6 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 takes to the sea.

Performed by Stephanie Poppins
Music by Jean-Miles Carter
Published by Neworld Books
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Transcript

By Charlotte Bronte Red by Stephanie Poppins Music by John Miles Carter Chapter Six The next day was the first of March, And when I awoke, Rose and opened my curtains, I saw the risen sun struggling through the fog. Above my head, Above the housetops co-elevate almost with the clouds, I saw a solemn, Orbed mass, Dark blue and dim, The Dome. While I looked, My inner self moved, My spirit shook its always fettered wings half loose. I had a sudden feeling as if I, Who had never really lived, Were at last about to taste life. In that morning, My soul grew as fast as Jonah's gourd. I did well to come, I said, Proceeding to dress with speed and care. I liked the spirit of this great London which I feel around me, Who but a coward would pass his whole life in hamlets, And forever abandon his faculties to the eating rust of obscurity. Being dressed, I went down, Not travel worn and exhausted, But tidy and refreshed. When the waiter came in with my breakfast, I managed to accost him sedately yet cheerfully. We had ten minutes discourse, In the course of which we became usefully known to each other. He was a grey-haired, Elderly man, And it seemed he had lived in his present place twenty years. Having ascertained this, I was sure he must remember my two uncles, Charles and Wilmot, Who fifteen years ago were frequent visitors here. I mentioned their names. He recalled them perfectly and with respect. Having breakfasted, Out I went. Elation and pleasure were in my heart. To walk in London seemed of itself an adventure. Presently I found myself in Paternoster Row, Classic round this. I entered a bookseller's shop, Kept by one Mr Jones. I bought a little book, A piece of extravagance I could ill afford, But I thought I would one day give or send it to Mrs Barrett. Prodigious was the amount of life I lived that morning. Finding myself before St Paul's, I went in. I mounted to the dome and saw thence London, With its river and its bridges and its churches. I saw antique Westminster and the green temple gardens with sun upon them, And a glad blue sky of early spring above, And between them and its not-too-dense a cloud of haze. Descending, I went wandering where the chance may lead, In a still ecstasy of freedom and enjoyment, And I got, I know not how, Into the heart of city life. I went to the Strand, Up Corn Hill, And mixed with the life passing along. I dared the perils of crossings. To do this and do it utterly alone gave me, Perhaps an irrational but a real pleasure. Faint at last and hungry, It was years since I had felt such healthy hunger, I returned about two o'clock to my dark, Old and quiet inn. I dined on two dishes, A plain joint and vegetables, And both seemed excellent. My state of mind and all accompanying circumstances were just now such as most to favour the adoption of a new, Resolute and daring line of action. I had nothing to lose. Unutterable loathing of a desolate existence past forbade return. If I failed in which I now designed to undertake, Who, Save myself, Would suffer? If I died far away from home, I was going to say, But I had no home, From England, Then who would weep? That same evening I obtained from my friend the waiter information respecting the sailing of vessels for a certain continental port. No time, I found, Was to be lost. That very night I must take my berth. I might indeed have waited till the morning before going on board, But I would not run the risk of being too late. This was an uncomfortable crisis. When it got to it, It was a dark night. The coachman instantly drove off as soon as he had got his fare and the watermen commenced a struggle for me in my trunk. Their oaths I hear at this moment. They shook my philosophy more than did the night. All the isolation, All the strangeness of the scene. One laid hands on my trunk. I looked on and waited patiently, But when another laid hands on me, I spoke up, Shook off his touch, And said, Just there! He placed the trunk beside me, For the owner of the boat I'd chosen now became an ally and I was rowed off. Black was the river as a torrent of ink. Lights glanced on it from the piles of building round. Ships rocked on its bosom. They rowed me up to several vessels. I read by lanternlight their names painted in great white letters. The Ocean, The Phoenix, The Consort. The Vivid was my ship and it seemed she lay further down. Down the sable flood we glided. I thought of the sticks and of Chiron rowing some solitary soul to the Land of Shades. Amidst the strange scene, With a chilly wind blowing in my face and midnight clouds dropping rain above my head, And two rude rowers for companions whose insane oath still tortured my ear, I asked myself if I was wretched or terrified. But I was neither. Often in my life have I been far more so under comparatively safe circumstances. How is this? Said I. Methinks I am animated and alert instead of being depressed and apprehensive. But I could not tell how it was. The Vivid started out, White and glaring from the black night at last. Here you are, Said the waterman, And instantly demanding six shillings. You ask too much, I said. He drew off from the vessel and swore he would not embark till I paid it. A young man, The steward as I found afterwards, Was looking over the ship's side. He grinned a smile in anticipation of the coming contest. To disappoint him I paid the money. Three times that afternoon I'd given crowns where I should have given shillings. But I consoled myself with a reflection. It is the price of experience. I cheated you, Said the steward exultingly when I got on board. A stout, Handsome and showy woman was in the lady's cabin. I asked to be shown my berth. She looked hard at me, Muttered something about its being unusual for passengers to come on board at that hour, And seemed disposed to be less than civil. What a face she had! So comely, So insolent and so selfish. Now that I am on board I shall certainly stay here, Is my answer. I will trouble you to show me my berth. She complied, But sullenly. I took off my bonnet, Arranged my things and lay down. The stewardess talked all night, Not to me but to the young steward, Her son and her picture. He passed in and out of the cabin continually. They disputed, Quarrelled and made it up again twenty times in the course of the night. She professed to be writing a letter home. She read passages of it aloud, Heeding me no more than a stalk. Perhaps she believed me asleep. Several of these passages appeared to comprise family secrets and bore several references to Charlotte, A younger sister who from the bearing of the epistle seemed to be on the brink of perpetrating a romantic and imprudent match. Loud was the protest of this elder lady against the distasteful union. Towards the morning, Her discourse ran on to a new theme, The Watsons. A certainly expected family party of passengers known to her it appeared, And by her much esteemed on account of the handsome profit realised in their fees. She said, It was as good a little fortune to her whenever this family crossed. At dawn, All were astir and by sunrise the passengers came on board. Boisterous was the welcome given by the stewardess to the Watsons and great was the bustle made in their honour. They were four in number, Two males and two females. Besides them there was but one other passenger, A young lady, Whom a gentlemanly though languid looking man escorted. The two groups offered a marked contrast. The Watsons were doubtless rich for they had the confident of conscious wealth in their bearing. The other lady passenger, With a gentleman companion, Was quite a girl, Pretty and fair. Her simple print dress, Untrimmed straw bonnet and large shawl formed a costume plain to Quakerism, Yet for her becoming enough. Before the gentleman quitted I observed him throwing a glance of scrutiny over the passengers, As if to ascertain in what company his charge would be left. With a most dissatisfied air did his eye turn from the ladies with the gay flowers to me. Then he spoke to his daughter, Niece or whatever she was, And she also glanced in my direction. It might have been myself, Or it might have been my homely morning habit, That elicited this mark of contempt. Most likely both. I watched her slightly curl her short pretty lip. Then a bell rang and her father, I found out afterwards he was such, Kissed her and returned to land. Foreigners say it is only English girls who can thus be trusted to travel alone, And deep is their wonder at the daring confidence of English parents and guardians. It appeared that the dignity of solitude was not to this young woman's taste. She paced the deck once or twice backwards and forwards. She looked with a little sour air of disdain at the flaunting silks and velvets, And the bears which thereon danced attendance, And eventually she approached me and spoke. Are you fond of a sea voyage? Was her question. I explained that my fondness for sea voyage had yet to undergo the test of experience. I had never made a sea voyage. Oh, How charming! Cried she. I quite envy you the novelty. First impressions, You know, Are so pleasant. I have made so many I quite forgot the first. I'm quite blasé about the sea and all that. I could not help smiling. Why do you laugh? She inquired with a frank testiness that pleased me better than her other talk. Because you are so young to be blasé about anything. I am seventeen. You hardly look sixteen. Do you like travelling alone? I care nothing about it. I've crossed the channel ten times alone. But then I take care never to be alone long. I always make friends. You will scarcely make any friends this voyage, I think, I said, Glancing at the Watson group who were now laughing and making a great deal of noise on deck. Not of those odious men and women, She said. Such people should be stingy passengers. Are you going to school? No. Where are you going? I've not the least idea, Said I. The young girl stared and carelessly ran on. I'm going to school, The number of foreign schools I've been to in my life, And yet I'm quite an ignoramus. I know nothing in the world, I assure you, Except that I play and dance beautifully. Oh, And French and German, Of course, I know how to speak, But I can't read or write them very well. Do you know they wanted me to translate a page of an easy German book into English the other day, And I couldn't do it? Papa was mortified. He said it looks as if the person who pays all my school bills had thrown away all his money. And where will you be studying now? I asked. Oh, At Villette, Said she. Do you like Villette? I asked. Pretty well. The natives, You know, Are intensely stupid and vulgar, But there are some nice English families. Is your school a good one? Oh, No, It's horrid, But I go out every Sunday and care nothing about the matrices or the professors or the élèves. What are you smiling at now? Oh, I'm just smiling at my own thoughts, I said. Do tell me where you're going. Wherever fate may lead me, I said, My business is to earn a living where I can find it. To earn? Are you poor, Then, She said in consternation. Yes, I said. Oh, How unpleasant. But I do know what it is to be poor. They're poor enough at home, Papa and Mama, All of them. It's my godfather who pays for me. Miss Fanshawe, Such as this was this young person's name, Smiled faintly. Then she left for Below Deck. I was not sick until we left Margate. Miss Fanshawe's birth, Chance to be next to mine, And I'm sorry to say she tormented me with an unsparing selfishness during the whole time of our mutual distress. Nothing could exceed her impatience and fretfulness. The Watsons, Who were very sick too, And on whom the stewardess attended with shameless partiality, Were stoics compared with her. As the dark night drew on, The sea roughened. Larger waves swayed strong against the vessel's side. It was strange to reflect that blackness and water were round us and to feel the ship ploughing straight on her pathless way, Despite the noise, Billow and rising gale. Articles of furniture began to fall about and it became needful to lash them to their places. The passengers grew sicker than ever. Miss Fanshawe declared with groans that she must die. Not yet, Honey, Said the stewardess. We're just in port. And accordingly, In another quarter of an hour, A calm fell upon us all, And about midnight, The voyage ended. I was sorry. Yes, I was sorry. Finally, My resting time was passed. My difficulties recommenced. When I went on deck, The cold air and black scowl of the night seemed to rebuke me for my presumption in being where I was. The lights of the foreign seaport town glimmering round the foreign harbour met me like unnumbered threatening eyes. Friends came on board to welcome the Watsons, A whole family of friends surrounded and bore away Miss Fanshawe. I but dared not for one moment dwell on a comparison of positions. Where could I go? I must go somewhere. I gave the stewardess her fee and she seemed surprised at receiving a coin of more value than from such a quarter her course calculations had probably reckoned on. Be kind enough to direct me to some quiet respectable inn where I can go for the night, I asked. And she not only gave me the required direction but called a commissioner and bid him take charge of me and knocked my trunk, For that was gone to the custom house.