14 Villette By Charlotte Brontë - Read By Stephanie Poppins

Villette is an 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.
All rights reserved. Individual use only. Copyright Neworld Books Ltd.
This audio file is enabled with an invisible watermark.
Adapted for radio by S D HUDSON
Performed by Stephanie Poppins
Music by Jean-Miles Carter
Published by Neworld Books

Transcript

Relayed. By Charlotte Bronte. Red. By Stephanie Poppins. You're sick. By John Miles Carter. Chapter 14 The Fate. As soon as Georgette was well, Madame sent her away into the country. I was sorry. I love the child and her loss made me poorer than before. But I must not complain. I lived in a house full of robust life. I might have had companions, And I chose solitude. Each of the teachers in turn made me overchoose a special intimacy. I tried them all. One I found to be an honest woman, But a narrow thinker. The second was a Parisienne externally refined, Without a creed, Without a principle, Without an affection. She had a wonderful passion for presents, And in this point the third teacher, A person otherwise characterless and insignificant, Closely resembled her. This last named had also one other distinctive property, That of avarice. In her reigned the love of money for its own sake. The sight of a piece of gold would bring into her eyes a green glisten singular to witness. She once, As a mark of high favour, Took me upstairs and, Opening a secret door, Showed me a hoard, A mass, Of course, Large coin, About fifteen guineas in five franc pieces. She loved this hoard as a bird loves its eggs. These were her savings. She would come and talk to me about them with an infatuated and persevering dotage, Strange to behold in a person not yet twenty-five. The Parisienne, On the other hand, Was a prodigal and profligate woman. This latter quality showed its snake head to me but once, Peeping out very cautiously. A curious kind of reptile, It seemed. Judging from the glimpse I got. His novelty whetted my curiosity. If it would have come out boldly, Perhaps I might philosophically have stood my ground and coolly surveyed the long thing from forked tongue to scaly tail tip. But it's merely rustled in the leaves of a bad novel. And on encountering a hasty and ill-advised demonstration of wrath, Recoiled and vanished, Hissing. She hated me from that day. This Parisienne was always in debt. Her salary being anticipated not only in dress but in perfumes, Cosmetic, Confectionery and condiments. What a cold, Callous epicure she was in all things. I see her now, Thin in face and figure, Sallow in complexion, Regular in features, With perfect teeth. Lips like a thread, A large prominent chin, A well-opened but frozen eye of light at once craving and ingrained. She mortally hated work and loved what she called pleasure, Being an insipid, Heartless, Brainless dissipation of time. Madame Beck knew this woman's character perfectly well. She once talked to me about her with an odd mixture of discrimination, Indifference and antipathy. I asked why she kept her in the establishment. She answered plainly. Because it suited her interest to do so. And pointed out a fact I had already noted, Namely that Mademoiselle Saint-Pierre possessed, In an almost unique degree, The power of keeping order among her undisciplined ranks of scholars. A certain petrifying influence accompanied and surrounded her. Without passion, Noise or violence, She held them in check as a breezeless frost air might still a brawling stream. She was of little use as far as communication of knowledge went, But for strict surveillance and maintenance of rules, She was invaluable. A strange, Frolicsome, Noisy little world was this school. Great pains were taken to hide chains with flowers. A subtle essence of Romanism pervaded every arrangement. About this time in the ripest glow of summer, Madame Beck's house became as merry a place as a school could be. All day long the broad folding doors and two-leaved casements stood wide open. Settle sunshines seem naturalised in the atmosphere. Clouds were far off, Sailing away beyond sea. Resting no doubt round islands such as England, That dear land of mists, But withdrawn wholly from the drier continent. We lived far more in the garden than under a roof. Classes were held and meals were taken of in the Grand Bisseau. Moreover, There was a note of holiday preparation, Which almost turned freedom into license. The autumnal long vacation was but two months distant. But before that, A great day, An important ceremony, None other than the fate of Madame. Awaited celebration. The conduct of this fate devolves chiefly on Mademoiselle Saint-Pierre. Madame herself, Being supposed to stand aloof, Disinterestedly unconscious of what might be going forward in her honour. Especially she never knew, Never in the least suspected, That a subscription was annually levied on the whole school for the purchase of a handsome present. The polite tact of the reader will please to leave out of the account a brief, Secret consultation on this point in Madame's own chamber. What will you have this year? Was asked by her Parisian lieutenant. Oh, No matter, Let it alone. Let the poor children keep their francs. Madame looked benign and modest. And the result was a handsome case containing 300 francs worth of plates. The programme of the Feat Day's proceedings comprised Presentation of plate. Collation in the garden, Dramatic performance. Pupils and teachers for actors, A dance and a supper. The play was the main point, A month's previous drilling being there required. The choice, Too, Of the actors required knowledge and care. Then came lessons in elocution, Attitude, And the fatigue of countless rehearsals. They were supplied in the person of a master. Monsieur Paul Emmanuel, Professor of Literature. It was never my lot to be present at the histrionic lessons of Monsieur Paul. But I often saw him as he crossed the caray, A square hall between the dwelling house and the schoolhouse. I heard him too in the warm evenings lecturing with open doors, And his name with anecdotes of him resounded in one's ears from all sides. Especially our former acquaintance, Miss Geneva Fanshawe, Who'd been selected to take a prominent part in the play. She esteemed him hideously plain and used to profess herself frightened almost into hysterics at the sound of his step or his voice. A dark little man he certainly was, Pungent and austere. Even to me he seemed a harsh apparition, With his close-shawn black beard, His broad sallow brow, His thin cheek, His wide and quivering nostrils. His thorough glance and his hurried bearing. Mademoiselle St-Pierre always presided at his lessons, And I was told the polish of her manner, Her seeming attention, Tact and grace, Impressed that gentleman very favourably. The day preceding Madame's fate was as much a holiday as the fate itself. I was devoted to clearing out, Cleaning, Arranging and decorating the three school rooms. The whole day did I wander or sit there alone. Finding warmth in the sun or shelter among the trees and a sort of companionship. In my own thoughts when I took refuge in the garden. I well remember I exchanged but two sentences with any living being. Not that I felt solitary. I was glad to be quiet. For an onlooker, It sufficed to pass through the rooms once or twice, Observed what changes were being brought, How a green room and a dressing room were being contrived, A little stage with scenery erected, And how Monsieur Paul Emmanuel, In conjunction with Mademoiselle St-Pierre, Was directing it all. Then the great day arrived. The sun rose hot and unclouded and all the doors and all the windows were set open. Teachers and pupils descended to breakfast in dressing gowns and curled papers. And about nine o'clock, An important functionary The coiffeur arrived. I acknowledged in the Quaffer a first-rate artist, One who certainly made the most of indifferent materials. Being dressed at least a couple of hours before anybody else. I felt a pleasure in partaking myself, Not to the garden where servants were busy propping up long tables. But to the schoolrooms, Now empty, Quiet, Cool and clean. Withdrawing to the first class, A smaller and neater room than the others, And taking from the glazed bookcase of which I kept the key, A volume whose title promised some interest, I sat down to read. Outside. That placed seats and spread cloths. Were in readiness for the collation. But inside, All was quiet. I commenced reading. Then, Just as the stilly hum, The empowering shade, The warm, Lonely calm of my retreat were beginning to steal meaning from the page, Vision from my eyes, And to lure me along the track of reverie. The sharpest ring of the street doorbell. To which that much-tried instrument had ever thrilled. Snatch me back to consciousness. In walked Monsieur Paul Emmanuel. Play you must. I will not have you shrink or frown or play the prude. Play you can. Play you must. I looked up. But how, Monsieur Paul? What do you mean? There is no time to be lost, He went on now, Speaking in French. Let us thrush to the wall all reluctance, All excuses, All. You must take a part. In the Vaux-de-Ville, I said, In shock. You have said it, He agreed. What did the little man mean? You shall answer me yes or no, He persisted. According to your answer shall I ever after estimate you. A thousand objections rushed into my mind. The foreign language, The limited time, The public display. But looking up at Monsieur Paul and seeing in his vexed, Fiery and searching eye a sort of appeal behind all its menace. My lips dropped the word. And then, For a moment, His rigid countenance relaxed with a quiver of content. Before quickly bent up again, He went on. Here is the book. Here is your roll. Now read.