Simply Villette; and Eeyore’s wistfulness at being mistaken for Tigger

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SPEAKER_00 0:01

A very good Sunday morning. Charlotte Bronte Villette and we're continuing the chapter at burial. I'll improve, papa. And very pretty was the grace with which the next day she tried to keep her word. I saw her tr make the effort to converse affably with Dr. John on general topics. The attention called into her guest's face a pleasurable glow. He met her with caution and replied to her in his softest tones, as if there was a kind of gossimer happiness hanging in the air which he feared to disturb by drawing too deep a breath. Certainly, in her timid yet earnest advance to friendship, it could not be denied that there was a most exquisite and fairy charm. When the doctor was gone she approached her father's chair. Did I keep my word, papa? Did I behave better? My Polly behaved like a queen. I shall become quite proud of her if this improvement continues. By and by we shall see her receiving my guests with a quiet, calm, grand manner. Miss Lucy and I will have to look about us and polish up all our best airs and graces lest we should be thrown into the shade. Still, Polly, there is a little flutter, a little tendency to stammer now and then, and even to lisp as you lisped when you were six years old. No, papa, interrupted she indignantly. That can't be true. I appealed to Miss Lucy. Did she not, in answering doctor Breton's question as to whether she had ever seen the palace of the Prince of Bois Leton, say yes, there had been that she had been there several times. Papa, you're satirical. You are Meschant. I promise all the letters of the alphabet. I can pronounce all the letters of the alphabet as clearly as you can. But tell me this, you are very particular in making me be civil to doctor Breton. Do you like him yourself? To be sure, for old acquaintance sake I like him. Then he is very good son to his mother, besides being a kind hearted fellow and clever in his profession. Yes, the Callant is well enough. Callant Ah Scotchman. Papa, is it at Edinburgh or Abidine, the accent you have? Both, my pet, both. And doubtless the glass region into the bargain. It is that which enables me to speak French so well. A good a good Scots tongue always succeeds well at the French. The French Scotch again. Incorrigible, papa. You too need schooling. Well, Polly, you must persuade Miss Snow to undertake both you and me and to make you steady and womanly, and me refined and classical. I'm so sorry I can't do a give you a Scotch accent. I can try it a bit, but it's just too embarrassing. The light in which Monsieur de Bassompierre evidently regarded Miss Snow used to occasion me much inward edification. What contradictory attributes of character we sometimes find ascribe to us according to the eye with which we are viewed. Madame Beck esteemed me learned and blue, Miss Fanshaw caustic, ironic and cynical, Mr Holm a model teacher, the essence of the sedate and discreet, somewhat conventional, perhaps, too strict, limited and scrupulous, but still the pink and pattern of governess correctness, whilst another person, Professor Paul Emmanuel, to wit, never lost an opportunity of intimating his opinion that mine was rather a fiery and rash nature, adventurous, indocile and audacious. I smiled at them all. If anyone knew me it was little Paulina, Mary. As I would not be Paulina's nominal and paid companion, genial and harmonious as I began to find her intercourse, she persuaded me to join her in some study as a regular and settled means of sustaining communication. She proposed the German language, which, like myself, she found difficult of mastery. We agreed to take our lessons in the Rue Crescy of the same mistress. This arrangement threw us together for some hours of every week. Monsieur de Bassampier seemed quite pleased. It perfectly met his approbation that Madame Minevergravity should associate a portion of her leisure with that of his fair and dear child. That other self elected judge of mine, the professor in the Rue Fosset, discovering by some surreptitious spying means that I was no longer so stationary as hitherto, but went out regularly at certain hours of certain days, took it upon himself to place me under surveillance. People said Monsieur Emmanuel had been brought up among the Jesuits. I should be more ready I should more readily have accredited this report had his manoeuvres been better masked. As it was, I doubted it. Never was a more undisguised schemer, a franker, looser intriguer. He would analyse his own machinations, elaborately contrive plots, and forthwith indulge in explanatory boasts of their skill. I not I know not whether I was more amused or provoked by his stepping up to me one morning and whispering solemnly that he had his eye on me, he had at least he at least would discharge the duty of a friend and not leave me entirely to my own devices. My proceedings seemed at present very unsettled. He did not know what to make of them. He thought his cousin Beck very much to blame in suffering this sort of fluttering inconsistency in a teacher attached to her house, what had a person devoted to a serious calling, that of education, to do with counts and countesses, hotels and chateau. To him I seemed altogether enlair. On his faith he believed I went out six days in the seven. I said, Monsieur exaggerated, I certainly had enjoyed the advantage of a little change lately, but not before it had become necessary, and the privilege was by no means exercised in excess. Necessary? How was it necessary? I was well enough, he supposed, change necessary. He would recommend me to look at the Catholic religios and study their lives. They asked no change. I am no judge of what expression crossed my face when he thus spoke, but it was one which provoked him. He accused me of being reckless, worldly and epicurean, ambitious of greatness and feverlessly a thirst for the pomps and vanities of life. It seems I had no devant, no reculement in my character, no spirit of grace, faith, sacrifice or self abasement. Feeling the inutility of answering these charges, I mutely continued the correction of a pile of English exercises. He could see in me nothing Christian. Like many other Protestants, I revelled in the pride and self will of paganism. I slightly turned from him, nestling still closer under the wing of silence. A vague sound grumbled between his teeth. It could not surely be a juron. He was too religious for that, but I am certain I had heard the word sacre. Grievous to relate, the same word was repeated with the unequivocal addition of me something when I passed him about two hours afterwards in the corridor, prepared to go and take my German lesson in the Rue Cressi. Never was a better little man in some points than Monsieur Poul, never in others, a more waspish little despot. German mistress, Frulein Anna Braun, was a worthy, hearty woman of about forty five. She ought perhaps to have lived in the days of Queen Elizabeth, as she habitually consumed for her first and second breakfasts beer and beef. Also her direct and downright Deutsch nature seemed to suffer a sensation of cruel constraint from what she recalled our English reserve. Though we thought we were very cordial with her, but we did not slap her on the shoulder, and if we consented to kiss her cheek it was done quietly and without any explosive smack. These omissions oppressed and depressed her considerably. Still, on the whole, we got on very well. Accustomed to instruct foreign girls who hardly ever will think and study for themselves, who have no idea of grappling with the difficulty and overcoming it by dint of reflection or application. Our progress, which in truth was very leisurely, seemed to astound her. In her eyes we were a pair of glacial prodigies, cold, proud and preternatural. The young countess was a little proud, a little fastidious, and perhaps, with her native delicacy and beauty, she had a right to these feelings, but I think it was a total mistake to ascribe them to me. I never evaded the morning salute which Paulina would slip when she could, nor was a certain little manner manner of still disdain a weapon known in my armory of defence, whereas Paulina always kept it clear, fine and bright, and any rough German sally called forth at once its steely glisten. Honest Anna Braun, in some measure, felt this difference, and while she half feared, half worshipped Paulina as a sort of dainty nymph and undean, she took refuge with me as a being all mortal and of easier mood. A book we liked well to read and translate was Schiller's ballads. Paulina soon learned to read them beautifully. The Fraudline would listen to her with a broad smile of pleasure and say her voice sounded like music. She translated them too with a facile flow of language and in a strain of kindred and poetic fervor. Her cheek would flush, her lips tremblingly smile, her beauteous eyes kindle or melt as she went on. She learnt the best by heart and would often recite them when we were alone together. One she liked well was Des Magien Klage, that is, she liked well to repeat the words Oh no there's German coming up. She found plaintive melody in the sound, the sense she would criticize. She murmured as we sat over the fire one evening Oh wish me luck Du Heilegi Rufin Kind Juk Ichhaba Genosen Das Eerdisk Gluk Ichhaba Gelebd Un Gelebet Lived and loved, said she, is that the summit of earthly happiness? The end of life to love? I don't think it is. It may be the extreme of mortal misery, it may be sheer waste of time and fruitless torture of feeling. If Sheila had said to be loved, he might have come nearer the truth. Is that not another thing, Lucy? To be loved? I'm just going to say something here I think the height or the summit of earthly happiness is to find purpose and to have purpose appreciated. I suppose it may be, but why consider it the subject? What is our love to you? What do you know about it? She crimsoned, half in irritation, half in shame. Now Lucy, she said, I won't take that from you. It may well be for papa to look on me as a baby. I rather prep prefer that he should thus view me, but you know and shall learn to acknowledge that I am verging on my nineteenth year. No matter if it were my twenty ninth, your twenty ninth, we will anticipate no feelings by discussion and conversation. We will not talk about love. It's difficult to concentrate. I'm sitting in bed and I've got daughter rushing about getting ready for a day of play rehearsals. Husband's back home, I've got puppies, I can hear the church bells. It's a beautiful day, but I'm sitting in bed with pot of tea enjoying reading to you, so forgive the mistakes, but I hope you are enjoying it. So no matter if it were your twenty ninth, we will anticipate no feelings by discussion and conversation. We will not talk about love. Indeed, indeed, said she, all in a hurry and heat, you may think to check and hold me in as much as you please, but I have talked about it and heard about it too, and a great deal, and lately, and disagreeably and detrimentally, and in a way you wouldn't approve. And the vexed, triumphant, pretty, naughty being laughed. I could not discern what she meant, and I would not ask her, I was nonplussed. Seeing, however, the utmost innocence in her countenance, combined with some transient perverseness and petulance, I said at last Who talks to you disagreeably and detrimentally on such matters? Who that has near access to you would dare to do it? Lucy, replied she more softly, it is a person who makes me miserable sometimes, and I wish she would keep away. I don't want her. But who is it, Paulina? Who can it be? You puzzle me very much. It is it is my cousin Ginevere. Every time she has leave to visit Mrs. Chumley, she calls here, and whenever she finds me alone she begins to talk about her admirers. Love indeed. You should hear all she has to say about love. Oh, I've heard it, said I quite coolly, and on the whole, perhaps it is as well you should have heard it too. It is not to be regretted. It is all right, yet surely Genevere's mind cannot influence yours. You can look over both her head and her heart. She does influence me very much. She has the art of disturbing my happiness and unsettling my opinions. She hurts me through the feelings and people dearest to me. What does she say, Paulina? Give me some idea. There may be counteraction of the damage done. The people I have longest and most esteemed are degraded by her. She does not spare Mrs. Bratton. She does not spare Graham No, I dare say. And how does she mix up these with her sentiment and her love? She does mix them, I suppose. Lucy she is insolent, and I believe false. You know Dr. Bratton. We both know him. He may be careless and proud, but when he when was he ever mean or slavish? Day after day she shows him to me kneeling at her feet, pursuing her like a shadow, she repulsing him with insult, and he imploring her with infatuation. Lucy, is it true? Is any of it true? It may be true that he once thought her handsome. Does she give him out as still her suitor? She says she might marry him any day. He only waits her consent. It is these tales which have caused that reserve in your manner towards Graham, which your father noticed. They have certainly made me all doubtful about his character. As Genevere speaks, they do not carry with them the sound of unmixed truth. I believe she exaggerates, perhaps invents, but I want to know how far. Suppose we bring Miss Fanshaw to some proof, give her an opportunity of displaying the power she boasts. I could do that tomorrow. Papa has asked some gentlemen to dinner, all savants, Graham, who, papa, is beginning to discover is a savant too, skilled, they say, in more than one branch of branch of science, is among the number. Now I should be miserable to sit at table unsupported amidst such a party. I could not talk to Messieurs A and Z, the Parisian academ academicians, all my new credit for a manner would be imperil. You and Mrs. Braton must come for my sake. Ginevra at a word will join you. Yes, then I will carry a message of invitation, and she shall have the chance of justifying her character for veracity. CHAPTER twenty seven The Hotel Cressi The morrow turned out a more lively and busy day than we, or than I at least had anticipated. It seemed it was the birthday of one of the young princes of La Basacour, the eldest, I think, the Duke de Dindono, and a general holiday was given in his honour at the schools and especially at the principal Athenay or college. The youth of that institution had also concocted and were to present a loyal address, for which purpose they were to be assembled in the public building where the yearly examinations were conducted and the prizes distributed. After the ceremony of presentation, an oration or discourse was to follow from one of the professors. Several of Monsieur de Bassampier's friends, the savants, being more or less connected with the Athenay, were expected to attend on this occasion, together with the worshipful municipality of Vidette, Monsieur de Chevalier Stas, the burgamaster, and the parents and kinsfolk of the Athenians in general. Monsieur de Bassampier was engaged by his friends to accompany them. His fair daughter would, of course, be at the party, and she wrote a little note to Genevre and myself, bidding us come early that we might join her. As Miss Fanshaw and I were dressing in the dormitory of Rue Fosset, she, Miss F, suddenly burst into a laugh. What now? I asked, for she had suspended the operation of arranging her attire and was gazing at me. It seems so odd, she replied, with her usual half honest, half insolent unreserve, that you and I should be now so much on a level, visiting in the same sphere, having the same connections. Why, yes, said I, I had not much respect for the connections you chiefly frequented a while ago. Mrs. Chumley and Co would never have suited me at all. Who are you, Miss Snow? she inquired, in a tone of such undisguised and unsophisticated curiosity as made me laugh in my turn. You used to call yourself a nursery governess when you first came here, and you really had the care of your children in this house. I have seen you carry little Georgette in your arms like a bon. By the way, that the French name for a little female assistant helping with family, a bon B O D N E, meaning I suppose good, is I love, don't you think it's a lovely word? We should use it today as a kind of a helper a bon. What a lovely word. Few governesses would have condescended so far. And now Madame Beck treats you with more courtesy than she treats the Parisienne. Saint Pierre and that proud chit, my cousin, makes you her bosom friend. Wonderful, I agreed, much amused at her mystification. Who am I indeed? Perhaps a personage in disguise. Pity I don't look the character. I wonder you're not more flattered by all this, she went on. You take it with strange composure. If you really are the nobody I once thought you, you must be a cool hand. The nobody you once thought me, I repeated, and my face grew a little hot, but I would not be angry. Of what importance was the schoolgirl's crude use of the terms nobody and somebody. I confined myself, therefore, to the remark that I had merely met with civility, and asked what she saw in civility to throw the receipt. recipient into a fever of confusion. One can't help wondering at some things, she persisted. Wondering at marvels of your own manufacture. Are you ready at last? Yes, let me take your arm. I would rather not we will walk side by side. When she took my arm she always leaned upon me her whole weight, and as I was not a gentleman or her lover, I did not like it. There again, she cried, I thought, by offering to take your arm, to intimate approbation of your dress and general appearance. I meant it as a compliment. You did? You mean in short to express that you're not ashamed to be seen in the street with me, that if Mrs Chumley should be fondling her lapdog at some window, or Colonel De Hamel picking his teeth in a balcony, and should catch a glimpse of us, you would not quite blush for your companion. Yes, said she, with that directness which was her best point, which gave an honest plainness to her very fibs when she told them, which was in short the salt, the sole preservative ingredient of a character otherwise not formed to keep. This is great writing, I think. I delegated the trouble of commenting on this yes to my countenance, or rather my underlip voluntarily anticipated my tongue. Of course reverence and solemnity were not the feelings expressed in the look I gave her. Scornful sneering creature, she went on, as we crossed a great square and entered the quiet, pleasant park, our nearest way to the Rue Kisi. Nobody in this world was ever such a turk to me as you are. You bring it on yourself, let me alone have the sense to be quiet, I will let you alone as if one could let you alone when you are so peculiar and so mysterious. The mystery and peculiarity being entirely the conception of your own brain maggots, neither more nor less be so good as to keep them out of my sight. I hope you don't mind if I interrupt you, but I want to share something with you. When I was about twenty eight I was an army officer and I was deployed on operations in Turkey and there was a a chap there who was he was either my rank or slightly senior to me and I didn't know him well so he wasn't a friend and that's an important point and I don't know what whether it was a social time in the evening or whether it was during the day I can't remember whether what what the situation was but he he said to me I he basically said look what what what really are you? What's what's behind the count what's behind your countenance what's behind what's going on what what kind of person are you really you know are you hiding what you are are you but you know he was he was put and I and I said I I don't know what you mean and he said I just don't believe you are the sort of person that you're coming across as and at first because I didn't know him well I sort of was answering politely and and then and then I just suddenly felt I you know I don't have to I you've nothing to do with me. It's none of your business what I am and I I just suddenly well basically I said look I I mean i if I were responding like Lucy Snow I would have said something like you know I I don't have to reply to this impertinence but you know I didn't use old fashioned language obviously I mean I didn't I wasn't rude to him it back but I basically said to him look I you know it I am what I am and it's it's not for me to explain myself to you. I don't know you and I it's not you don't have the right for an ex to to an explanation and I was really sort of fierce back to him in this way and from then on I I sort of treated him really coldly and after a few weeks of this he said you know you're being really cold to me and and again I just said you know it's it's it basically I was what I was saying was I've the right to be what I am you don't have the right to an explanation and and you insisting on an a right to an explanation is an impertinence and I I I felt great about doing that because he was quite a good looking man and I I think he I think he felt that he could pursue women and get warm responses and yeah I think Lucy Snow would have been proud of me and it's not people don't have the right to know you people don't have the right to to have for you to explain yourself. I I think sometimes people think that they can just ask a question and get an answer and get an honest answer. But what why what what what right do they have to first of all have an answer and then to have an answer that explains what's going on within you know we all have a right to our own private thoughts and our own private self and no one else has a right to enter into that world. And friendship is finding people that you're happy to open up to and to share more of yourself. But even within a friendship again no one's got the right to anything no one's got the right ask a question and expect to have it answered and a bit like I do with interviews where I say just say pass if you don't want to answer it. We we have the same right in life that we can just if someone asks us something we can basically say the equivalent of pass and keep hold tight that with which is within us and I just wanted to share that with you because it's something I I feel very strongly really yeah. In fact maybe one of the reasons why I think this is one of the greatest books that I've ever read is because maybe vainly but I I don't think I've ever come across a character I feel so similar to as Lucy Snow where she feels that when she's with one person that one person misconstrues her as X. When she's with another person that person misconstrues her as Y and and so on. I mean I I have felt all my life I mean I've obviously fallen out with my siblings now that my my sister and and brother well particularly my sister has thought of me as a person that I'm not even close to I'm that I'm not like at all and that and that she doesn't even get one part of me right and my my mother too for a long time and then in the last two years of her life we got very very close. We spent so much time together and and what's really nice is is by the very end we really started to understand each other and not only that but realised how similar we were to each other and were also similar in that regard which we felt that always our characters were misconstrued and and I think this can often happen to people who are who are naturally intensely shy and introverted and private which I think was my natural character but to survive in the world and to cope with in both of our cases an older sister who was two years older and to survive then also with younger brothers so you know we but we both had that shared situation that we had to we had to cope with that and we both coped with it by developing a an aura of kind of cheerful, merry robustness and were able to be witty and charming and socially adept and it's not that that's wasn't the real us. It's as real as as anything else. It's more that people then think that's the whole us. So I suppose that's the point that people see that the clothes we put on the the the golden tunic and the the flamboyant headdress and the shiny shoes and they think oh that's the character they are and both our sisters thought it and our brothers and the world about us but you know it was a protective tunic and actually it's not that it wasn't real it it was as real as anything else but it was something that we we could throw off at will and wasn't the whole us and when it came off and we were able to be ourselves with a chosen few friends that we felt comfortable with or more often just on our own that's when we felt most comfortable and that's when we felt we could be ourselves which was quiet, thoughtful intelligent sincere sort of deep thinking serious a little bit maudlin a little bit gloomy a little bit eeure but but not that entirely also deeply in love with the beauty of the world and yeah I think very Lucy snow so that so there I hope that it wasn't a real narcissistic spiel, but I just wanted to share that with you as if one could let you alone when you are so peculiar and mysterious the mystery and peculiarity being entirely the conception of your own brain maggots neither more nor less be so good as to keep them out of my sight. But are you anybody? Persevered she, pushing her hand in spite of me under my arm, and that arm pressed itself with inhospitable closeness against my side by way of keeping out the intruder. Yes, I said, I am a rising character, once an old lady's companion, then a nursery governess, and now a schoolteacher Do, do tell me who you are I'll not repeat it, she urged, adhering with ludicrous tenacity to the wise notion of an incognito she had got hold of, and she squeezed the arm of which she now had obtained full possession, and coaxed and conjured till I was obliged to pause in the park to laugh. Throughout our walk she rang the most fanciful changes on this theme, proving by her obstinate credulity or incredulity, her incapacity to conceive how any person not bolstered up by birth or wealth, not supported by some conspicuousness of name or connection, could maintain an attitude of reasonable integrity, as for me, it quite sufficed in my mental tranquility that I was known where it imported that known I should be the rest sat on me easily. Pedigree, social position and recantite recondite intellectual acquisition occupied about the same space and place in my interests and thoughts they were my third class lodges, to whom could be assigned only the small sitting room and the little back bedroom, even if the dining room and drawing room stood empty I never confessed it to them as thinking minor accommodations better suited to their circumstances. The world I soon learned held a different estimate and I make no doubt the world is very right in its view, yet believe also that I am not quite wrong in mine There are people whom a lowered position degrades morally to whom loss of connection costs loss of self respect are not these justified in placing the highest value on that station and association which is their safeguard from debasement? If a man feels that he would become contemptible in his own eyes were it generally known that his ancestry was simple and not gentle poor and not rich workers and not capitalists, would it be right severely to blame him for keeping these fatal facts out of sight, for starting, trembling, quailing at the chance which threatens exposure? The longer we live the more our experience widens, the less prone are we to judge our neighbours conduct, to question the world's wisdom, wherever an accumulation of small defences is found, whether surrounding the prude's virtue or the man of the world's respectability, there be sure it is needed. We reached the hotel Cressi, Paulina was ready, Mrs Breton was with her, and under her escort and that of Monsieur de Bassampier, we were soon conducted to the place of the assembly and seated in good seats at a convenient distance from the tribune. The youth of the Athenay were marshalled before us the municipality and their bourgmestre were in places of honour, the young princes with their tutors occupied a conspicuous position, and the body of the building was crowded with the aristocracy and first burgers of the town. Concerning the identity of the professor by whom the discourse was to be delivered, I had as yet entertained neither care nor question. Some vague expectation I had that a savant would stand up and deliver a formal speech, half dogmatism to the Athenians, half flattery to the princes. The tribune was yet empty when we ent wait when we entered, but in ten minutes after it was filled. Suddenly in a second of time a head, chest and arms grew above the crimson desk. This head I knew, its colour, shape, port, expression were familiar both to me and Miss Fanshaw the blackness and closeness of cranium, the amplitude and paleness of brow, the blueness and fire of glance were details so domesticated in memory and so knit with many a whimsical association, as almost by this their sudden apparition, to tickle fancy to a laugh. Indeed I confess for my part I did laugh till I was warm, but then I bent my head and made my handkerchief and a lowered veil the sole sole confidence of my mirth. I think I was glad to see Monsieur Paul I think it was rather pleasant than otherwise to behold him set up there, fierce and frank, dark and candid, testy and fearless, as when regnant on his estrade in class. His presence was such a surprise I had not once thought of expecting him, though I knew he filled the chair of Belle Letre in the cottage. With him in that tribune I felt sure that neither formalism nor flattery would be our doom, but for what was vouchsafed for us, for what was poured suddenly, rapidly, continuously on our heads, I own I was not prepared. He spoke to the princes, the nobles, the magistrates and the burgers with just the same ease, with almost the same pointed choleric earnestness with which he was wont to harangue the three divisions of the Rue Forsette, the Collegians he addressed not as schoolboys but as future citizens and embryo patriots patriots the times which have come on Europe since had not been foretold and Monsieur Emmanuel's spirit seemed new to me who would have thought the flat and fat soil of La Bassecour could yield political convictions and national feelings such as were now strongly expressed. Of the bearing of his opinions I need here give no special indication, yet it may be permitted to say that I believed the little man not more earnest than right in what he said. With all his fire he was severe and sensible he trampled utopian theories under his heel. He rejected wild dreams with scorn, but when he looked in the face of tyranny oh then there opened a light in his eye worth seeing and when he spoke of injustice his voice gave no uncertain sound, but reminded me rather of the band trumpet ringing at twilight from the park. I do not think his audience were generally susceptible of sharing his flame in its purity, but some of the college youth caught fire as he eloquently told them what should be their path and endeavour in their countries and in Europe's future. They gave him a long loud ringing cheer as he concluded with all its fierceness he was their favourite professor. As our party left the hall he stood at the entrance he saw and knew me and lifted his hat. He offered his hand in passing and uttered the word condit v question eminently characteristic, and reminding me even in this his moment of triumph, of that inquisitive restlessness, that absence of what I considered desirable self control, which were amongst his faults. He should not have cared just then to ask what I thought or what anybody thought, but he did care, and he was too natural to conceal, too impulsive to repress his wish. Well, if I blamed his over eagerness I liked his naivety I would have praised him I had plenty of praise in my heart but alas no words on my lips who has words at the right moment I stammered some lame expressions but was truly glad when other people coming up with profuse congratulations covered my deficiency by their redundancy. A gentleman introduced him to Monsieur de Bassampier and the count who had likewise been highly gratified asked him to join his friends, for the most part, Monsieur Emmanuel's likewise, and to dine with them at the hotel Cressy. He declined dinner for he was a man always somewhat shy in meeting the advances of the wealthy. There was a strength of sturdy independence in the stringing of his sinews, not obtrusive but pleasant enough to discover as one advanced in knowledge of his character. He promised, however, to step in with his friend, Monsieur A, a French academician in the course of the evening. At dinner that day Genevre and Paulina each looked in their own way very beautiful, the former perhaps boasted the advantage in material charms, but the latter shone preeminent for attractions, more subtle and spiritual, for light and eloquence of eye, for grace of men, for winning variety of expression. Maybe it's the difference between Meghan Markle and Kate Middleton, one's more sort of glamorously attractive and one has the more subtle beauty. Ginevre's dress of deep crimson relieved well her light curls and harmonised with her rose like bloom. Paulina's attire in fashion close, though faultlessly neat, but in texture clear and white made the eye grateful for the delicate life of her complexion, for the soft animation of her countenance, for the tender depth of her eyes, for the brown shadow and bounteous flow of her hair, darker than that of her Saxon cousin, as were also her eyebrows, her eyelashes, her full eyes and large mobile pupils, nature having traced all these details slightly and with a careless hand in Miss Fanshaw's case, and in Mr Bassampier's wrought them to a high And delicate finish. Paulina was awed by the savants, but not quite to mutism. She conversed modestly, diffidently, but not without effort, but with so true a sweetness, so fine and penetrating a sense, that her father more than once suspended his own discourse to listen, and fixed on her an eye of proud delight. It was a polite Frenchman, Monsieur Zed, a very learned but quite a courtly man, who had drawn her into discourse. I was charmed with her French. It was faultless, the structure correct, the idiom true, the pure the accent pure. Genevre, who had lived half her life on the continent, could do nothing like it, not that words ever failed Miss Fanshaw, but real accuracy and purity she neither possessed, nor in any number of years would acquire. Here too, Monsieur de Bassompierre was gratified, for on the point of language he was critical. Another listener and observer there was, one who, detained by some exigency of his profession profession, had come in late to dinner. Both ladies were quietly scanned by Dr. Bratton at the moment of taking his seat at the table, and that guarded survey was more than once renewed. His arrival roused Miss Fanshaw, who had hitherto appeared listless. She now became smiling and complacent, talked, though what she said was rarely to the purpose, or rather was of a purpose somewhat mortifyingly below the standard of the occasion. Her light, disconnected prattle might have gratified Graham once, perhaps perhaps it pleased him still, perhaps it was only fancy which suggested the thought that while his eye was filled, his ear was fed, his taste, his keen zest, his lively intelligence were not equally consulted and regaled. It is certain that, restless and exacting as seemed the demand on his attention, he yielded courteously all that was required. His manner showed neither pique nor coolness. Genefro was his neighbour, and to her during dinner he almost exclusively confined his notice. She appeared satisfied and passed to the drawing room in very good spirits. Yet no sooner had we reached that place of refuge than she again became flat and listless, throwing herself on a couch. She denounced both the discourse and the dinner as stupid affairs, and inquired of her cousin how she could bear such a set of prosaic grobone as her father had gathered about him. The moment the gentlemen were heard to move, her railing ceased. She started up, flew to the piano, and dashed at it with spirit. Dr Breton, entering one of the first, took up his station beside her. I thought he would not long maintain that post. There was a position near the hearth to which I expected to see him attracted. This position he only scanned with his eye, while he looked, others drew in. The grace and mind of Paulina charmed these thoughtful Frenchmen. The feeness of her beauty, the soft courtesy of her manner, her immature but real and inbred tact pleased their national taste. They clustered about her, not indeed to talk silent science, which would have rendered her dumb, but to touch on many subjects in letters, in arts, in actual life, on which it soon appeared that she had both read and reflected. I listened. I am sure that though Graham stood aloof, he listened too. His hearing as well as his vision was very fine, quick, discriminating. I knew he gathered the conversation. I felt that the mode in which it was sustained suited him exquisitely, pleased him almost to pain. In Paulina there was more force, both of feeling and character than most people thought, than Graham himself imagined, than she would ever show to those who did not wish to see it. To speak truth, reader, there is no excellent beauty, no accomplished grace, no reliable refinement without strength as excellent, as complete, as trustworthy. As well you might look for good fruit and blossom on a rootless and sapless tree, as for charms that will endure in a feeble and relaxed nature. For a little while the blooming semblance of beauty may flourish around weakness, but it cannot bear a blast. It soon fades even in serenest sunshine. Graham would have started had any suggestive spirit whispered of the sinew and the stamina sustaining that delicate nature, but I, who had known her as a child, knew or guessed by what a good strong and strong route her graces held to the firm soil of raity. While doctor Breton listened and waited an opening in the magic circle, his glance restlessly sweeping the room at intervals, lighted by chance on me, where I sat in a quiet nook not far from my godmother and Monsieur de Bassompierre, who as usual were engaged in what Mr Holm called a two handed crack, what the count would have interpreted as a tet. Graham smiled recognition, crossed the room, asked me how I was, told me I looked pale. I also had my own smile at my own thought. It was now about three months since Dr. John had spoken to me, a lapse of which he was not even conscious. He sat down and became silent. His wish was rather to look than converse. Genevere and Paulina were now opposite to him. He could gaze his fill, and he surveyed both forms, studied both faces. Several new guests, ladies as well as gentlemen, had entered the room since dinner, dropping in for the evening conversation, and amongst the gentlemen I may incidentally observe I had already noticed by glimpses a severe, dark, professional outline professoral, sorry, outline, hovering aloof in an inner saloon seen only in vista. Monsieur Emmanuel knew many of the gentlemen present, but I think was a stranger to most of the ladies, excepting myself. In looking towards the hearth, he could not but see me and naturally made a movement to approach. Seeing, however, doctor Breton also, he changed his mind and held back. If that had been all, there would have been no cause for quarrel, but not satisfied with holding back, he puckered up his eyebrows, protruded his lip, and looked so ugly that I averted my eyes from the displeasing spectacle. Monsieur Joseph Emmanuel had arrived as well as his austere brother, and at this very moment was relieving Ginevra at the piano. What a master touch succeeded her schoolgirl jingle, in what grand, grateful tones the instrument acknowledged the hand of the true artist. Lucy, began doctor Bratton, breaking silence and smiling as Ginevre glided before him, casting a glance as she passed. Miss Fanshaw is certainly a fine girl. Of course I assented. Is there, he pursued, another in the room as lovely? I think there is not another as handsome. I agree with you, Lucy. You and I do often agree in opinion, in taste, I think, or at least in judgment. Do we? I said, somewhat doubtfully. I believe if you had been a boy, Lucy, instead of a girl, my mother's godson instead of her goddaughter, we should have been good friends. Our opinions would have melted into each other. He had assumed a bantering air, a light, half caressing, half ironic, shone a slant in his eye. Ah, Graham, I have been given more than one solitary moment to thoughts and calculations of your estimate of Lucy Snow. Was it always kind or just? Had Lucy been intrinsically the same, but possessing the additional advantages of wealth and station, would your manner to her, your value for her have been quite what they actually were? And yet by these questions I would not seriously infer blame. No, you might sadden and trouble me sometimes, but then mine was a soon depressed and easily deranged temperament. It fell if a cloud crossed the sun. Perhaps before the eye of severe equity I should stand more at fault than you. Trying then to keep down the unreasonable pain which thrilled my heart on thus being made to feel that while Graham could devote to others the most grave and earnest, the manliest interest, he had no more than light railery for Lucy, the friend of Lang Zine. I inquired calmly, on what points are we so closely in accordance? We each have an observant faculty. You perhaps don't give me credit for the possession, yet I have it. But you were speaking of tastes. We may see the same objects yet estimate them differently. Let us bring it to the test. Of course you cannot but render homage to the merits of Miss Fanshaw now what do you think of others in the room? My mother, for instance, or the lions yonder, Messieurs A and Z or let us say that pale little lady, Miss de Bassompierre. You know what I think of your mother. I have not thought of Messieurs A and Z and the other I think she is, as you say, a pale little lady, pale certainly, just now, when she is fatigued with over excitement. You don't remember her as a child. I wonder sometimes whether you do. I had forgotten her, but she is it is noticeable that circumstances, persons, even words and looks that had slipped your memory may, under certain conditions, certain aspects of your own or another's mind revive. That is possible enough. Yet, he continued, the revival is imperfect, needs confirmation, partakes so much of the dim character of a dream, or of the airy one of a fancy that the testimony of a witness becomes necessary for corroboration. Were you not a guest at Breton ten years ago when Mr Holme brought this little girl whom we then called Little Polly to stay with mamma? I was there the night she came and also the morning she went away. Rather a peculiar child was she not? I wonder how I treated her. Was I fond of children in those days? Was there anything gracious or kindly about me? Great lip reckless schoolboy as I was. But you don't recollect me, of course. You have seen your own picture at La Terras. It is like you personally. In manner you were almost the same yesterday as today. But Lucy, how is that? Such an oracle really wets my curiosity. What am I today? What was I the yesterday of ten years back? Gracious to whatever pleased you, unkindly or cruel to nothing. There you are wrong. I think I was almost a brute to you, for instance. A brute no, Graham, I should never have patiently endured brutality. This, however, I do remember. Quiet, Lucy Snow tasted nothing of my grace, as little of your cruelty. Why, had I been Nero himself, I could not have tormented a being inoffensive as a shadow. I smiled, but I also hushed a groan. Oh I wish he would just let me alone, cease illusion to me. These epithets, these attributes I put from me, his quiet Lucy snow, his inoffensive shadow, I gave him back, not with scorn but with extreme weariness. Theirs was the coldness and the pressure of lead. Let him well me with no such weight. That's how I feel when that's how I've always felt all my life when people have said things like, Oh you're such a you know, a bubbly character, you're such a you're such a you're such a frivolous character. And it goes back to what I was saying a minute ago about how I always felt misunderstood by my sister, by my brother, by my stepfather, by my mother. I always felt as a child completely misunderstood and therefore not able to feel at ease within my own skin and apart from when I was in my room. I used to often I used to go and sit on my windowsill and open my window and the view from my window was Oosthouses because you know we lived in Kent and also the top of the church and I used to look out, it was a sort of northeasterly view, I think. I may have got that wrong though, and I used to sit and play music, turn all the lights off, and look out and just you know, feel comfortable there in my own in my own quietness and when when I have felt misunderstood, I don't it's a bit like how Lucy Snow feels. It's I don't blame anyone because i if they come to that conclusion and more often than not people have all my life come to that same wrong conclusion then you know I can't blame people because it's obviously that the that that's the image that I've given off. But at the same time, like Lucy Snow here, the the the phrase that she uses here, extreme weariness. That's how I've always felt. Extreme weariness with that sense of ugh you know how do you feel? How do you relate to it? Have have you always had extreme weariness by how you felt misdiagnosed, that you've understood that it's not people's fault, because obviously that's the view that they've come to you based on, you know, the image that you've portrayed. But has there been a part of you that's felt extreme weariness by how you feel your siblings have not understood you or your fri or your friends and that you've resorted to quietness on your own, walking around museums or galleries or cathedrals, and you've you've stuck to being on your own because that's the only time you felt you can really rest and feel at ease within yourself, apart from perhaps with one or two people that you've made friends with that you've felt comfortable to be yourself, felt comfortable to show the quiet, perhaps boring side of you that is deep within you and that you're comfortable with. Are you Eeyore dressed as Tigger? Happily he was soon on another theme. On what terms were little Polly and I, unless my recollections deceive me, we were not foes. You speak very vaguely. Do you think little Polly's memory not more definite? Oh, we don't talk of little Polly now. Pray say Mr Bassompierre, and of course such a stately personage remembers nothing of Breton. Look at her large eyes, Lucy. Can they read a word in the page of memory? Are they the same which I used to direct to a horn book? She does not know that I partly taught her to read. In the Bible on Sunday nights? She has a calm, delicate, rather fine profile now. Once what was a little restless, anxious countenance. What a thing is a child's preference. What a bubble. Would you believe it? That lady was fond of me. I think she was in some measure fond of you, said I, moderately. You don't remember then? I had forgotten, but I remember now. She liked me the best of whatever there was at Breton. You thought so? I quite well recall it. I wish I could tell her all I recall, or rather, I wish someone, you, for instance, would go behind and whisper it all in her ear, and I could have the delight, here as I sit, of watching her look under the intelligence. Could you manage that, think you, Lucy, and make me ever grateful? Could I manage to make you ever grateful? said I. No, I could not, and I felt my fingers work and my hands interlock. I felt too an inward courage warm and resistant. In this matter I was not disposed to gratify Dr. John, not at all. With a now welcome force I realized his entire misapprehension of my character and nature. He wanted always to give me a role not mine. Nature and I opposed him. He did not at all guess what I felt. He did not read my eyes or face or gestures, though I doubt not all spoke. Leaning towards me coaxingly, he said softly Do content me, Lucy. And I would have contented, or at least I would clearly have enlightened him, and taught him well never again to expect of me the part of officious soubrette in a love drama, when, following his soft, eager murmur, meeting almost his pleading mellow, do content me, Lucy. A sharp hiss pierced my ear on the other side. Petit chat duceret coquette sibilated the sudden beau constric constrictor. Vous avez bien trist revers May V let Semoi qui la flam alam le Clair Os la Flam Alem a Dois La Vois, retorted I, turning in just wrath, but Professor Emmanuel had hissed his insult and was gone. The worst of the matter was that doctor Breton, whose ears, as I have said, were quick and fine, caught every word of this apostrophe, and he put his handkerchief to his face and laughed till he shook. Well done, Lucy, cried he. Capital putit chat, putit cocket. Oh I must tell my mother. Is it true, Lucy, or half true? I believe it is, you redden to the colour of Miss Fanshaw's gown, and really, by my word, now I examine him, that is the same little man who was so savage with you at the concert. The very same, and in his soul, he is frantic at this moment because he sees me laughing. Oh I must tease him. And Graham, yielding to his bent for mischief, laughed, jested, and whispered on till I could bear no more, and my eyes filled. Suddenly he was sobered. A vacant space appeared near Mr Bassompierre. The circle surrounded her seemed about to dissolve. This movement was instantly caught by Graham's eye, ever vigilant, even while laughing. He rose, took his courage in both hands, crossed the room and made the advantage his own. Dr. John, throughout his whole life, was a man of luck, a man of success, and why? Because he had the eye to see his opportunity, the heart to prompt a well timed action, and the nerve to consummate a perfect work, and no tyrant passion dragged him back, no enthusiasms, no foibbles encumbered his way. How well he looked at this very moment. When Paulina looked up as he reached her side, her glance mingled at once with an encountering glance, animated yet modest. His colour as he spoke to her, became half a blush, half a glow. He stood in her presence, with Brave and bashful, subdued and unobtrusive, yet decided in his purpose and devoted in his ardour. I gathered all this by one view. I did not prolong my observation, time failed me. Had inclination served, the night wore late, Genevre and I ought already to have been in the Rue Fossette. I rose and bade good night to my godmother and Monsieur de Bassompierre. I know not whether Professor Emmanuel had noticed my reluctant acceptance of Dr. Breton's badinage or whether he perceived that I was pained and that, on the whole, the evening had not been one flow of exultant enjoyment for the volatile, pleasure loving Mademoiselle Lucy, but as I was leaving the room he stepped up and inquired whether I had anyone to attend me to the Rue Forsette. The Professor now spoke politely and even deferentially, and he looked apologetic and repentant, but I could not recognise his civility at a word, nor meet his contrition with crude, premature oblivion. Never hitherto had I felt seriously disposed to resent to resent his bruscoes or to freeze before his fierceness. What he had said tonight, however, I considered unwarranted. My extreme disapprobation of the proceeding must be marked, however slightly. I merely said I am provided with attendance, which was true, as Genevere and I were to be sent home in the carriage, and I passed him with the sliding obeisance with which he was wont to be saluted in class by pupils crossing his estrade. Having sought my shawl I returned to the vestibule. Madame Monsieur Emmanuel stood there as if waiting. He observed that the night was fine. Is it? I said, with a tone and manner, whose consummate chariness and frostiness I could not but applaud. It was so seldom I could properly act out of my own resolution to be reserved and cool where I had been grieved or hurt, that I felt almost proud of this one successful effort. That is it sounded just like the manner of other people. I had heard hundreds of such little minced, docked, dry phrases from the pursed up choral lips of a score of self possessed, self sufficing misses and Mademoiselle. That Monsieur Paul would not stand any prolonged experience of this sort of dialogue I knew, but he certainly merited a sample of the curt and arid. I believe he thought so himself, for he took the dose quietly. He looked at my shawl and objected to its lightness. I decidedly told him it was as heavy as I wished. Receding aloof and standing apart, I leaned on the banister of the stairs, folded my shawl about me, and fixed my eyes on a dreary religious painting darkening the wall. Ginevre was long in coming. Tedious seemed her loitering. Monsieur Poul was still there, my ear expected from his lips an angry tone. He came nearer. Now for another hiss, thought I. Had not the action been too uncivil, I would have stopped my ears with my fingers in terror of the thrill. Nothing happens as we expect. Listen for a coup or a murmur, and it is then you'll hear a cry of prey or pain, await a piercing shriek, an angry threat, and welcome an amicable greeting, a low kind of whisper. Miss Upoul spoke gently. Friends, said he, do not quarrel for a word. Tell me, was it I or Se Grand Fat Donglay, he so profanely denominated doctor Breton, who made your eyes so humid and your cheeks so hot as they are even now. I am not conscious of you, monsieur, or of any other having excited such emotion as you indicate, was my answer, and in giving it I again surpassed my usual self and achieved a neat, frosty falsehood. But what did I say? he pursued. Tell me, I was angry, I have forgotten my words, what were they? Such as it is best to forget, said I, still quite calm and chill. Then it was my words which wounded you. Consider them unsaid, permit my retraction, accord my pardon. I'm not angry, monsieur. Then you were worse than angry, grieved. Forgive me, Miss Lucy. Monsieur Emmanuel, I do forgive you. Let me hear you say in the voice natural to you, and not in that alien turn Monami juvu pardon. He made me smile. Who could help smiling at his wistfulness, his simplicity, his earnestness? Bon, he cried, Voila coule jundre dit donc Monami Monsieur Poul jupardon I will have no Monsieur speak the other word, or I shall not believe you sincere. Another effort Monami or else in English, my friend. Now my friend had rather another sound and significancy than Monami. It did not breathe the same sense of domestic and intimate affection. Monami I could not say to Monsieur Poul. My friend I could and did say without difficulty. This distinction existed not for him, however, and he was quite satisfied with the English phrase. He smiled. You should have seen him smile, reader, and you should have marked the difference between his countenance now and that he wore half an hour ago. I cannot affirm that I had ever witnessed the smile of pleasure or content or kindness around Monsieur Poul's lips, or in his eyes before. The ironic, the sarcastic, the disdainful, the passionately exultant I had hundreds of times seen in him express by what he called a smile, but any illuminated sign of milder or warmer feeling struck me as wholly new in his visage. It changed it as from a mask to a face. The deep lines left his features, the very complexion seemed clearer and fresher, that swart, sallow southern darkness, which spoke his Spanish blood, became displaced by a lighter hue. I know not that I have ever seen in any other human face an equal metamorphosis from a similar cause. He now took me to the carriage. At the same moment Monsieur de Bassompierre came out with his niece. In a pretty humour was Mistress Fanshaw. She had found the evening a grand failure. Completely upset as to temper, she gave way to the most uncontrolled moroseness as soon as we were seated, and the carriage door closed. Her invectives against doctor Breton had something venomous in them. Having found herself impotent either to charm or sting him, hatred was her only resource, and this hatred she expressed in terms so unmeasured and proportions so monstrous, that, after listening for a while with assumed stoicism, my outraged sense of justice at last and suddenly caught fire. An explosion ensued, for I could be passionate, too, especially with my present fair but faulty associate, who never failed to stir the worst dregs of me. It was well that the carriage wheels made a tremendous rattle over the flinty villette pavement, for I can assure the reader there was neither dead silence nor calm discussion within the vehicle. Half in earnest, half in seeming, I made it my business to storm down Ginevre. She had set out rampant from the Rue Classi, and it was necessary to tame her before we reached the Rue Fossette. To this end, it was indispensable to show up her sterling value and high desserts, and this must be done in the language of which the fidelity and homeliness might challenge comparison with the compliments of a John Knox to a Mary Stuart. This was the right discipline for Ginevere. It suited her. I am quite sure she went to bed that night all the better and more settled in mind and mood, and slept all the more sweetly for having undergone a sound moral drubbing. End of volume two The next part is chapter twenty eight The Watchguard and it starts. Monsieur Paul Emmanuel owned an acute sensitiveness to the annoyance of interruption from whatsoever cause during his lessons. To pass through the class under such circumstances was considered by the teachers and pupils of the school individually and collectively to be as much as a woman's or a girl's life was worth. Thank you for joining me today. Lots of love. Bye bye.