
practical footing in my establishment - business-like habits, feelings, and
ideas, suit me best. Do you understand?’
‘Partly,’ I replied. &=
#8216;I
suppose you mean that I am to do my work for my wages; not to expect favour
from you, and not to depend on you for any help but what I earn; that suits=
me
exactly, and on these terms I will consent to be your clerk.’
I turned on my heel, and walked to=
the
window; this time I did not consult his face to learn his opinion: what it =
was
I do not know, nor did I then care. After a silence of some minutes he
recommenced: -
‘You perhaps expect to be
accommodated with apartments at Crimsworth Hall, and to go and come with me=
in
the gig. I wish you, however, to be aware that such an arrangement would be
quite inconvenient to me. I like to have the seat in my gig at liberty for =
any
gentleman whom for business reasons I may wish to take down to the hall for=
a
night or so. You will seek out lodgings in X - - .’
Quitting the window, I walked back=
to
the hearth.
‘Of course I shall seek out
lodgings in X - - ,’ I
answered. ‘It would not suit me either to lodge at Crimsworth Hall.=
8217;
My tone was quiet. I always speak
quietly. Yet Mr Crimsworth's blue eye became incensed; he took his revenge
rather oddly. Turning to me he said bluntly -
‘You are poor enough, I supp=
ose;
how do you expect to live till your quarter's salary becomes due?’
‘I shall get on,’ said=
I.
‘How do you expect to live?&=
#8217;
he repeated in a louder voice.
‘As I can, Mr Crimsworth.=
217;
‘Get into debt at your peril!
that's all,’ he answered. ‘For aught I know you may have
extravagant aristocratic habits: if you have, drop them; I tolerate nothing=
of
the sort here, and I will never give you a shilling extra, whatever liabili=
ties
you may incur - mind that.’
‘Yes, Mr Crimsworth, you will
find I have a good memory.’
I said no more. I did not think the
time was come for much parley. I had an instinctive feeling that it would be
folly to let one's temper effervesce often with such a man as Edward. I sai=
d to
myself, ‘I will place my cup under this continual dropping; it shall
stand there still and steady; when full, it will run over of itself - meant=
ime
patience. Two things are certain. I am capable of performing the work Mr
Crimsworth has set me; I can earn my wages conscientiously, and those wages=
are
sufficient to enable me to live. As to the fact of my brother assuming towa=
rds
me the bearing of a proud, harsh master, the fault is his, not mine; and sh=
all
his injustice, his bad feeling, turn me at once aside from the path I have
chosen? No; at least, ere I deviate, I will advance far enough to see whith=
er
my career tends. As yet I am only pressing in at the entrance - a strait ga=
te
enough; it ought to have a good terminus.’ While I thus reasoned, Mr
Crimsworth rang a bell; his first clerk, the individual dismissed previousl=
y to
our conference, re-entered.
‘Mr Steighton,’ said h=
e, ‘show
Mr William the letters from Voss, Brothers, and give him English copies of =
the
answers; he will translate them.’
Mr Steighton, a man of about
thirty-five, with a face at once sly and heavy, hastened to execute this or=
der;
he laid the letters on the desk, and I was soon seated at it, and engaged in
rendering the English answers into German. A sentiment of keen pleasure
accompanied this first effort to earn my own living - a sentiment neither
poisoned nor weakened by the presence of the taskmaster, who stood and watc=
hed
me for some time as I wrote. I thought he was trying to read my character, =
but
I felt as secure against his scrutiny as if I had had on a casque with the
visor down-or rather I showed him my countenance with the confidence that o=
ne
would show an unlearned man a letter written in Greek; he might see lines, =
and
trace characters, but he could make nothing of them; my nature was not his
nature, and its signs were to him like the words of an unknown tongue. Ere =
long
he turned away abruptly, as if baffled, and left the counting-house; he
returned to it but twice in the course of that day; each time he mixed and
swallowed a glass of brandy-and-water, the materials for making which he
extracted from a cupboard on one side of the fireplace; having glanced at m=
y translations
- he could read both French and German - he went out again in silence.
I SERVED Edward as his second clerk
faithfully, punctually, diligently. What was given me to do I had the power=
and
the determination to do well. Mr Crimsworth watched sharply for defects, but
found none; he set Timothy Steighton, his favourite and head man, to watch
also. Tim was baffled; I was as exact as himself, and quicker. Mr Crimsworth
made inquiries as to how I lived, whether I got into debt - no, my accounts
with my landlady were always straight. I had hired small lodgings, which I
contrived to pay for out of a slender fund - the accumulated savings of my =
Eton
pocket-money; for as it had ever been abhorrent to my nature to ask pecunia=
ry
assistance, I had early acquired habits of self-denying economy; husbanding=
my
monthly allowance with anxious care, in order to obviate the danger of being
forced, in some moment of future exigency, to beg additional aid. I remember
many called me miser at the time, and I used to couple the reproach with th=
is
consolation - better to be misunderstood now than repulsed hereafter. At th=
is
day I had my reward; I had had it before, when on parting with my irritated
uncles one of them threw down on the table before me a 5l. note, which I was
able to leave there, saying that my travelling expenses were already provid=
ed
for. Mr Crimsworth employed Tim to find out whether my landlady had any
complaint to make on the score of my morals; she answered that she believed=
I
was a very religious man, and asked Tim, in her turn, if he thought I had a=
ny
intention of going into the Church some day; for, she said, she had had you=
ng
curates to lodge in her house who were nothing equal to me for steadiness a=
nd
quietness. Tim was ‘a religious man’ himself; indeed, he was =
8216;a
joined Methodist,’ which did not (be it understood) prevent him from
being at the same time an engrained rascal, and he came away much posed at
hearing this account of my piety. Having imparted it to Mr Crimsworth, that
gentleman, who himself frequented no place of worship, and owned no God but
Mammon, turned the information into a weapon of attack against the equabili=
ty
of my temper. He commenced a series of covert sneers, of which I did not at
first perceive the drift, till my landlady happened to relate the conversat=
ion
she had had with Mr Steighton; this enlightened me; afterwards I came to the
counting-house prepared, and managed to receive the millowner's blasphemous
sarcasms, when next levelled at me, on a buckler of impenetrable indifferen=
ce.
Ere long he tired of wasting his ammunition on a statue, but he did not thr=
ow
away the shafts - he only kept them quiet in his quiver.
Once during my clerkship I had an
invitation to Crimsworth Hall; it was on the occasion of a large party give=
n in
honour of the master's birthday; he had always been accustomed to invite his
clerks on similar anniversaries, and could not well pass me over; I was,
however, kept strictly in the background. Mrs Crimsworth, elegantly dressed=
in
satin and lace, blooming in youth and health, vouchsafed me no more notice =
than
was expressed by a distant move; Crimsworth, of course, never spoke to me; I
was introduced to none of the band of young ladies, who, enveloped in silve=
ry
clouds of white gauze and muslin, sat in array against me on the opposite s=
ide
of a long and large room; in fact, I was fairly isolated, and could but
contemplate the shining ones from affar, and when weary of such a dazzling
scene, turn for a change to the consideration of the carpet pattern. Mr
Crimsworth, standing on the rug, his elbow supported by the marble mantelpi=
ece,
and about him a group of very pretty girls, with whom he conversed gaily - =
Mr
Crimsworth, thus placed, glanced at me; I looked weary, solitary, kept down
like some desolate tutor or governess; he was satisfied. Dancing began; I
should have liked well enough to be introduced to some pleasing and intelli=
gent
girl, and to have freedom and opportunity to show that I could both feel and
communicate the pleasure of social intercourse - that I was not, in short, a
block, or a piece of furniture, but an acting, thinking, sentient man. Many
smiling faces and graceful figures glided past me, but the smiles were lavi=
shed
on other eyes, the figures sustained by other hands than mine. I turned away
tantalized, left the dancers, and wandered into the oak-panelled dining-roo=
m.
No fibre of sympathy united me to any living thing in this house; I looked =
for
and found my mother's picture. I took a wax taper from a stand, and held it=
up.
I gazed long, earnestly; my heart grew to the image. My mother, I perceived,
had bequeathed to me much of her features and countenance - her forehead, h=
er
eyes, her complexion. No regular beauty pleases egotistical human beings so
much as a softened and refined likeness of themselves; for this reason, fat=
hers
regard with complacency the lineaments of their daughters' faces, where
frequently their own similitude is found flatteringly associated with softn=
ess
of hue and delicacy of outline. I was just wondering how that picture, to m=
e so
interesting, would strike an impartial spectator, when a voice close behind=
me
pronounced the words -
‘Humph! there's some sense in
that face.’
I turned; at my elbow stood a tall
man, young, though probably five or six years older than I - in other respe=
cts
of an appearance the opposite to common place; though just now, as I am not
disposed to paint his portrait in detail, the reader must be content with t=
he
silhouette I have just thrown off; it was all I myself saw of him for the
moment: I did not investigate the colour of his eyebrows, nor of his eyes
either; I saw his stature, and the outline of his shape; I saw, too, his
fastidious-looking RETROUSSE nose; these observations, few in number, and
general in character (the last excepted), sufficed, for they enabled me to
recognize him.
‘Good evening, Mr Hunsden,=
8217;
muttered I with a bow, and then, like a shy noodle as I was, I began moving
away - and why? Simply because Mr Hunsden was a manufacturer and a millowne=
r,
and I was only a clerk, and my instinct propelled me from my superior. I had
frequently seen Hunsden in Bigben Close, where he came almost weekly to
transact business with Mr Crimsworth, but I had never spoken to him, nor he=
to
me, and I owed him a sort of involuntary grudge, because he had more than o=
nce
been the tacit witness of insults offered by Edward to me. I had the convic=
tion
that he could only regard me as a poor-spirited slave, wherefore I now went
about to shun his presence and eschew his conversation.
‘Where are you going?’
asked he, as I edged off sideways. I had already noticed that Mr Hunsden
indulged in abrupt forms of speech, and I perversely said to myself -
‘He thinks he may speak as he
likes to a poor clerk; but my mood is not, perhaps, so supple as he deems i=
t,
and his rough freedom pleases me not at all.’
I made some slight reply, rather
indifferent than courteous, and continued to move away. He coolly planted
himself in my path.
‘Stay here awhile,’ sa=
id
he: ‘it is so hot in the dancing-room; besides, you don't dance; you =
have
not had a partner to-night.’
He was right, and as he spoke neit=
her
his look, tone, nor manner displeased me; my AMOUR-PROPRE was propitiated; =
he
had not addressed me out of condescension, but because, having repaired to =
the
cool dining-room for refreshment, he now wanted some one to talk to, by way=
of
temporary amusement. I hate to be condescended to, but I like well enough to
oblige; I stayed.
‘That is a good picture,R=
17;
he continued, recurring to the portrait.
‘Do you consider the face
pretty?’ I asked.
‘Pretty! no - how can it be
pretty, with sunk eyes and hollow cheeks? but it is peculiar; it seems to
think. You could have a talk with that woman, if she were alive, on other
subjects than dress, visiting, and compliments.’
I agreed with him, but did not say=
so.
He went on.
‘Not that I admire a head of
that sort; it wants character and force; there's too much of the sen-si-tive
(so he articulated it, curling his lip at the same time) in that mouth;
besides, there is Aristocrat written on the brow and defined in the figure;=
I
hate your aristocrats.’
‘You think, then, Mr Hunsden,
that patrician descent may be read in a distinctive cast of form and featur=
es?’
‘Patrician descent be hanged! Who doubts that your lordlings may have
their 'distinctive cast of form and features' as much as we -&=
nbsp;
- shire tradesmen have ours? But which is the best? Not theirs
assuredly. As to their women, it is a little different: they cultivate beau=
ty
from childhood upwards, and may by care and training attain to a certain de=
gree
of excellence in that point, just like the oriental odalisques. Yet even th=
is
superiority is doubtful. Compare the figure in that frame with Mrs Edward
Crimsworth - which is the finer animal?’
I replied quietly: ‘Compare =
yourself
and Mr Edward Crimsworth, Mr Hunsden.’
‘Oh, Crimsworth is better fi=
lled
up than I am, I know besides he has a straight nose, arched eyebrows, and a=
ll
that; but these advantages - if they are advantages - he did not inherit fr=
om
his mother, the patrician, but from his father, old Crimsworth, who, MY fat=
her
says, was as veritable a -
There was something in Mr Hunsden's
point-blank mode of speech which rather pleased me than otherwise because it
set me at my ease. I continued the conversation with a degree of interest. =
‘How do you happen to know t=
hat
I am Mr Crimsworth's brother? I thought you and everybody else looked upon =
me
only in the light of a poor clerk.’
‘Well, and so we do; and what
are you but a poor clerk? You do Crimsworth's work, and he gives you wages =
- shabby
wages they are, too.’
I was silent. Hunsden's language n=
ow
bordered on the impertinent, still his manner did not offend me in the leas=
t - it
only piqued my curiosity; I wanted him to go on, which he did in a little
while.
‘This world is an absurd one=
,’
said he.
‘Why so, Mr Hunsden?’ =
‘I wonder you should ask: you
are yourself a strong proof of the absurdity I allude to.’
I was determined he should explain
himself of his own accord, without my pressing him so to do - so I resumed =
my
silence.
‘Is it your intention to bec=
ome
a tradesman?’ he inquired presently.
‘It was my serious intention
three months ago.’
‘Humph! the more fool you - =
you
look like a tradesman! What a practical business-like face you have!’=
‘My face is as the Lord made=
it,
Mr Hunsden.’
‘The Lord never made either =
your
face or head for X - - What good can your bumps of idealit=
y,
comparison, self-esteem, conscientiousness, do you here? But if you like Bi=
gben
Close, stay there; it's your own affair, not mine.’
‘Perhaps I have no choice.=
8217;
‘Well, I care nought about i=
t - it
will make little difference to me what you do or where you go; but I'm cool=
now
- I want to dance again; and I see such a fine girl sitting in the corner of
the sofa there by her mamma; see if I don't get her for a partner in a jiff=
y!
There's Waddy - Sam Waddy making up to her; won't I cut him out?’
And Mr Hunsden strode away. I watc=
hed
him through the open folding-doors; he outstripped Waddy, applied for the h=
and
of the fine girl, and led her off triumphant. She was a tall, well-made,
full-formed, dashingly-dressed young woman, much in the style of Mrs E.
Crimsworth; Hunsden whirled her through the waltz with spirit; he kept at h=
er
side during the remainder of the evening, and I read in her animated and
gratified countenance that he succeeded in making himself perfectly agreeab=
le.
The mamma too (a stout person in a turban - Mrs Lupton by name) looked well
pleased; prophetic visions probably flattered her inward eye. The Hunsdens =
were
of an old stem; and scornful as Yorke (such was my late interlocutor's name)
professed to be of the advantages of birth, in his secret heart he well knew
and fully appreciated the distinction his ancient, if not high lineage
conferred on him in a mushroom-place like X - - , concerning whose inhabitants i=
t was
proverbially said, that not one in a thousand knew his own grandfather.
Moreover the Hunsdens, once rich, were still independent; and report affirm=
ed
that Yorke bade fair, by his success in business, to restore to pristine
prosperity the partially decayed fortunes of his house. These circumstances
considered, Mrs Lupton's broad face might well wear a smile of complacency =
as
she contemplated the heir of Hunsden Wood occupied in paying assiduous cour=
t to
her darling Sarah Martha. I, however, whose observations being less anxious,
were likely to be more accurate, soon saw that the grounds for maternal
self-congratulation were slight indeed; the gentleman appeared to me much m=
ore
desirous of making, than susceptible of receiving an impression. I know not
what it was in Mr Hunsden that, as I watched him (I had nothing better to d=
o),
suggested to me, every now and then, the idea of a foreigner. In form and
features he might be pronounced English, though even there one caught a das=
h of
something Gallic; but he had no English shyness: he had learnt somewhere,
somehow, the art of setting himself quite at his ease, and of allowing no
insular timidity to intervene as a barrier between him and his convenience =
or
pleasure. Refinement he did not affect, yet vulgar he could not be called; =
he
was not odd - no quiz - yet he resembled no one else I had ever seen before;
his general bearing intimated complete, sovereign satisfaction with himself;
yet, at times, an indescribable shade passed like an eclipse over his
countenance, and seemed to me like the sign of a sudden and strong inward d=
oubt
of himself, his words and actions-an energetic discontent at his life or his
social position, his future prospects or his mental attainments - I know not
which; perhaps after all it might only be a bilious caprice.
No man likes to acknowledge that he
has made a mistake in the choice of his profession, and every man, worthy of
the name, will row long against wind and tide before he allows himself to c=
ry
out, ‘I am baffled!’ and submits to be floated passively back to
land. From the first week of my residence in X - - I felt my occupation irksome. The t=
hing
itself - the work of copying and translating business-letters - was a dry a=
nd
tedious task enough, but had that been all, I should long have borne with t=
he
nuisance; I am not of an impatient nature, and influenced by the double des=
ire
of getting my living and justifying to myself and others the resolution I h=
ad
taken to become a tradesman, I should have endured in silence the rust and
cramp of my best faculties; I should not have whispered, even inwardly, tha=
t I
longed for liberty; I should have pent in every sigh by which my heart might
have ventured to intimate its distress under the closeness, smoke, monotony=
and
joyless tumult of Bigben Close, and its panting desire for freer and fresher
scenes; I should have set up the image of Duty, the fetish of Perseverance,=
in
my small bedroom at Mrs King's lodgings, and they two should have been my
household gods, from which my darling, my cherished-in-secret, Imagination,=
the
tender and the mighty, should never, either by softness or strength, have
severed me. But this was not all; the antipathy which had sprung up between
myself and my employer striking deeper root and spreading denser shade dail=
y,
excluded me from every glimpse of the sunshine of life; and I began to feel
like a plant growing in humid darkness out of the slimy walls of a well.
Antipathy is the only word which c=
an
express the feeling Edward Crimsworth had for me - a feeling, in a great
measure, involuntary, and which was liable to be excited by every, the most
trifling movement, look, or word of mine. My southern accent annoyed him; t=
he
degree of education evinced in my language irritated him; my punctuality,
industry, and accuracy, fixed his dislike, and gave it the high flavour and
poignant relish of envy; he feared that I too should one day make a success=
ful
tradesman. Had I been in anything inferior to him, he would not have hated =
me
so thoroughly, but I knew all that he knew, and, what was worse, he suspect=
ed
that I kept the padlock of silence on mental wealth in which he was no shar=
er.
If he could have once placed me in a ridiculous or mortifying position, he
would have forgiven me much, but I was guarded by three faculties - Caution,
Tact, Observation; and prowling and prying as was Edward's malignity, it co=
uld
never baffle the lynx-eyes of these, my natural sentinels. Day by day did h=
is
malice watch my tact, hoping it would sleep, and prepared to steal snake-li=
ke
on its slumber; but tact, if it be genuine, never sleeps.
I had received my first quarter's
wages, and was returning to my lodgings, possessed heart and soul with the
pleasant feeling that the master who had paid me grudged every penny of that
hard-earned pittance - (I had long ceased to regard Mr Crimsworth as my bro=
ther
- he was a hard, grinding master; he wished to be an inexorable tyrant: that
was all). Thoughts, not varied but strong, occupied my mind; two voices spo=
ke
within me; again and again they uttered the same monotonous phrases. One sa=
id: ‘William,
your life is intolerable.’ The other: ‘What can you do to alter=
it?’
I walked fast, for it was a cold, frosty night in January; as I approached =
my
lodgings, I turned from a general view of my affairs to the particular
speculation as to whether my fire would be out; looking towards the window =
of
my sitting-room, I saw no cheering red gleam.
‘That slut of a servant has
neglected it as usual,’ said I, ‘and I shall see nothing but pa=
le
ashes if I go in; it is a fine starlight night - I will walk a little farth=
er.’
It WAS a fine night, and the stree=
ts
were dry and even clean for X - - ;
there was a crescent curve of moonlight to be seen by the parish church tow=
er,
and hundreds of stars shone keenly bright in all quarters of the sky.
Unconsciously I steered my course
towards the country; I had got into Grove-street, and began to feel the
pleasure of seeing dim trees at the extremity, round a suburban house, when=
a
person leaning over the iron gate of one of the small gardens which front t=
he
neat dwelling-houses in this street, addressed me as I was hurrying with qu=
ick
stride past.
‘What the deuce is the hurry?
Just so must Lot have left Sodom, when he expected fire to pour down upon i=
t,
out of burning brass clouds.’
I stopped short, and looked towards
the speaker. I smelt the fragrance, and saw the red spark of a cigar; the d=
usk
outline of a man, too, bent towards me over the wicket.
‘You see I am meditating in =
the
field at eventide,’ continued this shade. ‘God knows it's cool
work! especially as instead of Rebecca on a camel's hump, with bracelets on=
her
arms and a ring in her nose, Fate sends me only a counting-house clerk, in a
grey tweed wrapper.’ The voice was familiar to me - its second uttera=
nce
enabled me to seize the speaker's identity.
‘Mr Hunsden! good evening.=
8217;
‘Good evening, indeed! yes, =
but
you would have passed me without recognition if I had not been so civil as =
to
speak first.’
‘I did not know you.’ =
‘A famous excuse! You ought =
to
have known me; I knew you, though you were going ahead like a steam-engine.=
Are
the police after you?’
‘It wouldn't be worth their
while; I'm not of consequence enough to attract them.
‘Alas, poor shepherd! Alack =
and
well-a-day! What a theme for regret, and how down in the mouth you must be,
judging from the sound of your voice! But since you're not running from the
police, from whom are you running? the devil?’
‘On the contrary, I am going
post to him.’
‘That is well - you're just =
in
luck: this is Tuesday evening; there are scores of market gigs and carts
returning to Dinneford to-night; and he, or some of his, have a seat in all
regularly; so, if you'll step in and sit half-an-hour in my bachelor's parl=
our,
you may catch him as he passes without much trouble. I think though you'd
better let him alone to-night, he'll have so many customers to serve; Tuesd=
ay
is his busy day in X - - and Dinneford; come in at all event=
s.’
He swung the wicket open as he spo=
ke.
‘Do you really wish me to go=
in?’
I asked.
‘As you please - I'm alone; =
your
company for an hour or two would be agreeable to me; but, if you don't choo=
se
to favour me so far, I'll not press the point. I hate to bore any one.̵=
7;
It suited me to accept the invitat=
ion
as it suited Hunsden to give it. I passed through the gate, and followed hi=
m to
the front door, which he opened; thence we traversed a passage, and entered=
his
parlour; the door being shut, he pointed me to an arm-chair by the hearth; I
sat down, and glanced round me.
It was a comfortable room, at once
snug and handsome; the bright grate was filled with a genuine -&=
nbsp;
- shire fire, red, clear, and generous, no penurious South-of-England
embers heaped in the corner of a grate. On the table a shaded lamp diffused
around a soft, pleasant, and equal light; the furniture was almost luxurious
for a young bachelor, comprising a couch and two very easy chairs; bookshel=
ves
filled the recesses on each side of the mantelpiece; they were well-furnish=
ed,
and arranged with perfect order. The neatness of the room suited my taste; I
hate irregular and slovenly habits. From what I saw I concluded that Hunsde=
n's
ideas on that point corresponded with my own. While he removed from the
centre-table to the side-board a few pamphlets and periodicals, I ran my eye
along the shelves of the book-case nearest me. French and German works
predominated, the old French dramatists, sundry modern authors, Thiers,
Villemain, Paul de Kock, George Sand, Eugene Sue; in German - Goethe, Schil=
ler,
Zschokke, Jean Paul Richter; in English there were works on Political Econo=
my.
I examined no further, for Mr Hunsden himself recalled my attention.
‘You shall have something,=
8217;
said he, ‘for you ought to feel disposed for refreshment after walking
nobody knows how far on such a Canadian night as this; but it shall not be
brandy-and-water, and it shall not be a bottle of port, nor ditto of sherry=
. I
keep no such poison. I have Rhein-wein for my own drinking, and you may cho=
ose
between that and coffee.’
Here again Hunsden suited me: if t=
here
was one generally received practice I abhorred more than another, it was the
habitual imbibing of spirits and strong wines. I had, however, no fancy for=
his
acid German nectar, but I liked coffee, so I responded -
‘Give me some coffee, Mr
Hunsden.’
I perceived my answer pleased him;=
he
had doubtless expected to see a chilling effect produced by his steady
announcement that he would give me neither wine nor spirits; he just shot o=
ne
searching glance at my face to ascertain whether my cordiality was genuine =
or a
mere feint of politeness. I smiled, because I quite understood him; and, wh=
ile
I honoured his conscientious firmness, I was amused at his mistrust; he see=
med
satisfied, rang the bell, and ordered coffee, which was presently brought; =
for
himself, a bunch of grapes and half a pint of something sour sufficed. My
coffee was excellent; I told him so, and expressed the shuddering pity with
which his anchorite fare inspired me. He did not answer, and I scarcely thi=
nk
heard my remark. At that moment one of those momentary eclipses I before
alluded to had come over his face, extinguishing his smile, and replacing, =
by
an abstracted and alienated look, the customarily shrewd, bantering glance =
of
his eye. I employed the interval of silence in a rapid scrutiny of his
physiognomy. I had never observed him closely before; and, as my sight is v=
ery
short, I had gathered only a vague, general idea of his appearance; I was
surprised now, on examination, to perceive how small, and even feminine, we=
re
his lineaments; his tall figure, long and dark locks, his voice and general
bearing, had impressed me with the notion of something powerful and massive;
not at all: - my own features were cast in a harsher and squarer mould than
his. I discerned that there would be contrasts between his inward and outwa=
rd
man; contentions, too; for I suspected his soul had more of will and ambiti=
on
than his body had of fibre and muscle. Perhaps, in these incompatibilities =
of
the ‘physique’ with the ‘morale,’ lay the secret of=
that
fitful gloom; he WOULD but COULD not, and the athletic mind scowled scorn on
its more fragile companion. As to his good looks, I should have liked to ha=
ve a
woman's opinion on that subject; it seemed to me that his face might produce
the same effect on a lady that a very piquant and interesting, though scarc=
ely
pretty, female face would on a man. I have mentioned his dark locks - they =
were
brushed sideways above a white and sufficiently expansive forehead; his che=
ek
had a rather hectic freshness; his features might have done well on canvas,=
but
indifferently in marble: they were plastic; character had set a stamp upon
each; expression re-cast them at her pleasure, and strange metamorphoses she
wrought, giving him now the mien of a morose bull, and anon that of an arch=
and
mischievous girl; more frequently, the two semblances were blent, and a que=
er,
composite countenance they made.
Starting from his silent fit, he
began: -
‘William! what a fool you ar=
e to
live in those dismal lodgings of Mrs King's, when you might take rooms here=
in
Grove Street, and have a garden like me!’
‘I should be too far from the
mill.’
‘What of that? It would do y=
ou
good to walk there and back two or three times a day; besides, are you such=
a
fossil that you never wish to see a flower or a green leaf?’
‘I am no fossil.’
‘What are you then? You sit =
at
that desk in Crimsworth's counting-house day by day and week by week, scrap=
ing
with a pen on paper, just like an automaton; you never get up; you never say
you are tired; you never ask for a holiday; you never take change or
relaxation; you give way to no excess of an evening; you neither keep wild
company, nor indulge in strong drink.’
‘Do you, Mr Hunsden?’ =
‘Don't think to pose me with
short questions; your case and mine are diametrically different, and it is
nonsense attempting to draw a parallel. I say, that when a man endures
patiently what ought to be unendurable, he is a fossil.’
‘Whence do you acquire the
knowledge of my patience?’
‘Why, man, do you suppose you
are a mystery? The other night you seemed surprised at my knowing to what
family you belonged; now you find subject for wonderment in my calling you
patient. What do you think I do with my eyes and ears? I've been in your
counting-house more than once when Crimsworth has treated you like a dog;
called for a book, for instance, and when you gave him the wrong one, or wh=
at
he chose to consider the wrong one, flung it back almost in your face; desi=
red
you to shut or open the door as if you had been his flunkey; to say nothing=
of
your position at the party about a month ago, where you had neither place n=
or
partner, but hovered about like a poor, shabby hanger-on; and how patient y=
ou
were under each and all of these circumstances!’
‘Well, Mr Hunsden, what then=
?’
‘I can hardly tell you what
then; the conclusion to be drawn as to your character depends upon the natu=
re
of the motives which guide your conduct; if you are patient because you exp=
ect
to make something eventually out of Crimsworth, notwithstanding his tyranny=
, or
perhaps by means of it, you are what the world calls an interested and
mercenary, but may be a very wise fellow; if you are patient because you th=
ink
it a duty to meet insult with submission, you are an essential sap, and in =
no
shape the man for my money; if you are patient because your nature is
phlegmatic, flat, inexcitable, and that you cannot get up to the pitch of
resistance, why, God made you to be crushed; and lie down by all means, and=
lie
flat, and let Juggernaut ride well over you.’
Mr Hunsden's eloquence was not, it
will be perceived, of the smooth and oily order. As he spoke, he pleased me
ill. I seem to recognize in him one of those characters who, sensitive enou=
gh
themselves, are selfishly relentless towards the sensitiveness of others. M=
oreover,
though he was neither like Crimsworth nor Lord Tynedale, yet he was acrid, =
and,
I suspected, overbearing in his way: there was a tone of despotism in the
urgency of the very reproaches by which, he aimed at goading the oppressed =
into
rebellion against the oppressor. Looking at him still more fixedly than I h=
ad
yet done, I saw written in his eye and mien a resolution to arrogate to him=
self
a freedom so unlimited that it might often trench on the just liberty of his
neighbours. I rapidly ran over these thoughts, and then I laughed a low and
involuntary laugh, moved thereto by a slight inward revelation of the
inconsistency of man. It was as I thought: Hunsden had expected me to take =
with
calm his incorrect and offensive surmises, his bitter and haughty taunts; a=
nd
himself was chafed by a laugh, scarce louder than a whisper.
His brow darkened, his thin nostril
dilated a little.
‘Yes,’ he began, ̵=
6;I
told you that you were an aristocrat, and who but an aristocrat would laugh
such a laugh as that, and look such a look? A laugh frigidly jeering; a look
lazily mutinous; gentlemanlike irony, patrician resentment. What a nobleman=
you
would have made, William Crimsworth! You are cut out for one; pity Fortune =
has
baulked Nature! Look at the features, figure, even to the hands - distincti=
on
all over - ugly distinction! Now, if you'd only an estate and a mansion, an=
d a
park, and a title, how you could play the exclusive, maintain the rights of
your class, train your tenantry in habits of respect to the peerage, oppose=
at
every step the advancing power of the people, support your rotten order, an=
d be
ready for its sake to wade knee-deep in churls' blood; as it is, you've no
power; you can do nothing; you're wrecked and stranded on the shores of
commerce; forced into collision with practical men, with whom you cannot co=
pe,
for YOU'LL NEVER BE A TRADESMAN.’
The first part of Hunsden's speech
moved me not at all, or, if it did, it was only to wonder at the perversion
into which prejudice had twisted his judgment of my character; the concludi=
ng
sentence, however, not only moved, but shook me; the blow it gave was a sev=
ere
one, because Truth wielded the weapon. If I smiled now, it, was only in dis=
dain
of myself.
Hunsden saw his advantage; he foll=
owed
it up.
‘You'll make nothing by trad=
e,’
continued he; ‘nothing more than the crust of dry bread and the draug=
ht
of fair water on which you now live; your only chance of getting a competen=
cy
lies in marrying a rich widow, or running away with an heiress.’
‘I leave such shifts to be p=
ut
in practice by those who devise them,’ said I, rising.
‘And even that is hopeless,&=
#8217;
he went on coolly. ‘What widow would have you? Much less, what heires=
s?
You're not bold and venturesome enough for the one, nor handsome and
fascinating enough for the other. You think perhaps you look intelligent and
polished; carry your intellect and refinement to market, and tell me in a
private note what price is bid for them.’
Mr Hunsden had taken his tone for =
the
night; the string he struck was out of tune, he would finger no other. Aver=
se
to discord, of which I had enough every day and all day long, I concluded, =
at
last, that silence and solitude were preferable to jarring converse; I bade=
him
good-night.
‘What! Are you going, lad? W=
ell,
good-night: you'll find the door.’ And he sat still in front of the f=
ire,
while I left the room and the house. I had got a good way on my return to my
lodgings before I found out that I was walking very fast, and breathing very
hard, and that my nails were almost stuck into the palms of my clenched han=
ds,
and that my teeth were set fast; on making this discovery, I relaxed both my
pace, fists, and jaws, but I could not so soon cause the regrets rushing
rapidly through my mind to slacken their tide. Why did I make myself a trad=
esman?
Why did I enter Hunsden's house this evening? Why, at dawn to-morrow, must I
repair to Crimsworth's mill? All that night did I ask myself these question=
s,
and all that night fiercely demanded of my soul an answer. I got no sleep; =
my
head burned, my feet froze; at last the factory bells rang, and I sprang fr=
om
my bed with other slaves.
THERE is a climax to everything, to
every state of feeling as well as to every position in life. I turned this
truism over in my mind as, in the frosty dawn of a January morning, I hurri=
ed
down the steep and now icy street which descended from Mrs King's to the Cl=
ose.
The factory workpeople had preceded me by nearly an hour, and the mill was =
all
lighted up and in full operation when I reached it. I repaired to my post in
the counting-house as usual; the fire there, but just lit, as yet only smok=
ed;
Steighton had not yet arrived. I shut the door and sat down at the desk; my
hands, recently washed in half-frozen water, were still numb; I could not w=
rite
till they had regained vitality, so I went on thinking, and still the theme=
of
my thoughts was the ‘climax.’ Self-dissatisfaction troubled
exceedingly the current of my meditations.
‘Come, William Crimsworth,=
8217;
said my conscience, or whatever it is that within ourselves takes ourselves=
to
task - ’come, get a clear notion of what you would have, or what you
would not have. You talk of a climax; pray has your endurance reached its
climax? It is not four months old. What a fine resolute fellow you imagined
yourself to be when you told Tynedale you would tread in your father's step=
s,
and a pretty treading you are likely to make of it! How well you like X - - ! Just at this moment how redole=
nt of
pleasant associations are its streets, its shops, its warehouses, its facto=
ries!
How the prospect of this day cheers you! Letter-copying till noon, solitary
dinner at your lodgings, letter-copying till evening, solitude; for you nei=
ther
find pleasure in Brown's, nor Smith's, nor Nicholl's, nor Eccle's company; =
and
as to Hunsden, you fancied there was pleasure to be derived from his societ=
y - he!
he! how did you like the taste you had of him last night? was it sweet? Yet=
he
is a talented, an original-minded man, and even he does not like you; your
self-respect defies you to like him; he has always seen you to disadvantage=
; he
always will see you to disadvantage; your positions are unequal, and were t=
hey
on the same level your minds could not; assimilate; never hope, then, to ga=
ther
the honey of friendship out of that thorn-guarded plant. Hello, Crimsworth!
where are your thoughts tending? You leave the recollection of Hunsden as a=
bee
would a rock, as a bird a desert; and your aspirations spread eager wings
towards a land of visions where, now in advancing daylight - in X - - daylight - you dare to dream of
congeniality, repose, union. Those three you will never meet in this world;
they are angels. The souls of just men made perfect may encounter them in
heaven, but your soul will never be made perfect. Eight o'clock strikes! yo=
ur
hands are thawed, get to work!’
‘Work? why should I work?=
217;
said I sullenly: ‘I cannot please though I toil like a slave.’ =
‘Work,
work!’ reiterated the inward voice. ‘I may work, it will do no
good,’ I growled; but nevertheless I drew out a packet of letters and
commenced my task - task thankless and bitter as that of the Israelite craw=
ling
over the sun-baked fields of Egypt in search of straw and stubble wherewith=
to
accomplish his tale of bricks.
About ten o'clock I heard Mr
Crimsworth's gig turn into the yard, and in a minute or two he entered the
counting-house. It was his custom to glance his eye at Steighton and myself=
, to
hang up his mackintosh, stand a minute with his back to the fire, and then =
walk
out. Today he did not deviate from his usual habits; the only difference was
that when he looked at me, his brow, instead of being merely hard, was surl=
y;
his eye, instead of being cold, was fierce. He studied me a minute or two
longer than usual, but went out in silence.
Twelve o'clock arrived; the bell r=
ang
for a suspension of labour; the workpeople went off to their dinners;
Steighton, too, departed, desiring me to lock the counting-house door, and =
take
the key with me. I was tying up a bundle of papers, and putting them in the=
ir
place, preparatory to closing my desk, when Crimsworth reappeared at the do=
or,
and entering closed it behind him.
‘You'll stay here a minute,&=
#8217;
said he, in a deep, brutal voice, while his nostrils distended and his eye =
shot
a spark of sinister fire.
Alone with Edward I remembered our
relationship, and remembering that forgot the difference of position; I put
away deference and careful forms of speech; I answered with simple brevity.=
‘It is time to go home,̵=
7; I
said, turning the key in my desk.
‘You'll stay here!’ he
reiterated. ‘And take your hand off that key! leave it in the lock!=
8217;
‘Why?’ asked I. ‘=
;What
cause is there for changing my usual plans?’
‘Do as I order,’ was t=
he
answer, ‘and no questions! You are my servant, obey me! What have you
been about - ?’ He was going on in the same breath, when an abrupt pa=
use
announced that rage had for the moment got the better of articulation.
‘You may look, if you wish to
know,’ I replied. ‘There is the open desk, there are the papers=
.’
‘Confound your insolence! Wh=
at
have you been about?’
‘Your work, and have done it
well.’
‘Hypocrite and twaddler!
Smooth-faced, snivelling greasehorn!’ (this last term is, I believe,
purely - - shire, and alludes to the horn of
black, rancid whale-oil, usually to be seen suspended to cart-wheels, and
employed for greasing the same.)
‘Come, Edward Crimsworth, en=
ough
of this. It is time you and I wound up accounts. I have now given your serv=
ice
three months' trial, and I find it the most nauseous slavery under the sun.
Seek another clerk. I stay no longer.’
‘What I do you dare to give =
me
notice? Stop at least for your wages.’ He took down the heavy gig whip
hanging beside his mackintosh.
I permitted myself to laugh with a
degree of scorn I took no pains to temper or hide. His fury boiled up, and =
when
he had sworn half-a-dozen vulgar, impious oaths, without, however, venturin=
g to
lift the whip, he continued:
‘I've found you out and know=
you
thoroughly, you mean, whining lickspittle! What have you been saying all ov=
er X
- - about me? answer me that!’
‘You? I have neither inclina=
tion
nor temptation to talk about you.’
‘You lie! It is your practic=
e to
talk about me; it is your constant habit to make public complaint of the
treatment you receive at my hands. You have gone and told it far and near t=
hat
I give you low wages and knock you about like a dog. I wish you were a dog!=
I'd
set-to this minute, and never stir from the spot till I'd cut every strip of
flesh from your bones with this whip.’
He flourished his tool. The end of=
the
lash just touched my forehead. A warm excited thrill ran through my veins, =
my
blood seemed to give abound, and then raced fast and hot along its channels=
. I
got up nimbly, came round to where he stood, and faced him.
‘Down with your whip!’
said I, ‘and explain this instant what you mean.’
‘Sirrah! to whom are you
speaking?’
‘To you. There is no one else
present, I think. You say I have been calumniating you - complaining of your
low wages and bad treatment. Give your grounds for these assertions.’=
Crimsworth had no dignity, and whe=
n I
sternly demanded an explanation, he gave one in a loud, scolding voice.
‘Grounds! you shall have the=
m;
and turn to the light that I may see your brazen face blush black, when you
hear yourself proved to be a liar and a hypocrite. At a public meeting in t=
he
Town-hall yesterday, I had the pleasure of hearing myself insulted by the
speaker opposed to me in the question under discussion, by allusions to my
private affairs; by cant about monsters without natural affection, family
despots, and such trash; and when I rose to answer, I was met by a shout fr=
om
the filthy mob, where the mention of your name enabled me at once to detect=
the
quarter in which this base attack had originated. When I looked round, I saw
that treacherous villain, Hunsden acting as fugleman. I detected you in clo=
se
conversation with Hunsden at my house a month ago, and I know that you were=
at
Hunsden's rooms last night. Deny it if you dare.’
‘Oh, I shall not deny it! An=
d if
Hunsden hounded on the people to hiss you, he did quite right. You deserve
popular execration; for a worse man, a harder master, a more brutal brother
than you are has seldom existed.’
‘Sirrah! sirrah!’
reiterated Crimsworth; and to complete his apostrophe, he cracked the whip
straight over my head.
A minute sufficed to wrest it from
him, break it in two pieces, and throw it under the grate. He made a headlo=
ng
rush at me, which I evaded, and said -
‘Touch me, and I'll have you=
up
before the nearest magistrate.’
Men like Crimsworth, if firmly and
calmly resisted, always abate something of their exorbitant insolence; he h=
ad
no mind to be brought before a magistrate, and I suppose he saw I meant wha=
t I
said. After an odd and long stare at me, at once bull-like and amazed, he
seemed to bethink himself that, after all, his money gave him sufficient
superiority over a beggar like me, and that he had in his hands a surer and
more dignified mode of revenge than the somewhat hazardous one of personal
chastisement.
‘Take your hat,’ said =
he. ‘Take
what belongs to you, and go out at that door; get away to your parish, you
pauper: beg, steal, starve, get transported, do what you like; but at your
peril venture again into my sight! If ever I hear of your setting foot on an
inch of ground belonging to me, I'll hire a man to cane you.’
‘It is not likely you'll have
the chance; once off your premises, what temptation can I have to return to
them? I leave a prison, I leave a tyrant; I leave what is worse than the wo=
rst
that can lie before me, so no fear of my coming back.’
‘Go, or I'll make you!’
exclaimed Crimsworth.
I walked deliberately to my desk, =
took
out such of its contents as were my own property, put them in my pocket, lo=
cked
the desk, and placed the key on the top.
‘What are you abstracting fr=
om
that desk?’ demanded the millowner. ‘Leave all behind in its pl=
ace,
or I'll send for a policeman to search you.’
‘Look sharp about it, then,&=
#8217;
said I, and I took down my hat, drew on my gloves, and walked leisurely out=
of
the counting-house - walked o=
ut of
it to enter it no more.
I recollect that when the mill-bell
rang the dinner hour, before Mr Crimsworth entered, and the scene above rel=
ated
took place, I had had rather a sharp appetite, and had been waiting somewhat
impatiently to hear the signal of feeding time. I forgot it now, however; t=
he
images of potatoes and roast mutton were effaced from my mind by the stir a=
nd
tumult which the transaction of the last half-hour had there excited. I only
thought of walking, that the action of my muscles might harmonize with the =
action
of my nerves; and walk I did, fast and far. How could I do otherwise? A load
was lifted off my heart; I felt light and liberated. I had got away from Bi=
gben
Close without a breach of resolution; without injury to my self-respect. I =
had
not forced circumstances; circumstances had freed me. Life was again open to
me; no longer was its horizon limited by the high black wall surrounding
Crimsworth's mill. Two hours had elapsed before my sensations had so far
subsided as to leave me calm enough to remark for what wider and clearer
boundaries I had exchanged that sooty girdle. When I did look up, lo! strai=
ght
before me lay Grovetown, a village of villas about five miles out of X -
I RE-ENTERED the town a hungry man;
the dinner I had forgotten recurred seductively to my recollection; and it =
was
with a quick step and sharp appetite I ascended the narrow street leading t=
o my
lodgings. It was dark when I opened the front door and walked into the hous=
e. I
wondered how my fire would be; the night was cold, and I shuddered at the
prospect of a grate full of sparkless cinders. To my joyful surprise, I fou=
nd,
on entering my sitting-room, a good fire and a clean hearth. I had hardly
noticed this phenomenon, when I became aware of another subject for wonderm=
ent;
the chair I usually occupied near the hearth was already filled; a person s=
at
there with his arms folded on his chest, and his legs stretched out on the =
rug.
Short-sighted as I am, doubtful as was the gleam of the firelight, a moment=
's
examination enabled me to recognize in this person my acquaintance, Mr Huns=
den.
I could not of course be much pleased to see him, considering the manner in
which I had parted from him the night before, and as I walked to the hearth,
stirred the fire, and said coolly, ‘Good evening,’ my demeanour
evinced as little cordiality as I felt; yet I wondered in my own mind what =
had
brought him there; and I wondered, also, what motives had induced him to
interfere so actively between me and Edward; it was to him, it appeared, th=
at I
owed my welcome dismissal; still I could not bring myself to ask him questi=
ons,
to show any eagerness of curiosity; if he chose to explain, he might, but t=
he
explanation should be a perfectly voluntary one on his part; I thought he w=
as
entering upon it.
‘You owe me a debt of gratit=
ude,’
were his first words.
‘Do I?’ said I; ‘=
;I
hope it is not a large one, for I am much too poor to charge myself with he=
avy
liabilities of any kind.’
‘Then declare yourself bankr=
upt
at once, for this liability is a ton weight at least. When I came in I found
your fire out, and I had it lit again, and made that sulky drab of a servant
stay and blow at it with the bellows till it had burnt up properly; now, say
'Thank you!'‘
‘Not till I have had somethi=
ng
to eat; I can thank nobody while I am so famished.’
I rang the bell and ordered tea and
some cold meat.
‘Cold meat!’ exclaimed
Hunsden, as the servant closed the door, ‘what a glutton you are; man!
Meat with tea! you'll die of eating too much.’
‘No, Mr Hunsden, I shall not=
.’
I felt a necessity for contradicting him; I was irritated with hunger, and
irritated at seeing him there, and irritated at the continued roughness of =
his
manner.
‘It is over-eating that makes
you so ill-tempered,’ said he.
‘How do you know?’ I d=
emanded.
‘It is like you to give a pragmatical opinion without being acquainted
with any of the circumstances of the case; I have had no dinner.’
What I said was petulant and snapp=
ish
enough, and Hunsden only replied by looking in my face and laughing.
‘Poor thing!’ he whine=
d,
after a pause. ‘It has had no dinner, has it? What! I suppose its mas=
ter
would not let it come home. Did Crimsworth order you to fast by way of
punishment, William!’
‘No, Mr Hunsden. Fortunately=
at
this sulky juncture, tea, was brought in, and I fell to upon some bread and
butter and cold beef directly. Having cleared a plateful, I became so far
humanized as to intimate to Mr Hunsden that he need not sit there staring, =
but
might come to the table and do as I did, if he liked.’
‘But I don't like in the lea=
st,’
said he, and therewith he summoned the servant by a fresh pull of the
bell-rope, and intimated a desire to have a glass of toast-and-water. ̵=
6;And
some more coal,’ he added; ‘Mr Crimsworth shall keep a good fire
while I stay.’
His orders being executed, he whee=
led
his chair round to the table, so as to be opposite me.
‘Well,’ he proceeded. =
‘You
are out of work, I suppose.’
‘Yes,’ said I; and not
disposed to show the satisfaction I felt on this point, I, yielding to the =
whim
of the moment, took up the subject as though I considered myself aggrieved
rather than benefited by what had been done. ‘Yes - thanks to you, I =
am.
Crimsworth turned me off at a minute's notice, owing to some interference of
yours at a public meeting, I understand.’
‘Ah! what! he mentioned that=
? He
observed me signalling the lads, did he? What had he to say about his friend
Hunsden - anything sweet?R=
17;
‘He called you a treacherous
villain.’
‘Oh, he hardly knows me yet!=
I'm
one of those shy people who don't come out all at once, and he is only just
beginning to make my acquaintance, but he'll find I've some good qualities =
- excellent ones! The Hunsdens were
always unrivalled at tracking a rascal; a downright, dishonourable villain =
is
their natural prey - they could not keep off him wherever they met him; you
used the word pragmatical just now - that word is the property of our famil=
y;
it has been applied to us from generation to generation; we have fine noses=
for
abuses; we scent a scoundrel a mile off; we are reformers born, radical
reformers; and it was impossible for me to live in the same town with
Crimsworth, to come into weekly contact with him, to witness some of his
conduct to you (for whom personally I care nothing; I only consider the bru=
tal
injustice with which he violated your natural claim to equality) - I say it=
was
impossible for me to be thus situated and not feel the angel or the demon o=
f my
race at work within me. I followed my instinct, opposed a tyrant, and broke=
a
chain.’
Now this speech interested me much,
both because it brought out Hunsden's character, and because it explained h=
is
motives; it interested me so much that I forgot to reply to it, and sat sil=
ent,
pondering over a throng of ideas it had suggested.
‘Are you grateful to me?R=
17;
he asked, presently.
In fact I was grateful, or almost =
so,
and I believe I half liked him at the moment, notwithstanding his proviso t=
hat
what he had done was not out of regard for me. But human nature is perverse.
Impossible to answer his blunt question in the affirmative, so I disclaimed=
all
tendency to gratitude, and advised him if he expected any reward for his
championship, to look for it in a better world, as he was not likely to meet
with it here. In reply he termed me ‘a dry-hearted aristocratic scamp=
,’
whereupon I again charged him with having taken the bread out of my mouth. =
‘Your bread was dirty, man!&=
#8217;
cried Hunsden - ’dirty and unwholesome! It came through the hands of a
tyrant, for I tell you Crimsworth is a tyrant, - a tyrant to his workpeople=
, a
tyrant to his clerks, and will some day be a tyrant to his wife.’
‘Nonsense! bread is bread, a=
nd a
salary is a salary. I've lost mine, and through your means.’
‘There's sense in what you s=
ay,
after all,’ rejoined Hunsden. ‘I must say I am rather agreeably
surprised to hear you make so practical an observation as that last. I had
imagined now, from my previous observation of your character, that the
sentimental delight you would have taken in your newly regained liberty wou=
ld,
for a while at least, have effaced all ideas of forethought and prudence. I
think better of you for looking steadily to the needful.’
‘Looking steadily to the
needful! How can I do otherwise? I must live, and to live I must have what =
you
call 'the needful,' which I can only get by working. I repeat it, you have
taken my work from me.’
‘What do you mean to do?R=
17;
pursued Hunsden coolly. ‘You have influential relations; I suppose
they'll soon provide you with another place.’
‘Influential relations? Who?=
I
should like to know their names.’
‘The Seacombes.’
‘Stuff! I have cut them,R=
17;
Hunsden looked at me incredulously=
.
‘I have,’ said I, R=
16;and
that definitively.’
‘You must mean they have cut
you, William.’
‘As you please. They offered=
me
their patronage on condition of my entering the Church; I declined both the
terms and the recompence; I withdrew from my cold uncles, and preferred
throwing myself into my elder brother's arms, from whose affectionate embra=
ce I
am now torn by the cruel intermeddling of a stranger - of yourself, in shor=
t.’
I could not repress a half-smile a=
s I
said this; a similar demi-manifestation of feeling appeared at the same mom=
ent
on Hunsden's lips.
‘Oh, I see!’ said he,
looking into my eyes, and it was evident he did see right down into my hear=
t.
Having sat a minute or two with his chin resting on his hand, diligently
occupied in the continued perusal of my countenance, he went on:
‘Seriously, have you then
nothing to expect from the Seacombes?’
‘Yes, rejection and repulsio=
n.
Why do you ask me twice? How can hands stained with the ink of a
counting-house, soiled with the grease of a wool-warehouse, ever again be
permitted to come into contact with aristocratic palms?’
‘There would be a difficulty=
, no
doubt; still you are such a complete Seacombe in appearance, feature, langu=
age,
almost manner, I wonder they should disown you.’
‘They have disowned me; so t=
alk
no more about it.’
‘Do you regret it, William?&=
#8217;
‘No.’
‘Why not, lad?’
‘Because they are not people
with whom I could ever have had any sympathy.’
‘I say you are one of them.&=
#8217;
‘That merely proves that you
know nothing at all about it; I am my mother's son, but not my uncles' neph=
ew.’
‘Still - one of your uncles =
is a
lord, though rather an obscure and not a very wealthy one, and the other a
right honourable: you should consider worldly interest.’
‘Nonsense, Mr Hunsden. You k=
now
or may know that even had I desired to be submissive to my uncles, I could =
not
have stooped with a good enough grace ever to have won their favour. I shou=
ld
have sacrificed my own comfort and not have gained their patronage in retur=
n.’
‘Very likely - so you calcul=
ated
your wisest plan was to follow your own devices at once?’
‘Exactly. I must follow my o=
wn
devices - I must, till the day of my death; because I can neither comprehen=
d,
adopt, nor work out those of other people.’
Hunsden yawned. ‘Well,’
said he, ‘in all this, I see but one thing clearly-that is, that the
whole affair is no business of mine.’ He stretched himself and again
yawned. ‘I wonder what time it is,’ he went on: ‘I have an
appointment for seven o'clock.’
‘Three quarters past six by =
my
watch.’
‘Well, then I'll go.’ =
He
got up. ‘You'll not meddle with trade again?’ said he, leaning =
his
elbow on the mantelpiece.
‘No; I think not.’
‘You would be a fool if you =
did.
Probably, after all, you'll think better of your uncles' proposal and go in=
to
the Church.’
‘A singular regeneration must
take place in my whole inner and outer man before I do that. A good clergym=
an
is one of the best of men.’
‘Indeed! Do you think so?=
217;
interrupted Hunsden, scoffingly.
‘I do, and no mistake. But I
have not the peculiar points which go to make a good clergyman; and rather =
than
adopt a profession for which I have no vocation, I would endure extremities=
of
hardship from poverty.’
‘You're a mighty difficult
customer to suit. You won't be a tradesman or a parson; you can't be a lawy=
er,
or a doctor, or a gentleman, because you've no money. I'd recommend you to
travel.’
‘What! without money?’=
‘You must travel in search of
money, man. You can speak French - with a vile English accent, no doub=
t - still,
you can speak it. Go on to the Continent, and see what will turn up for you
there.’
‘God knows I should like to =
go!’
exclaimed I with involuntary ardour.
‘Go: what the deuce hinders =
you?
You may get to Brussels, for instance, for five or six pounds, if you know =
how
to manage with economy.’
‘Necessity would teach me if=
I
didn't.’
‘Go, then, and let your wits
make a way for you when you get there. I know Brussels almost as well as I =
know
X - - , and I am sure it woul=
d suit
such a one as you better than London.’
‘But occupation, Mr Hunsden!=
I
must go where occupation is to be had; and how could I get recommendation, =
or
introduction, or employment at Brussels?’
‘There speaks the organ of c=
aution.
You hate to advance a step before you know every inch of the way. You haven=
't a
sheet of paper and a pen-and-ink?’
‘I hope so,’ and I
produced writing materials with alacrity; for I guessed what he was going to
do. He sat down, wrote a few lines, folded, sealed, and addressed a letter,=
and
held it out to me.
‘There, Prudence, there's a
pioneer to hew down the first rough difficulties of your path. I know well
enough, lad, you are not one of those who will run their neck into a noose
without seeing how they are to get it out again, and you're right there. A
reckless man is my aversion, and nothing should ever persuade me to meddle =
with
the concerns of such a one. Those who are reckless for themselves are gener=
ally
ten times more so for their friends.’
‘This is a letter of
introduction, I suppose?’ said I, taking the epistle.
‘Yes. With that in your pock=
et
you will run no risk of finding yourself in a state of absolute destitution,
which, I know, you will regard as a degradation - so should I, for that mat=
ter.
The person to whom you will present it generally has two or three respectab=
le
places depending upon his recommendation.’
‘That will just suit me,R=
17;
said I.
‘Well, and where's your
gratitude?’ demanded Mr Hunsden; ‘don't you know how to say 'Th=
ank you?'‘
‘I've fifteen pounds and a
watch, which my godmother, whom I never saw, gave me eighteen years ago,=
217;
was my rather irrelevant answer; and I further avowed myself a happy man, a=
nd
professed that I did not envy any being in Christendom.
‘But your gratitude?’ =
‘I shall be off presently, Mr
Hunsden - to-morrow, if all be well: I'll not stay a day longer in X - - than I'm obliged.’
‘Very good - but it will be
decent to make due acknowledgment for the assistance you have received; be
quick! It is just going to strike seven: I'm waiting to be thanked.’ =
‘Just stand out of the way, =
will
you, Mr Hunsden: I want a key there is on the corner of the mantelpiece. I'=
ll
pack my portmanteau before I go to bed.’
The house clock struck seven.
‘The lad is a heathen,’
said Hunsden, and taking his hat from a sideboard, he left the room, laughi=
ng
to himself. I had half an inclination to follow him: I really intended to l=
eave
X - - the next morning, and should certai=
nly
not have another opportunity of bidding him good-bye. The front door banged=
to.
‘Let him go,’ said I, =
‘we
shall meet again some day.’
READER, perhaps you were never in
Belgium? Haply you don't know the physiognomy of the country? You have not =
its
lineaments defined upon your memory, as I have them on mine?
Three - nay four - pictures line t=
he
four-walled cell where are stored for me the records of the past. First, Et=
on.
All in that picture is in far perspective, receding, diminutive; but freshly
coloured, green, dewy, with a spring sky, piled with glittering yet showery
clouds; for my childhood was not all sunshine - it had its overcast, its co=
ld,
its stormy hours. Second, X - - ,
huge, dingy; the canvas cracked and smoked; a yellow sky, sooty clouds; no =
sun,
no azure; the verdure of the suburbs blighted and sullied - a very dreary
scene.
Third, Belgium; and I will pause
before this landscape. As to the fourth, a curtain covers it, which I may
hereafter withdraw, or may not, as suits my convenience and capacity. At any
rate, for the present it must hang undisturbed. Belgium! name unromantic and
unpoetic, yet name that whenever uttered has in my ear a sound, in my heart=
an
echo, such as no other assemblage of syllables, however sweet or classic, c=
an
produce. Belgium! I repeat the word, now as I sit alone near midnight. It s=
tirs
my world of the past like a summons to resurrection; the graves unclose, the
dead are raised; thoughts, feelings, memories that slept, are seen by me
ascending from the clouds - haloed most of them - but while I gaze on their
vapoury forms, and strive to ascertain definitely their outline, the sound
which wakened them dies, and they sink, each and all, like a light wreath of
mist, absorbed in the mould, recalled to urns, resealed in monuments. Farew=
ell,
luminous phantoms!
This is Belgium, reader. Look! don=
't
call the picture a flat or a dull one - it was neither flat nor dull to me =
when
I first beheld it. When I left Ostend on a mild February morning, and found
myself on the road to Brussels, nothing could look vapid to me. My sense of
enjoyment possessed an edge whetted to the finest, untouched, keen, exquisi=
te.
I was young; I had good health; pleasure and I had never met; no indulgence=
of
hers had enervated or sated one faculty of my nature. Liberty I clasped in =
my arms
for the first time, and the influence of her smile and embrace revived my l=
ife
like the sun and the west wind. Yes, at that epoch I felt like a morning
traveller who doubts not that from the hill he is ascending he shall behold=
a
glorious sunrise; what if the track be strait, steep, and stony? he sees it
not; his eyes are fixed on that summit, flushed already, flushed and gilded,
and having gained it he is certain of the scene beyond. He knows that the s=
un
will face him, that his chariot is even now coming over the eastern horizon,
and that the herald breeze he feels on his cheek is opening for the god's
career a clear, vast path of azure, amidst clouds soft as pearl and warm as
flame. Difficulty and toil were to be my lot, but sustained by energy, draw=
n on
by hopes as bright as vague, I deemed such a lot no hardship. I mounted now=
the
hill in shade; there were pebbles, inequalities, briars in my path, but my =
eyes
were fixed on the crimson peak above; my imagination was with the refulgent
firmament beyond, and I thought nothing of the stones turning under my feet=
, or
of the thorns scratching my face and hands.
I gazed often, and always with
delight, from the window of the diligence (these, be it remembered, were not
the days of trains and railroads). Well! and what did I see? I will tell you
faithfully. Green, reedy swamps; fields fertile but flat, cultivated in pat=
ches
that made them look like magnified kitchen-gardens; belts of cut trees, for=
mal
as pollard willows, skirting the horizon; narrow canals, gliding slow by the
road-side; painted Flemish farmhouses; some very dirty hovels; a gray, dead
sky; wet road, wet fields, wet house-tops: not a beautiful, scarcely a
picturesque object met my eye along the whole route; yet to me, all was
beautiful, all was more than picturesque. It continued fair so long as dayl=
ight
lasted, though the moisture of many preceding damp days had sodden the whole
country; as it grew dark, however, the rain recommenced, and it was through
streaming and starless darkness my eye caught the first gleam of the lights=
of
Brussels. I saw little of the city but its lights that night. Having alight=
ed
from the diligence, a fiacre conveyed me to the Hotel de -&=
nbsp;
- , where I had been advised by a fellow-traveller to put up; having
eaten a traveller's supper, I retired to bed, and slept a traveller's sleep=
.
Next morning I awoke from prolonged
and sound repose with the impression that I was yet in X - - , and perceiving it to be broad
daylight I started up, imagining that I had overslept myself and should be
behind time at the counting-house. The momentary and painful sense of restr=
aint
vanished before the revived and reviving consciousness of freedom, as, thro=
wing
back the white curtains of my bed, I looked forth into a wide, lofty foreig=
n chamber;
how different from the small and dingy, though not uncomfortable, apartment=
I
had occupied for a night or two at a respectable inn in London while waiting
for the sailing of the packet! Yet far be it from me to profane the memory =
of
that little dingy room! It, too, is dear to my soul; for there, as I lay in
quiet and darkness, I first heard the great bell of St. Paul's telling Lond=
on
it was midnight, and well do I recall the deep, deliberate tones, so full
charged with colossal phlegm and force. From the small, narrow window of th=
at
room, I first saw THE dome, looming through a London mist. I suppose the
sensations, stirred by those first sounds, first sights, are felt but once;
treasure them, Memory; seal them in urns, and keep them in safe niches! Wel=
l - I
rose. Travellers talk of the apartments in foreign dwellings being bare and
uncomfortable; I thought my chamber looked stately and cheerful. It had such
large windows - CROISEES that
opened like doors, with such broad, clear panes of glass; such a great
looking-glass stood on my dressing-table - such a fine mirror glittered over=
the
mantelpiece - the painted floor looked so clean and glossy; when I had dres=
sed
and was descending the stairs, the broad marble steps almost awed me, and so
did the lofty hall into which they conducted. On the first landing I met a
Flemish housemaid: she had wooden shoes, a short red petticoat, a printed
cotton bedgown, her face was broad, her physiognomy eminently stupid; when I
spoke to her in French, she answered me in Flemish, with an air the reverse=
of
civil; yet I thought her charming; if she was not pretty or polite, she was=
, I
conceived, very picturesque; she reminded me of the female figures in certa=
in
Dutch paintings I had seen in other years at Seacombe Hall.
I repaired to the public room; tha=
t,
too, was very large and very lofty, and warmed by a stove; the floor was bl=
ack,
and the stove was black, and most of the furniture was black: yet I never
experienced a freer sense of exhilaration than when I sat down at a very lo=
ng,
black table (covered, however, in part by a white cloth), and, having order=
ed
breakfast, began to pour out my coffee from a little black coffee-pot. The
stove might be dismal-looking to some eyes, not to mine, but it was
indisputably very warm, and there were two gentlemen seated by it talking in
French; impossible to follow their rapid utterance, or comprehend much of t=
he
purport of what they said - yet French, in the mouths of Frenchmen, or Belg=
ians
(I was not then sensible of the horrors of the Belgian accent) was as music=
to
my ears. One of these gentlemen presently discerned me to be an Englishman =
- no
doubt from the fashion in which I addressed the waiter; for I would persist=
in
speaking French in my execrable South-of-England style, though the man
understood English. The gentleman, after looking towards me once or twice,
politely accosted me in very good English; I remember I wished to God that I
could speak French as well; his fluency and correct pronunciation impressed=
me
for the first time with a due notion of the cosmopolitan character of the
capital I was in; it was my first experience of that skill in living langua=
ges
I afterwards found to be so general in Brussels.
I lingered over my breakfast as lo=
ng
as I could; while it was there on the table, and while that stranger contin=
ued
talking to me, I was a free, independent traveller; but at last the things =
were
removed, the two gentlemen left the room; suddenly the illusion ceased, rea=
lity
and business came back. I, a bondsman just released from the yoke, freed for
one week from twenty-one years of constraint, must, of necessity, resume the
fetters of dependency. Hardly had I tasted the delight of being without a
master when duty issued her stern mandate: ‘Go forth and seek another
service.’ I never linger over a painful and necessary task; I never t=
ake
pleasure before business, it is not in my nature to do so; impossible to en=
joy
a leisurely walk over the city, though I perceived the morning was very fin=
e,
until I had first presented Mr Hunsden's letter of introduction, and got fa=
irly
on to the track of a new situation. Wrenching my mind from liberty and deli=
ght,
I seized my hat, and forced my reluctant body out of the Hotel de -&=
nbsp;
- into the foreign str=
eet.
It was a fine day, but I would not
look at the blue sky or at the stately houses round me; my mind was bent on=
one
thing, finding out ‘Mr Brown, Numero - , Rue Royale,’ for so my le=
tter
was addressed. By dint of inquiry I succeeded; I stood at last at the desir=
ed
door, knocked, asked for Mr Brown, and was admitted.
Being shown into a small
breakfast-room, I found myself in the presence of an elderly gentleman - ve=
ry
grave, business-like, and respectable-looking. I presented Mr Hunsden's let=
ter;
he received me very civilly. After a little desultory conversation he asked=
me
if there was anything in which his advice or experience could be of use. I
said, ‘Yes,’ and then proceeded to tell him that I was not a
gentleman of fortune, travelling for pleasure, but an ex-counting-house cle=
rk, who
wanted employment of some kind, and that immediately too. He replied that a=
s a
friend of Mr Hunsden's he would be willing to assist me as well as he could.
After some meditation he named a place in a mercantile house at Liege, and
another in a bookseller's shop at Louvain.
‘Clerk and shopman!’
murmured I to myself. ‘No.’ I shook my head. I had tried the hi=
gh
stool; I hated it; I believed there were other occupations that would suit =
me
better; besides I did not wish to leave Brussels.
‘I know of no place in Bruss=
els,’
answered Mr Brown, ‘unless indeed you were disposed to turn your
attention to teaching. I am acquainted with the director of a large
establishment who is in want of a professor of English and Latin.’
I thought two minutes, then I seiz=
ed the
idea eagerly.
‘The very thing, sir!’
said I.
‘But,’ asked he, ̵=
6;do
you understand French well enough to teach Belgian boys English?’
Fortunately I could answer this
question in the affirmative; having studied French under a Frenchman, I cou=
ld
speak the language intelligibly though not fluently. I could also read it w=
ell,
and write it decently.
‘Then,’ pursued Mr Bro=
wn, ‘I
think I can promise you the place, for Monsieur Pelet will not refuse a
professor recommended by me; but come here again at five o'clock this
afternoon, and I will introduce you to him.’
The word ‘professor’
struck me. ‘I am not a professor,’ said I.
‘Oh,’ returned Mr Brow=
n, ‘professor,
here in Belgium, means a teacher, that is all.’
My conscience thus quieted, I than=
ked Mr
Brown, and, for the present, withdrew. This time I stepped out into the str=
eet
with a relieved heart; the task I had imposed on myself for that day was
executed. I might now take some hours of holiday. I felt free to look up. F=
or
the first time I remarked the sparkling clearness of the air, the deep blue=
of
the sky, the gay clean aspect of the white-washed or painted houses; I saw =
what
a fine street was the Rue Royale, and, walking leisurely along its broad
pavement, I continued to survey its stately hotels, till the palisades, the
gates, and trees of the park appearing in sight, offered to my eye a new
attraction. I remember, before entering the park, I stood awhile to contemp=
late
the statue of General Belliard, and then I advanced to the top of the great
staircase just beyond, and I looked down into a narrow back street, which I
afterwards learnt was called the Rue d'Isabelle. I well recollect that my e=
ye
rested on the green door of a rather large house opposite, where, on a brass
plate, was inscribed, ‘Pensionnat de Demoiselles.’ Pensionnat! =
The
word excited an uneasy sensation in my mind; it seemed to speak of restrain=
t.
Some of the demoiselles, externats no doubt, were at that moment issuing fr=
om
the door - I looked for a pretty face amongst them, but their close, little
French bonnets hid their features; in a moment they were gone.
I had traversed a good deal of
Brussels before five o'clock arrived, but punctually as that hour struck I =
was
again in the Rue Royale. Re-admitted to Mr Brown's breakfast-room, I found =
him,
as before, seated at the table, and he was not alone - a gentleman stood by=
the
hearth. Two words of introduction designated him as my future master. ̵=
6;M.
Pelet, Mr Crimsworth; Mr Crimsworth, M. Pelet’ a bow on each side
finished the ceremony. I don't know what sort of a bow I made; an ordinary =
one,
I suppose, for I was in a tranquil, commonplace frame of mind; I felt none =
of
the agitation which had troubled my first interview with Edward Crimsworth.=
M.
Pelet's bow was extremely polite, yet not theatrical, scarcely French; he a=
nd I
were presently seated opposite to each other. In a pleasing voice, low, and,
out of consideration to my foreign ears, very distinct and deliberate, M. P=
elet
intimated that he had just been receiving from ‘le respectable M. Bro=
wn,’
an account of my attainments and character, which relieved him from all scr=
uple
as to the propriety of engaging me as professor of English and Latin in his
establishment; nevertheless, for form's sake, he would put a few questions =
to
test; my powers. He did, and expressed in flattering terms his satisfaction=
at
my answers. The subject of salary next came on; it was fixed at one thousand
francs per annum, besides board and lodging. ‘And in addition,’
suggested M. Pelet, ‘as there will be some hours in each day during w=
hich
your services will not be required in my establishment, you may, in time,
obtain employment in other seminaries, and thus turn your vacant moments to
profitable account.’
I thought this very kind, and inde=
ed I
found afterwards that the terms on which M. Pelet had engaged me were really
liberal for Brussels; instruction being extremely cheap there on account of=
the
number of teachers. It was further arranged that I should be installed in my
new post the very next day, after which M. Pelet and I parted.
Well, and what was he like? and wh=
at
were my impressions concerning him? He was a man of about forty years of ag=
e,
of middle size, and rather emaciated figure; his face was pale, his cheeks =
were
sunk, and his eyes hollow; his features were pleasing and regular, they had=
a
French turn (for M. Pelet was no Fleming, but a Frenchman both by birth and
parentage), yet the degree of harshness inseparable from Gallic lineaments =
was,
in his case, softened by a mild blue eye, and a melancholy, almost sufferin=
g,
expression of countenance; his physiognomy was ‘fine et spirituelle.&=
#8217;
I use two French words because they define better than any English terms the
species of intelligence with which his features were imbued. He was altoget=
her
an interesting and prepossessing personage. I wondered only at the utter
absence of all the ordinary characteristics of his profession, and almost
feared he could not be stern and resolute enough for a schoolmaster. Extern=
ally
at least M. Pelet presented an absolute contrast to my late master, Edward
Crimsworth.
Influenced by the impression I had
received of his gentleness, I was a good deal surprised when, on arriving t=
he
next day at my new employer's house, and being admitted to a first view of =
what
was to be the sphere of my future labours, namely the large, lofty, and well
lighted schoolrooms, I beheld a numerous assemblage of pupils, boys of cour=
se,
whose collective appearance showed all the signs of a full, flourishing, and
well-disciplined seminary. As I traversed the classes in company with M. Pe=
let,
a profound silence reigned on all sides, and if by chance a murmur or a whi=
sper
arose, one glance from the pensive eye of this most gentle pedagogue stille=
d it
instantly. It was astonishing, I thought, how so mild a check could prove so
effectual. When I had perambulated the length and breadth of the classes, M.
Pelet turned and said to me -
‘Would you object to taking =
the
boys as they are, and testing their proficiency in English?’
The proposal was unexpected. I had
thought I should have been allowed at least 3 days to prepare; but it is a =
bad
omen to commence any career by hesitation, so I just stepped to the profess=
or's
desk near which we stood, and faced the circle of my pupils. I took a momen=
t to
collect my thoughts, and likewise to frame in French the sentence by which I
proposed to open business. I made it as short as possible: -
‘Messieurs, prenez vos livre=
s de
lecture.’
‘Anglais ou Francais, monsie=
ur?’
demanded a thickset, moon-faced young Flamand in a blouse. The answer was
fortunately easy: -
‘Anglais.’
I determined to give myself as lit=
tle
trouble as possible in this lesson; it would not do yet to trust my unpract=
ised
tongue with the delivery of explanations; my accent and idiom would be too =
open
to the criticisms of the young gentlemen before me, relative to whom I felt
already it would be necessary at once to take up an advantageous position, =
and
I proceeded to employ means accordingly.
‘Commencez!’ cried I, =
when
they had all produced their books. The moon-faced youth (by name Jules
Vanderkelkov, as I afterwards learnt) took the first sentence. The ‘l=
ivre
de lecture’ was the ‘Vicar of Wakefield,’ much used in
foreign schools because it is supposed to contain prime samples of
conversational English; it might, however, have been a Runic scroll for any
resemblance the words, as enunciated by Jules, bore to the language in ordi=
nary
use amongst the natives of Great Britain. My God! how he did snuffle, snort,
and wheeze! All he said was said in his throat and nose, for it is thus the
Flamands speak, but I heard him to the end of his paragraph without proffer=
ing
a word of correction, whereat he looked vastly self-complacent, convinced, =
no
doubt, that he had acquitted himself like a real born and bred ‘Angla=
is.’
In the same unmoved silence I listened to a dozen in rotation, and when the
twelfth had concluded with splutter, hiss, and mumble, I solemnly laid down=
the
book.
‘Arretez!’ said I. The=
re
was a pause, during which I regarded them all with a steady and somewhat st=
ern
gaze; a dog, if stared at hard enough and long enough, will show symptoms of
embarrassment, and so at length did my bench of Belgians. Perceiving that s=
ome
of the faces before me were beginning to look sullen, and others ashamed, I
slowly joined my hands, and ejaculated in a deep ‘voix de poitrine=
217;
-
‘Comme c'est affreux!’=
They looked at each other, pouted,
coloured, swung their heels; they were not pleased, I saw, but they were
impressed, and in the way I wished them to be. Having thus taken them down a
peg in their self-conceit, the next step was to raise myself in their
estimation; not a very easy thing, considering that I hardly dared to speak=
for
fear of betraying my own deficiencies.
‘Ecoutez, messieurs!’ =
said
I, and I endeavoured to throw into my accents the compassionate tone of a
superior being, who, touched by the extremity of the helplessness, which at
first only excited his scorn, deigns at length to bestow aid. I then began =
at
the very beginning of the ‘Vicar of Wakefield,’ and read, in a
slow, distinct voice, some twenty pages, they all the while sitting mute and
listening with fixed attention; by the time I had done nearly an hour had
elapsed. I then rose and said: -
‘C'est assez pour aujourd'hu=
i,
messieurs; demain nous recommencerons, et j'espere que tout ira bien.’=
;
With this oracular sentence I bowe=
d,
and in company with M. Pelet quitted the school-room.
‘C'est bien! c'est tres bien=
!’
said my principal as we entered his parlour. ‘Je vois que monsieur a =
de
l'adresse; cela, me plait, car, dans l'instruction, l'adresse fait tout aut=
ant
que le savoir.’
From the parlour M. Pelet conducte=
d me
to my apartment, my ‘chambre,’ as Monsieur said with a certain =
air
of complacency. It was a very small room, with an excessively small bed, bu=
t M.
Pelet gave me to understand that I was to occupy it quite alone, which was =
of
course a great comfort. Yet, though so limited in dimensions, it had two
windows. Light not being taxed in Belgium, the people never grudge its
admission into their houses; just here, however, this observation is not ve=
ry
APROPOS, for one of these windows was boarded up; the open windows looked i=
nto
the boys' playground. I glanced at the other, as wondering what aspect it w=
ould
present if disencumbered of the boards. M. Pelet read, I suppose, the
expression of my eye; he explained: -
‘La fenetre fermee donne sur=
un
jardin appartenant a un pensionnat de demoiselles,’ said he, ‘et
les convenances exigent - enf=
in,
vous comprenez - n'est-ce pas, monsieur?’
‘Oui, oui,’ was my rep=
ly,
and I looked of course quite satisfied; but when M. Pelet had retired and
closed the door after him, the first thing I did was to scrutinize closely =
the
nailed boards, hoping to find some chink or crevice which I might enlarge, =
and
so get a peep at the consecrated ground. My researches were vain, for the
boards were well joined and strongly nailed. It is astonishing how disappoi=
nted
I felt. I thought it would have been so pleasant to have looked out upon a
garden planted with flowers and trees, so amusing to have watched the
demoiselles at their play; to have studied female character in a variety of
phases, myself the while sheltered from view by a modest muslin curtain,
whereas, owing doubtless to the absurd scruples of some old duenna of a dir=
ectress,
I had now only the option of looking at a bare gravelled court, with an
enormous ‘pas de geant’ in the middle, and the monotonous walls=
and
windows of a boys' school-house round. Not only then, but many a time after,
especially in moments of weariness and low spirits, did I look with
dissatisfied eyes on that most tantalizing board, longing to tear it away a=
nd
get a glimpse of the green region which I imagined to lie beyond. I knew a =
tree
grew close up to the window, for though there were as yet no leaves to rust=
le,
I often heard at night the tapping of branches against the panes. In the
daytime, when I listened attentively, I could hear, even through the boards,
the voices of the demoiselles in their hours of recreation, and, to speak t=
he
honest truth, my sentimental reflections were occasionally a trifle disarra=
nged
by the not quite silvery, in fact the too often brazen sounds, which, rising
from the unseen paradise below, penetrated clamorously into my solitude. No=
t to
mince matters, it really seemed to me a doubtful case whether the lungs of
Mdlle. Reuter's girls or those of M. Pelet's boys were the strongest, and w=
hen
it came to shrieking the girls indisputably beat the boys hollow. I forgot =
to
say, by-the-by, that Reuter was the name of the old lady who had had my win=
dow
bearded up. I say old, for such I, of course, concluded her to be, judging =
from
her cautious, chaperon-like proceedings; besides, nobody ever spoke of her =
as
young. I remember I was very much amused when I first heard her Christian n=
ame;
it was Zoraide - Mademoiselle Zoraide Reuter. But the continental nations do
allow themselves vagaries in the choice of names, such as we sober English
never run into. I think, indeed, we have too limited a list to choose from.=
Meantime my path was gradually gro=
wing
smooth before me. I, in a few weeks, conquered the teasing difficulties
inseparable from the commencement of almost every career. Ere long I had
acquired as much facility in speaking French as set me at my ease with my
pupils; and as I had encountered them on a right footing at the very beginn=
ing,
and continued tenaciously to retain the advantage I had early gained, they
never attempted mutiny, which circumstance, all who are in any degree
acquainted with the ongoings of Belgian schools, and who know the relation =
in
which professors and pupils too frequently stand towards each other in those
establishments, will consider an important and uncommon one. Before conclud=
ing
this chapter I will say a word on the system I pursued with regard to my
classes: my experience may possibly be of use to others.
It did not require very keen
observation to detect the character of the youth of Brabant, but it needed a
certain degree of tact to adopt one's measures to their capacity. Their
intellectual faculties were generally weak, their animal propensities stron=
g;
thus there was at once an impotence and a kind of inert force in their natu=
res;
they were dull, but they were also singularly stubborn, heavy as lead and, =
like
lead, most difficult to move. Such being the case, it would have been truly
absurd to exact from them much in the way of mental exertion; having short
memories, dense intelligence, feeble reflective powers, they recoiled with
repugnance from any occupation that demanded close study or deep thought. H=
ad
the abhorred effort been extorted from them by injudicious and arbitrary
measures on the part of the Professor, they would have resisted as obstinat=
ely,
as clamorously, as desperate swine; and though not brave singly, they were
relentless acting EN MASSE.
I understood that before my arriva=
l in
M. Pelet's establishment, the combined insubordination of the pupils had
effected the dismissal of more than one English master. It was necessary th=
en
to exact only the most moderate application from natures so little qualifie=
d to
apply - to assist, in every practicable way, understandings so opaque and
contracted - to be ever gentle, considerate, yielding even, to a certain po=
int,
with dispositions so irrationally perverse; but, having reached that culmin=
ating
point of indulgence, you must fix your foot, plant it, root it in rock - be=
come
immutable as the towers of Ste. Gudule; for a step - but half a step farther, and you =
would
plunge headlong into the gulf of imbecility; there lodged, you would speedi=
ly receive
proofs of Flemish gratitude and magnanimity in showers of Brabant saliva and
handfuls of Low Country mud. You might smooth to the utmost the path of
learning, remove every pebble from the track; but then you must finally ins=
ist
with decision on the pupil taking your arm and allowing himself to be led
quietly along the prepared road. When I had brought down my lesson to the
lowest level of my dullest pupil's capacity - when I had shown myself the
mildest, the most tolerant of masters - a word of impertinence, a movement =
of
disobedience, changed me at once into a despot. I offered then but one
alternative - submission and acknowledgment of error, or ignominious expuls=
ion.
This system answered, and my influence, by degrees, became established on a
firm basis. ‘The boy is father to the man,’ it is said; and so I
often thought when looked at my boys and remembered the political history of
their ancestors. Pelet's school was merely an epitome of the Belgian nation=
.
‘Ce ne sont que des Flamands=
- allez!’
And then he took his cigar gently =
from
his lips and spat on the painted floor of the room in which we were sitting.
Flamands certainly they were, and both had the true Flamand physiognomy, wh=
ere
intellectual inferiority is marked in lines none can mistake; still they we=
re
men, and, in the main, honest men; and I could not see why their being
aboriginals of the flat, dull soil should serve as a pretext for treating t=
hem
with perpetual severity and contempt. This idea, of injustice somewhat pois=
oned
the pleasure I might otherwise have derived from Pelet's soft affable manne=
r to
myself. Certainly it was agreeable, when the day's work was over, to find o=
ne's
employer an intelligent and cheerful companion; and if he was sometimes a
little sarcastic and sometimes a little too insinuating, and if I did disco=
ver
that his mildness was more a matter of appearance than of reality - if I did
occasionally suspect the existence of flint or steel under an external cove=
ring
of velvet - still we are none of us perfect; and weary as I was of the
atmosphere of brutality and insolence in which I had constantly lived at X
- - , I had no inclination no=
w, on casting
anchor in calmer regions, to institute at once a prying search after defects
that were scrupulously withdrawn and carefully veiled from my view. I was
willing to take Pelet for what he seemed - to believe him benevolent and
friendly until some untoward event should prove him otherwise. He was not
married, and I soon perceived he had all a Frenchman's, all a Parisian's
notions about matrimony and women. I suspected a degree of laxity in his co=
de
of morals, there was something so cold and BLASE in his tone whenever he
alluded to what he called ‘le beau sexe;’ but he was too
gentlemanlike to intrude topics I did not invite, and as he was really
intelligent and really fond of intellectual subjects of discourse, he and I
always found enough to talk about, without seeking themes in the mire. I ha=
ted
his fashion of mentioning love; I abhorred, from my soul, mere licentiousne=
ss.
He felt the difference of our notions, and, by mutual consent, we kept off
ground debateable.
Pelet's house was kept and his kit=
chen
managed by his mother, a real old Frenchwoman; she had been handsome - at l=
east
she told me so, and I strove to believe her; she was now ugly, as only
continental old women can be; perhaps, though, her style of dress made her =
look
uglier than she really was. Indoors she would go about without cap, her grey
hair strangely dishevelled; then, when at home, she seldom wore a gown - on=
ly a
shabby cotton camisole; shoes, too, were strangers to her feet, and in lieu=
of
them she sported roomy slippers, trodden down at the heels. On the other ha=
nd,
whenever it was her pleasure to appear abroad, as on Sundays and fete-days,=
she
would put on some very brilliant-coloured dress, usually of thin texture, a
silk bonnet with a wreath of flowers, and a very fine shawl. She was not, in
the main, an ill-natured old woman, but an incessant and most indiscreet
talker; she kept chiefly in and about the kitchen, and seemed rather to avo=
id
her son's august presence; of him, indeed, she evidently stood in awe. When=
he
reproved her, his reproofs were bitter and unsparing; but he seldom gave
himself that trouble.
Madame Pelet had her own society, =
her
own circle of chosen visitors, whom, however, I seldom saw, as she generally
entertained them in what she called her ‘cabinet,’ a small den =
of a
place adjoining the kitchen, and descending into it by one or two steps. On
these steps, by-the-by, I have not unfrequently seen Madame Pelet seated wi=
th a
trencher on her knee, engaged in the threefold employment of eating her din=
ner,
gossiping with her favourite servant, the housemaid, and scolding her
antagonist, the cook; she never dined, and seldom indeed took any meal with=
her
son; and as to showing her face at the boys' table, that was quite out of t=
he
question. These details will sound very odd in English ears, but Belgium is=
not
England, and its ways are not our ways.
Madame Pelet's habits of life, the=
n,
being taken into consideration, I was a good deal surprised when, one Thurs=
day
evening (Thursday was always a half-holiday), as I was sitting all alone in=
my
apartment, correcting a huge pile of English and Latin exercises, a servant
tapped at the door, and, on its being opened, presented Madame Pelet's
compliments, and she would be happy to see me to take my ‘gouter̵=
7;
(a meal which answers to our English ‘tea’) with her in the
dining-room.
‘Plait-il?’ said I, fo=
r I
thought I must have misunderstood, the message and invitation were so unusu=
al;
the same words were repeated. I accepted, of course, and as I descended the
stairs, I wondered what whim had entered the old lady's brain; her son was =
out
- gone to pass the evening at the Salle of the Grande Harmonie or some other
club of which he was a member. Just as I laid my hand on the handle of the
dining-room door, a queer idea glanced across my mind.
‘Surely she's not going to m=
ake
love to me,’ said I. ‘I've heard of old Frenchwomen doing odd
things in that line; and the gouter? They generally begin such affairs with
eating and drinking, I believe.’
There was a fearful dismay in this
suggestion of my excited imagination, and if I had allowed myself time to d=
well
upon it, I should no doubt have cut there and then, rushed back to my chamb=
er,
and bolted myself in; but whenever a danger or a horror is veiled with
uncertainty, the primary wish of the mind is to ascertain first the naked
truth, reserving the expedient of flight for the moment when its dread
anticipation shall be realized. I turned the door-handle, and in an instant=
had
crossed the fatal threshold, closed the door behind me, and stood in the
presence of Madame Pelet.
Gracious heavens! The first view of
her seemed to confirm my worst apprehensions. There she sat, dressed out in=
a
light green muslin gown, on her head a lace cap with flourishing red roses =
in
the frill; her table was carefully spread; there were fruit, cakes, and cof=
fee,
with a bottle of something - I did not know what. Already the cold sweat
started on my brow, already I glanced back over my shoulder at the closed d=
oor,
when, to my unspeakable relief, my eye, wandering mildly in the direction of
the stove, rested upon a second figure, seated in a large fauteuil beside i=
t.
This was a woman, too, and, moreover, an old woman, and as fat and as rubic=
und
as Madame Pelet was meagre and yellow; her attire was likewise very fine, a=
nd
spring flowers of different hues circled in a bright wreath the crown of her
violet-coloured velvet bonnet.
I had only time to make these gene=
ral
observations when Madame Pelet, coming forward with what she intended shoul=
d be
a graceful and elastic step, thus accosted me:
‘Monsieur is indeed most
obliging to quit his books, his studies, at the request of an insignificant
person like me - will Monsieur complete his kindness by allowing me to pres=
ent
him to my dear friend Madame Reuter, who resides in the neighbouring house =
- the
young ladies' school.’
‘Ah!’ thought I, ̵=
6;I
knew she was old,’ and I bowed and took my seat. Madame Reuter placed
herself at the table opposite to me.
‘How do you like Belgium,
Monsieur?’ asked she, in an accent of the broadest Bruxellois. I could
now well distinguish the difference between the fine and pure Parisian
utterance of M. Pelet, for instance, and the guttural enunciation of the
Flamands. I answered politely, and then wondered how so coarse and clumsy an
old woman as the one before me should be at the head of a ladies' seminary,
which I had always heard spoken of in terms of high commendation. In truth
there was something to wonder at. Madame Reuter looked more like a joyous,
free-living old Flemish fermiere, or even a maitresse d'auberge, than a sta=
id,
grave, rigid directrice de pensionnat. In general the continental, or at le=
ast
the Belgian old women permit themselves a licence of manners, speech, and
aspect, such as our venerable granddames would recoil from as absolutely
disreputable, and Madame Reuter's jolly face bore evidence that she was no
exception to the rule of her country; there was a twinkle and leer in her l=
eft
eye; her right she kept habitually half shut, which I thought very odd inde=
ed.
After several vain attempts to comprehend the motives of these two droll old
creatures for inviting me to join them at their gouter, I at last fairly ga=
ve
it up, and resigning myself to inevitable mystification, I sat and looked f=
irst
at one, then at the other, taking care meantime to do justice to the
confitures, cakes, and coffee, with which they amply supplied me. They, too,
ate, and that with no delicate appetite, and having demolished a large port=
ion
of the solids, they proposed a ‘petit verre.’ I declined. Not so
Mesdames Pelet and Reuter; each mixed herself what I thought rather a stiff
tumbler of punch, and placing it on a stand near the stove, they drew up th=
eir
chairs to that convenience, and invited me to do the same. I obeyed; and be=
ing
seated fairly between them, I was thus addressed first by Madame Pelet, the=
n by
Madame Reuter.
‘We will now speak of busine=
ss,’
said Madame Pelet, and she went on to make an elaborate speech, which, being
interpreted, was to the effect that she had asked for the pleasure of my co=
mpany
that evening in order to give her friend Madame Reuter an opportunity of
broaching an important proposal, which might turn out greatly to my advanta=
ge.
‘Pourvu que vous soyez sa=
ge,’
said Madame Reuter, ‘et a vrai dire, vous en avez bien l'air. =
Take one drop of the punch’ =
(or
ponche, as she pronounced it); ‘it is an agreeable and wholesome beve=
rage
after a full meal.’
I bowed, but again declined it. She
went on:
‘I feel,’ said she, af=
ter
a solemn sip - ’I feel profoundly the importance of the commission wi=
th
which my dear daughter has entrusted me, for you are aware, Monsieur, that =
it
is my daughter who directs the establishment in the next house?’
‘Ah! I thought it was yourse=
lf,
madame.’ Though, indeed, at that moment I recollected that it was cal=
led
Mademoiselle, not Madame Reuter's pensionnat.
‘I! Oh, no! I manage the hou=
se
and look after the servants, as my friend Madame Pelet does for Monsieur her
son - nothing more. Ah! you thought I gave lessons in class - did you?̵=
7;
And she laughed loud and long, as
though the idea tickled her fancy amazingly.
‘Madame is in the wrong to
laugh,’ I observed; ‘if she does not give lessons, I am sure it=
is
not because she cannot;’ and I whipped out a white pocket-handkerchief
and wafted it, with a French grace, past my nose, bowing at the name time. =
‘Quel charmant jeune homme!&=
#8217;
murmured Madame Pelet in a low voice. Madame Reuter, being less sentimental=
, as
she was Flamand and not French, only laughed again.
‘You are a dangerous person,=
I
fear,’ said she; ‘if you can forge compliments at that rate,
Zoraide will positively be afraid of you; but if you are good, I will keep =
your
secret, and not tell her how well you can flatter. Now, listen what sort of=
a
proposal she makes to you. She has heard that you are an excellent professo=
r,
and as she wishes to get the very beet masters for her school (car Zoraide =
fait
tout comme une reine, c'est une veritable maitresse-femme), she has
commissioned me to step over this afternoon, and sound Madame Pelet as to t=
he
possibility of engaging you. Zoraide is a wary general; she never advances
without first examining well her ground I don't think she would be pleased =
if
she knew I had already disclosed her intentions to you; she did not order m=
e to
go so far, but I thought there would be no harm in letting you into the sec=
ret,
and Madame Pelet was of the same opinion. Take care, however, you don't bet=
ray
either of us to Zoraide - to my daughter, I mean; she is so discreet and
circumspect herself, she cannot understand that one should find a pleasure =
in
gossiping a little - ’
‘C'est absolument comme mon
fils!’ cried Madame Pelet.
‘All the world is so changed
since our girlhood!’ rejoined the other: ‘young people have such
old heads now. But to return, Monsieur. Madame Pelet will mention the subje=
ct
of your giving lessons in my daughter's establishment to her son, and he wi=
ll
speak to you; and then to-morrow, you will step over to our house, and ask =
to
see my daughter, and you will introduce the subject as if the first intimat=
ion
of it had reached you from M. Pelet himself, and be sure you never mention =
my
name, for I would not displease Zoraide on any account.
‘Bien! bien!’ interrup=
ted
I - for all this chatter and circumlocution began to bore me very much; =
216;I
will consult M. Pelet, and the thing shall be settled as you desire. Good
evening, mesdames - I am infinitely obliged to you.’
‘Comment! vous vous en allez
deja?’ exclaimed Madame Pelet.
‘Prenez encore quelquecho= se, monsieur; une pomme cuite, des biscuits, encore une tasse de cafe?’ <= o:p>
‘Merci, merci, madame - au
revoir.’ And I backed =
at
last out of the apartment.
Having regained my own room, I set
myself to turn over in my mind the incident of the evening. It seemed a que=
er
affair altogether, and queerly managed; the two old women had made quite a
little intricate mess of it; still I found that the uppermost feeling in my
mind on the subject was one of satisfaction. In the first place it would be=
a
change to give lessons in another seminary, and then to teach young ladies
would be an occupation so interesting - to be admitted at all into a ladies'
boarding-school would be an incident so new in my life. Besides, thought I,=
as
I glanced at the boarded window, ‘I shall now at last see the mysteri=
ous
garden: I shall gaze both on the angels and their Eden.’
M. PELET could not of course objec=
t to
the proposal made by Mdlle. Reuter; permission to accept such additional
employment, should it offer, having formed an article of the terms on which=
he
had engaged me. It was, therefore, arranged in the course of next day that I
should be at liberty to give lessons in Mdlle. Reuter's establishment four
afternoons in every week.
When evening came I prepared to st=
ep
over in order to seek a conference with Mademoiselle herself on the subject=
; I
had not had time to pay the visit before, having been all day closely occup=
ied
in class. I remember very well that before quitting my chamber, I held a br=
ief
debate with myself as to whether I should change my ordinary attire for
something smarter. At last I concluded it would be a waste of labour. ̵=
6;Doubtless,’
thought I, ‘she is some stiff old maid; for though the daughter of Ma=
dame
Reuter, she may well number upwards of forty winters; besides, if it were
otherwise, if she be both young and pretty, I am not handsome, and no dress=
ing
can make me so, therefore I'll go as I am.’ And off I started, cursor=
ily
glancing sideways as I passed the toilet-table, surmounted by a looking-gla=
ss:
a thin irregular face I saw, with sunk, dark eyes under a large, square
forehead, complexion destitute of bloom or attraction; something young, but=
not
youthful, no object to win a lady's love, no butt for the shafts of Cupid. =
I was soon at the entrance of the
pensionnat, in a moment I had pulled the bell; in another moment the door w=
as
opened, and within appeared a passage paved alternately with black and white
marble; the walls were painted in imitation of marble also; and at the far =
end
opened a glass door, through which I saw shrubs and a grass-plat, looking
pleasant in the sunshine of the mild spring evening-for it was now the midd=
le
of April.
This, then, was my first glimpse of
the garden; but I had not time to look long, the portress, after having
answered in the affirmative my question as to whether her mistress was at h=
ome,
opened the folding-doors of a room to the left, and having ushered me in,
closed them behind me. I found myself in a salon with a very well-painted,
highly varnished floor; chairs and sofas covered with white draperies, a gr=
een
porcelain stove, walls hung with pictures in gilt frames, a gilt pendule and
other ornaments on the mantelpiece, a large lustre pendent from the centre =
of
the ceiling, mirrors, consoles, muslin curtains, and a handsome centre table
completed the inventory of furniture. All looked extremely clean and
glittering, but the general effect would have been somewhat chilling had no=
t a
second large pair of folding-doors, standing wide open, and disclosing anot=
her
and smaller salon, more snugly furnished, offered some relief to the eye. T=
his
room was carpeted, and therein was a piano, a couch, a chiffonniere - above
all, it contained a lofty window with a crimson curtain, which, being undra=
wn,
afforded another glimpse of the garden, through the large, clear panes, rou=
nd
which some leaves of ivy, some tendrils of vine were trained.
‘Monsieur Creemsvort, n'est =
ce
pas?’ said a voice behind me; and, starting involuntarily, I turned. I
had been so taken up with the contemplation of the pretty little salon that=
I
had not noticed the entrance of a person into the larger room. It was, howe=
ver,
Mdlle. Reuter who now addressed me, and stood close beside me; and when I h=
ad
bowed with instantaneously recovered sang-froid - for I am not easily
embarrassed - I commenced the conversation by remarking on the pleasant asp=
ect
of her little cabinet, and the advantage she had over M. Pelet in possessin=
g a
garden.
‘Yes,’ she said, ̵=
6;she
often thought so;’ and added, ‘it is my garden, monsieur, which
makes me retain this house, otherwise I should probably have removed to lar=
ger
and more commodious premises long since; but you see I could not take my ga=
rden
with me, and I should scarcely find one so large and pleasant anywhere else=
in
town.’
I approved her judgment.
‘But you have not seen it ye=
t,’
said she, rising; ‘come to the window and take a better view.’ I
followed her; she opened the sash, and leaning out I saw in full the enclos=
ed
demesne which had hitherto been to me an unknown region. It was a long, not
very broad strip of cultured ground, with an alley bordered by enormous old
fruit trees down the middle; there was a sort of lawn, a parterre of
rose-trees, some flower-borders, and, on the far side, a thickly planted co=
pse
of lilacs, laburnums, and acacias. It looked pleasant, to me - very pleasan=
t,
so long a time had elapsed since I had seen a garden of any sort. But it was
not only on Mdlle. Reuter's garden that my eyes dwelt; when I had taken a v=
iew
of her well-trimmed beds and budding shrubberies, I allowed my glance to co=
me
back to herself, nor did I hastily withdraw it.
I had thought to see a tall, meagr=
e,
yellow, conventual image in black, with a close white cap, bandaged under t=
he
chin like a nun's head-gear; whereas, there stood by me a little and roundly
formed woman, who might indeed be older than I, but was still young; she co=
uld
not, I thought, be more than six or seven and twenty; she was as fair as a =
fair
Englishwoman; she had no cap; her hair was nut-brown, and she wore it in cu=
rls;
pretty her features were not, nor very soft, nor very regular, but neither =
were
they in any degree plain, and I already saw cause to deem them expressive. =
What
was their predominant cast? Was it sagacity? - sense? Yes, I thought so; bu=
t I
could scarcely as yet be sure. I discovered, however, that there was a cert=
ain
serenity of eye, and freshness of complexion, most pleasing to behold. The
colour on her cheek was like the bloom on a good apple, which is as sound at
the core as it is red on the rind.
Mdlle. Reuter and I entered upon
business. She said she was not absolutely certain of the wisdom of the step=
she
was about to take, because I was so young, and parents might possibly objec=
t to
a professor like me for their daughters: ‘But it is often well to act=
on
one's own judgment,’ said she, ‘and to lead parents, rather tha=
n be
led by them. The fitness of a professor is not a matter of age; and, from w=
hat
I have heard, and from what I observe myself, I would much rather trust you
than M. Ledru, the music-master, who is a married man of near fifty.’=
I remarked that I hoped she would =
find
me worthy of her good opinion; that if I knew myself, I was incapable of
betraying any confidence reposed in me. ‘Du reste,’ said she, &=
#8216;the
surveillance will be strictly attended to.’ And then she proceeded to
discuss the subject of terms. She was very cautious, quite on her guard; she
did not absolutely bargain, but she warily sounded me to find out what my
expectations might be; and when she could not get me to name a sum, she
reasoned and reasoned with a fluent yet quiet circumlocution of speech, and=
at
last nailed me down to five hundred francs per annum - not too much, but I
agreed. Before the negotiation was completed, it began to grow a little dus=
k. I
did not hasten it, for I liked well enough to sit and hear her talk; I was =
amused
with the sort of business talent she displayed. Edward could not have shown
himself more practical, though he might have evinced more coarseness and
urgency; and then she had so many reasons, so many explanations; and, after
all, she succeeded in proving herself quite disinterested and even liberal.=
At
last she concluded, she could say no more, because, as I acquiesced in all
things, there was no further ground for the exercise of her parts of speech=
. I
was obliged to rise. I would rather have sat a little longer; what had I to
return to but my small empty room? And my eyes had a pleasure in looking at
Mdlle. Reuter, especially now, when the twilight softened her features a
little, and, in the doubtful dusk, I could fancy her forehead as open as it=
was
really elevated, her mouth touched with turns of sweetness as well as defin=
ed
in lines of sense. When I rose to go, I held out my hand, on purpose, thoug=
h I
knew it was contrary to the etiquette of foreign habits; she smiled, and sa=
id -
‘Ah! c'est comme tous les
Anglais,’ but gave me her hand very kindly.
‘It is the privilege of my
country, Mademoiselle,’ said I; ‘and, remember, I shall always
claim it.’
She laughed a little, quite
good-naturedly, and with the sort of tranquillity obvious in all she did - a
tranquillity which soothed and suited me singularly, at least I thought so =
that
evening. Brussels seemed a very pleasant place to me when I got out again i=
nto
the street, and it appeared as if some cheerful, eventful, upward-tending
career were even then opening to me, on that selfsame mild, still April nig=
ht.
So impressionable a being is man, or at least such a man as I was in those
days.
NEXT day the morning hours seemed =
to
pass very slowly at M. Pelet's; I wanted the afternoon to come that I might=
go
again to the neighbouring pensionnat and give my first lesson within its
pleasant precincts; for pleasant they appeared to me. At
At the foot of the narrow back-sta=
irs
that descended from my room, I met M. Pelet.
‘Comme vous avez l'air
rayonnant!’ said he. ‘Je ne =
vous
ai jamais vu aussi gai. Que s'est-il donc passe?’
‘Apparemment que j'aime les
changements,’ replied I.
‘Ah! je comprends - c'est
cela-soyez sage seulement. Vous etes =
bien
jeune - trop jeune pour le role que vous allez jouer; il faut prendre garde=
- savez-vous?’
‘Mais quel danger y a-t-i=
l?’
‘Je n'en sais rien - ne v=
ous
laissez pas aller a de vives impressions - voila tout.’
I laughed: a sentiment of exquisite
pleasure played over my nerves at the thought that ‘vives impressions=
’
were likely to be created; it was the deadness, the sameness of life's daily
ongoings that had hitherto been my bane; my blouse-clad ‘eleves’=
; in
the boys' seminary never stirred in me any ‘vives impressions’
except it might be occasionally some of anger. I broke from M. Pelet, and a=
s I
strode down the passage he followed me with one of his laughs - a very Fren=
ch,
rakish, mocking sound.
Again I stood at the neighbouring
door, and soon was re-admitted into the cheerful passage with its clear
dove-colour imitation marble walls. I followed the portress, and descending=
a
step, and making a turn, I found myself in a sort of corridor; a side-door
opened, Mdlle. Reuter's little figure, as graceful as it was plump, appeare=
d. I
could now see her dress in full daylight; a neat, simple mousseline-laine g=
own
fitted her compact round shape to perfection - delicate little collar and
manchettes of lace, trim Parisian brodequins showed her neck, wrists, and f=
eet,
to complete advantage; but how grave was her face as she came suddenly upon=
me!
Solicitude and business were in her eye - on her forehead; she looked almost
stern. Her ‘Bon jour, monsieur,’ was quite polite, but so order=
ly,
so commonplace, it spread directly a cool, damp towel over my ‘vives
impressions.’ The servant turned back when her mistress appeared, and=
I
walked slowly along the corridor, side by side with Mdlle. Reuter.
‘Monsieur will give a lesson=
in
the first class to-day,’ said she; ‘dictation or reading will
perhaps be the best thing to begin with, for those are the easiest forms of
communicating instruction in a foreign language; and, at the first, a master
naturally feels a little unsettled.’
She was quite right, as I had found
from experience; it only remained for me to acquiesce. We proceeded now in
silence. The corridor terminated in a hall, large, lofty, and square; a gla=
ss
door on one side showed within a long narrow refectory, with tables, an
armoire, and two lamps; it was empty; large glass doors, in front, opened on
the playground and garden; a broad staircase ascended spirally on the oppos=
ite
side; the remaining wall showed a pair of great folding-doors, now closed, =
and
admitting: doubtless, to the classes.
Mdlle. Reuter turned her eye later=
ally
on me, to ascertain, probably, whether I was collected enough to be ushered
into her sanctum sanctorum. I suppose she judged me to be in a tolerable st=
ate
of self-government, for she opened the door, and I followed her through. A
rustling sound of uprising greeted our entrance; without looking to the rig=
ht
or left, I walked straight up the lane between two sets of benches and desk=
s,
and took possession of the empty chair and isolated desk raised on an estra=
de,
of one step high, so as to command one division; the other division being u=
nder
the surveillance of a maitresse similarly elevated. At the back of the estr=
ade,
and attached to a moveable partition dividing this schoolroom from another
beyond, was a large tableau of wood painted black and varnished; a thick cr=
ayon
of white chalk lay on my desk for the convenience of elucidating any
grammatical or verbal obscurity which might occur in my lessons by writing =
it
upon the tableau; a wet sponge appeared beside the chalk, to enable me to
efface the marks when they had served the purpose intended.
I carefully and deliberately made
these observations before allowing myself to take one glance at the benches
before me; having handled the crayon, looked back at the tableau, fingered =
the
sponge in order to ascertain that it was in a right state of moisture, I fo=
und
myself cool enough to admit of looking calmly up and gazing deliberately ro=
und
me.
And first I observed that Mdlle.
Reuter had already glided away, she was nowhere visible; a maitresse or
teacher, the one who occupied the corresponding estrade to my own, alone
remained to keep guard over me; she was a little in the shade, and, with my
short sight, I could only see that she was of a thin bony figure and rather
tallowy complexion, and that her attitude, as she sat, partook equally of
listlessness and affectation. More obvious, more prominent, shone on by the
full light of the large window, were the occupants of the benches just befo=
re
me, of whom some were girls of fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, some young women
from eighteen (as it appeared to me) up to twenty; the most modest attire, =
the
simplest fashion of wearing the hair, were apparent in all; and good featur=
es,
ruddy, blooming complexions, large and brilliant eyes, forms full, even to
solidity, seemed to abound. I did not bear the first view like a stoic; I w=
as
dazzled, my eyes fell, and in a voice somewhat too low I murmured -
‘Prenez vos cahiers de
dictee, mesdemoiselles.’
Not so had I bid the boys at Pelet=
's
take their reading-books. A rustle followed, and an opening of desks; behind
the lifted lids which momentarily screened the heads bent down to search fo=
r exercise-books,
I heard tittering and whispers.
‘Eulalie, je suis prete a
pamer de rire,’ observed one.
‘Comme il a rougi en parlant=
!’
‘Oui, c'est un veritable
blanc-bec.’
‘Tais-toi, Hortense - il =
nous
ecoute.’
And now the lids sank and the heads
reappeared; I had marked three, the whisperers, and I did not scruple to ta=
ke a
very steady look at them as they emerged from their temporary eclipse. It is
astonishing what ease and courage their little phrases of flippancy had giv=
en
me; the idea by which I had been awed was that the youthful beings before m=
e,
with their dark nun-like robes and softly braided hair, were a kind of
half-angels. The light titter, the giddy whisper, had already in some measu=
re
relieved my mind of that fond and oppressive fancy.
The three I allude to were just in
front, within half a yard of my estrade, and were among the most
womanly-looking present. Their names I knew afterwards, and may as well men=
tion
now; they were Eulalie, Hortense, Caroline. Eulalie was tall, and very fine=
ly
shaped: she was fair, and her features were those of a Low Country Madonna;
many a ‘figure de Vierge’ have I seen in Dutch pictures exactly
resembling hers; there were no angles in her shape or in her face, all was
curve and roundness - neither thought, sentiment, nor passion disturbed by =
line
or flush the equality of her pale, clear skin; her noble bust heaved with h=
er
regular breathing, her eyes moved a little - by these evidences of life alo=
ne
could I have distinguished her from some large handsome figure moulded in w=
ax.
Hortense was of middle size and stout, her form was ungraceful, her face
striking, more alive and brilliant than Eulalie's, her hair was dark brown,=
her
complexion richly coloured; there were frolic and mischief in her eye:
consistency and good sense she might possess, but none of her features
betokened those qualities.
Caroline was little, though eviden=
tly
full grown; raven-black hair, very dark eyes, absolutely regular features, =
with
a colourless olive complexion, clear as to the face and sallow about the ne=
ck,
formed in her that assemblage of points whose union many persons regard as =
the
perfection of beauty. How, with the tintless pallor of her skin and the cla=
ssic
straightness of her lineaments, she managed to look sensual, I don't know. I
think her lips and eyes contrived the affair between them, and the result l=
eft
no uncertainty on the beholder's mind. She was sensual now, and in ten year=
s'
time she would be coarse - promise plain was written in her face of much fu=
ture
folly.
If I looked at these girls with li=
ttle
scruple, they looked at me with still less. Eulalie raised her unmoved eye =
to
mine, and seemed to expect, passively but securely, an impromptu tribute to=
her
majestic charms. Hortense regarded me boldly, and giggled at the same time,
while she said, with an air of impudent freedom -
‘Dictez-nous quelquechose=
de
facile pour commencer, monsieur.’
Caroline shook her loose ringlets =
of
abundant but somewhat coarse hair over her rolling black eyes; parting her
lips, as full as those of a hot-blooded Maroon, she showed her well-set tee=
th
sparkling between them, and treated me at the same time to a smile ‘d=
e sa
facon.’ Beautiful as Pauline Borghese, she looked at the moment scarc=
ely
purer than Lucrece de Borgia. Caroline was of noble family. I heard her
lady-mother's character afterwards, and then I ceased to wonder at the
precocious accomplishments of the daughter. These three, I at once saw, dee=
med
themselves the queens of the school, and conceived that by their splendour =
they
threw all the rest into the shade. In less than five minutes they had thus
revealed to me their characters, and in less than five minutes I had buckle=
d on
a breast-plate of steely indifference, and let down a visor of impassible
austerity.
‘Take your pens and commence
writing,’ said I, in as dry and trite a voice as if I had been addres=
sing
only Jules Vanderkelkov and Co.
The dictee now commenced. My three
belles interrupted me perpetually with little silly questions and uncalled-=
for
remarks, to some of which I made no answer, and to others replied very quie=
tly
and briefly. ‘Comment dit-on point et virgule en Anglais, monsieur?=
8217;
‘Semi-colon, mademoiselle.=
8217;
‘Semi-collong? Ah, comme c'e=
st
drole!’ (giggle.) =
‘J'ai une si mauvaise plu=
me -
impossible d'ecrire!’
‘Mais, monsieur - je ne s=
ais
pas suivre - vous allez si vite.’
‘Je n'ai rien compris, moi!&=
#8217;
Here a general murmur arose, and t=
he
teacher, opening her lips for the first time, ejaculated -
‘Silence, mesdemoiselles!=
217;
No silence followed - on the contr=
ary,
the three ladies in front began to talk more loudly.
‘C'est si difficile,
l'Anglais!’
‘Je deteste la dictee.=
217;
‘Quel ennui d'ecrire
quelquechose que l'on ne comprend pas!’
Some of those behind laughed: a de=
gree
of confusion began to pervade the class; it was necessary to take prompt
measures.
‘Donnez-moi votre cahier,=
217;
said I to Eulalie in an abrupt tone; and bending over, I took it before she=
had
time to give it.
‘Et vous,
mademoiselle-donnez-moi le votre,’ continued I, more mildly, addressi=
ng a
little pale, plain looking girl who sat in the first row of the other divis=
ion,
and whom I had remarked as being at once the ugliest and the most attentive=
in
the room; she rose up, walked over to me, and delivered her book with a gra=
ve,
modest curtsey. I glanced over the two dictations; Eulalie's was slurred,
blotted, and full of silly mistakes - Sylvie's (such was the name of the ug=
ly
little girl) was clearly written, it contained no error against sense, and =
but
few faults of orthography. I coolly read aloud both exercises, marking the
faults - then I looked at Eulalie:
‘C'est honteux!’ said =
I,
and I deliberately tore her dictation in four parts, and presented her with=
the
fragments. I returned Sylvie her book with a smile, saying -
‘C'est bien - je suis conten=
t de
vous.’
Sylvie looked calmly pleased, Eula=
lie
swelled like an incensed turkey, but the mutiny was quelled: the conceited
coquetry and futile flirtation of the first bench were exchanged for a taci=
turn
sullenness, much more convenient to me, and the rest of my lesson passed
without interruption.
A bell clanging out in the yard
announced the moment for the cessation of school labours. I heard our own b=
ell
at the same time, and that of a certain public college immediately after. O=
rder
dissolved instantly; up started every pupil, I hastened to seize my hat, bo=
w to
the maitresse, and quit the room before the tide of externats should pour f=
rom
the inner class, where I knew near a hundred were prisoned, and whose rising
tumult I already heard.
I had scarcely crossed the hall and
gained the corridor, when Mdlle. Reuter came again upon me.
‘Step in here a moment,̵=
7;
said she, and she held open the door of the side room from whence she had
issued on my arrival; it was a SALLE-A-MANGER, as appeared from the beaufet=
and
the armoire vitree, filled with glass and china, which formed part of its
furniture. Ere she had closed the door on me and herself, the corridor was
already filled with day-pupils, tearing down their cloaks, bonnets, and cab=
as
from the wooden pegs on which they were suspended; the shrill voice of a
maitresse was heard at intervals vainly endeavouring to enforce some sort of
order; vainly, I say: discipline there was none in these rough ranks, and y=
et
this was considered one of the best-conducted schools in Brussels.
‘Well, you have given your f=
irst
lesson,’ began Mdlle. Reuter in the most calm, equable voice, as thou=
gh
quite unconscious of the chaos from which we were separated only by a single
wall.
‘Were you satisfied with your
pupils, or did any circumstance in their conduct give you cause for complai=
nt?
Conceal nothing from me, repose in me entire confidence.’
Happily, I felt in myself complete
power to manage my pupils without aid; the enchantment, the golden haze whi=
ch
had dazzled my perspicuity at first, had been a good deal dissipated. I can=
not
say I was chagrined or downcast by the contrast which the reality of a
pensionnat de demoiselles presented to my vague ideal of the same community=
; I
was only enlightened and amused; consequently, I felt in no disposition to
complain to Mdlle. Reuter, and I received her considerate invitation to
confidence with a smile.
‘A thousand thanks,
mademoiselle, all has gone very smoothly.’
She looked more than doubtful.
‘Et les trois demoiselles du=
premier
banc?’ said she.
‘Ah! tout va au mieux!’
was my answer, and Mdlle. Reuter ceased to question me; but her eye - not
large, not brilliant, not melting, or kindling, but astute, penetrating,
practical, showed she was even with me; it let out a momentary gleam, which
said plainly, ‘Be as close as you like, I am not dependent on your
candour; what you would conceal I already know.’
By a transition so quiet as to be
scarcely perceptible, the directress's manner changed; the anxious business=
-air
passed from her face, and she began chatting about the weather and the town,
and asking in neighbourly wise after M. and Madame Pelet. I answered all her
little questions; she prolonged her talk, I went on following its many litt=
le
windings; she sat so long, said so much, varied so often the topics of
discourse, that it was not difficult to perceive she had a particular aim in
thus detaining me. Her mere words could have afforded no clue to this aim, =
but
her countenance aided; while her lips uttered only affable commonplaces, her
eyes reverted continually to my face. Her glances were not given in full, b=
ut
out of the corners, so quietly, so stealthily, yet I think I lost not one. I
watched her as keenly as she watched me; I perceived soon that she was feel=
ing
after my real character; she was searching for salient points, and weak;
points, and eccentric points; she was applying now this test, now that, hop=
ing
in the end to find some chink, some niche, where she could put in her little
firm foot and stand upon my neck - mistress of my nature, Do not mistake me,
reader, it was no amorous influence she wished to gain - at that time it was
only the power of the politician to which she aspired; I was now installed =
as a
professor in her establishment, and she wanted to know where her mind was
superior to mine - by what feeling or opinion she could lead me.
I enjoyed the game much, and did n=
ot
hasten its conclusion; sometimes I gave her hopes, beginning a sentence rat=
her
weakly, when her shrewd eye would light up - she thought she had me; having=
led
her a little way, I delighted to turn round and finish with sound, hard sen=
se,
whereat her countenance would fall. At last a servant entered to announce
dinner; the conflict being thus necessarily terminated, we parted without h=
aving
gained any advantage on either side: Mdlle. Reuter had not even given me an
opportunity of attacking her with feeling, and I had managed to baffle her
little schemes of craft. It was a regular drawn battle. I again held out my
hand when I left the room, she gave me hers; it was a small and white hand,=
but
how cool! I met her eye too in full - obliging her to give me a straightfor=
ward
look; this last test went against me: it left her as it found her - moderate, temperate, tranquil; me=
it
disappointed.
‘I am growing wiser,’
thought I, as I walked back to M. Pelet's. ‘Look at this little woman=
; is
she like the women of novelists and romancers? To read of female character =
as
depicted in Poetry and Fiction, one would think it was made up of sentiment,
either for good or bad - here is a specimen, and a most sensible and
respectable specimen, too, whose staple ingredient is abstract reason. No
Talleyrand was ever more passionless than Zoraide Reuter!’ So I thoug=
ht
then; I found afterwards that blunt susceptibilities are very consistent wi=
th
strong propensities.
I HAD indeed had a very long talk =
with
the crafty little politician, and on regaining my quarters, I found that di=
nner
was half over. To be late at meals was against a standing rule of the estab=
lishment,
and had it been one of the Flemish ushers who thus entered after the remova=
l of
the soup and the commencement of the first course, M. Pelet would probably =
have
greeted him with a public rebuke, and would certainly have mulcted him both=
of
soup and fish; as it was, that polite though partial gentleman only shook h=
is
head, and as I took my place, unrolled my napkin, and said my heretical gra=
ce
to myself, he civilly despatched a servant to the kitchen, to bring me a pl=
ate
of ‘puree aux carottes’ (for this was a maigre-day), and before
sending away the first course, reserved for me a portion of the stock-fish =
of
which it consisted. Dinner being over, the boys rushed out for their evening
play; Kint and Vandam (the two ushers) of course followed them. Poor fellow=
s!
if they had not looked so very heavy, so very soulless, so very indifferent=
to
all things in heaven above or in the earth beneath, I could have pitied them
greatly for the obligation they were under to trail after those rough lads
everywhere and at all times; even as it was, I felt disposed to scout mysel=
f as
a privileged prig when I turned to ascend to my chamber, sure to find there=
, if
not enjoyment, at least liberty; but this evening (as had often happened
before) I was to be still farther distinguished.
‘Eh bien, mauvais sujet!R=
17;
said the voice of M. Pelet behind me, as I set my foot on the first step of=
the
stair, ‘ou allez-vous? Venez a la
salle-a-manger, que je vous gronde un peu.’
‘I beg pardon, monsieur,R=
17;
said I, as I followed him to his private sitting-room, ‘for having
returned so late - it was not my fault.’
‘That is just what I want to
know,’ rejoined M. Pelet, as he ushered me into the comfortable parlo=
ur
with a good wood-fire - for t=
he
stove had now been removed for the season. Having rung the bell he ordered =
‘Coffee
for two,’ and presently he and I were seated, almost in English comfo=
rt,
one on each side of the hearth, a little round table between us, with a
coffee-pot, a sugar-basin, and two large white china cups. While M. Pelet
employed himself in choosing a cigar from a box, my thoughts reverted to the
two outcast ushers, whose voices I could hear even now crying hoarsely for
order in the playground.
‘C'est une grande
responsabilite, que la surveillance,’ observed I.
‘Plait-il?’ dit M. Pel=
et.
I remarked that I thought Messieurs
Vandam and Kint must sometimes be a little fatigued with their labours.
‘Des betes de somme, - des b=
etes
de somme,’ murmured scornfully the director. Meantime I offered him h=
is
cup of coffee.
‘Servez-vous mon garcon,R=
17;
said he blandly, when I had put a couple of huge lumps of continental sugar
into his cup. ‘And now tell me why you stayed so long at Mdlle. Reute=
r's.
I know that lessons conclude, in her establishment as in mine, at four o'cl=
ock,
and when you returned it was past five.’
‘Mdlle. wished to speak with=
me,
monsieur.’
‘Indeed! on what subject? if=
one
may ask.’
‘Mademoiselle talked about
nothing, monsieur.’
‘A fertile topic! and did she
discourse thereon in the schoolroom, before the pupils?’
‘No; like you, monsieur, she
asked me to walk into her parlour.’
‘And Madame Reuter - the old
duenna - my mother's gossip, was there, of course?’
‘No, monsieur; I had the hon=
our
of being quite alone with mademoiselle.’
‘C'est joli - cela,’ o=
bserved
M. Pelet, and he smiled and looked into the fire.
‘Honi soit qui mal y pense,&=
#8217;
murmured I, significantly.
‘Je connais un peu ma petite
voisine - voyez-vous.’
‘In that case, monsieur will=
be
able to aid me in finding out what was mademoiselle's reason for making me =
sit
before her sofa one mortal hour, listening to the most copious and fluent
dissertation on the merest frivolities.’
‘She was sounding your
character.’
‘I thought so, monsieur.R=
17;
‘Did she find out your weak
point?’
‘What is my weak point?̵=
7;
‘Why, the sentimental. Any w=
oman
sinking her shaft deep enough, will at last reach a fathomless spring of
sensibility in thy breast, Crimsworth.’
I felt the blood stir about my hea=
rt
and rise warm to my cheek.
‘Some women might, monsieur.=
’
‘Is Mdlle. Reuter of the num=
ber?
Come, speak frankly, mon fils; elle est encore jeune, plus agee que toi
peut-etre, mais juste asset pour unir la tendresse d'une petite maman a l'a=
mour
d'une epouse devouee; n'est-ce pas que cela t'irait superieurement?’ =
‘No, monsieur; I should like=
my
wife to be my wife, and not half my mother.’
‘She is then a little too old
for you?’
‘No, monsieur, not a day too=
old
if she suited me in other things.’
‘In what does she not suit y=
ou,
William? She is personally agreeable, is she not?’
‘Very; her hair and complexi=
on
are just what I admire; and her turn of form, though quite Belgian, is full=
of
grace.’
‘Bravo! and her face? her
features? How do you like them?’
‘A little harsh, especially =
her
mouth.’
‘Ah, yes! her mouth,’ =
said
M. Pelet, and he chuckled inwardly. ‘There is character about her mou=
th -
firmness - but she has a very pleasant smile; don't you think so?’
‘Rather crafty.’
‘True, but that expression of
craft is owing to her eyebrows; have you remarked her eyebrows?’
I answered that I had not.
‘You have not seen her looki=
ng
down then?’ said he.
‘No.’
‘It is a treat, notwithstand=
ing.
Observe her when she has some knitting, or some other woman's work in hand,=
and
sits the image of peace, calmly intent on her needles and her silk, some
discussion meantime going on around her, in the course of which peculiariti=
es
of character are being developed, or important interests canvassed; she tak=
es
no part in it; her humble, feminine mind is wholly with her knitting; none =
of
her features move; she neither presumes to smile approval, nor frown
disapprobation; her little hands assiduously ply their unpretending task; if
she can only get this purse finished, or this bonnet-grec completed, it is
enough for her. If gentlemen approach her chair, a deeper quiescence, a mee=
ker
modesty settles on her features, and clothes her general mien; observe then=
her
eyebrows, et dites-moi s'il n'y a pas du chat dans l'un et du renard dans
l'autre.’
‘I will take careful notice =
the
first opportunity,’ said I.
‘And then,’ continued =
M.
Pelet, ‘the eyelid will flicker, the light-coloured lashes be lifted a
second, and a blue eye, glancing out from under the screen, will take its
brief, sly, searching survey, and retreat again.’
I smiled, and so did Pelet, and af=
ter
a few minutes' silence, I asked:
‘Will she ever marry, do you
think?’
‘Marry! Will birds pair? Of
course it is both her intention and resolution to marry when she finds a
suitable match, and no one is better aware than herself of the sort of
impression she is capable of producing; no one likes better to captivate in=
a
quiet way. I am mistaken if she will not yet leave the print of her stealing
steps on thy heart, Crimsworth.’
‘Of her steps? Confound it, =
no!
My heart is not a plank to be walked on.’
‘But the soft touch of a pat=
te
de velours will do it no harm.’
‘She offers me no patte de
velours; she is all form and reserve with me.’
‘That to begin with; let res=
pect
be the foundation, affection the first floor, love the superstructure; Mdll=
e.
Reuter is a skilful architect.’
‘And interest, M. Pelet - in=
terest.
Will not mademoiselle consider that point?’
‘Yes, yes, no doubt; it will=
be
the cement between every stone. And now we have discussed the directress, w=
hat
of the pupils? N'y-a-t-il=
pas
de belles etudes parmi ces jeunes tetes?’
‘Studies of character? Yes;
curious ones, at least, I imagine; but one cannot divine much from a first
interview.’
‘Ah, you affect discretion; =
but
tell me now, were you not a little abashed before these blooming young
creatures?
‘At first, yes; but I rallied
and got through with all due sang-froid.’
‘I don't believe you.’=
‘It is true, notwithstanding=
. At
first I thought them angels, but they did not leave me long under that
delusion; three of the eldest and handsomest undertook the task of setting =
me
right, and they managed so cleverly that in five minutes I knew them, at le=
ast,
for what they were - three arrant coquettes.’
‘Je les connais!’
exclaimed M. Pelet. ‘Elles sont toujours au premier rang a l'eglise e=
t a
la promenade; une blonde superbe, une jolie espiegle, une belle brune.̵=
7;
‘Exactly.’
‘Lovely creatures all of the=
m - heads
for artists; what a group they would make, taken together! Eulalie (I know
their names), with her smooth braided hair and calm ivory brow. Hortense, w=
ith
her rich chesnut locks so luxuriantly knotted, plaited, twisted, as if she =
did
not know how to dispose of all their abundance, with her vermilion lips, da=
mask
cheek, and roguish laughing eye. And Caroline de Blemont! Ah, there is beau=
ty!
beauty in perfection. What a cloud of sable curls about the face of a houri!
What fascinating lips! What glorious black eyes! Your Byron would have
worshipped her, and you - you cold, frigid islander! - you played the auste=
re,
the insensible in the presence of an Aphrodite so exquisite?’
I might have laughed at the direct=
or's
enthusiasm had I believed it real, but there was something in his tone which
indicated got-up raptures. I felt he was only affecting fervour in order to=
put
me off my guard, to induce me to come out in return, so I scarcely even smi=
led.
He went on:
‘Confess, William, do not the
mere good looks of Zoraide Reuter appear dowdyish and commonplace compared =
with
the splendid charms of some of her pupils?’
The question discomposed me, but I=
now
felt plainly that my principal was endeavouring (for reasons best known to
himself - at that time I could not fathom them) to excite ideas and wishes =
in
my mind alien to what was right and honourable. The iniquity of the instiga=
tion
proved its antidote, and when he further added: -
‘Each of those three beautif=
ul
girls will have a handsome fortune; and with a little address, a gentlemanl=
ike,
intelligent young fellow like you might make himself master of the hand, he=
art,
and purse of any one of the trio.’
I replied by a look and an
interrogative ‘Monsieur?’ which startled him.
He laughed a forced laugh, affirmed
that he had only been joking, and demanded whether I could possibly have
thought him in earnest. Just then the bell rang; the play-hour was over; it=
was
an evening on which M. Pelet was accustomed to read passages from the drama=
and
the belles lettres to his pupils. He did not wait for my answer, but rising,
left the room, humming as he went some gay strain of Beranger's.
DAILY, as I continued my attendanc=
e at
the seminary of Mdlle. Reuter, did I find fresh occasions to compare the id=
eal
with the real. What had I known of female character previously to my arriva=
l at
Brussels? Precious little. And what was my notion of it? Something vague,
slight, gauzy, glittering; now when I came in contact with it I found it to=
be
a palpable substance enough; very hard too sometimes, and often heavy; there
was metal in it, both lead and iron.
Let the idealists, the dreamers ab=
out
earthly angel and human flowers, just look here while I open my portfolio a=
nd
show them a sketch or two, pencilled after nature. I took these sketches in=
the
second-class schoolroom of Mdlle. Reuter's establishment, where about a hun=
dred
specimens of the genus ‘jeune fille’ collected together, offere=
d a
fertile variety of subject. A miscellaneous assortment they were, differing
both in caste and country; as I sat on my estrade and glanced over the long
range of desks, I had under my eye French, English, Belgians, Austrians, and
Prussians. The majority belonged to the class bourgeois; but there were many
countesses, there were the daughters of two generals and of several colonel=
s,
captains, and government EMPLOYES; these ladies sat side by side with young
females destined to be demoiselles de magasins, and with some Flamandes,
genuine aborigines of the country. In dress all were nearly similar, and in
manners there was small difference; exceptions there were to the general ru=
le,
but the majority gave the tone to the establishment, and that tone was roug=
h,
boisterous, masked by a point-blank disregard of all forbearance towards ea=
ch
other or their teachers; an eager pursuit by each individual of her own
interest and convenience; and a coarse indifference to the interest and
convenience of every one else. Most of them could lie with audacity when it
appeared advantageous to do so. All understood the art of speaking fair whe=
n a
point was to be gained, and could with consummate skill and at a moment's
notice turn the cold shoulder the instant civility ceased to be profitable.
Very little open quarrelling ever took place amongst them; but backbiting a=
nd
talebearing were universal. Close friendships were forbidden by the rules of
the school, and no one girl seemed to cultivate more regard for another than
was just necessary to secure a companion when solitude would have been irks=
ome.
They were each and all supposed to have been reared in utter unconsciousnes=
s of
vice. The precautions used to keep them ignorant, if not innocent, were
innumerable. How was it, then, that scarcely one of those girls having atta=
ined
the age of fourteen could look a man in the face with modesty and propriety=
? An
air of bold, impudent flirtation, or a loose, silly leer, was sure to answer
the most ordinary glance from a masculine eye. I know nothing of the arcana=
of
the Roman Catholic religion, and I am not a bigot in matters of theology, b=
ut I
suspect the root of this precocious impurity, so obvious, so general in Pop=
ish
countries, is to be found in the discipline, if not the doctrines of the Ch=
urch
of Rome. I record what I have seen: these girls belonged to what are called=
the
respectable ranks of society; they had all been carefully brought up, yet w=
as
the mass of them mentally depraved. So much for the general view: now for o=
ne
or two selected specimens.
The first picture is a full length=
of
Aurelia Koslow, a German fraulein, or rather a half-breed between German and
Russian. She is eighteen years of age, and has been sent to Brussels to fin=
ish
her education; she is of middle size, stiffly made, body long, legs short, =
bust
much developed but not compactly moulded, waist disproportionately compress=
ed
by an inhumanly braced corset, dress carefully arranged, large feet tortured
into small bottines, head small, hair smoothed, braided, oiled, and gummed =
to
perfection; very low forehead, very diminutive and vindictive grey eyes,
somewhat Tartar features, rather flat nose, rather high-cheek bones, yet the
ensemble not positively ugly; tolerably good complexion. So much for person=
. As
to mind, deplorably ignorant and ill-informed: incapable of writing or spea=
king
correctly even German, her native tongue, a dunce in French, and her attemp=
ts
at learning English a mere farce, yet she has been at school twelve years; =
but
as she invariably gets her exercises, of every description, done by a fellow
pupil, and reads her lessons off a book; concealed in her lap, it is not
wonderful that her progress has been so snail-like. I do not know what
Aurelia's daily habits of life are, because I have not the opportunity of
observing her at all times; but from what I see of the state of her desk,
books, and papers, I should say she is slovenly and even dirty; her outward
dress, as I have said, is well attended to, but in passing behind her bench=
, I
have remarked that her neck is gray for want of washing, and her hair, so
glossy with gum and grease, is not such as one feels tempted to pass the ha=
nd
over, much less to run the fingers through. Aurelia's conduct in class, at
least when I am present, is something extraordinary, considered as an index=
of
girlish innocence. The moment I enter the room, she nudges her next neighbo=
ur
and indulges in a half-suppressed laugh. As I take my seat on the estrade, =
she
fixes her eye on me; she seems resolved to attract, and, if possible,
monopolize my notice: to this end she launches at me all sorts of looks,
languishing, provoking, leering, laughing. As I am found quite proof against
this sort of artillery - for we scorn what, unasked, is lavishly offered - she has recourse to the expedient=
of
making noises; sometimes she sighs, sometimes groans, sometimes utters
inarticulate sounds, for which language has no name. If, in walking up the
schoolroom, I pass near her, she puts out her foot that it may touch mine; =
if I
do not happen to observe the manoeuvre, and my boot comes in contact with h=
er
brodequin, she affects to fall into convulsions of suppressed laughter; if I
notice the snare and avoid it, she expresses her mortification in sullen
muttering, where I hear myself abused in bad French, pronounced with an
intolerable Low German accent.
Not far from Mdlle. Koslow sits
another young lady by name Adele Dronsart: this is a Belgian, rather low of
stature, in form heavy, with broad waist, short neck and limbs, good red and
white complexion, features well chiselled and regular, well-cut eyes of a c=
lear
brown colour, light brown hair, good teeth, age not much above fifteen, but=
as
full-grown as a stout young Englishwoman of twenty. This portrait gives the
idea of a somewhat dumpy but good-looking damsel, does it not? Well, when I
looked along the row of young heads, my eye generally stopped at this of
Adele's; her gaze was ever waiting for mine, and it frequently succeeded in
arresting it. She was an unnatural-looking being - so young, fresh, bloomin=
g,
yet so Gorgon-like. Suspicion, sullen ill-temper were on her forehead, vici=
ous
propensities in her eye, envy and panther-like deceit about her mouth. In
general she sat very still; her massive shape looked as if it could not bend
much, nor did her large head - so broad at the base, so narrow towards the =
top
- seem made to turn readily on her short neck. She had but two varieties of
expression; the prevalent one a forbidding, dissatisfied scowl, varied some=
times
by a most pernicious and perfidious smile. She was shunned by her
fellow-pupils, for, bad as many of them were, few were as bad as she.
Aurelia and Adele were in the first
division of the second class; the second division was headed by a pensionna=
ire
named Juanna Trista. This girl was of mixed Belgian and Spanish origin; her
Flemish mother was dead, her Catalonian father was a merchant residing in t=
he -&=
nbsp;
- Isles, where Juanna =
had
been born and whence she was sent to Europe to be educated. I wonder that a=
ny
one, looking at that girl's head and countenance, would have received her u=
nder
their roof. She had precisely the same shape of skull as Pope Alexander the
Sixth; her organs of benevolence, veneration, conscientiousness, adhesivene=
ss,
were singularly small, those of self-esteem, firmness, destructiveness,
combativeness, preposterously large; her head sloped up in the penthouse sh=
ape,
was contracted about the forehead, and prominent behind; she had rather goo=
d,
though large and marked features; her temperament was fibrous and bilious, =
her
complexion pale and dark, hair and eyes black, form angular and rigid but
proportionate, age fifteen.
Juanna was not very thin, but she =
had
a gaunt visage, and her ‘regard’ was fierce and hungry; narrow =
as
was her brow, it presented space enough for the legible graving of two word=
s,
Mutiny and Hate; in some one of her other lineaments I think the eye - cowa=
rdice
had also its distinct cipher. Mdlle. Trista thought fit to trouble my first
lessons with a coarse work-day sort of turbulence; she made noises with her
mouth like a horse, she ejected her saliva, she uttered brutal expressions;
behind and below her were seated a band of very vulgar, inferior-looking
Flamandes, including two or three examples of that deformity of person and
imbecility of intellect whose frequency in the Low Countries would seem to
furnish proof that the climate is such as to induce degeneracy of the human
mind and body; these, I soon found, were completely under her influence, and
with their aid she got up and sustained a swinish tumult, which I was
constrained at last to quell by ordering her and two of her tools to rise f=
rom
their seats, and, having kept them standing five minutes, turning them bodi=
ly
out of the schoolroom: the accomplices into a large place adjoining called =
the
grands salle; the principal into a cabinet, of which I closed the door and
pocketed the key. This judgment I executed in the presence of Mdlle. Reuter,
who looked much aghast at beholding so decided a proceeding - the most seve=
re
that had ever been ventured on in her establishment. Her look of affright I
answered with one of composure, and finally with a smile, which perhaps
flattered, and certainly soothed her. Juanna Trista remained in Europe long
enough to repay, by malevolence and ingratitude, all who had ever done her a
good turn; and she then went to join her father in the -&=
nbsp;
- Isles, exulting in t=
he
thought that she should there have slaves, whom, as she said, she could kick
and strike at will.
These three pictures are from the
life. I possess others, as marked and as little agreeable, but I will spare=
my
reader the exhibition of them.
Doubtless it will be thought that I
ought now, by way of contrast, to show something charming; some gentle virg=
in
head, circled with a halo, some sweet personification of innocence, clasping
the dove of peace to her bosom. No: I saw nothing of the sort, and therefore
cannot portray it. The pupil in the school possessing the happiest disposit=
ion
was a young girl from the country, Louise Path; she was sufficiently benevo=
lent
and obliging, but not well taught nor well mannered; moreover, the plague-s=
pot
of dissimulation was in her also; honour and principle were unknown to her,=
she
had scarcely heard their names. The least exceptionable pupil was the poor
little Sylvie I have mentioned once before. Sylvie was gentle in manners,
intelligent in mind; she was even sincere, as far as her religion would per=
mit
her to be so, but her physical organization was defective; weak health stun=
ted
her growth and chilled her spirits, and then, destined as she was for the
cloister, her whole soul was warped to a conventual bias, and in the tame,
trained subjection of her manner, one read that she had already prepared
herself for her future course of life, by giving up her independence of tho=
ught
and action into the hands of some despotic confessor. She permitted herself=
no
original opinion, no preference of companion or employment; in everything s=
he
was guided by another. With a pale, passive, automaton air, she went about =
all
day long doing what she was bid; never what she liked, or what, from innate
conviction, she thought it right to do. The poor little future religieuse h=
ad
been early taught to make the dictates of her own reason and conscience qui=
te
subordinate to the will of her spiritual director. She was the model pupil =
of
Mdlle. Reuter's establishment; pale, blighted image, where life lingered
feebly, but whence the soul had been conjured by Romish wizard-craft!
A few English pupils there were in
this school, and these might be divided into two classes. 1st. The continen=
tal
English - the daughters chiefly of broken adventurers, whom debt or dishono=
ur
had driven from their own country. These poor girls had never known the
advantages of settled homes, decorous example, or honest Protestant educati=
on;
resident a few months now in one Catholic school, now in another, as their
parents wandered from land to land - from France to Germany, from Germany to
Belgium - they had picked up =
some
scanty instruction, many bad habits, losing every notion even of the first
elements of religion and morals, and acquiring an imbecile indifference to
every sentiment that can elevate humanity; they were distinguishable by an
habitual look of sullen dejection, the result of crushed self-respect and
constant browbeating from their Popish fellow-pupils, who hated them as
English, and scorned them as heretics.
The second class were British Engl=
ish.
Of these I did not encounter half a dozen during the whole time of my
attendance at the seminary; their characteristics were clean but careless
dress, ill-arranged hair (compared with the tight and trim foreigners), ere=
ct
carriage, flexible figures, white and taper hands, features more irregular,=
but
also more intellectual than those of the Belgians, grave and modest
countenances, a general air of native propriety and decency; by this last
circumstance alone I could at a glance distinguish the daughter of Albion a=
nd
nursling of Protestantism from the foster-child of Rome, the PROTEGEE of Je=
suistry:
proud, too, was the aspect of these British girls; at once envied and ridic=
uled
by their continental associates, they warded off insult with austere civili=
ty,
and met hate with mute disdain; they eschewed company-keeping, and in the m=
idst
of numbers seemed to dwell isolated.
The teachers presiding over this m=
ixed
multitude were three in number, all French - their names Mdlles. Zephyrine,
Pelagie, and Suzette; the two last were commonplace personages enough; their
look was ordinary, their manner was ordinary, their temper was ordinary, th=
eir
thoughts, feelings, and views were all ordinary - were I to write a chapter on the
subject I could not elucidate it further. Zephyrine was somewhat more
distinguished in appearance and deportment than Pelagie and Suzette, but in
character genuine Parisian coquette, perfidious, mercenary, and dry-hearted=
. A
fourth maitresse I sometimes saw who seemed to come daily to teach needlewo=
rk,
or netting, or lace-mending, or some such flimsy art; but of her I never ha=
d more
than a passing glimpse, as she sat in the CARRE, with her frames and some d=
ozen
of the elder pupils about her, consequently I had no opportunity of studying
her character, or even of observing her person much; the latter, I remarked,
had a very English air for a maitresse, otherwise it was not striking; of
character I should think; she possessed but little, as her pupils seemed
constantly ‘en revolte’ against her authority. She did not resi=
de
in the house; her name, I think, was Mdlle. Henri.
Amidst this assemblage of all that=
was
insignificant and defective, much that was vicious and repulsive (by that l=
ast
epithet many would have described the two or three stiff, silent, decently
behaved, ill-dressed British girls), the sensible, sagacious, affable direc=
tress
shone like a steady star over a marsh full of Jack-o'-lanthorns; profoundly
aware of her superiority, she derived an inward bliss from that consciousne=
ss
which sustained her under all the care and responsibility inseparable from =
her
position; it kept her temper calm, her brow smooth, her manner tranquil. She
liked - as who would not? - on entering the school-room, to feel that her s=
ole
presence sufficed to diffuse that order and quiet which all the remonstranc=
es,
and even commands, of her underlings frequently failed to enforce; she like=
d to
stand in comparison, or rather - contrast, with those who surrounded her, a=
nd
to know that in personal as well as mental advantages, she bore away the
undisputed palm of preference - (the three teachers were all plain.) Her pu=
pils
she managed with such indulgence and address, taking always on herself the
office of recompenser and eulogist, and abandoning to her subalterns every
invidious task of blame and punishment, that they all regarded her with
deference, if not with affection; her teachers did not love her, but they
submitted because they were her inferiors in everything; the various masters
who attended her school were each and all in some way or other under her
influence; over one she had acquired power by her skilful management of his=
bad
temper; over another by little attentions to his petty caprices; a third she
had subdued by flattery; a fourth - a timid man - she kept in awe by a sort=
of
austere decision of mien; me, she still watched, still tried by the most
ingenious tests - she roved round me, baffled, yet persevering; I believe s=
he
thought I was like a smooth and bare precipice, which offered neither jutti=
ng
stone nor tree-root, nor tuft of grass to aid the climber. Now she flattered
with exquisite tact, now she moralized, now she tried how far I was accessi=
ble
to mercenary motives, then she disported on the brink of affection - knowing
that some men are won by weakness - anon, she talked excellent sense, aware
that others have the folly to admire judgment. I found it at once pleasant =
and
easy to evade all these efforts; it was sweet, when she thought me nearly w=
on,
to turn round and to smile in her very eyes, half scornfully, and then to
witness her scarcely veiled, though mute mortification. Still she persevere=
d,
and at last, I am bound to confess it, her finger, essaying, proving every =
atom
of the casket, touched its secret spring, and for a moment the lid sprung o=
pen;
she laid her hand on the jewel within; whether she stole and broke it, or w=
hether
the lid shut again with a snap on her fingers, read on, and you shall know.=
It happened that I came one day to
give a lesson when I was indisposed; I had a bad cold and a cough; two hour=
s'
incessant talking left me very hoarse and tired; as I quitted the schoolroo=
m,
and was passing along the corridor, I met Mdlle. Reuter; she remarked, with=
an
anxious air, that I looked very pale and tired. ‘Yes,’ I said, =
‘I
was fatigued;’ and then, with increased interest, she rejoined, ̵=
6;You
shall not go away till you have had some refreshment.’ She persuaded =
me
to step into the parlour, and was very kind and gentle while I stayed. The =
next
day she was kinder still; she came herself into the class to see that the
windows were closed, and that there was no draught; she exhorted me with
friendly earnestness not to over-exert myself; when I went away, she gave me
her hand unasked, and I could not but mark, by a respectful and gentle
pressure, that I was sensible of the favour, and grateful for it. My modest
demonstration kindled a little merry smile on her countenance; I thought her
almost charming. During the remainder of the evening, my mind was full of
impatience for the afternoon of the next day to arrive, that I might see her
again.
I was not disappointed, for she sa=
t in
the class during the whole of my subsequent lesson, and often looked at me
almost with affection. At four o'clock she accompanied me out of the
schoolroom, asking with solicitude after my health, then scolding me sweetly
because I spoke too loud and gave myself too much trouble; I stopped at the
glass-door which led into the garden, to hear her lecture to the end; the d=
oor
was open, it was a very fine day, and while I listened to the soothing
reprimand, I looked at the sunshine and flowers, and felt very happy. The
day-scholars began to pour from the schoolrooms into the passage.
‘Will you go into the garden=
a
minute or two,’ asked she, ‘till they are gone?’
I descended the steps without
answering, but I looked back as much as to say -
‘You will come with me?̵=
7;
In another minute I and the direct=
ress
were walking side by side down the alley bordered with fruit-trees, whose w=
hite
blossoms were then in full blow as well as their tender green leaves. The s=
ky
was blue, the air still, the May afternoon was full of brightness and
fragrance. Released from the stifling class, surrounded with flowers and
foliage, with a pleasing, smiling, affable woman at my side - how did I fee=
l?
Why, very enviably. It seemed as if the romantic visions my imagination had
suggested of this garden, while it was yet hidden from me by the jealous
boards, were more than realized; and, when a turn in the alley shut out the
view of the house, and some tall shrubs excluded M. Pelet's mansion, and
screened us momentarily from the other houses, rising amphitheatre-like rou=
nd
this green spot, I gave my arm to Mdlle. Reuter, and led her to a garden-ch=
air,
nestled under some lilacs near. She sat down; I took my place at her side. =
She
went on talking to me with that ease which communicates ease, and, as I
listened, a revelation dawned in my mind that I was on the brink of falling=
in
love. The dinner-bell rang, both at her house and M. Pelet's; we were oblig=
ed
to part; I detained her a moment as she was moving away.
‘I want something,’ sa=
id
I.
‘What?’ asked Zoraide
naively.
‘Only a flower.’
‘Gather it then - or two, or
twenty, if you like.’
‘No - one will do-but you mu=
st
gather it, and give it to me.’
‘What a caprice!’ she
exclaimed, but she raised herself on her tip-toes, and, plucking a beautiful
branch of lilac, offered it to me with grace. I took it, and went away,
satisfied for the present, and hopeful for the future.
Certainly that May day was a lovely
one, and it closed in moonlight night of summer warmth and serenity. I reme=
mber
this well; for, having sat up late that evening, correcting devoirs, and
feeling weary and a little oppressed with the closeness of my small room, I
opened the often-mentioned boarded window, whose boards, however, I had
persuaded old Madame Pelet to have removed since I had filled the post of
professor in the pensionnat de demoiselles, as, from that time, it was no
longer ‘inconvenient’ for me to overlook my own pupils at their
sports. I sat down in the window-seat, rested my arm on the sill, and leaned
out: above me was the clear-obscure of a cloudless night sky - splendid moonlight subdued the
tremulous sparkle of the stars - below
lay the garden, varied with silvery lustre and deep shade, and all fresh wi=
th
dew - a grateful perfume exhaled from the closed blossoms of the fruit-tree=
s - not
a leaf stirred, the night was breezeless. My window looked directly down up=
on a
certain walk of Mdlle. Reuter's garden, called ‘l'allee defendue,R=
17;
so named because the pupils were forbidden to enter it on account of its pr=
oximity
to the boys' school. It was here that the lilacs and laburnums grew especia=
lly
thick; this was the most sheltered nook in the enclosure, its shrubs screen=
ed
the garden-chair where that afternoon I had sat with the young directress. I
need not say that my thoughts were chiefly with her as I leaned from the
lattice, and let my eye roam, now over the walks and borders of the garden,=
now
along the many-windowed front of the house which rose white beyond the mass=
es
of foliage. I wondered in what part of the building was situated her apartm=
ent;
and a single light, shining through the persiennes of one croisee, seemed to
direct me to it.
‘She watches late,’
thought I, ‘for it must be now near midnight. She is a fascinating li=
ttle
woman,’ I continued in voiceless soliloquy; ‘her image forms a
pleasant picture in memory; I know she is not what the world calls pretty -=
no
matter, there is harmony in her aspect, and I like it; her brown hair, her =
blue
eye, the freshness of her cheek, the whiteness of her neck, all suit my tas=
te.
Then I respect her talent; the idea of marrying a doll or a fool was always
abhorrent to me: I know that a pretty doll, a fair fool, might do well enou=
gh
for the honeymoon; but when passion cooled, how dreadful to find a lump of =
wax
and wood laid in my bosom, a half idiot clasped in my arms, and to remember
that I had made of this my equal - nay, my idol - to know that I must pass =
the
rest of my dreary life with a creature incapable of understanding what I sa=
id,
of appreciating what I thought, or of sympathizing with what I felt! ‘=
;Now,
Zoraide Reuter,’ thought I, ‘has tact, CARACTERE, judgment,
discretion; has she heart? What a good, simple little smile played about her
lips when she gave me the branch of lilacs! I have thought her crafty, diss=
embling,
interested sometimes, it is true; but may not much that looks like cunning =
and
dissimulation in her conduct be only the efforts made by a bland temper to
traverse quietly perplexing difficulties? And as to interest, she wishes to
make her way in the world, no doubt, and who can blame her? Even if she be
truly deficient in sound principle, is it not rather her misfortune than her
fault? She has been brought up a Catholic: had she been born an Englishwoma=
n,
and reared a Protestant, might she not have added straight integrity to all=
her
other excellences? Supposing she were to marry an English and Protestant
husband, would she not, rational, sensible as she is, quickly acknowledge t=
he
superiority of right over expediency, honesty over policy? It would be wort=
h a
man's while to try the experiment; to-morrow I will renew my observations. =
She
knows that I watch her: how calm she is under scrutiny! it seems rather to
gratify than annoy her.’ Here a strain of music stole in upon my
monologue, and suspended it; it was a bugle, very skilfully played, in the
neighbourhood of the park, I thought, or on the Place Royale. So sweet were=
the
tones, so subduing their effect at that hour, in the midst of silence and u=
nder
the quiet reign of moonlight, I ceased to think, that I might listen more
intently. The strain retreated, its sound waxed fainter and was soon gone; =
my
ear prepared to repose on the absolute hush of midnight once more. No. What
murmur was that which, low, and yet near and approaching nearer, frustrated=
the
expectation of total silence? It was some one conversing - yes, evidently, =
an
audible, though subdued voice spoke in the garden immediately below me. Ano=
ther
answered; the first voice was that of a man, the second that of a woman; an=
d a
man and a woman I saw coming slowly down the alley. Their forms were at fir=
st
in shade, I could but discern a dusk outline of each, but a ray of moonlight
met them at the termination of the walk, when they were under my very nose,=
and
revealed very plainly, very unequivocally, Mdlle. Zoraide Reuter, arm-in-ar=
m,
or hand-in-hand (I forget which) with my principal, confidant, and counsell=
or,
M. Francois Pelet. And M. Pelet was saying -
‘A quand donc le jour des no=
ces,
ma bien-aimee?’
And Mdlle. Reuter answered -
‘Mais, Francois, tu sais bien
qu'il me serait impossible de me marier avant les vacances.’
‘June, July, August, a whole
quarter!’ exclaimed the director. ‘How can I wait so long? - I =
who
am ready, even now, to expire at your feet with impatience!’
‘Ah! if you die, the whole
affair will be settled without any trouble about notaries and contracts; I
shall only have to order a slight mourning dress, which will be much sooner
prepared than the nuptial trousseau.’
‘Cruel Zoraide! you laugh at=
the
distress of one who loves you so devotedly as I do: my torment is your spor=
t;
you scruple not to stretch my soul on the rack of jealousy; for, deny it as=
you
will, I am certain you have cast encouraging glances on that school-boy,
Crimsworth; he has presumed to fall in love, which he dared not have done
unless you had given him room to hope.’
‘What do you say, Francois? =
Do
you say Crimsworth is in love with me?’
‘Over head and ears.’ =
‘Has he told you so?’ =
‘No - but I see it in his fa=
ce:
he blushes whenever your name is mentioned.’ A little laugh of exulti=
ng
coquetry announced Mdlle. Reuter's gratification at this piece of intellige=
nce
(which was a lie, by-the-by - I had never been so far gone as that, after a=
ll).
M. Pelet proceeded to ask what she intended to do with me, intimating pretty
plainly, and not very gallantly, that it was nonsense for her to think of
taking such a ‘blanc-bec’ as a husband, since she must be at le=
ast
ten years older than I (was she then thirty-two? I should not have thought =
it).
I heard her disclaim any intentions on the subject - the director, however,
still pressed her to give a definite answer.
‘Francois,’ said she, =
‘you
are jealous,’ and still she laughed; then, as if suddenly recollecting
that this coquetry was not consistent with the character for modest dignity=
she
wished to establish, she proceeded, in a demure voice: ‘Truly, my dear
Francois, I will not deny that this young Englishman may have made some
attempts to ingratiate himself with me; but, so far from giving him any
encouragement, I have always treated him with as much reserve as it was
possible to combine with civility; affianced as I am to you, I would give no
man false hopes; believe me, dear friend.’ Still Pelet uttered murmur=
s of
distrust - so I judged, at least, from her reply.
‘What folly! How could I pre=
fer
an unknown foreigner to you? And then - not to flatter your vanity - Crimsw=
orth
could not bear comparison with you either physically or mentally; he is not=
a
handsome man at all; some may call him gentleman-like and intelligent-looki=
ng,
but for my part - ’
The rest of the sentence was lost =
in
the distance, as the pair, rising from the chair in which they had been sea=
ted,
moved away. I waited their return, but soon the opening and shutting of a d=
oor
informed me that they had re-entered the house; I listened a little longer,=
all
was perfectly still; I listened more than an hour - at last I heard M. Pelet
come in and ascend to his chamber. Glancing once more towards the long fron=
t of
the garden-house, I perceived that its solitary light was at length
extinguished; so, for a time, was my faith in love and friendship. I went to
bed, but something feverish and fiery had got into my veins which prevented=
me
from sleeping much that night.
NEXT morning I rose with the dawn,=
and
having dressed myself and stood half-an-hour, my elbow leaning on the chest=
of
drawers, considering what means I should adopt to restore my spirits, fagged
with sleeplessness, to their ordinary tone - for I had no intention of gett=
ing
up a scene with M. Pelet, reproaching him with perfidy, sending him a
challenge, or performing other gambadoes of the sort - I hit at last on the
expedient of walking out in the cool of the morning to a neighbouring
establishment of baths, and treating myself to a bracing plunge. The remedy
produced the desired effect. I came back at seven o'clock steadied and
invigorated, and was able to greet M. Pelet, when he entered to breakfast, =
with
an unchanged and tranquil countenance; even a cordial offering of the hand =
and
the flattering appellation of ‘mon fils,’ pronounced in that
caressing tone with which Monsieur had, of late days especially, been
accustomed to address me, did not elicit any external sign of the feeling
which, though subdued, still glowed at my heart. Not that I nursed vengeanc=
e - no;
but the sense of insult and treachery lived in me like a kindling, though as
yet smothered coal. God knows I am not by nature vindictive; I would not hu=
rt a
man because I can no longer trust or like him; but neither my reason nor
feelings are of the vacillating order - they are not of that sand-like sort
where impressions, if soon made, are as soon effaced. Once convinced that my
friend's disposition is incompatible with my own, once assured that he is
indelibly stained with certain defects obnoxious to my principles, and I
dissolve the connection. I did so with Edward. As to Pelet, the discovery w=
as
yet new; should I act thus with him? It was the question I placed before my
mind as I stirred my cup of coffee with a half-pistolet (we never had spoon=
s),
Pelet meantime being seated opposite, his pallid face looking as knowing and
more haggard than usual, his blue eye turned, now sternly on his boys and
ushers, and now graciously on me.
‘Circumstances must guide me=
,’
said I; and meeting Pelet's false glance and insinuating smile, I thanked
heaven that I had last night opened my window and read by the light of a fu=
ll
moon the true meaning of that guileful countenance. I felt half his master,
because the reality of his nature was now known to me; smile and flatter as=
he
would, I saw his soul lurk behind his smile, and heard in every one of his
smooth phrases a voice interpreting their treacherous import.
But Zoraide Reuter? Of course her
defection had cut me to the quick? That stint; must have gone too deep for =
any
consolations of philosophy to be available in curing its smart? Not at all.=
The
night fever over, I looked about for balm to that wound also, and found some
nearer home than at Gilead. Reason was my physician; she began by proving t=
hat
the prize I had missed was of little value: she admitted that, physically,
Zoraide might have suited me, but affirmed that our souls were not in harmo=
ny,
and that discord must have resulted from the union of her mind with mine. S=
he
then insisted on the suppression of all repining, and commanded me rather to
rejoice that I had escaped a snare. Her medicament did me good. I felt its
strengthening effect when I met the directress the next day; its stringent
operation on the nerves suffered no trembling, no faltering; it enabled me =
to
face her with firmness, to pass her with ease. She had held out her hand to=
me
- that I did not choose to see. She had greeted me with a charming smile - =
it
fell on my heart like light on stone. I passed on to the estrade, she follo=
wed
me; her eye, fastened on my face, demanded of every feature the meaning of =
my
changed and careless manner. ‘I will give her an answer,’ thoug=
ht
I; and, meeting her gaze full, arresting, fixing her glance, I shot into her
eyes, from my own, a look, where there was no respect, no love, no tenderne=
ss,
no gallantry; where the strictest analysis could detect nothing but scorn,
hardihood, irony. I made her bear it, and feel it; her steady countenance d=
id
not change, but her colour rose, and she approached me as if fascinated. She
stepped on to the estrade, and stood close by my side; she had nothing to s=
ay.
I would not relieve her embarrassment, and negligently turned over the leav=
es
of a book.
‘I hope you feel quite recov=
ered
to-day,’ at last she said, in a low tone.
‘And I, mademoiselle, hope t=
hat
you took no cold last night in consequence of your late walk in the garden.=
’
Quick enough of comprehension, she
understood me directly; her face became a little blanched - a very little -=
but
no muscle in her rather marked features moved; and, calm and self-possessed,
she retired from the estrade, taking her seat quietly at a little distance,=
and
occupying herself with netting a purse. I proceeded to give my lesson; it w=
as a
‘Composition,’ i.e., I dictated certain general questions, of w=
hich
the pupils were to compose the answers from memory, access to books being
forbidden. While Mdlle. Eulalie, Hortense, Caroline, &c., were pondering
over the string of rather abstruse grammatical interrogatories I had
propounded, I was at liberty to employ the vacant half hour in further
observing the directress herself. The green silk purse was progressing fast=
in
her hands; her eyes were bent upon it; her attitude, as she sat netting wit=
hin
two yards of me, was still yet guarded; in her whole person were expressed =
at
once, and with equal clearness, vigilance and repose - a rare union! Lookin=
g at
her, I was forced, as I had often been before, to offer her good sense, her
wondrous self-control, the tribute of involuntary admiration. She had felt =
that
I had withdrawn from her my esteem; she had seen contempt and coldness in my
eye, and to her, who coveted the approbation of all around her, who thirsted
after universal good opinion, such discovery must have been an acute wound.=
I
had witnessed its effect in the momentary pallor of her cheek-cheek unused =
to
vary; yet how quickly, by dint of self-control, had she recovered her
composure! With what quiet dignity she now sat, almost at my side, sustaine=
d by
her sound and vigorous sense; no trembling in her somewhat lengthened, thou=
gh
shrewd upper lip, no coward shame on her austere forehead!
‘There is metal there,’=
; I
said, as I gazed. ‘Would that there were fire also, living ardour to =
make
the steel glow - then I could love her.’
Presently I discovered that she kn=
ew I
was watching her, for she stirred not, she lifted not her crafty eyelid; she
had glanced down from her netting to her small foot, peeping from the soft
folds of her purple merino gown; thence her eye reverted to her hand, ivory
white, with a bright garnet ring on the forefinger, and a light frill of la=
ce
round the wrist; with a scarcely perceptible movement she turned her head,
causing her nut-brown curls to wave gracefully. In these slight signs I rea=
d that
the wish of her heart, the design of her brain, was to lure back the game s=
he
had scared. A little incident gave her the opportunity of addressing me aga=
in.
While all was silence in the class=
- silence,
but for the rustling of copy-books and the travelling of pens over their pa=
ges
- a leaf of the large folding-door, opening from the hall, unclosed, admitt=
ing
a pupil who, after making a hasty obeisance, ensconced herself with some
appearance of trepidation, probably occasioned by her entering so late, in a
vacant seat at the desk nearest the door. Being seated, she proceeded, still
with an air of hurry and embarrassment, to open her cabas, to take out her
books; and, while I was waiting for her to look up, in order to make out her
identity - for, shortsighted as I was, I had not recognized her at her entr=
ance
- Mdlle. Reuter, leaving her chair, approached the estrade.
‘Monsieur Creemsvort,’
said she, in a whisper: for when the schoolrooms were silent, the directress
always moved with velvet tread, and spoke in the most subdued key, enforcing
order and stillness fully as much by example as precept: ‘Monsieur
Creemsvort, that young person, who has just entered, wishes to have the
advantage of taking lessons with you in English; she is not a pupil of the
house; she is, indeed, in one sense, a teacher, for she gives instruction in
lace-mending, and in little varieties of ornamental needle-work. She very
properly proposes to qualify herself for a higher department of education, =
and
has asked permission to attend your lessons, in order to perfect her knowle=
dge
of English, in which language she has, I believe, already made some progres=
s;
of course it is my wish to aid her in an effort so praiseworthy; you will
permit her then to benefit by your instruction - n'est ce pas, monsieur?=
217;
And Mdlle. Reuter's eyes were raised to mine with a look at once naive, ben=
ign,
and beseeching.
I replied, ‘Of course,’
very laconically, almost abruptly.
‘Another word,’ she sa=
id,
with softness: ‘Mdlle. Henri has not received a regular education;
perhaps her natural talents are not of the highest order: but I can assure =
you
of the excellence of her intentions, and even of the amiability of her
disposition. Monsieur will then, I am sure, have the goodness to be conside=
rate
with her at first, and not expose her backwardness, her inevitable
deficiencies, before the young ladies, who, in a sense, are her pupils. Will
Monsieur Creemsvort favour me by attending to this hint?’ I nodded. S=
he
continued with subdued earnestness -
‘Pardon me, monsieur, if I
venture to add that what I have just said is of importance to the poor girl;
she already experiences great difficulty in impressing these giddy young th=
ings
with a due degree of deference for her authority, and should that difficult=
y be
increased by new discoveries of her incapacity, she might find her position=
in
my establishment too painful to be retained; a circumstance I should much
regret for her sake, as she can ill afford to lose the profits of her
occupation here.’
Mdlle. Reuter possessed marvellous
tact; but tact the most exclusive, unsupported by sincerity, will sometimes
fail of its effect; thus, on this occasion, the longer she preached about t=
he
necessity of being indulgent to the governess pupil, the more impatient I f=
elt
as I listened. I discerned so clearly that while her professed motive was a
wish to aid the dull, though well-meaning Mdlle. Henri, her real one was no
other than a design to impress me with an idea of her own exalted goodness =
and
tender considerateness; so having again hastily nodded assent to her remark=
s, I
obviated their renewal by suddenly demanding the compositions, in a sharp
accent, and stepping from the estrade, I proceeded to collect them. As I pa=
ssed
the governess-pupil, I said to her -
‘You have come in too late to
receive a lesson to-day; try to be more punctual next time.’
I was behind her, and could not re=
ad
in her face the effect of my not very civil speech. Probably I should not h=
ave
troubled myself to do so, had I been full in front; but I observed that she
immediately began to slip her books into her cabas again; and, presently, a=
fter
I had returned to the estrade, while I was arranging the mass of compositio=
ns,
I heard the folding-door again open and close; and, on looking up, I percei=
ved
her place vacant. I thought to myself, ‘She will consider her first
attempt at taking a lesson in English something of a failure;’ and I
wondered whether she had departed in the sulks, or whether stupidity had
induced her to take my words too literally, or, finally, whether my irritab=
le
tone had wounded her feelings. The last notion I dismissed almost as soon a=
s I
had conceived it, for not having seen any appearance of sensitiveness in any
human face since my arrival in Belgium, I had begun to regard it almost as a
fabulous quality. Whether her physiognomy announced it I could not tell, for
her speedy exit had allowed me no time to ascertain the circumstance. I had,
indeed, on two or three previous occasions, caught a passing view of her (a=
s I
believe has been mentioned before); but I had never stopped to scrutinize
either her face or person, and had but the most vague idea of her general
appearance. Just as I had finished rolling up the compositions, the four
o'clock bell rang; with my accustomed alertness in obeying that signal, I
grasped my hat and evacuated the premises.
IF I was punctual in quitting Mdll=
e.
Reuter's domicile, I was at least equally punctual in arriving there; I came
the next day at five minutes before two, and on reaching the schoolroom doo=
r,
before I opened it, I heard a rapid, gabbling sound, which warned me that t=
he ‘priere
du midi’ was not yet concluded. I waited the termination thereof; it
would have been impious to intrude my heretical presence during its progres=
s.
How the repeater of the prayer did cackle and splutter! I never before or s=
ince
heard language enounced with such steam-engine haste. ‘Notre Pere qui
etes au ciel’ went off like a shot; then followed an address to Marie=
‘vierge
celeste, reine des anges, maison d'or, tour d'ivoire!’ and then an
invocation to the saint of the day; and then down they all sat, and the sol=
emn
(?) rite was over; and I entered, flinging the door wide and striding in fa=
st,
as it was my wont to do now; for I had found that in entering with aplomb, =
and
mounting the estrade with emphasis, consisted the grand secret of ensuring
immediate silence. The folding-doors between the two classes, opened for the
prayer, were instantly closed; a maitresse, work-box in hand, took her seat=
at
her appropriate desk; the pupils sat still with their pens and books before
them; my three beauties in the van, now well humbled by a demeanour of
consistent coolness, sat erect with their hands folded quietly on their kne=
es;
they had given up giggling and whispering to each other, and no longer vent=
ured
to utter pert speeches in my presence; they now only talked to me occasiona=
lly
with their eyes, by means of which organs they could still, however, say ve=
ry
audacious and coquettish things. Had affection, goodness, modesty, real tal=
ent,
ever employed those bright orbs as interpreters, I do not think I could have
refrained from giving a kind and encouraging, perhaps an ardent reply now a=
nd
then; but as it was, I found pleasure in answering the glance of vanity with
the gaze of stoicism. Youthful, fair, brilliant, as were many of my pupils,=
I
can truly say that in me they never saw any other bearing than such as an
austere, though just guardian, might have observed towards them. If any dou=
bt
the accuracy of this assertion, as inferring more conscientious self-denial=
or
Scipio-like self-control than they feel disposed to give me credit for, let
them take into consideration the following circumstances, which, while
detracting from my merit, justify my veracity.
Know, O incredulous reader! that a
master stands in a somewhat different relation towards a pretty, light-head=
ed,
probably ignorant girl, to that occupied by a partner at a ball, or a galla=
nt
on the promenade. A professor does not meet his pupil to see her dressed in
satin and muslin, with hair perfumed and curled, neck scarcely shaded by ae=
rial
lace, round white arms circled with bracelets, feet dressed for the gliding
dance. It is not his business to whirl her through the waltz, to feed her w=
ith
compliments, to heighten her beauty by the flush of gratified vanity. Neith=
er
does he encounter her on the smooth-rolled, tree shaded Boulevard, in the g=
reen
and sunny park, whither she repairs clad in her becoming walking dress, her
scarf thrown with grace over her shoulders, her little bonnet scarcely
screening her curls, the red rose under its brim adding a new tint to the
softer rose on her cheek; her face and eyes, too, illumined with smiles,
perhaps as transient as the sunshine of the gala-day, but also quite as
brilliant; it is not his office to walk by her side, to listen to her lively
chat, to carry her parasol, scarcely larger than a broad green leaf, to lea=
d in
a ribbon her Blenheim spaniel or Italian greyhound. No: he finds her in the
schoolroom, plainly dressed, with books before her. Owing to her education =
or
her nature books are to her a nuisance, and she opens them with aversion, y=
et
her teacher must instil into her mind the contents of these books; that mind
resists the admission of grave information, it recoils, it grows restive,
sullen tempers are shown, disfiguring frowns spoil the symmetry of the face,
sometimes coarse gestures banish grace from the deportment, while muttered
expressions, redolent of native and ineradicable vulgarity, desecrate the
sweetness of the voice. Where the temperament is serene though the intellec=
t be
sluggish, an unconquerable dullness opposes every effort to instruct. Where
there is cunning but not energy, dissimulation, falsehood, a thousand schem=
es
and tricks are put in play to evade the necessity of application; in short,=
to
the tutor, female youth, female charms are like tapestry hangings, of which=
the
wrong side is continually turned towards him; and even when he sees the smo=
oth,
neat external surface he so well knows what knots, long stitches, and jagged
ends are behind that he has scarce a temptation to admire too fondly the se=
emly
forms and bright colours exposed to general view.
Our likings are regulated by our
circumstances. The artist prefers a hilly country because it is picturesque;
the engineer a flat one because it is convenient; the man of pleasure likes
what he calls ‘a fine woman’ - she suits him; the fashionable y=
oung
gentleman admires the fashionable young lady - she is of his kind; the
toil-worn, fagged, probably irritable tutor, blind almost to beauty, insens=
ible
to airs and graces, glories chiefly in certain mental qualities: applicatio=
n,
love of knowledge, natural capacity, docility, truthfulness, gratefulness, =
are
the charms that attract his notice and win his regard. These he seeks, but
seldom meets; these, if by chance he finds, he would fain retain for ever, =
and
when separation deprives him of them he feels as if some ruthless hand had
snatched from him his only ewe-lamb. Such being the case, and the case it i=
s,
my readers will agree with me that there was nothing either very meritoriou=
s or
very marvellous in the integrity and moderation of my conduct at Mdlle.
Reuter's pensionnat de demoiselles.
My first business this afternoon
consisted in reading the list of places for the month, determined by the
relative correctness of the compositions given the preceding day. The list =
was
headed, as usual, by the name of Sylvie, that plain, quiet little girl I ha=
ve
described before as being at once the best and ugliest pupil in the
establishment; the second place had fallen to the lot of a certain Leonie
Ledru, a diminutive, sharp-featured, and parchment-skinned creature of quick
wits, frail conscience, and indurated feelings; a lawyer-like thing, of who=
m I
used to say that, had she been a boy, she would have made a model of an
unprincipled, clever attorney. Then came Eulalie, the proud beauty, the Jun=
o of
the school, whom six long years of drilling in the simple grammar of the
English language had compelled, despite the stiff phlegm of her intellect, =
to
acquire a mechanical acquaintance with most of its rules. No smile, no trac=
e of
pleasure or satisfaction appeared in Sylvie's nun-like and passive face as =
she
heard her name read first. I always felt saddened by the sight of that poor
girl's absolute quiescence on all occasions, and it was my custom to look at
her, to address her, as seldom as possible; her extreme docility, her assid=
uous
perseverance, would have recommended her warmly to my good opinion; her
modesty, her intelligence, would have induced me to feel most kindly - most
affectionately towards her, notwithstanding the almost ghastly plainness of=
her
features, the disproportion of her form, the corpse-like lack of animation =
in
her countenance, had I not been aware that every friendly word, every kindly
action, would be reported by her to her confessor, and by him misinterpreted
and poisoned. Once I laid my hand on her head, in token of approbation; I
thought Sylvie was going to smile, her dim eye almost kindled; but, present=
ly,
she shrank from me; I was a man and a heretic; she, poor child! a destined =
nun
and devoted Catholic: thus a four-fold wall of separation divided her mind =
from
mine. A pert smirk, and a hard glance of triumph, was Leonie's method of
testifying her gratification; Eulalie looked sullen and envious - she had h=
oped
to be first. Hortense and Caroline exchanged a reckless grimace on hearing
their names read out somewhere near the bottom of the list; the brand of me=
ntal
inferiority was considered by them as no disgrace, their hopes for the futu=
re
being based solely on their personal attractions.
This affair arranged, the regular
lesson followed. During a brief interval, employed by the pupils in ruling
their books, my eye, ranging carelessly over the benches, observed, for the
first time, that the farthest seat in the farthest row - a seat usually vac=
ant
- was again filled by the new scholar, the Mdlle. Henri so ostentatiously
recommended to me by the directress. To-day I had on my spectacles; her
appearance, therefore, was clear to me at the first glance; I had not to pu=
zzle
over it. She looked young; yet, had I been required to name her exact age, I
should have been somewhat nonplussed; the slightness of her figure might ha=
ve
suited seventeen; a certain anxious and pre-occupied expression of face see=
med
the indication of riper years. She was dressed, like all the rest, in a dark
stuff gown and a white collar; her features were dissimilar to any there, n=
ot
so rounded, more defined, yet scarcely regular. The shape of her head too w=
as
different, the superior part more developed, the base considerably less. I =
felt
assured, at first sight, that she was not a Belgian; her complexion, her
countenance, her lineaments, her figure, were all distinct from theirs, and=
, evidently,
the type of another race - of a race less gifted with fullness of flesh and
plenitude of blood; less jocund, material, unthinking. When I first cast my
eyes on her, she sat looking fixedly down, her chin resting on her hand, and
she did not change her attitude till I commenced the lesson. None of the
Belgian girls would have retained one position, and that a reflective one, =
for
the same length of time. Yet, having intimated that her appearance was
peculiar, as being unlike that of her Flemish companions, I have little mor=
e to
say respecting it; I can pronounce no encomiums on her beauty, for she was =
not
beautiful; nor offer condolence on her plainness, for neither was she plain=
; a
careworn character of forehead, and a corresponding moulding of the mouth,
struck me with a sentiment resembling surprise, but these traits would prob=
ably
have passed unnoticed by any less crotchety observer.
Now, reader, though I have spent m=
ore
than a page in describing Mdlle. Henri, I know well enough that I have left=
on
your mind's eye no distinct picture of her; I have not painted her complexi=
on,
nor her eyes, nor her hair, nor even drawn the outline of her shape. You ca=
nnot
tell whether her nose was aquiline or retrousse, whether her chin was long =
or
short, her face square or oval; nor could I the first day, and it is not my
intention to communicate to you at once a knowledge I myself gained by litt=
le
and little.
I gave a short exercise: which they
all wrote down. I saw the new pupil was puzzled at first with the novelty of
the form and language; once or twice she looked at me with a sort of painful
solicitude, as not comprehending at all what I meant; then she was not ready
when the others were, she could not write her phrases so fast as they did; I
would not help her, I went on relentless. She looked at me; her eye said mo=
st
plainly, ‘I cannot follow you.’ I disregarded the appeal, and,
carelessly leaning back in my chair, glancing from time to time with a
NONCHALANT air out of the window, I dictated a little faster. On looking
towards her again, I perceived her face clouded with embarrassment, but she=
was
still writing on most diligently; I paused a few seconds; she employed the
interval in hurriedly re-perusing what she had written, and shame and
discomfiture were apparent in her countenance; she evidently found she had =
made
great nonsense of it. In ten minutes more the dictation was complete, and,
having allowed a brief space in which to correct it, I took their books; it=
was
with a reluctant hand Mdlle. Henri gave up hers, but, having once yielded i=
t to
my possession, she composed her anxious face, as if, for the present she had
resolved to dismiss regret, and had made up her mind to be thought
unprecedentedly stupid. Glancing over her exercise, I found that several li=
nes
had been omitted, but what was written contained very few faults; I instant=
ly
inscribed ‘Bon’ at the bottom of the page, and returned it to h=
er;
she smiled, at first incredulously, then as if reassured, but did not lift =
her
eyes; she could look at me, it seemed, when perplexed and bewildered, but n=
ot
when gratified; I thought that scarcely fair.
SOME time elapsed before I again g=
ave
a lesson in the first class; the holiday of Whitsuntide occupied three days,
and on the fourth it was the turn of the second division to receive my
instructions. As I made the transit of the CARRE, I observed, as usual, the
band of sewers surrounding Mdlle. Henri; there were only about a dozen of t=
hem,
but they made as much noise as might have sufficed for fifty; they seemed v=
ery
little under her control; three or four at once assailed her with importuna=
te
requirements; she looked harassed, she demanded silence, but in vain. She s=
aw
me, and I read in her eye pain that a stranger should witness the insubordi=
nation
of her pupils; she seemed to entreat order - her prayers were useless; then=
I
remarked that she compressed her lips and contracted her brow; and her
countenance, if I read it correctly, said - ’I have done my best; I s=
eem
to merit blame notwithstanding; blame me then who will.’ I passed on;=
as
I closed the school-room door, I heard her say, suddenly and sharply,
addressing one of the eldest and most turbulent of the lot -
‘Amelie Mullenberg, ask me no
question, and request of me no assistance, for a week to come; during that
space of time I will neither speak to you nor help you.’
The words were uttered with emphas=
is -
nay, with vehemence - and a comparative silence followed; whether the calm =
was
permanent, I know not; two doors now closed between me and the CARRE.
Next day was appropriated to the f=
irst
class; on my arrival, I found the directress seated, as usual, in a chair
between the two estrades, and before her was standing Mdlle. Henri, in an
attitude (as it seemed to me) of somewhat reluctant attention. The directre=
ss
was knitting and talking at the same time. Amidst the hum of a large
school-room, it was easy so to speak in the ear of one person, as to be hea=
rd
by that person alone, and it was thus Mdlle. Reuter parleyed with her teach=
er.
The face of the latter was a little flushed, not a little troubled; there w=
as
vexation in it, whence resulting I know not, for the directress looked very
placid indeed; she could not be scolding in such gentle whispers, and with =
so
equable a mien; no, it was presently proved that her discourse had been of =
the
most friendly tendency, for I heard the closing words -
‘C'est assez, ma bonne amie;=
a
present je ne veux pas vous retenir davantage.’
Without reply, Mdlle. Henri turned
away; dissatifaction was plainly evinced in her face, and a smile, slight a=
nd
brief, but bitter, distrustful, and, I thought, scornful, curled her lip as=
she
took her place in the class; it was a secret, involuntary smile, which last=
ed
but a second; an air of depression succeeded, chased away presently by one =
of
attention and interest, when I gave the word for all the pupils to take the=
ir
reading-books. In general I hated the reading-lesson, it was such a torture=
to
the ear to listen to their uncouth mouthing of my native tongue, and no eff=
ort
of example or precept on my part ever seemed to effect the slightest
improvement in their accent. To-day, each in her appropriate key, lisped,
stuttered, mumbled, and jabbered as usual; about fifteen had racked me in t=
urn,
and my auricular nerve was expecting with resignation the discords of the
sixteenth, when a full, though low voice, read out, in clear correct Englis=
h.
‘On his way to Perth, the ki=
ng
was met by a Highland woman, calling herself a prophetess; she stood at the
side of the ferry by which he was about to travel to the north, and cried w=
ith
a loud voice, 'My lord the king, if you pass this water you will never retu=
rn
again alive!'‘ - (
I looked up in amazement; the voice
was a voice of Albion; the accent was pure and silvery; it only wanted
firmness, and assurance, to be the counterpart of what any well-educated la=
dy
in Essex or Middlesex might have enounced, yet the speaker or reader was no
other than Mdlle. Henri, in whose grave, joyless face I saw no mark of cons=
ciousness
that she had performed any extraordinary feat. No one else evinced surprise
either. Mdlle. Reuter knitted away assiduously; I was aware, however, that =
at
the conclusion of the paragraph, she had lifted her eyelid and honoured me =
with
a glance sideways; she did not know the full excellency of the teacher's st=
yle
of reading, but she perceived that her accent was not that of the others, a=
nd
wanted to discover what I thought; I masked my visage with indifference, and
ordered the next girl to proceed.
When the lesson was over, I took
advantage of the confusion caused by breaking up, to approach Mdlle. Henri;=
she
was standing near the window and retired as I advanced; she thought I wante=
d to
look out, and did not imagine that I could have anything to say to her. I t=
ook
her exercise-book; out of her hand; as I turned over the leaves I addressed
her: -
‘You have had lessons in Eng=
lish
before?’ I asked.
‘No, sir.’
‘No! you read it well; you h=
ave
been in England?’
‘Oh, no!’ with some
animation.
‘You have been in English
families?’
Still the answer was ‘No.=
217;
Here my eye, resting on the flyleaf of the book, saw written, ‘Frances
Evan Henri.’
‘Your name?’ I asked <= o:p>
‘Yes, sir.’
My interrogations were cut short; I
heard a little rustling behind me, and close at my back was the directress,
professing to be examining the interior of a desk.
‘Mademoiselle,’ said s=
he,
looking up and addressing the teacher, ‘Will you have the goodness to=
go
and stand in the corridor, while the young ladies are putting on their thin=
gs,
and try to keep some order?’
Mdlle. Henri obeyed.
‘What splendid weather!̵=
7;
observed the directress cheerfully, glancing at the same time from the wind=
ow.
I assented and was withdrawing. ‘What of your new pupil, monsieur?=
217;
continued she, following my retreating steps. ‘Is she likely to make
progress in English?’
‘Indeed I can hardly judge. =
She
possesses a pretty good accent; of her real knowledge of the language I hav=
e as
yet had no opportunity of forming an opinion.’
‘And her natural capacity,
monsieur? I have had my fears about that: can you relieve me by an assuranc=
e at
least of its average power?’
‘I see no reason to doubt its
average power, mademoiselle, but really I scarcely know her, and have not h=
ad
time to study the calibre of her capacity. I wish you a very good afternoon=
.’
She still pursued me. ‘You w=
ill
observe, monsieur, and tell me what you think; I could so much better rely =
on
your opinion than on my own; women cannot judge of these things as men can,
and, excuse my pertinacity, monsieur, but it is natural I should feel
interested about this poor little girl (pauvre petite); she has scarcely any
relations, her own efforts are all she has to look to, her acquirements mus=
t be
her sole fortune; her present position has once been mine, or nearly so; it=
is
then but natural I should sympathize with her; and sometimes when I see the
difficulty she has in managing pupils, I reel quite chagrined. I doubt not =
she
does her best, her intentions are excellent; but, monsieur, she wants tact =
and
firmness. I have talked to her on the subject, but I am not fluent, and
probably did not express myself with clearness; she never appears to compre=
hend
me. Now, would you occasionally, when you see an opportunity, slip in a wor=
d of
advice to her on the subject; men have so much more influence than women ha=
ve -
they argue so much more logically than we do; and you, monsieur, in particu=
lar,
have so paramount a power of making yourself obeyed; a word of advice from =
you
could not but do her good; even if she were sullen and headstrong (which I =
hope
she is not), she would scarcely refuse to listen to you; for my own part, I=
can
truly say that I never attend one of your lessons without deriving benefit =
from
witnessing your management of the pupils. The other masters are a constant
source of anxiety to me; they cannot impress the young ladies with sentimen=
ts
of respect, nor restrain the levity natural to youth: in you, monsieur, I f=
eel
the most absolute confidence; try then to put this poor child into the way =
of controlling
our giddy, high-spirited Brabantoises. But, monsieur, I would add one word
more; don't alarm her AMOUR PROPRE; beware of inflicting a wound there. I
reluctantly admit that in that particular she is blameably - some would say
ridiculously - susceptible. I fear I have touched this sore point
inadvertently, and she cannot get over it.’
During the greater part of this
harangue my hand was on the lock of the outer door; I now turned it.
‘Au revoir, mademoiselle,=
217;
said I, and I escaped. I saw the directress's stock of words was yet far fr=
om
exhausted. She looked after me, she would fain have detained me longer. Her
manner towards me had been altered ever since I had begun to treat her with
hardness and indifference: she almost cringed to me on every occasion; she
consulted my countenance incessantly, and beset me with innumerable little
officious attentions. Servility creates despotism. This slavish homage, ins=
tead
of softening my heart, only pampered whatever was stern and exacting in its
mood. The very circumstance of her hovering round me like a fascinated bird,
seemed to transform me into a rigid pillar of stone; her flatteries irritat=
ed
my scorn, her blandishments confirmed my reserve. At times I wondered what =
she
meant by giving herself such trouble to win me, when the more profitable Pe=
let
was already in her nets, and when, too, she was aware that I possessed her
secret, for I had not scrupled to tell her as much: but the fact is that as=
it
was her nature to doubt the reality and under-value the worth of modesty,
affection, disinterestedness - to regard these qualities as foibles of
character - so it was equally her tendency to consider pride, hardness,
selfishness, as proofs of strength. She would trample on the neck of humili=
ty,
she would kneel at the feet of disdain; she would meet tenderness with secr=
et
contempt, indifference she would woo with ceaseless assiduities. Benevolenc=
e,
devotedness, enthusiasm, were her antipathies; for dissimulation and
self-interest she had a preference - they were real wisdom in her eyes; mor=
al
and physical degradation, mental and bodily inferiority, she regarded with
indulgence; they were foils capable of being turned to good account as set-=
offs
for her own endowments. To violence, injustice, tyranny, she succumbed - th=
ey
were her natural masters; she had no propensity to hate, no impulse to resi=
st
them; the indignation their behests awake in some hearts was unknown in her=
s.
From all this it resulted that the false and selfish called her wise, the
vulgar and debased termed her charitable, the insolent and unjust dubbed her
amiable, the conscientious and benevolent generally at first accepted as va=
lid
her claim to be considered one of themselves; but ere long the plating of
pretension wore off, the real material appeared below, and they laid her as=
ide
as a deception.
In the course of another fortnight=
I
had seen sufficient of Frances Evans Henri, to enable me to form a more
definite opinion of her character. I found her possessed in a somewhat
remarkable degree of at least two good points, viz., perseverance and a sen=
se
of duty; I found she was really capable of applying to study, of contending
with difficulties. At first I offered her the same help which I had always
found it necessary to confer on the others; I began with unloosing for her =
each
knotty point, but I soon discovered that such help was regarded by my new p=
upil
as degrading; she recoiled from it with a certain proud impatience. Hereupo=
n I
appointed her long lessons, and left her to solve alone any perplexities th=
ey
might present. She set to the task with serious ardour, and having quickly
accomplished one labour, eagerly demanded more. So much for her perseveranc=
e;
as to her sense of duty, it evinced itself thus: she liked to learn, but ha=
ted to
teach; her progress as a pupil depended upon herself, and I saw that on her=
self
she could calculate with certainty; her success as a teacher rested partly,
perhaps chiefly, upon the will of others; it cost her a most painful effort=
to
enter into conflict with this foreign will, to endeavour to bend it into
subjection to her own; for in what regarded people in general the action of=
her
will was impeded by many scruples; it was as unembarrassed as strong where =
her
own affairs were concerned, and to it she could at any time subject her
inclination, if that inclination went counter to her convictions of right; =
yet
when called upon to wrestle with the propensities, the habits, the faults of
others, of children especially, who are deaf to reason, and, for the most p=
art,
insensate to persuasion, her will sometimes almost refused to act; then cam=
e in
the sense of duty, and forced the reluctant will into operation. A wasteful
expense of energy and labour was frequently the consequence; Frances toiled=
for
and with her pupils like a drudge, but it was long ere her conscientious
exertions were rewarded by anything like docility on their part, because th=
ey
saw that they had power over her, inasmuch as by resisting her painful atte=
mpts
to convince, persuade, control - by forcing her to the employment of coerci=
ve
measures - they could inflict upon her exquisite suffering. Human beings - =
human
children especially - seldom deny themselves the pleasure of exercising a p=
ower
which they are conscious of possessing, even though that power consist only=
in
a capacity to make others wretched; a pupil whose sensations are duller than
those of his instructor, while his nerves are tougher and his bodily streng=
th
perhaps greater, has an immense advantage over that instructor, and he will=
generally
use it relentlessly, because the very young, very healthy, very thoughtless,
know neither how to sympathize nor how to spare. Frances, I fear, suffered
much; a continual weight seemed to oppress her spirits; I have said she did=
not
live in the house, and whether in her own abode, wherever that might be, she
wore the same preoccupied, unsmiling, sorrowfully resolved air that always
shaded her features under the roof of Mdlle. Reuter, I could not tell.
One day I gave, as a devoir, the t=
rite
little anecdote of Alfred tending cakes in the herdsman's hut, to be related
with amplifications. A singular affair most of the pupils made of it; brevi=
ty
was what they had chiefly studied; the majority of the narratives were
perfectly unintelligible; those of Sylvie and Leonie Ledru alone pretended =
to
anything like sense and connection. Eulalie, indeed, had hit, upon a clever
expedient for at once ensuring accuracy and saving trouble; she had obtained
access somehow to an abridged history of England, and had copied the anecdo=
te
out fair. I wrote on the margin of her production ‘Stupid and deceitf=
ul,’
and then tore it down the middle.
Last in the pile of single-leaved
devoirs, I found one of several sheets, neatly written out and stitched
together; I knew the hand, and scarcely needed the evidence of the signatur=
e ‘Frances
Evans Henri’ to confirm my conjecture as to the writer's identity.
Night was my usual time for correc=
ting
devoirs, and my own room the usual scene of such task - task most onerous
hitherto; and it seemed strange to me to feel rising within me an incipient
sense of interest, as I snuffed the candle and addressed myself to the peru=
sal
of the poor teacher's manuscript.
‘Now,’ thought I, R=
16;I
shall see a glimpse of what she really is; I shall get an idea of the nature
and extent of her powers; not that she can be expected to express herself w=
ell
in a foreign tongue, but still, if she has any mind, here will be a reflect=
ion
of it.’
The narrative commenced by a description of a Saxon peasant's hut, situated within the confines of a gre= at, leafless, winter forest; it represented an evening in December; flakes of s= now were falling, and the herdsman foretold a heavy storm; he summoned his wife= to aid him in collecting their flock, roaming far away on the pastoral banks of the Thone; he warns her that it will be late ere they return. The good woma= n is reluctant to quit her occupation of baking cakes for the evening meal; but acknowledging the primary importance of securing the herds and flocks, she = puts on her sheep-skin mantle; and, addressing a stranger who rests half recline= d on a bed of rushes near the hearth, bids him mind the bread till her return. <= o:p>
‘Take care, young man,’
she continues, ‘that you fasten the door well after us; and, above al=
l,
open to none in our absence; whatever sound you hear, stir not, and look not
out. The night will soon fall; this forest is most wild and lonely; strange
noises are often heard therein after sunset; wolves haunt these glades, and
Danish warriors infest the country; worse things are talked of; you might
chance to hear, as it were, a child cry, and on opening the door to afford =
it
succour, a greet black bull, or a shadowy goblin dog, might rush over the
threshold; or, more awful still, if something flapped, as with wings, again=
st
the lattice, and then a raven or a white dove flew in and settled on the
hearth, such a visitor would be a sure sign of misfortune to the house;
therefore, heed my advice, and lift the latchet for nothing.’
Her husband calls her away, both d=
epart.
The stranger, left alone, listens awhile to the muffled snow-wind, the remo=
te,
swollen sound of the river, and then he speaks.
‘It is Christmas Eve,’
says he, ‘I mark the date; here I sit alone on a rude couch of rushes,
sheltered by the thatch of a herdsman's hut; I, whose inheritance was a
kingdom, owe my night's harbourage to a poor serf; my throne is usurped, my
crown presses the brow of an invader; I have no friends; my troops wander
broken in the hills of Wales; reckless robbers spoil my country; my subjects
lie prostrate, their breasts crushed by the heel of the brutal Dane. Fate! =
thou
hast done thy worst, and now thou standest before me resting thy hand on thy
blunted blade. Ay; I see thine eye confront mine and demand why I still liv=
e,
why I still hope. Pagan demon, I credit not thine omnipotence, and so cannot
succumb to thy power. My God, whose Son, as on this night, took on Him the =
form
of man, and for man vouchsafed to suffer and bleed, controls thy hand, and
without His behest thou canst not strike a stroke. My God is sinless, etern=
al,
all-wise - in Him is my trust; and though stripped and crushed by thee - th=
ough
naked, desolate, void of resource - I do not despair, I cannot despair: were
the lance of Guthrum now wet with my blood, I should not despair. I watch, I
toil, I hope, I pray; Jehovah, in his own time, will aid.’
I need not continue the quotation;=
the
whole devoir was in the same strain. There were errors of orthography, there
were foreign idioms, there were some faults of construction, there were ver=
bs
irregular transformed into verbs regular; it was mostly made up, as the abo=
ve
example shows, of short and somewhat rude sentences, and the style stood in
great need of polish and sustained dignity; yet such as it was, I had hithe=
rto seen
nothing like it in the course of my professorial experience. The girl's mind
had conceived a picture of the hut, of the two peasants, of the crownless k=
ing;
she had imagined the wintry forest, she had recalled the old Saxon
ghost-legends, she had appreciated Alfred's courage under calamity, she had
remembered his Christian education, and had shown him, with the rooted
confidence of those primitive days, relying on the scriptural Jehovah for a=
id
against the mythological Destiny. This she had done without a hint from me:=
I
had given the subject, but not said a word about the manner of treating it.=
‘I will find, or make, an
opportunity of speaking to her,’ I said to myself as I rolled the dev=
oir
up; ‘I will learn what she has of English in her besides the name of
Frances Evans; she is no novice in the language, that is evident, yet she t=
old
me she had neither been in England, nor taken lessons in English, nor lived=
in
English families.’
In the course of my next lesson, I
made a report of the other devoirs, dealing out praise and blame in very sm=
all
retail parcels, according to my custom, for there was no use in blaming
severely, and high encomiums were rarely merited. I said nothing of Mdlle.
Henri's exercise, and, spectacles on nose, I endeavoured to decipher in her
countenance her sentiments at the omission. I wanted to find out whether in=
her
existed a consciousness of her own talents. ‘If she thinks she did a
clever thing in composing that devoir, she will now look mortified,’
thought I. Grave as usual, almost sombre, was her face; as usual, her eyes =
were
fastened on the cahier open before her; there was something, I thought, of
expectation in her attitude, as I concluded a brief review of the last devo=
ir,
and when, casting it from me and rubbing my hands, I bade them take their
grammars, some slight change did pass over her air and mien, as though she =
now
relinquished a faint prospect of pleasant excitement; she had been waiting =
for
something to be discussed in which she had a degree of interest; the discus=
sion
was not to come on, so expectation sank back, shrunk and sad, but attention,
promptly filling up the void, repaired in a moment the transient collapse of
feature; still, I felt, rather than saw, during the whole course of the les=
son,
that a hope had been wrenched from her, and that if she did not show distre=
ss,
it was because she would not.
At four o'clock, when the bell rang
and the room was in immediate tumult, instead of taking my hat and starting
from the estrade, I sat still a moment. I looked at Frances, she was putting
her books into her cabas; having fastened the button, she raised her head;
encountering my eye, she made a quiet, respectful obeisance, as bidding good
afternoon, and was turning to depart: -
‘Come here,’ said I,
lifting my finger at the same time. She hesitated; she could not hear the w=
ords
amidst the uproar now pervading both school-rooms; I repeated the sign; she
approached; again she paused within half a yard of the estrade, and looked =
shy,
and still doubtful whether she had mistaken my meaning.
‘Step up,’ I said,
speaking with decision. It is the only way of dealing with diffident, easily
embarrassed characters, and with some slight manual aid I presently got her
placed just where I wanted her to be, that is, between my desk and the wind=
ow,
where she was screened from the rush of the second division, and where no o=
ne
could sneak behind her to listen.
‘Take a seat,’ I said,
placing a tabouret; and I made her sit down. I knew what I was doing would =
be
considered a very strange thing, and, what was more, I did not care. Frances
knew it also, and, I fear, by an appearance of agitation and trembling, that
she cared much. I drew from my pocket the rolled-up devoir.
‘This it, yours, I suppose?&=
#8217;
said I, addressing her in English, for I now felt sure she could speak Engl=
ish.
‘Yes,’ she answered
distinctly; and as I unrolled it and laid it out flat on the desk before her
with my hand upon it, and a pencil in that hand, I saw her moved, and, as it
were, kindled; her depression beamed as a cloud might behind which the sun =
is
burning.
‘This devoir has numerous
faults,’ said I. ‘It will take you some years of careful study
before you are in a condition to write English with absolute correctness.
Attend: I will point out some principal defects.’ And I went through =
it
carefully, noting every error, and demonstrating why they were errors, and =
how
the words or phrases ought to have been written. In the course of this sobe=
ring
process she became calm. I now went on:
‘As to the substance of your
devoir, Mdlle. Henri, it has surprised me; I perused it with pleasure, beca=
use
I saw in it some proofs of taste and fancy. Taste and fancy are not the hig=
hest
gifts of the human mind, but such as they are you possess them - not probab=
ly
in a paramount degree, but in a degree beyond what the majority can boast. =
You
may then take courage; cultivate the faculties that God and nature have
bestowed on you, and do not fear in any crisis of suffering, under any pres=
sure
of injustice, to derive free and full consolation from the consciousness of
their strength and rarity.’
‘Strength and rarity!’=
I
repeated to myself; ‘ay, the words are probably true,’ for on
looking up, I saw the sun had dissevered its screening cloud, her countenan=
ce
was transfigured, a smile shone in her eyes - a smile almost triumphant; it
seemed to say -
‘I am glad you have been for=
ced
to discover so much of my nature; you need not so carefully moderate your
language. Do you think I am myself a stranger to myself? What you tell me in
terms so qualified, I have known fully from a child.’
She did say this as plainly as a f=
rank
and flashing glance could, but in a moment the glow of her complexion, the
radiance of her aspect, had subsided; if strongly conscious of her talents,=
she
was equally conscious of her harassing defects, and the remembrance of these
obliterated for a single second, now reviving with sudden force, at once
subdued the too vivid characters in which her sense of her powers had been
expressed. So quick was the revulsion of feeling, I had not time to check h=
er
triumph by reproof; ere I could contract my brows to a frown she had become
serious and almost mournful-looking.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said
she, rising. There was gratitude both in her voice and in the look with whi=
ch
she accompanied it. It was time, indeed, for our conference to terminate; f=
or,
when I glanced around, behold all the boarders (the day-scholars had depart=
ed)
were congregated within a yard or two of my desk, and stood staring with ey=
es
and mouths wide open; the three maitresses formed a whispering knot in one
corner, and, close at my elbow, was the directress, sitting on a low chair,
calmly clipping the tassels of her finished purse.
AFTER all I had profited but
imperfectly by the opportunity I had so boldly achieved of speaking to Mdll=
e.
Henri; it was my intention to ask her how she came to be possessed of two
English baptismal names, Frances and Evans, in addition to her French surna=
me,
also whence she derived her good accent. I had forgotten both points, or,
rather, our colloquy had been so brief that I had not had time to bring them
forward; moreover, I had not half tested her powers of speaking English; al=
l I
had drawn from her in that language were the words ‘Yes,’ and &=
#8216;Thank
you, sir.’ ‘No matter,’ I reflected. ‘What has been
left incomplete now, shall be finished another day.’ Nor did I fail to
keep the promise thus made to myself. It was difficult to get even a few wo=
rds
of particular conversation with one pupil among so many; but, according to =
the
old proverb, ‘Where there is a will, there is a way;’ and again=
and
again I managed to find an opportunity for exchanging a few words with Mdll=
e.
Henri, regardless that envy stared and detraction whispered whenever I
approached her.
‘Your book an instant.’
Such was the mode in which I often began these brief dialogues; the time was
always just at the conclusion of the lesson; and motioning to her to rise, I
installed myself in her place, allowing her to stand deferentially at my si=
de;
for I esteemed it wise and right in her case to enforce strictly all forms
ordinarily in use between master and pupil; the rather because I perceived =
that
in proportion as my manner grew austere and magisterial, hers became easy a=
nd
self-possessed - an odd contradiction, doubtless, to the ordinary effect in
such cases; but so it was.
‘A pencil,’ said I,
holding out my hand without looking at her. (I am now about to sketch a bri=
ef
report of the first of these conferences.) She gave me one, and while I
underlined some errors in a grammatical exercise she had written, I observe=
d -
‘You are not a native of
Belgium?’
‘No.’
‘Nor of France?’
‘No.’
‘Where, then, is your
birthplace?’
‘I was born at Geneva.’=
;
‘You don't call Frances and
Evans Swiss names, I presume?’
‘No, sir; they are English
names.’
‘Just so; and is it the cust=
om
of the Genevese to give their children English appellatives?’
‘Non, Monsieur; mais - ̵=
7;
‘Speak English, if you pleas=
e.’
‘Mais - ’
‘English - ’
‘But’ (slowly and with
embarrassment) ‘my parents were not all the two Genevese.’
‘Say BOTH, instead of 'all t=
he
two,' mademoiselle.’
‘Not BOTH Swiss: my mother w=
as
English.’
‘Ah! and of English extracti=
on?’
‘Yes - her ancestors were all
English.’
‘And your father?’
‘He was Swiss.’
‘What besides? What was his
profession?’
‘Ecclesiastic - pastor - he =
had
a church.’
‘Since your mother is an
Englishwoman, why do you not speak English with more facility?’
‘Maman est morte, il y a dix
ans.’
‘And you do homage to her me=
mory
by forgetting her language. Have the goodness to put French out of your min=
d so
long as I converse with you - keep to English.’
‘C'est si difficile, monsieu=
r,
quand on n'en a plus l'habitude.’
‘You had the habitude former=
ly,
I suppose? Now answer me in your mother tongue.’
‘Yes, sir, I spoke the Engli=
sh
more than the French when I was a child.’
‘Why do you not speak it now=
?’
‘Because I have no English
friends.’
‘You live with your father, I
suppose?’
‘My father is dead.’ <= o:p>
‘You have brothers and siste=
rs?’
‘Not one.’
‘Do you live alone?’ <= o:p>
‘No - I have an aunt - ma ta=
nte
Julienne.’
‘Your father's sister?’=
;
‘Justement, monsieur.’=
‘Is that English?’
‘No - but I forget - ’=
‘For which, mademoiselle, if=
you
were a child I should certainly devise some slight punishment; at your age =
- you
must be two or three and twenty, I should think?’
‘Pas encore, monsieur - en un
mois j'aurai dix-neuf ans.’
‘Well, nineteen is a mature =
age,
and, having attained it, you ought to be so solicitous for your own
improvement, that it should not be needful for a master to remind you twice=
of
the expediency of your speaking English whenever practicable.’
To this wise speech I received no
answer; and, when I looked up, my pupil was smiling to herself a much-meani=
ng,
though not very gay smile; it seemed to say, ‘He talks of he knows not
what:’ it said this so plainly, that I determined to request informat=
ion
on the point concerning which my ignorance seemed to be thus tacitly affirm=
ed.
‘Are you solicitous for your=
own
improvement?’
‘Rather.’
‘How do you prove it,
mademoiselle?’
An odd question, and bluntly put; =
it
excited a second smile.
‘Why, monsieur, I am not
inattentive - am I? I learn my lessons well - ’
‘Oh, a child can do that! and
what more do you do?’
‘What more can I do?’ =
‘Oh, certainly, not much; but
you are a teacher, are you not, as well as a pupil?’
‘Yes.’
‘You teach lace-mending?R=
17;
‘Yes.’
‘A dull, stupid occupation; =
do
you like it?’
‘No - it is tedious.’ =
‘Why do you pursue it? Why do you not rather teach history, geography, grammar, even arithmetic?’ <= o:p>
‘Is monsieur certain that I =
am
myself thoroughly acquainted with these studies?’
‘I don't know; you ought to =
be
at your age.’
‘But I never was at school,
monsieur - ’
‘Indeed! What then were your
friends - what was your aunt about? She is very much to blame.’
‘No monsieur, no - my aunt is
good - she is not to blame - she does what she can; she lodges and nourishe=
s me’
(I report Mdlle. Henri's phrases literally, and it was thus she translated =
from
the French). ‘She is not rich; she has only an annuity of twelve hund=
red
francs, and it would be impossible for her to send me to school.’
‘Rather,’ thought I to
myself on hearing this, but I continued, in the dogmatical tone I had adopt=
ed:
-
‘It is sad, however, that you
should be brought up in ignorance of the most ordinary branches of educatio=
n;
had you known something of history and grammar you might, by degrees, have
relinquished your lace-mending drudgery, and risen in the world.’
‘It is what I mean to do.=
217;
‘How? By a knowledge of Engl=
ish
alone? That will not suffice; no respectable family will receive a governess
whose whole stock of knowledge consists in a familiarity with one foreign
language.’
‘Monsieur, I know other thin=
gs.’
‘Yes, yes, you can work with
Berlin wools, and embroider handkerchiefs and collars - that will do little=
for
you.’
Mdlle. Henri's lips were unclosed =
to
answer, but she checked herself, as thinking the discussion had been
sufficiently pursued, and remained silent.
‘Speak,’ I continued,
impatiently; ‘I never like the appearance of acquiescence when the
reality is not there; and you had a contradiction at your tongue's end.R=
17;
‘Monsieur, I have had many
lessons both in grammar, history, geography, and arithmetic. I have gone
through a course of each study.’
‘Bravo! but how did you mana=
ge
it, since your aunt could not afford lo send you to school?’
‘By lace-mending; by the thi=
ng
monsieur despises so much.’
‘Truly! And now, mademoisell=
e,
it will be a good exercise for you to explain to me in English how such a
result was produced by such means.’
‘Monsieur, I begged my aunt =
to
have me taught lace-mending soon after we came to Brussels, because I knew =
it
was a METIER, a trade which was easily learnt, and by which I could earn so=
me
money very soon. I learnt it in a few days, and I quickly got work, for all=
the
Brussels ladies have old lace - very precious - which must be mended all the time=
s it
is washed. I earned money a little, and this money I grave for lessons in t=
he
studies I have mentioned; some of it I spent in buying books, English books
especially; soon I shall try to find a place of governess, or school-teache=
r,
when I can write and speak English well; but it will be difficult, because
those who know I have been a lace-mender will despise me, as the pupils here
despise me. Pourtant j'ai mon projet,’ she added in a lower tone.
‘What is it?’
‘I will go and live in Engla=
nd;
I will teach French there.’
The words were pronounced
emphatically. She said ‘England’ as you might suppose an Israel=
ite
of Moses' days would have said Canaan.
‘Have you a wish to see Engl=
and?’
‘Yes, and an intention.̵=
7;
And here a voice, the voice of the
directress, interposed:
‘Mademoiselle Henri, je crois
qu'il va pleuvoir; vous feriez bien, ma bonne amie, de retourner chez vous =
tout
de suite.’
In silence, without a word of than=
ks
for this officious warning, Mdlle. Henri collected her books; she moved to =
me
respectfully, endeavoured to move to her superior, though the endeavour was
almost a failure, for her head seemed as if it would not bend, and thus
departed.
Where there is one grain of
perseverance or wilfulness in the composition, trifling obstacles are ever
known rather to stimulate than discourage. Mdlle. Reuter might as well have
spared herself the trouble of giving that intimation about the weather
(by-the-by her prediction was falsified by the event - it did not rain that
evening). At the close of the next lesson I was again at Mdlle. Henri's des=
k.
Thus did I accost her: -
‘What is your idea of Englan=
d,
mademoiselle? Why do you wish to go there?’
Accustomed by this time to the
calculated abruptness of my manner, it no longer discomposed or surprised h=
er,
and she answered with only so much of hesitation as was rendered inevitable=
by
the difficulty she experienced in improvising the translation of her though=
ts
from French to English.
‘England is something unique=
, as
I have heard and read; my idea of it is vague, and I want to go there to re=
nder
my idea clear, definite.’
‘Hum! How much of England do=
you
suppose you could see if you went there in the capacity of a teacher? A str=
ange
notion you must have of getting a clear and definite idea of a country! All=
you
could see of Great Britain would be the interior of a school, or at most of=
one
or two private dwellings.’
‘It would be an English scho=
ol;
they would be English dwellings.’
‘Indisputably; but what then? What would be the value of observations made on a scale so narrow?’ <= o:p>
‘Monsieur, might not one lea=
rn
something by analogy? An-echantillon - a - a sample often serves to give an
idea of the whole; besides, narrow and wide are words comparative, are they
not? All my life would perhaps seem narrow in your eyes - all the life of a=
- that
little animal subterranean - une taupe - comment dit-on?’
‘Mole.’
‘Yes - a mole, which lives
underground would seem narrow even to me.’
‘Well, mademoiselle - what t=
hen?
Proceed.’
‘Mais, monsieur, vous me
comprenez.’
‘Not in the least; have the
goodness to explain.’
‘Why, monsieur, it is just s=
o.
In Switzerland I have done but little, learnt but little, and seen but litt=
le;
my life there was in a circle; I walked the same round every day; I could n=
ot
get out of it; had I rested - remained there even till my death, I should n=
ever
have enlarged it, because I am poor and not skilful, I have not great
acquirements; when I was quite tired of this round, I begged my aunt to go =
to
Brussels; my existence is no larger here, because I am no richer or higher;=
I
walk in as narrow a limit, but the scene is changed; it would change again =
if I
went to England. I knew something of the bourgeois of Geneva, now I know
something of the bourgeois of Brussels; if I went to London, I would know
something of the bourgeois of London. Can you make any sense out of what I =
say,
monsieur, or is it all obscure?’
‘I see, I see - now let us
advert to another subject; you propose to devote your life to teaching, and=
you
are a most unsuccessful teacher; you cannot keep your pupils in order.̵=
7;
A flush of painful confusion was t=
he
result of this harsh remark; she bent her head to the desk, but soon raisin=
g it
replied -
‘Monsieur, I am not a skilful
teacher, it is true, but practice improves; besides, I work under difficult=
ies;
here I only teach sewing, I can show no power in sewing, no superiority - i=
t is
a subordinate art; then I have no associates in this house, I am isolated; =
I am
too a heretic, which deprives me of influence.’
‘And in England you would be=
a
foreigner; that too would deprive you of influence, and would effectually
separate you from all round you; in England you would have as few connectio=
ns,
as little importance as you have here.’
‘But I should be learning
something; for the rest, there are probably difficulties for such as I
everywhere, and if I must contend, and perhaps: be conquered, I would rather
submit to English pride than to Flemish coarseness; besides, monsieur - =
217;
She stopped - not evidently from a=
ny
difficulty in finding words to express herself, but because discretion seem=
ed
to say, ‘You have said enough.’
‘Finish your phrase,’ I
urged.
‘Besides, monsieur, I long to
live once more among Protestants; they are more honest than Catholics; a Ro=
mish
school is a building with porous walls, a hollow floor, a false ceiling; ev=
ery
room in this house, monsieur, has eyeholes and ear-holes, and what the house
is, the inhabitants are, very treacherous; they all think it lawful to tell
lies; they all call it politeness to profess friendship where they feel hat=
red.’
‘All?’ said I; ‘=
you
mean the pupils - the mere children - inexperienced, giddy things, who =
have
not learnt to distinguish the difference between right and wrong?’
‘On the contrary, monsieur -=
the
children are the most sincere; they have not yet had time to become
accomplished in duplicity; they will tell lies, but they do it inartificial=
ly,
and you know they are lying; but the grown-up people are very false; they
deceive strangers, they deceive each other - ’
A servant here entered: -
‘Mdlle. Henri - Mdlle. Reuter
vous prie de vouloir bien conduire la petite de Dorlodot chez elle, elle vo=
us
attend dans le cabinet de Rosalie la portiere - c'est que sa bonne n'est pas
venue la chercher - voyez-vous.’
‘Eh bien! est-ce que je suis=
sa
bonne - moi?’ demanded Mdlle. Henri; then smiling, with that same bit=
ter,
derisive smile I had seen on her lips once before, she hastily rose and made
her exit.
THE young Anglo-Swiss evidently
derived both pleasure and profit from the study of her mother-tongue. In
teaching her I did not, of course, confine myself to the ordinary school ro=
utine;
I made instruction in English a channel for instruction in literature. I
prescribed to her a course of reading; she had a little selection of English
classics, a few of which had been left her by her mother, and the others she
had purchased with her own penny-fee. I lent her some more modern works; all
these she read with avidity, giving me, in writing, a clear summary of each
work when she had perused it. Composition, too, she delighted in. Such
occupation seemed the very breath of her nostrils, and soon her improved
productions wrung from me the avowal that those qualities in her I had term=
ed
taste and fancy ought rather to have been denominated judgment and imaginat=
ion.
When I intimated so much, which I did as usual in dry and stinted phrase, I
looked for the radiant and exulting smile my one word of eulogy had elicited
before; but Frances coloured. If she did smile, it was very softly and shyl=
y;
and instead of looking up to me with a conquering glance, her eyes rested o=
n my
hand, which, stretched over her shoulder, was writing some directions with a
pencil on the margin of her book.
‘Well, are you pleased that =
I am
satisfied with your progress?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ said she slowly,
gently, the blush that had half subsided returning.
‘But I do not say enough, I
suppose?’ I continued. ‘My praises are too cool?’
She made no answer, and, I thought,
looked a little sad. I divined her thoughts, and should much have liked to =
have
responded to them, had it been expedient so to do. She was not now very
ambitious of my admiration - not eagerly desirous of dazzling me; a little
affection - ever so little - pleased her better than all the panegyrics in =
the
world. Feeling this, I stood a good while behind her, writing on the margin=
of
her book. I could hardly quit my station or relinquish my occupation; somet=
hing
retained me bending there, my head very near hers, and my hand near hers to=
o;
but the margin of a copy-book is not an illimitable space - so, doubtless, =
the
directress thought; and she took occasion to walk past in order to ascertai=
n by
what art I prolonged so disproportionately the period necessary for filling=
it.
I was obliged to go. Distasteful effort - to leave what we most prefer!
Frances did not become pale or fee=
ble
in consequence of her sedentary employment; perhaps the stimulus it
communicated to her mind counterbalanced the inaction it imposed on her bod=
y.
She changed, indeed, changed obviously and rapidly; but it was for the bett=
er.
When I first saw her, her countenance was sunless, her complexion colourles=
s;
she looked like one who had no source of enjoyment, no store of bliss anywh=
ere
in the world; now the cloud had passed from her mien, leaving space for the
dawn of hope and interest, and those feelings rose like a clear morning,
animating what had been depressed, tinting what had been pale. Her eyes, wh=
ose
colour I had not at first known, so dim were they with repressed tears, so
shadowed with ceaseless dejection, now, lit by a ray of the sunshine that
cheered her heart, revealed irids of bright hazel - irids large and full,
screened with long lashes; and pupils instinct with fire. That look of wan
emaciation which anxiety or low spirits often communicates to a thoughtful,
thin face, rather long than round, having vanished from hers; a clearness o=
f skin
almost bloom, and a plumpness almost embonpoint, softened the decided lines=
of
her features. Her figure shared in this beneficial change; it became rounde=
r,
and as the harmony of her form was complete and her stature of the graceful
middle height, one did not regret (or at least I did not regret) the absenc=
e of
confirmed fulness, in contours, still slight, though compact, elegant, flex=
ible
- the exquisite turning of waist, wrist, hand, foot, and ankle satisfied
completely my notions of symmetry, and allowed a lightness and freedom of
movement which corresponded with my ideas of grace.
Thus improved, thus wakened to lif=
e,
Mdlle. Henri began to take a new footing in the school; her mental power,
manifested gradually but steadily, ere long extorted recognition even from =
the
envious; and when the young and healthy saw that she could smile brightly,
converse gaily, move with vivacity and alertness, they acknowledged in her a
sisterhood of youth and health, and tolerated her as of their kind accordin=
gly.
To speak truth, I watched this cha=
nge
much as a gardener watches the growth of a precious plant, and I contribute=
d to
it too, even as the said gardener contributes to the development of his
favourite. To me it was not difficult to discover how I could best foster my
pupil, cherish her starved feelings, and induce the outward manifestation of
that inward vigour which sunless drought and blighting blast had hitherto
forbidden to expand. Constancy of attention - a kindness as mute as watchfu=
l,
always standing by her, cloaked in the rough garb of austerity, and making =
its
real nature known only by a rare glance of interest, or a cordial and gentle
word; real respect masked with seeming imperiousness, directing, urging her
actions, yet helping her too, and that with devoted care: these were the me=
ans
I used, for these means best suited Frances' feelings, as susceptible as de=
ep
vibrating - her nature at once proud and shy.
The benefits of my system became
apparent also in her altered demeanour as a teacher; she now took her place
amongst her pupils with an air of spirit and firmness which assured them at
once that she meant to be obeyed - and obeyed she was. They felt they had l=
ost
their power over her. If any girl had rebelled, she would no longer have ta=
ken
her rebellion to heart; she possessed a source of comfort they could not dr=
ain,
a pillar of support they could not overthrow: formerly, when insulted, she
wept; now, she smiled.
The public reading of one of her
devoirs achieved the revelation of her talents to all and sundry; I remember
the subject - it was an emigrant's letter to his friends at home. It opened
with simplicity; some natural and graphic touches disclosed to the reader t=
he
scene of virgin forest and great, New-World river - barren of sail and flag - amidst =
which
the epistle was supposed to be indited. The difficulties and dangers that
attend a settler's life, were hinted at; and in the few words said on that
subject, Mdlle. Henri failed not to render audible the voice of resolve,
patience, endeavour. The disasters which had driven him from his native cou=
ntry
were alluded to; stainless honour, inflexible independence, indestructible
self-respect there took the word. Past days were spoken of; the grief of
parting, the regrets of absence, were touched upon; feeling, forcible and f=
ine,
breathed eloquent in every period. At the close, consolation was suggested;
religious faith became there the speaker, and she spoke well.
The devoir was powerfully written =
in
language at once chaste and choice, in a style nerved with vigour and graced
with harmony.
Mdlle. Reuter was quite sufficient=
ly
acquainted with English to understand it when read or spoken in her presenc=
e,
though she could neither speak nor write it herself. During the perusal of =
this
devoir, she sat placidly busy, her eyes and fingers occupied with the forma=
tion
of a ‘riviere’ or open-work hem round a cambric handkerchief; s=
he
said nothing, and her face and forehead, clothed with a mask of purely nega=
tive
expression, were as blank of comment as her lips. As neither surprise,
pleasure, approbation, nor interest were evinced in her countenance, so no =
more
were disdain, envy, annoyance, weariness; if that inscrutable mien said
anything, it was simply this -
‘The matter is too trite to
excite an emotion, or call forth an opinion.’
As soon as I had done, a hum rose;
several of the pupils, pressing round Mdlle. Henri, began to beset her with
compliments; the composed voice of the directress was now heard: -
‘Young ladies, such of you as
have cloaks and umbrellas will hasten to return home before the shower beco=
mes
heavier’ (it was raining a little), ‘the remainder will wait ti=
ll
their respective servants arrive to fetch them.’ And the school
dispersed, for it was four o'clock.
‘Monsieur, a word,’ sa=
id
Mdlle. Reuter, stepping on to the estrade, and signifying, by a movement of=
the
hand, that she wished me to relinquish, for an instant, the castor I had
clutched.
‘Mademoiselle, I am at your
service.’
‘Monsieur, it is of course an
excellent plan to encourage effort in young people by making conspicuous the
progress of any particularly industrious pupil; but do you not think that in
the present instance, Mdlle. Henri can hardly be considered as a concurrent
with the other pupils? She is older than most of them, and has had advantag=
es
of an exclusive nature for acquiring a knowledge of English; on the other h=
and,
her sphere of life is somewhat beneath theirs; under these circumstances, a
public distinction, conferred upon Mdlle. Henri, may be the means of sugges=
ting
comparisons, and exciting feelings such as would be far from advantageous to
the individual forming their object. The interest I take in Mdlle. Henri's =
real
welfare makes me desirous of screening her from annoyances of this sort;
besides, monsieur, as I have before hinted to you, the sentiment of
AMOUR-PROPRE has a somewhat marked preponderance in her character; celebrity
has a tendency to foster this sentiment, and in her it should be rather
repressed - she rather needs keeping down than bringing forward; and then I
think, monsieur - it appears to me that ambition, LITERARY ambition especia=
lly,
is not a feeling to be cherished in the mind of a woman: would not Mdlle. H=
enri
be much safer and happier if taught to believe that in the quiet discharge =
of social
duties consists her real vocation, than if stimulated to aspire after appla=
use
and publicity? She may never marry; scanty as are her resources, obscure as=
are
her connections, uncertain as is her health (for I think her consumptive, h=
er
mother died of that complaint), it is more than probable she never will. I =
do
not see how she can rise to a position, whence such a step would be possibl=
e;
but even in celibacy it would be better for her to retain the character and
habits of a respectable decorous female.’
‘Indisputably, mademoiselle,=
’
was my answer. ‘Your opinion admits of no doubt;’ and, fearful =
of
the harangue being renewed, I retreated under cover of that cordial sentenc=
e of
assent.
At the date of a fortnight after t=
he
little incident noted above, I find it recorded in my diary that a hiatus
occurred in Mdlle. Henri's usually regular attendance in class. The first d=
ay
or two I wondered at her absence, but did not like to ask an explanation of=
it;
I thought indeed some chance word might be dropped which would afford me the
information I wished to obtain, without my running the risk of exciting sil=
ly
smiles and gossiping whispers by demanding it. But when a week passed and t=
he
seat at the desk near the door still remained vacant, and when no allusion =
was
made to the circumstance by any individual of the class - when, on the
contrary, I found that all observed a marked silence on the point - I
determined, COUTE QUI COUTE, to break the ice of this silly reserve. I sele=
cted
Sylvie as my informant, because from her I knew that I should at least get a
sensible answer, unaccompanied by wriggle, titter, or other flourish of fol=
ly.
‘Ou donc est Mdlle. Henri=
?’
I said one day as I returned an
exercise-book I had been examining.
‘Elle est partie, monsieur.&=
#8217;
‘Partie? et pour combien de
temps? Quand reviendra-t-elle?’
‘Elle est partie pour toujou=
rs,
monsieur; elle ne reviendra plus.’
‘Ah!’ was my involunta=
ry
exclamation; then after a pause: - <=
/span>
‘En etes-vous bien sure, Syl=
vie?’
‘Oui, oui, monsieur, mademoi=
selle
la directrice nous l'a dit elle-meme il y a deux ou trois jours.’
And I could pursue my inquiries no
further; time, place, and circumstances forbade my adding another word. I c=
ould
neither comment on what had been said, nor demand further particulars. A
question as to the reason of the teacher's departure, as to whether it had =
been
voluntary or otherwise, was indeed on my lips, but I suppressed it - there =
were
listeners all round. An hour after, in passing Sylvie in the corridor as she
was putting on her bonnet, I stopped short and asked: -
‘Sylvie, do you know Mdlle.
Henri's address? I have some books of hers,’ I added carelessly, R=
16;and
I should wish to send them to her.’
‘No, monsieur,’ replied
Sylvie; ‘but perhaps Rosalie, the portress, will be able to give it y=
ou.’
Rosalie's cabinet was just at hand=
; I
stepped in and repeated the inquiry. Rosalie - a smart French grisette - lo=
oked
up from her work with a knowing smile, precisely the sort of smile I had be=
en
so desirous to avoid exciting. Her answer was prepared; she knew nothing
whatever of Mdlle. Henri's address - had never known it. Turning from her w=
ith
impatience - for I believed she lied and was hired to lie - I almost knocked
down some one who had been standing at my back; it was the directress. My
abrupt movement made her recoil two or three steps. I was obliged to apolog=
ize,
which I did more concisely than politely. No man likes to be dogged, and in=
the
very irritable mood in which I then was the sight of Mdlle. Reuter thorough=
ly
incensed me. At the moment I turned her countenance looked hard, dark, and
inquisitive; her eyes were bent upon me with an expression of almost hungry
curiosity. I had scarcely caught this phase of physiognomy ere it had vanis=
hed;
a bland smile played on her features; my harsh apology was received with
good-humoured facility.
‘Oh, don't mention it, monsi=
eur;
you only touched my hair with your elbow; it is no worse, only a little
dishevelled.’ She shook it back, and passing her fingers through her
curls, loosened them into more numerous and flowing ringlets. Then she went=
on
with vivacity:
‘Rosalie, I was coming to te=
ll
you to go instantly and close the windows of the salon; the wind is rising,=
and
the muslin curtains will be covered with dust.’
Rosalie departed. ‘Now,̵=
7;
thought I, ‘this will not do; Mdlle. Reuter thinks her meanness in
eaves-dropping is screened by her art in devising a pretext, whereas the mu=
slin
curtains she speaks of are not more transparent than this same pretext.R=
17;
An impulse came over me to thrust the flimsy screen aside, and confront her
craft boldly with a word or two of plain truth. ‘The rough-shod foot
treads most firmly on slippery ground,’ thought I; so I began:
‘Mademoiselle Henri has left
your establishment - been dismissed, I presume?’
‘Ah, I wished to have a litt=
le
conversation with you, monsieur,’ replied the directress with the most
natural and affable air in the world; ‘but we cannot talk quietly her=
e;
will Monsieur step into the garden a minute?’ And she preceded me,
stepping out through the glass-door I have before mentioned.
‘There,’ said she, whe=
n we
had reached the centre of the middle alley, and when the foliage of shrubs =
and
trees, now in their summer pride, closing behind end around us, shut out the
view of the house, and thus imparted a sense of seclusion even to this litt=
le
plot of ground in the very core of a capital.
‘There, one feels quiet and =
free
when there are only pear-trees and rose-bushes about one; I dare say you, l=
ike
me, monsieur, are sometimes tired of being eternally in the midst of life; =
of
having human faces always round you, human eyes always upon you, human voic=
es
always in your ear. I am sure I often wish intensely for liberty to spend a
whole month in the country at some little farm-house, bien gentille, bien
propre, tout entouree de champs et de bois; quelle vie charmante que la vie
champetre! N'est-ce pas, monsieur?’
‘Cela depend, mademoiselle.&=
#8217;
‘Que le vent est bon et frai=
s!’
continued the directress; and she was right there, for it was a south wind,=
soft
and sweet. I carried my hat in my hand, and this gentle breeze, passing thr=
ough
my hair, soothed my temples like balm. Its refreshing effect, however,
penetrated no deeper than the mere surface of the frame; for as I walked by=
the
side of Mdlle. Reuter, my heart was still hot within me, and while I was mu=
sing
the fire burned; then spake I with my tongue: -
‘I understand Mdlle. Henri is
gone from hence, and will not return?’
‘Ah, true! I meant to have n=
amed
the subject to you some days ago, but my time is so completely taken up, I
cannot do half the things I wish: have you never experienced what it is,
monsieur, to find the day too short by twelve hours for your numerous dutie=
s?’
‘Not often. Mdlle. Henri's
departure was not voluntary, I presume? If it had been, she would certainly
have given me some intimation of it, being my pupil.’
‘Oh, did she not tell you? t=
hat
was strange; for my part, I never thought of adverting to the subject; when=
one
has so many things to attend to, one is apt to forget little incidents that=
are
not of primary importance.’
‘You consider Mdlle. Henri's
dismission, then, as a very insignificant event?’
‘Dismission? Ah! she was not
dismissed; I can say with truth, monsieur, that since I became the head of =
this
establishment no master or teacher has ever been dismissed from it.’ =
‘Yet some have left it,
mademoiselle?’
‘Many; I have found it neces=
sary
to change frequently - a change of instructors is often beneficial to the
interests of a school; it gives life and variety to the proceedings; it amu=
ses
the pupils, and suggests to the parents the idea of exertion and progress.&=
#8217;
‘Yet when you are tired of a
professor or maitresse, you scruple to dismiss them?’
‘No need to have recourse to
such extreme measures, I assure you. Allons, monsieur le professeur - assey=
ons-nous;
je vais vous donner une petite lecon dans votre etat d'instituteur.’ =
(I
wish I might write all she said to me in French - it loses sadly by being
translated into English.) We had now reached THE garden-chair; the directre=
ss
sat down, and signed to me to sit by her, but I only rested my knee on the
seat, and stood leaning my head and arm against the embowering branch of a =
huge
laburnum, whose golden flowers, blent with the dusky green leaves of a
lilac-bush, formed a mixed arch of shade and sunshine over the retreat. Mdl=
le.
Reuter sat silent a moment; some novel movements were evidently working in =
her
mind, and they showed their nature on her astute brow; she was meditating s=
ome
‘Monsieur fears to sit by me=
?’
she inquired playfully.
‘I have no wish to usurp Pel=
et's
place,’ I answered, for I had got the habit of speaking to her bluntl=
y - a
habit begun in anger, but continued because I saw that, instead of offendin=
g,
it fascinated her. She cast down her eyes, and drooped her eyelids; she sig=
hed
uneasily; she turned with an anxious gesture, as if she would give me the i=
dea
of a bird that flutters in its cage, and would fain fly from its jail and
jailer, and seek its natural mate and pleasant nest.
‘Well - and your lesson?R=
17;
I demanded briefly.
‘Ah!’ she exclaimed,
recovering herself, ‘you are so young, so frank and fearless, so
talented, so impatient of imbecility, so disdainful of vulgarity, you need a
lesson; here it is then: far more is to be done in this world by dexterity =
than
by strength; but, perhaps, you knew that before, for there is delicacy as w=
ell
as power in your character - policy, as well as pride?’
‘Go on,’ said I; and I
could hardly help smiling, the flattery was so piquant, so finely seasoned.=
She
caught the prohibited smile, though I passed my hand over my month to conce=
al
it; and again she made room for me to sit beside her. I shook my head, thou=
gh
temptation penetrated to my senses at the moment, and once more I told her =
to
go on.
‘Well, then, if ever you are=
at
the head of a large establishment, dismiss nobody. To speak truth, monsieur
(and to you I will speak truth), I despise people who are always making row=
s,
blustering, sending off one to the right, and another to the left, urging a=
nd
hurrying circumstances. I'll tell you what I like best to do, monsieur, sha=
ll
I?’ She looked up again; she had compounded her glance well this time=
- much
archness, more deference, a spicy dash of coquetry, an unveiled consciousne=
ss
of capacity. I nodded; she treated me like the great Mogul; so I became the
great Mogul as far as she was concerned.
‘I like, monsieur, to take my
knitting in my hands, and to sit quietly down in my chair; circumstances de=
file
past me; I watch their march; so long as they follow the course I wish, I s=
ay
nothing, and do nothing; I don't clap my hands, and cry out 'Bravo! How luc=
ky I
am!' to attract the attention and envy of my neighbours - I am merely passi=
ve;
but when events fall out ill =
- when
circumstances become adverse - I watch very vigilantly; I knit on still, and
still I hold my tongue; but every now and then, monsieur, I just put my toe=
out
- so - and give the rebellious circumstance a little secret push, without n=
oise,
which sends it the way I wish, and I am successful after all, and nobody has
seen my expedient. So, when teachers or masters become troublesome and
inefficient - when, in short, the interests of the school would suffer from
their retaining their places - I mind my knitting, events progress,
circumstances glide past; I see one which, if pushed ever so little awry, w=
ill
render untenable the post I wish to have vacated - the deed is done - the
stumbling-block removed - and no one saw me: I have not made an enemy, I am=
rid
of an incumbrance.’
A moment since, and I thought her
alluring; this speech concluded, I looked on her with distaste. ‘Just
like you,’ was my cold answer. ‘And in this way you have ousted
Mdlle. Henri? You wanted her office, therefore you rendered it intolerable =
to
her?’
‘Not at all, monsieur, I was
merely anxious about Mdlle. Henri's health; no, your moral sight is clear a=
nd
piercing, but there you have failed to discover the truth. I took - I have
always taken a real interest in Mdlle. Henri's welfare; I did not like her
going out in all weathers; I thought it would be more advantageous for her =
to
obtain a permanent situation; besides, I considered her now qualified to do
something more than teach sewing. I reasoned with her; left the decision to
herself; she saw the correctness of my views, and adopted them.’
‘Excellent! and now,
mademoiselle, you will have the goodness to give me her address.’
‘Her address!’ and a
sombre and stony change came over the mien of the directress. ‘Her ad=
dress?
Ah? - well - I wish I could oblige you, monsieur, but I cannot, and I will =
tell
you why; whenever I myself asked her for her address, she always evaded the
inquiry. I thought - I may be wrong - but I THOUGHT her motive for doing so,
was a natural, though mistaken reluctance to introduce me to some, probably,
very poor abode; her means were narrow, her origin obscure; she lives
somewhere, doubtless, in the 'basse ville.'‘
‘I'll not lose sight of my b=
est
pupil yet,’ said I, ‘though she were born of beggars and lodged=
in
a cellar; for the rest, it is absurd to make a bugbear of her origin to me =
- I
happen to know that she was a Swiss pastor's daughter, neither more nor les=
s;
and, as to her narrow means, I care nothing for the poverty of her purse so
long as her heart overflows with affluence.’
‘Your sentiments are perfect=
ly
noble, monsieur,’ said the directress, affecting to suppress a yawn; =
her
sprightliness was now extinct, her temporary candour shut up; the little,
red-coloured, piratical-looking pennon of audacity she had allowed to float=
a
minute in the air, was furled, and the broad, sober-hued flag of dissimulat=
ion
again hung low over the citadel. I did not like her thus, so I cut short the
TETE-A-TETE and departed.
NOVELISTS should never allow
themselves to weary of the study of real life. If they observed this duty
conscientiously, they would give us fewer pictures chequered with vivid
contrasts of light and shade; they would seldom elevate their heroes and
heroines to the heights of rapture - still seldomer sink them to the depths=
of
despair; for if we rarely taste the fulness of joy in this life, we yet more
rarely savour the acrid bitterness of hopeless anguish; unless, indeed, we =
have
plunged like beasts into sensual indulgence, abused, strained, stimulated,
again overstrained, and, at last, destroyed our faculties for enjoyment; th=
en,
truly, we may find ourselves without support, robbed of hope. Our agony is
great, and how can it end? We have broken the spring of our powers; life mu=
st
be all suffering - too feeble to conceive faith - death must be darkness - =
God,
spirits, religion can have no place in our collapsed minds, where linger on=
ly
hideous and polluting recollections of vice; and time brings us on to the b=
rink
of the grave, and dissolution flings us in - a rag eaten through and through
with disease, wrung together with pain, stamped into the churchyard sod by =
the
inexorable heel of despair.
But the man of regular life and
rational mind never despairs. He loses his property - it is a blow - he
staggers a moment; then, his energies, roused by the smart, are at work to =
seek
a remedy; activity soon mitigates regret. Sickness affects him; he takes
patience - endures what he cannot cure. Acute pain racks him; his writhing
limbs know not where to find rest; he leans on Hope's anchors. Death takes =
from
him what he loves; roots up, and tears violently away the stem round which =
his
affections were twined - a dark, dismal time, a frightful wrench - but some
morning Religion looks into his desolate house with sunrise, and says, that=
in
another world, another life, he shall meet his kindred again. She speaks of
that world as a place unsullied by sin - of that life, as an era unembitter=
ed
by suffering; she mightily strengthens her consolation by connecting with it
two ideas - which mortals can=
not
comprehend, but on which they love to repose - Eternity, Immortality; and t=
he
mind of the mourner, being filled with an image, faint yet glorious, of
heavenly hills all light and peace - of a spirit resting there in bliss - o=
f a
day when his spirit shall also alight there, free and disembodied - of a
reunion perfected by love, purified from fear - he takes courage - goes out=
to
encounter the necessities and discharge the duties of life; and, though sad=
ness
may never lift her burden from his mind, Hope will enable him to support it=
.
Well - and what suggested all this?
and what is the inference to be drawn therefrom? What suggested it, is the
circumstance of my best pupil - my treasure - being snatched from my hands,=
and
put away out of my reach; the inference to be drawn from it is - that, bein=
g a
steady, reasonable man, I did not allow the resentment, disappointment, and
grief, engendered in my mind by this evil chance, to grow there to any
monstrous size; nor did I allow them to monopolize the whole space of my he=
art;
I pent them, on the contrary, in one strait and secret nook. In the daytime,
too, when I was about my duties, I put them on the silent system; and it was
only after I had closed the door of my chamber at night that I somewhat rel=
axed
my severity towards these morose nurslings, and allowed vent to their langu=
age
of murmurs; then, in revenge, they sat on my pillow, haunted my bed, and ke=
pt
me awake with their long,
A week passed. I had said nothing =
more
to Mdlle. Reuter. I had been calm in my demeanour to her, though stony cold=
and
hard. When I looked at her, it was with the glance fitting to be bestowed on
one who I knew had consulted jealousy as an adviser, and employed treachery=
as
an instrument - the glance of quiet disdain and rooted distrust. On Saturday
evening, ere I left the house, I stept into the SALLE-A-MANGER, where she w=
as
sitting alone, and, placing myself before her, I asked, with the same tranq=
uil
tone and manner that I should have used had I put the question for the first
time -
‘Mademoiselle, will you have=
the
goodness to give me the address of Frances Evans Henri?’
A little surprised, but not
disconcerted, she smilingly disclaimed any knowledge of that address, addin=
g, ‘Monsieur
has perhaps forgotten that I explained all about that circumstance before -=
a
week ago?’
‘Mademoiselle,’ I
continued, ‘you would greatly oblige me by directing me to that young
person's abode.’
She seemed somewhat puzzled; and, =
at last,
looking up with an admirably counterfeited air of naivete, she demanded, =
8216;Does
Monsieur think I am telling an untruth?’
Still avoiding to give her a direct
answer, I said, ‘It is not then your intention, mademoiselle, to obli=
ge
me in this particular?’
‘But, monsieur, how can I te=
ll
you what I do not know?’
‘Very well; I understand you
perfectly, mademoiselle, and now I have only two or three words to say. Thi=
s is
the last week in July; in another month the vacation will commence, have the
goodness to avail yourself of the leisure it will afford you to look out for
another English master - at the close of August, I shall be under the neces=
sity
of resigning my post in your establishment.’
I did not wait for her comments on
this announcement, but bowed and immediately withdrew.
That same evening, soon after dinn=
er,
a servant brought me a small packet; it was directed in a hand I knew, but =
had
not hoped so soon to see again; being in my own apartment and alone, there =
was
nothing to prevent my immediately opening it; it contained four five-franc
pieces, and a note in English.
‘MONSIEUR, ‘I came to
Mdlle. Reuter's house yesterday, at the time when I knew you would be just
about finishing your lesson, and I asked if I might go into the schoolroom =
and
speak to you. Mdlle. Reuter came out and said you were already gone; it had=
not
yet struck four, so I thought she must be mistaken, but concluded it would =
be
vain to call another day on the same errand. In one sense a note will do as
well - it will wrap up the 20 francs, the price of the lessons I have recei=
ved
from you; and if it will not fully express the thanks I owe you in addition=
- if
it will not bid you good-bye as I could wish to have done - if it will not =
tell
you, as I long to do, how sorry I am that I shall probably never see you mo=
re -
why, spoken words would hardly be more adequate to the task. Had I seen you=
, I
should probably have stammered out something feeble and unsatisfactory - so=
mething
belying my feelings rather than explaining them; so it is perhaps as well t=
hat
I was denied admission to your presence. You often remarked, monsieur, that=
my
devoirs dwelt a great deal on fortitude in bearing grief - you said I
introduced that theme too often: I find indeed that it is much easier to wr=
ite
about a severe duty than to perform it, for I am oppressed when I see and f=
eel
to what a reverse fate has condemned me; you were kind to me, monsieur - ve=
ry
kind; I am afflicted - I am heart-broken to be quite separated from you; so=
on I
shall have no friend on earth. But it is useless troubling you with my
distresses. What claim have I on your sympathy? None; I will then say no mo=
re.
‘Farewell, Monsieur. ‘=
F.
E. HENRI.’
I put up the note in my pocket-boo=
k. I
slipped the five-franc pieces into my purse - then I took a turn through my
narrow chamber.
‘Mdlle. Reuter talked about =
her
poverty,’ said I, ‘and she is poor; yet she pays her debts and
more. I have not yet given her a quarter's lessons, and she has sent me a
quarter's due. I wonder of what she deprived herself to scrape together the
twenty francs - I wonder what sort of a place she has to live in, and what =
sort
of a woman her aunt is, and whether she is likely to get employment to supp=
ly
the place she has lost. No doubt she will have to trudge about long enough =
from
school to school, to inquire here, and apply there - be rejected in this pl=
ace,
disappointed in that. Many an evening she'll go to her bed tired and
unsuccessful. And the directress would not let her in to bid me good-bye? I
might not have the chance of standing with her for a few minutes at a windo=
w in
the schoolroom and exchanging some half-dozen of sentences - getting to know
where she lived - putting mat=
ters
in train for having all things arranged to my mind? No address on the note&=
#8217;
- I continued, drawing it again from the pocket-book and examining it on ea=
ch
side of the two leaves: ‘women are women, that is certain, and always=
do
business like women; men mechanically put a date and address to their
communications. And these five-franc pieces?’ - (I hauled them forth =
from
my purse) - ’if she had offered me them herself instead of tying them=
up
with a thread of green silk in a kind of Lilliputian packet, I could have
thrust them back into her little hand, and shut up the small, taper fingers=
over
them - so - and compelled her shame, her pride, her shyness, all to yield t=
o a
little bit of determined Will - now where is she? How can I get at her?R=
17;
Opening my chamber door I walked d=
own
into the kitchen.
‘Who brought the packet?R=
17;
I asked of the servant who had delivered it to me.
‘Un petit commissionaire,
monsieur.’
‘Did he say anything?’=
‘Rien.’
And I wended my way up the
back-stairs, wondrously the wiser for my inquiries.
‘No matter,’ said I to
myself, as I again closed the door. ‘No matter - I'll seek her through
Brussels.’
And I did. I sought her day by day
whenever I had a moment's leisure, for four weeks; I sought her on Sundays =
all
day long; I sought her on the Boulevards, in the Allee Verte, in the Park; I
sought her in Ste. Gudule and St. Jacques; I sought her in the two Protesta=
nt
chapels; I attended these latter at the German, French, and English service=
s,
not doubting that I should meet her at one of them. All my researches were
absolutely fruitless; my security on the last point was proved by the event=
to
be equally groundless with my other calculations. I stood at the door of ea=
ch
chapel after the service, and waited till every individual had come out,
scrutinizing every gown draping a slender form, peering under every bonnet =
covering
a young head. In vain; I saw girlish figures pass me, drawing their black
scarfs over their sloping shoulders, but none of them had the exact turn and
air of Mdlle. Henri's; I saw pale and thoughtful faces ‘encadreesR=
17;
in bands of brown hair, but I never found her forehead, her eyes, her eyebr=
ows.
All the features of all the faces I met seemed frittered away, because my e=
ye
failed to recognize the peculiarities it was bent upon; an ample space of b=
row
and a large, dark, and serious eye, with a fine but decided line of eyebrow
traced above.
‘She has probably left Bruss=
els
- perhaps is gone to England, as she said she would,’ muttered I
inwardly, as on the afternoon of the fourth Sunday, I turned from the door =
of
the chapel-royal which the door-keeper had just closed and locked, and foll=
owed
in the wake of the last of the congregation, now dispersed and dispersing o=
ver
the square. I had soon outwalked the couples of English gentlemen and ladie=
s.
(Gracious goodness! why don't they dress better? My eye is yet filled with
visions of the high-flounced, slovenly, and tumbled dresses in costly silk =
and
satin, of the large unbecoming collars in expensive lace; of the ill-cut co=
ats
and strangely fashioned pantaloons which every Sunday, at the English servi=
ce,
filled the choirs of the chapel-royal, and after it, issuing forth into the
square, came into disadvantageous contrast with freshly and trimly attired
foreign figures, hastening to attend salut at the church of Coburg.) I had
passed these pairs of Britons, and the groups of pretty British children, a=
nd
the British footmen and waiting-maids; I had crossed the Place Royale, and =
got
into the Rue Royale, thence I had diverged into the Rue de Louvain - an old=
and
quiet street. I remember that, feeling a little hungry, and not desiring to=
go
back and take my share of the ‘gouter,’ now on the refectory-ta=
ble
at Pelet's - to wit, pistolets and water - I stepped into a baker's and
refreshed myself on a COUC(?) - it is a Flemish word, I don't know how to s=
pell
it - A CORINTHE-ANGLICE, a currant bun - and a cup of coffee; and then I
strolled on towards the Porte de Louvain. Very soon I was out of the city, =
and
slowly mounting the hill, which ascends from the gate, I took my time; for =
the
afternoon, though cloudy, was very sultry, and not a breeze stirred to refr=
esh
the atmosphere. No inhabitant of Brussels need wander far to search for
solitude; let him but move half a league from his own city and he will find=
her
brooding still and blank over the wide fields, so drear though so fertile,
spread out treeless and trackless round the capital of Brabant. Having gain=
ed
the summit of the hill, and having stood and looked long over the cultured =
but
lifeless campaign, I felt a wish to quit the high road, which I had hitherto
followed, and get in among those tilled grounds - fertile as the beds of a
Brobdignagian kitchen-garden - spreading far and wide even to the boundarie=
s of
the horizon, where, from a dusk green, distance changed them to a sullen bl=
ue,
and confused their tints with those of the livid and thunderous-looking sky.
Accordingly I turned up a by-path to the right; I had not followed it far e=
re
it brought me, as I expected, into the fields, amidst which, just before me,
stretched a long and lofty white wall enclosing, as it seemed from the foli=
age
showing above, some thickly planted nursery of yew and cypress, for of that
species were the branches resting on the pale parapets, and crowding gloomi=
ly
about a massive cross, planted doubtless on a central eminence and extendin=
g its
arms, which seemed of black marble, over the summits of those sinister tree=
s. I
approached, wondering to what house this well-protected garden appertained;=
I
turned the angle of the wall, thinking to see some stately residence; I was
close upon great iron gates; there was a hut serving for a lodge near, but I
had no occasion to apply for the key - the gates were open; I pushed one le=
af
back - rain had rusted its hinges, for it groaned dolefully as they revolve=
d.
Thick planting embowered the entrance. Passing up the avenue, I saw objects=
on
each hand which, in their own mute language of inscription and sign, explai=
ned
clearly to what abode I had made my way. This was the house appointed for a=
ll
living; crosses, monuments, and garlands of everlastings announced, ‘=
The
Protestant Cemetery, outside the gate of Louvain.’
The place was large enough to affo=
rd
half an hour's strolling without the monotony of treading continually the s=
ame
path; and, for those who love to peruse the annals of graveyards, here was =
variety
of inscription enough to occupy the attention for double or treble that spa=
ce
of time. Hither people of many kindreds, tongues, and nations, had brought
their dead for interment; and here, on pages of stone, of marble, and of br=
ass,
were written names, dates, last tributes of pomp or love, in English, in
French, in German, and Latin. Here the Englishman had erected a marble monu=
ment
over the remains of his Mary Smith or Jane Brown, and inscribed it only with
her name. There the French widower had shaded the grave: of his Elmire or
Celestine with a brilliant thicket of roses, amidst which a little tablet
rising, bore an equally bright testimony to her countless virtues. Every
nation, tribe, and kindred, mourned after its own fashion; and how soundles=
s was
the mourning of all! My own tread, though slow and upon smooth-rolled paths,
seemed to startle, because it formed the sole break to a silence otherwise
total. Not only the winds, but the very fitful, wandering airs, were that
afternoon, as by common consent, all fallen asleep in their various quarter=
s;
the north was hushed, the south silent, the east sobbed not, nor did the we=
st
whisper. The clouds in heaven were condensed and dull, but apparently quite
motionless. Under the trees of this cemetery nestled a warm breathless gloo=
m,
out of which the cypresses stood up straight and mute, above which the will=
ows
hung low and still; where the flowers, as languid as fair, waited listless =
for
night dew or thunder-shower; where the tombs, and those they hid, lay impas=
sible
to sun or shadow, to rain or drought.
Importuned by the sound of my own
footsteps, I turned off upon the turf, and slowly advanced to a grove of ye=
ws;
I saw something stir among the stems; I thought it might be a broken branch
swinging, my short-sighted vision had caught no form, only a sense of motio=
n;
but the dusky shade passed on, appearing and disappearing at the openings in
the avenue. I soon discerned it was a living thing, and a human thing; and,
drawing nearer, I perceived it was a woman, pacing slowly to and fro, and
evidently deeming herself alone as I had deemed myself alone, and meditatin=
g as
I had been meditating. Ere long she returned to a seat which I fancy she had
but just quitted, or I should have caught sight of her before. It was in a
nook, screened by a clump of trees; there was the white wall before her, an=
d a
little stone set up against the wall, and, at the foot of the stone, was an
allotment of turf freshly turned up, a new-made grave. I put on my spectacl=
es,
and passed softly close behind her; glancing at the inscription on the ston=
e, I
read,’ Julienne Henri, died at Brussels, aged sixty. August 10th, 18 =
- .’
Having perused the inscription, I looked down at the form sitting bent and
thoughtful just under my eyes, unconscious of the vicinity of any living th=
ing;
it was a slim, youthful figure in mourning apparel of the plainest black st=
uff,
with a little simple, black crape bonnet; I felt, as well as saw, who it wa=
s;
and, moving neither hand nor foot, I stood some moments enjoying the securi=
ty
of conviction. I had sought her for a month, and had never discovered one of
her traces - never met a hope, or seized a chance of encountering her anywh=
ere.
I had been forced to loosen my grasp on expectation; and, but an hour ago, =
had
sunk slackly under the discouraging thought that the current of life, and t=
he
impulse of destiny, had swept her for ever from my reach; and, behold, while
bending suddenly earthward beneath the pressure of despondency - while
following with my eyes the track of sorrow on the turf of a graveyard - here
was my lost jewel dropped on the tear-fed herbage, nestling in the messy and
mouldy roots of yew-trees.
Frances sat very quiet, her elbow =
on
her knee, and her head on her hand. I knew she could retain a thinking atti=
tude
a long time without change; at last, a tear fell; she had been looking at t=
he
name on the stone before her, and her heart had no doubt endured one of tho=
se
constrictions with which the desolate living, regretting the dead, are, at
times, so sorely oppressed. Many tears rolled down, which she wiped away, a=
gain
and again, with her handkerchief; some distressed sobs escaped her, and the=
n,
the paroxysm over, she sat quiet as before. I put my hand gently on her
shoulder; no need further to prepare her, for she was neither hysterical nor
liable to fainting-fits; a sudden push, indeed, might have startled her, but
the contact of my quiet touch merely woke attention as I wished; and, though
she turned quickly, yet so lightning-swift is thought - in some minds
especially - I believe the wonder of what - the consciousness of who it was
that thus stole unawares on her solitude, had passed through her brain, and
flashed into her heart, even before she had effected that hasty movement; at
least, Amazement had hardly opened her eyes and raised them to mine, ere
Recognition informed their irids with most speaking brightness. Nervous
surprise had hardly discomposed her features ere a sentiment of most vivid =
joy
shone clear and warm on her whole countenance. I had hardly time to observe
that she was wasted and pale, ere called to feel a responsive inward pleasu=
re
by the sense of most full and exquisite pleasure glowing in the animated fl=
ush,
and shining in the expansive light, now diffused over my pupil's face. It w=
as the
summer sun flashing out after the heavy summer shower; and what fertilizes =
more
rapidly than that beam, burning almost like fire in its ardour?
I hate boldness - that boldness wh=
ich
is of the brassy brow and insensate nerves; but I love the courage of the
strong heart, the fervour of the generous blood; I loved with passion the l=
ight
of Frances Evans' clear hazel eye when it did not fear to look straight into
mine; I loved the tones with which she uttered the words -
‘Mon maitre! mon maitre!R=
17;
I loved the movement with which she
confided her hand to my hand; I loved her as she stood there, penniless and
parentless; for a sensualist charmless, for me a treasure - my best object =
of
sympathy on earth, thinking such thoughts as I thought, feeling such feelin=
gs
as I felt; my ideal of the shrine in which to seal my stores of love;
personification of discretion and forethought, of diligence and perseveranc=
e,
of self-denial and self-control - those
guardians, those trusty keepers of the gift I longed to confer on her - the
gift of all my affections; model of truth and honour, of independence and
conscientiousness - those refiners and sustainers of an honest life; silent
possessor of a well of tenderness, of a flame, as genial as still, as pure =
as
quenchless, of natural feeling, natural passion - those sources of refreshm=
ent
and comfort to the sanctuary of home. I knew how quietly and how deeply the
well bubbled in her heart; I knew how the more dangerous flame burned safely
under the eye of reason; I had seen when the fire shot up a moment high and
vivid, when the accelerated heat troubled life's current in its channels; I=
had
seen reason reduce the rebel, and humble its blaze to embers. I had confide=
nce
in Frances Evans; I had respect for her, and as I drew her arm through mine,
and led her out of the cemetery, I felt I had another sentiment, as strong =
as
confidence, as firm as respect, more fervid than either - that of love.
‘Well, my pupil,’ said=
I,
as the ominous sounding gate swung to behind us - ’Well, I have found=
you
again: a month's search has seemed long, and I little thought to have
discovered my lost sheep straying amongst graves.’
Never had I addressed her but as &=
#8216;Mademoiselle’
before, and to speak thus was to take up a tone new to both her and me. Her
answer suprised me that this language ruffled none of her feelings, woke no
discord in her heart:
‘Mon maitre,’ she said=
, ‘have
you troubled yourself to seek me? I little imagined you would think much of=
my
absence, but I grieved bitterly to be taken away from you. I was sorry for =
that
circumstance when heavier troubles ought to have made me forget it.’ =
‘Your aunt is dead?’ <= o:p>
‘Yes, a fortnight since, and=
she
died full of regret, which I could not chase from her mind; she kept repeat=
ing,
even during the last night of her existence, 'Frances, you will be so lonely
when I am gone, so friendless:' she wished too that she could have been bur=
ied
in Switzerland, and it was I who persuaded her in her old age to leave the
banks of Lake Leman, and to come, only as it seems to die, in this flat reg=
ion
of Flanders. Willingly would I have observed her last wish, and taken her
remains back to our own country, but that was impossible; I was forced to l=
ay
her here.’
‘She was ill but a short tim=
e, I
presume?’
‘But three weeks. When she b=
egan
to sink I asked Mdlle. Reuter's leave to stay with her and wait on her; I
readily got leave.’
‘Do you return to the
pensionnat!’ I demanded hastily. ‘Monsieur, when I had been at =
home
a week Mdlle. Reuter called one evening, just after I had got my aunt to be=
d;
she went into her room to speak to her, and was extremely civil and affable=
, as
she always is; afterwards she came and sat with me a long time, and just as=
she
rose to go away, she said: ‘Mademoiselle, I shall not soon cease to
regret your departure from my establishment, though indeed it is true that =
you
have taught your class of pupils so well that they are all quite accomplish=
ed
in the little works you manage so skilfully, and have not the slightest nee=
d of
further instruction; my second teacher must in future supply your place, wi=
th
regard to the younger pupils, as well as she can, though she is indeed an
inferior artiste to you, and doubtless it will be your part now to assume a
higher position in your calling; I am sure you will everywhere find schools=
and
families willing to profit by your talents.' And then she paid me my last
quarter's salary. I asked, as mademoiselle would no doubt think, very blunt=
ly,
if she designed to discharge me from the establishment. She smiled at my
inelegance of speech, and answered that 'our connection as employer and
employed was certainly dissolved, but that she hoped still to retain the
pleasure of my acquaintance; she should always be happy to see me as a frie=
nd;'
and then she said something about the excellent condition of the streets, a=
nd
the long continuance of fine weather, and went away quite cheerful.’ =
I laughed inwardly; all this was so
like the directress - so like what I had expected and guessed of her conduc=
t;
and then the exposure and proof of her lie, unconsciously afforded by Franc=
es:
- ’She had frequently applied for Mdlle. Henri's address,’
forsooth; ‘Mdlle. Henri had always evaded giving it,’ &c.,
&c., and here I found her a visitor at the very house of whose locality=
she
had professed absolute ignorance!
Any comments I might have intended=
to
make on my pupil's communication, were checked by the plashing of large
rain-drops on our faces and on the path, and by the muttering of a distant =
but
coming storm. The warning obvious in stagnant air and leaden sky had already
induced me to take the road leading back to Brussels, and now I hastened my=
own
steps and those of my companion, and, as our way lay downhill, we got on
rapidly. There was an interval after the fall of the first broad drops befo=
re
heavy rain came on; in the meantime we had passed through the Porte de Louv=
ain,
and were again in the city.
‘Where do you live?’ I
asked; ‘I will see you safe home,’
‘Rue Notre Dame aux Neiges,&=
#8217;
answered Frances.
It was not far from the Rue de
Louvain, and we stood on the doorsteps of the house we sought ere the cloud=
s,
severing with loud peal and shattered cataract of lightning, emptied their
livid folds in a torrent, heavy, prone, and broad.
‘Come in! come in!’ sa=
id
Frances, as, after putting her into the house, I paused ere I followed: the
word decided me; I stepped across the threshold, shut the door on the rushi=
ng,
flashing, whitening storm, and followed her upstairs to her apartments. Nei=
ther
she nor I were wet; a projection over the door had warded off the
straight-descending flood; none but the first, large drops had touched our
garments; one minute more and we should not have had a dry thread on us.
Stepping over a little mat of green
wool, I found myself in a small room with a painted floor and a square of g=
reen
carpet in the middle; the articles of furniture were few, but all bright and
exquisitely clean; order reigned through its narrow limits - such order as it soothed my punct=
ilious
soul to behold. And I had hesitated to enter the abode, because I apprehend=
ed
after all that Mdlle. Reuter's hint about its extreme poverty might be too
well-founded, and I feared to embarrass the lace-mender by entering her
lodgings unawares! Poor the place might be; poor truly it was; but its neat=
ness
was better than elegance, and had but a bright little fire shone on that cl=
ean
hearth, I should have deemed it more attractive than a palace. No fire was
there, however, and no fuel laid ready to light; the lace-mender was unable=
to
allow herself that indulgence, especially now when, deprived by death of her
sole relative, she had only her own unaided exertions to rely on. Frances w=
ent
into an inner room to take off her bonnet, and she came out a model of frug=
al
neatness, with her well-fitting black stuff dress, so accurately defining h=
er
elegant bust and taper waist, with her spotless white collar turned back fr=
om a
fair and shapely neck, with her plenteous brown hair arranged in smooth ban=
ds
on her temples, and in a large Grecian plait behind: ornaments she had none=
- neither
brooch, ring, nor ribbon; she did well enough without them - perfection of fit, proportion of =
form,
grace of carriage, agreeably supplied their place. Her eye, as she re-enter=
ed
the small sitting-room, instantly sought mine, which was just then lingerin=
g on
the hearth; I knew she read at once the sort of inward ruth and pitying pain
which the chill vacancy of that hearth stirred in my soul: quick to penetra=
te,
quick to determine, and quicker to put in practice, she had in a moment tie=
d a
holland apron round her waist; then she disappeared, and reappeared with a
basket; it had a cover; she opened it, and produced wood and coal; deftly a=
nd
compactly she arranged them in the grate.
‘It is her whole stock, and =
she
will exhaust it out of hospitality,’ thought I.
‘What are you going to do?=
8217;
I asked: ‘not surely to light a fire this hot evening? I shall be
smothered.’
‘Indeed, monsieur, I feel it
very chilly since the rain began; besides, I must boil the water for my tea,
for I take tea on Sundays; you will be obliged to try and bear the heat.=
217;
She had struck a light; the wood w=
as
already in a blaze; and truly, when contrasted with the darkness, the wild
tumult of the tempest without, that peaceful glow which began to beam on th=
e now
animated hearth, seemed very cheering. A low, purring sound, from some quar=
ter,
announced that another being, besides myself, was pleased with the change; a
black cat, roused by the light from its sleep on a little cushioned foot-st=
ool,
came and rubbed its head against Frances' gown as she knelt; she caressed i=
t,
saying it had been a favourite with her ‘pauvre tante Julienne.’=
;
The fire being lit, the hearth swe=
pt,
and a small kettle of a very antique pattern, such as I thought I remembere=
d to
have seen in old farmhouses in England, placed over the now ruddy flame,
Frances' hands were washed, and her apron removed in an instant then she op=
ened
a cupboard, and took out a tea-tray, on which she had soon arranged a china
tea-equipage, whose pattern, shape, and size, denoted a remote antiquity; a
little, old-fashioned silver spoon was deposited in each saucer; and a pair=
of
silver tongs, equally old-fashioned, were laid on the sugar-basin; from the
cupboard, too, was produced a tidy silver cream-ewer, not larger then an
egg-shell. While making these preparations, she chanced to look up, and,
reading curiosity in my eyes, she smiled and asked -
‘Is this like England, monsi=
eur?’
‘Like the England of a hundr=
ed
years ago,’ I replied.
‘Is it truly? Well, everythi=
ng
on this tray is at least a hundred years old: these cups, these spoons, this
ewer, are all heirlooms; my great-grandmother left them to my grandmother, =
she
to my mother, and my mother brought them with her from England to Switzerla=
nd,
and left them to me; and, ever since I was a little girl, I have thought I
should like to carry them back to England, whence they came.’
She put some pistolets on the tabl=
e;
she made the tea, as foreigners do make tea - i.e., at the rate of a
teaspoonful to half-a-dozen cups; she placed me a chair, and, as I took it,=
she
asked, with a sort of exaltation - <=
/span>
‘Will it make you think your=
self
at home for a moment?’
‘If I had a home in England,=
I
believe it would recall it,’ I answered; and, in truth, there was a s=
ort
of illusion in seeing the fair-complexioned English-looking girl presiding =
at
the English meal, and speaking in the English language.
‘You have then no home?̵=
7;
was her remark.
‘None, nor ever have had. If
ever I possess a home, it must be of my own making, and the task is yet to
begin.’ And, as I spoke, a pang, new to me, shot across my heart: it =
was
a pang of mortification at the humility of my position, and the inadequacy =
of
my means; while with that pang was born a strong desire to do more, earn mo=
re,
be more, possess more; and in the increased possessions, my roused and eager
spirit panted to include the home I had never had, the wife I inwardly vowe=
d to
win.
Frances' tea was little better than
hot water, sugar, and milk; and her pistolets, with which she could not off=
er
me butter, were sweet to my palate as manna.
The repast over, and the treasured
plate and porcelain being washed and put by, the bright table rubbed still
brighter, ‘le chat de ma tante Julienne’ also being fed with
provisions brought forth on a plate for its special use, a few stray cinder=
s,
and a scattering of ashes too, being swept from the hearth, Frances at last=
sat
down; and then, as she took a chair opposite to me, she betrayed, for the f=
irst
time, a little embarrassment; and no wonder, for indeed I had unconsciously
watched her rather too closely, followed all her steps and all her movement=
s a
little too perseveringly with my eyes, for she mesmerized me by the grace a=
nd
alertness of her action - by the deft, cleanly, and even decorative effect
resulting from each touch of her slight and fine fingers; and when, at last,
she subsided to stillness, the intelligence of her face seemed beauty to me,
and I dwelt on it accordingly. Her colour, however, rising, rather than
settling with repose, and her eyes remaining downcast, though I kept waiting
for the lids to be raised that I might drink a ray of the light I loved - a
light where fire dissolved in softness, where affection tempered penetratio=
n,
where, just now at least, pleasure played with thought - this expectation n=
ot
being gratified, I began at last to suspect that I had probably myself to b=
lame
for the disappointment; I must cease gazing, and begin talking, if I wished=
to
break the spell under which she now sat motionless; so recollecting the
composing effect which an authoritative tone and manner had ever been wont =
to
produce on her, I said -
‘Get one of your English boo=
ks,
mademoiselle, for the rain yet falls heavily, and will probably detain me h=
alf
an hour longer.’
Released, and set at ease, up she
rose, got her book, and accepted at once the chair I placed for her at my s=
ide.
She had selected ‘Paradise Lost’ from her shelf of classics,
thinking, I suppose, the religious character of the book best adapted it to
Sunday; I told her to begin at the beginning, and while she read Milton's
invocation to that heavenly muse, who on the ‘secret top of Oreb or S=
inai’
had taught the Hebrew shepherd how in the womb of chaos, the conception of a
world had originated and ripened, I enjoyed, undisturbed, the treble pleasu=
re
of having her near me, hearing the sound of her voice - a sound sweet and
satisfying in my ear - and looking, by intervals, at her face: of this last
privilege, I chiefly availed myself when I found fault with an intonation, a
pause, or an emphasis; as long as I dogmatized, I might also gaze, without
exciting too warm a flush.
‘Enough,’ said I, when=
she
had gone through some half dozen pages (a work of time with her, for she re=
ad
slowly and paused often to ask and receive information) - ’enough; and
now the rain is ceasing, and I must soon go.’ For indeed, at that mom=
ent,
looking towards the window, I saw it all blue; the thunder-clouds were brok=
en
and scattered, and the setting August sun sent a gleam like the reflection =
of
rubies through the lattice. I got up; I drew on my gloves.
‘You have not yet found anot=
her
situation to supply the place of that from which you were dismissed by Mdll=
e.
Reuter?’
‘No, monsieur; I have made
inquiries everywhere, but they all ask me for references; and to speak trut=
h, I
do not like to apply to the directress, because I consider she acted neither
justly nor honourably towards me; she used underhand means to set my pupils
against me, and thereby render me unhappy while I held my place in her esta=
blishment,
and she eventually deprived me of it by a masked and hypocritical manoeuvre,
pretending that she was acting for my good, but really snatching from me my
chief means of subsistence, at a crisis when not only my own life, but that=
of
another, depended on my exertions: of her I will never more ask a favour.=
8217;
‘How, then, do you propose to
get on? How do you live now?’
‘I have still my lace-mending
trade; with care it will keep me from starvation, and I doubt not by dint of
exertion to get better employment yet; it is only a fortnight since I began=
to
try; my courage or hopes are by no means worn out yet.’
‘And if you get what you wis=
h,
what then? what are your ultimate views?’
‘To save enough to cross the
Channel: I always look to England as my Canaan.’
‘Well, well - ere long I sha=
ll
pay you another visit; good evening now,’ and I left her rather abrup=
tly;
I had much ado to resist a strong inward impulse, urging me to take a warme=
r,
more expressive leave: what so natural as to fold her for a moment in a clo=
se
embrace, to imprint one kiss on her cheek or forehead? I was not unreasonab=
le -
that was all I wanted; satisfied in that point, I could go away content; and
Reason denied me even this; she ordered me to turn my eyes from her face, a=
nd
my steps from her apartment - to quit her as dryly and coldly as I would ha=
ve
quitted old Madame Pelet. I obeyed, but I swore rancorously to be avenged o=
ne
day. ‘I'll earn a right to do as I please in this matter, or I'll die=
in
the contest. I have one object before me now - to get that Genevese girl fo=
r my
wife; and my wife she shall be - that is, provided she has as much, or half=
as
much regard for her master as he has for her. And would she be so docile, so
smiling, so happy under my instructions if she had not? would she sit at my
side when I dictate or correct, with such a still, contented, halcyon mien?=
’
for I had ever remarked, that however sad or harassed her countenance might=
be
when I entered a room, yet after I had been near her, spoken to her a few
words, given her some directions, uttered perhaps some reproofs, she would,=
all
at once, nestle into a nook of happiness, and look up serene and revived. T=
he
reproofs suited her best of all: while I scolded she would chip away with h=
er
pen-knife at a pencil or a pen; fidgetting a little, pouting a little,
defending herself by monosyllables, and when I deprived her of the pen or
pencil, fearing it would be all cut away, and when I interdicted even the
monosyllabic defence, for the purpose of working up the subdued excitement a
little higher, she would at last raise her eyes and give me a certain glanc=
e,
sweetened with gaiety, and pointed with defiance, which, to speak truth,
thrilled me as nothing had ever done, and made me, in a fashion (though hap=
pily
she did not know it), her subject, if not her slave. After such little scen=
es
her spirits would maintain their flow, often for some hours, and, as I rema=
rked
before, her health therefrom took a sustenance and vigour which, previously=
to
the event of her aunt's death and her dismissal, had almost recreated her w=
hole
frame.
It has taken me several minutes to
write these last sentences; but I had thought all their purport during the
brief interval of descending the stairs from Frances' room. Just as I was
opening the outer door, I remembered the twenty francs which I had not
restored; I paused: impossible to carry them away with me; difficult to for=
ce
them back on their original owner; I had now seen her in her own humble abo=
de,
witnessed the dignity of her poverty, the pride of order, the fastidious ca=
re
of conservatism, obvious in the arrangement and economy of her little home;=
I
was sure she would not suffer herself to be excused paying her debts; I was
certain the favour of indemnity would be accepted from no hand, perhaps lea=
st
of all from mine: yet these four five-franc pieces were a burden to my
self-respect, and I must get rid of them. An expedient - a clumsy one no do=
ubt,
but the best I could devise-suggested itself to me. I darted up the stairs,
knocked, re-entered the room as if in haste: -
‘Mademoiselle, I have forgot=
ten
one of my gloves; I must have left it here.’
She instantly rose to seek it; as =
she
turned her back, I - being now at the hearth - noiselessly lifted a little
vase, one of a set of china ornaments, as old-fashioned as the tea-cups - s=
lipped
the money under it, then saying - ’Oh here is my glove! I had dropped=
it
within the fender; good evening, mademoiselle,’ I made my second exit=
.
Brief as my impromptu return had b=
een,
it had afforded me time to pick up a heart-ache; I remarked that Frances had
already removed the red embers of her cheerful little fire from the grate:
forced to calculate every item, to save in every detail, she had instantly =
on
my departure retrenched a luxury too expensive to be enjoyed alone.
‘I am glad it is not yet win=
ter,’
thought I; ‘but in two months more come the winds and rains of Novemb=
er;
would to God that before then I could earn the right, and the power, to sho=
vel
coals into that grate AD LIBITUM!’
Already the pavement was drying; a
balmy and fresh breeze stirred the air, purified by lightning; I felt the W=
est
behind me, where spread a sky like opal; azure immingled with crimson: the
enlarged sun, glorious in Tyrian tints, dipped his brim already; stepping, =
as I
was, eastward, I faced a vast bank of clouds, but also I had before me the =
arch
of an evening rainbow; a perfect rainbow - high, wide, vivid. I looked long=
; my
eye drank in the scene, and I suppose my brain must have absorbed it; for t=
hat
night, after lying awake in pleasant fever a long time, watching the silent
sheet-lightning, which still played among the retreating clouds, and flashed
silvery over the stars, I at last fell asleep; and then in a dream were
reproduced the setting sun, the bank of clouds, the mighty rainbow. I stood,
methought, on a terrace; I leaned over a parapeted wall; there was space be=
low
me, depth I could not fathom, but hearing an endless dash of waves, I belie=
ved
it to be the sea; sea spread to the horizon; sea of changeful green and int=
ense
blue: all was soft in the distance; all vapour-veiled. A spark of gold
glistened on the line between water and air, floated up, approached, enlarg=
ed,
changed; the object hung midway between heaven and earth, under the arch of=
the
rainbow; the soft but dusk clouds diffused behind. It hovered as on wings;
pearly, fleecy, gleaming air streamed like raiment round it; light, tinted =
with
carnation, coloured what seemed face and limbs; A large star shone with sti=
ll
lustre on an angel's forehead; an upraised arm and hand, glancing like a ra=
y,
pointed to the bow overhead, and a voice in my heart whispered -
‘Hope smiles on Effort!̵=
7;
A COMPETENCY was what I wanted; a
competency it was now my aim and resolve to secure; but never had I been
farther from the mark. With August the school-year (l'annee scolaire) close=
d,
the examinations concluded, the prizes were adjudged, the schools dispersed,
the gates of all colleges, the doors of all pensionnats shut, not to be
reopened till the beginning or middle of October. The last day of August wa=
s at
hand, and what was my position? Had I advanced a step since the commencemen=
t of
the past quarter? On the contrary, I had receded one. By renouncing my
engagement as English master in Mdlle. Reuter's establishment, I had
voluntarily cut off 20l. from my yearly income; I had diminished my 60l. per
annum to 40l., and even that sum I now held by a very precarious tenure.
It is some time since I made any
reference to M. Pelet. The moonlight walk is, I think, the last incident
recorded in this narrative where that gentleman cuts any conspicuous figure:
the fact is, since that event, a change had come over the spirit of our
intercourse. He, indeed, ignorant that the still hour, a cloudless moon, an=
d an
open lattice, had revealed to me the secret of his selfish love and false
friendship, would have continued smooth and complaisant as ever; but I grew
spiny as a porcupine, and inflexible as a blackthorn cudgel; I never had a
smile for his raillery, never a moment for his society; his invitations to =
take
coffee with him in his parlour were invariably rejected, and very stiffly a=
nd
sternly rejected too; his jesting allusions to the directress (which he sti=
ll
continued) were heard with a grim calm very different from the petulant
pleasure they were formerly wont to excite. For a long time Pelet bore with=
my
frigid demeanour very patiently; he even increased his attentions; but find=
ing
that even a cringing politeness failed to thaw or move me, he at last alter=
ed
too; in his turn he cooled; his invitations ceased; his countenance became
suspicious and overcast, and I read in the perplexed yet brooding aspect of=
his
brow, a constant examination and comparison of premises, and an anxious
endeavour to draw thence some explanatory inference. Ere long, I fancy, he
succeeded, for he was not without penetration; perhaps, too, Mdlle. Zoraide
might have aided him in the solution of the enigma; at any rate I soon found
that the uncertainty of doubt had vanished from his manner; renouncing all
pretence of friendship and cordiality, he adopted a reserved, formal, but s=
till
scrupulously polite deportment. This was the point to which I had wished to
bring him, and I was now again comparatively at my ease. I did not, it is t=
rue,
like my position in his house; but being freed from the annoyance of false
professions and double-dealing I could endure it, especially as no heroic
sentiment of hatred or jealousy of the director distracted my philosophical
soul; he had not, I found, wounded me in a very tender point, the wound was=
so
soon and so radically healed, leaving only a sense of contempt for the
treacherous fashion in which it had been inflicted, and a lasting mistrust =
of
the hand which I had detected attempting to stab in the dark.
This state of things continued till
about the middle of July, and then there was a little change; Pelet came ho=
me
one night, an hour after his usual time, in a state of unequivocal
intoxication, a thing anomalous with him; for if he had some of the worst
faults of his countrymen, he had also one at least of their virtues, i.e.
sobriety. So drunk, however, was he upon this occasion, that after having
roused the whole establishment (except the pupils, whose dormitory being ov=
er
the classes in a building apart from the dwelling-house, was consequently o=
ut
of the reach of disturbance) by violently ringing the hall-bell and ordering
lunch to be brought in immediately, for he imagined it was noon, whereas the
city bells had just tolled midnight; after having furiously rated the serva=
nts
for their want of punctuality, and gone near to chastise his poor old mothe=
r,
who advised him to go to bed, he began raving dreadfully about ‘le ma=
udit
Anglais, Creemsvort.’ I had not yet retired; some German books I had =
got
hold of had kept me up late; I heard the uproar below, and could distinguish
the director's voice exalted in a manner as appalling as it was unusual.
Opening my door a little, I became aware of a demand on his part for ‘=
;Creemsvort’
to be brought down to him that he might cut his throat on the hall-table and
wash his honour, which he affirmed to be in a dirty condition, in infernal
British blood. ‘He is either mad or drunk,’ thought I, ‘a=
nd
in either case the old woman and the servants will be the better of a man's
assistance,’ so I descended straight to the hall. I found him stagger=
ing
about, his eyes in a fine frenzy rolling - a pretty sight he was, a just me=
dium
between the fool and the lunatic.
‘Come, M. Pelet,’ said=
I, ‘you
had better go to bed,’ and I took hold of his arm. His excitement, of
course, increased greatly at sight and touch of the individual for whose bl=
ood
he had been making application: he struggled and struck with fury - but a
drunken man is no match for a sober one; and, even in his normal state, Pel=
et's
worn out frame could not have stood against my sound one. I got him up-stai=
rs,
and, in process of time, to bed. During the operation he did not fail to ut=
ter
comminations which, though broken, had a sense in them; while stigmatizing =
me
as the treacherous spawn of a perfidious country, he, in the same breath,
anathematized Zoraide Reuter; he termed her ‘femme sotte et vicieuse,=
’
who, in a fit of lewd caprice, had thrown herself away on an unprincipled
adventurer; directing the point of the last appellation by a furious blow,
obliquely aimed at me. I left him in the act of bounding elastically out of=
the
bed into which I had tucked him; but, as I took the precaution of turning t=
he
key in the door behind me, I retired to my own room, assured of his safe
custody till the morning, and free to draw undisturbed conclusions from the
scene I had just witnessed.
Now, it was precisely about this t=
ime
that the directress, stung by my coldness, bewitched by my scorn, and excit=
ed
by the preference she suspected me of cherishing for another, had fallen in=
to a
snare of her own laying - was herself caught in the meshes of the very pass=
ion
with which she wished to entangle me. Conscious of the state of things in t=
hat
quarter, I gathered, from the condition in which I saw my employer, that his
lady-love had betrayed the alienation of her affections - inclinations, rat=
her,
I would say; affection is a word at once too warm and too pure for the subj=
ect
- had let him see that the cavity of her hollow heart, emptied of his image,
was now occupied by that of his usher. It was not without some surprise tha=
t I
found myself obliged to entertain this view of the case; Pelet, with his old
-established school, was so convenient, so profitable a match - Zoraide was so calculating, so
interested a woman - I wondered mere personal preference could, in her mind,
have prevailed for a moment over worldly advantage: yet, it was evident, fr=
om
what Pelet said, that, not only had she repulsed him, but had even let slip
expressions of partiality for me. One of his drunken exclamations was, R=
16;And
the jade doats on your youth, you raw blockhead! and talks of your noble
deportment, as she calls your accursed English formality - and your pure
morals, forsooth! des moeurs de Caton a-t-elle dit - sotte!’ Hers, I =
thought,
must be a curious soul, where in spite of a strong, natural tendency to
estimate unduly advantages of wealth and station, the sardonic disdain of a
fortuneless subordinate had wrought a deeper impression than could be impri=
nted
by the most flattering assiduities of a prosperous
‘Que le dedain lui sied bien=
!’
I once overheard her say to her mother: ‘il est beau comme Apollon qu=
and
il sourit de son air hautain.’
And the jolly old dame laughed, and
said she thought her daughter was bewitched, for I had no point of a handso=
me
man about me, except being straight and without deformity. ‘Pour moi,=
’
she continued, ‘il me fait tout l'effet d'un chat-huant, avec ses
besicles.’
Worthy old girl! I could have gone=
and
kissed her had she not been a little too old, too fat, and too red-faced; h=
er
sensible, truthful words seemed so wholesome, contrasted with the morbid
illusions of her daughter.
When Pelet awoke on the morning af=
ter
his frenzy fit, he retained no recollection of what had happened the previo=
us
night, and his mother fortunately had the discretion to refrain from inform=
ing
him that I had been a witness of his degradation. He did not again have
recourse to wine for curing his griefs, but even in his sober mood he soon
showed that the iron of jealousy had entered into his soul. A thorough
Frenchman, the national characteristic of ferocity had not been omitted by
nature in compounding the ingredients of his character; it had appeared fir=
st
in his access of drunken wrath, when some of his demonstrations of hatred t=
o my
person were of a truly fiendish character, and now it was more covertly
betrayed by momentary contractions of the features, and flashes of fiercene=
ss
in his light blue eyes, when their glance chanced to encounter mine. He
absolutely avoided speaking to me; I was now spared even the falsehood of h=
is
politeness. In this state of our mutual relations, my soul rebelled sometim=
es
almost ungovernably, against living in the house and discharging the servic=
e of
such a man; but who is free from the constraint of circumstances? At that t=
ime,
I was not: I used to rise each morning eager to shake off his yoke, and go =
out with
my portmanteau under my arm, if a beggar, at least a freeman; and in the
evening, when I came back from the pensionnat de demoiselles, a certain
pleasant voice in my ear; a certain face, so intelligent, yet so docile, so
reflective, yet so soft, in my eyes; a certain cast of character, at once p=
roud
and pliant, sensitive and sagacious, serious and ardent, in my head; a cert=
ain
tone of feeling, fervid and modest, refined and practical, pure and powerfu=
l,
delighting and troubling my memory - visions of new ties I longed to contra=
ct,
of new duties I longed to undertake, had taken the rover and the rebel out =
of
me, and had shown endurance of my hated lot in the light of a Spartan virtu=
e.
But Pelet's fury subsided; a fortn=
ight
sufficed for its rise, progress, and extinction: in that space of time the
dismissal of the obnoxious teacher had been effected in the neighbouring ho=
use,
and in the same interval I had declared my resolution to follow and find ou=
t my
pupil, and upon my application for her address being refused, I had summari=
ly
resigned my own post. This last act seemed at once to restore Mdlle. Reuter=
to
her senses; her sagacity, her judgment, so long misled by a fascinating
delusion, struck again into the right track the moment that delusion vanish=
ed.
By the right track, I do not mean the steep and difficult path of principle=
- in
that path she never trod; but the plain highway of common sense, from which=
she
had of late widely diverged. When there she carefully sought, and having fo=
und,
industriously pursued the trail of her old suitor, M. Pelet. She soon overt=
ook
him. What arts she employed to soothe and blind him I know not, but she
succeeded both in allaying his wrath, and hoodwinking his discernment, as w=
as
soon proved by the alteration in his mien and manner; she must have managed=
to
convince him that I neither was, nor ever had been, a rival of his, for the
fortnight of fury against me terminated in a fit of exceeding graciousness =
and
amenity, not unmixed with a dash of exulting self-complacency, more ludicro=
us
than irritating. Pelet's bachelor's life had been passed in proper French s=
tyle
with due disregard to moral restraint, and I thought his married life promi=
sed
to be very French also. He often boasted to me what a terror he had been to
certain husbands of his acquaintance; I perceived it would not now be diffi=
cult
to pay him back in his own coin.
The crisis drew on. No sooner had =
the
holidays commenced than note of preparation for some momentous event sounded
all through the premises of Pelet: painters, polishers, and upholsterers we=
re
immediately set to work, and there was talk of ‘la chambre de Madame,=
’
‘le salon de Madame.’ Not deeming it probable that the old duen=
na
at present graced with that title in our house, had inspired her son with s=
uch
enthusiasm of filial piety, as to induce him to fit up apartments expressly=
for
her use, I concluded, in common with the cook, the two housemaids, and the
kitchen-scullion, that a new and more juvenile Madame was destined to be the
tenant of these gay chambers.
Presently official announcement of=
the
coming event was put forth. In another week's time M. Francois Pelet,
directeur, and Mdlle. Zoraide Reuter, directrice, were to be joined togethe=
r in
the bands of matrimony. Monsieur, in person, heralded the fact to me;
terminating his communication by an obliging expression of his desire that I
should continue, as heretofore, his ablest assistant and most trusted frien=
d;
and a proposition to raise my salary by an additional two hundred francs per
annum. I thanked him, gave no conclusive answer at the time, and, when he h=
ad
left me, threw off my blouse, put on my coat, and set out on a long walk
outside the Porte de Flandre, in order, as I thought, to cool my blood, cal=
m my
nerves, and shake my disarranged ideas into some order. In fact, I had just
received what was virtually my dismissal. I could not conceal, I did not de=
sire
to conceal from myself the conviction that, being now certain that Mdlle.
Reuter was destined to become Madame Pelet it would not do for me to remain=
a
dependent dweller in the house which was soon to be hers. Her present demea=
nour
towards me was deficient neither in dignity nor propriety; but I knew her
former feeling was unchanged. Decorum now repressed, and Policy masked it, =
but
Opportunity would be too strong for either of these - Temptation would shiv=
er
their restraints.
I was no pope - I could not boast
infallibility: in short, if I stayed, the probability was that, in three
months' time, a practical modern French novel would be in full process of
concoction under the roof of the unsuspecting Pelet. Now, modern French nov=
els
are not to my taste, either practically or theoretically. Limited as had yet
been my experience of life, I had once had the opportunity of contemplating,
near at hand, an example of the results produced by a course of interesting=
and
romantic domestic treachery. No golden halo of fiction was about this examp=
le,
I saw it bare and real, and it was very loathsome. I saw a mind degraded by=
the
practice of mean subterfuge, by the habit of perfidious deception, and a bo=
dy
depraved by the infectious influence of the vice-polluted soul. I had suffe=
red
much from the forced and prolonged view of this spectacle; those sufferings=
I
did not now regret, for their simple recollection acted as a most wholesome
antidote to temptation. They had inscribed on my reason the conviction that
unlawful pleasure, trenching on another's rights, is delusive and envenomed
pleasure - its hollowness disappoints at the time, its poison cruelly tortu=
res
afterwards, its effects deprave for ever.
From all this resulted the conclus=
ion
that I must leave Pelet's, and that instantly; ‘but,’ said
Prudence, ‘you know not where to go, nor how to live;’ and then=
the
dream of true love came over me: Frances Henri seemed to stand at my side; =
her
slender waist to invite my arm; her hand to court my hand; I felt it was ma=
de
to nestle in mine; I could not relinquish my right to it, nor could I withd=
raw
my eyes for ever from hers, where I saw so much happiness, such a
correspondence of heart with heart; over whose expression I had such influe=
nce;
where I could kindle bliss, infuse awe, stir deep delight, rouse sparkling
spirit, and sometimes waken pleasurable dread. My hopes to will and possess=
, my
resolutions to merit and rise, rose in array against me; and here I was abo=
ut
to plunge into the gulf of absolute destitution; ‘and all this,’
suggested an inward voice, ‘because you fear an evil which may never
happen!’ ‘It will happen; you KNOW it will,’ answered that
stubborn monitor, Conscience. ‘Do what you feel is right; obey me, and
even in the sloughs of want I will plant for you firm footing.’ And t=
hen,
as I walked fast along the road, there rose upon me a strange, inly-felt id=
ea
of some Great Being, unseen, but all present, who in His beneficence desired
only my welfare, and now watched the struggle of good and evil in my heart,=
and
waited to see whether I should obey His voice, heard in the whispers of my
conscience, or lend an ear to the sophisms by which His enemy and mine - the
Spirit of Evil - sought to le=
ad me
astray. Rough and steep was the path indicated by divine suggestion; mossy =
and
declining the green way along which Temptation strewed flowers; but whereas,
methought, the Deity of Love, the Friend of all that exists, would smile
well-pleased were I to gird up my loins and address myself to the rude asce=
nt;
so, on the other hand, each inclination to the velvet declivity seemed to
kindle a gleam of triumph on the brow of the man-hating, God-defying demon.=
Sharp
and short I turned round; fast I retraced my steps; in half an hour I was a=
gain
at M. Pelet's: I sought him in his study; brief parley, concise explanation
sufficed; my manner proved that I was resolved; he, perhaps, at heart appro=
ved
my decision. After twenty minutes' conversation, I re-entered my own room,
self-deprived of the means of living, self-sentenced to leave my present ho=
me,
with the short notice of a week in which to provide another.
DIRECTLY as I closed the door, I s=
aw
laid on the table two letters; my thought was, that they were notes of
invitation from the friends of some of my pupils; I had received such marks=
of
attention occasionally, and with me, who had no friends, correspondence of =
more
interest was out of the question; the postman's arrival had never yet been =
an
event of interest to me since I came to Brussels. I laid my hand carelessly=
on
the documents, and coldly and slowly glancing at them, I prepared to break =
the
seals; my eye was arrested and my hand too; I saw what excited me, as if I =
had
found a vivid picture where I expected only to discover a blank page: on one
cover was an English postmark; on the other, a lady's clear, fine autograph;
the last I opened first: -
‘MONSIEUR, ‘I FOUND out
what you had done the very morning after your visit to me; you might be sur=
e I
should dust the china, every day; and, as no one but you had been in my room
for a week, and as fairy-money is not current in Brussels, I could not doubt
who left the twenty francs on the chimney-piece. I thought I heard you stir=
the
vase when I was stooping to look for your glove under the table, and I wond=
ered
you should imagine it had got into such a little cup. Now, monsieur, the mo=
ney
is not mine, and I shall not keep it; I will not send it in this note becau=
se
it might be lost - besides, it is heavy; but I will restore it to you the f=
irst
time I see you, and you must make no difficulties about taking it; because,=
in
the first place, I am sure, monsieur, you can understand that one likes to =
pay
one's debts; that it is satisfactory to owe no man anything; and, in the se=
cond
place, I can now very well afford to be honest, as I am provided with a
situation. This last circumstance is, indeed, the reason of my writing to y=
ou,
for it is pleasant to communicate good news; and, in these days, I have onl=
y my
master to whom I can tell anything.
‘A week ago, monsieur, I was
sent for by a Mrs Wharton, an English lady; her eldest daughter was going t=
o be
married, and some rich relation having made her a present of a veil and dre=
ss
in costly old lace, as precious, they said, almost as jewels, but a little
damaged by time, I was commissioned to put them in repair. I had to do it at
the house; they gave me, besides, some embroidery to complete, and nearly a
week elapsed before I had finished everything. While I worked, Miss Wharton
often came into the room and sat with me, and so did Mrs Wharton; they made=
me
talk English; asked how I had learned to speak it so well; then they inquir=
ed
what I knew besides - what books I had read; soon they seemed to make a sor=
t of
wonder of me, considering me no doubt as a learned grisette. One afternoon,=
Mrs
Wharton brought in a Parisian lady to test the accuracy of my knowledge of
French; the result of it: was that, owing probably in a great degree to the
mother's and daughter's good humour about the marriage, which inclined them=
to
do beneficent deeds, and partly, I think, because they are naturally benevo=
lent
people, they decided that the wish I had expressed to do something more than
mend lace was a very legitimate one; and the same day they took me in their
carriage to Mrs D.'s, who is the directress of the first English school at
Brussels. It seems she happened to be in want of a French lady to give less=
ons
in geography, history, grammar, and composition, in the French language. Mrs
Wharton recommended me very warmly; and, as two of her younger daughters are
pupils in the house, her patronage availed to get me the place. It was sett=
led
that I am to attend six hours daily (for, happily, it was not required that=
I
should live in the house; I should have been sorry to leave my lodgings), a=
nd,
for this, Mrs D. will give me twelve hundred francs per annum.
‘You see, therefore, monsieu=
r,
that I am now rich; richer almost than I ever hoped to be: I feel thankful =
for
it, especially as my sight was beginning to be injured by constant working =
at
fine lace; and I was getting, too, very weary of sitting up late at nights,=
and
yet not being able to find time for reading or study. I began to fear that I
should fall ill, and be unable to pay my way; this fear is now, in a great
measure, removed; and, in truth, monsieur, I am very grateful to God for the
relief; and I feel it necessary, almost, to speak of my happiness to some o=
ne
who is kind-hearted enough to derive joy from seeing others joyful. I could
not, therefore, resist the temptation of writing to you; I argued with myse=
lf
it is very pleasant for me to write, and it will not be exactly painful, th=
ough
it may be tiresome to monsieur to read. Do not be too angry with my
circumlocution and inelegancies of expression, and, believe me
‘Your attached pupil, ‘=
;F.
E. HENRI.’
Having read this letter, I mused on
its contents for a few moments - whether with sentiments pleasurable or
otherwise I will hereafter note - and then took up the other. It was direct=
ed
in a hand to me unknown - small, and rather neat; neither masculine nor exa=
ctly
feminine; the seal bore a coat of arms, concerning which I could only decip=
her
that it was not that of the Seacombe family, consequently the epistle could=
be
from none of my almost forgotten, and certainly quite forgetting patrician
relations. From whom, then, was it? I removed the envelope; the note folded
within ran as follows:
‘I have no doubt in the world
that you are doing well in that greasy Flanders; living probably on the fat=
of
the unctuous land; sitting like a black-haired, tawny-skinned, long-nosed
Israelite by the flesh-pots of Egypt; or like a rascally son of Levi near t=
he
brass cauldrons of the sanctuary, and every now and then plunging in a
consecrated hook, and drawing out of the sea, of broth the fattest of
heave-shoulders and the fleshiest of wave-breasts. I know this, because you
never write to any one in England. Thankless dog that you are! I, by the
sovereign efficacy of my recommendation, got you the place where you are now
living in clover, and yet not a word of gratitude, or even acknowledgment, =
have
you ever offered in return; but I am coming to see you, and small conception
can you, with your addled aristocratic brains, form of the sort of moral
kicking I have, ready packed in my carpet-bag, destined to be presented to =
you
immediately on my arrival.
‘Meantime I know all about y=
our
affairs, and have just got information, by Brown's last letter, that you are
said to be on the point of forming an advantageous match with a pursy, litt=
le
Belgian schoolmistress - a Mdlle. Zenobie, or some such name. Won't I have a
look at her when I come over! And this you may rely on: if she pleases my
taste, or if I think it worth while in a pecuniary point of view, I'll poun=
ce
on your prize and bear her away triumphant in spite of your teeth. Yet I do=
n't
like dumpies either, and Brown says she is little and stout - the better fi=
tted
for a wiry, starved-looking chap like you. ‘Be on the look-out, for y=
ou
know neither the day nor hour when your -&=
nbsp;
- (I don't wish to
blaspheme, so I'll leave a blank) =
span>-
cometh.
‘Yours truly, ‘HUNSDEN
YORKE HUNSDEN.’
‘Humph!’ said I; and e=
re I
laid the letter down, I again glanced at the small, neat handwriting, not a=
bit
like that of a mercantile man, nor, indeed, of any man except Hunsden himse=
lf.
They talk of affinities between the autograph and the character: what affin=
ity
was there here? I recalled the writer's peculiar face and certain traits I
suspected, rather than knew, to appertain to his nature, and I answered, =
8216;A
great deal.’
Hunsden, then, was coming to Bruss=
els,
and coming I knew not when; coming charged with the expectation of finding =
me
on the summit of prosperity, about to be married, to step into a warm nest,=
to
lie comfortably down by the side of a snug, well-fed little mate.
‘I wish him joy of the fidel=
ity
of the picture he has painted,’ thought I. ‘What will he say wh=
en,
instead of a pair of plump turtle doves, billing and cooing in a bower of
roses, he finds a single lean cormorant, standing mateless and shelterless =
on
poverty's bleak cliff? Oh, confound him! Let him come, and let him laugh at=
the
contrast between rumour and fact. Were he the devil himself, instead of bei=
ng
merely very like him, I'd not condescend to get out of his way, or to forge=
a
smile or a cheerful word wherewith to avert his sarcasm.’
Then I recurred to the other lette=
r:
that struck a chord whose sound I could not deaden by thrusting my fingers =
into
my ears, for it vibrated within; and though its swell might be exquisite mu=
sic,
its cadence was a groan.
That Frances was relieved from the
pressure of want, that the curse of excessive labour was taken off her, fil=
led
me with happiness; that her first thought in prosperity should be to augment
her joy by sharing it with me, met and satisfied the wish of my heart. Two
results of her letter were then pleasant, sweet as two draughts of nectar; =
but
applying my lips for the third time to the cup, and they were excoriated as
with vinegar and gall.
Two persons whose desires are mode=
rate
may live well enough in Brussels on an income which would scarcely afford a
respectable maintenance for one in London: and that, not because the
necessaries of life are so much dearer in the latter capital, or taxes so m=
uch
higher than in the former, but because the English surpass in folly all the
nations on God's earth, and are more abject slaves to custom, to opinion, to
the desire to keep up a certain appearance, than the Italians are to
priestcraft, the French to vain-glory, the Russians to their Czar, or the
Germans to black beer. I have seen a degree of sense in the modest arrangem=
ent
of one homely Belgian household, that might put to shame the elegance, the
superfluities, the luxuries, the strained refinements of a hundred genteel
English mansions. In Belgium, provided you can make money, you may save it;
this is scarcely possible in England; ostentation there lavishes in a month
what industry has earned in a year. More shame to all classes in that most
bountiful and beggarly country for their servile following of Fashion; I co=
uld
write a chapter or two on this subject, but must forbear, at least for the
present. Had I retained my 60l. per annum I could, now that Frances was in
possession of 50l., have gone straight to her this very evening, and spoken=
out
the words which, repressed, kept fretting my heart with fever; our united
income would, as we should have managed it, have sufficed well for our mutu=
al
support; since we lived in a country where economy was not confounded with
meanness, where frugality in dress, food, and furniture, was not synonymous
with vulgarity in these various points. But the placeless usher, bare of
resource, and unsupported by connections, must not think of this; such a
sentiment as love, such a word as marriage, were misplaced in his heart, an=
d on
his lips. Now for the first time did I truly feel what it was to be poor; n=
ow
did the sacrifice I had made in casting from me the means of living put on a
new aspect; instead of a correct, just, honourable act, it seemed a deed at
once light and fanatical; I took several turns in my room, under the goading
influence of most poignant remorse; I walked a quarter of an hour from the =
wall
to the window; and at the window, self-reproach seemed to face me; at the w=
all,
self-disdain: all at once out spoke Conscience: -
‘Down, stupid tormenters!=
217;
cried she; ‘the man has done his duty; you shall not bait him thus by
thoughts of what might have been; he relinquished a temporary and contingent
good to avoid a permanent and certain evil he did well. Let him reflect now,
and when your blinding dust and deafening hum subside, he will discover a p=
ath.’
I sat down; I propped my forehead =
on
both my hands; I thought and thought an hour-two hours; vainly. I seemed li=
ke
one sealed in a subterranean vault, who gazes at utter blackness; at blackn=
ess
ensured by yard-thick stone walls around, and by piles of building above,
expecting light to penetrate through granite, and through cement firm as
granite. But there are chinks, or there may be chinks, in the best adjusted
masonry; there was a chink in my cavernous cell; for, eventually, I saw, or
seemed to see, a ray - pallid, indeed, and cold, and doubtful, but still a =
ray,
for it showed that narrow path which conscience had promised after two, thr=
ee
hours' torturing research in brain and memory, I disinterred certain remain=
s of
circumstances, and conceived a hope that by putting them together an expedi=
ent
might be framed, and a resource discovered. The circumstances were briefly
these:
Some three months ago M. Pelet had=
, on
the occasion of his fete, given the boys a treat, which treat consisted in a
party of pleasure to a certain place of public resort in the outskirts of B=
russels,
of which I do not at this moment remember the name, but near it were severa=
l of
those lakelets called etangs; and there was one etang, larger than the rest,
where on holidays people were accustomed to amuse themselves by rowing roun=
d it
in little boats. The boys having eaten an unlimited quantity of ‘gauf=
res,’
and drank several bottles of Louvain beer, amid the shades of a garden made=
and
provided for such crams, petitioned the director for leave to take a row on=
the
etang. Half a dozen of the eldest succeeded in obtaining leave, and I was
commissioned to accompany them as surveillant. Among the half dozen happene=
d to
be a certain Jean Baptiste Vandenhuten, a most ponderous young Flamand, not
tall, but even now, at the early age of sixteen, possessing a breadth and d=
epth
of personal development truly national. It chanced that Jean was the first =
lad
to step into the boat; he stumbled, rolled to one side, the boat revolted at
his weight and capsized. Vandenhuten sank like lead, rose, sank again. My c=
oat and
waistcoat were off in an instant; I had not been brought up at Eton and boa=
ted
and bathed and swam there ten long years for nothing; it was a natural and =
easy
act for me to leap to the rescue. The lads and the boatmen yelled; they tho=
ught
there would be two deaths by drowning instead of one; but as Jean rose the
third time, I clutched him by one leg and the collar, and in three minutes =
more
both he and I were safe landed. To speak heaven's truth, my merit in the ac=
tion
was small indeed, for I had run no risk, and subsequently did not even catch
cold from the wetting; but when M. and Madame Vandenhuten, of whom Jean
Baptiste was the sole hope, came to hear of the exploit, they seemed to thi=
nk I
had evinced a bravery and devotion which no thanks could sufficiently repay.
Madame, in particular, was ‘certain I must have dearly loved their sw=
eet
son, or I would not thus have hazarded my own life to save his.’
Monsieur, an honest-looking, though phlegmatic man, said very little, but he
would not suffer me to leave the room, till I had promised that in case I e=
ver
stood in need of help I would, by applying to him, give him a chance of
discharging the obligation under which he affirmed I had laid him. These wo=
rds,
then, were my glimmer of light; it was here I found my sole outlet; and in
truth, though the cold light roused, it did not cheer me; nor did the outlet
seem such as I should like to pass through. Right I had none to M.
Vandenhuten's good offices; it was not on the ground of merit I could apply=
to
him; no, I must stand on that of necessity: I had no work; I wanted work; my
best chance of obtaining it lay in securing his recommendation. This I knew
could be had by asking for it; not to ask, because the request revolted my
pride and contradicted my habits, would, I felt, be an indulgence of false =
and
indolent fastidiousness. I might repent the omission all my life; I would n=
ot
then be guilty of it.
That evening I went to M.
Vandenhuten's; but I had bent the bow and adjusted the shaft in vain; the
string broke. I rang the bell at the great door (it was a large, handsome h=
ouse
in an expensive part of the town); a manservant opened; I asked for M.
Vandenhuten; M. Vandenhuten and family were all out of town - gone to Ostend - did not know whe=
n they
would be back. I left my card, and retraced my steps.
A WEEK is gone; LE JOUR
It was a sweet September evening -= very mild, very still; I had nothing to do; at that hour I knew Frances would be equally released from occupation; I thought she might possibly be wishing f= or her master, I knew I wished for my pupil. Imagination began with her low whispers, infusing into my soul the soft tale of pleasures that might be. <= o:p>
‘You will find her reading or
writing,’ said she; ‘you can take your seat at her side; you ne=
ed
not startle her peace by undue excitement; you need not embarrass her manne=
r by
unusual action or language. Be as you always are; look over what she has
written; listen while she reads; chide her, or quietly approve; you know the
effect of either system; you know her smile when pleased, you know the play=
of
her looks when roused; you have the secret of awakening that expression you
will, and you can choose amongst that pleasant variety. With you she will s=
it
silent as long as it suits you to talk alone; you can hold her under a pote=
nt
spell: intelligent as she is, eloquent as she can be, you can seal her lips,
and veil her bright countenance with diffidence; yet, you know, she is not =
all
monotonous mildness; you have seen, with a sort of strange pleasure, revolt,
scorn, austerity, bitterness, lay energetic claim to a place in her feelings
and physiognomy; you know that few could rule her as you do; you know she m=
ight
break, but never bend under the hand of Tyranny and Injustice, but Reason a=
nd
Affection can guide her by a sign. Try their influence now. Go - they are n=
ot
passions; you may handle them safely.’
‘I will NOT go was my answer=
to
the sweet temptress. A man is master of himself to a certain point, but not
beyond it. Could I seek Frances to-night, could I sit with her alone in a q=
uiet
room, and address her only in the language of Reason and Affection?’ =
‘No,’ was the brief,
fervent reply of that Love which had conquered and now controlled me.
Time seemed to stagnate; the sun w=
ould
not go down; my watch ticked, but I thought the hands were paralyzed.
‘What a hot evening!’ I
cried, throwing open the lattice; for, indeed, I had seldom felt so feveris=
h.
Hearing a step ascending the common stair, I wondered whether the ‘lo=
cataire,’
now mounting to his apartments, were as unsettled in mind and condition as I
was, or whether he lived in the calm of certain resources, and in the freed=
om
of unfettered feelings. What! was he coming in person to solve the problem
hardly proposed in inaudible thought? He had actually knocked at the door -=
at
MY door; a smart, prompt rap; and, almost before I could invite him in, he =
was
over the threshold, and had closed the door behind him.
‘And how are you?’ ask=
ed
an indifferent, quiet voice, in the English language; while my visitor, wit=
hout
any sort of bustle or introduction, put his hat on the table, and his gloves
into his hat, and drawing the only armchair the room afforded a little forw=
ard,
seated himself tranquilly therein.
‘Can't you speak?’ he
inquired in a few moments, in a tone whose nonchalance seemed to intimate t=
hat
it was much the same thing whether I answered or not. The fact is, I found =
it
desirable to have recourse to my good friends ‘les besicles;’ n=
ot
exactly to ascertain the identity of my visitor - for I already knew him,
confound his impudence! but to see how he looked - to get a clear notion of=
his
mien and countenance. I wiped the glasses very deliberately, and put them on
quite as deliberately; adjusting them so as not to hurt the bridge of my no=
se
or get entangled in my short tufts of dun hair. I was sitting in the
window-seat, with my back to the light, and I had him VIS-A-VIS; a position=
he
would much rather have had reversed; for, at any time, he preferred
scrutinizing to being scrutinized. Yes, it was HE, and no mistake, with his=
six
feet of length arranged in a sitting attitude; with his dark travelling sur=
tout
with its velvet collar, his gray pantaloons, his black stock, and his face,=
the
most original one Nature ever modelled, yet the least obtrusively so; not o=
ne
feature that could be termed marked or odd, yet the effect of the whole uni=
que.
There is no use in attempting to describe what is indescribable. Being in no
hurry to address him, I sat and stared at my ease.
‘Oh, that's your game - is i=
t?’
said he at last. ‘Well, we'll see which is soonest tired.’ And =
he
slowly drew out a fine cigar-case, picked one to his taste, lit it, took a =
book
from the shelf convenient to his hand, then leaning back, proceeded to smoke
and read as tranquilly as if he had been in his own room, in Grove-street, =
X - -shire,
England. I knew he was capable of continuing in that attitude till midnight=
, if
he conceived the whim, so I rose, and taking the book from his hand, I said=
, -
‘You did not ask for it, and=
you
shall not have it.’
‘It is silly and dull,’=
; he
observed, ‘so I have not lost much;’ then the spell being broke=
n,
he went on. ‘I thought you lived at Pelet's; I went there this aftern=
oon
expecting to be starved to death by sitting in a boarding-school drawing-ro=
om,
and they told me you were gone, had departed this morning; you had left your
address behind you though, which I wondered at; it was a more practical and
sensible precaution than I should have imagined you capable of. Why did you
leave?’
‘Because M. Pelet has just
married the lady whom you and Mr Brown assigned to me as my wife.’
‘Oh, indeed!’ replied
Hunsden with a short laugh; ‘so you've lost both your wife and your
place?’
‘Precisely so.’
I saw him give a quick, covert gla=
nce
all round my room; he marked its narrow limits, its scanty furniture: in an
instant he had comprehended the state of matters - had absolved me from the
crime of prosperity. A curious effect this discovery wrought in his strange
mind; I am morally certain that if he had found me installed in a handsome
parlour, lounging on a soft couch, with a pretty, wealthy wife at my side, =
he
would have hated me; a brief, cold, haughty visit, would in such a case hav=
e been
the extreme limit of his civilities, and never would he have come near me m=
ore,
so long as the tide of fortune bore me smoothly on its surface; but the pai=
nted
furniture, the bare walls, the cheerless solitude of my room relaxed his ri=
gid
pride, and I know not what softening change had taken place both in his voi=
ce
and look ere he spoke again.
‘You have got another place?=
’
‘No.’
‘You are in the way of getti=
ng
one?’
‘No.’
‘That is bad; have you appli=
ed
to Brown?’
‘No, indeed.’
‘You had better; he often ha=
s it
in his power to give useful information in such matters.’
‘He served me once very well=
; I
have no claim on him, and am not in the humour to bother him again.’ =
‘Oh, if you're bashful, and
dread being intrusive, you need only commission me. I shall see him to-nigh=
t; I
can put in a word.’
‘I beg you will not, Mr Huns=
den;
I am in your debt already; you did me an important service when I was at X
- - ; got me out of a den whe=
re I
was dying: that service I have never repaid, and at present I decline
positively adding another item to the account.’
‘If the wind sits that way, =
I'm
satisfied. I thought my unexampled generosity in turning you out of that
accursed counting-house would be duly appreciated some day: 'Cast your brea=
d on
the waters, and it shall be found after many days,' say the Scriptures. Yes,
that's right, lad - make much of me - I'm a nonpareil: there's nothing like=
me
in the common herd. In the meantime, to put all humbug aside and talk sense=
for
a few moments, you would be greatly the better of a situation, and what is
more, you are a fool if you refuse to take one from any hand that offers it=
.’
‘Very well, Mr Hunsden; now =
you
have settled that point, talk of something else. What news from X - - ?’
‘I have not settled that poi=
nt,
or at least there is another to settle before we get to X - - . Is this Miss Zenobie’
(Zoraide, interposed I) - ’well, Zoraide - is she really married to
Pelet?’
‘I tell you yes - and if you
don't believe me, go and ask the cure of St. Jacques.’
‘And your heart is broken?=
8217;
‘I am not aware that it is; =
it
feels all right - beats as usual.’
‘Then your feelings are less
superfine than I took them to be; you must be a coarse, callous character, =
to
bear such a thwack without staggering under it.’
‘Staggering under it? What t=
he
deuce is there to stagger under in the circumstance of a Belgian schoolmist=
ress
marrying a French schoolmaster? The progeny will doubtless be a strange hyb=
rid
race; but that's their Look out - not mine.’
‘He indulges in scurrilous
jests, and the bride was his affianced one!’
‘Who said so?’
‘Brown.’
‘I'll tell you what, Hunsden=
- Brown
is an old gossip.’
‘He is; but in the meantime,=
if
his gossip be founded on less than fact - if you took no particular interes=
t in
Miss Zoraide - why, O youthful
pedagogue! did you leave your place in consequence of her becoming Madame
Pelet?’
‘Because - ’ I felt my
face grow a little hot; ‘because - in short, Mr Hunsden, I decline
answering any more questions,’ and I plunged my hands deep in my bree=
ches
pocket.
Hunsden triumphed: his eyes - his
laugh announced victory.
‘What the deuce are you laug=
hing
at, Mr Hunsden?’
‘At your exemplary composure.
Well, lad, I'll not bore you; I see how it is: Zoraide has jilted you - mar=
ried
some one richer, as any sensible woman would have done if she had had the
chance.’
I made no reply - I let him think =
so,
not feeling inclined to enter into an explanation of the real state of thin=
gs,
and as little to forge a false account; but it was not easy to blind Hunsde=
n;
my very silence, instead of convincing him that he had hit the truth, seeme=
d to
render him doubtful about it; he went on: -
‘I suppose the affair has be=
en
conducted as such affairs always are amongst rational people: you offered h=
er
your youth and your talents-such as they are - in exchange for her position=
and
money: I don't suppose you took appearance, or what is called LOVE, into the
account - for I understand she is older than you, and Brown says, rather
sensible-looking than beautiful. She, having then no chance of making a bet=
ter
bargain, was at first inclined to come to terms with you, but Pelet - the h=
ead
of a flourishing school - stepped in with a higher bid; she accepted, and he
has got her: a correct transaction - perfectly so - business-like and legit=
imate.
And now we'll talk of something else.’
‘Do,’ said I, very gla=
d to
dismiss the topic, and especially glad to have baffled the sagacity of my
cross-questioner - if, indeed, I had baffled it; for though his words now l=
ed
away from the dangerous point, his eyes, keen and watchful, seemed still
preoccupied with the former idea.
‘You want to hear news from X
- - ? And what interest can y=
ou
have in X - - ? You left no f=
riends
there, for you made none. Nobody ever asks after you - neither man nor woma=
n;
and if I mention your name in company, the men look as if I had spoken of
Prester John; and the women sneer covertly. Our X - - belles must have disliked you. How =
did
you excite their displeasure?’
‘I don't know. I seldom spok= e to them - they were nothing to me. I considered them only as something to be glanced at from a distance; their dresses and faces were often pleasing eno= ugh to the eye: but I could not understand their conversation, nor even read th= eir countenances. When I caught snatches of what they said, I could never make = much of it; and the play of their lips and eyes did not help me at all.’ <= o:p>
‘That was your fault, not
theirs. There are sensible, as well as handsome women in X - - ; women it is worth any man's wh=
ile to
talk to, and with whom I can talk with pleasure: but you had and have no
pleasant address; there is nothing in you to induce a woman to be affable. I
have remarked you sitting near the door in a room full of company, bent on
hearing, not on speaking; on observing, not on entertaining; looking frigid=
ly
shy at the commencement of a party, confusingly vigilant about the middle, =
and
insultingly weary towards the end. Is that the way, do you think, ever to
communicate pleasure or excite interest? No; and if you are generally unpop=
ular,
it is because you deserve to be so.’
‘Content!’ I ejaculate=
d.
‘No, you are not content; you
see beauty always turning its back on you; you are mortified and then you
sneer. I verily believe all that is desirable on earth - wealth, reputation,
love - will for ever to you be the ripe grapes on the high trellis: you'll =
look
up at them; they will tantalize in you the lust of the eye; but they are ou=
t of
reach: you have not the address to fetch a ladder, and you'll go away calli=
ng
them sour.’
Cutting as these words might have =
been
under some circumstances, they drew no blood now. My life was changed; my
experience had been varied since I left X - - , but Hunsden could not know thi=
s; he
had seen me only in the character of Mr Crimsworth's clerk - a dependant
amongst wealthy strangers, meeting disdain with a hard front, conscious of =
an
unsocial and unattractive exterior, refusing to sue for notice which I was =
sure
would be withheld, declining to evince an admiration which I knew would be
scorned as worthless. He could not be aware that since then youth and
loveliness had been to me everyday objects; that I had studied them at leis=
ure
and closely, and had seen the plain texture of truth under the embroidery of
appearance; nor could he, keen-sighted as he was, penetrate into my heart,
search my brain, and read my peculiar sympathies and antipathies; he had not
known me long enough, or well enough, to perceive how low my feelings would=
ebb
under some influences, powerful over most minds; how high, how fast they wo=
uld
flow under other influences, that perhaps acted with the more intense force=
on
me, because they acted on me alone. Neither could he suspect for an instant=
the
history of my communications with Mdlle. Reuter; secret to him and to all
others was the tale of her strange infatuation; her blandishments, her wiles
had been seen but by me, and to me only were they known; but they had chang=
ed
me, for they had proved that I COULD impress. A sweeter secret nestled deep=
er
in my heart; one full of tenderness and as full of strength: it took the st=
ing
out of Hunsden's sarcasm; it kept me unbent by shame, and unstirred by wrat=
h.
But of all this I could say nothing - nothing decisive at least; uncertainty
sealed my lips, and during the interval of silence by which alone I replied=
to Mr
Hunsden, I made up my mind to be for the present wholly misjudged by him, a=
nd
misjudged I was; he thought he had been rather too hard upon me, and that I=
was
crushed by the weight of his upbraidings; so to re-assure me he said, doubt=
less
I should mend some day; I was only at the beginning of life yet; and since
happily I was not quite without sense, every false step I made would be a g=
ood
lesson.
Just then I turned my face a littl=
e to
the light; the approach of twilight, and my position in the window-seat, ha=
d,
for the last ten minutes, prevented him from studying my countenance; as I
moved, however, he caught an expression which he thus interpreted: -
‘Confound it! How doggedly
self-approving the lad looks! I thought he was fit to die with shame, and t=
here
he sits grinning smiles, as good as to say, 'Let the world wag as it will, =
I've
the philosopher's stone in my waist-coat pocket, and the elixir of life in =
my
cupboard; I'm independent of both Fate and Fortune.'‘
‘Hunsden - you spoke of grap=
es;
I was thinking of a fruit I like better than your X - - hot-house grapes - an unique fruit,
growing wild, which I have marked as my own, and hope one day to gather and
taste. It is of no use your offering me the draught of bitterness, or threa=
tening
me with death by thirst: I have the anticipation of sweetness on my palate;=
the
hope of freshness on my lips; I can reject the unsavoury, and endure the
exhausting.’
‘For how long?’
‘Till the next opportunity f=
or
effort; and as the prize of success will be a treasure after my own heart, =
I'll
bring a bull's strength to the struggle.’
‘Bad luck crushes bulls as
easily as bullaces; and, I believe, the fury dogs you: you were born with a
wooden spoon in your mouth, depend on it.’
‘I believe you; sad I mean to
make my wooden spoon do the work of some people's silver ladles: grasped
firmly, and handled nimbly, even a wooden spoon will shovel up broth.’=
;
Hunsden rose: ‘I see,’
said he; ‘I suppose you're one of those who develop best unwatched, a=
nd
act best unaided-work your own way. Now, I'll go.’ And, without anoth=
er
word, he was going; at the door he turned: -
‘Crimsworth Hall is sold,=
217;
said he.
‘Sold!’ was my echo. <= o:p>
‘Yes; you know, of course, t=
hat
your brother failed three months ago?’
‘What! Edward Crimsworth?=
217;
‘Precisely; and his wife went
home to her fathers; when affairs went awry, his temper sympathized with th=
em;
he used her ill; I told you he would be a tyrant to her some day; as to him=
-
’
‘Ay, as to him - what is bec=
ome
of him?’
‘Nothing extraordinary - don=
't
be alarmed; he put himself under the protection of the court, compounded wi=
th
his creditors - tenpence in t=
he
pound; in six weeks set up again, coaxed back his wife, and is flourishing =
like
a green bay-tree.’
‘And Crimsworth Hall - was t=
he
furniture sold too?’
‘Everything - from the grand
piano down to the rolling-pin.’
‘And the contents of the oak
dining-room - were they sold?’
‘Of course; why should the s=
ofas
and chairs of that room be held more sacred than those of any other?’=
‘And the pictures?’
‘What pictures? Crimsworth h=
ad
no special collection that I know of - he did not profess to be an amateur.=
’
‘There were two portraits, o=
ne
on each side the mantelpiece; you cannot have forgotten them, Mr Hunsden; y=
ou
once noticed that of the lady - ’
‘Oh, I know! the thin-faced
gentlewoman with a shawl put on like drapery. - Why, as a matter of course,=
it
would be sold among the other things. If you had been rich, you might have
bought it, for I remember you said it represented your mother: you see what=
it
is to be without a sou.’
I did. ‘But surely,’ I
thought to myself, ‘I shall not always be so poverty-stricken; I may =
one
day buy it back yet. - Who purchased it? do you know?’ I asked.
‘How is it likely? I never
inquired who purchased anything; there spoke the unpractical man - to imagi=
ne
all the world is interested in what interests himself! Now, good night - I'm
off for Germany to-morrow morning; I shall be back here in six weeks, and
possibly I may call and see you again; I wonder whether you'll be still out=
of
place!’ he laughed, as mockingly, as heartlessly as Mephistopheles, a=
nd
so laughing, vanished.
Some people, however indifferent t=
hey
may become after a considerable space of absence, always contrive to leave a
pleasant impression just at parting; not so Hunsden, a conference with him
affected one like a draught of Peruvian bark; it seemed a concentration of =
the
specially harsh, stringent, bitter; whether, like bark, it invigorated, I
scarcely knew.
A ruffled mind makes a restless
pillow; I slept little on the night after this interview; towards morning I
began to doze, but hardly had my slumber become sleep, when I was roused fr=
om
it by hearing a noise in my sitting room, to which my bed-room adjoined - a
step, and a shoving of furniture; the movement lasted barely two minutes; w=
ith
the closing of the door it ceased. I listened; not a mouse stirred; perhaps=
I
had dreamt it; perhaps a locataire had made a mistake, and entered my apart=
ment
instead of his own. It was yet but five o'clock; neither I nor the day were
wide awake; I turned, and was soon unconscious. When I did rise, about two
hours later, I had forgotten the circumstance; the first thing I saw, howev=
er,
on quitting my chamber, recalled it; just pushed in at the door of my
sitting-room, and still standing on end, was a wooden packing-case - a rough
deal affair, wide but shallow; a porter had doubtless shoved it forward, but
seeing no occupant of the room, had left it at the entrance.
‘That is none of mine,’
thought I, approaching; ‘it must be meant for somebody else.’ I
stooped to examine the address: - =
span>
‘Wm. Crimsworth, Esq., No - , - St., Brussels.’
I was puzzled, but concluding that=
the
best way to obtain information was to ask within, I cut the cords and opened
the case. Green baize enveloped its contents, sewn carefully at the sides; I
ripped the pack-thread with my pen-knife, and still, as the seam gave way,
glimpses of gilding appeared through the widening interstices. Boards and b=
aize
being at length removed, I lifted from the case a large picture, in a
magnificent frame; leaning it against a chair, in a position where the light
from the window fell favourably upon it, I stepped back - already I had mou=
nted
my spectacles. A portrait-painter's sky (the most sombre and threatening of
welkins), and distant trees of a conventional depth of hue, raised in full
relief a pale, pensive-looking female face, shadowed with soft dark hair,
almost blending with the equally dark clouds; large, solemn eyes looked ref=
lectively
into mine; a thin cheek rested on a delicate little hand; a shawl, artistic=
ally
draped, half hid, half showed a slight figure. A listener (had there been o=
ne)
might have heard me, after ten minutes' silent gazing, utter the word ̵=
6;Mother!’
I might have said more - but with me, the first word uttered aloud in solil=
oquy
rouses consciousness; it reminds me that only crazy people talk to themselv=
es,
and then I think out my monologue, instead of speaking it. I had thought a =
long
while, and a long while had contemplated the intelligence, the sweetness, a=
nd - alas! the sadness also of those f=
ine,
grey eyes, the mental power of that forehead, and the rare sensibility of t=
hat
serious mouth, when my glance, travelling downwards, fell on a narrow bille=
t,
stuck in the corner of the picture, between the frame and the canvas. Then I
first asked, ‘Who sent this picture? Who thought of me, saved it out =
of
the wreck of Crimsworth Hall, and now commits it to the care of its natural
keeper?’ I took the note from its niche; thus it spoke: -
‘There is a sort of stupid
pleasure in giving a child sweets, a fool his bells, a dog a bone. You are
repaid by seeing the child besmear his face with sugar; by witnessing how t=
he
fool's ecstasy makes a greater fool of him than ever; by watching the dog's
nature come out over his bone. In giving William Crimsworth his mother's
picture, I give him sweets, bells, and bone all in one; what grieves me is,
that I cannot behold the result; I would have added five shillings more to =
my
bid if the auctioneer could only have promised me that pleasure.
‘H. Y. H.
‘P.S. - You said last night =
you
positively declined adding another item to your account with me; don't you
think I've saved you that trouble?’
I muffled the picture in its green
baize covering, restored it to the case, and having transported the whole
concern to my bed-room, put it out of sight under my bed. My pleasure was n=
ow
poisoned by pungent pain; I determined to look no more till I could look at=
my
ease. If Hunsden had come in at that moment, I should have said to him, =
216;I
owe you nothing, Hunsden - not a fraction of a farthing: you have paid your=
self
in taunts!’
Too anxious to remain any longer
quiescent, I had no sooner breakfasted, than I repaired once more to M.
Vandenhuten's, scarcely hoping to find him at home; for a week had barely
elapsed since my first call: but fancying I might be able to glean informat=
ion
as to the time when his return was expected. A better result awaited me tha=
n I
had anticipated, for though the family were yet at Ostend, M. Vandenhuten h=
ad
come over to Brussels on business for the day. He received me with the quiet
kindness of a sincere though not excitable man. I had not sat five minutes
alone with him in his bureau, before I became aware of a sense of ease in h=
is
presence, such as I rarely experienced with strangers. I was surprised at my
own composure, for, after all, I had come on business to me exceedingly pai=
nful
- that of soliciting a favour. I asked on what basis the calm rested - I fe=
ared
it might be deceptive. Ere long I caught a glimpse of the ground, and at on=
ce I
felt assured of its solidity; I knew where it was.
M. Vandenhuten was rich, respected,
and influential; I, poor, despised and powerless; so we stood to the world =
at
large as members of the world's society; but to each other, as a pair of hu=
man
beings, our positions were reversed. The Dutchman (he was not Flamand, but =
pure
Hollandais) was slow, cool, of rather dense intelligence, though sound and
accurate judgment; the Englishman far more nervous, active, quicker both to
plan and to practise, to conceive and to realize. The Dutchman was benevole=
nt,
the Englishman susceptible; in short our characters dovetailed, but my mind
having more fire and action than his, instinctively assumed and kept the
predominance.
This point settled, and my position
well ascertained, I addressed him on the subject of my affairs with that
genuine frankness which full confidence can alone inspire. It was a pleasur=
e to
him to be so appealed to; he thanked me for giving him this opportunity of
using a little exertion in my behalf. I went on to explain to him that my w=
ish
was not so much to be helped, as to be put into the way of helping myself; =
of
him I did not want exertion - that was to be my part - but only information=
and
recommendation. Soon after I rose to go. He held out his hand at parting - =
an
action of greater significance with foreigners than with Englishmen. As I
exchanged a smile with him, I thought the benevolence of his truthful face =
was
better than the intelligence of my own. Characters of my order experience a
balm-like solace in the contact of such souls as animated the honest breast=
of
Victor Vandenhuten.
The next fortnight was a period of
many alternations; my existence during its lapse resembled a sky of one of
those autumnal nights which are specially haunted by meteors and falling st=
ars.
Hopes and fears, expectations and disappointments, descended in glancing
showers from zenith to horizon; but all were transient, and darkness follow=
ed
swift each vanishing apparition. M. Vandenhuten aided me faithfully; he set=
me
on the track of several places, and himself made efforts to secure them for=
me;
but for a long time solicitation and recommendation were vain - the door ei=
ther
shut in my face when I was about to walk in, or another candidate, entering
before me, rendered my further advance useless. Feverish and roused, no
disappointment arrested me; defeat following fast on defeat served as
stimulants to will. I forgot fastidiousness, conquered reserve, thrust pride
from me: I asked, I persevered, I remonstrated, I dunned. It is so that
openings are forced into the guarded circle where Fortune sits dealing favo=
urs
round. My perseverance made me known; my importunity made me remarked. I was
inquired about; my former pupils' parents, gathering the reports of their
children, heard me spoken of as talented, and they echoed the word: the sou=
nd,
bandied about at random, came at last to ears which, but for its universali=
ty,
it might never have reached; and at the very crisis when I had tried my last
effort and knew not what to do, Fortune looked in at me one morning, as I s=
at
in drear and almost desperate deliberation on my bedstead, nodded with the
familiarity of an old acquaintance - though God knows I had never met =
her
before - and threw a prize into my lap.
In the second week of October, 18 =
- ,
I got the appointment of English professor to all the classes of -&=
nbsp;
- College, Brussels, w=
ith a
salary of three thousand francs per annum; and the certainty of being able,=
by
dint of the reputation and publicity accompanying the position, to make as =
much
more by private means. The official notice, which communicated this
information, mentioned also that it was the strong recommendation of M.
Vandenhuten, negociant, which had turned the scale of choice in my favour. =
No sooner had I read the announcem=
ent
than I hurried to M. Vandenhuten's bureau, pushed the document under his no=
se,
and when he had perused it, took both his hands, and thanked him with
unrestrained vivacity. My vivid words and emphatic gesture moved his Dutch =
calm
to unwonted sensation. He said he was happy - glad to have served me; but he
had done nothing meriting such thanks. He had not laid out a centime - only
scratched a few words on a sheet of paper.
Again I repeated to him -
‘You have made me quite happ=
y,
and in a way that suits me; I do not feel an obligation irksome, conferred =
by
your kind hand; I do not feel disposed to shun you because you have done me=
a
favour; from this day you must consent to admit me to your intimate
acquaintance, for I shall hereafter recur again and again to the pleasure of
your society.’
‘Ainsi soit-il,’ was t=
he
reply, accompanied by a smile of benignant content. I went away with its
sunshine in my heart.
IT was two o'clock when I returned=
to
my lodgings; my dinner, just brought in from a neighbouring hotel, smoked on
the table; I sat down thinking to eat - had the plate been heaped with
potsherds and broken glass, instead of boiled beef and haricots, I could not
have made a more signal failure: appetite had forsaken me. Impatient of see=
ing
food which I could not taste, I put it all aside into a cupboard, and then
demanded, ‘What shall I do till evening?’ for before six P.M. it
would be vain to seek the Rue Notre Dame aux Neiges; its inhabitant (for me=
it
had but one) was detained by her vocation elsewhere. I walked in the street=
s of
Brussels, and I walked in my own room from two o'clock till six; never once=
in
that space of time did I sit down. I was in my chamber when the last-named =
hour
struck; I had just bathed my face and feverish hands, and was standing near=
the
glass; my cheek was crimson, my eye was flame, still all my features looked
quite settled and calm. Descending swiftly the stair and stepping out, I was
glad to see Twilight drawing on in clouds; such shade was to me like a grat=
eful
screen, and the chill of latter Autumn, breathing in a fitful wind from the
north-west, met me as a refreshing coolness. Still I saw it was cold to oth=
ers,
for the women I passed were wrapped in shawls, and the men had their coats
buttoned close.
When are we quite happy? Was I so
then? No; an urgent and growing dread worried my nerves, and had worried th=
em
since the first moment good tidings had reached me. How was Frances? It was=
ten
weeks since I had seen her, six since I had heard from her, or of her. I had
answered her letter by a brief note, friendly but calm, in which no mention=
of
continued correspondence or further visits was made. At that hour my bark h=
ung
on the topmost curl of a wave of fate, and I knew not on what shoal the onw=
ard
rush of the billow might hurl it; I would not then attach her destiny to mi=
ne
by the slightest thread; if doomed to split on the rock, or run a aground on
the sand-bank, I was resolved no other vessel should share my disaster: but=
six
weeks was a long time; and could it be that she was still well and doing we=
ll?
Were not all sages agreed in declaring that happiness finds no climax on ea=
rth?
Dared I think that but half a street now divided me from the full cup of
contentment - the draught drawn from waters said to flow only in heaven?
I was at the door; I entered the q=
uiet
house; I mounted the stairs; the lobby was void and still, all the doors
closed; I looked for the neat green mat; it lay duly in its place.
‘Signal of hope!’ I sa=
id,
and advanced. ‘But I will be a little calmer; I am not going to rush =
in,
and get up a scene directly.’ Forcibly staying my eager step, I pause=
d on
the mat.
‘What an absolute hush! Is s=
he
in? Is anybody in?’ I demanded to myself. A little tinkle, as of cind=
ers
falling from a grate, replied; a movement - a fire was gently stirred; and =
the
slight rustle of life continuing, a step paced equably backwards and forwar=
ds,
backwards and forwards, in the apartment. Fascinated, I stood, more fixedly
fascinated when a voice rewarded the attention of my strained ear - so low,=
so
self-addressed, I never fancied the speaker otherwise than alone; solitude
might speak thus in a desert, or in the hall of a forsaken house.
‘'And ne'er but once, my son=
,'
he said, 'Was yon dark cavern trod; In persecution's iron days, When the la=
nd
was left by God. From Bewley's bog, with slaughter red, A wanderer hither d=
rew;
And oft he stopp'd and turn'd his head, As by fits the night-winds blew. For
trampling round by Cheviot-edge Were heard the troopers keen; And frequent =
from
the Whitelaw ridge The death-shot flash'd between,'‘ &c. &c. =
The old Scotch ballad was partly
recited, then dropt; a pause ensued; then another strain followed, in Frenc=
h,
of which the purport, translated, ran as follows: -
I gave, at first, attention close;
Then interest warm ensued; From interest, as improvement rose, Succeeded
gratitude.
Obedience was no effort soon, And
labour was no pain; If tired, a word, a glance alone Would give me strength
again.
From others of the studious band, =
Ere
long he singled me; But only by more close demand, And sterner urgency.
The task he from another took, Fro=
m me
he did reject; He would no slight omission brook, And suffer no defect.
If my companions went astray, He
scarce their wanderings blam'd; If I but falter'd in the way, His anger
fiercely flam'd.
Something stirred in an adjoining
chamber; it would not do to be surprised eaves-dropping; I tapped hastily, =
And
as hastily entered. Frances was just before me; she had been walking slowly=
in
her room, and her step was checked by my advent: Twilight only was with her,
and tranquil, ruddy Firelight; to these sisters, the Bright and the Dark, s=
he
had been speaking, ere I entered, in poetry. Sir Walter Scott's voice, to h=
er a
foreign, far-off sound, a mountain echo, had uttered itself in the first
stanzas; the second, I thought, from the style and the substance, was the
language of her own heart. Her face was grave, its expression concentrated;=
she
bent on me an unsmiling eye - an eye just returning from abstraction, just
awaking from dreams: well-arranged was her simple attire, smooth her dark h=
air,
orderly her tranquil room; but what - with her thoughtful look, her serious
self-reliance, her bent to meditation and haply inspiration - what had she =
to
do with love? ‘Nothing,’ was the answer of her own sad, though
gentle countenance; it seemed to say, ‘I must cultivate fortitude and
cling to poetry; one is to be my support and the other my solace through li=
fe.
Human affections do not bloom, nor do human passions glow for me.’ Ot=
her
women have such thoughts. Frances, had she been as desolate as she deemed,
would not have been worse off than thousands of her sex. Look at the rigid =
and
formal race of old maids - the race whom all despise; they have fed themsel=
ves,
from youth upwards, on maxims of resignation and endurance. Many of them get
ossified with the dry diet; self-control is so continually their thought, so
perpetually their object, that at last it absorbs the softer and more agree=
able
qualities of their nature; and they die mere models of austerity, fashioned=
out
of a little parchment and much bone. Anatomists will tell you that there is=
a
heart in the withered old maid's carcase - the same as in that of any cheri=
shed
wife or proud mother in the land. Can this be so? I really don't know; but =
feel
inclined to doubt it.
I came forward, bade Frances ̵=
6;good
evening,’ and took my seat. The chair I had chosen was one she had pr=
obably
just left; it stood by a little table where were her open desk and papers. I
know not whether she had fully recognized me at first, but she did so now; =
and
in a voice, soft but quiet, she returned my greeting. I had shown no eagern=
ess;
she took her cue from me, and evinced no surprise. We met as me had always =
met,
as master and pupil - nothing more. I proceeded to handle the papers; Franc=
es,
observant and serviceable, stepped into an inner room, brought a candle, lit
it, placed it by me; then drew the curtain over the lattice, and having add=
ed a
little fresh fuel to the already bright fire, she drew a second chair to the
table and sat down at my right hand, a little removed. The paper on the top=
was
a translation of some grave French author into English, but underneath lay a
sheet with stanzas; on this I laid hands. Frances half rose, made a movemen=
t to
recover the captured spoil, saying, that was nothing - a mere copy of verse=
s. I
put by resistance with the decision I knew she never long opposed; but on t=
his
occasion her fingers had fastened on the paper. I had quietly to unloose th=
em;
their hold dissolved to my touch; her hand shrunk away; my own would fain h=
ave
followed it, but for the present I forbade such impulse. The first page of =
the
sheet was occupied with the lines I had overheard; the sequel was not exact=
ly
the writer's own experience, but a composition by portions of that experien=
ce
suggested. Thus while egotism was avoided, the fancy was exercised, and the
heart satisfied. I translate as before, and my translation is nearly litera=
l;
it continued thus: -
When sickness stay'd awhile my cou=
rse,
He seem'd impatient still, Because his pupil's flagging force Could not obey
his will.
One day when summoned to the bed W=
here
pain and I did strive, I heard him, as he bent his head, Say, ‘God, s=
he
must revive!’
I felt his hand, with gentle stres=
s, A
moment laid on mine, And wished to mark my consciousness By some responsive
sign.
But pow'rless then to speak or mov=
e, I
only felt, within, The sense of Hope, the strength of Love, Their healing w=
ork
begin.
And as he from the room withdrew, =
My
heart his steps pursued; I long'd to prove, by efforts new; My speechless
gratitude.
When once again I took my place, L=
ong
vacant, in the class, Th' unfrequent smile across his face Did for one mome=
nt
pass.
The lessons done; the signal made =
Of
glad release and play, He, as he passed, an instant stay'd, One kindly word=
to
say.
‘Jane, till to-morrow you are
free From tedious task and rule; This afternoon I must not see That yet pale
face in school.
‘Seek in the garden-shades a
seat, Far from the play-ground din; The sun is warm, the air is sweet: Stay
till I call you in.’
A long and pleasant afternoon I pa=
ssed
in those green bowers; All silent, tranquil, and alone With birds, and bees,
and flowers.
Yet, when my master's voice I heard
Call, from the window, ‘Jane!’ I entered, joyful, at the word, =
The
busy house again.
He, in the hall, paced up and down=
; He
paused as I passed by; His forehead stern relaxed its frown: He raised his
deep-set eye.
‘Not quite so pale,’ he
murmured low. ‘Now Jane, go rest awhile.’ And as I smiled, his
smoothened brow Returned as glad a smile.
My perfect health restored, he took
His mien austere again; And, as before, he would not brook The slightest fa=
ult
from Jane.
The longest task, the hardest theme
Fell to my share as erst, And still I toiled to place my name In every study
first.
He yet begrudged and stinted prais=
e,
But I had learnt to read The secret meaning of his face, And that was my be=
st
meed.
Even when his hasty temper spoke In
tones that sorrow stirred, My grief was lulled as soon as woke By some
relenting word.
And when he lent some precious boo=
k,
Or gave some fragrant flower, I did not quail to Envy's look, Upheld by Ple=
asure's
power.
At last our school ranks took their
ground, The hard-fought field I won; The prize, a laurel-wreath, was bound =
My
throbbing forehead on.
Low at my master's knee I bent, The
offered crown to meet; Its green leaves through my temples sent A thrill as
wild as sweet.
The strong pulse of Ambition struc=
k In
every vein I owned; At the same instant, bleeding broke A secret, inward wo=
und.
The hour of triumph was to me The =
hour
of sorrow sore; A day hence I must cross the sea, Ne'er to recross it more.=
An hour hence, in my master's room=
I
with him sat alone, And told him what a dreary gloom O'er joy had parting
thrown.
He little said; the time was brief,
The ship was soon to sail, And while I sobbed in bitter grief, My master but
looked pale.
They called in haste; he bade me g=
o,
Then snatched me back again; He held me fast and murmured low, ‘Why w=
ill
they part us, Jane?’
‘Were you not happy in my ca=
re?
Did I not faithful prove? Will others to my darling bear As true, as deep a
love?
‘O God, watch o'er my foster
child! O guard her gentle head! When minds are high and tempests wild
Protection round her spread!
‘They call again; leave then=
my
breast; Quit thy true shelter, Jane; But when deceived, repulsed, opprest, =
Come
home to me again!’
I read - then dreamily made marks =
on
the margin with my pencil; thinking all the while of other things; thinking
that ‘Jane’ was now at my side; no child, but a girl of ninetee=
n;
and she might be mine, so my heart affirmed; Poverty's curse was taken off =
me;
Envy and Jealousy were far away, and unapprized of this our quiet meeting; =
the
frost of the Master's manner might melt; I felt the thaw coming fast, wheth=
er I
would or not; no further need for the eye to practise a hard look, for the =
brow
to compress its expense into a stern fold: it was now permitted to suffer t=
he
outward revelation of the inward glow - to seek, demand, elicit an answering
ardour. While musing thus, I thought that the grass on Hermon never drank t=
he
fresh dews of sunset more gratefully than my feelings drank the bliss of th=
is
hour.
Frances rose, as if restless; she
passed before me to stir the fire, which did not want stirring; she lifted =
and
put down the little ornaments on the mantelpiece; her dress waved within a =
yard
of me; slight, straight, and elegant, she stood erect on the hearth.
There are impulses we can control;=
but
there are others which control us, because they attain us with a tiger-leap,
and are our masters ere we have seen them. Perhaps, though, such impulses a=
re
seldom altogether bad; perhaps Reason, by a process as brief as quiet, a
process that is finished ere felt, has ascertained the sanity of the deed
Instinct meditates, and feels justified in remaining passive while it is
performed. I know I did not reason, I did not plan or intend, yet, whereas =
one
moment I was sitting solus on the chair near the table, the next, I held
Frances on my knee, placed there with sharpness and decision, and retained =
with
exceeding tenacity.
‘Monsieur!’ cried Fran=
ces,
and was still: not another word escaped her lips; sorely confounded she see=
med
during the lapse of the first few moments; but the amazement soon subsided;
terror did not succeed, nor fury: after all, she was only a little nearer t=
han
she had ever been before, to one she habitually respected and trusted;
embarrassment might have impelled her to contend, but self-respect checked
resistance where resistance was useless.
‘Frances, how much regard ha=
ve
you for me?’ was my demand. No answer; the situation was yet too new =
and
surprising to permit speech. On this consideration, I compelled myself for =
some
seconds to tolerate her silence, though impatient of it: presently, I repea=
ted
the same question - probably, not in the calmest of tones; she looked at me=
; my
face, doubtless, was no model of composure, my eyes no still wells of
tranquillity.
‘Do speak,’ I urged; a=
nd a
very low, hurried, yet still arch voice said -
‘Monsieur, vous me faites
mal; de grace lachez un peu ma main droite.’
In truth I became aware that I was
holding the said ‘main droite’ in a somewhat ruthless grasp: I =
did
as desired; and, for the third time, asked more gently -
‘Frances, how much regard ha=
ve
you for me?’
‘Mon maitre, j'en ai beaucou=
p,’
was the truthful rejoinder.
‘Frances, have you enough to
give yourself to me as my wife? - to accept me as your husband?’
I felt the agitation of the heart,=
I
saw ‘the purple light of love’ cast its glowing reflection on
cheeks, temples, neck; I desired to consult the eye, but sheltering lash and
lid forbade.
‘Monsieur,’ said the s=
oft
voice at last, - ’Monsieur desire savoir si je consens - si - enfin, =
si
je veux me marier avec lui?’
‘Justement.’
‘Monsieur sera-t-il aussi bon
mari qu'il a ete bon maitre?’
‘I will try, Frances.’=
A pause; then with a new, yet still
subdued inflexion of the voice - an inflexion which provoked while it pleas=
ed
me - accompanied, too, by a &=
#8216;sourire
a la fois fin et timide’ in perfect harmony with the tone: -
‘C'est a dire, monsieur sera
toujours un peu entete exigeant, volontaire - ?’
‘Have I been so, Frances?=
217;
‘Mais oui; vous le savez
bien.’
‘Have I been nothing else?=
8217;
‘Mais oui; vons avez ete =
mon
meilleur ami.’
‘And what, Frances, are you =
to
me?’
‘Votre devouee eleve, qui vo=
us
aime de tout son coeur.’
‘Will my pupil consent to pa=
ss
her life with me? Speak English now, Frances.’
Some moments were taken for
reflection; the answer, pronounced slowly, ran thus: -
‘You have always made me hap=
py;
I like to hear you speak; I like to see you; I like to be near you; I belie=
ve
you are very good, and very superior; I know you are stern to those who are
careless and idle, but you are kind, very kind to the attentive and
industrious, even if they are not clever. Master, I should be GLAD to live =
with
you always;’ and she made a sort of movement, as if she would have cl=
ung
to me, but restraining herself she only added with earnest emphasis - ̵=
7;Master,
I consent to pass my life with you.’
‘Very well, Frances.’ =
I drew her a little nearer to my
heart; I took a first kiss from her lips, thereby sealing the compact, now
framed between us; afterwards she and I were silent, nor was our silence br=
ief.
Frances' thoughts, during this interval, I know not, nor did I attempt to g=
uess
them; I was not occupied in searching her countenance, nor in otherwise tro=
ubling
her composure. The peace I felt, I wished her to feel; my arm, it is true,
still detained her; but with a restraint that was gentle enough, so long as=
no
opposition tightened it. My gaze was on the red fire; my heart was measuring
its own content; it sounded and sounded, and found the depth fathomless.
‘Monsieur,’ at last sa=
id
my quiet companion, as stirless in her happiness as a mouse in its terror. =
Even
now in speaking she scarcely lifted her head.
‘Well, Frances?’ I like
unexaggerated intercourse; it is not my way to overpower with amorous epith=
ets,
any more than to worry with selfishly importunate caresses.
‘Monsieur est raisonnable,
n'eut-ce pas?’
‘Yes; especially when I am
requested to be so in English: but why do you ask me? You see nothing vehem=
ent
or obtrusive in my manner; am I not tranquil enough?’
‘Ce n'est pas cela - ’
began Frances.
‘English!’ I reminded =
her.
‘Well, monsieur, I wished me=
rely
to say, that I should like, of course, to retain my employment of teaching.=
You
will teach still, I suppose, monsieur?’
‘Oh, yes! It is all I have to
depend on.’
‘Bon! - I mean good. Thus we
shall have both the same profession. I like that; and my efforts to get on =
will
be as unrestrained as yours - will they not, monsieur?’
‘You are laying plans to be
independent of me,’ said I.
‘Yes, monsieur; I must be no
incumbrance to you - no burden in any way.’
‘But, Frances, I have not yet told you what my prospects are. I have left M. Pelet's; and after nearly a month's seeking, I have got another place, with a salary of three thousand francs a year, which I can easily double by a little additional exertion. T= hus you see it would be useless for you to fag yourself by going out to give lessons; on six thousand francs you and I can live, and live well.’ <= o:p>
Frances seemed to consider. There =
is
something flattering to man's strength, something consonant to his honourab=
le
pride, in the idea of becoming the providence of what he loves - feeding and
clothing it, as God does the lilies of the field. So, to decide her resolut=
ion,
I went on: -
‘Life has been painful and
laborious enough to you so far, Frances; you require complete rest; your tw=
elve
hundred francs would not form a very important addition to our income, and =
what
sacrifice of comfort to earn it! Relinquish your labours: you must be weary,
and let me have the happiness of giving you rest.’
I am not sure whether Frances had
accorded due attention to my harangue; instead of answering me with her usu=
al
respectful promptitude, she only sighed and said, -
‘How rich you are, monsieur!=
’
and then she stirred uneasy in my arms. ‘Three thousand francs!’
she murmured, ‘While I get only twelve hundred!’ She went on
faster. ‘However, it must be so for the present; and, monsieur, were =
you
not saying something about my giving up my place? Oh no! I shall hold it fa=
st;’
and her little fingers emphatically tightened on mine.
‘Think of my marrying you to=
be
kept by you, monsieur! I could not do it; and how dull my days would be! You
would be away teaching in close, noisy school-rooms, from morning till even=
ing,
and I should be lingering at home, unemployed and solitary; I should get
depressed and sullen, and you would soon tire of me.’
‘Frances, you could read and
study - two things you like so well.’
‘Monsieur, I could not; I li=
ke a
contemplative life, but I like an active life better; I must act in some wa=
y,
and act with you. I have taken notice, monsieur, that people who are only in
each other's company for amusement, never really like each other so well, or
esteem each other so highly, as those who work together, and perhaps suffer
together.’
‘You speak God's truth,̵= 7; said I at last, ‘and you shall have your own way, for it is the best = way. Now, as a reward for such ready consent, give me a voluntary kiss.’ <= o:p>
After some hesitation, natural to a
novice in the art of kissing, she brought her lips into very shy and gentle
contact with my forehead; I took the small gift as a loan, and repaid it
promptly, and with generous interest.
I know not whether Frances was rea=
lly
much altered since the time I first saw her; but, as I looked at her now, I
felt that she was singularly changed for me; the sad eye, the pale cheek, t=
he
dejected and joyless countenance I remembered as her early attributes, were
quite gone, and now I saw a face dressed in graces; smile, dimple, and rosy
tint, rounded its contours and brightened its hues. I had been accustomed to
nurse a flattering idea that my strong attachment to her proved some partic=
ular
perspicacity in my nature; she was not handsome, she was not rich, she was =
not
even accomplished, yet was she my life's treasure; I must then be a man of
peculiar discernment. To-night my eyes opened on the mistake I had made; I
began to suspect that it was only my tastes which were unique, not my power=
of
discovering and appreciating the superiority of moral worth over physical
charms. For me Frances had physical charms: in her there was no deformity to
get over; none of those prominent defects of eyes, teeth, complexion, shape,
which hold at bay the admiration of the boldest male champions of intellect
(for women can love a downright ugly man if he be but talented); had she be=
en
either ‘edentee, myope, rugueuse, ou bossue,’ my feelings towar=
ds
her might still have been kindly, but they could never have been impassione=
d; I
had affection for the poor little misshapen Sylvie, but for her I could nev=
er
have had love. It is true Frances' mental points had been the first to inte=
rest
me, and they still retained the strongest hold on my preference; but I like=
d the
graces of her person too. I derived a pleasure, purely material, from
contemplating the clearness of her brown eyes, the fairness of her fine ski=
n,
the purity of her well-set teeth, the proportion of her delicate form; and =
that
pleasure I could ill have dispensed with. It appeared, then, that I too was=
a
sensualist, in my temperate and fastidious way.
Now, reader, during the last two p=
ages
I have been giving you honey fresh from flowers, but you must not live enti=
rely
on food so luscious; taste then a little gall - just a drop, by way of chan=
ge.
At a somewhat late hour I returned=
to
my lodgings: having temporarily forgotten that man had any such coarse care=
s as
those of eating and drinking, I went to bed fasting. I had been excited and=
in
action all day, and had tasted no food since eight that morning; besides, f=
or a
fortnight past, I had known no rest either of body or mind; the last few ho=
urs
had been a sweet delirium, it would not subside now, and till long after
midnight, broke with troubled ecstacy the rest I so much needed. At last I
dozed, but not for long; it was yet quite dark when I awoke, and my waking =
was
like that of Job when a spirit passed before his face, and like him, ‘=
;the
hair of my flesh stood up.’ I might continue the parallel, for in tru=
th,
though I saw nothing, yet ‘a thing was secretly brought unto me, and =
mine
ear received a little thereof; there was silence, and I heard a voice,̵=
7;
saying - ’In the midst =
of
life we are in death.’
That sound, and the sensation of c=
hill
anguish accompanying it, many would have regarded as supernatural; but I
recognized it at once as the effect of reaction. Man is ever clogged with h=
is
mortality, and it was my mortal nature which now faltered and plained; my
nerves, which jarred and gave a false sound, because the soul, of late rush=
ing
headlong to an aim, had overstrained the body's comparative weakness. A hor=
ror
of great darkness fell upon me; I felt my chamber invaded by one I had known
formerly, but had thought for ever departed. I was temporarily a prey to
hypochondria.
She had been my acquaintance, nay,=
my
guest, once before in boyhood; I had entertained her at bed and board for a
year; for that space of time I had her to myself in secret; she lay with me,
she ate with me, she walked out with me, showing me nooks in woods, hollows=
in
hills, where we could sit together, and where she could drop her drear veil
over me, and so hide sky and sun, grass and green tree; taking me entirely =
to
her death-cold bosom, and holding me with arms of bone. What tales she would
tell me at such hours! What songs she would recite in my ears! How she would
discourse to me of her own country - the grave - and again and again promis=
e to
conduct me there ere long; and, drawing me to the very brink of a black, su=
llen
river, show me, on the other side, shores unequal with mound, monument, and
tablet, standing up in a glimmer more hoary than moonlight. ‘Necropol=
is!’
she would whisper, pointing to the pale piles, and add, ‘It contains a
mansion prepared for you.’
But my boyhood was lonely, parentl=
ess;
uncheered by brother or sister; and there was no marvel that, just as I ros=
e to
youth, a sorceress, finding me lost in vague mental wanderings, with many
affections and few objects, glowing aspirations and gloomy prospects, stron=
g desires
and slender hopes, should lift up her illusive lamp to me in the distance, =
and
lure me to her vaulted home of horrors. No wonder her spells THEN had power;
but NOW, when my course was widening, my prospect brightening; when my
affections had found a rest; when my desires, folding wings, weary with long
flight, had just alighted on the very lap of fruition, and nestled there wa=
rm,
content, under the caress of a soft hand - why did hypochondria accost me n=
ow?
I repulsed her as one would a drea=
ded
and ghastly concubine coming to embitter a husband's heart toward his young
bride; in vain; she kept her sway over me for that night and the next day, =
and
eight succeeding days. Afterwards, my spirits began slowly to recover their
tone; my appetite returned, and in a fortnight I was well. I had gone about=
as
usual all the time, and had said nothing to anybody of what I felt; but I w=
as
glad when the evil spirit departed from me, and I could again seek Frances,=
and
sit at her side, freed from the dreadful tyranny of my demon.
‘Monsieur, there is a gentle=
man
who knows you.’
I looked up; three fashionably dre=
ssed
men were just then passing - Englishmen, I knew by their air and gait as we=
ll
as by their features; in the tallest of the trio I at once recognized Mr
Hunsden; he was in the act of lifting his hat to Frances; afterwards, he ma=
de a
grimace at me, and passed on.
‘Who is he?’
‘A person I knew in England.=
’
‘Why did he bow to me? He do=
es
not know me.’
‘Yes, he does know you, in h=
is
way.’
‘How, monsieur?’ (She
still called me ‘monsieur’; I could not persuade her to adopt a=
ny
more familiar term.)
‘Did you not read the expres=
sion
of his eyes?’
‘Of his eyes? No. What did t=
hey
say?’
‘To you they said, 'How do y=
ou
do, Wilhelmina, Crimsworth?' To me, 'So you have found your counterpart at
last; there she sits, the female of your kind!'‘
‘Monsieur, you could not read
all that in his eyes; He was so soon gone.’
‘I read that and more, Franc=
es;
I read that he will probably call on me this evening, or on some future
occasion shortly; and I have no doubt he will insist on being introduced to
you; shall I bring him to your rooms?’
‘If you please, monsieur - I
have no objection; I think, indeed, I should rather like to see him nearer;=
he
looks so original.’
As I had anticipated, Mr Hunsden c=
ame
that evening. The first thing he said was: -
‘You need not begin boasting,
Monsieur le Professeur; I know about your appointment to -&=
nbsp;
- College, and all tha=
t;
Brown has told me.’ Then he intimated that he had returned from Germa=
ny
but a day or two since; afterwards, he abruptly demanded whether that was
Madame Pelet-Reuter with whom he had seen me on the Boulevards. I was going=
to
utter a rather emphatic negative, but on second thoughts I checked myself, =
and,
seeming to assent, asked what he thought of her?
‘As to her, I'll come to that
directly; but first I've a word for you. I see you are a scoundrel; you've =
no
business to be promenading about with another man's wife. I thought you had
sounder sense than to get mixed up in foreign hodge-podge of this sort.R=
17;
‘But the lady?’
‘She's too good for you
evidently; she is like you, but something better than you - no beauty, thou=
gh;
yet when she rose (for I looked back to see you both walk away) I thought h=
er
figure and carriage good. These foreigners understand grace. What the devil=
has
she done with Pelet? She has not been married to him three months - he must=
be
a spoon!’
I would not let the mistake go too
far; I did not like it much.
‘Pelet? How your head runs on
Mons. and Madame Pelet! You are always talking about them. I wish to the go=
ds
you had wed Mdlle. Zoraide yourself!’
‘Was that young gentlewoman =
not
Mdlle. Zoraide?’
‘No; nor Madame Zoraide eith=
er.’
‘Why did you tell a lie, the=
n?’
‘I told no lie; but you are =
is
such a hurry. She is a pupil of mine - a Swiss girl.’
‘And of course you are going=
to
be married to her? Don't deny that.’
‘Married! I think I shall - = if Fate spares us both ten weeks longer. That is my little wild strawberry, Hunsden, whose sweetness made me careless of your hothouse grapes.’ <= o:p>
‘Stop! No boasting - no hero=
ics;
I won't hear them. What is she? To what caste does she belong?’
I smiled. Hunsden unconsciously la=
id
stress on the word caste, and, in fact, republican, lordhater as he was,
Hunsden was as proud of his old -&=
nbsp;
- shire blood, of his descent and family standing, respectable and
respected through long generations back, as any peer in the realm of his No=
rman
race and Conquest-dated title. Hunsden would as little have thought of taki=
ng a
wife from a caste inferior to his own, as a Stanley would think of mating w=
ith
a Cobden. I enjoyed the surprise I should give; I enjoyed the triumph of my
practice over his theory; and leaning over the table, and uttering the words
slowly but with repressed glee, I said concisely -
‘She is a lace-mender.’=
;
Hunsden examined me. He did not SAY he was surprised, but surprised he was; h=
e had
his own notions of good breeding. I saw he suspected I was going to take so=
me
very rash step; but repressing declamation or remonstrance, he only answere=
d -
‘Well, you are the best; jud=
ge
of your own affairs. A lace-mender may make a good wife as well as a lady; =
but
of course you have taken care to ascertain thoroughly that since she has not
education, fortune or station, she is well furnished with such natural
qualities as you think most likely to conduce to your happiness. Has she ma=
ny
relations?’
‘None in Brussels.’
‘That is better. Relations a=
re
often the real evil in such cases. I cannot but think that a train of infer=
ior
connections would have been a bore to you to your life's end.’
After sitting in silence a little
while longer, Hunsden rose, and was quietly bidding me good evening; the
polite, considerate manner in which he offered me his hand (a thing he had
never done before), convinced me that he thought I had made a terrible fool=
of
myself; and that, ruined and thrown away as I was, it was no time for sarca=
sm
or cynicism, or indeed for anything but indulgence and forbearance.
‘Good night, William,’=
he
said, in a really soft voice, while his face looked benevolently compassion=
ate.
‘Good night, lad. I wish you and your future wife much prosperity; an=
d I
hope she will satisfy your fastidious soul.’
I had much ado to refrain from
laughing as I beheld the magnanimous pity of his mien; maintaining, however=
, a
grave air, I said: -
‘I thought you would have li=
ked
to have seen Mdlle. Henri?’
‘Oh, that is the name! Yes -=
if
it would be convenient, I should like to see her - but - - .’ He hesitated.
‘Well?’
‘I should on no account wish=
to
intrude.’
‘Come, then,’ said I. =
We
set out. Hunsden no doubt regarded me as a rash, imprudent man, thus to sho=
w my
poor little grisette sweetheart, in her poor little unfurnished grenier; bu=
t he
prepared to act the real gentleman, having, in fact, the kernel of that cha=
racter,
under the harsh husk it pleased him to wear by way of mental mackintosh. He
talked affably, and even gently, as we went along the street; he had never =
been
so civil to me in his life. We reached the house, entered, ascended the sta=
ir;
on gaining the lobby, Hunsden turned to mount a narrower stair which led to=
a
higher story; I saw his mind was bent on the attics.
‘Here, Mr Hunsden,’ sa=
id I
quietly, tapping at Frances' door. He turned; in his genuine politeness he =
was
a little disconcerted at having made the mistake; his eye reverted to the g=
reen
mat, but he said nothing.
We walked in, and Frances rose from
her seat near the table to receive us; her mourning attire gave her a reclu=
se,
rather conventual, but withal very distinguished look; its grave simplicity
added nothing to beauty, but much to dignity; the finish of the white collar
and manchettes sufficed for a relief to the merino gown of solemn black;
ornament was forsworn. Frances curtsied with sedate grace, looking, as she
always did, when one first accosted her, more a woman to respect than to lo=
ve;
I introduced Mr Hunsden, and she expressed her happiness at making his
acquaintance in French. The pure and polished accent, the low yet sweet and
rather full voice, produced their effect immediately; Hunsden spoke French =
in
reply; I had not heard him speak that language before; he managed it very w=
ell.
I retired to the window-seat; Mr Hunsden, at his hostess's invitation, occu=
pied
a chair near the hearth; from my position I could see them both, and the ro=
om
too, at a glance. The room was so clean and bright, it looked like a little
polished cabinet; a glass filled with flowers in the centre of the table, a
fresh rose in each china cup on the mantelpiece gave it an air of FETE, Fra=
nces
was serious, and Mr Hunsden subdued, but both mutually polite; they got on =
at
the French swimmingly: ordinary topics were discussed with great state and
decorum; I thought I had never seen two such models of propriety, for Hunsd=
en
(thanks to the constraint of the foreign tongue) was obliged to shape his
phrases, and measure his sentences, with a care that forbade any eccentrici=
ty.
At last England was mentioned, and Frances proceeded to ask questions. Anim=
ated
by degrees, she began to change, just as a grave night-sky changes at the
approach of sunrise: first it seemed as if her forehead cleared, then her e=
yes
glittered, her features relaxed, and became quite mobile; her subdued
complexion grew warm and transparent; to me, she now looked pretty; before,=
she
had only looked ladylike.
She had many things to say to the
Englishman just fresh from his island-country, and she urged him with an
enthusiasm of curiosity, which ere long thawed Hunsden's reserve as fire th=
aws
a congealed viper. I use this not very flattering comparison because he viv=
idly
reminded me of a snake waking from torpor, as he erected his tall form, rea=
red
his head, before a little declined, and putting back his hair from his broad
Saxon forehead, showed unshaded the gleam of almost savage satire which his=
interlocutor's
tone of eagerness and look of ardour had sufficed at once to kindle in his =
soul
and elicit from his eyes: he was himself; as Frances was herself, and in no=
ne
but his own language would he now address her.
‘You understand English?R=
17;
was the prefatory question.
‘A little.’
‘Well, then, you shall have
plenty of it; and first, I see you've not much more sense than some others =
of
my acquaintance’ (indicating me with his thumb), ‘or else you'd
never turn rabid about that dirty little country called England; for rabid,=
I
see you are; I read Anglophobia in your looks, and hear it in your words. W=
hy,
mademoiselle, is it possible that anybody with a grain of rationality should
feel enthusiasm about a mere name, and that name England? I thought you wer=
e a
lady-abbess five minutes ago, and respected you accordingly; and now I see =
you
are a sort of Swiss sibyl, with high Tory and high Church principles!’=
;
‘England is your country?=
217;
asked Frances.
‘Yes.’
‘And you don't like it?̵=
7;
‘I'd be sorry to like it! A
little corrupt, venal, lord-and-king-cursed nation, full of mucky pride (as
they say in - - shire), and helpless pauperism; =
rotten
with abuses, worm-eaten with prejudices!’
‘You might say so of almost
every state; there are abuses and prejudices everywhere, and I thought fewe=
r in
England than in other countries.’
‘Come to England and see. Co=
me
to Birmingham and Manchester; come to St. Giles' in London, and get a pract=
ical
notion of how our system works. Examine the footprints of our august
aristocracy; see how they walk in blood, crushing hearts as they go. Just p=
ut
your head in at English cottage doors; get a glimpse of Famine crouched tor=
pid
on black hearthstones; of Disease lying bare on beds without coverlets, of
Infamy wantoning viciously with Ignorance, though indeed Luxury is her
favourite paramour, and princely halls are dearer to her than thatched hove=
ls
- - ’
‘I was not thinking of the
wretchedness and vice in England; I was thinking of the good side - of what=
is
elevated in your character as a nation.’
‘There is no good side - non=
e at
least of which you can have any knowledge; for you cannot appreciate the
efforts of industry, the achievements of enterprise, or the discoveries of
science: narrowness of education and obscurity of position quite incapacita=
te
you from understanding these points; and as to historical and poetical
associations, I will not insult you, mademoiselle, by supposing that you
alluded to such humbug.’
‘But I did partly.’
Hunsden laughed - his laugh of
unmitigated scorn.
‘I did, Mr Hunsden. Are you =
of
the number of those to whom such associations give no pleasure?’
‘Mademoiselle, what is an
association? I never saw one. What is its length, breadth, weight, value - =
ay,
VALUE? What price will it bring in the market?’
‘Your portrait, to any one w=
ho
loved you, would, for the sake of association, be without price.’
That inscrutable Hunsden heard this
remark and felt it rather acutely, too, somewhere; for he coloured - a thing
not unusual with him, when hit unawares on a tender point. A sort of trouble
momentarily darkened his eye, and I believe he filled up the transient pause
succeeding his antagonist's home-thrust, by a wish that some one did love h=
im
as he would like to be loved =
- some
one whose love he could unreservedly return.
The lady pursued her temporary
advantage.
‘If your world is a world
without associations, Mr Hunsden, I no longer wonder that you hate England =
so.
I don't clearly know what Paradise is, and what angels are; yet taking it t=
o be
the most glorious region I can conceive, and angels the most elevated
existences - if one of them - if Abdiel the Faithful himself’ (she was
thinking of Milton) ‘were suddenly stripped of the faculty of
association, I think he would soon rush forth from 'the ever-during gates,'
leave heaven, and seek what he had lost in hell. Yes, in the very hell from
which he turned 'with retorted scorn.'‘
Frances' tone in saying this was as
marked as her language, and it was when the word ‘hell’ twanged=
off
from her lips, with a somewhat startling emphasis, that Hunsden deigned to
bestow one slight glance of admiration. He liked something strong, whether =
in
man or woman; he liked whatever dared to clear conventional limits. He had
never before heard a lady say ‘hell’ with that uncompromising s=
ort
of accent, and the sound pleased him from a lady's lips; he would fain have=
had
Frances to strike the string again, but it was not in her way. The display =
of
eccentric vigour never gave her pleasure, and it only sounded in her voice =
or
flashed in her countenance when extraordinary circumstances - and those generally painful - for=
ced it
out of the depths where it burned latent. To me, once or twice, she had in
intimate conversation, uttered venturous thoughts in nervous language; but =
when
the hour of such manifestation was past, I could not recall it; it came of
itself and of itself departed. Hunsden's excitations she put by soon with a
smile, and recurring to the theme of disputation, said -
‘Since England is nothing, w=
hy
do the continental nations respect her so?’
‘I should have thought no ch=
ild
would have asked that question,’ replied Hunsden, who never at any ti=
me
gave information without reproving for stupidity those who asked it of him.=
‘If
you had been my pupil, as I suppose you once had the misfortune to be that =
of a
deplorable character not a hundred miles off, I would have put you in the
corner for such a confession of ignorance. Why, mademoiselle, can't you see
that it is our
‘Swiss?’ said Frances,
catching the word ‘servility.’ ‘Do you call my countrymen
servile?’ and she started up. I could not suppress a low laugh; there=
was
ire in her glance and defiance in her attitude. ‘Do you abuse Switzer=
land
to me, Mr Hunsden? Do you think I have no associations? Do you calculate th=
at I
am prepared to dwell only on what vice and degradation may be found in Alpi=
ne
villages, and to leave quite out of my heart the social greatness of my cou=
ntrymen,
and our blood-earned freedom, and the natural glories of our mountains? You=
're
mistaken - you're mistaken.’
‘Social greatness? Call it w=
hat
you will, your countrymen are sensible fellows; they make a marketable arti=
cle
of what to you is an abstract idea; they have, ere this, sold their social
greatness and also their blood-earned freedom to be the servants of foreign
kings.’
‘You never were in Switzerla=
nd?’
‘Yes - I have been there twi=
ce.’
‘You know nothing of it.R=
17;
‘I do.’
‘And you say the Swiss are
mercenary, as a parrot says 'Poor Poll,' or as the Belgians here say the
English are not brave, or as the French accuse them of being perfidious: th=
ere
is no justice in your dictums.’
‘There is truth.’
‘I tell you, Mr Hunsden, you=
are
a more unpractical man than I am an unpractical woman, for you don't
acknowledge what really exists; you want to annihilate individual patriotism
and national greatness as an atheist would annihilate God and his own soul,=
by
denying their existence.’
‘Where are you flying to? You
are off at a tangent - I thought we were talking about the mercenary nature=
of
the Swiss.’
‘We were - and if you proved=
to
me that the Swiss are mercenary to-morrow (which you cannot do) I should lo=
ve
Switzerland still.’
‘You would be mad, then - ma=
d as
a March hare - to indulge in a passion for millions of shiploads of soil,
timber, snow, and ice.’
‘Not so mad as you who love
nothing.’
‘There's a method in my madn=
ess;
there's none in yours.’
‘Your method is to squeeze t=
he
sap out of creation and make manure of the refuse, by way of turning it to =
what
you call use.’
‘You cannot reason at all,=
8217;
said Hunsden; ‘there is no logic in you.’
‘Better to be without logic =
than
without feeling,’ retorted Frances, who was now passing backwards and=
forwards
from her cupboard to the table, intent, if not on hospitable thoughts, at l=
east
on hospitable deeds, for she was laying the cloth, and putting plates, kniv=
es
and forks thereon.
‘Is that a hit at me,
mademoiselle? Do you suppose I am without feeling?’
‘I suppose you are always
interfering with your own feelings, and those of other people, and dogmatiz=
ing
about the irrationality of this, that, and the other sentiment, and then
ordering it to be suppressed because you imagine it to be inconsistent with
logic.’
‘I do right.’
Frances had stepped out of sight i=
nto
a sort of little pantry; she soon reappeared.
‘You do right? Indeed, no! Y=
ou
are much mistaken if you think so. Just be so good as to let me get to the
fire, Mr Hunsden; I have something to cook.’ (An interval occupied in
settling a casserole on the fire; then, while she stirred its contents:) =
8216;Right!
as if it were right to crush any pleasurable sentiment that God has given to
man, especially any sentiment that, like patriotism, spreads man's selfishn=
ess
in wider circles’ (fire stirred, dish put down before it).
‘Were you born in Switzerlan=
d?’
‘I should think so, or else =
why
should I call it my country?’
‘And where did you get your
English features and figure?’
‘I am English, too; half the=
blood
in my veins is English; thus I have a right to a double power of patriotism,
possessing an interest in two noble, free, and fortunate countries.’ =
‘You had an English mother?&=
#8217;
‘Yes, yes; and you, I suppos=
e,
had a mother from the moon or from Utopia, since not a nation in Europe has=
a
claim on your interest?’
‘On the contrary, I'm a
universal patriot, if you could understand me rightly: my country is the wo=
rld.’
‘Sympathies so widely diffus=
ed
must be very shallow: will you have the goodness to come to table. Monsieur=
’
(to me who appeared to be now absorbed in reading by moonlight) - ’Mo=
nsieur,
supper is served.’
This was said in quite a different
voice to that in which she had been bandying phrases with Mr Hunsden - not =
so
short, graver and softer.
‘Frances, what do you mean by
preparing, supper? we had no intention of staying.’
‘Ah, monsieur, but you have
stayed, and supper is prepared; you have only the alternative of eating it.=
’
The meal was a foreign one, of cou=
rse;
it consisted in two small but tasty dishes of meat prepared with skill and
served with nicety; a salad and ‘fromage francais,’ completed i=
t.
The business of eating interposed a brief truce between the belligerents, b=
ut
no sooner was supper disposed of than they were at it again. The fresh subj=
ect
of dispute ran on the spirit of religious intolerance which Mr Hunsden affi=
rmed
to exist strongly in Switzerland, notwithstanding the professed attachment =
of
the Swiss to freedom. Here Frances had greatly the worst of it, not only
because she was unskilled to argue, but because her own real opinions on the
point in question happened to coincide pretty nearly with Mr Hunsden's, and=
she
only contradicted him out of opposition. At last she gave in, confessing th=
at
she thought as he thought, but bidding him take notice that she did not
consider herself beaten.
‘No more did the French at
Waterloo,’ said Hunsden.
‘There is no comparison betw=
een
the cases,’ rejoined Frances; ‘mine was a sham fight.’
‘Sham or real, it's up with =
you.’
‘No; though I have neither l=
ogic
nor wealth of words, yet in a case where my opinion really differed from yo=
urs,
I would adhere to it when I had not another word to say in its defence; you
should be baffled by dumb determination. You speak of Waterloo; your Wellin=
gton
ought to have been conquered there, according to Napoleon; but he persevere=
d in
spite of the laws of war, and was victorious in defiance of military tactic=
s. I
would do as he did.’
‘I'll be bound for it you wo=
uld;
probably you have some of the same sort of stubborn stuff in you.
‘I should be sorry if I had =
not;
he and Tell were brothers, and I'd scorn the Swiss, man or woman, who had n=
one
of the much-enduring nature of our heroic William in his soul.’
‘If Tell was like Wellington=
, he
was an ass.’
‘Does not ASS mean BAUDET?=
8217;
asked Frances, turning to me.
‘No, no,’ replied I, &=
#8216;it
means an ESPRIT-FORT; and now,’ I continued, as I saw that fresh occa=
sion
of strife was brewing between these two, ‘it is high time to go.̵=
7;
Hunsden rose. ‘Good bye,R=
17;
said he to Frances; ‘I shall be off for this glorious England to-morr=
ow,
and it may be twelve months or more before I come to Brussels again; whenev=
er I
do come I'll seek you out, and you shall see if I don't find means to make =
you
fiercer than a dragon. You've done pretty well this evening, but next inter=
view
you shall challenge me outright. Meantime you're doomed to become Mrs Willi=
am
Crimsworth, I suppose; poor young lady? but you have a spark of spirit; che=
rish
it, and give the Professor the full benefit thereof.’
‘Are you married. Mr Hunsden=
?’
asked Frances, suddenly.
‘No. I should have thought y=
ou
might have guessed I was a Benedict by my look.’
‘Well, whenever you marry do=
n't
take a wife out of Switzerland; for if you begin blaspheming Helvetia, and
cursing the cantons - above a=
ll, if
you mention the word ASS in the same breath with the name Tell (for ass IS
baudet, I know; though Monsieur is pleased to translate it ESPRIT-FORT) your
mountain maid will some night smother her Breton-bretonnant, even as your o=
wn
Shakspeare's Othello smothered Desdemona.’
‘I am warned,’ said
Hunsden; ‘and so are you, lad,’ (nodding to me). ‘I hope =
yet
to hear of a travesty of the Moor and his gentle lady, in which the parts s=
hall
be reversed according to the plan just sketched - you, however, being in my
nightcap. Farewell, mademoiselle!’ He bowed on her hand, absolutely l=
ike
Sir Charles Grandison on that of Harriet Byron; adding - ’Death from =
such
fingers would not be without charms.’
‘Mon Dieu!’ murmured
Frances, opening her large eyes and lifting her distinctly arched brows; =
8216;c'est
qu'il fait des compliments! je ne m'y suis pas attendu.’ She smiled, =
half
in ire, half in mirth, curtsied with foreign grace, and so they parted.
No sooner had we got into the stre=
et
than Hunsden collared me.
‘And that is your lace-mende=
r?’
said he; ‘and you reckon you have done a fine, magnanimous thing in
offering to marry her? You, a scion of Seacombe, have proved your disdain of
social distinctions by taking up with an ouvriere! And I pitied the fellow,
thinking his feelings had misled him, and that he had hurt himself by
contracting a low match!’
‘Just let go my collar, Huns=
den.’
‘On the contrary, he swayed =
me
to and fro; so I grappled him round the waist. It was dark; the street lone=
ly
and lampless. We had then a tug for it; and after we had both rolled on the
pavement, and with difficulty picked ourselves up, we agreed to walk on more
soberly.
‘Yes, that's my lace-mender,=
’
said I; ‘and she is to be mine for life - God willing.’
‘God is not willing - you ca=
n't
suppose it; what business have you to be suited so well with a partner? And=
she
treats you with a sort of respect, too, and says, 'Monsieur' and modulates =
her
tone in addressing you, actually, as if you were something superior! She co=
uld
not evince more deference to such a one as I, were she favoured by fortune =
to
the supreme extent of being my choice instead of yours.’
‘Hunsden, you're a puppy. But
you've only seen the title-page of my happiness; you don't know the tale th=
at
follows; you cannot conceive the interest and sweet variety and thrilling
excitement of the narrative.’
Hunsden - speaking low and deep, f=
or
we had now entered a busier street - desired me to hold my peace, threateni=
ng
to do something dreadful if I stimulated his wrath further by boasting. I
laughed till my sides ached. We soon reached his hotel; before he entered i=
t,
he said -
‘Don't be vainglorious. Your
lace-mender is too good for you, but not good enough for me; neither physic=
ally
nor morally does she come up to my ideal of a woman. No; I dream of somethi=
ng
far beyond that pale-faced, excitable little Helvetian (by-the-by she has
infinitely more of the nervous, mobile Parisienne in her than of the the ro=
bust
'jungfrau'). Your Mdlle. Henri is in person ‘chetive’, in mind =
‘sans
caractere’, compared with the queen of my visions. You, indeed, may p=
ut
up with that ‘minois chiffone’; but when I marry I must have
straighter and more harmonious features, to say nothing of a nobler and bet=
ter
developed shape than that perverse, ill-thriven child can boast.’
‘Bribe a seraph to fetch you=
a
coal of fire from heaven, if you will,’ said I, ‘and with it ki=
ndle
life in the tallest, fattest, most boneless, fullest-blooded of Ruben's pai=
nted
women - leave me only my Alpine peri, and I'll not envy you.’
With a simultaneous movement, each
turned his back on the other. Neither said ‘God bless you;’ yet=
on
the morrow the sea was to roll between us.
IN two months more Frances had
fulfilled the time of mourning for her aunt. One January morning - the firs=
t of
the new year holidays - I went in a fiacre, accompanied only by M. Vandenhu=
ten,
to the Rue Notre Dame aux Neiges, and having alighted alone and walked
upstairs, I found Frances apparently waiting for me, dressed in a style
scarcely appropriate to that cold, bright, frosty day. Never till now had I
seen her attired in any other than black or sad-coloured stuff; and there s=
he
stood by the window, clad all in white, and white of a most diaphanous text=
ure;
her array was very simple, to be sure, but it looked imposing and festal
because it was so clear, full, and floating; a veil shadowed her head, and =
hung
below her knee; a little wreath of pink flowers fastened it to her thickly
tressed Grecian plait, and thence it fell softly on each side of her face.
Singular to state, she was, or had been crying; when I asked her if she were
ready, she said ‘Yes, monsieur,’ with something very like a che=
cked
sob; and when I took a shawl, which lay on the table, and folded it round h=
er, not
only did tear after tear course unbidden down her cheek, but she shook to my
ministration like a reed. I said I was sorry to see her in such low spirits,
and requested to be allowed an insight into the origin thereof. She only sa=
id, ‘It
was impossible to help it,’ and then voluntarily, though hurriedly,
putting her hand into mine, accompanied me out of the room, and ran downsta=
irs
with a quick, uncertain step, like one who was eager to get some formidable
piece of business over. I put her into the fiacre. M. Vandenhuten received =
her,
and seated her beside himself; we drove all together to the Protestant chap=
el,
went through a certain service in the Common Prayer Book, and she and I came
out married. M. Vandenhuten had given the bride away.
We took no bridal trip; our modest=
y,
screened by the peaceful obscurity of our station, and the pleasant isolati=
on
of our circumstances, did not exact that additional precaution. We repaired=
at
once to a small house I had taken in the faubourg nearest to that part of t=
he
city where the scene of our avocations lay.
Three or four hours after the wedd=
ing
ceremony, Frances, divested of her bridal snow, and attired in a pretty lil=
ac
gown of warmer materials, a piquant black silk apron, and a lace collar with
some finishing decoration of lilac ribbon, was kneeling on the carpet of a
neatly furnished though not spacious parlour, arranging on the shelves of a
chiffoniere some books, which I handed to her from the table. It was snowing
fast out of doors; the afternoon had turned out wild and cold; the leaden s=
ky
seemed full of drifts, and the street was already ankle-deep in the white
downfall. Our fire burned bright, our new habitation looked brilliantly cle=
an
and fresh, the furniture was all arranged, and there were but some articles=
of
glass, china, books, &c., to put in order. Frances found in this busine=
ss
occupation till tea-time, and then, after I had distinctly instructed her h=
ow
to make a cup of tea in rational English style, and after she had got over =
the
dismay occasioned by seeing such an extravagant amount of material put into=
the
pot, she administered to me a proper British repast, at which there wanted
neither candies nor urn, fire-light nor comfort.
Our week's holiday glided by, and =
we
readdressed ourselves to labour. Both my wife and I began in good earnest w=
ith
the notion that we were working people, destined to earn our bread by exert=
ion,
and that of the most assiduous kind. Our days were thoroughly occupied; we =
used
to part every morning at eight o'clock, and not meet again till five P.M.; =
but
into what sweet rest did the turmoil of each busy day decline! Looking down=
the
vista, of memory, I see the evenings passed in that little parlour like a l=
ong
string of rubies circling the dusk brow of the past. Unvaried were they as =
each
cut gem, and like each gem brilliant and burning.
A year and a half passed. One morn=
ing
(it was a FETE, and we had the day to ourselves) Frances said to me, with a
suddenness peculiar to her when she had been thinking long on a subject, an=
d at
last, having come to a conclusion, wished to test its soundness by the
touchstone of my judgment: - =
‘I don't work enough.’=
‘What now?’ demanded I,
looking up from my coffee, which I had been deliberately stirring while
enjoying, in anticipation, a walk I proposed to take with Frances, that fine
summer day (it was June), to a certain farmhouse in the country, where we w=
ere
to dine. ‘What now?’ and I saw at once, in the serious ardour of
her face, a project of vital importance.
‘I am not satisfied’ r=
eturned
she: ‘you are now earning eight thousand francs a year’ (it was
true; my efforts, punctuality, the fame of my pupils' progress, the publici=
ty
of my station, had so far helped me on), ‘while I am still at my
miserable twelve hundred francs. I CAN do better, and I WILL.’
‘You work as long and as
diligently as I do, Frances.’
‘Yes, monsieur, but I am not
working in the right way, and I am convinced of it.’
‘You wish to change - you ha=
ve a
plan for progress in your mind; go and put on your bonnet; and, while we ta=
ke
our walk, you shall tell me of it.’
‘Yes, monsieur.’
She went - as docile as a well-tra=
ined
child; she was a curious mixture of tractability and firmness: I sat thinki=
ng
about her, and wondering what her plan could be, when she re-entered.
‘Monsieur, I have given Minn=
ie’
(our bonne) ‘leave to go out too, as it is so very fine; so will you =
be
kind enough to lock the door, and take the key with you?’
‘Kiss me, Mrs Crimsworth,=
217;
was my not very apposite reply; but she looked so engaging in her light sum=
mer
dress and little cottage bonnet, and her manner in speaking to me was then,=
as
always, so unaffectedly and suavely respectful, that my heart expanded at t=
he
sight of her, and a kiss seemed necessary to content its importunity.
‘There, monsieur.’
‘Why do you always call me
'Monsieur?' Say, 'William.'‘
‘I cannot pronounce your W;
besides, 'Monsieur' belongs to you; I like it best.’
Minnie having departed in clean cap
and smart shawl, we, too, set out, leaving the house solitary and silent - =
silent,
at least, but for the ticking of the clock. We were soon clear of Brussels;=
the
fields received us, and then the lanes, remote from carriage-resounding
CHAUSSEES. Ere long we came upon a nook, so rural, green, and secluded, it
might have been a spot in some pastoral English province; a bank of short a=
nd
mossy grass, under a hawthorn, offered a seat too tempting to be declined; =
we
took it, and when we had admired and examined some English-looking wild-flo=
wers
growing at our feet, I recalled Frances' attention and my own to the topic
touched on at breakfast.
‘What was her plan?’ A
natural one - the next step to be mounted by us, or, at least, by her, if s=
he
wanted to rise in her profession. She proposed to begin a school. We already
had the means for commencing on a careful scale, having lived greatly within
our income. We possessed, too, by this time, an extensive and eligible
connection, in the sense advantageous to our business; for, though our circ=
le
of visiting acquaintance continued as limited as ever, we were now widely k=
nown
in schools and families as teachers. When Frances had developed her plan, s=
he
intimated, in some closing sentences, her hopes for the future. If we only =
had
good health and tolerable success, me might, she was sure, in time realize =
an
independency; and that, perhaps, before we were too old to enjoy it; then b=
oth
she and I would rest; and what was to hinder us from going to live in Engla=
nd?
England was still her Promised Land.
I put no obstacle in her way; rais=
ed
no objection; I knew she was not one who could live quiescent and inactive,=
or
even comparatively inactive. Duties she must have to fulfil, and important
duties; work to do - and exciting, absorbing, profitable work; strong facul=
ties
stirred in her frame, and they demanded full nourishment, free exercise: mi=
ne
was not the hand ever to starve or cramp them; no, I delighted in offering =
them
sustenance, and in clearing them wider space for action.
‘You have conceived a plan,
Frances,’ said I, ‘and a good plan; execute it; you have my free
consent, and wherever and whenever my assistance is wanted, ask and you sha=
ll
have.’
Frances' eyes thanked me almost wi=
th
tears; just a sparkle or two, soon brushed away; she possessed herself of my
hand too, and held it for some time very close clasped in both her own, but=
she
said no more than ‘Thank you, monsieur.’
We passed a divine day, and came h=
ome
late, lighted by a full summer moon.
Ten years rushed now upon me with
dusty, vibrating, unresting wings; years of bustle, action, unslacked
endeavour; years in which I and my wife, having launched ourselves in the f=
ull
career of progress, as progress whirls on in European capitals, scarcely kn=
ew
repose, were strangers to amusement, never thought of indulgence, and yet, =
as
our course ran side by side, as we marched hand in hand, we neither murmure=
d,
repented, nor faltered. Hope indeed cheered us; health kept us up; harmony =
of
thought and deed smoothed many difficulties, and finally, success bestowed
every now and then encouraging reward on diligence. Our school became one of
the most popular in Brussels, and as by degrees we raised our terms and
elevated our system of education, our choice of pupils grew more select, an=
d at
length included the children of the best families in Belgium. We had too an
excellent connection in England, first opened by the unsolicited recommenda=
tion
of Mr Hunsden, who having been over, and having abused me for my prosperity=
in
set terms, went back, and soon after sent a leash of young -&=
nbsp;
- shire heiresses - his cousins; as he said ‘to be polished of=
f by
Mrs Crimsworth.’
As to this same Mrs Crimsworth, in=
one
sense she was become another woman, though in another she remained unchange=
d.
So different was she under different circumstances. I seemed to possess two
wives. The faculties of her nature, already disclosed when I married her,
remained fresh and fair; but other faculties shot up strong, branched out
broad, and quite altered the external character of the plant. Firmness,
activity, and enterprise, covered with grave foliage, poetic feeling and
fervour; but these flowers were still there, preserved pure and dewy under =
the
umbrage of later growth and hardier nature: perhaps I only in the world knew
the secret of their existence, but to me they were ever ready to yield an
exquisite fragrance and present a beauty as chaste as radiant.
In the daytime my house and
establishment were conducted by Madame the directress, a stately and elegant
woman, bearing much anxious thought on her large brow; much calculated dign=
ity
in her serious mien: immediately after breakfast I used to part with this l=
ady;
I went to my college, she to her schoolroom; returning for an hour in the
course of the day, I found her always in class, intently occupied; silence,
industry, observance, attending on her presence. When not actually teaching,
she was overlooking and guiding by eye and gesture; she then appeared vigil=
ant
and solicitous. When communicating instruction, her aspect was more animate=
d;
she seemed to feel a certain enjoyment in the occupation. The language in w=
hich
she addressed her pupils, though simple and unpretending, was never trite or
dry; she did not speak from routine formulas - she made her own phrases as =
she
went on, and very nervous and impressive phrases they frequently were; ofte=
n,
when elucidating favourite points of history, or geography, she would wax
genuinely eloquent in her earnestness. Her pupils, or at least the elder and
more intelligent amongst them, recognized well the language of a superior m=
ind;
they felt too, and some of them received the impression of elevated sentime=
nts;
there was little fondling between mistress and girls, but some of Frances'
pupils in time learnt to love her sincerely, all of them beheld her with
respect; her general demeanour towards them was serious; sometimes benignant
when they pleased her with their progress and attention, always scrupulously
refined and considerate. In cases where reproof or punishment was called for
she was usually forbearing enough; but if any took advantage of that
forbearance, which sometimes happened, a sharp, sudden and lightning-like
severity taught the culprit the extent of the mistake committed. Sometimes a
gleam of tenderness softened her eyes and manner, but this was rare; only w=
hen
a pupil was sick, or when it pined after home, or in the case of some little
motherless child, or of one much poorer than its companions, whose scanty
wardrobe and mean appointments brought on it the contempt of the jewelled y=
oung
countesses and silk-clad misses. Over such feeble fledglings the directress
spread a wing of kindliest protection: it was to their bedside she came at
night to tuck them warmly in; it was after them she looked in winter to see
that they always had a comfortable seat by the stove; it was they who by tu=
rns
were summoned to the salon to receive some little dole of cake or fruit - to
sit on a footstool at the fireside - to enjoy home comforts, and almost home
liberty, for an evening together - to be spoken to gently and softly,
comforted, encouraged, cherished - and
when bedtime came, dismissed with a kiss of true tenderness. As to Julia and
Georgiana G - - , daughters of an English barone=
t, as
to Mdlle. Mathilde de - - , heiress of a Belgian count, and
sundry other children of patrician race, the directress was careful of them=
as
of the others, anxious for their progress, as for that of the rest - but it
never seemed to enter her head to distinguish them by a mark of preference;=
one
girl of noble blood she loved dearly - a young Irish baroness - lady Catherine -&=
nbsp;
- ; but it was for her enthusiastic heart and clever head, for her
generosity and her genius, the title and rank went for nothing.
My afternoons were spent also in
college, with the exception of an hour that my wife daily exacted of me for=
her
establishment, and with which she would not dispense. She said that I must
spend that time amongst her pupils to learn their characters, to be AU COUR=
ANT
with everything that was passing in the house, to become interested in what
interested her, to be able to give her my opinion on knotty points when she
required it, and this she did constantly, never allowing my interest in the
pupils to fall asleep, and never making any change of importance without my
cognizance and consent. She delighted to sit by me when I gave my lessons
(lessons in literature), her hands folded on her knee, the most fixedly
attentive of any present. She rarely addressed me in class; when she did it=
was
with an air of marked deference; it was her pleasure, her joy to make me st=
ill the
master in all things.
At six o'clock P.M. my daily labou=
rs
ceased. I then came home, for my home was my heaven; ever at that hour, as I
entered our private sitting-room, the lady-directress vanished from before =
my
eyes, and Frances Henri, my own little lace-mender, was magically restored =
to
my arms; much disappointed she would have been if her master had not been as
constant to the tryste as herself, and if his truthfull kiss had not been
prompt to answer her soft, ‘Bon soir, monsieur.’
Talk French to me she would, and m=
any
a punishment she has had for her wilfulness. I fear the choice of chastisem=
ent
must have been injudicious, for instead of correcting the fault, it seemed =
to
encourage its renewal. Our evenings were our own; that recreation was neces=
sary
to refresh our strength for the due discharge of our duties; sometimes we s=
pent
them all in conversation, and my young Genevese, now that she was thoroughly
accustomed to her English professor, now that she loved him too absolutely =
to
fear him much, reposed in him a confidence so unlimited that topics of
conversation could no more be wanting with him than subjects for communion =
with
her own heart. In those moments, happy as a bird with its mate, she would s=
how
me what she had of vivacity, of mirth, of originality in her well-dowered
nature. She would show, too, some stores of raillery, of ‘malice,R=
17;
and would vex, tease, pique me sometimes about what she called my ‘bi=
zarreries
anglaises,’ my ‘caprices insulaires,’ with a wild and wit=
ty
wickedness that made a perfect white demon of her while it lasted. This was
rare, however, and the elfish freak was always short: sometimes when driven=
a
little hard in the war of words - for her tongue did ample justice to the p=
ith,
the point, the delicacy of her native French, in which language she always
attacked me - I used to turn upon her with my old decision, and arrest bodi=
ly
the sprite that teased me. Vain idea! no sooner had I grasped hand or arm t=
han
the elf was gone; the provocative smile quenched in the expressive brown ey=
es,
and a ray of gentle homage shone under the lids in its place. I had seized a
mere vexing fairy, and found a submissive and supplicating little mortal wo=
man
in my arms. Then I made her get a book, and read English to me for an hour =
by
way of penance. I frequently dosed her with Wordsworth in this way, and
Wordsworth steadied her soon; she had a difficulty in comprehending his dee=
p,
serene, and sober mind; his language, too, was not facile to her; she had to
ask questions, to sue for explanations, to be like a child and a novice, an=
d to
acknowledge me as her senior and director. Her instinct instantly penetrated
and possessed the meaning of more ardent and imaginative writers. Byron exc=
ited
her; Scott she loved; Wordsworth only she puzzled at, wondered over, and
hesitated to pronounce an opinion upon.
But whether she read to me, or tal=
ked
with me; whether she teased me in French, or entreated me in English; wheth=
er
she jested with wit, or inquired with deference; narrated with interest, or
listened with attention; whether she smiled at me or on me, always at nine
o'clock I was left abandoned. She would extricate herself from my arms, qui=
t my
side, take her lamp, and be gone. Her mission was upstairs; I have followed=
her
sometimes and watched her. First she opened the door of the dortoir (the
pupils' chamber), noiselessly she glided up the long room between the two r=
ows
of white beds, surveyed all the sleepers; if any were wakeful, especially if
any were sad, spoke to them and soothed them; stood some minutes to ascerta=
in
that all was safe and tranquil; trimmed the watch-light which burned in the
apartment all night, then withdrew, closing the door behind her without sou=
nd.
Thence she glided to our own chamber; it had a little cabinet within; this =
she
sought; there, too, appeared a bed, but one, and that a very small one; her
face (the night I followed and observed her) changed as she approached this
tiny couch; from grave it warmed to earnest; she shaded with one hand the l=
amp
she held in the other; she bent above the pillow and hung over a child asle=
ep;
its slumber (that evening at least, and usually, I believe) was sound and c=
alm;
no tear wet its dark eyelashes; no fever heated its round cheek; no ill dre=
am
discomposed its budding features. Frances gazed, she did not smile, and yet=
the
deepest delight filled, flushed her face; feeling pleasurable, powerful, wo=
rked
in her whole frame, which still was motionless. I saw, indeed, her heart he=
ave,
her lips were a little apart, her breathing grew somewhat hurried; the child
smiled; then at last the mother smiled too, and said in low soliloquy, R=
16;God
bless my little son!’ She stooped closer over him, breathed the softe=
st
of kisses on his brow, covered his minute hand with hers, and at last start=
ed
up and came away. I regained the parlour before her. Entering it two minutes
later she said quietly as she put down her extinguished lamp -
‘Victor rests well: he smile=
d in
his sleep; he has your smile, monsieur.’
The said Victor was of course her =
own
boy, born in the third year of our marriage: his Christian name had been gi=
ven
him in honour of M. Vandenhuten, who continued always our trusty and
well-beloved friend.
Frances was then a good and dear w=
ife
to me, because I was to her a good, just, and faithful husband. What she wo=
uld
have been had she married a harsh, envious, careless man - a profligate, a
prodigal, a drunkard, or a tyrant - is another question, and one which I on=
ce
propounded to her. Her answer, given after some reflection, was -
‘I should have tried to endu=
re
the evil or cure it for awhile; and when I found it intolerable and incurab=
le,
I should have left my torturer suddenly and silently.’
‘And if law or might had for=
ced
you back again?’
‘What, to a drunkard, a
profligate, a selfish spendthrift, an unjust fool?’
‘Yes.’
‘I would have gone back; aga=
in
assured myself whether or not his vice and my misery were capable of remedy;
and if not, have left him again.’
‘And if again forced to retu=
rn,
and compelled to abide?’
‘I don't know,’ she sa=
id,
hastily. ‘Why do you ask me, monsieur?’
I would have an answer, because I =
saw
a strange kind of spirit in her eye, whose voice I determined to waken.
‘Monsieur, if a wife's nature
loathes that of the man she is wedded to, marriage must be slavery. Against
slavery all right thinkers revolt, and though torture be the price of
resistance, torture must be dared: though the only road to freedom lie thro=
ugh
the gates of death, those gates must be passed; for freedom is indispensabl=
e.
Then, monsieur, I would resist as far as my strength permitted; when that
strength failed I should be sure of a refuge. Death would certainly screen =
me
both from bad laws and their consequences.’
‘Voluntary death, Frances?=
8217;
‘No, monsieur. I'd have cour=
age
to live out every throe of anguish fate assigned me, and principle to conte=
nd
for justice and liberty to the last.’
‘I see you would have made no
patient Grizzle. And now, supposing fate had merely assigned you the lot of=
an
old maid, what then? How would you have liked celibacy?’
‘Not much, certainly. An old
maid's life must doubtless be void and vapid - her heart strained and empty.
Had I been an old maid I should have spent existence in efforts to fill the
void and ease the aching. I should have probably failed, and died weary and
disappointed, despised and of no account, like other single women. But I'm =
not
an old maid,’ she added quickly. ‘I should have been, though, b=
ut
for my master. I should never have suited any man but Professor Crimsworth =
- no
other gentleman, French, English, or Belgian, would have thought me amiable=
or
handsome; and I doubt whether I should have cared for the approbation of ma=
ny
others, if I could have obtained it. Now, I have been Professor Crimsworth's
wife eight years, and what is he in my eyes? Is he honourable, beloved -&=
nbsp;
- ?’ She stopped, her voice was cut off, her eyes suddenly
suffused. She and I were standing side by side; she threw her arms round me,
and strained me to her heart with passionate earnestness: the energy of her
whole being glowed in her dark and then dilated eye, and crimsoned her anim=
ated
cheek; her look and movement were like inspiration; in one there was such a
flash, in the other such a power. Half an hour afterwards, when she had bec=
ome
calm, I asked where all that wild vigour was gone which had transformed her
ere-while and made her glance so thrilling and ardent - her action so rapid=
and
strong. She looked down, smiling softly and passively: -
‘I cannot tell where it is g=
one,
monsieur,’ said she, ‘but I know that, whenever it is wanted, it
will come back again.’
Behold us now at the close of the =
ten
years, and we have realized an independency. The rapidity with which we
attained this end had its origin in three reasons: - Firstly, we worked so hard for it;
secondly, we had no incumbrances to delay success; thirdly, as soon as we h=
ad
capital to invest, two well-skilled counsellors, one in Belgium, one in
England, viz. Vandenhuten and Hunsden, gave us each a word of advice as to =
the
sort of investment to be chosen. The suggestion made was judicious; and, be=
ing
promptly acted on, the result proved gainful - I need not say how gainful; I
communicated details to Messrs. Vandenhuten and Hunsden; nobody else can be
interested in hearing them.
Accounts being wound up, and our p= rofessional connection disposed of, we both agreed that, as mammon was not our master, = nor his service that in which we desired to spend our lives; as our desires were temperate, and our habits unostentatious, we had now abundance to live on -= abundance to leave our boy; and should besides always have a balance on hand, which, properly managed by right sympathy and unselfish activity, might help philanthropy in her enterprises, and put solace into the hand of charity. <= o:p>
To England we now resolved to take
wing; we arrived there safely; Frances realized the dream of her lifetime. =
We
spent a whole summer and autumn in travelling from end to end of the British
islands, and afterwards passed a winter in London. Then we thought it high =
time
to fix our residence. My heart yearned towards my native county of -&=
nbsp;
- shire; and it is in =
- - shire I now live; it is in the l=
ibrary
of my own home I am now writing. That home lies amid a sequestered and rath=
er
hilly region, thirty miles removed from X - - ; a region whose verdure the smo=
ke of
mills has not yet sullied, whose waters still run pure, whose swells of
moorland preserve in some ferny glens that lie between them the very primal
wildness of nature, her moss, her bracken, her blue-bells, her scents of re=
ed
and heather, her free and fresh breezes. My house is a picturesque and not =
too
spacious dwelling, with low and long windows, a trellised and leaf-veiled p=
orch
over the front door, just now, on this summer evening, looking like an arch=
of
roses and ivy. The garden is chiefly laid out in lawn, formed of the sod of=
the
hills, with herbage short and soft as moss, full of its own peculiar flower=
s,
tiny and starlike, imbedded in the minute embroidery of their fine foliage.=
At
the bottom of the sloping garden there is a wicket, which opens upon a lane=
as
green as the lawn, very long, shady, and little frequented; on the turf of =
this
lane generally appear the first daisies of spring - whence its name - Daisy
Lane; serving also as a distinction to the house.
It terminates (the lane I mean) in=
a
valley full of wood; which wood - chiefly oak and beech - spreads shadowy a=
bout
the vicinage of a very old mansion, one of the Elizabethan structures, much
larger, as well as more antique than Daisy Lane, the property and residence=
of
an individual familiar both to me and to the reader. Yes, in Hunsden Wood -=
for
so are those glades and that grey building, with many gables and more chimn=
eys,
named - abides Yorke Hunsden, still unmarried; never, I suppose, having yet
found his ideal, though I know at least a score of young ladies within a
circuit of forty miles, who would be willing to assist him in the search. T=
he
estate fell to him by the death of his father, five years since; he has giv=
en
up trade, after having made by it sufficient to pay off some incumbrances by
which the family heritage was burdened. I say he abides here, but I do not
think he is resident above five months out of the twelve; he wanders from l=
and
to land, and spends some part of each winter in town: he frequently brings
visitors with him when he comes to -&=
nbsp;
- shire, and these visitors are often foreigners; sometimes he has a
German metaphysician, sometimes a French savant; he had once a dissatisfied=
and
savage-looking Italian, who neither sang nor played, and of whom Frances
affirmed that he had ‘tout l'air d'un conspirateur.’
What English guests Hunsden invite=
s,
are all either men of Birmingham or Manchester - hard men, seemingly knit u=
p in
one thought, whose talk is of free trade. The foreign visitors, too, are po=
liticians;
they take a wider theme - European progress - the spread of liberal sentime=
nts
over the Continent; on their mental tablets, the names of Russia, Austria, =
and
the Pope, are inscribed in red ink. I have heard some of them talk vigorous
sense - yea, I have been present at polyglot discussions in the old, oak-li=
ned
dining-room at Hunsden Wood, where a singular insight was given of the
sentiments entertained by resolute minds respecting old northern despotisms,
and old southern superstitions: also, I have heard much twaddle, enounced
chiefly in French and Deutsch, but let that pass. Hunsden himself tolerated=
the
drivelling theorists; with the practical men he seemed leagued hand and hea=
rt.
When Hunsden is staying alone at t=
he
Wood (which seldom happens) he generally finds his way two or three times a
week to Daisy Lane. He has a philanthropic motive for coming to smoke his c=
igar
in our porch on summer evenings; he says he does it to kill the earwigs amo=
ngst
the roses, with which insects, but for his benevolent fumigations, he intim=
ates
we should certainly be overrun. On wet days, too, we are almost sure to see
him; according to him, it gets on time to work me into lunacy by treading o=
n my
mental corns, or to force from Mrs Crimsworth revelations of the dragon wit=
hin
her, by insulting the memory of Hofer and Tell.
We also go frequently to Hunsden W=
ood,
and both I and Frances relish a visit there highly. If there are other gues=
ts,
their characters are an interesting study; their conversation is exciting a=
nd strange;
the absence of all local narrowness both in the host and his chosen society
gives a metropolitan, almost a cosmopolitan freedom and largeness to the ta=
lk.
Hunsden himself is a polite man in his own house: he has, when he chooses to
employ it, an inexhaustible power of entertaining guests; his very mansion =
too
is interesting, the rooms look storied, the passages legendary, the low-cei=
led
chambers, with their long rows of diamond-paned lattices, have an old-world,
haunted air: in his travels he has collected stores of articles of VERTU, w=
hich
are well and tastefully disposed in his panelled or tapestried rooms: I have
seen there one or two pictures, and one or two pieces of statuary which man=
y an
aristocratic connoisseur might have envied.
When I and Frances have dined and
spent an evening with Hunsden, he often walks home with us. His wood is lar=
ge,
and some of the timber is old and of huge growth. There are winding ways in=
it
which, pursued through glade and brake, make the walk back to Daisy Lane a
somewhat long one. Many a time, when we have had the benefit of a full moon,
and when the night has been mild and balmy, when, moreover, a certain
nightingale has been singing, and a certain stream, hid in alders, has lent=
the
song a soft accompaniment, the remote church-bell of the one hamlet in a
district of ten miles, has tolled
‘You call her ideal; but see,
here is her shadow; and there cannot be a shadow without a substance.’=
;
He had led us from the depth of th=
e ‘winding
way’ into a glade from whence the beeches withdrew, leaving it open to
the sky; an unclouded moon poured her light into this glade, and Hunsden he=
ld
out under her beam an ivory miniature.
Frances, with eagerness, examined =
it
first; then she gave it to me - still, however, pushing her little face clo=
se
to mine, and seeking in my eyes what I thought of the portrait. I thought it
represented a very handsome and very individual-looking female face, with, =
as
he had once said, ‘straight and harmonious features.’ It was da=
rk;
the hair, raven-black, swept not only from the brow, but from the temples -=
seemed
thrust away carelessly, as if such beauty dispensed with, nay, despised
arrangement. The Italian eye looked straight into you, and an independent,
determined eye it was; the mouth was as firm as fine; the chin ditto. On the
back of the miniature was gilded ‘Lucia.’
‘That is a real head,’=
was
my conclusion.
Hunsden smiled.
‘I think so,’ he repli=
ed. ‘All
was real in Lucia.’
‘And she was somebody you wo=
uld
have liked to marry - but could not?’
‘I should certainly have lik=
ed
to marry her, and that I HAVE not done so is a proof that I COULD not.̵=
7;
He repossessed himself of the
miniature, now again in Frances' hand, and put it away.
‘What do YOU think of it?=
217;
he asked of my wife, as he buttoned his coat over it.
‘I am sure Lucia once wore
chains and broke them,’ was the strange answer. ‘I do not mean
matrimonial chains,’ she added, correcting herself, as if she feared
mis-interpretation, ‘but social chains of some sort. The face is that=
of
one who has made an effort, and a successful and triumphant effort, to wrest
some vigorous and valued faculty from insupportable constraint; and when
Lucia's faculty got free, I am certain it spread wide pinions and carried h=
er
higher than - ’ she hesitated.
‘Than what?’ demanded
Hunsden.
‘Than 'les convenances'
permitted you to follow.’
‘I think you grow spiteful -=
impertinent.’
‘Lucia has trodden the stage=
,’
continued Frances. ‘You never seriously thought of marrying her; you
admired her originality, her fearlessness, her energy of body and mind; you
delighted in her talent, whatever that was, whether song, dance, or dramatic
representation; you worshipped her beauty, which was of the sort after your=
own
heart: but I am sure she filled a sphere from whence you would never have
thought of taking a wife.’
‘Ingenious,’ remarked
Hunsden; ‘whether true or not is another question. Meantime, don't you
feel your little lamp of a spirit wax very pale, beside such a girandole as
Lucia's?’
‘Yes.’
‘Candid, at least; and the
Professor will soon be dissatisfied with the dim light you give?’
‘Will you, monsieur?’ =
‘My sight was always too wea=
k to
endure a blaze, Frances,’ and we had now reached the wicket.
I said, a few pages back, that thi=
s is
a sweet summer evening; it is - there has been a series of lovely days, and
this is the loveliest; the hay is just carried from my fields, its perfume
still lingers in the air. Frances proposed to me, an hour or two since, to =
take
tea out on the lawn; I see the round table, loaded with china, placed under=
a
certain beech; Hunsden is expected - nay, I hear he is come - there is=
his
voice, laying down the law on some point with authority; that of Frances
replies; she opposes him of course. They are disputing about Victor, of whom
Hunsden affirms that his mother is making a milksop. Mrs Crimsworth retalia=
tes:
-
‘Better a thousand times he
should be a milksop than what he, Hunsden, calls 'a fine lad;' and moreover=
she
says that if Hunsden were to become a fixture in the neighbourhood, and were
not a mere comet, coming and going, no one knows how, when, where, or why, =
she
should be quite uneasy till she had got Victor away to a school at least a
hundred miles off; for that with his mutinous maxims and unpractical dogmas=
, he
would ruin a score of children.’
I have a word to say of Victor ere=
I
shut this manuscript in my desk - but it must be a brief one, for I hear the
tinkle of silver on porcelain.
Victor is as little of a pretty ch=
ild
as I am of a handsome man, or his mother of a fine woman; he is pale and sp=
are,
with large eyes, as dark as those of Frances, and as deeply set as mine. His
shape is symmetrical enough, but slight; his health is good. I never saw a
child smile less than he does, nor one who knits such a formidable brow when
sitting over a book that interests him, or while listening to tales of
adventure, peril, or wonder, narrated by his mother, Hunsden, or myself. But
though still, he is not unhappy - though serious, not morose; he has a
susceptibility to pleasurable sensations almost too keen, for it amounts to
enthusiasm. He learned to read in the old-fashioned way out of a spelling-b=
ook
at his mother's knee, and as he got on without driving by that method, she
thought it unnecessary to buy him ivory letters, or to try any of the other
inducements to learning now deemed indispensable. When he could read, he be=
came
a glutton of books, and is so still. His toys have been few, and he has nev=
er
wanted more. For those he possesses, he seems to have contracted a partiali=
ty
amounting to affection; this feeling, directed towards one or two living
animals of the house, strengthens almost to a passion.
Mr Hunsden gave him a mastiff cub,=
which
he called Yorke, after the donor; it grew to a superb dog, whose fierceness,
however, was much modified by the companionship and caresses of its young
master. He would go nowhere, do nothing without Yorke; Yorke lay at his feet
while he learned his lessons, played with him in the garden, walked with hi=
m in
the lane and wood, sat near his chair at meals, was fed always by his own h=
and,
was the first thing he sought in the morning, the last he left at night. Yo=
rke
accompanied Mr Hunsden one day to X -
- , and was bitten in the street by a dog in a rabid state. As soon =
as
Hunsden had brought him home, and had informed me of the circumstance, I we=
nt
into the yard and shot him where he lay licking his wound: he was dead in an
instant; he had not seen me level the gun; I stood behind him. I had scarce=
ly
been ten minutes in the house, when my ear was struck with sounds of anguis=
h: I
repaired to the yard once more, for they proceeded thence. Victor was kneel=
ing
beside his dead mastiff, bent over it, embracing its bull-like neck, and lo=
st
in a passion of the wildest woe: he saw me.
‘Oh, papa, I'll never forgive
you! I'll never forgive you!’ was his exclamation. ‘You shot Yo=
rke
- I saw it from the window. I never believed you could be so cruel - I can =
love
you no more!’
I had much ado to explain to him, =
with
a steady voice, the stern necessity of the deed; he still, with that
inconsolable and bitter accent which I cannot render, but which pierced my
heart, repeated -
‘He might have been cured - =
you
should have tried - you should have burnt the wound with a hot iron, or cov=
ered
it with caustic. You gave no time; and now it is too late - he is dead!R=
17;
He sank fairly down on the sensele=
ss
carcase; I waited patiently a long while, till his grief had somewhat exhau=
sted
him; and then I lifted him in my arms and carried him to his mother, sure t=
hat
she would comfort him best. She had witnessed the whole scene from a window;
she would not come out for fear of increasing my difficulties by her emotio=
n,
but she was ready now to receive him. She took him to her kind heart, and o=
n to
her gentle lap; consoled him but with her lips, her eyes, her soft embrace,=
for
some time; and then, when his sobs diminished, told him that Yorke had felt=
no
pain in dying, and that if he had been left to expire naturally, his end wo=
uld
have been most horrible; above all, she told him that I was not cruel (for =
that
idea seemed to give exquisite pain to poor Victor), that it was my affection
for Yorke and him which had made me act so, and that I was now almost
heart-broken to see him weep thus bitterly.
Victor would have been no true son=
of
his father, had these considerations, these reasons, breathed in so low, so
sweet a tone - married to caresses so benign, so tender - to looks so inspi=
red
with pitying sympathy - produced no effect on him. They did produce an effe=
ct:
he grew calmer, rested his face on her shoulder, and lay still in her arms.
Looking up, shortly, he asked his mother to tell him over again what she had
said about Yorke having suffered no pain, and my not being cruel; the balmy
words being repeated, he again pillowed his cheek on her breast, and was ag=
ain
tranquil.
Some hours after, he came to me in=
my
library, asked if I forgave him, and desired to be reconciled. I drew the l=
ad
to my side, and there I kept him a good while, and had much talk with him, =
in
the course of which he disclosed many points of feeling and thought I appov=
ed
of in my son. I found, it is true, few elements of the ‘good fellow=
8217;
or the ‘fine fellow’ in him; scant sparkles of the spirit which
loves to flash over the wine cup, or which kindles the passions to a destro=
ying
fire; but I saw in the soil of his heart healthy and swelling germs of
compassion, affection, fidelity. I discovered in the garden of his intellec=
t a
rich growth of wholesome principles - reason, justice, moral courage, promi=
sed,
if not blighted, a fertile bearing. So I bestowed on his large forehead, an=
d on
his cheek - still pale with tears - a proud and contented kiss, and sent him
away comforted. Yet I saw him the next day laid on the mound under which Yo=
rke
had been buried, his face covered with his hands; he was melancholy for some
weeks, and more than a year elapsed before he would listen to any proposal =
of
having another dog.
Victor learns fast. He must soon g=
o to
Eton, where, I suspect, his first year or two will be utter wretchedness: to
leave me, his mother, and his home, will give his heart an agonized wrench;
then, the fagging will not suit him - but emulation, thirst after knowledge,
the glory of success, will stir and reward him in time. Meantime, I feel in
myself a strong repugnance to fix the hour which will uproot my sole olive
branch, and transplant it far from me; and, when I speak to Frances on the
subject, I am heard with a kind of patient pain, as though I alluded to some
fearful operation, at which her nature shudders, but from which her fortitu=
de
will not permit her to recoil. The step must, however, be taken, and it sha=
ll
be; for, though Frances will not make a milksop of her son, she will accust=
om
him to a style of treatment, a forbearance, a congenial tenderness, he will
meet with from none else. She sees, as I also see, a something in Victor's
temper - a kind of electrical ardour and power - which emits, now and then,
ominous sparks; Hunsden calls it his spirit, and says it should not be curb=
ed.
I call it the leaven of the offending Adam, and consider that it should be,=
if
not WHIPPED out of him, at least soundly disciplined; and that he will be c=
heap
of any amount of either bodily or mental suffering which will ground him
radically in the art of self-control. Frances gives this something in her s=
on's
marked character no name; but when it appears in the grinding of his teeth,=
in
the glittering of his eye, in the fierce revolt of feeling against
disappointment, mischance, sudden sorrow, or supposed injustice, she folds =
him
to her breast, or takes him to walk with her alone in the wood; then she
reasons with him like any philosopher, and to reason Victor is ever accessi=
ble;
then she looks at him with eyes of love, and by love Victor can be infallib=
ly
subjugated; but will reason or love be the weapons with which in future the
world will meet his violence? Oh, no! for that flash in his black eye - for
that cloud on his bony brow - for that compression of his statuesque lips, =
the
lad will some day get blows instead of blandishments - kicks instead of kis=
ses;
then for the fit of mute fury which will sicken his body and madden his sou=
l;
then for the ordeal of merited and salutary suffering, out of which he will
come (I trust) a wiser and a better man.
I see him now; he stands by Hunsde=
n,
who is seated on the lawn under the beech; Hunsden's hand rests on the boy's
collar, and he is instilling God knows what principles into his ear. Victor=
looks
well just now, for he listens with a sort of smiling interest; he never loo=
ks
so like his mother as when he smiles - pity the sunshine breaks out so r=
arely!
Victor has a preference for Hunsden, full as strong as I deem desirable, be=
ing
considerably more potent decided, and indiscriminating, than any I ever
entertained for that personage myself. Frances, too, regards it with a sort=
of
unexpressed anxiety; while her son leans on Hunsden's knee, or rests against
his shoulder, she roves with restless movement round, like a dove guarding =
its
young from a hovering hawk; she says she wishes Hunsden had children of his
own, for then he would better know the danger of inciting their pride end
indulging their foibles.
Frances approaches my library wind=
ow;
puts aside the honeysuckle which half covers it, and tells me tea is ready;
seeing that I continue busy she enters the room, comes near me quietly, and
puts her hand on my shoulder.
‘Monsieur est trop applique.=
’
‘I shall soon have done.R=
17;
She draws a chair near, and sits d=
own
to wait till I have finished; her presence is as pleasant to my mind as the
perfume of the fresh hay and spicy flowers, as the glow of the westering su=
n,
as the repose of the midsummer eve are to my senses.
But Hunsden comes; I hear his step,
and there he is, bending through the lattice, from which he has thrust away=
the
woodbine with unsparing hand, disturbing two bees and a butterfly.
‘Crimsworth! I say, Crimswor=
th!
take that pen out of his hand, mistress, and make him lift up his head.
‘Well, Hunsden? I hear you -
’
‘I was at X - - yesterday! your brother Ned is gett=
ing
richer than Croesus by railway speculations; they call him in the Piece Hal=
l a
stag of ten; and I have heard from Brown. M. and Madame Vandenhuten and Jean
Baptiste talk of coming to see you next month. He mentions the Pelets too; =
he
says their domestic harmony is not the finest in the world, but in business
they are doing 'on ne peut mieux,' which circumstance he concludes will be a
sufficient consolation to both for any little crosses in the affections. Why
don't you invite the Pelets to -&=
nbsp;
- shire, Crimsworth? I should so like to see your first flame, Zorai=
de.
Mistress, don't be jealous, but he loved that lady to distraction; I know it
for a fact. Brown says she weighs twelve stones now; you see what you've lo=
st, Mr
Professor. Now, Monsieur and Madame, if you don't come to tea, Victor and I
will begin without you.’
‘Papa, come!’
The End