15 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, Madame Beck’s pensionnat empties of students and teachers for the summer break, leaving Lucy behind in solitary confinement.

Music by my brother: Jean-Miles Carter

Transcript

Pre-late. By Charlotte Bronte. Red. By Stephanie Poppins. You're sick. By John Miles Carter. Chapter 15 The Long Vacation Following Madame Beck's feet. With its three preceding weeks of relaxation, Its brief twelve hours burst of hilarity and dissipation, And its one subsequent day of utter languor, Came a period of reaction. These two months were indeed the only genuine working months in the year. To them was procrastinated. Into them concentrated, Alike by professors, Mistresses and pupils, The main burden of preparation for the examinations preceding the distribution of prizes. Candidates for rewards had then to work in good earnest. Masters and teachers had to set their shoulders to the wheel. I scarcely noted how the other teachers went to work. I had my own business to mind, And my task was not the least onerous, Being to imbue some ninety sets of brains with a due tincture of what they considered a most complicated and difficult science, That of the English language. The examination day arrived. Awful day. Prepared for with anxious care Dressed for with silent dispatch It seemed to me I was on this day especially doomed. The main burden and trial falling on me alone of all the female teachers. The others were not expected to examine in the studies they taught. The Professor of Literature, Monsieur Paul, Taking upon himself this duty. He, This school autocrat, Gathered all and sundry reigns into the hollow of his one hand, He would not have helped. Madame herself, Who evidently rather wished to undertake the examination in geography, Her favourite study, Which she taught well, Was forced to succumb and be subordinate to a despotic kinsman's direction. The whole staff of instructors, Male and female, He set aside. And stood on the examiner's estrade alone. It irked him he was forced to make this one exception to his rule. He could not manage English. He was obliged to leave that branch of education in the English teacher's hands, Which he did not without a flash of naive jealousy. On the evening preceding the examination day I was walking in the garden, As were the other teachers and all the boulders. Monsieur Emmanuel joined me. His cigar was at his lips. His most characteristic garment of no particular shape hung dark and menacing. The tassel of his bonnet shadowed his left temple, And his black whiskers curled like those of a wrathful cat. His blue eye had a cloud in its glitter. The fact was he seemed to be mistaken. I could not estimate the admiration or the good opinion of tomorrow's audience at the same rate that he did. Had the audience numbered as many personal friends and acquaintance for me as for him? I know not how it might have been. On me school triumphs shed but a cold luster. I had wondered, And I wondered now, How it was for him they seemed to shine as with heart warmth and hearth glow. He cared for them perhaps too much. I probably too little. However, I had my own fancies as well as he did. I like, For instance, To see Monsieur Emmanuel jealous. It lit up his nature and woke his spirits and threw all sorts of queer lights and shadows over his face. There was a relish in his anger. It was artless, Earnest, Quite unreasonable, But never hypocritical. I uttered no disclaimer then of the complacencies that he attributed to me. I merely asked where the English examination was to take place and whether at the commencement or the close of the day. I hesitate, Said he, Whether at the very beginning, Before many persons had come, And when your aspiring nature will not be gratified by a large audience or quite at the close when everybody is tired and only a jaded and worn out attention will be at your service. Que vous êtes d'eux, Monsieur, I said, Affecting dejection. One ought to be dual with you, He said. You are one of those beings who must be kept down. Other people in this house see you pass and think a colourless shadow has gone by. As for me, He said. I scrutinise your face once. And won't suffice. You are satisfied that you understand me? I said. Without answering directly. Monsieur went on. Were you not gratified when you succeeded in that vaudeville? I watched you and saw a passionate ardour for triumph in your physiognomy. What fire shot into the glass? What feeling I had at the fete, Monsieur, And pardon me if I say you immensely exaggerate both its quality and quantity, Were quite abstract. I did not care for the vaudeville. I hated the part you assigned me. I had not the slightest sympathy with the audience below the stage. They are good people, Doubtless, But do I know them? Are they anything to me? Can I care for being brought before they view again tomorrow? Will the examination be anything but a task to me? A task I wish well over? Shall I take it out of your hands then? With all my heart if you do not fear failure. But I should fail. I only know three phrases of English and a few words. My opinion is that it would be better to give up the whole thing altogether, To have no English examination. Madame consents, I consent. To die. Heartily very heartily. Monsieur Emmanuel smoked his cigar in silence. Come, We will not be rivals, We will be friends, He pursued. The examination shall take place and I will choose a good moment, And instead of vexing and hindering as I felt half inclined ten minutes ago, For I do have my malevolent moods, I always had from childhood. I will aid you sincerely. After all, You are solitary and a stranger, And have your way to make and your bread to earn. It may be well that you should become known. We will be friends, Do you agree? Out of my heart, Monsieur. I am glad of a friend. I like that better than triumph. The examination passed over well. Monsieur Paul Emmanuel was as good as his word and he did his best to make my part easy. The next day came the distribution of prizes that also passed. The school broke up, The pupils went home, And now began the long vacation. That vacation, Should I ever forget it? I think no. Madame Beck went to the first day of the holidays to join her children at the seaside. All the three teachers had parents or friends with whom they took refuge. Every professor quitted the city. Some went to Paris, Some to Beaumarine. Monsieur Paul set forth on a pilgrimage to Rome. The house was left quite empty, But for me, A servant, And a poor deformed and imbecile pupil. A sort of cretin whom her stepmother in a distant province would not allow to return home. My heart almost died within me. Miserable longing strained its cords. How long were the September days? How silent and lifeless. How vast and void seem the desolate premises. How gloomy the forsaken garden, Gray now with the dust of a town summer departed. Looking forward at the commencement of those eight weeks, I hardly knew how I was to live to the end. My spirits had long been gradually sinking, Now that the prop of employment was withdrawn. They went down fast. Even to look forward was not to hope. The dumb future spoke no comfort, Offered no promise, Gave no inducement to bear present evil in reliance on future good. A sorrowful indifference to existence often pressed on me. A despairing resignation to reach tawny sands with no green fields, No palm tree, And no well in view. The hopes which are dear to youth, Which bear it up and lead it on, I knew not, And dared not know. If they knocked at my heart sometimes, An inhospitable bar to admission must be inwardly drawn. When they turned away thus rejected, Tears sad enough sometimes flowed, But it could not be helped. I dared not give such guests lodging. So mortally did I fear the sin and weakness of presumption. The Kretin did not seem unhappy. I did my best to feed her well and keep her warm. She only asked food and sunshine, Or when that lacked, Fire. Her weak faculties improved of inertion. Her brain, Eyes, Ears and heart slept content. They could not wait to work so lethargy was their paradise. Three weeks of that vacation were hot, Fair and dry, But the fourth and fifth were tempestuous and wet. It was some relief. When an aunt of the Gretin, A kind old woman, Came one day. And took away my strange deformed companion. The hapless creature had been at times a heavy charge. I could not take her out into the garden and could not leave her a minute alone, For her poor mind, Like her poor body, Was warped. Its propensity was to evil. A vague bent to mischief and aimless malevolence made constant vigilance indispensable. But now she was gone and I was free to walk out. At first, I lacked the courage to venture very far from the roof or set. But by degrees I sought the city gates and passed them, And then went wandering away, Far along Chaussée, Through fields, Beyond cemeteries, Catholic and Protestant, Beyond farmsteads to lanes and little woods, And I know not where. I often walked all day through the burning noon and the arid afternoon and the dusk evening then came back with Moonrise. While wandering in solitude, I would somehow, Sometimes, Picture the present probable position of others. But all this was nothing, For I too felt those autumn suns and saw those harvest moons, And I almost wished to be covered in with earth and turf. Deep out of their influence, For I could not live in their light, Or make them comrades, Nor yield them affection. Indeed, There was no way to keep well under the circumstances. Had lasted day and night of peculiarly agonizing depression. Was succeeded by physical illness and I took to my bed. About this time, The Indian summer closed. And for nine dark and wet days, Of which the hours rushed on all turbulent, I lay in a strange fever of the nerves and blood. Sleep went well away. I used to rise in the night, Look around for her, Beseech her earnestly to return. Then a rattle of the window, A cry of the blast, Only replied. Sleep never came. I really believed my nerves were getting overstretched. My mind had suffered somewhat too much a malady. Now what should I do? How should I keep?