12 Villette By Charlotte Brontë - Soothing Guided Reading

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 discovers a secret.

Music by my brother: Jean-Miles Carter

Transcript

Violette by Charlotte Brontë Red by Stephanie Poppins Music by John Myles Carter Chapter 12 The Casket Behind the house at the Rue Faucette there was a garden, Large considering it lay in the heart of a city, And to my recollection at this day it seems pleasant. But time-like distance lends to certain scenes an influence so softening, And when all is stone around, Blank wall and hot pavement, How precious seems one shrub, How lovely an enclosed and planted spot of ground. There went a tradition at Madame Beck's house had in all days been incumbent, That in years gone by, How long gone I cannot tell, But I think some centuries, Before the city had overspread this quarter and when it was tilled ground and avenue, Something had happened on this site which, Rousing fear and inflicting horror, Had left to the place the inheritance of a ghost story. A vague tale went of a black and white nun sometimes, On some night or nights of the year, Seen in some part of this vicinage. The ghost must have been built out some ages ago, For there were houses all round now, But in certain convent relics, In the shape of old and huge fruit-trees yet consecrated this spot. And the foot of one, A pear-tree dead all but for a few boughs, And their honey-sweet pendants, You saw, In scraping away the mossy earth, A glimpse of slab, Smooth, Hard and black. The legend went, Unconfirmed and unaccredited, But still propagated, This was the portal of a vault, Imprisoning deep beneath that ground, On whose surface grass grew and flowers bloomed, The bones of a girl, Whom a monkish conclave of the drear middle ages had here buried alive for some sin against her vow. Her shadow, It was all that Trembliss had feared, Though long generations after her poor frame was darsed, Her black robe and white veil that for timid eyes moonlight and shade had mocked, As they fluctuated in the night wind, Through the garden thicket. Independently of romantic rubbish, However, That old garden had its charms. On summer mornings I used to rise early to enjoy them alone, On summer evenings to linger solitary, To keep tryst with the rising moon, Or taste one kiss of the evening breeze, Or fancy rather than feel the freshness of dew descending. Doubtless at high noon in the broad vulgar middle of the day, When Madame Beck's large school turned out rampant, Vying with the densions of the boys' college close at hand, Doubtless then the garden was a trite, Trodden-down place enough. But at sunset, When the externs were gone home and the borders quieted their studies, Pleasant was it then to stray down the peaceful alleys and hear the bells of St John Baptist peal out with their sweet, Soft, Exalted sound. I was walking thus one evening, And had been detained further within the verge of twilight than usual by this still deepening calm, The coolness and fragrant breathing with which flowers, No sunshine could win, Now answered the persuasion of the dew. I saw by a light in the oratory window the Catholic household were then gathered to evening prayer, A rite from attendance on which I now and then as a Protestant exempted myself. One moment longer, Whispered solitude and the summer moon, Stay with us, All is quiet now, Another quarter of an hour your presence will not be missed. The day's heat and bustle have tired you, Enjoy these precious minutes. The windowless backs of houses built in this garden, And in particular the whole of one's side, Were skirted by the rear of a long line of premises, Being the boarding houses of the neighbouring college. This rear, However, Was all blank stone, With the exception of certain attic loopholes high up, Opening from the sleeping rooms of the women's servants, And also one casement in a lower story, Said to mark the chamber or study of a master. I was sitting on the hidden seat reclaimed from fungi and mould, Listening to what seemed the far off sounds of the city. But far off they were not. This school was in the city centre. It was but five minutes' walk to the park, Scarce ten to buildings of palatial splendour. Quite near were wide streets brightly lit, Teeming at this moment with life. Carriages were rolling through them to balls or to the opera. The same hour which told curfew for our convent, Which extinguished each lamp and dropped the curtain round each couch, Rang for the gay city about us the summons to festal enjoyment. Of this contrast I thought not, However. Gay instincts my nature had few. Ball or opera I had never seen, And though often I heard them described and even wished to see them, It was not the wish of one who hopes to partake a pleasure if she could only reach it, Who feels fitted to shine in some bright distant sphere. Could she but thither win her way? A moon was in the sky, Not a full moon but a young crescent. I saw her through a space in the boughs overhead. She and the stars visible beside her were no strangers when all else was strange. My childhood knew them. I had seen that golden sign with a dark globe in its curve, Leaning back on azure beside an old thorn at the top of an old field in old England, In long days past. Oh, My childhood. I had feelings, Passive as I lived, Little as I spoke, Cold as I looked, When I thought of past days I could feel. About the present it was better to be stoical, About the future to be dead, And in catalepsy and a dead trance I studiously held the quick of my nature. I did long, Achingly then for four and twenty hours afterwards, For something to fetch me out of my present existence and lead me upwards and onwards. Then all at once quick rang the bell, Quick but not loud, A cautious tinkle, A sort of warning metal whisper. Rosine darted from her cabinet and ran to open it. The person she admitted stood with her two minutes in parley. There seemed a delay. Rosine came to the garden door, Lamp in hand, And she stood on the steps lifting her lamp, Looking around vaguely. Let me pass, Pleaded a voice I knew. I asked but for five minutes. And a familiar shape, Tall and grand, Issued from the house and strode down among the beds and walks. It was sacrilege, The intrusion of a man into that spot at that hour, But he knew himself privileged and perhaps he trusted to the friendly night. He wandered down the alleys, Looking on this side and on that. He was lost in the shrubs, Trampling flowers and breaking branches in his search for a forbidden casket that I had since found. He penetrated at last the forbidden walk, And there I met him, Like some ghost, I suppose. Dr. John, It is found. He did not ask by whom, For with his quick eye he perceived me, And that I held a letter in my hand. Do not betray her, He said, Looking at me as if I were indeed a dragon. Were I ever so disposed to treachery, I cannot betray what I do not know, Was my answer. Read the note and you will see how little it reveals. Perhaps you have read it, I thought to myself, And yet I could not believe he wrote it. That could hardly be his style. Besides, I was fool enough to think there would be a degree of hardship in him calling me such names. To me, This was a cruel letter. It read, Angel of my dreams, A thousand thanks for the promise kept. Scarcely did I venture to hope its fulfilment. I believed you indeed to be half in jest, Then you seem to think the enterprise beset with such danger. The hour so untimely, The alley so strictly secluded. Often, You said, Haunted by that dragon, The English teacher. How my heart palpitated with delight when, Through apertures in the envious bowels, I once caught the gleam of your graceful straw hat and the waving of your grey dress, Dress I should recognise among a thousand. But why, My angel, Will you not look up? Cruel to deny me one ray of those adorable eyes. Dr. John's own look vindicated him. He grew hot as he read and coloured. This is indeed too much. This is cruel and humiliating, Were the words that fell from him. I thought it was cruel when I saw his countenance so moved. What shall you do about it? He inquired of me. Shall you tell Madam Beck what you found? I thought I ought to tell and I said so, Adding I did not believe there would be either stir or escaladre. Madam was much too prudent to make a noise about an affair of that sort, Connected with her establishment. Dr. John was both too proud and too honourable to entreat my secrecy, On a point which duty evidently commanded me to communicate. I wish to do right, Yet I loathe to grieve or injure him. Just then Rosine glanced out through the open door. She could not see us, Though between the trees I could plainly see her. Her dress was grey. If you can assure me none of Madam Beck's pupils are implicated, I shall be happy to stand aloof from all interference, I said. For my part, I gladly forget the whole affair.