22 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 Snowe receives a letter.
Music by my brother: Jean-Miles Carter

Transcript

Chapter 22 When all was still in the house, When dinner was over and the noisy recreation hour passed, When darkness had settled in and the quiet lamp of study was lit in the refectory, When the externs were gone home, The clashing door and clamorous bell hushed for the evening. When Madame was safely settled in the Salon Manger in company with her mother and some friends, I glided to the kitchen, Begged a bougie for one half hour for a particular occasion, Found acceptance of my petition in the hands of my friend Goutan, Who answered, M'est certainement. And light in hand, I mounted noiselessly to the dormitory. Great was my chagrin to find in that apartment a pupil gone to bed indisposed. Greater when I recognised amidst the muslin nightcap. The figure Chiffonnée. Of Mistress Geneva Fanshawe. And I had so wished to be left alone, Just to read my precious letter in peace. Well, I must go to the classes. Having sought and found my prize in its casket, I descended. Ill luck pursued me. The classes were undergoing sweeping and purification by candlelight, According to custom. Benches were piled on desks, The air was dim with dust. Damp coffee grounds darkened the floor. All was hopeless confusion. Baffled but not beaten, I withdrew, Bent as resolutely as ever on finding solitude somewhere. Taking a key, Whereof I knew the repository, I mounted three staircases in succession. Reached a dark, Narrow, Silent landing, Opened a worm-eaten door and dived into the deep, Black, Cold garret. Here no one would follow me. No one interrupt. Not Madame herself. I shut the garret's door, Placed my light on a dotted and mouldy chest of drawers, And put on a shawl, For the night was cold. I took my letter trembling with sweet impatience and broke its seal. Will it be long? Will it be short? Thought I, Passing my hand across my eyes to dissipate the silvery dimness of a suave south wind shower. It was long. Will it be cool? Will it be kind? It was kind. To my checked, Bridal, Disciplined expectations it seemed very kind. To my longing and famish thought it seemed kinder than it was. So little had I hoped, So much had I feared. There was a fullness of delight in this taste of fruition, Such perhaps as many a human being passes through life without ever knowing. The poor English teacher in the frosty garret reading by a dim candle guttering in the wintry air. A letter simply good-natured, Nothing more. Though that good nature seemed to me god-like, Was happier than most queens in palaces. Of course, Happiness of such shallow origin could be but brief. Yet while it lasted, It was genuine and exquisite. A bubble, A sweet bubble of real honeydew. Dr. John had written to me at length. He had written to me with pleasure. With benign mood, Dwelling with sunny satisfaction on scenes that had passed before his eyes and mine. On places we'd visited together, On conversations we had held, On all the little subject matter in short for the last few weeks. But the cordial core of the delight was a conviction the blithe genial language generally imparted, That it had been poured out not merely to content me, But to gratify himself. A gratification he might nevermore desire, Nevermore seek. An hypothesis in every point of view, Approaching the certain. But that concerned the future. The present moment had no pain, Had no blot, No want. For pure perfect, It deeply blessed me. A passing seraph seemed to have rested beside me, Leaned towards my heart, And reposed on its throb. A softening, Cooling, Healing, Hallowing wing. Dr. John Eupane to me afterwards. Forgiven be every ill, Freely forgiven. For the sake of that one dear remembered good. Are there wicked things not human which envy human bliss? Are there evil influences haunting the air and poisoning it for man? What was near me? Something in that vast, Solitary garret sounded strangely. More surely and certainly I heard, As it seemed, A stealthy foot on that floor. A sort of gliding out from the direction of the black recess haunted by the malfact coats. I turned. My light was dim, The room was lull. But as I live, I saw in the middle of that ghostly chamber a figure all black and white. The skirt straight, Narrow, Black. The head bandaged, Veiled and white. See what you will, Reader. Tell me I was nervous or mad. Affirm I was unsettled by the excitement of that letter. Declare that I dreamed. This I vow I saw there in that room on that night, An image like a nun. I cried out. I sickened. Had the sheep approach me I might have swooned. It receded and I made for the door. How I descended all the stairs I know not. By instinct I shunned the refectory and shaped my course to Madame's sitting room. I burst in and said, There is something in the granary. I have been in there. I saw something. Go and look at it, All of you. I said all of you, For the room seemed to me full of people, Though in truth there were but four present. Madame Beck, Her mother, Madame Kent, Who was out of health and now staying with her on a visit. Her brother, Monsieur Victor Kint. And another gentleman who, When I entered the room, Was conversing with the old lady and had his back towards the door. My mortal fear and faintness must have made me deadly pale. I felt cold and shaking. They all rose in consternation and surrounded me. I urged them to go to the Grenier. The sight of the gentleman did me good and gave me courage. It seemed as if there was some help and hope with men at hand. I turned to the door, Beckoning them to follow. They wanted to stop me, But I said they must come this way. They must see what I had seen. Something strange standing in the middle of the garret. And now I remembered my letter left on the drawers with the light. That precious letter. Flesh or spirit must be defied for its sake. I flew upstairs hastening the faster as I knew I was followed. They were obliged to come. Low when I reached the garret door. All within was as dark as a pit and the light was out. Happily someone, Madame I think with her usual calm sense, Had brought a lamp from the room. Speedily, Therefore, As they came up, A ray pierced the opaque blackness. Thanks to the bougie. Quenched on the drawers. But where was the letter? I looked for that now and not for the nun. My letter! I panted and planed almost beside myself. I groped on the floor wringing my hands wildly. Cruel doom. To have my bit of comfort, Breton naturally snatched from me, Ere I had well tasted its virtue. I don't know what the others were doing. I could not watch them. They asked me questions I did not answer. They ransacked all the corners and prattled about this and that, Disarrangement of cloaks, A breach or crack in the skylight, I know what. Something or somebody has been here, Was sagely averred. They've taken my letter! " cried the grovelling, Groping monomaniac. What letter, Lucy? My dear girl, What letter? Asked a known voice in my ear. Could I believe that ear? No, I looked up. Could I trust my eyes? Had I recognized the tone? Did I now look on the face of the writer of that very letter? Was this gentleman near me in this dim garret John Graham, Dr. Breton himself? Yes, It was. He had been called in that very evening to prescribe for some access of illness in old Madame Kint. He was the second gentleman present in the Salon Manger. Was it my letter, Lucy? Your own. Yours? The letter you wrote to me? I had come here to read it quietly. I could not find another spot where it was possible to have it myself. I'd saved it all day and never opened it till this evening. It was scarily glanced over. I cannot bear to lose it. My letter! Hush, Don't cry and distress yourself. What is it worth? Harsh. Come out of this cold room. They're going to send for the police now to examine further. We need not stay here. We will go down. A warm hand taking my cold fingers led me down to a room where there was a fire. Dr. John and I sat beside the stove. He talked to me and soothed me with unutterable goodness, Promising me twenty letters for the one lost. If there are words and wrongs like knives, Whose deep inflicted lacerations never heal, Cutting injuries and insults of serrated and poisoned ripping edge. So too there are consolations of tone too fine for the ear, Not fondly and forever to retain their echo. Caressing kindnesses, Loved lingered over us through a whole life, Recalled with unfaded tenderness and answering the call with undimmed shine, Out of that raven cloud foreshadowing death himself. I have been told since Dr Breton was not nearly so perfect as I thought him. That his actual character lacked the depth, Height, Compass and endurance it possessed in my creed. I don't know. He was as good to me as the well is to the parched wayfarer. As the sun is to the shivering jailbird. I remember him to be heroic. Heroic at this moment, Will I hold him to be. He asked me, Smiling, Why I cared for his letters so very much. I thought, But did not say that I prized it like the blood in my veins. I only answered I had so few letters to care for. I'm sure you did not read it, " said he, Or you would think nothing of it. I read it but only once. I want to read it again. I'm sorry it's lost. I could not help weeping afresh. Loose. My poor little god-sister, If there be such a relationship. Here is your letter. Why is it not better worth such tears and such tenderly exaggerating faith? Curious characteristic maneuver. His quick eye had seen the letter on the floor where I sought it. His hand, As quick, Had snatched it up. He had hidden it in his waistcoat pocket. If my trouble had wrought with a whit less stress in reality, I doubt whether he would ever have acknowledged or restored it. Tears of temperature one degree cooler than those I shared. Would only have amused Dr. John. Pleasure at regaining made me forget merited reproach for the teasing torment. My joy was great. It could not be concealed. Yet I think it broke out more in countenance than in language. I said little. Are you satisfied now? Asked Dr John. I replied that I was satisfied and happy. Well then, He proceeded, Do you feel physically are you growing calmer? Not much, For you tremble like a leaf still. It seemed to me, However, I was sufficiently calm. At least I felt no longer terrified. I express myself composed. You are able consequently to tell me what you saw. Your account was quite vague, Do you know? You looked white as the wool. But you only spoke of something, Not defining what. Was it a man? Was it an animal? What was it? I never will tell exactly what I saw. To die. Unless someone sees it too. And then I will give testimony. But otherwise I shall be discredited and accused of dreaming. Tell me, " said Dr. Breton. You would laugh. If you don't tell me, You shall have no more letters. You are laughing now. I will again take away that single epistle. Being mine, I think I have a right to reclaim it. I felt Rayler in his words. It made me grave and quiet, But I folded up the letter and covered it from sight. You may hide it, But I can possess it any moment I choose. You don't know my skill in sleight of hand. I might practice as a conjurer if I liked. Mama says sometimes I have a harmonising property of tongue and eye. But you never saw that in me, Did you Lucy? To this provocative speech I made no answer. Graham in mirthful mood must not be humoured too far. Just now there was a new sort of smile playing about his lips. Very sweet, But it grieved me somehow. A new sort of light sparkling in his eyes. Not hostile, But not reassuring. I rose to go and I bid him good night. A little sadly.