21 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, Lucy is caught crying.
Music by my brother: Jean-Miles Carter

Transcript

Chapter 21 reaction. Yet three days and then I must go back to the pensioner. I almost number the moments of these days upon the clock. Fain would I have retarded their flight, But they glided by while I watched them. They were already gone while I yet feared their departure. Lucy will not leave us today, Said Mrs Breton, Coaxing the hit breakfast. She knows we can procure a second respite. I would not ask for one if I might have it for a word, Said I. I long to get the goodbye over and to be settled in the roof or set again. I must go this morning. I must go directly. My trunk is packed and corded. It appeared, However, That my going depended upon Graham. He said he would accompany me and so it fell out that he was engaged all day and only returned home at dusk. Then ensued a little combat of words. Mrs. Breton and her son pressed me to remain one night more. I could have cried, So irritated and eager was I to be gone. I long to leave them as the criminal on the scaffold longs for the axe to descend. That is, I wished the pang over. How much I wished it, They could not tell. On these points, Mine was a state of mind out of their experience. It was dark when Dr John handed me from the carriage at Madame Beck's door. The lamp above was lit, It rained like a November drizzle as it had rained all day, And the lamplight gleamed on the wet pavement. Such a night was it, That on which not a year ago I had first stopped at this very threshold. So similar was the scene. I remembered the very shapes of the paving stones which I had noted with idle eye, While, With a thick beating heart, I waited the unclosing of that door at which I stood, Solitary and a suppliant. On that night too, I had briefly met him who now stood with me. Had I ever reminded him of that recant, Or explained it, I had not, Nor never, Felt the inclination to do so. It was a pleasant thought laid by in only my mind and best kept there. Graham rung the bell. The door was instantly opened for it was just that period of the evening when the half-borders took their departure. Rosine was on the alert. Don't come in, " said I to him, But he stepped a moment into the well-lighted vestibule. I had not wished him to see that the water stood in my eyes, For his too was kinder nature ever to be needlessly shown such signs of sorrow. He always wished to heal, To relieve. When physician as he was, Neither cure nor alleviation were perhaps in his power. Keep up your courage Lucy, He said. Think of my mother and myself as true friends and we will not forget you. My trunk was now brought in. Nor will I forget you, Dr. John. We had shaken hands, He had turned to go, But he was not satisfied. He had not done or said enough to content his generous impulses. Lucy stepping after me. Shall you feel very solitary here? At first I shall. Well, My mother will call in to see you, And meantime, I'll tell you what to do. Oh, Right. Any old cheerful nonsense that comes into my head, Shall I? Good gallant heart, Thought I to myself. But I shook my head, Smiling, And said, Never think of it. Impose on yourself no such task. You write to me. You'll not have time. Oh, I will find or make time, He said. Goodbye. And he was gone. The heavy door crashed too. The axe had fallen. The pang was experienced. Allowing myself no time to think or feel, Swallowing tears as if they'd been wine. I pass to Madame's sitting room to pay the necessary visit of ceremony and respect. She received me with perfectly well-acted cordiality. She was even demonstrative, Though brief in her welcome. In 10 minutes I was dismissed. From the Salamanger, I proceeded to the refectory where pupils and teachers were now assembled for evening study. Again I had a welcome, And one not, I think, Quite hollow. That over, I was free to repair to the dormitory. And will Graham really write? I questioned as I sank tired on the edge of the bed. I bent my head, I sat thinking an hour longer. Reason whispered me laying on my shoulder withered hand and fosterly touching my ear with the chill blue lips of eld. If, Muttered she, He should write, What then? Do you meditate pleasure in replying? For all I warn you, Brief be your answer. Hope no delight of heart, No indulgence of intellect. Grant no expansion to feeling. But I have talked to Graham and you did not chide. " I pleaded. No, Said she, I needed not. Talk for you is good discipline. You converse imperfectly. While you speak there can be no oblivion of inferiority, No encouragement to delusion. Pain, Privation, Penury, Stamp your language. I again broke in. Were the bodily presence is weak in the speech contemptible, Surely there cannot be error in making written language the medium of better utterance than faltering lips can achieve? Reason only answered. At your peril, You cherish that idea, Or suffer its influence to animate any writing of yours. But if I ever feel, May I never express? I groaned under her bitter sternness. Never! Such a hard word. This hag, This reason would not let me look up or smile or hope. She could not rest unless I were altogether crushed, Cowed, Broken in and broken down. According to her, I was born only to work for a piece of bread, To await the pains of death and stealthily through all life to despond. Reason might be right. Yet no wonder we are at glad times to defy her, To rush from under her rod and give a truant hour to imagination. Her soft, Bright foe, Our sweet help. Our divine hope. We shall and must break bounds at intervals despite the terrible revenge that awaits our return. Reason is vindictive as a devil. For me, She was always envenomed as a stepmother. If I have obeyed her, It is chiefly been with the obedience of fear, Not of love. Long ago I should have died of her ill usage, Her stint, Her chill, Her barren board, Her icy bed, Her savage ceaseless blows. But for that kinder power who holds my secret and sworn allegiance. Often has reason turned me out by night in midwinter on cold snow, Flinging for sustenance the gnawed bone dogs had forgotten. Sternly has she vowed her stalls held nothing more for me. Harshly denied my right to ask better things. Then, Looking up, Have I seen in the sky a head amidst circling stars? Of which the midmost and brightest lint Are ray-sympathetic and attend. A spirit, Softer and better than human reason, Has descended with quiet flight. To the waist, Bringing all around her a sphere of air borrowed of eternal summer, Bringing perfume of flowers which cannot fade, Fragrance of trees from whose fruit is life. Bringing breezes pure from a world whose day needs no sun to lighten it. My hunger has this good angel appeased with food, Sweet and strange. Gathered almost gleaming angels garnering their dew-white harvest in the first fresh hour of a heavenly day. Tenderly has she assuaged the insufferable fears which weep away life itself. Kindly given rest to deadly weariness, Generously lent hope and impulse to paralyzed despair. Divine, Compassionate, Securable influence. When I bend the knee to other than God, It shall be at thy white and winged feet, Beautiful on mountain or on plain. Temples have been reared to the sun, Altars dedicated to the moon. O greater glory! To thee neither hands build nor lips consecrate, But hearts through ages are faithful to thy worship. A dwelling thou hast too wide for walls, Too high for dome, A temple whose floors are space. Rights whose mysteries transpire in presence, To the kindling, The harmony of worlds. Sovereign complete, Thou hadst for endurance Thy great army of martyrs, For achievement Thy chosen band of worthies. Deity unquestioned, Thine essence foils decay. This daughter of heaven remembered me tonight. She saw me weep and she came with comfort. She said, Sleep sweetly, I gild thy dreams. She kept her word and watched me through a night's rest. But at dawn reason relieved the guard. I awoke with a sort of start. The rain was dashing against the panes and the wind uttering a peevish cry at intervals. The night lamp was dying on the black circular stand in the middle of the dormitory. Day had already broken. How I pity those who mental pain stuns instead of rousing. This morning, The pang of waking snatched me out of a bed like a hand with a giant's gripe. How quickly I dressed in the cold of the raw dawn, How deeply I drank of the ice-cold water in my carafe. This was always my cordial to which, Like other dram drinkers, I had eager records when unsettled by chagrin. Earlong, The bell rang its reverie to the whole school. Being dressed, I descended alone to the refectory where the stove was lit and the air was warm. Through the rest of the house it was cold. With a nipping severity of a continental winter, Though now, But at the beginning of November, A north wind had thus early brought a wintry blight over Europe. I remember the black stoves pleased me little when I first came. But now I began to associate them with a sense of comfort and I like them as in England we like a fireside. Sitting down before this dark comforter, I fell into a deep argument with myself on life and its chances, On destiny and her decrees. My mind, Calmer and stronger now than last night, Made for itself some imperious rules. Commanding a patient, Journeying through the wilderness of the present, Enjoining a reliance on faith. A watching of the cloud and pillar which subdue while they guide and awe while they illumine. Hushing the impulse to fond idolatry, Checking the longing outlook for a far-off promised land whose rivers are perhaps never to be reached saving dying dreams. By degrees, A composite feeling of blended strength and pain wound itself wirily around my heart, Sustained, Or at least restrained, Its throbbings and made me fit for the day's work. I lifted my head. As I said before, I was sitting near the stove, Let into the wall beneath the refectory in the carré, And thus suffice him to heat both apartments. Piercing the same wall and close beside the stove was a window, Looking also into the crate. As I looked up a capped tassel, A brow, Two eyes filled a pane of that window. The fixed gaze of those two eyes hit right against my own glance They were watching me. I had not till that moment known that tears were on my cheeks. But I felt them now. What possible right had he to intrude on me thus? No other professor would have dared to cross the Karee before the class bell rang. Monsieur Emmanuel took no account of ours or of claims. There was some book of reference in the first class library which he'd occasioned to consult. He had come to seek it. And on his way he passed the refectory. It was very much his habit to wear eyes before, Behind and on each side of him. He had seen me through the little window, He had opened the refectory door, And there he stood. Mademoiselle, Vous êtes triste. Monsieur, Je n'ai bien le droit. Vous êtes malade, De court. Vous êtes malade de cour et d'humeur. He pursued. You are at once mournful and mutinous. I see on your cheek two tears which I know are hot as two sparks, And salt as two crystals of the sea. While I speak you eye me strangely, Shall I tell you what I am reminded while watching you? Monsieur, I shall be called away to prayer shortly. My time for conversation is very scant and brief at this hour. Please excuse me. I excuse everything. Interrupt. My mood is so meek, Neither rebuff nor perhaps insult could ruffle it. You remind me, Then, Of a young, She-wild creature. New court, Untamed, Viewing with a mixture of fire and fear the first entrance for the breaker-in. Unwarrantable, A cost, Rash and rude if addressed to a pupil, To a teacher inadmissible. He thought to provoke a warm reply. I'd seen him vexed a passionate to explosion before now. In me his malice should find no gratification. I sat silent. YOLO said he, Like one who would snatch at the draught of sweet poison and spurn wholesome bitters with disgust. Indeed, I never like bitters, Nor do I believe them wholesome. And to whatever is sweet, Be it poison or food, You cannot at least deny its own delicious quality, Sweetness. Better perhaps to die quickly a pleasant death than drag on long a charmless life. Yet you should take your bitter dose duly and daily, Said he. If I had the power to administer it. And as to the well-beloved poison, I would perhaps break the very cup which held it. I sharply turned my head away, Partly because his presence utterly displeased me, And partly because I wished to shun questions, Lest in my present mood the effort of answering should overmaster self-command. Said he more softly. Tell me the truth. You grieve at being parted from friends, Is it not so? The insinuating softness was not more acceptable than the inquisitorial curiosity. I was silent. He came into the room, Sat down on the bench about two yards from me. And persevere long. And for him patiently in attempts to draw me into conversation, Attempts necessarily unavailing because I could not talk. At last I am treated to be let alone. In uttering the request, My voice faltered, My head sank on my arms in the table, And I wept bitterly. He sat a while longer. I did not look up or speak till the closing door and his retreating step told me he was gone. These tears proved a relief. Then I had time to bathe my eyes before breakfast. And I suppose I appeared at that meal as serene as any other person. Not, However, Quite as dracon looking as the young lady who placed herself in the seat opposite mine. Fixed on me a pair of somewhat small eyes twinkling gleefully and frankly stretched across the table a white hand to be shaken. Miss Fanshawe's travels, Gaieties and flirtations agreed with her mightily. She had become quite plump. Her cheeks looked as round as apples. I had seen her last in elegant evening attire. I don't know that she looked less charming now in her school dress. A kind of careless peignoir of a dark blue material, Dimly and dingily plaited. With black. Never had I been less dissatisfied with her than I was then. There is pleasure in thinking of the contrast between the reality and my description. To remember Dr John enjoying the drive home, Eating his supper with relish and retiring to rest with Christian composure. It was only then when I saw him really unhappy that I felt really vexed with a fair, Frail cause. Of his suffering.