Villette by Charlotte Bronte
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Charlotte Bronte >> Villette
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44 Produced by Delphine Lettau, Charles Franks and Distributed Proofreaders
VILLETTE.
BY
CHARLOTTE BRONTE.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. BRETTON
II. PAULINA
III. THE PLAYMATES
IV. MISS MARCHMONT
V. TURNING A NEW LEAF
VI. LONDON
VII. VILLETTE
VIII. MADAME BECK
IX. ISIDORE
X. DR. JOHN
XI. THE PORTRESS'S CABINET
XII. THE CASKET
XIII. A SNEEZE OUT OF SEASON
XIV. THE FETE
XV. THE LONG VACATION
XVI. AULD LANG SYNE
XVII. LA TERRASSE
XVIII. WE QUARREL
XIX. THE CLEOPATRA
XX. THE CONCERT
XXI. REACTION
XXII. THE LETTER
XXIII. VASHTI
XXIV. M. DE BASSOMPIERRE
XXV. THE LITTLE COUNTESS
XXVI. A BURIAL
XXVII. THE HOTEL CRECY
XXVIII. THE WATCHGUARD
XXIX. MONSIEUR'S FETE
XXX. M. PAUL
XXXI. THE DRYAD
XXXII. THE FIRST LETTER
XXXIII. M. PAUL KEEPS HIS PROMISE
XXXIV. MALEVOLA
XXXV. FRATERNITY
XXXVI. THE APPLE OF DISCORD
XXXVII. SUNSHINE
XXXVIII. CLOUD
XXXIX. OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE
XL. THE HAPPY PAIR
XLI. FAUBOURG CLOTILDE
XLII. FINIS
VILLETTE.
CHAPTER I.
BRETTON.
My godmother lived in a handsome house in the clean and ancient town
of Bretton. Her husband's family had been residents there for
generations, and bore, indeed, the name of their birthplace--Bretton
of Bretton: whether by coincidence, or because some remote ancestor
had been a personage of sufficient importance to leave his name to his
neighbourhood, I know not.
When I was a girl I went to Bretton about twice a year, and well I
liked the visit. The house and its inmates specially suited me. The
large peaceful rooms, the well-arranged furniture, the clear wide
windows, the balcony outside, looking down on a fine antique street,
where Sundays and holidays seemed always to abide--so quiet was its
atmosphere, so clean its pavement--these things pleased me well.
One child in a household of grown people is usually made very much of,
and in a quiet way I was a good deal taken notice of by Mrs. Bretton,
who had been left a widow, with one son, before I knew her; her
husband, a physician, having died while she was yet a young and
handsome woman.
She was not young, as I remember her, but she was still handsome,
tall, well-made, and though dark for an Englishwoman, yet wearing
always the clearness of health in her brunette cheek, and its vivacity
in a pair of fine, cheerful black eyes. People esteemed it a grievous
pity that she had not conferred her complexion on her son, whose eyes
were blue--though, even in boyhood, very piercing--and the colour of
his long hair such as friends did not venture to specify, except as
the sun shone on it, when they called it golden. He inherited the
lines of his mother's features, however; also her good teeth, her
stature (or the promise of her stature, for he was not yet full-
grown), and, what was better, her health without flaw, and her spirits
of that tone and equality which are better than a fortune to the
possessor.
In the autumn of the year ---- I was staying at Bretton; my godmother
having come in person to claim me of the kinsfolk with whom was at
that time fixed my permanent residence. I believe she then plainly saw
events coming, whose very shadow I scarce guessed; yet of which the
faint suspicion sufficed to impart unsettled sadness, and made me glad
to change scene and society.
Time always flowed smoothly for me at my godmother's side; not with
tumultuous swiftness, but blandly, like the gliding of a full river
through a plain. My visits to her resembled the sojourn of Christian
and Hopeful beside a certain pleasant stream, with "green trees on
each bank, and meadows beautified with lilies all the year round." The
charm of variety there was not, nor the excitement of incident; but I
liked peace so well, and sought stimulus so little, that when the
latter came I almost felt it a disturbance, and wished rather it had
still held aloof.
One day a letter was received of which the contents evidently caused
Mrs. Bretton surprise and some concern. I thought at first it was from
home, and trembled, expecting I know not what disastrous
communication: to me, however, no reference was made, and the cloud
seemed to pass.
The next day, on my return from a long walk, I found, as I entered my
bedroom, an unexpected change. In, addition to my own French bed in
its shady recess, appeared in a corner a small crib, draped with
white; and in addition to my mahogany chest of drawers, I saw a tiny
rosewood chest. I stood still, gazed, and considered.
"Of what are these things the signs and tokens?" I asked. The answer
was obvious. "A second guest is coming: Mrs. Bretton expects other
visitors."
On descending to dinner, explanations ensued. A little girl, I was
told, would shortly be my companion: the daughter of a friend and
distant relation of the late Dr. Bretton's. This little girl, it was
added, had recently lost her mother; though, indeed, Mrs. Bretton ere
long subjoined, the loss was not so great as might at first appear.
Mrs. Home (Home it seems was the name) had been a very pretty, but a
giddy, careless woman, who had neglected her child, and disappointed
and disheartened her husband. So far from congenial had the union
proved, that separation at last ensued--separation by mutual consent,
not after any legal process. Soon after this event, the lady having
over-exerted herself at a ball, caught cold, took a fever, and died
after a very brief illness. Her husband, naturally a man of very
sensitive feelings, and shocked inexpressibly by too sudden
communication of the news, could hardly, it seems, now be persuaded
but that some over-severity on his part--some deficiency in patience
and indulgence--had contributed to hasten her end. He had brooded over
this idea till his spirits were seriously affected; the medical men
insisted on travelling being tried as a remedy, and meanwhile Mrs.
Bretton had offered to take charge of his little girl. "And I hope,"
added my godmother in conclusion, "the child will not be like her
mamma; as silly and frivolous a little flirt as ever sensible man was
weak enough to marry. For," said she, "Mr. Home _is_ a sensible
man in his way, though not very practical: he is fond of science, and
lives half his life in a laboratory trying experiments--a thing his
butterfly wife could neither comprehend nor endure; and indeed"
confessed my godmother, "I should not have liked it myself."
In answer to a question of mine, she further informed me that her late
husband used to say, Mr. Home had derived this scientific turn from a
maternal uncle, a French savant; for he came, it seems; of mixed
French and Scottish origin, and had connections now living in France,
of whom more than one wrote _de_ before his name, and called
himself noble.
That same evening at nine o'clock, a servant was despatched to meet
the coach by which our little visitor was expected. Mrs. Bretton and I
sat alone in the drawing-room waiting her coming; John Graham Bretton
being absent on a visit to one of his schoolfellows who lived in the
country. My godmother read the evening paper while she waited; I
sewed. It was a wet night; the rain lashed the panes, and the wind
sounded angry and restless.
"Poor child!" said Mrs. Bretton from time to time. "What weather for
her journey! I wish she were safe here."
A little before ten the door-bell announced Warren's return. No sooner
was the door opened than I ran down into the hall; there lay a trunk
and some band-boxes, beside them stood a person like a nurse-girl, and
at the foot of the staircase was Warren with a shawled bundle in his
arms.
"Is that the child?" I asked.
"Yes, miss."
I would have opened the shawl, and tried to get a peep at the face,
but it was hastily turned from me to Warren's shoulder.
"Put me down, please," said a small voice when Warren opened the
drawing-room door, "and take off this shawl," continued the speaker,
extracting with its minute hand the pin, and with a sort of fastidious
haste doffing the clumsy wrapping. The creature which now appeared
made a deft attempt to fold the shawl; but the drapery was much too
heavy and large to be sustained or wielded by those hands and arms.
"Give it to Harriet, please," was then the direction, "and she can put
it away." This said, it turned and fixed its eyes on Mrs. Bretton.
"Come here, little dear," said that lady. "Come and let me see if you
are cold and damp: come and let me warm you at the fire."
The child advanced promptly. Relieved of her wrapping, she appeared
exceedingly tiny; but was a neat, completely-fashioned little figure,
light, slight, and straight. Seated on my godmother's ample lap, she
looked a mere doll; her neck, delicate as wax, her head of silky
curls, increased, I thought, the resemblance.
Mrs. Bretton talked in little fond phrases as she chafed the child's
hands, arms, and feet; first she was considered with a wistful gaze,
but soon a smile answered her. Mrs. Bretton was not generally a
caressing woman: even with her deeply-cherished son, her manner was
rarely sentimental, often the reverse; but when the small stranger
smiled at her, she kissed it, asking, "What is my little one's name?"
"Missy."
"But besides Missy?"
"Polly, papa calls her."
"Will Polly be content to live with me?"
"Not _always_; but till papa comes home. Papa is gone away." She
shook her head expressively.
"He will return to Polly, or send for her."
"Will he, ma'am? Do you know he will?"
"I think so."
"But Harriet thinks not: at least not for a long while. He is ill."
Her eyes filled. She drew her hand from Mrs. Bretton's and made a
movement to leave her lap; it was at first resisted, but she said--
"Please, I wish to go: I can sit on a stool."
She was allowed to slip down from the knee, and taking a footstool,
she carried it to a corner where the shade was deep, and there seated
herself. Mrs. Bretton, though a commanding, and in grave matters even
a peremptory woman, was often passive in trifles: she allowed the
child her way. She said to me, "Take no notice at present." But I did
take notice: I watched Polly rest her small elbow on her small knee,
her head on her hand; I observed her draw a square inch or two of
pocket-handkerchief from the doll-pocket of her doll-skirt, and then I
heard her weep. Other children in grief or pain cry aloud, without
shame or restraint; but this being wept: the tiniest occasional sniff
testified to her emotion. Mrs. Bretton did not hear it: which was
quite as well. Ere long, a voice, issuing from the corner, demanded--
"May the bell be rung for Harriet!"
I rang; the nurse was summoned and came.
"Harriet, I must be put to bed," said her little mistress. "You must
ask where my bed is."
Harriet signified that she had already made that inquiry.
"Ask if you sleep with me, Harriet."
"No, Missy," said the nurse: "you are to share this young lady's
room," designating me.
Missy did not leave her seat, but I saw her eyes seek me. After some
minutes' silent scrutiny, she emerged from her corner.
"I wish you, ma'am, good night," said she to Mrs. Bretton; but she
passed me mute.
"Good-night, Polly," I said.
"No need to say good-night, since we sleep in the same chamber," was
the reply, with which she vanished from the drawing-room. We heard
Harriet propose to carry her up-stairs. "No need," was again her
answer--"no need, no need:" and her small step toiled wearily up the
staircase.
On going to bed an hour afterwards, I found her still wide awake. She
had arranged her pillows so as to support her little person in a
sitting posture: her hands, placed one within the other, rested
quietly on the sheet, with an old-fashioned calm most unchildlike. I
abstained from speaking to her for some time, but just before
extinguishing the light, I recommended her to lie down.
"By and by," was the answer.
"But you will take cold, Missy."
She took some tiny article of raiment from the chair at her crib side,
and with it covered her shoulders. I suffered her to do as she
pleased. Listening awhile in the darkness, I was aware that she still
wept,--wept under restraint, quietly and cautiously.
On awaking with daylight, a trickling of water caught my ear. Behold!
there she was risen and mounted on a stool near the washstand, with
pains and difficulty inclining the ewer (which she could not lift) so
as to pour its contents into the basin. It was curious to watch her as
she washed and dressed, so small, busy, and noiseless. Evidently she
was little accustomed to perform her own toilet; and the buttons,
strings, hooks and eyes, offered difficulties which she encountered
with a perseverance good to witness. She folded her night-dress, she
smoothed the drapery of her couch quite neatly; withdrawing into a
corner, where the sweep of the white curtain concealed her, she became
still. I half rose, and advanced my, head to see how she was occupied.
On her knees, with her forehead bent on her hands, I perceived that
she was praying.
Her nurse tapped at the door. She started up.
"I am dressed, Harriet," said she; "I have dressed myself, but I do
not feel neat. Make me neat!"
"Why did you dress yourself, Missy?"
"Hush! speak low, Harriet, for fear of waking _the girl_"
(meaning me, who now lay with my eyes shut). "I dressed myself to
learn, against the time you leave me."
"Do you want me to go?"
"When you are cross, I have many a time wanted you to go, but not now.
Tie my sash straight; make my hair smooth, please."
"Your sash is straight enough. What a particular little body you are!"
"It must be tied again. Please to tie it."
"There, then. When I am gone you must get that young lady to dress
you."
"On no account."
"Why? She is a very nice young lady. I hope you mean to behave
prettily to her, Missy, and not show your airs."
"She shall dress me on no account."
"Comical little thing!"
"You are not passing the comb straight through my hair, Harriet; the
line will be crooked."
"Ay, you are ill to please. Does that suit?"
"Pretty well. Where should I go now that I am dressed?"
"I will take you into the breakfast-room."
"Come, then."
They proceeded to the door. She stopped.
"Oh! Harriet, I wish this was papa's house! I don't know these
people."
"Be a good child, Missy."
"I am good, but I ache here;" putting her hand to her heart, and
moaning while she reiterated, "Papa! papa!"
I roused myself and started up, to check this scene while it was yet
within bounds.
"Say good-morning to the young lady," dictated Harriet. She said,
"Good-morning," and then followed her nurse from the room. Harriet
temporarily left that same day, to go to her own friends, who lived in
the neighbourhood.
On descending, I found Paulina (the child called herself Polly, but
her full name was Paulina Mary) seated at the breakfast-table, by Mrs.
Bretton's side; a mug of milk stood before her, a morsel of bread
filled her hand, which lay passive on the table-cloth: she was not
eating.
"How we shall conciliate this little creature," said Mrs. Bretton to
me, "I don't know: she tastes nothing, and by her looks, she has not
slept."
I expressed my confidence in the effects of time and kindness.
"If she were to take a fancy to anybody in the house, she would soon
settle; but not till then," replied Mrs. Bretton.
CHAPTER II.
PAULINA.
Some days elapsed, and it appeared she was not likely to take much of
a fancy to anybody in the house. She was not exactly naughty or
wilful: she was far from disobedient; but an object less conducive to
comfort--to tranquillity even--than she presented, it was scarcely
possible to have before one's eyes. She moped: no grown person could
have performed that uncheering business better; no furrowed face of
adult exile, longing for Europe at Europe's antipodes, ever bore more
legibly the signs of home sickness than did her infant visage. She
seemed growing old and unearthly. I, Lucy Snowe, plead guiltless of
that curse, an overheated and discursive imagination; but whenever,
opening a room-door, I found her seated in a corner alone, her head in
her pigmy hand, that room seemed to me not inhabited, but haunted.
And again, when of moonlight nights, on waking, I beheld her figure,
white and conspicuous in its night-dress, kneeling upright in bed, and
praying like some Catholic or Methodist enthusiast--some precocious
fanatic or untimely saint--I scarcely know what thoughts I had; but
they ran risk of being hardly more rational and healthy than that
child's mind must have been.
I seldom caught a word of her prayers, for they were whispered low:
sometimes, indeed, they were not whispered at all, but put up
unuttered; such rare sentences as reached my ear still bore the
burden, "Papa; my dear papa!" This, I perceived, was a one-idea'd
nature; betraying that monomaniac tendency I have ever thought the
most unfortunate with which man or woman can be cursed.
What might have been the end of this fretting, had it continued
unchecked, can only be conjectured: it received, however, a sudden
turn.
One afternoon, Mrs. Bretton, coaxing her from her usual station
in a corner, had lifted her into the window-seat, and, by way of
occupying her attention, told her to watch the passengers and count
how many ladies should go down the street in a given time. She
had sat listlessly, hardly looking, and not counting, when--my eye
being fixed on hers--I witnessed in its iris and pupil a startling
transfiguration. These sudden, dangerous natures--_sensitive_ as
they are called--offer many a curious spectacle to those whom a cooler
temperament has secured from participation in their angular vagaries.
The fixed and heavy gaze swum, trembled, then glittered in fire; the
small, overcast brow cleared; the trivial and dejected features lit
up; the sad countenance vanished, and in its place appeared a sudden
eagerness, an intense expectancy. "It _is_!" were her words.
Like a bird or a shaft, or any other swift thing, she was gone from
the room, How she got the house-door open I cannot tell; probably it
might be ajar; perhaps Warren was in the way and obeyed her behest,
which would be impetuous enough. I--watching calmly from the window--
saw her, in her black frock and tiny braided apron (to pinafores she
had an antipathy), dart half the length of the street; and, as I was
on the point of turning, and quietly announcing to Mrs. Bretton that
the child was run out mad, and ought instantly to be pursued, I saw
her caught up, and rapt at once from my cool observation, and from the
wondering stare of the passengers. A gentleman had done this good
turn, and now, covering her with his cloak, advanced to restore her to
the house whence he had seen her issue.
I concluded he would leave her in a servant's charge and withdraw; but
he entered: having tarried a little while below, he came up-stairs.
His reception immediately explained that he was known to Mrs. Bretton.
She recognised him; she greeted him, and yet she was fluttered,
surprised, taken unawares. Her look and manner were even
expostulatory; and in reply to these, rather than her words, he said,
--"I could not help it, madam: I found it impossible to leave the
country without seeing with my own eyes how she settled."
"But you will unsettle her."
"I hope not. And how is papa's little Polly?"
This question he addressed to Paulina, as he sat down and placed her
gently on the ground before him.
"How is Polly's papa?" was the reply, as she leaned on his knee, and
gazed up into his face.
It was not a noisy, not a wordy scene: for that I was thankful; but it
was a scene of feeling too brimful, and which, because the cup did not
foam up high or furiously overflow, only oppressed one the more. On
all occasions of vehement, unrestrained expansion, a sense of disdain
or ridicule comes to the weary spectator's relief; whereas I have ever
felt most burdensome that sort of sensibility which bends of its own
will, a giant slave under the sway of good sense.
Mr. Home was a stern-featured--perhaps I should rather say, a hard-
featured man: his forehead was knotty, and his cheekbones were marked
and prominent. The character of his face was quite Scotch; but there
was feeling in his eye, and emotion in his now agitated countenance.
His northern accent in speaking harmonised with his physiognomy. He
was at once proud-looking and homely-looking. He laid his hand on the
child's uplifted head. She said--"Kiss Polly."
He kissed her. I wished she would utter some hysterical cry, so that I
might get relief and be at ease. She made wonderfully little noise:
she seemed to have got what she wanted--_all_ she wanted, and to
be in a trance of content. Neither in mien nor in features was this
creature like her sire, and yet she was of his strain: her mind had
been filled from his, as the cup from the flagon.
Indisputably, Mr. Home owned manly self-control, however he might
secretly feel on some matters. "Polly," he said, looking down on his
little girl, "go into the hall; you will see papa's great-coat lying
on a chair; put your hand into the pockets, you will find a pocket-
handkerchief there; bring it to me."
She obeyed; went and returned deftly and nimbly. He was talking to
Mrs. Bretton when she came back, and she waited with the handkerchief
in her hand. It was a picture, in its way, to see her, with her tiny
stature, and trim, neat shape, standing at his knee. Seeing that he
continued to talk, apparently unconscious of her return, she took his
hand, opened the unresisting fingers, insinuated into them the
handkerchief, and closed them upon it one by one. He still seemed not
to see or to feel her; but by-and-by, he lifted her to his knee; she
nestled against him, and though neither looked at nor spoke to the
other for an hour following, I suppose both were satisfied.
During tea, the minute thing's movements and behaviour gave, as usual,
full occupation to the eye. First she directed Warren, as he placed
the chairs.
"Put papa's chair here, and mine near it, between papa and Mrs.
Bretton: _I_ must hand his tea."
She took her own seat, and beckoned with her hand to her father.
"Be near me, as if we were at home, papa."
And again, as she intercepted his cup in passing, and would stir the
sugar, and put in the cream herself, "I always did it for you at home;
papa: nobody could do it as well, not even your own self."
Throughout the meal she continued her attentions: rather absurd they
were. The sugar-tongs were too wide for one of her hands, and she had
to use both in wielding them; the weight of the silver cream-ewer, the
bread-and-butter plates, the very cup and saucer, tasked her
insufficient strength and dexterity; but she would lift this, hand
that, and luckily contrived through it all to break nothing. Candidly
speaking, I thought her a little busy-body; but her father, blind like
other parents, seemed perfectly content to let her wait on him, and
even wonderfully soothed by her offices.
"She is my comfort!" he could not help saying to Mrs. Bretton. That
lady had her own "comfort" and nonpareil on a much larger scale, and,
for the moment, absent; so she sympathised with his foible.
This second "comfort" came on the stage in the course of the evening.
I knew this day had been fixed for his return, and was aware that Mrs.
Bretton had been expecting him through all its hours. We were seated
round the fire, after tea, when Graham joined our circle: I should
rather say, broke it up--for, of course, his arrival made a bustle;
and then, as Mr. Graham was fasting, there was refreshment to be
provided. He and Mr. Home met as old acquaintance; of the little girl
he took no notice for a time.
His meal over, and numerous questions from his mother answered, he
turned from the table to the hearth. Opposite where he had placed
himself was seated Mr. Home, and at his elbow, the child. When I say
_child_ I use an inappropriate and undescriptive term--a term
suggesting any picture rather than that of the demure little person in
a mourning frock and white chemisette, that might just have fitted a
good-sized doll--perched now on a high chair beside a stand, whereon
was her toy work-box of white varnished wood, and holding in her hands
a shred of a handkerchief, which she was professing to hem, and at
which she bored perseveringly with a needle, that in her fingers
seemed almost a skewer, pricking herself ever and anon, marking the
cambric with a track of minute red dots; occasionally starting when
the perverse weapon--swerving from her control--inflicted a deeper
stab than usual; but still silent, diligent, absorbed, womanly.
Graham was at that time a handsome, faithless-looking youth of
sixteen. I say faithless-looking, not because he was really of a very
perfidious disposition, but because the epithet strikes me as proper
to describe the fair, Celtic (not Saxon) character of his good looks;
his waved light auburn hair, his supple symmetry, his smile frequent,
and destitute neither of fascination nor of subtlety (in no bad
sense). A spoiled, whimsical boy he was in those days.
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