Two Chapters in a Noisy Garden: Villette and Barchester

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

Good morning, good morning. Actually good afternoon. It's Saturday, it's hot. I'm in my garden in Dorset. And those bells you hear are Sherborne bells. To my left, and I'm facing west is my ew tree. In front of me are two white uh butterflies dancing there. Unique butterfly dance. Lavender bushes are around. Lots of pretty shrubs, purples and pinks, pink roses, light pink roses, the tweeting of birds, the green, greenness of grass, and our pale stones, ham hill stones of our house, the sound of children in the background, light traffic, a little bit of music from somewhere, birds in and out of the tree to my left. They've sort of forgotten I'm here. And it's a beautiful, beautiful Saturday. And I wonder what you're doing and where you are. Are you do you do you live by the sea? Do you live near mountains? Do you live in a in a community? Do you live on your own? Do you live just with a spouse? Or just with a child? What's your situation? Are you on holiday? Are you traveling? Are you grieving? Are you anxious, concerned, worried? Are you sad and wretched? Are you happy? Are you at peace? Whatever situation you're in, you're welcome to anything that I produce, any episodes I produce, to listen to the books that we read, and you're welcome to join in my the community that I imagine, a community of people wanting to live their lives as best they can, and and for the world to be as happy as it can be. And as we speak, a little sparrow's just jumped onto the bird feeder. Hello, sparrow. Two pigeons are courting as they do, and I hope it's one of the pigeons from our garden who needed a mate. There's a really light breeze, and I'm just going to give you a few minutes to enjoy the sound of silence, but it's not silence. Butterflies around, swifts in the air, and our pigeons, the maple tree lonely pigeon has found a mate which has made me very happy. Remember the pigeon whose mate was killed by Mr. Cat. And puppy's had a long walk, haven't you, darling? And he's sit she's sitting happily to my left, looking at anything that makes a noise, lit raising her nose, her pink nose to the air. In fact, she's what what have you smelt? I think it's because there's concealed cat food not very far away, and every now and then she gets a whiff of it. The lavender bushes are just blooming full of bees. But the lavender bushes are full of them, and our little flower bed is looking very pretty. And I'm going to continue the chapter called Monsieur Paul in Villette. He did this at first with pleasure, indeed with unconcealed exultation, condescending to say that he believed I was bon et patrofable, i.e., well enough disposed and not wholly destitute of parts, but owing, he supposed to adverse circumstances, quote, as yet in a state of wretchedly imperfect mental development. The beginning of all efforts has indeed with me been marked by a preternatural imbecility. By the way, I'm not using the microphone, and that's because I want you to hear little garden noises. If you hear a sort of flapping sound, that's the two pigeons in the maple tree doing their courting dance. I never could, even in forming a common acquaintance, assert or prove a claim to average quickness. A depressing and difficult passage has prefaced every new page I have turned in life. So long as this last this passage lasted, Monsieur Paul is very kind, very good, very forbearing. He saw the sharp pain inflicted and felt the weighty humiliation imposed by my own sense of incapacity. And words can hardly do justice to his tenderness and helpfulness. His own eyes would moisten when tears of shame and effort clouded mine. Burdened as he was with work, he would steal half his brief space of recreation to give to me. But strange grief when that heavy and overcast dawn began at last to yield to day, when my faculties began to struggle themselves free, and my time of energy and fulfilment came, when I voluntarily doubled, trebled, quadrupled the tasks he set, to please him as I thought, his kindness became sternness, the light changed in his eyes, from a beam to a spark, he fretted, he opposed, he curbed me imperiously. The more I did, the harder I worked, the less he seemed content. Sarcasms of which the severity amazed and puzzled me, harassed my ears. There flowed out the bitterest innuendos against the pride of intellect. I was vaguely threatened with, I know not what doom, if I ever trespassed the limits proper to my sex, and conceived a contraband appetite for unfeminine knowledge. Alas, I had no such appetite. What I loved, it joyed me by an effort to content, but the noble hunger for science in the abstract, the godlike thirst after discovery, these feelings were known to me but by briefest flashes. Yet when Monsieur Poul sneered at me, I wanted to possess them more fully. His injustice stirred in me ambitious wishes. It imparted a strong stimulus, it gave me wings to aspiration. In the beginning, before I had penetrated to motives, that uncomprehended sneer of his made my heart ache, but by and by it only warmed the blood in my veins, and sent and sent added action to my pulses. Whatever my powers, feminine or the contrary, God had given them, and I felt resolute to be ashamed of no faculty of his bestow. The combat was very sharp for a time. I seemed to have lost Monsieur Poole's affection. He treated me strangely. In his most unjust moments he would insinuate that I had deceived him when I appeared, what he called fable, that is incompetent. He said I had feigned a false incapacity. Again he would turn suddenly around and accuse me of the most far fetched imitations and impossible plagiarisms, asserting that I had extracted the pith out of books I had not so much as heard of, and over the perusal of which I should infallibly have fallen down in a sleep as deep of as deep as that of Eutychus. Once, upon his preferring such an accusation, I turned upon him, I rose against him. Gathering an armful of his books out of my desk, I filled my apron and poured them in a heap upon his estrade at his feet. Take them away, Monsieur Paul, I said, and teach me no more. I never asked to be made learned, and you compel me to feel very profoundly that learning is not happiness. And returning to my desk I laid my head upon my arms, nor would I speak to him for two days afterwards. He pained and chagrined me. His affection had been very sweet and dear, a pleasure new and incomparable. Now this seemed withdrawn. I cared not for his lessons. The books, however, were not taken away. They were all restored with careful hands to their places, and he came as usual to teach me. He made his peace somehow, too readily, perhaps. I ought to have stood out longer, but when he looked kind and good and held out his hand with amity, memory refused to reproduce with due force his oppressive moments, and then reconcilement is always sweet. On a certain morning a message came from my godmother, inviting me to attend some notable lecture to be delivered in the same public rooms before described. Dr. John had brought the message himself and delivered it verbally to Rosine, who had not scrupled to follow the steps of Monsieur Emmanuel, then passing to the first class, and in his presence stand carimon before my desk, hand in apron pocket, and rehearse the same saucely and aloud, concluding with the words Quill Gil Vrembo Mademoiselle Sean Doctor Kellieu Cel regard ten le cour to temu. When she was gone, my professor demanded of me why I suffered Setfi Effrante, Set Cret Son Pur to address me in such terms. I had no pacifying answer to give. The terms were precisely such as Rosine, a young lady in whose skull the organs of reverence and reserve were not largely developed, was in the constant habit of using. Besides what she said about the young doctor was true enough. Graham was handsome. He had fine eyes and a thrilling glance. An observation to that effect actually formed itself into sound on my lips. Elna Dicula Verit, I said V sandute The lesson to which we had that day to submit was such as to make us very glad when it terminated. At its close the released pupils rushed out, half trembling, half exultant. I too was going. A mandate to remain arrested me. I muttered that I wanted some fresh air, sadly. The stove was in a glow. Mr Cat's trying to come on my lap. Come on, there we go. There we go. I'm your favourite, aren't I? You like sitting with me. Oh you've got a wobbly chair. Is that better? I'm not gonna have you on my lap, but you sit there next to me in the sun. I'll give you a stroke. There we go. Gotta have your injections next week, haven't you? Oh, you need a good comb. You scruffy. Right, sorry. I muttered that I wanted some fresh air, sadly. The stove was in a glow, the glass overheated. An inexorable an inexorable voice merely recommended silence, and this salamander, for whom no room ever seemed too hot, sitting down between my desk and the stove, a situation in which he ought to have felt broiled but did not, proceeded to confront me with a good Greek quotation. In Monsieur Emmanuel's soul rankled a chronic suspicion that I knew both Greek and Latin, as monkeys are said to have the power of speech if they would but use it, and are reported to conceal this faculty in fear of its being turned to their detriment, so to me was ascribed a fund of knowledge which I was supposed criminally and craftily to conceal. The privileges of a classical education, it was insinuated, had been mine on flowers of Hymetus. I had revelled, a golden store hived in memory, now silently sustained my efforts and privily nurtured my wits. A hundred expedients did Monsieur Egg Pool employ to surprise my secret, to wheedle, to threaten, to startle it out of me. Sometimes he placed Greek and Latin books in my way, and then watched me as Joan of Arc's jailers tempted her with the warrior's accoutrement, and lay in wait for the issue. Again he quoted I know not what authors and passages, and while rolling out their sweet and sounding lines, the classic tones fell very musically from his lips, for he had a good voice, remarkable for compass, modulation, and matchless expression. He would fix on me a vigilant, piercing, and often malicious eye. It was evidence, evident he sometimes expected great demonstrations. They never occurred, however. Not comprehending, of course I could neither be charmed nor annoyed. Baffled, almost angry, he still clung to his fixed idea. My susceptibilities were pronounced marble, my face a mask. It appeared as if he could not be brought to accept the homely truth and take me for what I was. Men and women too must have delusion of some sort. If not made ready to their hand, they will invent exaggeration for themselves. At moments I did wish that his suspicions had been better founded. There were times when I could have given my right hand to possess the treasures he ascribed to me. He deserved condive punishment for his testy crotchets. I could have gloried in bringing home to him his worst apprehensions, astoundingly realized. I could have exulted to burst on his vision, confront and confound his lunette, one blaze of acquirements. Oh, why did nobody undertake to make me clever while I was young enough to learn that I might, by one grand, sudden, inhuman revelation, one cold, cruel, overwhelming triumph, have forever crushed the mocking spirit out of Paul, Carl, David, Emmanuel. Alas, no feat was in my power. Today as usual, his quotations fell ineffectual. He soon shifted his ground. Woman of intellect was his next theme. Here he was at home. A woman of intellect, it appeared, was a sort of Lucis naturi, a luckless accident, a thing for which there was neither place nor use in creation, wanted neither as wife nor worker. Beauty anticipated her in the first office. He believed in his soul that lovely, placid, and passive feminine mediocracy was the only pillow on which manly thought and sense could find rest for hit for its aching temples, and as to work, male mind alone could work to any good practical result. Huh? This han was a note of interrogation intended to draw from me contradiction or objection. However I only said Sula ne me regard pas je ne mon soucipa, and presently added, May I go, monsieur? They have rung the bell for the second dejourney, i. e. luncheon. What of that? You are not hungry? Indeed I was, I said. I had I'd had nothing since breakfast at seven, and should have nothing till dinner at five if I missed this bell. Well, he was in the same plight, but I might share it with him, and he broke in two the brioche intended for his own refreshment and gave me half. Truly his bark was worse than his bite, but the really formidable attack was yet to come. While eating his cake, I could not forbear expressing my secret wish that I really knew all that he accused me of. Did I sincerely feel myself to be an ignoramus? he asked, in a softened tone. If I had replied meekly by an unqualified affirmative, I believe he would have stretched out his hands and we would have been friends on the spot, but I answered not exactly, I am ignorant, monsieur, in the knowledge you ascribe to me, but I sometimes not always feel a knowledge of my own. What did I mean? he inquired sharply. Unable to answer this question in a breath, I evaded it by change of subject. He had now finished his half of the brioche, feeling sure that on so trifling a fragment he could not have satisfied his appetite, as indeed I had not appeased mine, and inhaling the fragrance of baked apples afar from the refectory, I ventured to inquire whether he did not also perceive that agreeable odour. He confessed that he did. I said that if he would let me out by the garden door and permit me just to run across the court, I would fetch him a plateful, and added that I believed that they were excellent, as Goton had a very good method of baking, or rather stewing fruit, putting in a little spice, sugar, and a glass of glass or two of vin blanc, might I go. Petite gourmand, said he, smiling, I have not forgotten how pleased you were with the pate a la creme I once gave you, and you know very well at this moment that to fetch the apples for me will be the same as getting them for yourself. Go then, but come back quickly. And at last he liberated me on parole. My own plan was to go and return with speed and good faith to put the plate in at the door, and then to vanish incontinent, leaving all consequences for future settlement. That intolerably keen instinct of his seemed to have anticipated my scheme. He met me at the threshold, hurried me into the room, and fixed me in a minute in my former seat. Taking the plate of fruit from my hand, he divided the portion intended only for himself, and ordered me to eat my share. I complied with no good grace, and vexed, I suppose, by my reluctance, he opened a masked and dangerous battery. All he had yet said I could count as mere sound and fury signifying nothing, not so of the present attack. It consisted in an unreasonable proposition with which he had before afflicted me, namely that on the next public examination day I should engage, foreigner as I was, to take my place on the first form of first class pupils, and with them improvise a composition in French on any subject any spectator might dictate, without benefit of grammar or lexicon. I knew what the result of such an experiment would be. I, to whom nature had denied the impromptu faculty, who in public was by nature a cipher, whose time of mental activity, even when alone, was not under the meridian sun, who needed the fresh silence of morning or the recluse peace of evening to win from the creative impulse one evidence of his presence, one proof of his force. What is it, Mr. Cat? Sit on my lap. Come on now. You're very naughty. You can see I'm recording. Come on then. Come on, see if you can make a meow for people, huh? Oh it's okay, it's just the pigeons and the trees. You shouldn't be frightened of them because you had something to do with them last year when you were slightly more bulky and you were able to take one down. I don't think you could do it now. He's getting older. He seems much frailer, actually. He we we can't seem to p f you know, what's the word, fill him out. No matter what we give him, he seems quite skinny. I, to whom nature had denied the impromptu faculty, who in public was by nature a cipher whose time of mental activity, even when alone, was not under the meridian sun, who needed the fresh silence of morning, or the recluse peace of evening, to win from the creative impulse one evidence of his presence, one proof of his force, with whom that impulse was the most intractable, the most capricious, the most maddening of masters, him before me always accepted, a deity which sometimes, under circumstances, apparently propitious, would not speak when questioned, would not hear when appealed to, would not when sought be found, but would stand all cold, all indurated, all granite, a dark bar with carven lips and blank eyeballs and breast like the stone face of a tomb, and again suddenly at some turn, some sound, some long, trembling sob of the wind, at some rushing past of an unseen stream of electricity, the irrational demon would wake unsolicited, would stir strangely alive, would rush from its pedestal like a perturbed dagon, calling to its votary for a sacrifice, whatever the hour, to its victim for some blood or some breath, whatever the circumstances or scene, rousing its priest, treacherously promising vaticanation, perhaps filling its temple with a strange hum of oracles, but sure to give half the significance to fateful winds, and grudging to the desperate listener, even a miserable remnant, yielding it sordidly, as though each word had been a drop of the deathless ic of its own dark veins. And this tyrant I was to compel into bondage and make it improvise a theme on a school estrade between a Matilde and a Coralie under the eye of Madame Beck for the pleasure and to the inspiration of a bourgeois of La Basico. On this argument, Monsieur Poul and I did battle more than once, strong battle, with confused noise of demand and rejection, exaction and repulse. On this particular day I was soundly rated. The obstinacy of my whole sex, it seems, was concentrated in me. I had an orgaille de Diable. I feared to fail, forsooth. What did it matter whether I failed or not? Who was I that I should not like not fail like my betters? It would do me good to fail. He wanted to see me worsted, I knew he did, and one minute he paused to take breath. Would I speak now and be tractable? Never would I be tractable in this matter. Law itself should not compel me. I would pay a fine or undergo an imprisonment, rather than write for a show and to order perched up on a platform. Could softer motives influence me? Would I yield for friendship's sake? Not a wit, not a hair breadth, no form of friendship under the sun had a right to exact such a concession. No true friendship would harass me thus. He supposed then, with a sneer, Monsieur Paul could sneer supremely curling his lip, opening his nostrils, contracting his eyelids. He supposed there was but one form of appeal to which I would listen, and of that form it was not for him to make use. Under certain persuasions from certain quarters, je vois dici, said he, eagerly subscribing to the sacrifice, passionately arming for the effort. Making a simpleton a warning and an example of myself before a hundred and fifty of the papas and mammals of Villette. And here, losing patience, I broke out afresh with a cry that I wanted to be liberated, to get out to the air. I was almost in a fever. Shoot, said the inexorable. This was a mere pretext to run away. He was not hot with a stove close at his back. How could I suffer, thoroughly screened by his person? I did not understand his constitution. I knew nothing of the natural history of salamanders. For my own part, I was phlegmatic I was a phlegmatic islander, and sitting in an oven did not agree with me. At least might I step to the well and get a glass of water, the sweet apples that made me thirsty. If that was all, he would do my errand. He went to fetch the water. Of course, with the door only to the latch behind me, I I lost not my opportunity. Ere his return, his half worried prey had escaped. And now we're also going to finish the uh chapter in Barchester Towers, and it the chapters Mr. Slope at Puddingdale. And I'm in the same situation sitting in the garden with Mr Cat and the courting pigeons, but this time I am going to use the microphone just because the wind's picked up a little bit, as has the traffic. So right now we're in the sit the situation where Mrs. Quiverfull is fretting that Mr Quiverfull, with out of kindness, might end up losing his position. I don't know what your father means when he talks so much of what is due to Mr Harding, she said to her eldest daughter. Does he think that Mr Harding would give him four hundred and fifty pounds a year? Out of fine feeling? And what signifies it whom he offends as long as he gets the place? He does not expect anything better. It passes me to think how your father could be so soft while everybody around him is so griping. Thus, while the outer world was accusing Mr Quiverfull of rapacity for promotion and of disregard to his honour, the inner world of his own household was falling foul of him with equal vehemence for his willingness to sacrifice their interest to a false feeling of sentimental pride. It is astonishing how much difference the point of view makes in the aspect of all that we look at. Such were the feelings of the different members of the family at Puddingdale on the occasion of Mr Slope's second visit. Mrs. Quiverfull, as soon as she saw his horse coming up the avenue from the Vicarage gate, hastily packed up her huge basket of needlework and hurried herself horrible motorbike and her daughter out of the room in which she was sitting with her husband. It's Mr Slope, she said. He's coming to settle with you about the hospital. I do hope we shall now be able to move at once. And she hastened to bid the maid of all work go to the door so that the welcome great man might not say that the welcome great man ah so that the welcome great man might not be kept waiting. Oh no, I'm I'm wincing knowing what's coming. I can't bear it. Oh dear. Mr Slope thus found Mrs Mr Quiverfull alone. Mrs Quiverful, oh no, went off to her kitchen and back settlements with anxious beating heart, almost dreading that there might be some slip between the cup of her happiness and the lip of her fruition. Quote from Hamlet there, but yet comforting herself with the reflection that after what had taken place any such slip could hardly be possible. I really don't want to read this. I want it to go to both people now. I'm very sad about it. Mr Slope was all smiles as he shook his brother, clergyman's hand, and said that he had ridden over because he thought it right at once to put Mr Quiverfull in possession of the facts of the matter regarding the wardenship of the hospital. As he spoke the poor expectant husband and father Oh no, saw to glance oh no sorry, I'm really sorry I can't read this. Saw at a glance that his brilliant hopes were to be dashed to the ground, and that his visitor was now there for the purpose of unsaying what on his former visit he had said. There was something in the tone of voice, something in the glance of the eye which told the tale. Mr Go, I I really can't bear this, it's hurting my heart. Mr Quiverfull knew it at once. He maintained his self pervert self possession, however, smiled with a slight, unmeaning smile, and merely said that he was obliged to Mr Slope for the trouble he was taking. It has been troublesome matter from the first to the last, said Mr Slope, and the bishop has hardly known how to act between ourselves. But mind this must of course go no further, Mr Quiverfull. Mr Quiverfull said of course it should not. The truth is that poor Mr Harding has hardly known his own mind. You remember our last conversation, no doubt. Mr Quiverfull assured him that he remembered it very well indeed. You will remember that I told you Mr Harding had refused to return to the hospital. Mr Quiverfull declared that nothing could be more distinct on his memory. And acting on this refusal I suggested that you should take the hospital, continued Mr Slope. I understood you to say that the bishop had authorized you to offer it to me. Did I? Did I go so far as that? Well, perhaps it may be that in my anxiety in your behalf I did commit myself further than I should have done. So far as my own memory serves me, I don't think I did go quite so far as that, but I own I was very anxious that you should get it, and I may have said more than was quite prudent. But, said Mr Quiverfull, and his deep anxiety to prove his case, my wife received as a distinct as distinct a promise from Mrs. Proudie as one human being could give to another. Mr Slope smiled and gently shook his head. He meant that smile for a pleasant smile, but it was diabolical in the eyes of the man he was speaking to. Mrs Proudie, he said, if we are to go to what passes between the ladies in these matters, we shall really be in a nest of troubles from which we shall never extricate ourselves. Mrs. Proudie is a most excellent lady, kind hearted, charitable, pious, and in every way estimable. But my dear Mr Quiverfull, the patronage of the diocese is not in her hands. Mr Quiverfull for a moment sat panic stricken and silent. Am I to understand then that I have received no promise? he said, as soon as he had sufficiently collected his thoughts. If you will allow me, I will tell you exactly how the matter rests. You certainly did receive a promise conditional on Mr Harding's refusal. I am sure you will do me the justice to remember that you yourself declared that you could accept the appointment on no other condition than the knowledge that Mr Harding had declined it. Yes, said Mr Quiverfull, I did say that certainly. Now it now seems appears that he did not refuse it. But surely you told me and repeated more than once that he had done so in your own hearing. So I understood him, but it seems I was in error. Now, don't for a moment, Mr Quiverfull, suppose that I meant to throw you over no, having held out my hand to a man of your position with your large family and pressing claims, I am now not going to draw it back again. I only want to act I only want you to act with me fairly and honestly. Whatever I do I shall endeavour at any rate to act fairly, said the poor man, feeling that he had to fall back for support on the spirit of martyrdom within him. I have to say if I were reading this book alone I would skip this chapter 'cause it just makes me so cross and sad. I am sure you will, said the other. I am sure you have no wish to obtain possession of an income which belongs by all right to another. No man knows better than you do Mr Harding's history, or can better appreciate his character. Mr Harding is very desirous of returning to his old position, and the bishop feels that he is at the present moment somewhat hampered, though of course he is not bound by the conversation which took place on the matter between you and me. Well, said Mr Quiverfull, dreadfully doubtful as to what his conduct under the circumstances should be, and fruitlessly striving to harden his nerves with some of that instinct of self preservation which made his wife so bold. The wardenship of this hospital is not the only thing in the bishop's gift, Mr Quiverful, nor is it by many degrees the best, and his lordship is not the man to forget anyone whom he has once marked with approval, if you would allow me to advise you as a friend. Indeed I shall be most grateful to you, said the poor vicar of Puddingdale, I should advise you to withdraw from any opposition to Mr Harding's claims. If you persist in your demand, I do not think you will ultimately succeed. Mr Harding has all but a positive right to the place, but if you will allow me to inform the bishop that you decline to stand in Mr Harding's way, I think I may promise you, though, by the by, it must not be taken as a formal promise, that the bishop will not allow you to be a poorer man than you would have been had you been the warden. Mr Quiverfull sat in his armchair silent, gazing at vacancy. What was he to say? All this that had come from Mr Slope was so true. Mr Harding had a right to the hospital. The bishop had a great many good things to give away. Both the bishop and Mr Slope would be excellent friends and terrible enemies to a man in his position, and then he had no proof of any promise. He could not force the bishop to appoint him. Well, Mr Quiverfull, what do you say about it? Oh of course, whatever you think fit, Mr Slope. It's a great disappointment, a very great disappointment. I won't deny that, and that I am a very poor man, Mr Slope. In the end, Mr Quiverfull, you will find it will have been the better for you. The interview ended in Mr Slope receiving a full renunciation from Mr Quiverfull of any claim he might have to the appointment in question. It was only given verbally and without witnesses, but then the original promise was made in the same way. Mr Slope again assured him that he should not be forgotten, and then rode back to Barchester, satisfied that he would now be able to mould the bishop to his wishes. What a horrible man. I was getting to quite like him, I mean, weren't you? I mean I just regarded him as a one of those sort of what do you well who's the guy from twelfth night? Malvolio, that's it, you know, with his yellow stockings. But you know, this conversation is horrific, really, and I'm dreading to find out what Mrs Quiverfull's reaction to it will be. But I've turned the page and it says chapter twenty five, and the chapter heading is this fourteen arguments in favour of Mr Quiverfull's claims. Isn't that brilliant? Fourteen arguments. So I don't know what happens, but I wonder if maybe his wife gets him to write a letter to the bishop or something setting out his claims. But who knows? I'm going to leave it at that and wish you a very happy Sunday. And to thank you so much for joining me as we finished off these two opened chapters from Charlotte Bronte. So I distracted then by the birds on the feeders, by Charlotte Bronte's Villette and Anthony, what's he called, Trollope's Barchester Towers. Have a lovely Sunday. Bye bye for now.