20 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 has a night out
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 20 The concept. One morning Mrs Breton, Coming promptly into my room, Desired me to open my drawers and show her my dresses, Which I did without a word. That will do, " she said when she turned them over. You must have a new one. She went out and returned presently with the dressmaker. Then she had me measured. I mean, Said she, To follow my own taste and to have my own little way in this matter. Two days after, Came home a pink dress. That is not for me, I said horridly, Feeling I would almost as soon clothe myself in the costume of a Chinese lady of rank. We shall see whether it is for you or not, " rejoined my godmother, Adding with her resistless decision, Mark my words, You will wear it this very evening. I thought I should not. I thought no human force should avail to put me into it. A pink dress? I knew it not. I knew it not me. I had not proved it. My godmother went on to decree I was to go with her and Graham to a concert that same night. Which, She explained, Was a grand affair to be held in the large sall, Or hall, Of the Principal Music Society. Graham, In sending tickets, Had enjoined attention to costume as a compliment due to royalty. He also recommended punctual readiness by seven o'clock. About six I was ushered upstairs. Without any force at all, I found myself led and influenced by another's will. In short, The pink dress went on, Softened by some drapery of black lace. I requested to look in the glass and did so with some fear and trembling. I turned away and seven o'clock struck. Dr. Breton was come. My godmother and I went down. She was clad in brown velvet, And as I watched her shadow, How I envied those folds of grave, Dark majesty. Graham stood in the drawing room doorway. I do hope you will not think I've been decking myself out to draw attention. Was my uneasy aspiration. Here, Lucy, Some flowers, " he said, Giving me a bouquet. He took no further notice of my dress than was conveyed in a kind smile. This calmed me at once. For the rest, The dress was made with extreme simplicity, Guiltless of flounce or fur below. It was but the light fabric and bright tint which scared me. And since Graham found in it nothing absurd, My own eye consented soon to become reconciled. I suppose people who go every night to places of public amusement can hardly enter into the fresh gall of feeling with which an opera or a concert is enjoyed by those for whom it is a rarity. I am not sure I expected great pleasure. Having but a very vague notion of its nature. But I like the drive there well. The snug comfort of the close carriage on a cold though fine night. The pleasure of setting out with companions so cheerful and friendly. The sight of the stars glinting fitfully through the trees as we rolled along the avenue. Than the freer burst of the night sky when we issued forth to the open shore say. The passage through the city gates, The lights there burning, The guards there posted, The pretence of inspection to which we were submitted, And which amused us so much. All these matters had for me in their novelty a peculiarly exhilarating charm. How much of it lay in the atmosphere of friendship diffused about me, I know not. Dr John and his mother were both in their finest mood. Contending animatedly with each other the whole way. And as frankly kind to me as if I had been of their kin. Our way lay through some of the best streets of Ilet. Streets brightly lit and far more lively now than at high noon. How brilliant seemed the shops, How glad, Gay and abundant flowed the tide of life along that broad pavement. While I looked, The thought of the roof was set came across me. Of the walled-in garden and schoolhouse, And of the dark, Vast classes, Where at this very hour it was my want to wander all solitary, Gazing at the stars through the high, Blindless windows, And listening to the distant voice of the reader in the refectory, Monotonously exercised upon the lecture-pierce. Thus must I soon again listen and wander. And this shadow of the future stole with timely sobriety across the radiant present. By the time we got into a current of carriages all tending in one direction, And soon the front of a great illuminated building blazed before us. Of what I should see within this building I had, As before, Intimated, But an imperfect idea. No place of public entertainment had it ever been my lot to enter yet. We alighted under a portico where there was a great bustle and a great crowd. But I do not distinctly remember further details until I found myself mounting a majestic staircase wide and easy of ascent. Deeply and softly carpeted with crimson. Leading up to great doors closed solemnly. And whose panels were also crimson cloth. I hardly noticed by what magic these doors were made to roll back. Roll back they did, However, And within was disclosed a hall, Grand, Wide, And high, Whose sweeping circular walls and domed hollow ceiling seemed to me all dead gold. Relieved by cornicing, Fluting, And garlandry, Either bright like gold burnished, Or snow-white like alabaster, Or white and gold mingled in wreaths of gilded leaves and spotless lilies. Wherever drapery hung, Wherever carpets were spread or cushions placed, The sole colour employed was deep crimson. But Ed from the Dome flamed a mass that dazzled me. A mass, I thought, Of rock crystal, Sparkling with facets, Streaming with drops, Ablaze with stars, And gorgeously tinged with dews of gems, Dissolved ore, Fragments of rainbows shivered. It was only the chandelier, Reader, But for me it seemed the work of an Eastern genie. I almost look to see of a huge dark cloudy hand. That of the slave of the lamb. Were not hovering in the lustrous and perfumed atmosphere of the coupler. Guarding its wondrous treasure. We moved on, I was not at all conscious with her, But at some point we suddenly encountered another party approaching from the opposite direction. I see that group as it flashed upon me for one moment. A handsome middle-aged lady in dark velvet, A gentleman who might be her son. The best face, The best figure I thought I had ever seen. A third person in a pink dress and black lace mantle. I noted them all. The third person as well as the other two. And for the fraction of a moment believe them all strangers, Thus receiving an impartial impression of their appearance. But the impression was hardly felt and not fixed before the consciousness that I faced a great mirror. Feeling a compartment between two pillars dispelled it. The party was our party. Thus for the first and perhaps only time in my life. . . I enjoyed the gift of seeing myself as others see me. No need to dwell on the result. It brought a jar of discord, A pang of regret. It was not flattering, Yet after all I ought to be thankful. It might have been worse. At last we were seated in places commanding a good general view of that vast and dazzling, But warm and cheerful hall. Already it was filled, And filled with a splendid assemblage. I do not know that women were very beautiful, But their dresses were so perfect. And foreigners, Even such as are ungraceful in domestic privacy, Seem to possess the art of appealing gracefully in public. However blunt and boisterous those everyday and home movements connected with peignoir and papillote, There is a slide, A bend, A carriage of the head and arms, A mien of the mouth and eyes, Kept nicely in reserve for gala use. Always brought out with a grand toilette and duly put on with a prayer. With one of those beauties I once had the honour and rapture to be perfectly acquainted. Of blood, Her cool veins conducted no flow. Placid lymph filled and almost obstructed her arteries. The inert force of the deep-settled love she bore herself was wonderful. Observing that Dr. John's attention was much drawn to her, I entreated him in a low voice for the love of heaven to shield well his heart. You need not fall in love with that lady, " I said, Because I tell you beforehand you might die at her feet and she would not love you again. Very well, Said he, And how do you know the spectacle of her grand insensibility might not be with me the strongest stimulus to homage? You know nothing about these things. I'll address myself to my mother. Mama, I am in a dangerous way. As if that interested me. Said Mrs. Bratton. Alas, The cruelty of my lot. Responded her son. Never man had a more unsentimental lover than mine. She never seems to think that such a calamity can befall her as a daughter-in-law. If I don't, It's not for want of having that same calamity held over my head. You've threatened me with it for the last ten years. Mama, I'm going to be married soon, You see. Before you were well out of jackets. But Mother, One of these days it will be realised. All of a sudden, When you think you're most secure, I shall go forth and take me a wife. At your peril, John Graham. That is all. During the above skirmish, The hall, Which I'd thought seemed full at the entrance, Continued to admit party after party until the semi-circle before the stage presented one dense mass of heads sloping from floor to ceiling. The stage 2, Or rather the wide temporary platform, Was now overflowing with life. Two grand pianos placed about the centre. Were circled with a white flock of young girls. The Pupils of the Conservatoire. I had noticed their gathering while Graham and his mother were engaged in discussing the bell in blue satin. Two gentlemen, In each of whom I recognised an acquaintance, Officed this virgin truth. One, An artistic looking man bearded with long hair. He was a noted pianist and also the first music teacher in Villette. He attended Madame Beck's pensionette to give lessons to the few people whose parents were rich enough. His name was Monsieur Joseph Emmanuel. He was half brother to Monsieur Paul. Monsieur Paul amused me. He was now visible in the person of the second gentleman. I smiled to myself as I watched him. He seemed so thoroughly in his element. Standing conspicuous in presence of a wide and grand assemblage. Insufferable to him were all the notorieties and celebrities. Where he could not outshine, He fled. A signal was then given. The doors rolled back, The assembly stood up, The orchestra burst out. And to the welcome of a choral burst entered the king, The queen, The court. Of La Basse-Cure. Until then, I had never set eyes on a living king or queen. I strained my powers of vision to take in these specimens of European royalty. By whomsoever majesty is beheld for the first time. There will always be an experience of a vague surprise bordering on disappointment. Looking for a king and queen seeing only a middle-aged soldier and a rather young lady. I felt half cheated and half pleased. Some might say it was the foreign crown pressing the king's brows which bent them to that peculiar and painful fold. Some might quote the effects of early bereavement. Something there might be of both these, But these are embittered by that darkest foe of humanity. Constitutional melancholy. The Queen is why I knew this, It seemed to me. The reflection of her husband's grief lay a subduing shadow on her own benign face. A mild, Thoughtful, Graceful woman that princess seemed, Not beautiful, Not at all like the women of solid charms and marble feelings, Described a page or two since. Hers was a somewhat slender shape. The expression clothing, That profile, Was agreeable in the present instance, But you could not avoid connecting it with remembered effigies where similar lines appeared, Under Fay's ennoble. Feeling or sensual or cunning as the case might be. The Queen's eye, However, Was her own, And pity, Goodness, Sweet sympathy blended it with divinest light. Through the whole performance, Timid instrumental duets, Conceited vocal solos, Sonorous brass-lunged choruses, My attention gave but one eye and one ear to the stage, The other being permanently retained in the service of Dr. Breton. I could not forget him, Nor least question how he was feeling, What he was thinking, Whether he was amused or the contrary. At the end of the exhibition, He spoke. And how do you like it all, Lucy? You're very quiet. I am quiet, I said, Because I'm so very, Very much interested. Not merely with the music, But with everything about me. He then proceeded to make some further remarks, With so much equanimity and composure, I began to think he had really not seen what I had seen. Miss Fanshawe is here, Have you noticed her? Oh yes, And I observe you notice her too. She never saw you, I think. I think so. I have had my eye on her several times since she withdrew yours, And I have had the honour of witnessing a little spectacle which you were spared. I did not ask what. Miss Fanshawe has a companion with her, A lady of rank, He said. I happen to know Lady Sarah by sight. Her noble mother has called me in professionally. She is a proud girl, But not in the least insolent, And I doubt whether Ginevra will have gained ground in her estimation by making a butt of her neighbours. Neighbors. Mainly myself and my mother. As to me, It's all very natural. Nothing, I suppose, Can be fairer game than the young bourgeois doctor. But my mother. . . I never saw her ridiculed before. Do you know the curling lip and sarcastically leveled glass thus directed gave me a most curious sensation? Think nothing of it, Dr. John. It is not worthwhile. If she never were in a giddy mood as she is eminently tonight, She would make no scruple of laughing at that mild, Pensive queen or that melancholy king. She's not actuated by malevolence, But sheer heedless folly. To a feather-brained schoolgirl, Nothing is sacred. But you forget, I have not been accustomed to look on Miss Fanshawe in the light of a feather-brained schoolgirl. Was she not my divinity, The angel of my career? And there was your mistake. I said. Ginevra is neither a pure angel nor a pure-minded woman, " he agreed. She has no great harm in it. I persisted. Too much for me. Now dismiss the subject. Let me amuse myself by teasing Mama. I will assert. Now she's flagging.