Villette: Charlotte Brontë’s Enchanting Weaving of Words

Good evening 

As I read this chapter this evening in the quietness of my accommodation by the sea, I felt that dark, unvisited corners within my heart were being quietly crept into and opened up a crack. With her words sparingly used, Charlotte Brontë yet manages to prise open these closed, private, tender parts within us, tears surprising us as they prick our blinking eyes.  A trick has been played, it feels.  As when with just a few notes Mozart can do something that feels very similar.  These feelings are such an important part of living a rich life and it’s why I’m convinced that literature, music and all of the arts are so important for an enriched life and a mind satisfied by a vast Naniaesque hinterland.  

And we have all the books, art and music we could want.  Let’s feast on the unlimited banquet of all things bright and beautiful.

Thank you for your kindness and support, 

Love Gretel

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

Good evening, and now we continue Villette by Charlotte Bronte, and we'd just started chapter 29 and we'd finished with the following wonderful lines. And we're tw and she's talking about Monsieur Emanuel, of course. And he she was saying in this instance he was using a voice he that belonged to himself, a voice used when his heart passed the word to his lips. That same heart did speak sometimes, though an irritable, it was not an ossified organ. In its core was a place tender beyond a man's tenderness, a place that humbled him to little children, that bound him to girls and women, to whom, rebel as he would, he could not disown his affinity, nor quite deny that, on the whole, he was better with them than with his own sex. We all wish Monsieur a good day and present to him our congratulations on the anniversary of his fit, said Mademoiselle Zelli, constituting herself spokeswoman of the assembly, and advancing with no more twists of affectation than with her were indispensable to the achievement of motion, she laid her costly bouquet before him, he bowed over it. The long train of offerings followed, all the pupils sweeping past with gliding step, foreigners practice left their tributes as they went by, each girl so dexterously adjusted her separate gift that when the last bouquet was laid on the desk it formed the apex to a blooming pyramid, a pyramid blooming, spreading, and towering with such exuberance as in the end to eclipse the hero behind it. The ceremony over, seats were resumed and we sat in dead silence, expectant of spleet of a speech. I suppose five minutes might have elapsed, and the hush remained unbroken. Ten, and there was no sound. Many present began, doubtless, to wonder for what Monsieur waited as well they might. Voiceless and viewless, stirless, stirless and wordless, he kept his station behind the pile of flowers. At last there issued forth a voice, rather deep, as if it spoke out of a hollow. Eslatou Mademoiselle Zelli looked around. You have all presented your bouquets, inquired she of the pupils. Yes, they had all given their nosegaze from the eldest to the youngest, from the tallest to the most diminutive. The senior mistress mistress signified as much. Esla too was reiterated in an intonation which deep before had now descended some notes lower. Monsieur, said Mademoiselle Saint Pierre, rising, and this time speaking with her own sweet smile, I have the honour to tell you that, with a single exception, every person in class has offered her bouquet. For Miss Lucie, Monsieur will kindly make allowance. As a foreigner she probably did not know our customs or did not appreciate their significance. Miss Lucy has regarded this ceremony as too frivolous to be honored by her observance. Famous, I muttered between my teeth, you are no bad speaker, Zelly when you begin. The answer vouchsafed to Mademoiselle Saint Pierre from the Estrade was given in the gesticulation of a hand from behind the pyramid. This manual action seemed to deprecate words to enjoin silence. A form ere long followed the hand. Monsieur emerged from his eclipse, and producing himself upon the front of his estrade and gazing straight and fixedly before him at a vast map monde, covering the wall opposite, he demanded a third time, and now in really tragic tones Esla tou I might yet have made all right by stepping forwards. And slipping into his hand the ruddy little shell box I at that moment held tight in my own. It was what I had fully purposed to do, but first the comic side of Monsieur's behaviour had tempted me to delay, and now Mademoiselle Saint Pierre's affected interference provoked contumacity. The reader not having hitherto had any cause to ascribe to Miss Snow's character the most distant pretension to perfection, will be scarcely surprised to learn that she felt too perverse to defend herself from any imputation the Parisienne might choose to insinuate, and besides, Monsieur Poole was so tragic and took my defections so seriously he deserved to be vexed. I kept, then, both my box and my countenance, and sat insensate as any stone. It is well, dropped at length from the lips of Monsieur Poul, and having uttered this phrase the shadow of some great paroxysm, the swell of wrath, scorn, resolve, passed over his brow, rippled his lips, and lined his cheeks. Gulping down all further comment he launched into his customary discourse. I can't at all remember what this discourse was. I did not listen to it. The gulping down process, the abrupt dismissal of his mortification or vexation, had given me a sensation which, half in half counteracted, the ludicrous effect of the reiterated Esla to Towards the close of the speech there came a pleasing diversion. My attention was again amusingly arrested. Owing to some little accidental movement, I think I dropped my thimble on the four floor, and in stooping to regain it, hit the crown of my head against the sharp corner of my desk, which casualties, exasperating to me by rights as if to anybody, naturally made a slight bustle. Monsieur Poole became irritated, and dismissing his forced equanimity, and casting to the winds that dignity and self control with which he never cared long enough to encumber himself, he broke forth into the strain best calculated to give him ease. I don't know how in the progress of his discour he had contrived to cross the channel and land on British ground, but there I found him when I began to listen. Casting a quick, cynical glance around the room, a glance which scathed or was intended to scathe as it crossed me, he fell with fury upon Les Anglais. Never have I heard English women handled as Monsieur Poole that morning handled them. He spared nothing, neither their minds, morals, manners, nor personal appearance. I especially remember his abuse of their tall stature, their long necks, their thin arms, their slovenly dress, their pedantic education, their impious scepticism, their insufferable pride, their pretentious virtue, over which he ground his teeth malignantly and looked as if had he dared, he would have said singular things. Oh he was spiteful, acrid, savage, and as a natural consequence, detestably ugly. Little wicked, venomous man, thought I, am I going to harass myself with fears of displeasing you or hurting your feelings? No, indeed, you shall be indifferent to me as the shabbiest bouquet in your pyramid. I grieved to say I could not quite carry out this resolution. For some time the abuse of England and the English found and left me stolid. I bore it some fifteen minutes stoically enough, but this hissing cocotrice was determined to sting, and he said such things at last, fastening not only upon our women women, but upon our greatest names and best men, sulling the shield of Britannia and dabbling the Union Jack in mud, that I was stung. With vicious relish he brought up the most spicy current continental historical falsehoods, than which nothing can be conceived more offensive. Zelli and the whole class became one grin of vindictive delight, for it is curious to discover how these clowns of La Bascourt secretly hate England. At last I struck a sharp stroke on my desk, opened my lips and let loose this cry Vive Longletere Listoir El Abas La France, la fiction el facin. The class was struck of a heap. I suppose they thought me mad. The professor put up his handkerchief and fiendishly smiled into its folds. Little monster of malice. He now thought he had got the victory since he had made me angry. In a second he became good humoured. With great blandness he resumed the subject of his flowers, talked poetically and symbolically of their sweetness, perfume, purity, etc, made Frenchified comparisons between the Jean Ville and the sweet blossoms before him, paid Mademoiselle Saint Pierre a very full blown compliment on the superiority of her bouquet, and ended by announcing that the first really fine, mild and balmy morning in spring, he intended to take the whole class out to breakfast in the country. Such of the class, at least, he added, with emphasis, as he could count amongst the number of his friends. Donc jenispa, declared I, involuntarily. Suw was his response, and gathering his flowers in his arms, he flashed out of class, while I, consigning my work, scissors, thimble, and the neglected little box to my desk, swept upstairs. I don't know whether he felt hot and angry, but I am free to confess that I did. Yet with a strange, effanescent anger, I had not sat an hour on the edge of my bed picturing and repturing his look, manner, words, ere I smiled at the whole scene. A little pang of regret I underwent that the box had not been offered. I had meant to gratify him. Fate would not have it so. In the course of the afternoon, remembering that desks in class were by no means in violet repositories, and thinking that it was as well to secure the box on account of the initials on the lid PC D E for Paul Carlos, David Emmanuel, such was his full name, these foreigners must always have a string of baptismals, I descended to the schoolroom. It slept in holiday repose. The day pupils were all gone home, the boarders were out walking, the teachers except the surveillant of the week were in town, visiting or shopping, the suite of divisions was so vacant, so was the grand salle, with its huge, solemn globe hanging in the midst, its pair of many branched chandeliers, and its horizontal grand piano closed, silent, enjoying its midweek Sabbath. I rather wondered to find the first class door ajar, and this room being usually locked when empty, and being then inaccessible to any save Madame Beck and myself, who possessed a duplicate key. I wondered still more on approaching to hear a vague movement of life, a step, a chair stirred, a sound like the opening of a desk. It is only Madame Beck doing inspection duty was the conclusion following a moment's reflection. The partially opened door gave opportunity for assurance on this point. I looked, behold, not the inspecting garb of Madame Beck, the shawl and the clean cap, but the coat and the close shorn dark head of a man. This person occupied my chair, his olive hand held my desk open, his nose was lost to view amongst my papers. His back was towards me, but there could not be a moment's question about the identity. Already was the attire of ceremony discarded, the cherished and ink stained palator was resumed, the perverse Boneg lay on the floor, as if just dropped from the hand, culpably busy. Now I knew and had long known that the hand of Monsieur Emmanuel's was on intimate terms with my desk, that it raised and lowered the lid, ransacked and arranged the contents almost as familiarly as my own. The fact was not dubious, nor did he wish it to be so. He left signs of each visit palpable and unmistakable. Hitherto, however, I had not caught him in the act. Watch as I would I could not detect the hours and moments of his coming. I saw the Brownies work in exercises left overnight full of faults, and found next morning carefully corrected. I profited by his capricious good will in loans full welcome and refreshing. Between a sallow dictionary and worn out grammar would magically grow a fresh and interesting new work, or a classic mellow and sweet in its ripe age. Out of my work basket would laughingly peep a romance. Under it would lurk the pamphlet, the magazine whence laughed last evening's reading had been extracted. Impossible to doubt the source whence those treasures flowed. Had there been no other indication, one condemning and traitor peculiarity more common to them all settled the question the smelt of cigars. This was very shocking, of course. I thought so at first and used to open the window with some bustle to air my desk and with fastidious finger and thumb to hold the peckant brochures forth to the purifying breeze. I was cured of that formality suddenly. Monsieur caught me at it one day, understood the inference, instantly relieved my hand of its burden, and in another moment would have thrust the same into the glowing stove. It chanced to be a book on the perusal of which I was bent. So for once I proved as decided and quicker than himself, recaptured the spoil, and having saved this volume never hazarded a second. With all this I had never yet been able to arrest in his visits the freakish, friendly, cigar loving phantom. But now at last I had him. There he was, the very brownie himself, and there curling from his lips was the pale blue breath of his Indian darling. He was smoking into my desk. It might well betray him. Provoked at this particular and yet pleased to surprise him, pleased that is, with the mixed feeling of the housewife who discovers at last her strange elfin ally, busy in the dairy at the untimely churn, I softly stole forward, stood behind him, bent with precaution, over his shoulder. My heart smote to see that after this morning's hostility, after my seeming remisseness, after the puncture experienced, by his feelings and the ruffling undergone by his temper, he, all willing to forget and forgive, had brought me a couple of handsome volumes, of which the title and authorship were guarantees for interest. Now, as he sat bending above the desk, he was stirring up its contents, but with a gentle and careful hand, disarranging indeed, but not harming, my heart smote me. As I bent over him, as he sat unconscious, doing me what good he could, and I dare say, not feeling towards me unkindly, my morning's anger quite melted. I did not dislike Professor Emmanuel. I think he heard me breathe. He turned suddenly. His temperament was nervous, yet he never started and seldom changed colour. There was something hardy about him. I thought you were gone into town with the other teachers, said he, taking a grim gripe of his self possession which half escaped him. It is as well you are not. Do you think I care for being caught? Not I. I often visit your desk. Monsieur, I know it. You find a brochure or a tome now and then, but you don't read them because they have passed under this, touching his cigar. They have, and are no better for the process, but I read them. Without pleasure? Monsieur must not be contradicted. Do you like them or any of them? Are they acceptable? Monsieur has seen me reading them a hundred times, and knows I have not so many recreations as to undervalue those he provides. I mean well, and if you see that I mean well and derive some little amusement from my efforts, why can we not be friends? A fatalist would say because we cannot. This morning, he continued, I awoke in a bright mood, and came into a class happy. You spoiled my day. No, monsieur, only an hour or two of it, and that unintentionally Unintentionally? No, it was my fate day. Everybody wished me happiness, but you, the little children of the third division, gave each her knot of violets, lisped each her congratulation, you nothing, not a bud, leaf, whisper, not a glance. Was this unintentional? I meant no harm. Then you really did not know our custom you were unprepared. You would willingly have laid out a few sauntimes. On a flower to give me pleasure, had you been aware that it was expected? Say so and all is forgotten, and the pain soothed. I did know that it was expected, I was prepared, yet I laid out no centimes on flowers. It is well you do right to be honest. I should almost have hated you had you flattered and lied. Better declare at once Paul, Carl, Emanuel, je teste Mongar and smile and interest, look an affection, and be false and cold at heart. False and cold I don't think you are, but you have made a great mistake in life that I believe. I think your judgment is warped, that you are indifferent where you ought to be grateful, and perhaps devoted and infatuated where you ought to be cool as your name. Don't suppose that I wish you to have a passion for me, Mademoiselle. Dieu Von Garde What do you start for? Because I said passion? Well I say it again. There is such a word and there is such a thing, though not within these walls, thank heaven. You are no child that one should not speak of what exists, but I only uttered the word the thing, I assure you, is alien to my whole life and views. It died in the past, in the present it lies buried, its grave is deep dug, well heaped, and many winters old. In the future there will be a resurrection, as I believe, to my soul's consolation, but all will then be changed, form and feeling. The mortal will have put on immortality, it will rise not for earth but heaven. All I say to you, Miss Lucy Snow, that you ought to treat Professor Paul Emmanuel decently. I could not and did not contradict such a sentiment. Tell me, he pursued, when it is your fate day, and I will not grudge a few centimes for a small offering. You will be like me, monsieur, this cost more than a few centimes, and I did not grudge its price. And taking from the open deck's desk the little box, I put it into his hand. It lay ready in my lap this morning, I continued, and if Monsieur had been rather more patient, and Mademoiselle Saint Pierre less interfering, perhaps I should say too, if I had been calmer and wiser, I should have given it then. He looked at the box. I saw its clear warm tint and bright azure circlet pleased his eye. I told him to open it. My initials, said he, indicating the letters in the lid. Who told you I was called Carl David? A little bird, monsieur. Does it fly from me to you? Then one can tie a message under its wing when needful. He took out the chain, a trifle indeed as to value, but glossy with silk and sparkling with beads. He liked that too, admired it artlessly, like a child. For me? Yes, for you. This is the thing you were working at last night. The same. You finished it this morning? I did. You commenced it with the intention that should be mine? Undoubtedly. And offered on my fate day? Yes. This purpose continued as you wove it? Again I assented. Then it is not necessary that I should cut out any portion, saying this part is not mine, it was platted under the idea and for the adornment of another. By no means it is neither necessary, nor would it be just. This object is all mine. That object is yours entirely. Straightway Monsieur opened his palateau, arranged the guards splendidly across his chest, displaying as much and suppressing as little as he could, for he had no notion of concealing what he admired and thought decorative. As to the box, he pronounced it a superb bonbonnier. He was fond of bonbons, by the way, and as he always liked to share with others what pleased himself, he would give his drag as freely as he lent his books. Amongst the kind Brownies gifts left in my desk I forgot to enumerate many a paper of chocolate confis. His tastes in these matters were southern and what we think infantine. His simple lunch consisted frequently of a prioche, which as often as not he shared with some child of the third division. Episan cet accompli, said he, fetacompli, said he, readjusting his palateau, and we had no more words on the subject. After looking over the two volumes he had brought, and cutting away some pages with his pen knife, he generally pruned before lending his books, especially if they were novels, and sometimes I was a little provoked at the severity of his censorship, the retrenchments interrupting the narrative. He rose, politely touched his bonicle, and bade me a civil good day. We are friends now, thought I. Till the next time we quarrel. We might have quarrelled again that very same evening, but wonderful to relate, failed for once, to make the most of our opportunity. Contrary to all expectation, Monsieur Poole arrived at the study hour. Having seen so much of him in the morning, we did not look for his presence at night. No sooner were we seated at lessons, however, than he appeared. I own I was glad to see him, so glad that I could not help greeting his arrival with a smile, and when he made his way to the same seat about which so serious a misunderstanding had formerly arisen, I took good care not to make too much room for him. He watched with a jealous, sidelong look to see whether I shrank away, but I did not, though the bench was a little crowded. I was losing the early impulse to recoil from Monsieur Poult. Habituated to the palateau and Bonic, the neighbourhood of these garments seemed no longer uncomfortable or very formidable. I did not now sit restrained, asphyxied, as he used to say, at his side. I stirred when I wished to stir, coughed when it was necessary, even yawned when I was tired, did, in short, what I pleased, blindly reliant on his indulgence, nor did my temerity this evening at last, meet the punishment it perhaps merited. He was both indulgent and good natured. Not a cross glance shot from his eyes, not a hasty word left his lips. Till the very close of the evening he did not indeed address me at all, yet I felt somehow that he was full of friendliness. Silence is of different kinds, and breathes different meanings. No words could inspire a pleasanter content than did Monsieur Poole's wordless presence. When the tray came in and the bustle of supper commenced, he just said as he retired, that he wished me a good night and sweet dreams, and a good night and sweet dreams. I had good night.