17 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.

In this episode, Lucy begins to recover with the care of Mrs Bretton and her son.

Music by my brother: Jean-Miles Carter
Copyright Neworld Books UK
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Transcript

By Charlotte Bronte. Red. By Stephanie Poppins Music. By John Miles Carter. Chapter 17 La Terrasse I tried to get up the next morning, But while I was dressing and at intervals drinking cold water from the carafe on my washstand. . . With design to brace up that trembling weakness which made dressing so difficult. In came Mrs. Breton. Here is an absurdity. Was her mourning a cost? Not so, She added, And dealing with me at once in her own brusque energetic fashion. That fashion which I used formerly to enjoy seeing applied to her son. In two minutes, She can send me captive to the French bed. There you lie till afternoon. Said she. My boy left orders before he went out. That such should be the case, And I can assure you my son is master and must be obeyed. Presently, You shall have breakfast. Presently she brought that meal, Brought it with her own active hands, Not leaving me to servants. She seated herself on the bed while I ate. Now it is not everybody, Even amongst our respected friends and esteemed acquaintance, Whom we like to have near us, Whom we like to have watch us and wait on us. To approach us with the proximity of a nurse to a patient. It is not every friend whose eye is a light in a sick room, Whose presence is there a solace. But all this was Mrs. Breton to me. Least she had ever been. Food or drink never pleased me so well as when it came through her hands. I do not remember the occasion when her entrance into a room had not made that room cheerier. Our nature's own predilections and antipathies alike strange. There are people from whom we secretly shrink. Whom we would personally avoid. The reason confesses they are good people. There are others with faults of temper, Etc. , Evident in NARF. Beside whom we live content as if the air about them did us good. My godmother's lively black eye and clear brunette cheek, Her warm prompt hand, Her self-reliant mood, Her decided bearing, Were all beneficial to me as the atmosphere of some salubrious climate. Her son used to call her the old lady. It filled me with pleasant wonder to note how the alacrity and power of five and twenty still breathe from her and around her. I would bring my work here, " said she, As she took from me the emptied teacup, And sit with you the whole day, If that overbearing John Graham had not put his veto upon such a proceeding. Now, Mama, " he said when he went out, Take notice you're not to knock up your goddaughter with gossip. They particularly desired me to keep close to my own quarters and spare you my fine company. He says, Lucy, He thinks you have a nervous fever. Is that so? I replied I did not quite know what my ailment had been. But that I had certainly suffered a good deal, Especially in mind. Further on this subject, I did not consider it advisable to dwell, For the details of what I had undergone belonged to a portion of my existence in which I never expected my godmother to take a share. Into what a region would such a confidence have led that hale, Serene nature? The difference between her and me might be figured by that. Between the stately ship cruising safe on smooth seas with its full complement of crew Captain Gay and Brave and Venturous and Provident. And the lifeboat which most days of the year lies dry and solitary in an old dark boathouse, Only putting to sea when the billows run high in rough weather, When the cloud encounters water, When danger and death divide between them the rule of the great deep sea. No, The Louisa Breton never was out of harbour on such a night and in such a scene. Her crew could not conceive it. So the half-drowned lifeboat man keeps his own counsel and spins no yarns. She left me and I lay in bed content. It was good of Graham to remember me before he went out. My day was lonely but the prospect of coming evening abridged and cheered it. And 2A felt weak and rest seemed welcome. And after the morning hours were gone by. . . Those hours which always bring even to the necessarily unoccupied a sense of business to be done, Of tasks wanting fulfilment. A vague impression of obligation to be employed? When this stirring time was past and the silent descent of afternoon, Hushed housemaid steps on the stairs and in the chambers, I then passed into a dreamy mood. Not unpleasant. My calm little room seemed somehow like a cave in the sea. There was no colour about it, Except that white and pale green, Suggestive of foam and deep water. The blanched cornice was adorned with shell-shaped ornaments, And there were white mouldings like dolphins in the ceiling angles. Even that one touch of colour visible in the red satin pincushion bore affinity to coral. Even that dark shining glass might have mirrored a mermaid. When I closed my eyes, I heard a gale subsiding at last, Bearing upon the house front like a setting swell upon a rock base. I heard it drawn and withdrawn far, Far off, Like a tide retiring from ashore of the upper world. A world so high above that the rush of its largest waves, The dash of its fiercest breakers, Could sound down in this submarine home Only like the murmurs in the lullaby. Amidst these dreams came evening and then Martha brought a light. With her aid I was quickly dressed, And stronger now than in the morning, I made my way down to the blue saloon unassisted. Dr John, It appears, Had concluded his round of professional calls. He stood in the window recess opposite the door as I entered, Reading the close type of a newspaper by such dull light as closing day yet gave. The fire shone clear, But the lamp stood on the table unlit, And tea was not yet brought up. As to Mrs. Breton, My active godmother, Who I afterwards found had been out in the open air all day. . . Lay half reclined in her deep cushioned chair, Actually lost in a nap. Her son seeing me came forward. I noticed he trod carefully not to wake the sleeper. He also spoke low. His mellow voice never had any sharpness in it, Modulated as at present. It was calculated rather to soothe than startle slumber. This is a quiet little chateau, " he observed after inviting me to sit near the casement. I don't know whether you might have noticed it in your walks. It is not a modern place but built somewhat in the style of the old Basfield. It is rather a manoir than a chateau. They call it La Terrace because its front rises from a broad, Turfed walkway. When steps lead down a grassy slope to the avenue. See yonder. The moon rises. She looks well through the tree balls. Where indeed does the moon not look well? Where and what is the scene, Confined or expansive, Which her orb does not hallow? Rosy or fiery, She mounted now above a not distant bank. Even while we watched her flushed ascent, She cleared to gold and in a very brief space floated up stainless into a now calm sky. Did moonlight soften or sadden Dr. Breton? Did it touch him with romance? I think it did. Albeit of no sighing mood, He sighed in watching it, Sighed to himself, Quietly. No need to ponder the course or the course of that sigh. I knew it was wakened by beauty. I knew it pursued Geneva. Then he said, Putting his sentiment in his pocket, Turning from the moon and sitting down. The first thing this morning I went to the roof or said and told the cuisinier you were as safe and in good hands. Do you know I actually found out she'd not yet discovered your absence from the house? She thought she was safe in the dormitory. With what K he must have been weighted on. Oh, That's very conceivable. Sadae. Gotun could do nothing for me but bring me a little tisane and a crust of bread, And I had rejected both so often that the good woman got tired of useless journeys from the dwelling house to the school dormitory. What did Madame Beck mean by leaving you alone? Madame Beck could not foresee I should fall ill. Your nervous system bore a good share of the suffering. I'm not quite sure what my nervous system is but I was dreadfully low spirited. Which disables me from helping you buy pill or potion. Medicine can give nobody good spirits. My art halts at the threshold of hypochondria. She just looks in and sees a chamber of torture. But can neither say or do much. Cheerful society would have been as used to you. You should be as little alone as possible and take plenty of exercise. A quiescence in the pause followed these remarks. They sounded all right, I thought, And bore the safe sanction of custom and the well-worn stamp of use. Miss Snow, Dr. John continued, Is it permitted me to ask what your religion is? Are you a Catholic? Catholic? No, Why suggest such an idea? The manner in which you were consigned to me last night. I can sign to you. But indeed I forgot, It yet remains for me to learn how I fell into your hands. Under circumstances that puzzle me. I'd been in attendance all day yesterday on a case of singularly interesting and critical character, The disease being rare and its treatment doubtful. My shortest way back lay through the bus fill and the night was excessively dark. It was wild and wet, But I took this passage. In riding past an old church belonging to a community. I saw by a lamp burning over the porch a priest lifting some object in his arms. The lamp was bright enough to reveal the priest's features. I recognised him. He was a man I've often met by the sickbeds of rich and poor. He is, I think, A good old man. Far better than most of his class in this country. Our eyes met. He called on me to stop. What he supported was a woman, Fainting or dying. I lighted. This person is one of your country women, He said. Save her if she has not yet dared. My countrywoman on examination turned out to be the English teacher at Madame Beck's pension house. She was perfectly unconscious, Perfectly bloodless and nearly cold. He communicated a curious account. You'd been to him that evening at confessional. And your exhausted and suffering appearance, Coupled with some things that you said. . . Things I said. I wonder what things. Awful crimes, No doubt. He didn't tell me what. However, He seemed so struck and felt so sorry he should be out on such a night alone. He esteemed he had a Christian duty to watch you while you quitted the church. Doctor John, I suppose you will think me mad for taking such a step, But I could not help it. I suppose it was all the fault of what you call my nervous system. I cannot put the case into words, But my days and nights were grown intolerable. A cruel sense of desolation pained my mind. Feeling that it would make its way, Rush out or kill me. Like the current which passes through the heart. I wanted companionship. Friendship and counsel. I could find none of these in closet or chamber, So I went and sought them in church and confessional. As to what I said, It was no confidence. I've done nothing wrong. My life has not been active enough for any dark deed, Either of romance or reality. All I poured out was a dreary, Desperate complaint. Lucy, You ought to travel for six months. Your calm nature is growing quite excitable. Confound Madam Beck! Has the little buxom widow no bounds to condemn her best teacher to solitary confinement? It was not Madame Beck's fault. It is no living being's fault. I won't hear anyone blamed. Who is in the wrong then, Lucy? Me, Dr. John. And a great abstraction on whose wide shoulders I like to lay the mountains of blame. They were sculpted to bear me and fate. Well, Me must take better care in future, Said Dr John, Smiling. Change of air, Change of scene, Those are my prescriptions. Thank you. Now see, Dr. John, How your mother wakes. You ought to ring for tea. He did, And as Mrs. Breton sat up, Astonished and indignant at herself for the indulgence to which he had succumbed. And fully prepared to deny she'd slept at all, Her son came gaily to the attack. Hush-a-bye, Mama, Sleep again. You look like the picture of innocence in your slumbers. My slump is John Graham, What are you talking about? You know I never do sleep by day, It was the slightest dose possible. Exactly. A seraph's gentle laps. A fairy's dream. Miss Snow, Did you ever hear anything like Mama's weight? She is most sprightly woman of her size and age. Keep your compliments to yourself, Dear, And do not neglect your own size, Which seems to me a good deal on the increase. Lucy, Has you not rather the air of an incipient John Bull? He used to be slender as an eel, And now I fancy him. A sort of heavy, Dragoon bent. A beef-eater tendency. Graham take notice. If you grow fat, I disown you. As if you could not sooner disown your own personality. I am indispensable to the old lady's happiness, Lucy. She would pine away in green and yellow melancholy. She had not my six feet of iniquity to scold. It keeps her lively. It maintains the wholesome ferment of her spirits. The two were now standing opposite to each other, One on each side of the fireplace. Their words were not very fond, But their mutual looks atoned for verbal deficiencies. At least the best treasure of Mrs. Breton's life was certainly casketed in her son's bosom. Her dearest pulse throbbed in his heart. As to him, Of course, Another laugh shared his feelings with filial love. And no doubt as the new passion was the latest born, So he assigned it his emotions, Benjamin's portion. Genevra Did Mrs. Breton know at whose feet her young idol had laid his homage? Would she approve that choice? I could not tell. But I could well guess if she knew Miss Fanshawe's conduct towards Graham. Alternations between coldness and coaxing and repulse and allurement. If she could at all suspect the pain with which she had tried him. If she could have seen as I had seen his fine spirit subdued and harassed. His inferior preferred before him. His subordinate made the instrument of his humiliation. Then Mrs Breton would have pronounced Geneva imbecile or perverted or both. Well, I thought so too. That second evening passed as sweetly as the first. More sweetly, Indeed. We enjoyed a smoother interchange of thought. All troubles were not reverted to. Acquaintance was better cemented. I felt happier, Easier, More at home. That night, Instead of crying myself to sleep. . . I went down to dreamland by a pathway bordered with pleasant thoughts.