Belgian Buns, Saint Barnabas, John Clare and Charlotte Brontë’s Villette

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 1:06

Hello, dear listener. I'm sitting in one of my little favourite cafes. It's a really simple cafe on the street of Sherbourne, the main high street here. And it's a really old-fashioned cafe, and I always think of it as the sort that my nan would love. Not so much my mum, but I have actually come in and ordered two pots of tea, and I was thinking one of them is I could imagine would be for my mother sitting here. But I think she would think that's nonsense. But it's actually because I wanted to drink more than one cup of tea. But anyway, I'm imagining her there because there is a spare chair, and I'm enjoying watching people come in and go and thinking more and more about my novel, but I know that it's about writing it, not thinking about it. But one of the things that I like the idea of is incorporating conversation into characters, and I've just heard the cutest conversation. So a young couple came in, maybe in their twenties or early 30s, and the chap behind the counter, you know, said, What would you like? And the chap said, Do you have anything like a Cornish pasty? And the guy behind the counter said, Yes, we've got a Wiltshire pasty, it's exactly the same, but it's made in Wiltshire, not in Cornwall. And then the lovely old lady who I know has worked here for years and years and years, she shouted from the sort of baking area, and it's got gravy in it. And then the guy behind the counter said, Oh, he's he's newer. And he said, Oh, I didn't know that it's got gravy in it. And and then he said, It's a bit like you know, champagne. You can't call it champagne unless it's from champagne, and we can't call it um Cornish pasty because it's made in Wiltshire, not Cornwall. And then the young dude sort of saying, Oh, okay, makes sense. And then the you know, the other lady gets involved saying, Yeah, you can only call it a Cornish pasty if it's made in Cornwall, but you know, what about a Belgian bun? And then there was conversation, and then the guy said, Well, yeah, because if you called it an English bun, it could be anything, but Belgian bun, everyone knows what it is, but I don't think it's made in Belgium because we made it here this morning. Uh, and I'm just listening to this, it's so charming. So it's you can imagine sort of young chap behind the counter, really sweet, and then a young couple on this side where I am by buying their wares, and then a dumpy, slightly elderly lady in the baking area, and uh they just went on for a while talking about different foods and how some of them have strict rules and some of them don't, and chit-chatting away. And then there's a little family near me, a very cute little girl. She's obviously telling her mum and her nan about her day, and it does remind me poignantly of Of course, yeah, of course. And someone wants the chair when I'm sitting at reminds me poignantly of when mine were little and I had my mother with me, and uh and the little girl just said, Mummy, I know how to spell garlic bread. And the mummy, instead of sort of saying, Oh, really? Because it's an odd thing, she said, Oh, really, in a really excited way. And then the other little girl was like, G uh la. And and I'm just thinking, she's come back from school and she wants to tell her mum about knowing how to spell garlic bread, and what was it at school that made her learn the word garlic bread, and what a great little phrase for her to learn, how very 21st century. So, anyway, I just wanted to share all that chitter chatter with you, and how lovely and reassuring it is to hear the gentle chatter of life going on, uh in the same way that it has done for centuries with just normal people living normal lives. And then just because I know that you want it, a Belgian bun update. I'm now leaving, and it's nice to get out the fresh air. It was very warm in there. Another lady came in, ordered a Belgian bun, and then the same lovely guy behind the counter, huge guy, and but very sweet, very gentle voice, he said, you know, I've never I've always wondered what on earth what on earth people see in a Belgian bun, but ever since I've worked here, they're so popular, they're the most popular of all our buns. And the other lady said, Oh, you don't know what you're missing if you haven't got a Belgian bun in your life. Oh dear, so I think maybe the photograph for this episode might unless something else comes up, might have to be a Belgian bun. And now it's the time of day where the birds are squeaking awfully, not awfully, but as in uh uh loudly. And I want to apologize because it's been a while since I've taken you into a new church, and what's hap what's been happening is I've had to stay close to my daughter, so I've been around uh in Sherbour the whole time, and she's fine, it's just one day at a time a little bit. So everything's a little bit subdued, but please don't desert me. As you know, if you've listened for a while, things go up, things go down, and I always continue because this is what gives me a sense of purpose and it ensures that I read things that perhaps otherwise I wouldn't read. Well, it's very windy now. Hopefully it's not I've got the mic on, and it ensures that I I don't know, just take a moment. It's almost like a bit of a time out, so please stay with me and thank you for those who support regularly. And I would encourage you to send emails in, any requests at all. I'd be very happy to help with poems or readings. So yeah, just ask. And for example, if you would like a dedication to someone that you listen to this with, then again, just let me know. I'd like to help. And I'm now heading back home and I need to unpack a whole lot of shopping. And I've just my daughter just told me she's back from school and she's asked to go to McDonald's, so it's my least favourite thing to do, but they still love it, don't they? The teenagers, McDonald's, so I think that's what I'll do today. Alright, I'll catch up with you in a minute. Well, I'm now sitting in the garden. I've got Mr. Cat. Hello, Mr. Cat. Do you want to say hello? A little bit of purring. I'm not sure if you heard anything. And I've got Puppy here, doggo's staying warm inside. But I thought I'd come out, so maybe you hear some birds. But they're a little bit quiet this time of day. I can hear children walking nearby because there's a school not too far away. Their lavender has come out, it's starting to look very purple and beautiful, and the pigeons are tooing and furrowing and and all is well in this early summer garden, although we could do with a little bit more sunshine. I've now got a glumping puppy on my Oh my goodness. Come on now, I'm being attacked. Puppy's now been displaced. Cats, Mr. Cat's sitting on my lap, and now it's time for it hasn't been f it's been a while now, but it's time, I think, to look at what saints we can celebrate today. So first we're going to celebrate the life of or at least commemorate the life of Medar, so M E D A R D, around four hundred to five sixty, so the crucial time very early on in the Christianisation of our country. But actually he was bishop of Vermandois, so he was a Gaulish or Frankish bishop. He was born at Salancy in Piccadilly of a Frankish noble family and was educated there, ordained priest around 505. Much later he was consecrated bishop. He gave the veil to Radigund and is credited with removing his see to Noyon and ruling it together with that of Tournai. But these latter details are suspect through lack of contemporary evidence. His cult dates from the sixth century and is attested by Venantius Fortunatus and of Gregory of Tours. Popular tradition attributes to him, like Swythern, the determination of the weather for forty days after his feast, in accordance with that prevailing on his day. On his feast also the most exemplary girl in the neighbourhood is escorted to the church, crowned with roses and given a purse of money. He was also invoked for toothache, of course he was. Feast day in the Sarum calendar and elsewhere eighth of June. When I move on to the next phase of my life when we've sold my mother's uh property and my husband and I have got ourselves sorted out financially, then these are all the sorts of places that we we hope to visit. We're going to go beyond our country and visit lots of different countries in Europe. The children are keen to go to America and probably will end up going to America, but I'm very much cooled to go and see the interesting old medieval churches and cities all across Europe that I've been to before, but I haven't been into the actual churches and appreciated them from an architectural point of view. And I'm also thinking of going to Venice and going back to Rome and Yeah, uh almost doing a sort of art appreciation trip all across Europe. Taking you with me, of course. And yesterday was the feast day of Barnabas, the first century apostle, a Jewish Jewish Cypriot and a Levite. Barnabas, the name means son of consolation, was an early Christian disciple but not one of the twelve. He introduced Paul to the other apostles. Together Paul and Barnabas were sent to Antioch and undertook the first missionary journey, which began in Cyprus. At the Council of Jerusalem, Barnabas supported the Gentile Christians. Later, Barnabas and Paul quarrelled and separated. It's typical, isn't it? You can't really get two fervent people together in any situation. I'm I'm I've said this before, but I'm a strong believer, and that's why a lot of hermits ended up becoming hermits, or also monks ended up going from one monastery to found another. It's it's quarrels and not being able to get on and wanting to start afresh, all the all those sorts of real human reasons why a lot of these Christian events took place. Later Barnabas and Paul quarrelled and separated. Barnabas returned to Cyprus and evangelized it. Paul's references to him in Galatians and Corinthians possibly indicate a wider apostolate. However, legend claims he died a martyr at Salamis in AD sixty one. Various apocryphal writings were attributed to him. The Order of the Barnabites founded by Antony Zachariah at Milan in 1530, took their name from their principal church dedicated to Barnabas, once believed to have been Milan's first bishop. In England there were thirteen ancient churches dedications, and not a few modern ones, church dedications. His true title to fame is the prominent part he took in the development of the infant Christian church, of which I think we should learn more about at some point. Feast eleventh of June. And it was my stepfather's birthday yesterday. Something funny happened yesterday. We got a little WhatsApp group, which I'm sure many of you will have within your family, and they can be a real pain, but also a real help, can't they? And so yesterday I put on the WhatsApp group Can you message Grandad because it's his birthday today? But husband thought I was talking about his father, and so on a another shared WhatsApp group that has his parents on it and his sisters and so on, he said, Happy birthday, Dad, which caused so much confusion because I think people thought it was a scam message because they all knew it wasn't his birthday. Oh dear, and of course his own father's birthday is not even in this month, so typical husband really doesn't have a clue when anybody's birthdays are. Sometimes I joking jokingly run through the family and sort of say, Okay, so when's my birthday? When's Lucy's birthday and so on? And he g he gets uh some of the key ones right, but um uh he leaves it to me to send all the cards, of course. Today we celebrate the life of Odolf, who died in eight five five, a monk and missionary in Phrysia, born at Orschot in North Brabant, and outstanding in his youth both for intelligent and piety, he became a priest. After a few years he was sent by Saint Frederick of Utrecht to minister the partially converted Phryzians. He made his base at Stavoren, where he built both church and monastery. Odolf worked for many years in the same area, and he retired to Utrecht in old age and died there the twelfth of June. His body was enshrined, his cult grew, and a number of churches were dedicated to him in Holland and Belgium. His connection with England came by the theft of his relics in the early eleventh century by Viking pirates who brought them to London. Aylfwood, Bishop of London, bought them for the large sum of a hundred marks and gave them to Evesham Abbey, over which he still ruled. Their presence in the Abbey Church gave it lustre and prestige, but later a Norman abbot of Evesham Walter, tried to remove them to Winchcombe. The Evesham chronicler related that the shrine became so heavy for the bearers that they were quite unable to continue, but when they turned back to Evesham it seemed light as a feather. This, like the blindness suffered earlier by Queen Edith, who wished to take some of his relics for her private collection, was interpreted as meaning that Odolf disapproved of such removals and wanted to be left undisturbed in his adopted home of Evesham. But the fact that the Evesham relics were stolen from Stavoran, while the Utrecht tradition was that Odolf was buried at Utrecht itself without any translation to Stavoran, makes the Evesham claim very dubious. This did not prevent Odolf's feast being celebrated on the twelfth of June. It's quite funny, really, all of this moving of bones and fighting over them and oh you know, it's I don't know, there's just something not very grown up about it all, and certainly not very holy, I think. Now if you lived in East Anglia a couple of hundred years ago, you would you would know these words. So I'm going to a g the the glossary at the end of John Clare's book of poetry, and he was he lived in the eighteenth century, I think the end of the eighteenth century. And these are I've referred to these words before, but they're so lovely, I'm gonna read some of them to you. I think I've done the first half before, so I'm just gonna go for it and start from G because I think we'd got uh F. Gaelid or no jellyd, jelly-like, so uh spelt it's spell spelled here G E L I D, but I suspect if they'd spelt it with a J to begin, it would have looked more jelly-like. Glib, smooth and slippery. Actually you can see how that of that fits in with the word glib, that when we refer to someone as being glib, they're being a bit smooth and slippery with their words. Grubbing gear, dig digging equipment, heath bell, flower of the heath, henbane, narcotic plant, hing, hang, horseb, marsh marigold, king cup, marsh marigold, lady cow, ladybird, lady smocks, cuckoo flower, land rail, the corn crake, ling, heather, loun, man of low birth. So maybe it's lone so it's probably just short for low man, a low end, maybe. Maul to toil along or drag wearily. He mauled his gear. Mavis, the song thrush, that's lovely. It's a mavis. Mort, a great amount, and I suppose mort meaning dead, so like a dead weight. Mouldy warps or mouldy warps moles, oh that's nice. Have you got any mouldy warps in your garden? Mouldy warps, that's great. And then oddling, odd one out. Old man's beard clem is clematis vitalba, well we still call it that. Peep is a single blossom of flower growing in a cluster. A pink is the chaffinch. So that I haven't heard that before. I don't think they look pink, maybe a little bit orange. Pisme or pismeyer, an ant. Cleachy, mellow or powdery, prog to poke about. So I was proging in the garden. I like that. Puddock is a kite or a buzzard. Ramping to grow in abundance, luxuriantly. Rank luxuriantly. Rawky, misty or foggy. Route or root is a great stir or commotion. There was a great route, yeah. That's still used, isn't it? Sawn to saw to saunter. You can see all the links there, can't you? He sauntered, he sawn scrolled or lined, sex pools, rainwater pools in peat workings to saunter lazily or to dawdle. Sosh to plunge or dip, spindle to shoot up, sprint, sprinkled, starnals, the starling. We've met that with his poem. Now this is a good one. A stalp is a tree stump. A stalp, that's great. And then to start stun suddenly it's to stir it. Then if you make a sighing or a rushing noise, it's called a suthy or a soothy. If the if you're in a shady area, it's a swaly area. To swoop is to swap. Teasel is a prickly headed plant, we still have that, don't we? Watching is tenting. Now you might think where's the link there? But actually if you can give the word attending tenting, then you can see a link. And then youngsters were yonkers or yonkers. That's great. And so now we'll read John Clare's On Leaving the Cottage of My Birth. I've left mine own home of homes, green fields, and every pleasant place. The summer like a stranger comes, I pause and hardly know her face. I miss the hazel's happy green, the bluebell's quiet hanging blooms, where envy's sneer was never seen, where staring malice never comes. I miss the heath, its yellow firs, molehills and rabbit tracks that lead through besamling and teasel burrs, That spread a wilderness indeed, The woodland oaks and all below that their white powdered branches shield, the mossy paths, the very crow croaked music in my native field. I sit me in my corner chair, that seems to feel itself from home, and hear bird music here and there from all thorn hedge and all. Orchard come I hear but all is strange and new I sat on my old bench last June, the sailing puddock's shrill Pel a Royce's wood seemed a sweeter tune I walked a down the narrow lane, the nightingale is singing now, but like to me she seems at loss, for Royce wood and its shielding bough, I lean upon the window sill, the trees and summer happy seem. Green, sunny green they shine, but still my heart goes far away to dream Of happiness and thoughts arise with homebred pictures many a one, green lanes that shut out burning skies, And old crooked styles to rest upon. Above them hangs the maple tree, below grass swells a velvet hill, and little footpaths sweet to see, go seeking sweeter places still, with by and by a brook to cross, O'er which a little arch is thrown, no brook is here, I feel the loss, from home and friends and all alone. The stone pit with its shelving sides seem hanging rocks in my esteem, I miss the prospect far and wide From Langley bush, and so I seem alone, and in a stranger scene far from spots my heart esteems, The clozen with their ancient green, Heaths, woods and pastures, sunny streams, The hawthorns here are hung with May, but still they seem in deader green, The sun e'en seems to lose its way, Nor knows the quarter it is in. I dwell on twit trifles like a child, I feel as ill becomes a man, and still my thoughts like weedlings wild, grow up to blossoms where they can. They turn to places known so long and feel that joy was dwelling there. So homebred pleasure fills the song that has no present joys to air. Now we turn to Barchester Towers. Now do you remember poor Mr Slope? I do s I do feel sorry for him. Maybe we're meant to I think we're meant to hate him, but maybe we're not. Maybe that's a sort of double double bluff on the part of the wily Mr Trollope. But he's turned up as a guest to the Stanhopes, but of course so has Eleanor Bold, and so he's now in a dilemma. Who does he talk to and sort of flirt with Eleanor Bold or the Signora? Eleanor was not inclined to be severe in her criticisms on Mr Slope in this respect, and felt no annoyance of any kind when she found herself seated between Bertie and Charlotte Charlotte Stanhope. She had no suspicion of Mr Slope's intentions, she had no suspicion even of the suspicion of other people, but still she felt well pleased not to have Mr Slope too near to her, and she was not ill pleased to have Bertie Stanhope near her. It was rarely indeed that he failed to make an agreeable impression on strangers. With a bishop indeed he thought much of his own dignity. It was possible that he might fail, but hardly with a young and pretty woman. He possessed the tact of becoming instantly intimate with women without giving rise to any fear of impertinence. He had about him somewhat of the propensities of a tame cat. I think of the character of Bertie in Mary Poppins to you, and I love the song that Mary Poppins sang to him, though you're just a diamond in the rough Bert, and then that whole song, and the way he's presented in the book and the film as someone who you can feel safe with and but and maybe he's a tiny bit flirtatious, but not in a sexual way. It seemed quite natural that he should be petted, caressed, and treated with familiar good nature, and that in return he should purr and be sleek and graceful, and above all never show his claws. Like other tame cats, however, he had his claws and sometimes made them dangerous. That was the point where we left off. When tea was over, Charlotte went to the open window and declared loudly that the full harvest moon was much too beautiful to be disregarded, and called them all to look at it. To tell the truth there was but one who cared much about the Moon's Moon's beauty, and that one was not Charlotte, but she knew how valuable an aid to her purpose the chaste goddess might become, and could easily create a little enthusiasm for the purpose of the moment. Eleanor and Bertie were soon with her. The doctor was now quiet in his armchair, and Mrs. Stanhope in hers, both prepared for slumber. Are you a wewelite or a Brewsterite or Tothermanite, Mrs. Bold? said Charlotte, who knew a little about everything, and had read about a third of each of the books to which she alluded. Oh, said Eleanor, I have not read any of the books, but I feel sure there is one man in the moon at least, if not more. You don't believe in the pulpy, gelatinous matter, said Bertie. I heard about that, said Eleanor, and I really think it's almost wicked to talk in such a matter. How can we argue about God's power in the other stars from the laws which he has given for our rule in this one? How indeed? said Bertie, why shouldn't there be a race of salamanders in Venus and even if there be nothing but fish in Jupiter? Why shouldn't the fish there be as wide awake as the men and women here? That would be saying very little for them, said Charlotte. I am for doctor Wewel myself, for I do not think that men and women are worth being repeated in such countless worlds. There may be souls in other stars, but I doubt their having any bodies attached to them. But come, Mrs Bold, let us put our bonnets on and walk round the close. If we are to discuss sidereal questions, or is it sidereal? I'm afraid I don't know, we shall do much better under the towers of the cathedral than stuck in this narrow window. Mrs. Bold made no objection, and a party was made to walk out. Charlotte Stanhope well knew the rule as to three being no company, and she had therefore to induce her sister to allow Mr Slope to accompany them. Come, Mr Slope, she said, I'm sure you'll join us. We'll be in again in a quarter of an hour, Madeline. Madeline read in her eye all that she had to say, knew her object, and as she had to depend on her sister for so many of her amusements, she felt that she must yield. It was hard to be left alone while others of her own age walked about to feel the soft influence of the bright night, but it would be harder still to be without the sort of sanction which Charlotte gave to all her flirtations and intrigues. Charlotte's eye told her that she must give up just at present for the good of the family, and so Madeline obeyed. But Charlotte's eyes said nothing of the sort to Mr Slope. He had no objection at all to the tet with the Signora, which the departure of the other three would allow him, and gently whispered to her I shall not leave you alone. Oh yes, said she, go, go pray for my sake. Do not think I'm so selfish. It is understood that nobody is being kept for me. You will understand this too when you know me better. Pray join them, Mr Slope, but when you come in, speak to me for five minutes before you leave us. Mr Slope understood that he was to go, and he therefore joined the party in the hall. He would have had no objection at all to this arrangement if he could have secured Mrs. Bold's arm, but this of course was out of the question. Indeed his fate was very soon settled, for no sooner had he reached the hall door than Miss Stanhope put her hand within his arm, and Bertie walked off with Eleanor just as naturally as though she were already his own property, and so they sauntered forth. First they walked around the close according to their avowed intent, and then they went under the old arched gateway below St. Cuthbert's little church, and then they turned behind the grounds of the Bishop's Palace, and so on until they came to the bridge just at the end of the town, from which passers by can look down into the gardens of Hiram's hospital, and here Charlotte and Mr Slope, who were in advance, stopped till the other two came up to them. Mr Slope knew that the gable ends and old brick chimneys which stood up so prettily in the moonlight were those of Mr Harding's late abode, and would not have stopped on such a spot in such company if he could have avoided it, but Mr Stanhope would not take the hint which he tried to give. This is a very pretty place, Mrs. Bold, said Charlotte, by far the prettiest place near Barchester. I wonder your father gave it up. It was a very pretty place, and now, by the deceitful light of the moon looked twice larger, twice prettier, twice more antiquely picturesque than it would have done so in the truth telling daylight. Who does not know the air of complex multiplicity and the mysterious, interesting grace which the moon always lends to old gabled buildings, half surrounded as the hospital, as was the hospital by fine trees. As seen from the bridge on the night of which we are speaking, Mr Harding's late abode did look very lovely, and though Eleanor did not grieve at her father's having left it, she felt at the moment an intense wish that he might be allowed to return. Is he going to return to it almost immediately? But asked Bertie. Eleanor made no immediate reply. Many such a question. Hello, Mr Wren. Did you hear Mr Wren just then? I've got the microphone on. Maybe I should just take it off for a second. Okay, I've just taken the microphone off just for a bit because Mr Wren's come to join us, and I think it's nice to hear him. Come on, Mr Wren, don't let us down because we're on no mic just for you. So Eleanor made no reply, and many such a question passes unanswered, without the notice of the questioner, but such was not now the case. They all remained silent as though expecting her to reply, and after a moment or two, Charlotte said I believe it is settled that Mr Harding returns to the hospital, is it not? I don't think anything is settled about it yet, said Eleanor. But it must be a matter of course, said Bertie. That is, if your father wishes it. Who else on earth could hold it after what has occurred? Eleanor quietly made her companion understand that the matter was one which she could not discuss in the present company, and then they passed on. Charlotte said she would go a short way up the hill out of the town so as to look back upon the towers of the cathedral, and as Eleanor leant on Bertie's arm for assistance in the walk, she told him how the matter stood between her father and the bishop. And he, said Bertie, pointing on to Mr Slope, what part does he take in it? Eleanor explained how Mr Slope had at first endeavoured to tyrannise over her father, but how he had latterly come round and done all he could to talk the bishop over in Mr Harding's favour. But my father, said she, is hardly inclined to trust him. They all say he is so arrogant to the old clergyman of the city. Take my word for it, said Bertie, your father is right. If I'm not very much mistaken, that man is both arrogant and false. They strolled up to the top of the hill and then returned through the fields by a footpath which leads by a small wooden bridge, or rather a plank with a rustic rail to it, over the river to the other side of the cathedral, from that at which they had started. They had thus walked round the bishop's grounds through which the river river runs, and round the cathedral and adjacent fields, and it was past eleven before they reached the doctor's door. It is very late, said Eleanor. It would be a shame to disturb your mother again at such an hour. Oh, said Charlotte, laughing, you won't disturb mamma. I dare say she's in bed by this time, and Madeline would be furious if you did not come in and see her. Come, Bertie, take Mrs. Bold's bonnet from her. They went upstairs and found the Signora alone reading. She looked somewhat sad and melancholy, but not more so perhaps than was sufficient to excite additional interest in the bosom of Mr Slope, and she was soon deep in whispered intercourse with that happy gentleman who was allowed to find a resting place on her sofa. The Signora had a way of whispering that was peculiarly her own, and was exactly the reverse of that which prevails among great tragedians. Tragedians, tragedians, tragedians it's got to be. The great tragedian hisses out a positive whisper, made with baited breath and produced by inarticulated tongue formed sounds, but yet he is audible through the whole house. The Signora, however, used no hisses, and produced all her words in a clear, silver tone, but they could only be heard by the ear into which they were poured. Charlotte hurried and scurried about the room hither and thither, doing or pretending to do many things, and then saying something about seeing her mother ran up the stairs. Eleanor was thus left alone with Bertie, and she hardly felt an hour fly by her. To give Bertie his due credit, he could not have played his cards better. He did not make love to her nor sigh, nor look languishing, but he was amusing and familiar, yet respectful, and when he left Eleanor at her own door at one o'clock, which he did by the by with the assistance of the now jealous Mr Slope, she thought that he was one of the most agreeable men, and the Stanhopes decidedly the most agreeable family that she had ever met. And the next chapter is chapter twenty Mr Arabin And we've got a lovely noisy wren still near us and Sherbon bells are chiming eleven, and we're going to finish today's episode with chapter twenty four of Villette Monsieur de Bassompier. Those who live in retirement whose lives have fallen amid the seclusion of schools or of other walled in and guarded dwellings are liable to be suddenly and for a long while dropped out of the memory of their friends, the dead denizens of a freer world. Unaccountably, perhaps, and close upon the space of unusually frequent intercourse, some congreges of rather exciting little circumstances, whose natural sequel would rather seem to be the quickening than the suspension of communication. There falls a stilly pause, a wordless silence, a long blank of oblivion. Unbroken always is this blank, alike entire and unexplained. The letter, the message once frequent, are cut off, the visit formerly periodical ceases to occur, the book, paper, or other token that indicated remembrance comes no more. Always there are excellent reasons for these lapses, if the hermit knew them, though he is stagnant in his cell, his connections without are whirling in the very vortex of life. That void interval which passes for him so slowly that the clocks seem at a stand and the wingless hours plod by in the likeness of tired tramps prone to rest at milestones. That same interval perhaps teams with events and pants with hurry for his friends. The hermit, if he be a sensible hermit, will swallow his own thoughts and lock up his own emotions during these weeks of inward winter. That's a beautiful phrase Weeks of inward winter. Hm that's a great phrase. He will know that destiny designed him to imitate on occasion the door mouse, and he will be comfortable, make a tidy ball of himself, creep into a hole of life's wall, and submit decently to the drift which blows in and soon blocks him up, preserving him in ice for the season. Let him say it is quite right, it ought to be so, since so it is, and perhaps one day his set snow sepulchre will open, spring softness will return, the sun and south wind will reach him, the budding of hedges and caroling of birds and singing of liberated streams will call him to kindly resurrection. Perhaps this may be the case, perhaps not. The frost may get into his heart and never thaw more. When spring comes a crow or a pie may pick out of the wall only his dormouse bones. Well, even in that case all will be right. It is as it is supposed to be, and m he is mortal and must one day go the way of all flesh. Following that eventful evening at the theatre came for me seven weeks as bare as seven sheets of blank paper. No word was written on one of them, not a visit, not a token. About the middle of that time I entertained fancies that something had happened to my friends at La Terras. The mid blank is always a beclouded point for the solitary. His nerves ache with the strain of long expectancy. The doubts hitherto repelled gather now to amass and, strong in accumulation, roll back upon him with a force which savors of vindictiveness. Night too becomes an unkindly time, and sleep and his nature cannot agree. Strange starts and struggles harass his couch, the sinister bat band of bad dreams, with horror of calamity, and sick dread of entire desertion at their head, join the league against him. Poor wretch, he does his best to bear up, but he is a poor, pallid, wasting wretch despite that best. Towards the last of those long seven weeks I admitted what through the other six I had jealously excluded, the conviction that these blanks were inevitable, the result of circumstances, the fiat of fate, a part of my life's lot, and above all, a matter about whose origin no question must ever be asked, for whose painful sequence no murmur ever uttered. Of course I did not blame myself for suffering. I thank God I had a truer sense of justice than to fall into any imbecile, imbecile extravagances of self accusation, and as to blaming others for silence, in my reason I knew them blameless, and in my heart acknowledged them so, but it was a rough and heavy road to travel, and I longed for better days. That's so well put and describes so well for me how I've often felt in the time of grieving for my mother, sort of not blaming anybody, not blaming myself, not blaming circumstances, but I longed for better days and where is that lovely phrase again? Locking up one's own emotions during weeks of inward winter. Have you ever had weeks of inward winter? I tried different expedients to sustain and fill existence. I commenced an elaborate piece of lace work. I studied German pretty hard, I undertook a course of regular reading of the driest and thickest books in the library. In all my efforts I was as orthodox as I knew how to be. Was there error somewhere? Very likely. I only know the result was as if I'd gnawed a file to satisfy hung satisfy hunger, or drunk brine to quench thirst. My hour of torment was the post hour. Unfortunately it knew too well and tried as vainly as assiduously to cheat myself of that knowledge, dreading the rack of expectation and the sick collapse of disappointment which which daily preceded and followed upon that well recognised ring. I suppose animals kept in cages and so scantily fed as to be always upon the verge of famine await their food as I awaited a letter. Oh, to speak the truth and drop that tone of a false calm, which longed to sustain outwears nature's endurance, I underwent in those seven weeks, bitter fears and pains, strange inward trials, miserable defections of hope, intolerable encroachments of despair. This last came so near me sometimes that her breath went right through me. I used to feel it like a baleful air or sigh penetrate deep and make motion pause at my heart, or proceed only under unspeakable oppression. The letter, the well beloved letter would not come, and it was all of sweetness in life I had to look for. In the very extremity of want I had recourse again and yet again, to the little packet in the case, the five letters, how splendid that month seemed whose skies had beheld the rising of these five stars. It was always at night I visited them and, not daring to ask every evening for a candle in the kitchen, I bought a wax taper and matches to light it, and at the study hour stole up to the dormitory and feasted on my crust from the Barmeside's loaf. I'm gonna have to look that up I don't know how to pronounce it, I'm a bit embarrassed OK, so the phrase Barmeside's loaf it's pronounced Barmaside the stress is on the first syllable and it comes from a tale in the Arabian Knights about a prince of the Barmaside family who offered an imaginary feast, so a barmaside feast means an illusory or disappointing benefit. That's worth knowing, isn't it? Let's continue It did not nourish me. I pined on it and got as thin as a shadow, otherwise I was not ill. Reading there somewhat late one evening and feeling that the power to read was leaving me, for the letters from incessant perusal were losing all sap and significance. My gold was withering to leaves before my eyes, and I was sorrowing over the disillusion suddenly a quick tripping foot ran up the stairs. I knew Geneve Fanchor's step she had dined in town that afternoon she was now returned and would come here to replace her shawl etc in the wardrobe. Yes, in she came, dressed in bright silk with her shawl falling from her shoulders, and her curls half uncurled in the damp of night, drooping careless and heavy upon her neck. I hardly had time to recasket my treasures and lock them up when she was at my side her humour seemed none of the best. It has been a stupid evening they are stupid people, she began. Who? Mrs Chumley, I thought you always found her house charming. I have not been to Mrs Chumley's indeed have you made a new acquaintance? My uncle de Bassompierre is come Your uncle de Bassompier are you not glad? I thought he was a favourite You thought wrong the man is odious I hate him because he is a foreigner or for what other reason of equal weight he is not a foreigner the man is English enough, goodness knows and had an English name till three or four years ago but his mother was a foreigner at de Bassampier and some of her family are dead and have left him estates, a title and this name and he is quite a great man now. Do you hate him for that reason? Don't I know what mamma says about him? He is not my own uncle but married mamma's sister. Mamma detests him she says he killed Aunt Chinefra with unkindness he looks like a bear such a dismal evening, she went on I'll no more go to the his big hotel fancy me walking into a room alone and a great man fifty years old coming forwards and after a few minutes conversation actually turning his back upon me and then abruptly going out of the room such odd ways I dare say his conscious conscience smote him for they all say at home I am the picture of Aunt Ginefre. Mamma often declares the lightness is quite ridiculous. We the only visitor The only visitor? Yes then there was Missy, my cousin, little spoiled pampered thing. Monsieur de Bassompier has a daughter Yes, yes, don't tease one with questions Oh dear I'm so tired. She yawned. Throwing herself without ceremony on my bed, she added It seems Mademoiselle was nearly crushed to a jelly in a hub at the theatre some weeks ago Ah indeed and they live at a large hotel in the Rue Cressi. Justemont how do you know? I've been there you have really you go everywhere these days I suppose Mother Breton took you she and Escule Pius had the entree of the Bassampier apartments and it seems my son John attended Missy on the occasion of her accident accident Bah all affectation I don't think she was squeezed more than she richly deserves for her heirs and now there is quite an intimacy struck up. I heard something about old Langzein and whatnot how stupid they all were Oul you said you were the only visitor did I? You see one forgets to particularise an old woman and her boy Dr and Mrs Breton were at the Monsieur de Bassampier's this evening I as large as life and Missy played the hostess what a conceited doll it is. Soured and listless Miss Fansha was beginning to disclose the causes of her prostrate condition there had been a retrenchment of incense, a diversion or a total withholding of homage and attention cocketry had failed of effect, vanity had undergone mortification she lay fuming in the vapours. Is Miss Mr Bassompier quite well now? I asked as well as you or I no doubt but she is an affected little thing and gave herself invalid airs to attract medical notice and to see the old dowger making her recline on a couch and oh my son John prohibiting excitement etc F the scene was quite sickening. It would not have been so if the object of attention had been changed if you had taken Mr Bassampier's place indeed I hate my son John My son John whom you indicate by that name doctor Breton's mother never calls him so then she ought a clownish bearish John he is you violate the truth in saying so and as the whole of my patience is now spun off the distaff, I peremptorily desire you to rise from that bed and vacate this room passionate thing your face is the colour of a cockilot I wonder what makes you so mighty testy Jean Anderson Mai Jo, Jean, oh the distinguished name Thrilling with exasperation, to which it would have been sheer folly to have given vent, for there was no contending with that unsubstantial feather, that mealy winged moth, I extinguished my taper, locked my bureau and left her, since she would not leave me. Small beer as she was she had turned insufferably acid. The morrow was Thursday and a half holiday. Breakfast was over I had withdrawn to the first class the dreaded hour, the post hour was nearing and I sat waiting much as a ghost seer might wait his spectre. Less than ever was a letter probate still strive as I could not forget that it was possible. As the moments lessened a restlessness and fear almost beyond the average assailed me. It was a day of wintry east wind and I had for some time entered into that dreary fellowship with the winds and their changes, so little known, so incomprehensible to the healthy The north and east owned a terrible influence making all pain more poignant, all sorrow sadder, the south could calm, the west could sometimes cheer, unless indeed they brought on their wings the burden of thunderclouds under the weight and warmth of which all energy died. Bitter and dark as was this January day, I remember leaving the class and returning down without bonnet to the bottom of the long garden, and there lingering among the stripped shrubs in the forlorn hope that the postman's ring might occur while I was out of hearing and I might thus be spared the thrill which some particular nerve or nerves almost gnawed through with the unremitting tooth of a fixed idea and were becoming wholly unfit to support. I lingered as long as I dared without fear of attracting attention by my absence. I muffled my head in my apron and stopped my ears in terror of the torturing clang, sure to be followed by such blank silence, such barum, barren vacuum for me. At last I ventured to reenter the first class where, as it was not yet nine o'clock, no pupils had been admitted. The first thing seen was a white object on my black desk, a white flat object the post had indeed arrived, by me unheard. Rosine had visited my cell and like some angel had left behind her a bright token of her presence. That shining thing on the desk was indeed a letter a real letter I saw so much at the distance of three yards and as I had but one correspondent on earth from that one it must come. He remembered me yet how deep a pulse of gratitude sent new life through my heart drawing near, bending and looking on the letter, in trembling but almost certain hope of seeing a known hand, it was my lot to find, on the contrary, an autograph for the moment deemed unknown, a pale female scrawl instead of a firm, masculine character. I then thought fate was too hard upon me, and I said audibly This is cruel but I got over that pain also life is still life whatever its pangs our eyes and ears and their use remain with us, though the prospect of what pleases be wholly withdrawn, and the sound of what consoles be quite silenced. I opened the billet. By this time I had recognised its handwriting as perfectly familiar. It was dated La Terras and it ran thus Dear Lucy, it occurs to me to inquire what you have been doing with yourself for the last month or two, not that I suspect you would have had the least difficulty in giving an account of your proceedings. I dare say you have been just as busy and happy as ourselves at La Terras. As to Graham his professional connection extends daily he is so much sought after, so much engaged that I tell him he will grow quite conceited. Like a right good mother as I am, I do my best to keep him down. No flattery does he get from me as you know and yet Lucy he is a fine fellow his mother's heart dances at the sight of him. After being hurried here and there the whole day and passing the ordeal of fifty sorts of tempers, and combating a hundred caprices and sometimes witnessing cruel sufferings, perhaps occasionally, as I tell him, inflicting them, at night he still comes home to me in such kindly, pleasant mood that really I seem to live in a sort of moral antipodes and on these January evenings my day rises when other people's night sets in. Still he needs keeping in order and correcting and repressing, and I do him that good service but the boy is so elastic there is no such thing as vexing him thoroughly. When I think I have at last driven him to the Sullens, he turns on me with jokes for retaliation. But you know him and all his iniquities, and I am but an elderly simpleton to make him the subject of this epistle. As for me I have had my old Breton agent here on a visit and have been plunged over head and ears in business matters. I do so wish to regain for Graham at least some part of what his father left him. He laughs to scorn at my anxiety on this point, bidding me look and see how he can provide for himself and me too, and asking what the old lady can possibly want that she has not, hinting about sky blue turbans, accusing me of an ambition to wear diamonds, keep livery servants, have an hotel and lead the fashion among the English clan in Villet Villette. Talking of sky blue turbans, I wished you had been with us the other evening he had come in really tired, and after I'd given him his tea, he threw himself in my chair with his customary presumption. To my great delight he dropped to sleep. You know how he teases me about being drowsy I who never by any chance close an eye by daylight. While he slept I thought he looked very bonny Lucy fool as I am to be so proud of him but who can help it show me his peer look where I will see nothing like him in Villette. Well I took it in my head to play him a trick so I brought out the sky blue turban and handling it and him with gingerly precaution I managed to invest his brows with this grand adornment. I assure you it did not at all misbecome him he looked quite eastern, except that he is so fair. Nobody, however, can accuse him of having red hair now it is genuine chestnut, a dark, glossy chestnut, and when I put my large cashmere about him, there was as fine a young Bay, day or pasha improvised as you would wish to see it was good entertainment but only half enjoyed since I was alone you should have been there. In due time my lord awoke the looking glass above my fireplace soon intimated to him his plight. As you may imagine I now live under threat and dread of vengeance. But to come to the gist of my letter I know Thursday is a half holiday in the Rue Forsette Be ready, then by five in the afternoon, at which hour I will send the carriage to take you out to Le Terras. Be sure to come you may meet some old acquaintance Goodbye my wise dear grave little goddaughter very truly yours Louisa Breton Now a letter like that sets one to rights. I might still be sad after reading that letter but I was more composed not exactly cheered perhaps but relieved my friends at least were well and happy no accident had occurred to Graham, no illness had seized his mother, calamities that had so long been my dream and thought their feelings for me too were as they had been, yet how strange it was to look on Mrs Breton's seven weeks and contrast them with my seven weeks also how very wise it is in people placed in an exceptional position to hold their tongues and not rashly declare how such positions gall them. The world can understand well enough the process of perishing for want of food. Perhaps few persons can enter into or follow out that of going mad from solitary confinement. They see the long buried prisoner disinterred, a maniac or an idiot, how his senses left him, how his nerves first inflamed, underwent nameless agony, and then sunk to palsy is a subject too intricate for examination, too abstract for popular comprehension speak of it you might almost as well stand up in a European marketplace and propound dark sayings in that language and mood wherein Nebuchadnezzar the imperial hypochondriac communed with his baffled Chordians, and long, long may the minds to whom such themes are no mystery, by whom their bearings are sympathetically seized, be few in number and rare of encounter. Long may it be generally thought that physical privations alone merit compassion and that the rest is a figment. When the world was younger and hailer than now, moral traits were a deeper mystery still. Perhaps in all the land of Israel there was but one Saul, certainly but one David to soothe or comprehend him thank you for joining me and we'll have another episode soon to finish that chapter and to read our dear Mr Peeps and to catch up on other things and on Monday I look forward to taking you to the new forest where we're going to go and look for some wild ponies and visit a a church we've not been to before. It's lovely to have you with me and thank you so much for being my companion today. Good night.