Strictly Books: Anthony Trollope; Samuel Pepys and Charlotte Brontë

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BACHESTER TOWERS ANTONY TROLLOP CHAPTER Twelve SLOPE VES. Harding Two or three days after the party, Mr Harding received a note, begging him to call on Mr Slope at the palace at an early hour the following morning. There was nothing uncivil in the communication, and yet the tone of it was thoroughly displeasing. It went as follows My dear Mr Harding, will you favour me by calling on me at the palace tomorrow morning at nine thirty AM? The bishop wishes to speak to you touching the hospital. I hope you'll excuse my naming so early an hour. I do so as my time is greatly occupied. If, however, it is positively inconvenient to you, I will change it to ten. You will perhaps be kind enough to let me have a note in reply. Believe me to be, my dear Mr Harding, your assured friend OBH Slope, the palace Monday morning twentieth of august eighteen fifty something. Mr Harding neither could nor would believe anything of the sort, and he thought moreover, that Mr Slope was rather impertinent to call himself by such a name. His assured friend indeed, how many assured friends generally fall to the lot of a man in this world, and by what process are they made, and how much of such process has taken place as yet between Mr Harding and Mr Slope? Mr Harding could not help asking himself these questions as he read and reread the note before him. He answered it, however, as follows Dear sir, I will call at the palace tomorrow at nine thirty AM as you desire. Truly yours, S Harding, High Street, Barchester, Monday, and on the following morning, punctually at half past nine, he knocked at the palace door and asked for Mr Slope. The Bishop had one small room allotted to him on the ground floor, and Mr Slope had another. Into this latter Mr Harding was shown and asked to sit down. Mr Slope was not yet there. The ex warden stood up at the window looking into the garden, and could not help thinking how very short a time had passed since the whole of that house had been opened to him, as though he had been a child of the family, born and bred in it. He remembered how the old servants used to smile as they opened the door to him, how the familiar butler would say when he had been absent a few hours longer than usual A sight of you, Mr Harding is good for sore eyes, how the fussy housekeeper would swear that he couldn't have dined or couldn't have breakfasted or couldn't have lunched, and then above all he remembered the pleasant gleam of inward satisfaction which always spread itself over the old bishop's face whenever his friend entered his room. A tear came into each eye as he reflected that all of this was gone. What use would the hospital be to him now? He was alone in the world and getting old. He would soon, very soon have to go and leave it all as his dear old friend had gone. Go and leave the hospital. Go and leave his accustomed place in the cathedral and his haunts and pleasures to younger and perhaps wiser men. That chanting of his, perhaps in truth, the time for it had gone by. He felt as though the world were sinking from his feet, as though this was the time for him to turn with confidence to their hopes which he had preached with confidence to others. What, said he to himself, can a man's religion be worth if it does not support him against the natural melancholy of declining years? And as he looked out through his dimmed eyes into the bright partair of the British Bishop's garden, he felt that he had the support which he wanted. Nevertheless he did not like to be thus kept waiting. If Mr Slope did not really wish to see him at half past nine o'clock, why force him to come away from his lodgings with his breakfast in his throat? To tell the truth, it was policy on the part of Mr Slope. Mr Slope had made up his mind that Mr Harding should either accept the hospital with abject submission or else refuse it altogether, and had calculated that he would probably be more quick to do the latter if he could be got to enter upon the subject in an ill humour. Perhaps Mr Slope was not altogether wrong in his calculation. It was nearly ten when Mr Slope hurried into the room, and muttering something about the bishop and the diocesan duties, shook Mr Harding's hand ruthlessly and begged him to be seated. Now the air of superiority which this man assumed did go against the grain of Mr Harding, and yet he did not know how to resent it. The whole tendency of his mind and disposition was opposed to any contra assumption of grandeur on his own part, and he hadn't the worldly spirit or quickness necessary to put down insolent pretensions by downright and open rebuke as the archdeacon would have done. There was nothing for Mr Harding Fought to do but to submit, and he accordingly did so. About the hospital, Mr Harding, began Mr Slope, speaking of it as the head of a college at Cambridge might speak of some sizer Caesar ship which had to be disposed of. Mr Harding crossed over one leg over another, and then one hand over the top of them, and then looked at Mr Slope in the face, but he said nothing. It is to be filled up again, said Mr Slope. Mr Harding said that he had understood so. Of course you know the income will be very much reduced, continued Mr Slope. The bishop wished to be liberal, and therefore told the government that he thought it ought to be put at not less than four hundred and fifty pounds. I think on the whole the bishop was right, for though the services required will not be of a very onerous nature, they will be more so than they were before, and it is perhaps well that the clergy immediately attached to the cathedral town should be made as comfortable as the extent of the ecclesiastical means at our disposal will allow. Those are the bishop's ideas, and I must say mine also. Mr Harding sat rubbing one hand on the other, but said not a word. So much for the income, Mr Harding. The house will, of course, remain to the warden as before. It should, however, I think be stipulated that he should paint inside every seven years and outside every three years, and be subject to dilapidations in the event of vacating either by death or otherwise, but this is a matter on which the bishop must yet be consulted. Mr Harding still rubbed his hands and sat in silence, gazing up into Mr Slope's unprepossessing face. Then as to the duties, continued he, I believe if I am rightly informed, there can hardly be said to have been any duties hitherto, and he gave a sort of half laugh, as though to pass off the accusation in the guise of pleasantry. Mr Harding thought of the happy, easy years he had passed in his old home, of the worn out, aged men whom he had succored, of his good intentions and of his work, which had certainly been of the lightest. He thought of these things, doubting for a moment whether he did or did not deserve the sarcasm. He gave his enemy the benefit of the doubt, and did not rebuke him. He merely observed very tranquilly, and perhaps with too much humility, that the duties of the situation, such as they were, had he believed been done to the satisfaction of the late bishop. Mr Slope again smiled, and this time the smile was intended to operate against the memory of the late bishop, rather than against the energy of the ex warden, and so it was understood by Mr Harding. The colour rose to his cheeks, and he began to feel very angry. You must be aware, Mr Harding, that things are a good deal changed in Barchester, said Mr Slope. Mr Harding said that he was aware of it, and not only in Barchester, Mr Harding, but in the world at large. It is not only in Barchester that a new man is carrying out new measures and casting away the useless rubbish of past centuries. The same thing is going on throughout the country. Work is now required from every man who receives wages, and they who have to superintend the doing of work and the paying of wages are bound to see that this rule is carried out. New men, Mr Harding, are now needed, and are now forthcoming in the church as well as in other professions. All of this was wormwood to our old friend. He had never rated very high his own abilities or activity, but all the feelings of his heart were with the old clergy, and any antipathies of which his heart was susceptible were directed against those new, busy, uncharitable, self lauding men of whom Mr Slope was so good an example. Perhaps, said he, the bishop will prefer a new man at the hospital. By no means, said Mr Slope. The bishop is very anxious that you should accept the appointment, but he wishes you should understand beforehand what will be required of the duties. In the first place a Sabbath day school will be attached to the hospital. What? For the old men? asked Mr Harding. No, Mr Harding, not for the old men, but for the benefit of the children of such of the poor of Barchester as it may suit. The bishop will expect that you shall attend this school, and the teachers shall be under your inspection and care. Mr Harding slipped his topmost hand off the other, and began to rub the calf of his leg which was supported. As to the old men, continued Mr Slope, and the old women who are to form a part of the hospital, the bishop is desirous that you shall have morning and evening service on the premises every Sabbath, and one day one weekday service, that you shall preach to them once, at least on Sundays, and that the whole hospital be always collected for morning and evening prayer. The bishop thinks that this will render it unnecessary that any separate seats in the cathedral should be reserved for the hospital inmates. Mr Slope paused, but Mr Harding still said nothing. Indeed, it will be difficult to find seats for the women, and on the whole, Mr Harding, I may as well say at once that for people of that class the cathedral service does not seem to appear to me the most useful, even if it be for any class of people. We will not discuss that, if you please, said Mr Harding. I'm not desirous of doing so, at least not at the present moment. I hope, however, you fully understand the bishop's wishes about the new establishment of the hospital, and if, as I do not doubt, I shall receive from you an assurance that you accord with his lordship's views, it will give me very great pleasure to be the bearer from his lordship to you of the presentation to the appointment. But if I agree disagree with his lordship's views, asked Mr Harding. But I hope you do not, said Mr Slope. But if I do, again asked the other, if such unfortunately shall be the case, which I can hardly conceive, I presume your own feelings will dictate to you the propriety of declining the appointment. But if I accept the appointment and yet disagree with the bishop, what then? This question rather bothered Mr Slope. It was true that he had talked the matter over with the bishop and had received a sort of authority for suggesting to Mr Harding the propriety of a Sunday school and certain hospital services, but he had no authority for saying that these propositions were to be made peremptory conditions attached to the appointment. The bishop's idea had been that Mr Harding would, of course, consent and that the school would become, like the rest of those new establishments in the city, under the control of his wife and the chaplain. Mr Slope's idea had been more correct. He intended that Mr Harding should refuse the situation, and that an ally of his own should get it. But he had not conceived the possibility of Mr Harding openly accepting the appointment and as openly rejecting the conditions. It is not, I presume, probable, said he, that you will accept from the hands of a bishop a piece of preferment with a fixed predetermination to disacknowledge the duties attached to it. If I become warden, said Mr Harding, and neglect my duty, the bishop has means by which he can remedy the grievance. I hardly expected such an argument from you, or I may say the suggestion of such a line of conduct, said Mr Slope, with a great look of injured virtue. Nor did I expect such a proposition. I shall be glad at any rate to know what answer I am to make to his lordship, said Mr Slope. I will take an early opportunity of seeing his lordship myself, said Mr Harding. Such an arrangement, said Mr Slope, will hardly give his lordship satisfaction. Indeed it is impossible that the bishop should himself see every clergyman in the diocese on every subject of patronage that may arise. The bishop, I believe, did see you on the matter, and I really cannot see why he should be troubled to do so again. Do you know, Mr Slope, how long I have been officiating as a clergyman in this city? Mr Slope's wish was now nearly fulfilled. Mr Harding had become angry, and it was probable that he might commit himself. I really do not see what that has to do with the question. You cannot think the bishop would be justified in allowing you to regard as a sinecure a situation that requires an active man merely because you have been employed for many years in the cathedral. But it might induce the bishop to see me if I asked him to do so. I shall consult my friends in this matter, Mr Slope, but I mean to be guilty of no subterfuge. You may tell the bishop that, as I altogether disagree with his views about the hospital, I shall decline the situation if I find that any such conditions are attached to it as those you you suggested. And so saying Mr Harding took his hat and went away. Mr Slope was contented. He considered himself at liberty to accept Mr Harding's last speech as an absolute refusal of the appointment. At least he so represented it to the bishop and to Mrs Mrs Proudie. That is very surprising, said the Bishop. Oh not at all, said Mrs Proudie. You little know how determined the whole set of them are to withstand your authority. But Mr Harding was so anxious for it, said the Bishop. Yes, said Mr Slope, if he can hold it without the slightest acknowledgement of your lordship's jurisdiction. Well that is out of the question, said the bishop. I should imagine it should be so, said the chaplain. Indeed I should think it so, said the lady. I really am sorry for it, said the bishop. I don't know that there's any much cause for sorrow, said the lady. Mr Quiverful is a much more deserving man, more in need of it, and one that will make himself much more useful in the close neighbourhood of the palace. I suppose I'd better see Quiverful, said the chaplain. I suppose you had, said the bishop. And then the next chapter is The Rubbish Cart and starts as follows Mr Harding was not a happy man as he walked down the palace pathway and stepped out into the close. And now the diaries of Samuel Peeps Christmas Day sixteen sixty three Lay Long talking pleasantly with my wife, but among other things, she begin, I know not whether by design or chance, to inquire what she should do if by accident I should die, to which I did give her some slight answer, but shall make good use of it to bring myself to some settlement for her sake by making a will as soon as I can, up and to church, where Mr Mills made an ordinary sermon, and so home and dined with great pleasure with my wife, and all the afternoon, first looking out at windows and seeing the boys playing at several sports in our backyard by Sir William Penns, which minded me of my own former times, and then I begin to read to my wife upon the globes, which great with great pleasure and to good purpose, for it will be pleasant to her and to me to have her understand those things. In the evening to the office where I stayed late reading Rushworth, which is a most excellent collection of the beginning of the late quarrels in this kingdom, and so home to supper and to bed with great content of mind. twenty sixth Up and walked forth first to the mineries, to Brown's, and there with great pleasure saw and bespoke several instruments, and so to Cornhill, to Mrs Mr Cade's, and there went up to his warehouse to look for a map or two, and there finding great plenty of good pictures, God forgive me how my mind run upon them, and bought a little one for my wife's closet presently, and concluded presently of buying ten pounds worth upon condition he would give me the buying of them. Now it is true I did still within me resolve to make the king one way or other pay for them, though I saved it to him another way, thence to the coffee house and sat long in good discourse with some gentlemen concerning the Roman Empire. So home and find Mr Holyard there, and he stayed and dined with us, we having a pheasant to dinner. He gone all the afternoon with my wife to cards, and God forgive me to see how the very discourse of plays, which I shall be at liberty to see after New Year's Day next, doth set my mind upon them, that I must be forced to stint myself very strictly before I begin, or else I fear I shall spoil all. So to my office, writing letters, and then to read, and to make an end of Rushworth, which I did, and do say that it is the book the best worth reading for a man of my condition, or any man that hopes to come to any public condition in the world that I do know, so to home and to supper and to bed thirty first of december sixteen sixty three We had dinner, my wife and I, a fine turkey and a mince pie, and dined in state, poor wretch, she and I, and have thus kept our Christmases together all alone almost, having not once been out, but tomorrow my vows are all out as to plays and wine, but I hope I shall not be long before I come to new ones, so much the good and God's blessing I find to have attended them. Thence to the office and did several businesses, and answered several people, but my head aching, and it being my great night of accounts, I went forth, took coach and to my brother's, but he was not within, and so I set back again and sat an hour or two at the coffee house. Hearing about some simple discourse about Quakers being charmed by a string about their wrists, and so home and after a little while at my office, I home and sat down. Supped, and so had a good fire in my chamber, and there sat till four o'clock in the morning making up my accounts and writing this last journal of the year. And first I bless God I do find that I am worth in money besides all my household stuff or anything of Brampton, above eight hundred pounds, for which the good God be pleased to give me a thankful heart, and a mind careful to preserve this and increase it. I do live at my lodgings in the Navy office, my family being besides my wife and I, Jane gentleman, Bess, our excellent, good natured cookmaid, and Susan, a little girl, having neither man or boy, nor like to have again for a good while, living now in most perfect content and quiet and very frugally also. My health pretty good, but only that I have been much troubled with costtiveness which I am labouring to get away, and have hopes of doing it. At the office I am well, though envied to the devil by Sir William Batten, who hates me to the death but cannot hurt me. The rest either love or at least do not show otherwise, though I know Sir William Penn to be a full save touching me, though he seems fair. My father and mother well in the country, and at this time the young ladies of Hinchingbrook with them, their house having the smallpox in it. The Queen, after a long and sore sickness, is become well again, and the king minds his mistress a little too much, but I hope all things do go well, and in the navy particularly, wherein I shall do my duty, whatever comes of it. The great talk is the designs of the King of France, whether against the Pope or King of Spain nobody knows, but a great and a most promising prince he is, and all the princes of Europe have their eye upon him. My wife's brother come to great unhappiness by the ill disposition, my wife says, of his wife and her poverty, which she now professes after all her husband's pretence of a great portion. But I see none of them, at least they come not to trouble me. My brother Tom, I know not what to think of, for I cannot hear, whether he minds his business or no, and my father, my brother John at Cambridge, with as little hopes of doing good there, for when he was here he did give me great cause of dissatisfaction with his manner of life. Paul with my father, and God knows what she does there or what will become of her, for I have I have not anything yet to spare, and she grows now old and must be disposed of one way or another. The Turks very fur entered into Germany and all that part of the world at a loss what to expect from his proceedings. Myself blessed be to God, in a good way and design and resolution by sticking to my business to get a little money, with doing the best service I can get to the king also, which God continue, and so ends the old year. And we finish this first literary episode today with, of course, dear Charlotte Bronte and Villette. Chapter fourteen The Fate As soon as Georgette was well, Madame sent her her way into the country. I was sorry I loved the child, and her loss made me poorer than before, but I must not complain. I lived in a house full of robust life. I might have had companions, and I chose solitude. Each of the teachers in turn made me overtures of special intimacy. I tried them all. One I found to be an honest woman, but a narrow thinker, a coarse feeler and an egotist. The second was a Parisienne, externally refined, at heart corrupt, without a creed, without a principle, without an affection. Having penetrated the outward crust of decorum in this character, you found a slough beneath. She had a wonderful passion for presents, and on this point the third teacher, a person otherwise characterless and insignificant, closely resembled her. This last name had also one other distinctive property, that of avarice. In her reigned the love of money for its own sake, the sight of a piece of gold would bring into her eyes a green glisten, singular to witness. She once, as a mark of high favour, took me upstairs and opening a secret drawer, showed me a hoard, a mass of hoard, large coin, about fifteen guineas in five franc pieces. She loved this hoard as a bird loves its eggs. These were her savings. She would come and talk to me about them with an infatuated and persevering dotage, strange to behold in a person not yet twenty five. The Parisienne, on the other hand, was prodigal and profligate, in disposition, that is, as to action, I do not know. That latter quality showed its snake head to me but once, peeping out very cautiously, a curious kind of reptile it seemed, judging from the glimpse I got. Its novelty wetted my curiosity. If it would have come out boldly, perhaps I might philosophically have stood my ground and coolly surveyed the long thing from forked tongue to scaly tail tip, but it merely rustled in the leaves of a bad novel, and on encountering a hasty and ill advised demonstration of wrath, recoiled and vanished, hissing. She hated me from that day. This Parisien was always in debt, her salary being anticipated by expenses, not only in dress but in perfumes, cosmetics, confectionery and condiments. What a cold, callous epicure she was in all things. I see her now, thin in face and figure, sallow in complexion, regular in features with perfect teeth, lips like a thread, a large prominent chin, a well opened but frozen eye, of light at once craving and ingrate. She mortally hated work and loved what she called pleasure, being an insipid, heartless, brainless dissipation of time. Madame Beck knew this woman's character perfectly well. She once talked to me about her with an odd mixture of discrimination, indifference and antipathy. I asked why she kept her in the establishment. She answered plainly, because it suited her interest to do so, and pointed out a fact that I had already noticed, namely that Mademoiselle Saint Pierre possessed in an almost unique degree, the power of keeping order among her undisciplined ranks of scholars. A certain petrifying influence accompanied and surrounded her. Without passion, noise or violence, she held them in check as a breezeless frost air might still a brawling stream. She was of little use as far as communication of knowledge went, but for strict surveillance and maintenance of rules she was invaluable. Jebien Kell napa de principe, ni petre de mour, admitted Madame Frankly, but added with philosophy son class etuj convenable rompli Mem dun certain dignity sequilfo Ni Leseleve ni Le Peron Ne regard pluin ni par consequen A strange, frolicsome, noisy little world was this school. Great pains were taken to hide chains with flowers, a subtle essence of Romanism pervaded every arrangement, large sensual indulgence, so to speak, was permitted by way of counterpoise to jealous spiritual restraint. Each mind was being reared in slavery, but to prevent reflection from dwelling on this fact, every pretext for physical recreation was seized and made the most of. There, as elsewhere, the church strove to bring up her children, in robust embody, feeble in soul, fat, ruddy, hail, joyous, ignorant, unthinking, unquestioning. Eat, drink, and live, she says, look after your bodies, leave your souls to me. I hold their cure, guide their course, I guarantee their final fate. A bargain in which every true Catholic deems himself a gainer. Lucifer just offers the same terms. All this power will I give thee and the glory of it, for that is delivered unto me, and to whomsoever I will I give it. If thou therefore wilt worship me, all shall be thine. About this time in the ripest glow of summer, Madame Beck's house became as merry a place as a school could well be. All day long the broad folding doors and the two leaved casements stood wide open, settled sunshine seemed naturalized in the atmosphere, clouds were far off, sailing beyond sea, resting, no doubt, round islands such as England, that dear land of mists, but withdrawn wholly from the drier continent. We lived far more in the garden than under a roof. Classes were held and meals partaken of in the Grand Bersault. Moreover, there was a note of holiday preparation which almost turned freedom into license. The autumnal long vacation was but two months distant, but before that a great day, an important ceremony, none other than the fate of Madame awaited celebration. The conduct of this fate devolved chiefly on Mademoiselle Saint Pierre, Madame herself being supposed to stand aloof, disinterestedly unconscious of what might be going forward in her honour. Especially she never knew, never in the least suspected that a subscription was annually levied on the whole school for the purchase of a handsome present. The polite tact of the reader will please to leave out of the account a brief secret consultation on this point in Madame's own chamber. What will you have this year? was asked by her Parisian lieutenant. Oh no matter, let it alone, let the poor children keep their francs. And Madame looked benign and modest. The Saint Pierre would here protrude her chin. She knew Madame by heart. She always called her heirs of Bonte des Grimas. She never even professed to respect respect them one instant. Vit, she would say coldly, name the article, shall it be jewellery or porcelain, habadashery or silver Ebin Du des auto cuill on autant de Fauchette Onargon, and the result was a handsome case containing three hundred francs worth of plate. The programme of the fate day's proceedings comprised presentation of plate, collation in the garden, dramatic performance with pupils and teachers for actors, a dance and a supper. Very gorgeous seemed the effect of the whole to me, as I well remember. Zelli Saint Pierre understood these things and managed them ably. The play was the main point, a month's previous drilling being there required. The choice too of the actors required knowledge and care. Then came lessons in elocution, in attitude, and then the fatigue of countless rehearsals. For all this, as may well be supposed, Saint Pierre did not suffice. Other management, other accomplishments than hers, were requisite here. They were supplied in the person of a master, Monsieur Paul Emmanuel, professor of literature. It was never my lot to be present at the histrionic lessons of Monsieur Paul, but I often saw him as he crossed the Carre, a square hall between the dwelling house and schoolhouse. I heard him too in the warm evenings, lecturing with open doors, and his name with anecdotes of him resounded in one's ears from all sides. Especially our former acquaintance, Miss Genevre Fanshaw, who had been selected to take a prominent part in the play, used in bestowing upon me a large portion of her leisure, to lard her discourse with frequent allusions to his sayings and doings. She esteemed him hideously plain, and used to profess herself frightened almost into hysterics at the sound of his step or voice. A dark little man he certainly was, pungent and austere. Even to me he seemed a little of a harsh apparition, with his close shorn black head, his broad, sallow brow, his thin cheek, his wide and quivering nostril, his thorough glance and hurried bearing. Irritable he was, one heard that, as he apostrophized with vehemence the awkward squad under his orders. Sometimes he would break out on these raw amateur actresses with a passion of impatience at their falseness of conception, their coldness of emotion, their feebleness of delivery. Ecute he would cry, and then his voice rang through the premises like a trumpet, and when, mimicking it, came the small pipe of a Ginevre or Matilde or a Blanche, one understood why a hollow groan of scorn or a fierce hiss of rage rewarded the tame echo. Vunet Donc de Pupe, I heard him thunder, Vunavi Pard de Passion Vusa Venesonte Doncrien Vautcher Edune Vot Sanglas moi ju la salum quil unvi un am Vain resolve, and when at last he found it was vain, he suddenly broke the whole business down. Hitherto he had been teaching them a grand tragedy. He tore the tragedy into morsels and came next day with a compact little comic trifle. To this they took more kindly. He presently knocked it all into their smooth, round pates. Mademoiselle Saint Pierre always presided at Monsieur Emmanuel's lessons, and I was told that the polish of her manner, her seeming attention, her tact and grace impressed that gentleman very favourably. She had indeed the art of pleasing for a given time whom she would, but the feeling would not last. In an hour it was dried like dew, vanished like gossamer. The day preceding Madame's fate was as much a holiday as the fate itself. It was devoted to clearing out, cleaning, arranging, and decorating the three schoolrooms. All within doors was the gayest bustle, neither upstairs nor down could a quiet, isolated person find rest for the sole of her foot. Accordingly for my part, I took refuge in the garden. The whole day did I wander or sit there alone, finding warmth in the sun, shelter among the trees, and a sort of companionship in my own thoughts. I well remember that I exchanged but two sentences that day with any living being, not that I felt solitary, I was glad to be quiet. For a looker on it sufficed to pass through the rooms once or twice, observe what changes were being wrought, how a green room and a dressing room were being contrived, a little stage with scenery erected, how Monsieur Paul Emmanuel, in conjunction with Mademoiselle Saint Pierre, was directing all, and how an eager band of pupils, among them Ginevre Fanshaw, were working gayly under his control. The great day arrived. The sun rose hot and unclouded, and hot and unclouded it burned on until the evening. All the doors and all the windows were set open, which gave a pleasant sense of summer freedom, and freedom the most complete seemed indeed the order of the day. Teachers and pupils descended to breakfast in dressing gowns and curl papers, anticipating Avec Delis, the toilet of the evening. They seemed to take pleasure in indulging that forenoon, a luxury of slovenness, like aldermen fasting in preparation for a feast. About nine o'clock AM an important functionary, the coiffeur, arrived. Sacrilegious to state, he fixed his headquarters in the oratory, and there in presence of Beneti, candle and crucifix, solemnized the mysteries of his art. Each girl was summoned in turn to pass through his hands, emerging from them with a head as smooth as a shell, intersected by faultless white lines, and wreathed about with Grecian plaits that shone as if lacquered. I took my turn with the rest and could hardly believe what the glass said when I applied to it for information afterwards. The lavish garlandry of woven brown hair amazed me. I feared it was not all my own, and it required several convincing pulls to give assurance to the contrary. I then acknowledged in the coffur coiffur a first rate artist, one who certainly made the most of indifferent materials. The oratory closed, the dormitory became the scene of ablutions, arrayings, and bedizenings curiously elaborate. To me it was and ever must be an enigma how they contrived to spend so much time in doing so little. The operation seemed close, intricate, prolonged, the result simple, a clear white muslin dress, a blue sash, the virgin's colours, a pair of white or straw colour kid gloves, such was the garla uniform, to the assumption whereof that houseful of teachers and pupils devoted three mortal hours. But though simple it must be allowed allowed that the array was perfect, perfect in fashion, fit and freshness, every head being also dressed with exquisite nicety and a certain compact taste, suiting the full, firm comeliness of La Basqueenne contours, though too stiff for any more flowing and flexile style of beauty, the general effect was on the whole commendable. In beholding this diaphanous and snowy mass, I well remember feeling myself to be a mere shadowy spot on a field of light. The courage was not in me to put on a transparent white dress, something I must wear, the weather and rooms being too hot to give substantial fabrics sufferance, so I'd sought through a dozen shops till I lit upon a crepe like material of purple grey, the colour in short of dun mist, lying on a moor in bloom. My tears had kindly made it as well as she could, because, as she judiciously observed, it was citrist purvoyan. Care in the fashion was the more imperative. It was well she took this view of the matter, for I had no flower, no jewel to relieve it, and what was more, I had no natural rose of complexion. We became oblivious of all these deficiencies in the uniform routine of daily drudgery, but they will force upon us their unwelcome blank on those bright occasions when beauty should shine. However, in the same gown of shadow I felt at home and at ease, an advantage I should not have enjoyed in anything more brilliant or striking. Madame Beck, too, kept me in countenance. Her dress was almost as quiet as mine, except that she wore a bracelet and a large bright brooch with gold and fine stones. We chanced to meet on the stairs, and she gave me a nod and smile of approbation. Not that she thought I was looking well, a point unlikely to engage her interest, but she considered me dreadful. address convinablement decimal and la covenance a la desence were the two calm deities of Madame's worship. She even paused, laid on my shoulder her gloved hand, holding an embroidered and perfumed handkerchief, and confided to my ear a sarcasm on the other teachers, whom she had just been complimenting to their faces. Nothing so absurd, she said, as for defamure to dress themselves like girls of fifteen, Contala Saint Pierre Eller Dun coquette qui fe. Being dressed at least a couple of hours before anybody else, I felt a pleasure in betaking myself not to the garden, where the servants were busy propping up long tables, placing seats and spreading cloths in readiness for the collation, but to the schoolrooms now empty, quiet, cool and clean, their walls fresh stained, their planked floors fresh scoured and scarce dry, flowers fresh gathered, adorning, the recesses in pots and draperies, fresh hung, beautifying the great windows, withdrawing to the first class, a smaller and neater room than the others, and taking from the glazed bookcase of which I kept the key, a volume whose title promised some interest, I sat down to read. The glass door of this class or schoolroom opened into the large bursaux, acacia boughs caressed its panes as they stretched across to meet a rose bush blooming by the opposite lintel. In this rosebush bees murmured busy and happy I commenced reading and just as the stilly hum, the embowering shade, the warm lonely calm of my retreat were beginning to steal meaning from the page, vision from my eyes, and to lure me along the track of reverie down into some deep dell of dreamland. Just then the sharpest ring of the street doorbell, to which that much tried instrument had ever thrilled, snatched me back to consciousness. Now the bell had been ringing all morning as workmen or servants or coffe or teurs went and came on their several errands. Moreover there was good reason to expect it would ring all the afternoon, since about one hundred extern were yet to arrive in carriages or fiacres, nor could it be expected to rest during the evening when parents and friends would gather thronging to the play. Under these circumstances a ring, even a sharp ring was a matter of course, yet this particular peel had an accent of its own which chased my dream and startled my book from my knee. I was stooping to pick up this last when, firm, fast, straight, right on through vestibule, a long corridor, across Car, through a first division, second division, Consal strode a step, quit, quick, regular intent. The closed door of the first class, my sanctuary, offered no obstacle, it burst open, and a palatau and a bonac filled the void, also two eyes first vaguely struck upon, and then hungrily dived into me Cesala said a voice gelanglaise tonpid tut then with a certain stern politeness, I suppose he thought I had not caught the drift of his previous uncivil mutterings, and in a jargon the most excable that was ever heard Mies, play you must I implanted there What can I do for you, Monsieur Paul Emmanuel? I inquired, for Monsieur Paul Emmanuel it was, and in a state of no little excitement Play you must, I will not have you shrink or frown or make the prude I read your skull that night you came, I see your moyen play you must, play you must but how, Monsieur Paul what do you mean? There is no time to be lost he went on now speaking in French, and let us thrust to the wall at all reluctance and all excuses and all misunderstandings you must take a part in the vaudeville? In the vaudeville you have said it I gasped, horror struck what did the little man mean? Listen, he said The case shall be stated, and you shall then answer me yes or no, according to your answer shall I ever after estimate you? The scarce suppressed impetus of a most irritable nature glowed in his cheek, fed with sharp shafts his glances, a nature the injudicious, the mawkish, the hesitating, the sullen, the affected, above all the unyielding might quickly render violent and implacable. Silence and attention was the best balm to reply. I listened. The whole matter is going to fail, he began. Louise Vankelkov has fallen ill, at least so her ridiculous mother asserts. For my part I feel sure she might play if she would. It is only goodwill that lacks. She was charged with a hole, as you know, or do not know it is equal without that hole the play is stopped. There are now but a few hours in which to learn it. Not a girl in this school would hear reason and accept the task. Forsooth it is not an interesting nor an amiable part their vile amour popre, that base quality of which women have so much, would revolt from it. English women are either the best or the worst of their sex Dieu says que detest cum lapest ordinarement this between his recreant teeth I apply to an Englishwoman to rescue me. What is her answer yes or no? A thousand objections rushed into my mind the foreign language the limited time the public display inclination recoiled, ability faltered, self respect that vile quality trembled Non non said all these things, but looking up at Monsieur Poul and seeing in his vexed, fiery and searching eye a sort of appeal behind all its menace, my lips dropped the word We for a moment his rigid rigid countenance relaxed with a quiver of content. Quickly bent up again, however, he went on Vita Loufrage here is your book, here is your whole read and I read he did not commend at some passengers he scowled and stamped. He gave me a lesson I diligently imitated it was a disagreeable part, a man's an empty headed fops. One could put into it neither heart nor soul I hated it. The play a mere trifle ran chiefly on the efforts of abrasive rivals to gain the fair hand of a cockette. One lover was called the Oz, a good and gallant but unpolished man, a sort of diamond in the rough, and the other was a butterfly, a talker and a traitor and I was to be the butterfly, talker and traitor And there I must leave it. I have not been feeling particularly well and so that I haven't given much of my self to this episode. I do apologize which is why I've tried to keep it simple I now need to get in the car and drive to Oxford in order that I can get to even song this evening. So I shall see you there. Thank you so much for joining me and that wasn't quite the end of the chapter but I have to leave it there in order to have a lovely long drive I say lovely I just hope I don't doze off on the way and I shall see you later. Thank you so much for joining me and happy dimanche