1 Villette By Charlotte Brontë - Read By Stephanie Poppins

Villette is a 1853 novel written by English author Charlotte Brontë. After an unspecified family disaster, the protagonist Lucy Snowe travels from her native England to the fictional Continental city of Villette to teach at a girls' school, where she is drawn into adventure and romance.

In this episode, Lucy Snowe narrates.

Music by my brother: Jean-Miles Carter

Transcript

Villette by Charlotte Brontë by Stephanie Poppins Music by John Myles Carter Chapter One My godmother lived in a handsome house in the clean and ancient town of Breton. Her husband's family had been residents there for generations and bore indeed the name of their birthplace, Breton of Breton. 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 Breton 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 Breton 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 English woman 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 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 it 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 stayed in Breton 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 seen in 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 letter 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 Breton 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. 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 Breton 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 Breton's. This little girl it was added had recently lost her mother though. Indeed Mrs Breton ere long subjoined the loss was not so great as might first appear. Mrs Hone 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 overexerted herself at a ball caught cold, Took a fever and died after a very brief illness. Her husband naturally a man of 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 until his spirits were seriously affected. The medical men insisted on travelling being tried as a remedy and meanwhile Mrs Breton had off to take charge of his little girl. And I hope added my godmother in conclusion the child would not be like her mama a silly and frivolous little flirt as ever sensible man was weak enough to marry for. Mr Hone is a sensible man in his way though not very practical. He's fond of science and he lives half his life in a laboratory trying experiments a thing his butterfly wife could never 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 her late husband used to say Mr Hone had derived his scientific turn from a maternal uncle a French Savon 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. The same evening at nine o'clock a servant was dispatched to meet the coach by which our little visitor was expected. Mrs Breton and I sat alone in the drawing room waiting her coming John Graham Breton being absent on a visit to one of his school fellows 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 winds sounded angry and restless. Poor child said Mrs Breton from time to time what weather for a journey I wish she was safe here. A little before ten the doorbell announced Warren's return. No sooner was the door open that I ran into the hall and 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 he opened the drawing room door and take off this shawl. 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 hounds and orbs. Give it to Harriet please was then the direction. She can put it away. The little girl turned and fixed its eyes on Mrs Breton. Come here little dear. Come and tell me if you're 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 she was a neat completely fashioned little figure. Light, Slight and straight. Seated on my grandmother's ample lap she looked like a mere doll. Her neck delicate as it was, Her head of silky curls increased I thought the resemblance. Mrs Breton talked in little fond phrases as she chafed the child's hands and at first she was considered with a wistful gaze but soon a smile answered her. Mrs Breton was not generally a caressing woman. Even with her deeply cherished son her manner was rarely sentimental. But when the small stranger smiled she kissed it asking What's my little one's name? Missy. Besides Missy. Polly. Will Polly be content to live with me? Not always but till Papa comes home. Papa's gone away. The little girl shook her head. He will return to Polly or send for her. Will he Mum? Do you know he will? I think so. But Harriet thinks not, At least not for a long while. He's ill. Then the little girl's eyes filled with tears. 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. Now Missy, Said the nurse as she came in you are to share this young lady's room. Missy did not leave her seat but I saw her eyes seek me and after some minutes silent scrutiny she emerged from the corner she was sitting in. I wish you good night Mum, Good night. She said to Mrs Breton. But she passed me mute. Good night Polly, Said I. No need to say good night since we live in the same chamber was the reply. Then she vanished from the drawing room. We heard Harriet propose to carry her upstairs. No need was again her answer 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 pillow so as to support her little person in the sitting posture. I abstained from speaking to her for some time but just before extinguishing the light I remembered that she should lie down. Bye and bye, 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 I covered her shoulders. I suffered her to do as she pleased and listening a while in the darkness I was aware that she wept under restraint quietly and cautiously. The next morning Mrs Breton said how shall we conciliate this little creature? I don't know. She tastes nothing and by her look she has not slept. I expressed my confidence in the effects of time and kindness and Mrs Breton said if she were to take a fancy to anybody in the house she would soon settle but not until then.