Strictly Literature: dear John Clare; Anthony Trollope; and Charlotte Brontë

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We start this evening with John Clare's eighteenth century poem from childhood The Morn when we first went to school who can forget the morn when the birch whip lay upon the clock and our horn book it was torn we tore the little pictures out, less fond of books than play, and only took one letter home, and that the letter A I love in childhood's little book to read its lessons through, and o'er each pictured page to look because they read so true, and there my heart creates anew love for each trifling thing. Who can disdain the meanest weed that shows its face in spring? The daisy looks up in my face as long ago it smiled It knows no change but keeps its place and takes me for a child. The chaffinch in the hedgegrow thorn cries pink pink pink to hear my footsteps in the early morn as though a boy was near I seek no more the finch's nest, nor stoop for daisy flowers I grow a stranger to myself in these delightful hours, yet when I hear the voice of spring, I can but call to mind The pleasures which they used to bring, The joys I used to find The fire tale on the orchard wall keeps at its startled cry of tweet tut nor sees the morn of boyhood's mischief by It knows no change of changing time, by sickness never stung, it feeds on hope's eternal prime around its brooded young ponds where we played at duck and drake, where the ash with ivy grew, where we robbed the owl of all her eggs and mocked her as she flew, the broad tree in the spinny hedge, neath which the gypsies lay, where we our fine apples got on the twenty ninth of May. These all remain as then they were and are not changed a day, and the ivy's crown as near to green as mine is to the grey, it shades the pond, o'erhangs the style, and the oak is in the glen, but the paths of joy are so worn out I can't find one again Antony Trollop's Barchester Towers Chapter thirteen The Rubbish Cart Mr Harding was not a happy man as he walked down the palace pathway and stepped out into the close. His preferment and pleasant house were a second time gone from him, but that he could endure. He had been schooled and insulted by a man young enough to be his son, but that he could put up with. He could even draw from the very injuries which had been inflicted on him, some of that consolation which we may believe martyrs always receive from the injustice of their own sufferings, and which is generally proportioned in its strength to the extent of cruelty with which martyrs are treated. He had admitted to his daughter that he wanted the comfort of his old home, and yet he could have returned to his lodgings in the high street, if not with exultant, at least with satisfaction, had that been all. But the venom of the chaplain's harangue had worked into his blood and sapped the life of his sweet contentment. New men are carrying out new measures and are carting away the useless rubbish of past centuries. What cruel words these had been and how often are they now used with all the heartless cruelty of a slope? Man is sufficiently condemned if it can only be shown that either in politics or religion he does not belong to some new school established within the last score of years. He may then regard himself as rubbish and expect to be carted away. A man is nothing now unless he has within him a full appreciation of the new era, an era in which it would seem that neither honesty nor truth is very desirable, but in which success is the only touchstone of merit. We must laugh at everything that is established, let the joke be ever so bad, ever so untrue to the real principles of joking. Nevertheless we must laugh or else beware the cart. We must talk, think and live up to the spirit of the times, and write up to it too. That Cacoethes be upon us, or else we are naught. New men and new measures, long credit and few scruples, great success or wonderful ruin, such are now the tastes of Englishmen who know how to live. Alas, alas, under such circumstances Mr Harding could not but feel that he was an Englishman who did not know how to live. This new doctrine of Mr Slope and the rubbish cart, new at least in Barchester, sadly disturbed his equanimity. The same things going on throughout the country. Work is now required from every man who receives wages. And had he been living all his life receiving wages and doing no work, had he in truth so lived as to now be in his old age and justly reckoned as rubbish, fit only to be hidden away in some huge dust hole. The school of men to whom he professes to belong, the Grantleys, the Gwynns, and the old high set of Oxford divines, are afflicted with no such self accusations as these which troubled Mr Harding. They, as a rule, are satisfied with the wisdom and propriety of their own conduct as can be any Mr Slope or any Dr. Proudie with his own, with his own, but unfortunately for himself, Mr Harding had little of this self reliance. When he heard himself designated as rubbish by the slopes of the world, he had no other resource to make inquiry within his own bosom as to the truth of the designation. Alas, alas, the evidence seemed generally to go against him. He had professed to himself in the bishop's parlour that in these coming sources of the sorrow of age, in these fits of sad regret from which the latter years of few reflecting men can be free, religion would suffice to comfort him. Yes, religion would console him for the loss of any worldly good, but was his religion of that active sort, which would enable him so to repent of misspent years as to pass those that were left to him in a spirit of hope for the future. And such repentance itself, is it not a work of agony and of tears? It is not it is very easy to talk of repentance, but a man has to walk over hot ploughshares before he can complete it, to be skinned alive as was Saint Bartholomew, to be stuck full of arrows as was Saint Sebastian, to lie broiling on a gridiron like San Lorenzo. How if his past life required such repentance as this, had he the energy to go on through with it? Mr Harding, after leaving the palace, walked slowly for an hour or so beneath the shady elms of the close, and then betook himself to his daughter's house. He had at any rate made up his mind that he would go out to Plumstead to consult doctor Grantly, and that he would in the first instance tell Eleanor what had occurred. And now he was doomed to undergo another misery. Mr Slope had forestalled him at the widow's house. He had called there on the preceding afternoon. He could not, he had said, deny himself the pleasure of telling Mrs. Bold that her father was about to return to the pretty house at Hiram's hospital. He had been instructed by the Bishop to inform Mr Harding that the appointment would now be made at once. The bishop was of course only too happy to be able to be the means of restoring to Mr Harding the preferment which he had so long adorned, and then by degrees Mr Slope had introduced the subject of the pretty school which he hoped before long to see attached to the hospital. He had quite fascinated Mrs. Bold by his description of this picturesque, useful and charitable appendage, and she had gone so far as to say that she had no doubt her father would approve, and that she herself would gladly undertake a class. Anyone who had heard the entirely different tone and seen the entirely different manner in which Mr Slope had spoken of this projected institution to the daughter and to the father, could not have failed to own that Mr Slope was a man of genius. He had said nothing to Mrs. Bold about the hospital sermons and services, nothing about the exclusion of the old men from the cathedral, nothing about dilapidation and painting, nothing about carting away the rubbish. Eleanor had said to herself that certainly she did not like Mr Slope personally, but that he was a very active, zealous clergyman and would no doubt be useful in Barchester. All this paved the way for much additional misery to Mr Harding. Eleanor put on her happiest face as she heard her father on the stairs, for she thought she had only to congratulate him, but directly she saw his face she knew that there was but little matter for congratulation. She had seen him with the same weary look of sorrow on one or two occasions before and remembered it well. She had seen him when he first read that attack upon himself in the Jupiter which had ultimately caused him to resign the hospital, and she had seen him also when the archdeacon had persuaded him to remain there against his own sense of propriety and honour. She knew at a glance that his spirit was in deep trouble. Oh papa, what is it? said she, putting down her boy to crawl upon the floor. I came to tell you, my dear, said he, that I'm going out to Plumstead. He won't come with me, I suppose. To Plumstead, papa? Shall you stay there? I suppose I shall tonight. I must consult with the archdeacon about this weary hospital. Ah me, I wish I had never thought of it again. Why, papa, what is the matter? I've been with Mr Slope, my dear, and he isn't the pleasantest companion in the world, at least not to me. Eleanor gave a sort of half blush, but she was wrong if she imagined that her father in any way alluded to her acquaintance with Mr Slope. Well, papa he wants to turn the hospital into a Sunday school and a preaching house, and I suppose he will have his way. I do not feel myself adapted for such an establishment, and therefore I suppose I must refuse the appointment. What would be the harm of the school, papa? The want of a proper schoolmaster, my dear. But that would of course be supplied. Mr Slope wishes to supply it by making me his schoolmaster, but as I am hardly fit for such work, I intend to decline. Oh papa, Mr Slope doesn't intend that. He was here yesterday, and what he intends. He was here yesterday, was he? asked Mr Harding. Yes, papa. And talking about the hospital. He was saying how glad he would be and the bishop too to see you back there again. And then he spoke about the Sunday school, and to tell you the truth, I agreed with him, and I thought you would have done so too. Mr Slope spoke of a school not inside the hospital, but just connected with it, of which you would be the patron and visitor, and I thought you would have liked such a school as that, and I promised to look after it and to take a class, and it all seemed such a happy idea, but oh papa, I shall be so miserable if I have found I have done wrong. No, nothing wrong at all, my dear, he said, very gently, gently rejecting his daughter's caress. There can be nothing wrong in you wishing to make yourself useful. Indeed you ought to do so by all means. Everyone must now exert himself who would not choose to go to the wall. Poor Mr Harding thus attempted in his misery to preach the new doctrine to his child. Himself or herself it's all the same, he continued. You will be quite right, my dear, to do something of this sort, but Well, papa, I am not quite sure that if I were you I would select Mr Slope for my guide. But I have never done so and never shall. It would be very wicked of me to speak evil of him, for to tell the truth I know no evil of him, but I am not quite sure that he is honest. That he is not gentlemanlike in his manners, of that I am quite sure. I never thought of taking him for my guide, papa. As for myself, my dear, continued he, we know the old proverb it's bad teaching and old dog tricks. I must decline the Sunday school, and shall therefore probably decline the hospital also, but I will first see your brother in law. So he took up his hat, kissed the baby, and withdrew, leaving Eleanor in as low spirits as himself. All this was a great aggravation to his misery. He had so few with whom to sympathise that he could not afford to be cut off from the one whose sympathy was of the most value to him, and yet it seemed probable that this would be the case. He did not own to himself that he wished his daughter to hate Mr Slope, yet had she expressed such a feeling there would have been very little bitterness in the rebuke he would have given her for so uncharitable a state of mind. The fact, however, was that she was on friendly terms with Mr Slope, that she coincided with his views, adhered at once to his plans, and listened with delight to his teaching. Mr Harding hardly wished his daughter to hate the man, but he would prefer that to her loving him. He walked away to the inn to order a fly, went home to put up his carpet bag, and then started for Plumstead. There was at any rate no danger that the archdeacon would fraternise with Mr Slope, but then he would recommend internicine war, public appeals, loud reproaches, and all the paraphernalia of open battle. Now that alternative was hardly more to Mr Harding's taste than the other. When Mr Harding reached the parsonage he found that the archdeacon was out and would not be home till dinner time, so he began his complaint to his eldest daughter. Mr Grant Mrs Grantly entertained quite as strong an antagonism to Mr Slope as did her husband. She was also quite as alive to the necessity of combating the proud effects, of supporting the old church interest of the close, of keeping in her own set, such as the loaves and fishes as duly belonged to it, and was quite as well prepared as her lord to carry on the battle without giving or taking quarter, not that she was a woman prone to quarrelling or ill inclined to live at peace with her clerical neighbours, but she felt, as did the archdeacon, that the presence of Mr Slope in Barchester was an insult to everyone connected with the late bishop, and that his assumed dominion in the diocese was spiritual injury to her husband. Hitherto people had little guessed how bitter Mrs. Grantly could be. She lived on the best terms with all the rector's wives around her, she had been popular with all the ladies connected with the close, though much of the wealthiest of the ecclesiastical matrons of the country, she had managed her affairs that her carriage and horses had given umbrage to none. She had never thrown herself among the county grandees so as to excite the envy of other clergymen's wives, she had never talked too loudly of earls or countesses, or boasted that she gave her governess sixty pounds a year or her cook seventy. Mrs. Grantley had lived the life of a wise, discreet, peacemaking woman, and the people of Barchester were surprised at the amount of military vigour she displayed at general of the feminine Grantlyite forces. Mrs. Grantley soon learnt that her sister Eleanor had promised to assist Mr Slope in the affairs of the hospital, and it was on this point that her attention soon fixed itself. How can Eleanor endure him? said she. He's a very crafty man, said her father, and his craft has been successful in making Eleanor think that he is a meek, charitable, good clergyman. God forgive me if I wrong him, but such is not his true character, in my opinion. His true character indeed, said she, with something approaching to scorn for her father's moderation. I only hope he won't have craft enough to make Eleanor forget herself and her position. Do you mean marry him? said he, startled out of his usual demeanour by the abruptness and horror of so dreadful a proposition. What is there so improbable in it? Of course that would be his own object if he thought he had any chance of success. Eleanor has a thousand a year entirely at her own disposal, and what better fortune could fall to Mr Slope's lot than the transferring of the disposal of such a fortune to himself. But you can't think she likes him, Susan. Why not? said Susan. Why shouldn't she like him? He's just the sort of man to get on with a woman left, as she is, with no one to look after her. Look after her, said the unhappy father. Don't we look after her? Ah papa, how innocent you are. Of course it was to be expected that Eleanor should marry again. I should be the last to advise her against it, if she would only wait the proper time, and then marry at least a gentleman. Oh, but you don't really mean to say that you suppose Eleanor has ever thought of marrying Mr Slope. Why, Mr Bold has only been dead a year. Eighteen months, said his daughter, but I don't suppose Eleanor has ever thought about it. It is very probable, though, that he has, and that he will try and make her do so, and that he will succeed too if we don't take care of what we are about. This was quite a new phase of the affair to poor Mr Harding, to have thrust upon him as his son in law, as the husband of his favourite child, the only man in the world whom he really positively disliked, would be a misfortune which he felt he would not know how to endure patiently. But then could there be any ground for so dreadful a surmise? In all worldly matters he was apt to look upon the opinion of his eldest daughter as one who Generally sound and trustworthy. In her appreciation of character, of motives, and the probable conduct both of men and women, she was usually not far wrong. She had early foreseen the marriage of Eleanor and John Bold. She had at a glance deciphered the character of the new bishop and his chaplain. Could it possibly be that her present surmise should ever come forth as true? But you don't think that she likes him? said Mr Harding again. Well, papa, I can't say I think she dislikes him as she ought to. Why is he visiting there as a confidential friend when he never ought to have been admitted inside the house? Why is it that she speaks to him about your welfare and your position as she clearly has done? At the bishop's party the other night I saw her talking to him for half an hour at the stretch. I thought Mr Slope seemed to talk to nobody there but that daughter of Stanhope, said Mr Harding, wishing to defend his child. Mr Slope is cle a cleverer man than you think of, papa, and keeps more than one iron in the fire. To give Eleanor her due any suspicion as to the slightest inclination on her part towards Mr Slope was wrong of her. She had no more idea of marrying Mr Slope than she had of marrying the bishop, and the idea that Mr Slope would present himself as a suitor had never occurred to her. Indeed to give her her due again, she had never thought about suitors since her husband's death, but nevertheless it was true that she had overcome all that repugnance to the man which was so strongly felt for him by the rest of the Grantly faction. She had forgiven him his sermon, she had forgiven him his low church tendencies, his Sabbath schools and puritanical observances, she had forgiven his pharisaical arrogance and even his greasy face and oily, vulgar manners. Having agreed to overlook such offences as these, why should she not in time be taught to regard Mr Slope as a suitor? And as to him, it must be affirmed that he was hitherto equally innocent of the crime imputed to him. How it had come to pass that a man whose eyes were generally so widely open to everything around him had not perceived that this young widow was rich as well as beautiful cannot probably now be explained, but such was the fact. Mr Slope had ingratiated himself with Mrs. Bold merely as he had done so with the other ladies in order to strengthen his party in the city. He subsequently amended his error, but it was not till after the interview between him and Mr Harding. And the next chapter is chapter fourteen, the new champion, which starts The Archdeacon did not return to the parsonage till close upon the hour of dinner. And as excited as I am to see how he's going to react, hopefully with fury, on behalf of us all, I'm going to leave it there because we know what we have to turn to next, and I'm not talking about Peeps because I think we have to turn to Villette. For the first time we hadn't managed to finish the chapter. We had been reading The Fate, and poor poor Lucy Snow had been persuaded by Monsieur Paul to take a part in the play as someone had withdrawn. He said this You must withdraw, you must be alone to learn this. Come with me. Without being allowed time or prop or power to deliberate, I found myself in the same breath, convoyed along as in a species of whirlwind, upstairs, up two pair of stairs, nay actually up three, for this fiery little man seemed as by instinct to know his way everywhere. To the solitary and lofty attic was I born, put in and locked in, the key being on the door, and that key he took with him and vanished. The attic was no pleasant place. I believe he did not know how unpleasant it was, or he never would have locked me in with so little ceremony. In this summer weather it was hot as Africa, as in winter it was always cold as Greenland. Boxes and lumber filled it. Old dresses draped its unstained wall, cobwebs its unswept ceiling. Well it was known to be tenanted by rats, by black beetles, and by cockroaches, nay rumour affirmed that the ghostly nun of the garden had once been seen there. A partial darkness obscured one end, across which, as for deeper mystery, an old russet curtain was drawn by way of screen to a somber band of winter cloaks, pendant each from its pin, like a malefactor from his gibbet. From amongst these cloaks and behind that curtain the nun was set to issue. I did not believe this, nor was I troubled by apprehension thereof, but I saw a very dark and large rat with a long tail come gliding out from that squalid alcove, and moreover my eye fell on many a black beetle dotting the floor. These objects discomposed me more, perhaps, than it would be wise to say, as also did the dust, lumber, and stifling heat of the place. The last inconvenience would soon have become intolerable had I not found means to open and prop up the skylight, thus admitting some freshness. Underneath this aperture I pushed a large empty chest, and having mounted upon it a smaller box and wiped from both the dust, I gathered my dress, my best the reader must remember, and therefore a legitimate object of care, fastidiously around me and ascended this species of extemporary throne, and being seated, commenced the acquisition of my task, which I learned, not forgetting to keep a sharp lookout on the black beetles and cockroaches, of which more even, I believe, than of the rats I sat in mortal dread. My impression at first was that I had undertaken what it really was impossible to perform, and I simply resolved to do my best and be resigned to fail. I soon found, however, that one part in so short a piece was not more than memory could master at a few hours' notice. I learned and learned on first in a whisper, and then aloud, perfectly secure from a human audience, I acted my part before the garret vermin. Entering into its emptiness, frivolity, and falsehood, with a spirit inspired by scorn and impatience, I took my revenge on this fat by making him as fatuous as I possibly could. In this exercise the afternoon passed, day began to glide into evening, and I, who had eaten nothing since breakfast, grew excessively hungry. Now I thought of the collation, which doubtly they were just then devouring in the garden far below. I had seen in the vestibule a basketful of small pat de la creme, then which nothing in the whole range of cookeries seemed to me better. A pate or square of cake, it seemed to me, would come very apropos, and as my relish for these dainties increased it seemed to appear somewhat hard that I should pass my holiday fasting and in prison. Remote as was the attic from the street door and vestibule, yet the ever tinkling bell was faintly audible here, and also the ceaseless roll of wheels on the tormented pavement. I knew that the house and garden were thronged and that all was gay and glad below. Here it began to grow dusk, the beetles were fading from my sight, I trembled lest they should steal on me and march, mount my throne unseen, and unsuspected invade my skirts. Impatient and apprehensive, I recommenced the rehearsal of my part merely to kill time. Just as I was concluded, concluding the long delayed rattle of the keys and the lock came to my ear, no unwelcome sound. Monsieur Poul, I could just see through the dusk that it was Monsieur Poul, for light enough still lingered, to show the velvet blackness of his close shorn head and the sallow ivory of his brow looked in. Brava cried he, holding the door open and remaining at the threshold. Jut entendu set as a moment I hesitated. Encore, said he sternly, Epoin du Crimas a bala timed. Again I went through the part, but not half so well as I had spoken it alone. Enfin Elise, said he, half dissatisfied, and one cannot be fastidious or exacting under the circumstances. Then he added, You may yet have twenty minutes for preparation auvoir and he was going. Monsieur, I called out, taking courage, Ebin Cesquuse Mademoiselle Gam Common Vaz El Colacio. I know nothing about it. I have not seen it shut up here. Ah sevre, cried he. In a moment my throne was abdicated, the attic evacuated, an inverse repetition of the impetus which had brought me up into the attic instantly took me down, down, down to the very kitchen. I thought I should have gone to the cellar. The cook was imperatively ordered to produce food, and I, as imperatively, was commanded to eat. To my great joy this food was limited to coffee and cake. I had feared wine and sweets, which I did not like. How he guessed that I should like A putit pate a la creme, I cannot tell, but he went out and procured me one from some quarter. With considerable willingness I ate and drank, keeping the putti pate till the last as a bonbouche. Monsieur Poul superintended my repast, and almost forced upon me more than I could swallow. A la bonheur, he cried, when I signify that I really could take no more, and with uplifted hands imploring to be spared the additional roll on which he had just spread butter. You will set me down as a species of tyrant and bluebeard starving woman in a garret, whereas after all I am no such thing. Now, Mademoiselle, do you feel courage and strength to appear? I said I thought I did, though in truth I was perfectly confused and could hardly tell how I felt, but this little man was of the order of beings who must not be opposed, unless you possessed an all dominant force sufficient to crush him at once. Come then, said he, offering his hand. I gave him mine, and he set off with a rapid walk which obliged me to run at his side in order to keep pace. In the Care he stopped a moment. It was lit with large lamps, the wide doors of the classes were open, and so were the equally wide garden doors. Orange trees in tubs and tall flowers in pots ornamented these portals on each side. Groups of ladies and gentlemen in evening dress stood and walked among the flowers. Within the long vista of the schoolrooms presented a thronging, undulating, murmuring, waving, streaming multitude, all rose and blue and half translucent white. There were lustres burning overhead. Far off there was a stage, a solemn green curtain, and a row of footlights. demanded my companion. I should have said it was, but my heart got up in my throat. Monsieur Paul discovered this and gave me a side scowl and a little shake for my pains. I will do my best, but I do wish it was over, said I. Then I asked, are we to walk through that crowd? By no means, I manage matters better. We pass through the garden here. In an instant we were out of doors. The cool, calm night revived me somewhat. It was moonlit, but the reflex from the many glowing windows lit the court brightly and even the alleys dimly. Heaven was cloudless and grand with the quiver of its living fires. How soft are the nights of the continent, how blind bland, balmy and safe, no seafog, no chilling, damp, mess as noon and fresh as morning. Having crossed court and garden, we reached the glass door of the first class. It stood open like all other doors that night. We passed and then I was ushered into a small cabinet, dividing the first class from the Grande Salle. This cabinet dazzled me, it was so full of light, it deafened me. It was so clamorous with voices it stifled me. It was so hot, choking, thrond. Delre du silence cried Monsieur Paul. Is this chaos? he demanded, and there was hush. With a dozen words and as many gestures, he turned out half the persons present and obliged the remnant to fall into rank. Those left were all in costume. They were all the performance performers, and this was the green room. Monsieur Paul introduced me. All stared and some tittered. It was a surprise they had not expected the English woman would play in a vaudeville. Ginevre Fanshaw, beautifully dressed for her part, and looking fascinatingly pretty, turned on me a pair of eyes as round as beads, in the highest spirit, spirits, unperturbed by fear or bashfulness, delighted indeed at the thought of showing off before hundreds. My entrance seemed to transfix her with amazement in the midst of her joy. She would have exclaimed, but Monsieur Poole held her and all the rest in check. Having surveyed and criticized the whole troupe, he turned to me. You too must be dressed for your part. Dressed dress like a man exclaimed Zeli Saint Pierre, darting forwards, adding with officiousness, I will dress her myself. To be dressed like a man did not please and would not suit me. I had consented to take a man's name and part, as to his dress Haldala No, I would keep my own dress, come what might. Monsieur Paul might storm, might rage, I would keep my own dress. I said so with a voice as resolute in intent as it was low and perhaps unsteady in utterance. He did not immediately storm or rage as I fully thought he would. He stood silent, but Zelly again interposed. She will make a capital petimetre. Here are all the garments, all complete, somewhat too large, but I will arrange all that. Come cher ami, Belle Anglaise and she sneered, for I was not Belle. She seized my hand, she was drawing me away. Monsieur Poul stood impassable, neutral. You must not resist, pursued Saint Pierre, for resist I did. You will spoil all, destroy the mirth of the peace, the enjoyment of the company, sacrifice everything to your amour propre. This would be too bad. Monsieur Poul never permit this. She sought out his eye and I watched likewise for a glance. He gave her one, and then he gave me one. Stop, he said slowly, arresting Saint Pierre, who continued her efforts to drag me after her. Everybody awaited the decision. He was not angry, not irritated. I perceived that and took heart. You do not like these clothes? he asked, pointing to the masculine vestments. I don't object to some of them, but I won't have them all. How must it be then? How accept a man's part and go on the stage dressed as a woman? This is an amateur affair, it is true, a vaudeville de pensionin, certain modifications I might sanction, yet something you must have to announce you as of the noblest sex. And I will, monsieur, but it must be arranged in my own way. Nobody must meddle. The things must not be forced upon me. Just let me dress myself. Monsieur, without another word, took the costume from Saint Pierre, gave it to me, and permitted me to pass into the dressing room. Once alone I grew calm and collectedly went to work. Retaining my woman's garb without the slightest retrenchment, I merely asumed, in addition, a little vest, a collar and cravat, and a palateau of small dimensions, the whole being the costume of a broader of a brother of one of the pupils. Having loosened my hair out of its braids, made up the long back hair close and brushed the front hair to one side, I took my hat and gloves in my hand and came out. Monsieur Paul was waiting, and so were the others. He looked at me. That may pass in a pension, he pronounced, then added, not unkindly. Ampu de Saint Foin, Ampudam Plom, Monsieur Lucien Eturabian. Saint Pierre sneered again in her cold, snaky manner. I was irritable because excited, and I could not help turning upon her and saying that if she were not a lady and I a gentleman I should feel disposed to call her out. After the play, after the play, said Monsieur Poul, I will then divide my pair of pistols between you, and we will settle the dispute according to form. It will only be the old quarrel of France and England. But now the moment approached for the performance to commence. Monsieur Poul, setting us before him, haranged us briefly, like a general addressing soldiers about to charge. I don't know what he said except that he recommended each to penetrate herself well with a sense of her personal insignificance. God knows I thought this advice superfluous for some of us. A bell tinkled. I and two more were ushered onto the stage. The bell tinkled again. I had to speak the very first words. Do not look at the crowd, nor think of it, whispered Monsieur Paul in my ear. Imagine yourself in the garret, acting to the rats. He vanished, the curtain drew up, shrivelling to the ceiling, and the bright lights, the long room, the gay throng burst upon us. I thought of the black beetles, the old boxes, the worm eaten burro. I said my say badly, but I said it. That first speech was the difficulty. It revealed to me this fact that I was not the crow that it was not the crowd I feared, so much as my own voice. Foreigners and strangers, the crowd were nothing to me, nor did I think of them. When my tongue once got free and my voice took its true pitch and found its natural tone, I thought of nothing but the personage I represented, and of Monsieur Poul, who was listening, watching, prompting in the side scenes. By and by, feeling the right power come, the spring demanded gush and rise inwardly, I became sufficiently composed to notice my fellow actors. Some of them played very well, especially Genet Four Fanshaw, who had to cocket between two suitors and managed admirably, in fact she was in her element. I observed she once or twice through a certain marked fondness and pointed partiality in her manner towards me the Fop. With such emphasis and animation did she favour me, such glances did she dart out into the listening and applauding crowd, that to me who knew her, it presently became evident she was acting at someone, and I followed her eye, her smile, her gesture, and ere long discovered that she had at least singled out a handsome and distinguished dame for her shafts, full in the path of those arrows, taller than the Than other spectators, and therefore more sure to receive them, stood in attitude quiet but intent, a well known form, that of Dr. John. The spectacle seemed somehow suggestive. There was language in Dr. John's look, though I cannot tell what he said, it animated me. I drew out of it a history, I put my idea into the part I performed. I threw it into my wooing of Ginevre. In the Oz or sincere lover, I saw Dr. John. Did I pity him as erst? No, I hardened my heart, rivalled and outrivalled him. I knew myself but a fop, where he was outcast I could please. Now I know I acted as if wishful and resolute to win and conquer. Ginevre seconded me. Between us we half changed the nature of the role, gilding it from top to toe. Between the acts Monsieur Paul told us he knew not what possessed us, and half expostulated Sepetre Plau que vautre model, said he, Mais I know not what possessed me either, but somehow my longing was to eclipse the R's, i. e. doctor John. Ginevre was tender, how could I be otherwise than Chivalric? Retaining the letter, I recklessly altered the spirit of the role. Without heart, without interest, I could not play it at all. It must be played. It in went the yearned for seasoning. Thus flavoured, I played it with relish. What I felt that night and what I did I no more expected to feel and do than to be lifted in a trance to the seventh heaven. Cold, reluctant, apprehensive, I had accepted a part to please another. Ere long, warming, becoming interested, taking courage, I acted to please myself. Yet the next day when I thought it over, I quite disapproved of these amateur performances, and though glad that I had obliged Monsieur Poole and tried my own strength for once. I took a firm resolution never to be drawn into a similar affair. A keen relish for dramatic expression had revealed itself as part of my nature. To cherish and exercise this newfound faculty might gift me with a world of delight, but it would not do for a mere look around at life. The strength and longing must be put by, and I put them by, and fastened them in with a lock of resolution, which neither time nor temptation has since picked. No sooner was the play over and well over, than the choleric and arbitrary Monsieur Poole underwent a metamorphosis. His hour of managerial responsibility passed, he at once laid aside his magisterial austerity. In a moment he stood amongst us, vivacious, kind and social, shook hands with us all round, thanked us separately, and announced his determination that each of us should in turn be his partner in the coming bull. On his claiming my promise, I told him I did not dance. For once I must, was the answer, and if I had not skipped aside and kept out of his way, he would have compelled me this second performance. But I had acted enough for one evening. It was time I retired into myself and my ordinary life. My dun coloured dress did well enough under a pillow toe on the stage, but would not suit a waltz or a quadrille. Withdrawing to a quiet nook, whence unobserved I could observe, the ball, its splendours and its pleasures, passed before me as a spectacle. Again Ginevor Fancho was the bell, the fairest and the gayest present. She was selected to open the ball, very lovely she looked, very gracefully she danced, very joyously she smiled. Such scenes were her triumphs. She was the child of pleasure. Work or suffering found her listless and dejected, powerless and repining, but gay expanded her butterflies' wings, lit up their gold dust and bright spots, made her flash like a gem and flush like a flower. At all ordinary diet and plain beverage she would pout, but she fed on creams and ices like a hummingbird on honey paste, sweet wine was her element, and sweet cake her daily bread. Ginevre lived her life full in a bullroom, elsewhere she drooped dispirited. Think not, reader, that she thus bloomed and sparkled for mere sake of Monsieur Poul, her partner, or that she lavished her best graces that night for the edification of her companions only, or for that of the parents and grandparents who filled the Care and lined the ballroom, under circumstances so insipid and limited, with motives so chilly and vapid, Ginevre could scarce have deigned to walk one quadrille, and weariness and fretfulness would have replaced animation and good humour, but she knew of a leaven in otherwise heavy vestal mass which lightened the whole. She tasted a condiment which gave it zest, she perceived reasons justifying the display of her choicest attractions. In the ballroom, indeed, not a single male spectator was to be seen who was not married and a father. Monsieur Paul accepted, that gentleman, too, being the sole creature of his sex, permitted to lead out a pupil to the dance, and this exceptional part was allowed him, partly as a matter of old established custom, for he was a kinsman of Madame Beck's, and high in her confidence, partly because he would always have his own way and do as he pleased, and partly because, willful, passionate, partial as he might be, he was the soul of honour, and might be trusted with a regiment of the fairest and purest, in perfect security that under his leadership they would come to no harm. Many of the girls, it may be noted in parenthesis, were not pure minded at all, very much otherwise, but they no more dare betray their natural coarseness in Monsieur Poole's presence than they dare tread purposely on his corns, laugh in his face during a stormy apostrophe, or speak above their breath while some crisis of irritability was covering his human visage with the mask of an intelligent tiger. Monsieur Poole then might dance with whom he would, and woe betide to the interference which put him out of step. Others they were admitted as spectators, with seeming reluctance through prayers, by influence under restriction, by special and difficult exercise of Madame Beck's gracious good nature, and whom she all the evening, with her personal own surveillance, kept far aloof at the remotest, drearest, coldest, darkest side of the Caes, a small, forlorn band of Jeanne Jean, these being all of the best families, grown up sons of mothers present, and whose sisters were pupils in the school. That whole evening was Madame on duty beside these Jeanne Jean, attentive to them as a mother, but strict with them as a dragon. There was a sort of cordon stretched before them, which they wearied her with prayers to be permitted to pass, and just to revive themselves by one dance with that belle blonde or that Jolie Brun, or set jean vie magnifique or chau noir com leg. Tisiv, Madame would reply, heroically and inexorably Vas Moi Cusuna Mon Cadavre E Vance Cave La Nonette Du Jardin, alluding to the legend, and she majestically walked to and fro along their disconsolate and impatient line, like a little bonaparte in a mouse coloured silk gown. Madame knew something of the world. Madame knew much of human nature. I don't think that another directrice in Villette would have dared to admit a jeune homme within her walls, but Madame knew that by granting such an admission, on an occasion like the present, a bold stroke might be struck and a great point gained. In the first place the parents were made accomplices to the deed, for it was only through their mediation it was brought about. Secondly, the admission of these rattlestakes, so fascinating and so dangerous, served to draw out Madame precisely in her strongest character, that of a first rate surveillante. Thirdly, their presence furnished a most piquant ingredient to the entertainment. The pupils knew it and saw it, and the view of such golden apples shining afar off animated them with a spirit no other circumstance could have kindled. The children's pleasure spread to the parents, life and mirth circulated quickly round the ballroom. The Jeanne Jean themselves, though restrained, were amused for Madame never permitted them to feel dull, and thus Madame Beck's fate annually ensured a success unknown to the fate of any other directrise in the land. I observed that doctor John was at first permitted to walk at large through the class. There was about him a manly, responsible look that redeemed his youth and half expiated his beauty, but as soon as the ball began, Madame ran up to him. Come, Wolf, come, she said, laughing, you wear sheep's clothing, but you must quit the fold notwithstanding. Come, I have a fine menagerie of twenty here in the Care. Let me place you among my collection. But first suffer me to have one dance with one pupil of my choice. Have you the face to ask such a thing? It is madness, it is impiety. Sorte, sorte etopluvite. She drove him before her, and soon had him enclosed within the cordon. Ginevre, being, I suppose, tired with dancing, sought me out in my retreat. She threw herself on the bench beside me, and a demonstration I could very well have dispensed with, cast her arms around my neck. Lucy Snow, Lucy Snow, she cried in a somewhat sobbing voice, half hysterical. What in the world is the matter? I dryly said. How do I look? How do I look tonight? she demanded. As usual, said I, preposterously vain. Caustic creature, you never have a kind word for me, but in spite of you and all other envious detractors, I know I am beautiful. I feel it, I see it, for there is a great looking glass in the dressing room, where I can view my shape from head to foot. Will you go with me now and let us two stand before it? I will, Miss Fanshaw, you shall be humoured even to the top of your bent. The dressing room was very near, and we stepped in. Putting her arm through mine she drew me to the mirror. Without resistance, remonstrance or remark, I stood and let her self love have its feast and triumph, curious to see how much it could swallow, whether it was possible it could feed to satiety, whether any whisper of consideration for others could penetrate her heart and moderate its vain glorious exultation. Not at all. She turned me and herself round. She viewed us both on all sides. She smiled, she waved her curls, she retouched her sash, she spread her dress, and finally letting go of my arm and curtsying with mock respect, she said I would not be you for a kingdom. The remark was too naive to rouse anger. I merely said Very good. And what would you give to be me? she inquired. Not a bad six months, strange as it may sound, I replied, you are but a poor creature. You don't think so in your heart? No, for in my heart you have not the outline of a place. I only occasionally turn you over in my brain. Well, but she said, in an expostulatory tone, just listen to the difference of our positions, and then see how happy am I and how miserable are you. Go on, I listen. In the first place I am the daughter of a gentleman of family, and though my father is not rich, I have expectations from an uncle. Then I am just eighteen, the finest age possible. I have had a continental education, and though I can't spell, I have abundant accomplishments. I am very pretty, you can't deny that. I may have as many admirers as I choose. This very night I have been breaking the hearts of two gentlemen, and it is the dying looks I had from one of them just now which puts me in such high spirits. I do so like to watch them turn red and pale and scowl and dart fiery glances at each other, and languishing ones at me. There is me, happy me. Now for you, poor soul. I suppose you are a nobody's daughter since you took care of little children when you first came to Villette, and you have no relations, you can't call yourself young at twenty three. You have no attractive accomplishments, no beauty. As to admirers, you hardly know what they are, you can't even talk on the subject. You sit dumb when the other teachers quote their conquests. I believe you never were in love and never will be. You don't know the feeling, and so much the better, for though you might have your own hearts broken, no living heart will you ever break. Isn't that all true? A good deal of it is true as gospel and shrewd besides. There must be good in you, Ginevre, to speak so honestly. That snake, Zelli Saint Pierre, could not utter what you have uttered. Still, Miss Fanshaw, hapless as I am, according to your showing, sixpence I would not give to purchase you body and soul. Just because I am not clever, is that all you think of? Nobody in the world but you cares for cleverness. On the contrary, I think you are clever in your way, very smart indeed. But you were talking of breaking hearts, that edifying amusement into the merits of which I don't quite enter. Pray on whom does your vanity lead you to think you have done execution tonight? She approached her lips to my ear. Isadore and Alfred de Hamel are both here, she whispered. Oh, are they? I should like to see them. There's a dear creature, your curiosity is roused at last. Follow me, I will point them out. She proudly led the way. But you cannot see them well from the class, she said, turning. Madame keeps them too far off. Let us cross the garden, enter by the corridor, and get close to them behind. We shall be scolded if we are seen, but never mind. For once I did not mind. Through the garden we went, penetrated into the corridor by a quiet, private entrance, and approaching the carre, yet keeping in the corridor shade, commanded a rear view of the band of Jean Jean. I believe I could have picked out the conquering de Hamel, even undirected. He was a straight nosed, very correct featured, little dandy. I say little dandy, though he was not beneath the middle standard in stature, but his linaments were small, and so were his hands and feet, and he was pretty and smooth and as trim as a doll, so nicely dressed, so nicely curled, so booted and gloved and cravated, he was charming indeed. I said so. What a dear personage cried I, and commended Ginevre's taste warmly, and asked her what she thought De Hannel might have done with the precious fragments of that heart she had broken, whether he kept them in a scent vial, and conserved them in Otto of roses. I observed too with a deep rapture of approbation, that the colonel's hands were scarce larger than Miss Fanchel's own, and suggested that this circumstance might be convenient, as he could wear her gloves at a pinch. On his dear curls I told her I doted, and as to his low Grecian bow and exquisite classic headpiece, I confessed I had no language to do such perfections justice. And if he were your lover, suggested the cruelly exultant Ginevra. Oh heavens, what bliss, said I, but do not be inhuman, Miss Fanshaw, to put such thoughts in my head is like showing poor outcast Cain a far glimpse of paradise. You like him, then? As I like sweets and jams and comfits and conservatory flowers. Ginevre admired my taste, for all these things were her adoration, and she could readily credit that they were mine too. Now, for Isidore, I went on. I own I felt still more curious to see him than his rival, but Ginevre was absorbed in the latter. Alfred was admitted here tonight, said she, through the influence of his aunt, Madame La Baron de Dolodaux, and now having seen him, can you not understand why I have been such in such high spirits all the evening, and acted so well and danced with such life, and why I am now happy as a queen. Ju it was such good fun to glance first at him and then at the other and madden them both. But the other, where is he? Show me Isador. I don't like. Why not? I am ashamed of him. For what reason? Because in a whisper, he has such such whiskers orange and red. There now. The murder is out, I subjoined. Never mind, show him all the same. I engaged not to faint. She looked round. Just then an English voice spoke behind her and me. You are both standing in a draught. You must leave this corridor. There is no draught, Dr. John, I said, turning. She takes cold so easily, he pursued, looking at Genevre with extreme kindness. She is delicate, and she must be cared for. Fetch her a shawl. Permit me to judge for myself, said Miss Fanshaw, with haughtur. I want no shawl. Your dress is thin, and you have been dancing. You are heated. Always preaching, retorted she, always coddling and admonishing. The answer Dr John would have given did not come. That his heart was hurt became evident in his eye, darkened and saddened and pained. He turned a little aside, but was patient. I knew where there were plenty of shawls near at hand. I ran and fetched one. She will wear this if I have strength to make her, said I, folding it well around her muslin dress, covering carefully her neck and her arms. Is that Isadore? I asked, in a somewhat fierce whisper. She pushed up her lip, smiled, and nodded. Is that Isadore? I repeated, giving her a shake. I could have given her a dozen. Celui mem, said she, how coarse he is compared with the Colonel Count. And then oh siel, the whiskers. Dr John now passed on. The Colonel Count, I echoed, the doll, the puppet, the mannequin, the poor inferior creature, a mere lackey for Dr John, his valet, his footboy. Is it possible that fine generous gentleman, handsome as a vision, offers you his honourable hand and gallant heart, and promises you To protect your flimsy person and wretchless mind through the storms and struggles of life, and you hang back, you scorn, you sting, you torture him? Have you power to do this? Who gave you that power? Where is it? Does it lie all in your beauty, your pink and white complexion, and your yellow hair? Does this bind his soul at your feet and bend his neck under your yoke? Does this purchase for you his affection, his tenderness, his thoughts, his hopes, his interest, his noble, cordial love, and will you not have it? Do you scorn it? You are only dissembling, you are not in earnest. You love him, you long for him, but you trifle with his heart to make him more surely yours. Bah how you run on I don't understand half of what you said. I had got her out into the garden ere this. I now sat her down on a seat and told her she should not stir till she had avowed which she meant in the end to accept, the man or the monkey. Him you call the man, said she, is bourgeois, sandy haired and answered to the name of John, cell Sufi Jenon Vupa. Colonel de Hamel is a gentleman of excellent connections, perfect manners, sweet appearance with pale, interesting face, and hair and eyes like an Italian. Then too he is the most delightful company possible, a man quite in my way, not sensible and serious like the other, but one with whom I can talk on equal terms, who does not plague and bore and harass me with depths and heights and passions and talents for which I have no taste. There now, don't hold me so fast. I slackened my grasp and she darted off. I did not care to pursue her. Somehow I could not avoid returning once more in the direction of the corridor to get another glimpse of Dr. John, but I met him on the garden steps, standing where the light from a window fell broad. His well proportioned figure was not to be mistaken, for I doubt whether there was another in that assemblage's equal. He carried his hat in his hand. His uncovered head, his face and fine brow were most handsome and manly. His features were not delicate, not slight like those of a woman, nor were they cold, frivolous and feeble, though well cut, they were not so chiseled, so fritted away as to lose in power and significance what they gained in unmeaning symmetry. Much feeling spoke in them at times, and more sat silent in his eye. Such at least were my thoughts of him. To me he seemed all this. An inexpressible sense of wonder occupied me as I looked at this man, and reflected that he could be slighted. It was not my intention to approach or address him in the garden, our terms of acquaintance not warranting such a step. I had only meant to view him in the crowd, my unseen coming upon him thus alone. I withdrew, but he was looking out for me, or rather for her who had been with me, therefore he descended the steps and followed me down the alley. You know Miss Fanshaw? I have often wished to ask if you know her, said he. Yes, I know her. Intimately. Quite as intimately as I wish. What have you done with her now? Am I her keeper? I felt inclined to ask, but I simply answered I have shaken her well and would have shaken her better, but she escaped out of my hands and ran away. Would you favour me? he asked, by watching over her this one evening, and observing that she does nothing imprudent, does not, for instance, run out into the night air immediately after dancing. I may perhaps look after her a little since you wish it, but she likes her own way too well to ads to submit readily to control. She is so young, so thoroughly artless, said he. To me she is an enigma, I responded. Is she? he asked, much interested. How? It would be difficult to say how, difficult at least to tell you how, and why me? I wonder she is not better pleased that you are so much her friend. But she has not the slightest idea how much I am her friend. That is precisely the point I cannot teach her. May I inquire, did she ever speak of me to you? Under the name of Isidore she has talked about you often, but I must add that it is only within the last ten minutes I have discovered that you and Isidore are identical. It is only, Dr. John, within that brief space of time I have learned that Ginevro Fanshaw is the person under this roof in whom you have long been interested, that she is the magnet which attracts you to the Rue Forset, that for her sake you venture into this garden and seek out caskets dropped by rivals. You know all I know so much. For more than a year I have been accustomed to meet her in society. Mrs. Chumley, her friend, is an acquaintance of mine, thus I see her every Sunday, but you observe that under the name of Isidore she often spoke of me. May I, without inviting you to a breach of confidence, inquire what was the tone, what was the feeling of her remarks? I feel somewhat anxious to know, being a little tormented with uncertainty as to how I stand with her. Oh she varies, she shifts and changes like the wind. Still still you can gather some general idea. I can, thought I, but it would not do to communicate that general idea to you. Besides, if I said she did not love you, I know you would not believe me. You are silent, he pursued. I suppose you have no good news to impart. No matter, if she feels for me positive coldness and aversion, it is a sign I do not deserve her. Do you doubt yourself? Do you consider yourself the inferior, inferior of Colonel De Hamel? I love Miss Fanshaw far more than de Hamel loves any human being, and would care for her and guard her better than he. Respecting De Hamel, I fear she is under an illusion. The man's character is known to me, all his antecedents, all his scrapes, he is not worthy of your beautiful young friend. My beautiful young friend ought to know that and ought to know or feel who is worthy of her, said I. If her beauty or her brains will not serve her so far, she merits the sharp lesson of experience. Are you not a little severe? I am excessively severe, more severe than I choose to show you. You should hear the strictures with which I favour my beautiful young friend, only that you would be unutterably shocked at my want of tender considerateness for her delicate nature. She is so lovely one cannot but be loving towards her. You, every woman older than herself, must feel for such a simple, innocent, girlish fairy, a sort of motherly or elder sisterly fondness. Graceful angel, does not your heart yearn towards her when she pours into your ear her pure, childlike confidences? How you are privileged? And he sighed. I cut short these confidences somewhat abruptly now and then, said I. But excuse me, Dr. John, may I change the theme for one instant? What a godlike person is that to Hamill. What a nose on his face. Perfect. Model one in putty or clay, you could not make a better or straighter or neater, and then such classic lips and chin, and his bearing sublime. Dr Hammel is an unutterable puppy, besides being a very white livered hero. You, Dr John, and every man of a less refined mould than he, must feel for him a sort of admiring affection, such as Mars and the coarser deities may be supposed to have borne the young, graceful Apollo. An unprincipled, gambling little jackanapes, said Mr John curtly, whom, with one hand, I could lift up by the waistband any day and lay low in the kennel, if I liked. The sweet seraph, said I. What a cruel idea. Are you not a little severe, Dr. John? And now I paused. For the second time that night I was going beyond myself, venturing out of what I looked on as my natural habits, speaking in an unpremeditated, impulsive strain, which startled me strangely when I halted to reflect. On rising that morning, had I anticipated that before night I should have acted the part of a gay lover in a vaudeville, and an hour after frankly discussed with doctor John the question of his hapless suit, and rallied him on his illusions. I had no more presaged such feats than I had looked forward to an ascent in a balloon or a voyage to Cape Horn. The doctor and I, having paced down the walk, were now returning. The reflex from the window again lit his face. He smiled, but his eye was melancholy. How I wished that he could feel heart's ease, how I grieved that he brooded over pain, and pain from such a cause, he with his great advantages, he to love in vain. I did not then know that the pensiveness of reverse is the best phase for some minds, nor did I reflect that some herbs, though scless when entire, yield fragrance when they are bruised. Do not be sorrowful, do not grieve, I broke out. If there is a Ginevre one spark of worthiness of your affection, she will, she must feel devotion in return. Be cheerful, be hopeful, doctor John. Who should hope if not you? In return for this speech I got, what it must be supposed I deserved, a look of some surprise. I thought also of the disapprobation. We parted, and I went into the house very chill. The clock struck and the bells told midnight. People were leaving fast, the fate was over, the lamps were fading. In another hour all the dwelling house and all the pensioner were dark and hushed. I too was in bed but not asleep. To me it was not easy to sleep after a day of such excitement. Thank you so much for joining me this evening. It's now dark outside and my candle is burning, my cat's asking for food, and my poor elderly dog, who I love so much that even talking about her my heart feels squeezed. She has had an operation today and she's had a toe removed, and I just pray that the tumour hasn't spread further. They hope they've nipped it in the bud, so to speak. Tomorrow I drive to Stratford upon Avon, and tomorrow night I see the legendary Kenneth Branagh playing Prospero in The Tempest, and I'm with my best friend and her mother and her mother's best friend. And then I spend another night in Stratford upon Avon on my own to visit places. So if you have any requests of any place to visit that are all in walking distance, although actually I have a car so I could drive, please email me Gretelm at yahoo.com and I will do my best to oblige. Any photographs you want taken, anything at all. And I hope you're well, I hope you're not alone, I hope you've got friends and people you love. It's not always easy to feel that you have, and sometimes it takes clocking people and saying, okay, I've got that one, and then I've got that one, and you take each one into your heart with gratitude and realise that if you didn't have any of them, how lonely a world it would be. And thanks again so much for joining me. And I'm just going to end with this last amazing phrase that we just read a minute ago from Charlotte Bronte, who, in writing this book, had lost every single one of her siblings and her mother, and was left alone with her father and a broken heart through having fallen in love with a married man when she'd spent time in Brussels, hence the theme of this book. Nor did I reflect that some herbs, though scentless when entire, yield fragrance when they're bruised. Good night.