Villette

  CHAPTER XIX.

  THE CLEOPATRA.

  My stay at La Terrasse was prolonged a fortnight beyond the close ofthe vacation. Mrs. Bretton's kind management procured me this respite.Her son having one day delivered the dictum that "Lucy was not yetstrong enough to go back to that den of a pensionnat," she at oncedrove over to the Rue Fossette, had an interview with the directress,and procured the indulgence, on the plea of prolonged rest and changebeing necessary to perfect recovery. Hereupon, however, followed anattention I could very well have dispensed with, viz--a polite callfrom Madame Beck.

  That lady--one fine day--actually came out in a fiacre as far as thechateau. I suppose she had resolved within herself to see what mannerof place Dr. John inhabited. Apparently, the pleasant site and neatinterior surpassed her expectations; she eulogized all she saw,pronounced the blue salon "une piece magnifique," profuselycongratulated me on the acquisition of friends, "tellement dignes,aimables, et respectables," turned also a neat compliment in my favour,and, upon Dr. John coming in, ran up to him with the utmost buoyancy,opening at the same time such a fire of rapid language, all sparklingwith felicitations and protestations about his "chateau,"--"madame samere, la digne chatelaine:" also his looks; which, indeed, were veryflourishing, and at the moment additionally embellished by thegood-natured but amused smile with which he always listened to Madame'sfluent and florid French. In short, Madame shone in her very best phasethat day, and came in and went out quite a living catherine-wheel ofcompliments, delight, and affability. Half purposely, and half to asksome question about school-business, I followed her to the carriage,and looked in after she was seated and the door closed. In that brieffraction of time what a change had been wrought! An instant ago, allsparkles and jests, she now sat sterner than a judge and graver than asage. Strange little woman!

  I went back and teased Dr. John about Madame's devotion to him. How helaughed! What fun shone in his eyes as he recalled some of her finespeeches, and repeated them, imitating her voluble delivery! He had anacute sense of humour, and was the finest company in the world--when hecould forget Miss Fanshawe.

  * * * * *

  To "sit in sunshine calm and sweet" is said to be excellent for weakpeople; it gives them vital force. When little Georgette Beck wasrecovering from her illness, I used to take her in my arms and walkwith her in the garden by the hour together, beneath a certain wallhung with grapes, which the Southern sun was ripening: that suncherished her little pale frame quite as effectually as it mellowed andswelled the clustering fruit.

  There are human tempers, bland, glowing, and genial, within whoseinfluence it is as good for the poor in spirit to live, as it is forthe feeble in frame to bask in the glow of noon. Of the number of thesechoice natures were certainly both Dr. Bretton's and his mother's. Theyliked to communicate happiness, as some like to occasion misery: theydid it instinctively; without fuss, and apparently with littleconsciousness; the means to give pleasure rose spontaneously in theirminds. Every day while I stayed with them, some little plan wasproposed which resulted in beneficial enjoyment. Fully occupied as wasDr. John's time, he still made it in his way to accompany us in eachbrief excursion. I can hardly tell how he managed his engagements; theywere numerous, yet by dint of system, he classed them in an order whichleft him a daily period of liberty. I often saw him hard-worked, yetseldom over-driven, and never irritated, confused, or oppressed. Whathe did was accomplished with the ease and grace of all-sufficingstrength; with the bountiful cheerfulness of high and unbrokenenergies. Under his guidance I saw, in that one happy fortnight, moreof Villette, its environs, and its inhabitants, than I had seen in thewhole eight months of my previous residence. He took me to places ofinterest in the town, of whose names I had not before so much as heard;with willingness and spirit he communicates much noteworthyinformation. He never seemed to think it a trouble to talk to me, and,I am sure, it was never a task to me to listen. It was not his way totreat subjects coldly and vaguely; he rarely generalized, never prosed.He seemed to like nice details almost as much as I liked them myself:he seemed observant of character: and not superficially observant,either. These points gave the quality of interest to his discourse; andthe fact of his speaking direct from his own resources, and notborrowing or stealing from books--here a dry fact, and there a tritephrase, and elsewhere a hackneyed opinion--ensured a freshness, aswelcome as it was rare. Before my eyes, too, his disposition seemed tounfold another phase; to pass to a fresh day: to rise in new and noblerdawn.

  His mother possessed a good development of benevolence, but he owned abetter and larger. I found, on accompanying him to the Basse-Ville--thepoor and crowded quarter of the city--that his errands there were asmuch those of the philanthropist as the physician. I understoodpresently that cheerfully, habitually, and in single-mindedunconsciousness of any special merit distinguishing his deeds--he wasachieving, amongst a very wretched population, a world of active good.The lower orders liked him well; his poor, patients in the hospitalswelcomed him with a sort of enthusiasm.

  But stop--I must not, from the faithful narrator, degenerate into thepartial eulogist. Well, full well, do I know that Dr. John was notperfect, anymore than I am perfect. Human fallibility leavened himthroughout: there was no hour, and scarcely a moment of the time Ispent with him that in act or speech, or look, he did not betraysomething that was not of a god. A god could not have the cruel vanityof Dr. John, nor his sometime levity. No immortal could have resembledhim in his occasional temporary oblivion of all but the present--in hispassing passion for that present; shown not coarsely, by devoting it tomaterial indulgence, but selfishly, by extracting from it whatever itcould yield of nutriment to his masculine self-love: his delight was tofeed that ravenous sentiment, without thought of the price ofprovender, or care for the cost of keeping it sleek and high-pampered.

  The reader is requested to note a seeming contradiction in the twoviews which have been given of Graham Bretton--the public andprivate--the out-door and the in-door view. In the first, the public,he is shown oblivious of self; as modest in the display of hisenergies, as earnest in their exercise. In the second, the firesidepicture, there is expressed consciousness of what he has and what heis; pleasure in homage, some recklessness in exciting, some vanity inreceiving the same. Both portraits are correct.

  It was hardly possible to oblige Dr. John quietly and in secret. Whenyou thought that the fabrication of some trifle dedicated to his usehad been achieved unnoticed, and that, like other men, he would use itwhen placed ready for his use, and never ask whence it came, he amazedyou by a smilingly-uttered observation or two, proving that his eye hadbeen on the work from commencement to close: that he had noted thedesign, traced its progress, and marked its completion. It pleased himto be thus served, and he let his pleasure beam in his eye and playabout his mouth.

  This would have been all very well, if he had not added to such kindlyand unobtrusive evidence a certain wilfulness in discharging what hecalled debts. When his mother worked for him, he paid her by showeringabout her his bright animal spirits, with even more affluence than hisgay, taunting, teasing, loving wont. If Lucy Snowe were discovered tohave put her hand to such work, he planned, in recompence, somepleasant recreation.

  I often felt amazed at his perfect knowledge of Villette; a knowledgenot merely confined to its open streets, but penetrating to all itsgalleries, salles, and cabinets: of every door which shut in an objectworth seeing, of every museum, of every hall, sacred to art or science,he seemed to possess the "Open! Sesame." I never had a head forscience, but an ignorant, blind, fond instinct inclined me to art. Iliked to visit the picture-galleries, and I dearly liked to be leftthere alone. In company, a wretched idiosyncracy forbade me to see muchor to feel anything. In unfamiliar company, where it was necessary tomaintain a flow of talk on the subjects in presence, half an hour wouldknock me up, with a combined pressure of physical lassitude and entiremental incapacity. I never yet saw the well-reared child, much less theeducated
adult, who could not put me to shame, by the sustainedintelligence of its demeanour under the ordeal of a conversable,sociable visitation of pictures, historical sights or buildings, or anylions of public interest. Dr. Bretton was a cicerone after my ownheart; he would take me betimes, ere the galleries were filled, leaveme there for two or three hours, and call for me when his ownengagements were discharged. Meantime, I was happy; happy, not alwaysin admiring, but in examining, questioning, and forming conclusions. Inthe commencement of these visits, there was some misunderstanding andconsequent struggle between Will and Power. The former faculty exactedapprobation of that which it was considered orthodox to admire; thelatter groaned forth its utter inability to pay the tax; it was thenself-sneered at, spurred up, goaded on to refine its taste, and whetits zest. The more it was chidden, however, the more it wouldn'tpraise. Discovering gradually that a wonderful sense of fatigueresulted from these conscientious efforts, I began to reflect whether Imight not dispense with that great labour, and concluded eventuallythat I might, and so sank supine into a luxury of calm beforeninety-nine out of a hundred of the exhibited frames.

  It seemed to me that an original and good picture was just as scarce asan original and good book; nor did I, in the end, tremble to say tomyself, standing before certain _chef-d'oeuvres_ bearing great names,"These are not a whit like nature. Nature's daylight never had thatcolour: never was made so turbid, either by storm or cloud, as it islaid out there, under a sky of indigo: and that indigo is not ether;and those dark weeds plastered upon it are not trees." Several verywell executed and complacent-looking fat women struck me as by no meansthe goddesses they appeared to consider themselves. Many scores ofmarvellously-finished little Flemish pictures, and also of sketches,excellent for fashion-books displaying varied costumes in thehandsomest materials, gave evidence of laudable industry whimsicallyapplied. And yet there were fragments of truth here and there whichsatisfied the conscience, and gleams of light that cheered the vision.Nature's power here broke through in a mountain snow-storm; and thereher glory in a sunny southern day. An expression in this portraitproved clear insight into character; a face in that historicalpainting, by its vivid filial likeness, startlingly reminded you thatgenius gave it birth. These exceptions I loved: they grew dear asfriends.

  One day, at a quiet early hour, I found myself nearly alone in acertain gallery, wherein one particular picture of portentous size, setup in the best light, having a cordon of protection stretched beforeit, and a cushioned bench duly set in front for the accommodation ofworshipping connoisseurs, who, having gazed themselves off their feet,might be fain to complete the business sitting: this picture, I say,seemed to consider itself the queen of the collection.

  It represented a woman, considerably larger, I thought, than the life.I calculated that this lady, put into a scale of magnitude, suitablefor the reception of a commodity of bulk, would infallibly turn fromfourteen to sixteen stone. She was, indeed, extremely well fed: verymuch butcher's meat--to say nothing of bread, vegetables, andliquids--must she have consumed to attain that breadth and height, thatwealth of muscle, that affluence of flesh. She lay half-reclined on acouch: why, it would be difficult to say; broad daylight blazed roundher; she appeared in hearty health, strong enough to do the work of twoplain cooks; she could not plead a weak spine; she ought to have beenstanding, or at least sitting bolt upright. She, had no business tolounge away the noon on a sofa. She ought likewise to have worn decentgarments; a gown covering her properly, which was not the case: out ofabundance of material--seven-and-twenty yards, I should say, ofdrapery--she managed to make inefficient raiment. Then, for thewretched untidiness surrounding her, there could be no excuse. Pots andpans--perhaps I ought to say vases and goblets--were rolled here andthere on the foreground; a perfect rubbish of flowers was mixed amongstthem, and an absurd and disorderly mass of curtain upholstery smotheredthe couch and cumbered the floor. On referring to the catalogue, Ifound that this notable production bore the name "Cleopatra."

  Well, I was sitting wondering at it (as the bench was there, I thoughtI might as well take advantage of its accommodation), and thinking thatwhile some of the details--as roses, gold cups, jewels, &c., were veryprettily painted, it was on the whole an enormous piece of claptrap;the room, almost vacant when I entered, began to fill. Scarcelynoticing this circumstance (as, indeed, it did not matter to me) Iretained my seat; rather to rest myself than with a view to studyingthis huge, dark-complexioned gipsy-queen; of whom, indeed, I soontired, and betook myself for refreshment to the contemplation of someexquisite little pictures of still life: wild-flowers, wild-fruit,mossy woodnests, casketing eggs that looked like pearls seen throughclear green sea-water; all hung modestly beneath that coarse andpreposterous canvas.

  Suddenly a light tap visited my shoulder. Starting, turning, I met aface bent to encounter mine; a frowning, almost a shocked face it was.

  "Que faites-vous ici?" said a voice.

  "Mais, Monsieur, je m'amuse."

  "Vous vous amusez! et a quoi, s'il vous plait? Mais d'abord, faites-moile plaisir de vous lever; prenez mon bras, et allons de l'autre cote."

  I did precisely as I was bid. M. Paul Emanuel (it was he) returned fromRome, and now a travelled man, was not likely to be less tolerant ofinsubordination now, than before this added distinction laurelled histemples.

  "Permit me to conduct you to your party," said he, as we crossed theroom.

  "I have no party."

  "You are not alone?"

  "Yes, Monsieur."

  "Did you come here unaccompanied?"

  "No, Monsieur. Dr. Bretton brought me here."

  "Dr. Bretton and Madame his mother, of course?"

  "No; only Dr. Bretton."

  "And he told you to look at _that_ picture?"

  "By no means; I found it out for myself."

  M. Paul's hair was shorn close as raven down, or I think it would havebristled on his head. Beginning now to perceive his drift, I had acertain pleasure in keeping cool, and working him up.

  "Astounding insular audacity!" cried the Professor. "Singulieres femmesque ces Anglaises!"

  "What is the matter, Monsieur?"

  "Matter! How dare you, a young person, sit coolly down, with theself-possession of a garcon, and look at _that_ picture?"

  "It is a very ugly picture, but I cannot at all see why I should notlook at it."

  "Bon! bon! Speak no more of it. But you ought not to be here alone."

  "If, however, I have no society--no _party_, as you say? And then, whatdoes it signify whether I am alone, or accompanied? nobody meddles withme."

  "Taisez-vous, et asseyez-vous la--la!"--setting down a chair withemphasis in a particularly dull corner, before a series of mostspecially dreary "cadres."

  "Mais, Monsieur?"

  "Mais, Mademoiselle, asseyez-vous, et ne bougezpas--entendez-vous?--jusqu'a ce qu'on vienne vous chercher, ou que jevous donne la permission."

  "Quel triste coin!" cried I, "et quelles laids tableaux!"

  And "laids," indeed, they were; being a set of four, denominated in thecatalogue "La vie d'une femme." They were painted rather in aremarkable style--flat, dead, pale, and formal. The first represented a"Jeune Fille," coming out of a church-door, a missal in her hand, herdress very prim, her eyes cast down, her mouth pursed up--the image ofa most villanous little precocious she-hypocrite. The second, a"Mariee," with a long white veil, kneeling at a prie-dieu in herchamber, holding her hands plastered together, finger to finger, andshowing the whites of her eyes in a most exasperating manner. Thethird, a "Jeune Mere," hanging disconsolate over a clayey and puffybaby with a face like an unwholesome full moon. The fourth, a "Veuve,"being a black woman, holding by the hand a black little girl, and thetwain studiously surveying an elegant French monument, set up in acorner of some Pere la Chaise. All these four "Anges" were grim andgrey as burglars, and cold and vapid as ghosts. What women to livewith! insincere, ill-humoured, bloodless, brainless nonentities! As badin their way as the indolent gipsy-gian
tess, the Cleopatra, in hers.

  It was impossible to keep one's attention long confined to thesemaster-pieces, and so, by degrees, I veered round, and surveyed thegallery.

  A perfect crowd of spectators was by this time gathered round theLioness, from whose vicinage I had been banished; nearly half thiscrowd were ladies, but M. Paul afterwards told me, these were "desdames," and it was quite proper for them to contemplate what no"demoiselle" ought to glance at. I assured him plainly I could notagree in this doctrine, and did not see the sense of it; whereupon,with his usual absolutism, he merely requested my silence, and also, inthe same breath, denounced my mingled rashness and ignorance. A moredespotic little man than M. Paul never filled a professor's chair. Inoticed, by the way, that he looked at the picture himself quite at hisease, and for a very long while: he did not, however, neglect to glancefrom time to time my way, in order, I suppose, to make sure that I wasobeying orders, and not breaking bounds. By-and-by, he again accostedme.

  "Had I not been ill?" he wished to know: "he understood I had."

  "Yes, but I was now quite well."

  "Where had I spent the vacation?"

  "Chiefly in the Rue Fossette; partly with Madame Bretton."

  "He had heard that I was left alone in the Rue Fossette; was that so?"

  "Not quite alone: Marie Broc" (the cretin) "was with me."

  He shrugged his shoulders; varied and contradictory expressions playedrapidly over his countenance. Marie Broc was well known to M. Paul; henever gave a lesson in the third division (containing the leastadvanced pupils), that she did not occasion in him a sharp conflictbetween antagonistic impressions. Her personal appearance, herrepulsive manners, her often unmanageable disposition, irritated histemper, and inspired him with strong antipathy; a feeling he was tooapt to conceive when his taste was offended or his will thwarted. Onthe other hand, her misfortunes, constituted a strong claim on hisforbearance and compassion--such a claim as it was not in his nature todeny; hence resulted almost daily drawn battles between impatience anddisgust on the one hand, pity and a sense of justice on the other; inwhich, to his credit be it said, it was very seldom that the formerfeelings prevailed: when they did, however, M. Paul showed a phase ofcharacter which had its terrors. His passions were strong, hisaversions and attachments alike vivid; the force he exerted in holdingboth in check by no means mitigated an observer's sense of theirvehemence. With such tendencies, it may well be supposed he oftenexcited in ordinary minds fear and dislike; yet it was an error to fearhim: nothing drove him so nearly frantic as the tremor of anapprehensive and distrustful spirit; nothing soothed him likeconfidence tempered with gentleness. To evince these sentiments,however, required a thorough comprehension of his nature; and hisnature was of an order rarely comprehended.

  "How did you get on with Marie Broc?" he asked, after some minutes'silence.

  "Monsieur, I did my best; but it was terrible to be alone with her!"

  "You have, then, a weak heart! You lack courage; and, perhaps, charity.Yours are not the qualities which might constitute a Sister of Mercy."

  [He was a religious little man, in his way: the self-denying andself-sacrificing part of the Catholic religion commanded the homage ofhis soul.]

  "I don't know, indeed: I took as good care of her as I could; but whenher aunt came to fetch her away, it was a great relief."

  "Ah! you are an egotist. There are women who have nursed hospitals-fullof similar unfortunates. You could not do that?"

  "Could Monsieur do it himself?"

  "Women who are worthy the name ought infinitely to surpass; our coarse,fallible, self-indulgent sex, in the power to perform such duties."

  "I washed her, I kept her clean, I fed her, I tried to amuse her; butshe made mouths at me instead of speaking."

  "You think you did great things?"

  "No; but as great as I _could_ do."

  "Then limited are your powers, for in tending one idiot you fell sick."

  "Not with that, Monsieur; I had a nervous fever: my mind was ill."

  "Vraiment! Vous valez peu de chose. You are not cast in an heroicmould; your courage will not avail to sustain you in solitude; itmerely gives you the temerity to gaze with sang-froid at pictures ofCleopatra."

  It would have been easy to show anger at the teasing, hostile tone ofthe little man. I had never been angry with him yet, however, and hadno present disposition to begin.

  "Cleopatra!" I repeated, quietly. "Monsieur, too, has been looking atCleopatra; what does he think of her?"

  "Cela ne vaut rien," he responded. "Une femme superbe--une tailled'imperatrice, des formes de Junon, mais une personne dont je nevoudrais ni pour femme, ni pour fille, ni pour soeur. Aussi vous nejeterez plus un seul coup d'oeil de sa cote."

  "But I have looked at her a great many times while Monsieur has beentalking: I can see her quite well from this corner."

  "Turn to the wall and study your four pictures of a woman's life."

  "Excuse me, M. Paul; they are too hideous: but if you admire them,allow me to vacate my seat and leave you to their contemplation."

  "Mademoiselle," he said, grimacing a half-smile, or what he intendedfor a smile, though it was but a grim and hurried manifestation. "Younurslings of Protestantism astonish me. You unguarded Englishwomen walkcalmly amidst red-hot ploughshares and escape burning. I believe, ifsome of you were thrown into Nebuchadnezzar's hottest furnace you wouldissue forth untraversed by the smell of fire."

  "Will Monsieur have the goodness to move an inch to one side?"

  "How! At what are you gazing now? You are not recognising anacquaintance amongst that group of jeunes gens?"

  "I think so--Yes, I see there a person I know."

  In fact, I had caught a glimpse of a head too pretty to belong to anyother than the redoubted Colonel de Hamal. What a very finished, highlypolished little pate it was! What a figure, so trim and natty! Whatwomanish feet and hands! How daintily he held a glass to one of hisoptics! with what admiration he gazed upon the Cleopatra! and then, howengagingly he tittered and whispered a friend at his elbow! Oh, the manof sense! Oh, the refined gentleman of superior taste and tact! Iobserved him for about ten minutes, and perceived that he wasexceedingly taken with this dusk and portly Venus of the Nile. So muchwas I interested in his bearing, so absorbed in divining his characterby his looks and movements, I temporarily forgot M. Paul; in theinterim a group came between that gentleman and me; or possibly hisscruples might have received another and worse shock from my presentabstraction, causing him to withdraw voluntarily: at any rate, when Iagain looked round, he was gone.

  My eye, pursuant of the search, met not him, but another and dissimilarfigure, well seen amidst the crowd, for the height as well as the portlent each its distinction. This way came Dr. John, in visage, in shape,in hue, as unlike the dark, acerb, and caustic little professor, as thefruit of the Hesperides might be unlike the sloe in the wild thicket;as the high-couraged but tractable Arabian is unlike the rude andstubborn "sheltie." He was looking for me, but had not yet explored thecorner where the schoolmaster had just put me. I remained quiet; yetanother minute I would watch.

  He approached de Hamal; he paused near him; I thought he had a pleasurein looking over his head; Dr. Bretton, too, gazed on the Cleopatra. Idoubt if it were to his taste: he did not simper like the little Count;his mouth looked fastidious, his eye cool; without demonstration hestepped aside, leaving room for others to approach. I saw now that hewas waiting, and, rising, I joined him.

  We took one turn round the gallery; with Graham it was very pleasant totake such a turn. I always liked dearly to hear what he had to sayabout either pictures or books; because without pretending to be aconnoisseur, he always spoke his thought, and that was sure to befresh: very often it was also just and pithy. It was pleasant also totell him some things he did not know--he listened so kindly, soteachably; unformalized by scruples lest so to bend his bright handsomehead, to gather a woman's rather obscure and stammering explanation,should imperil th
e dignity of his manhood. And when he communicatedinformation in return, it was with a lucid intelligence that left allhis words clear graven on the memory; no explanation of his giving, nofact of his narrating, did I ever forget.

  As we left the gallery, I asked him what he thought of the Cleopatra(after making him laugh by telling him how Professor Emanuel had sentme to the right about, and taking him to see the sweet series ofpictures recommended to my attention.)

  "Pooh!" said he. "My mother is a better-looking woman. I heard someFrench fops, yonder, designating her as 'le type du voluptueux;' if so,I can only say, 'le voluptueux' is little to my liking. Compare thatmulatto with Ginevra!"