18 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 new episode, Lucy Snowe calls Doctor John to account.
Written by S D Hudson
Performed by Stephanie Poppins
Music by Jean-Miles Carter
Published by Neworld Books

Transcript

By Charlotte Bronte. Red. By Stephanie Poppins. You're sick by John Miles Carter. Chapter 18 We quarrel. During the first days of my stay at the Terrace, Graham never took a seat near me, Or in his frequent pacing of the room approached the quarter where I sat. Or looked preoccupied or more grave than usual. But I thought of Miss Fanshawe and expected her name to leap from his lips. I kept my ear and mind in perpetual readiness for the tender theme. My patience was ordered to be permanently under arms, And my sympathy desired to keep its cornucopia replenished and ready for outpouring. At last, And after a little inward struggle which I saw and respected, He one day launched into the topic. It was introduced delicately. Anonymously as it were. Your friend is spending her vacation in travelling, I hear. Friend forsooth, " I thought to myself, But it would not do to contradict. He must have his own way. I must own the soft impeachment. Friend let it be. Still, By way of experiment, I could not help asking whom he meant. He had taken a seat at my work table. He now laid hands on a reel of thread which he proceeded recklessly to unwind. Geneva, Miss Fanshawe, Has accompanied the Cholle Mondelez on a tour through the south of France? She has. Do you and she correspond? It will astonish you to hear I never once thought of making application for that privilege. You have seen letters of her writing. Yes, Several to her uncle. They will not be deficient in wit and naivety. There is so much sparkle and so little art in her soul. She writes comprehensively enough when she writes too. He who may read And her handwriting, It must be pretty, Light, And ladylike, I should think. It was and I said so. I verily believe that all she does is well done, " said Dr. John. And as I seemed in no hurry to chime in with this remark, He added, You who know her, Could you name a point in which she is deficient? She does several things very well. Flirtation amongst the rest, Subjoined I in thought. When do you suppose she will return to town? Pardon me, Dr. John, I must explain. You honour me too much in ascribing to me a degree of intimacy with Miss Fanshawe I have not the felicity to enjoy. I have never been the depository of her plans and secrets. You will find her particular friends in another sphere than mine. Amongst the Cholmondeleys, For instance. He actually thought I was stung with a kind of jealous pain similar to his own. Excuse her, He said. Judge her indulgently. The glitter of fashion misleads her. But she will soon find out these people are hollow and will return to you with augmented attachment and confirmed trust. I know something of the Cholmondeleys. Superficial, Showy, Selfish people. Depend upon it, At heart Jeneva values you beyond a score of such. You are very kind. I said briefly. A disclaimer of the sentiments attributed to me burned on my lips but I extinguished the flame. I submitted to be looked upon as the humiliated, Cast-off and now pining confidante. Of the distinguished Miss Fanshawe. But it was a hard submission. Yet you see, " continued Graham, While I comfort you, I cannot take the same consolation to myself. I cannot hope she will do me justice. My patience really gave way at this. I suppose illness and weakness had worn it and made it brittle. Talk to Breton. I broke out. There's no delusion like your own. On all points you are, But a frank one. Helpful, Right thinking, Clear sighted man. But on this exceptional point you are but a slave. I declare, Where Miss Fanshawe is concerned, You merit no respect, Nor have you mine. Then I got up and I left the room very much excited. This little scene took place in the morning. I had to meet him again in the evening, And then I saw I had done mischief. He was not made of common clay, Not put together out of vulgar materials. While the outlines of his nature had been shaped with breadth and vigour, The details embraced workmanship of almost feminine delicacy. Finer, Much finer than you could be prepared to meet with that you could believe inherent in him even after years of acquaintance. Indeed, Till some over-sharp contact with his nerves had betrayed, By its effect, Their acute sensibility. This elaborate construction must be ignored. And the more especially because the sympathetic faculty was not prominent in him. To feel and seize quickly another's feelings are separate properties. A few constructions possess both. Some, Neither. Dr. John had the one in exquisite perfection. Because I have admitted he was not endowed with the other in equal degree. The reader will considerably refrain from passing to an extreme and pronouncing him unsympathizing, Unfeeling. On the contrary, He was a kind, Generous man. To one who had named him slave and on any point banned him from respect. He must now have peculiar feelings. For my part, There was only one plan to be pursued. I must expiate my culpable vehemence, Or must not sleep that night. This would not do at all. I could not stand it. I made no pretence of capacity to wage war on this footing. Long I tried to catch his eye. Again and again that eye just met mine. But having nothing to say it withdrew. I was baffled. After tea he sat, Sat in quiet, Reading a book. I wished I could have dared to go and sit near him, But it seemed if I ventured to take that step he would infallibly invince hostility and indignation. I long to speak out, But dare not whisper. His mother left the room. Then, Moved by insupportable regret, I just murmured the words, Dr. Breton. He looked up from his book. His eyes were not cold or malevolent. His mouth was not cynical. He was ready to hear what I might have to say. Do forgive my hasty words. He smiled that moment. Perhaps I deserve them, Lucy. If you don't respect me, I'm sure it's because I'm not respectable. I fear I'm an awkward fool. I must manage badly in some way, For where I wish to please, It seems I do not please. That you cannot be sure. And even if is such the case, It is the fault of your character. Or maybe the fault of another's perceptions. Let me unsay what I said in anger. I deeply respect you. If you think scarcely enough of yourself and too much of others, What is that but an excellence? Can I think too much of Genevieve? I believe you may. You believe you can't. Let us disagree. Let me be pardoned. That is what I ask. Do you think I cherish ill will for one warm word? I see you do not and cannot. But just say, Lucy, I forgive you. Say that to ease me of the heartache. Put away your heartache as I will put away mine. For you have wounded me a little, Lucy. But when the pain is gone, I more than forgive. I feel grateful as to a sincere well-wisher. I am your sincere well-wisher. You are right. And thus our quarrel ended. Dr. John showed the fineness of his nature by being kinder to me after that misunderstanding than before. As for Ginevra, He thought her so fair and good, Spoke so lovingly of her charms and her sweetness. Still, I am free to confess the often talked nonsense. But I strove to be unfailingly patient with this. I had had my lesson. I had learned how severe was me the pain of crossing or disappointing him. In a strange and new sense, I grew almost selfish and quite powerless to deny myself the delight of indulging his mood. And being pliant to his will. He still seemed to me most absurd when he obstinately doubted and desponded about his power to win in the end Miss Fanshawe's preference. And I felt positive Miss Fanshawe must intend eventually. To accept Him.