7 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 faces her worst fears, but is saved at the last moment.

Performed by Stephanie Poppins
Music by Jean-Miles Carter
Published by Neworld Books
Sleep stories for bedtime listening with the soothing sounds of Stephanie Poppins
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Transcript

Violette by Charlotte Bronte Red by Stephanie Poppins Music by John Myles Carter Chapter 7 I awoke next morning with courage revived and spirits refreshed. Physical debility no longer enervated my judgment. My mind felt prompt and clear. Just as I finished dressing, A tap came to the door. I said, Come in, Expecting the chambermaid, Whereas a rough man walked in and said, Give me a case, Miss. Why, I asked. Give, He said impatiently. He half snatched them from my hand. Fortunately, It did turn out all right. He was from the custom house, Where to go to get some breakfast I could not tell, But I proceeded, Not without hesitation to descend. I now observed. What I had not noticed in my extreme weariness last night was that this inn was in fact a large hotel. As I slowly descended the broad staircase, Halting on each step, I gazed at the high ceiling above and the painted walls around me. There were wide windows which filled the house with light. At the veined marble I trod, And contrasting all this with the dimensions of the closet assigned to me as a chamber, With the extreme modesty of its appointments, I fell into a philosophising mood. Much I marvelled at the sagacity invinced by waiters and chambermaids in proportioning the accommodation to the guest. How could inn servants and ship stewardesses everywhere tell at a glance that I, For instance, Was an individual of no social significance and little burdened by cash? They did know it evidently. I saw quite well they, All in a moment's calculation, Estimated me as about the same fractional value. The fact seemed to me curious and pregnant. I would not disguise from myself what it indicated, Yet I managed to keep up my spirits pretty well under its pressure. Having at last landed in a great hall full of skylight glare, I made my way somehow to what proved to be the coffee room. It cannot be denied that on entering this room I trembled somewhat, But, Acting in the spirit and with the calm of a fatalist, I sat down at a small table to which a waiter presently brought me some breakfast, And I partook of that meal in a frame of mind not greatly calculated to favour digestion. Breakfast over, I must again move. In what direction? Go to Villette, Said an inward voice, Prompted doubtless by the recollection of this slight sentence, Uttered carelessly and at random by Miss Fanshawe as she bid me goodbye. She would come to Madame Beck's. She has some marmots whom you might look after. She wants an English governess, Or was wanting one two months ago. Who Madame Beck was, Where she lived, I knew not. I had asked, But the question passed unheard. Miss Fanshawe, Hurried away by her friends, Left it unanswered. I presumed Villette to be her residence, So to Villette I would go. The distance was 40 miles. I knew I was clutching at straws, But in the wide and weltering deep where I found myself, I would have caught at cobwebs. Having inquired about the means of travelling to Villette and secured a seat in the diligence, I departed on the strength of this outline, This shadow of a project. Before you pronounce on the rashness of the preceding reader, Look back to the point whence I started. Consider the desert I had left. Note how little I periled. Mine was the game where the player cannot lose, And may just win. Of an artistic temperament, I deny I am. Yet I must possess something of the artist's faculty of making the most of present pleasure. That is to say, When it is of the kind to my taste. I enjoyed that day, Although we travelled slowly. It was cold and it rained. Somewhat bare, Flat and treeless was the route along which our journey lay, And slimy canals crept like half-torpid green snakes beside the road. The sky, Too, Was monotonously grey. The atmosphere was stagnant and humid. Yet amidst all these deadening influences, My fancy budded fresh and my heart basking sunshine. These feelings, However, Were well kept in check by the secret but ceaseless consciousness of anxiety lying in wait on enjoyment, Like a tiger crouched in a jungle. I had hoped we might reach Villette ere night set in, And that thus I might escape the deeper embarrassment which obscurity seems to throw round a first arrival at an unknown bourne. But with our slow progress and long stoppages, What with a thick fog and small dense rain, Darkness that might almost be felt had settled on the day by the time we gained its suburbs. I know we passed through a gate where soldiers were stationed. So much I could see by lamplight. And we rattled over a pavement of strangely rough and flinty surface. At a bureau, The diligence stopped and the passengers alighted. My first business was to get my trunk, A small matter enough but important to me. I was sure mine ought to be this time visible, But it was not. I had tied on the direction card with a piece of green ribbon that I might know it at a glance, But not a fringe or fragment of green was perceptible. Every package was removed, Every tin case and brown paper parcel. The oilcloth cover was lifted. I saw with distinct vision not an umbrella, Cloak, Cane, Hatbox or bandbox remained. And my portmanteau with my few clothes was a little pocketbook in clasp and remnant of my fifteen pounds. Where were they? I ask this question now because I could not ask it then. I could say nothing whatsoever, Not possessing a phrase of speaking French. And it was French and French only. The whole world seemed now gabbling around me. What should I do? Approaching the conductor, I laid my hand on his arm, Pointed to a trunk, Then to a diligent roof and tried to express a question with my eyes. He misunderstood me, Seized the trunk indicated and was about to hoist it onto the vehicle. Let that alone will you, Said a voice in good English, Then in correction. Qu'est-ce que vous faites donc? Said moi l'estimoire. I had heard the fatherland accents. They rejoiced my heart. Sir, Said I, Appealing to the stranger, I cannot speak French. May I entreat you to ask this man what he's done with my trunk? Without discriminating for the moment what sort of face it was to which my eyes were raised and on which they were fixed, I felt in its expression half surprised at my appeal and half doubt of the wisdom of interference. Do ask him. I would do as much for you, Said I. I don't know whether he smiled, But he said in a gentlemanly tone, That is to say a tone not hard or terrifying, What sort of trunk was yours? I described it, Including in my description the green ribbon, And forthwith the man took the conductor under hand and I felt through the storm of French which followed that he raked him fore and aft. Presently he returned to me. The fellow have as he was overloaded and confessed as he removed your trunk after he saw you put it on. He's left it behind at Boumerine with other parcels. He's promised, However, To forward it tomorrow. The day after, Therefore, You will find it safe at this bureau. Thank you, Said I, But my heart sank. Meantime, What should I do? Perhaps this English gentleman saw the failure of courage and inquired, Have you any friends in this city? No, And I don't know where to go. There was a little pause in the course of which, As he turned more fully to the light of a lamp above him, I saw he was a young, Distinguished and handsome man. He might be a lord for anything I knew. Nature had made him good enough for a prince, I thought. His face was very pleasant. He looked high but not arrogant, Manly but not overbearing. I was turning away in the deep consciousness of all absence of claim to look for further help from him when he said, Was all your money in your trunk? How thankful was I to be able to answer this with truth. No, I have enough in my purse. I had nearly twenty francs. It will keep me at a quiet inn till the day after tomorrow, But I am quite a stranger in Villette and I don't know the streets or the inns. I can give you the address of such an inn as you want, Said he. It is not far off. With my direction you will easily find it. He tore relief from his pocket book, Wrote a few words and gave it to me. I did think them kind. And as to distrusting him or his advice or his address, I should almost as soon thought of distrusting the Bible. There was a goodness in his countenance, An honour in his bright eyes. Your shortest way will be to follow the boulevard across the park, He continued, But it is too late now and too dark for a woman to go alone. I will step with you thus far. He moved on and I followed him through the darkness and the small soaking rain. The boulevard was all deserted, Its path miry, The water dripping from its trees. The park was as black as midnight. In the double gloom of trees and fog I could not see my guide, I could only follow his tread. Not in the least fear had I. I believe I would have followed that frank tread through continual night to the world's end. Now, Said he when the park was traversed, You will go along this road until you come to steps. Two lamps will show you where they are, These steps you will descend, A narrower street lies below and at the bottom you will find your inn. They speak English there, So your difficulties are now pretty well over. Good night. Good night, Sir, Said I. Accept my sincerest thanks. And we parted. There were remembrance of his countenance, The sound in my ear of his voice which spoke in nature chivalric to the needy and the feeble, Or a sort of cordial to me long after. This was a true young English gentleman. On I went, Hurrying fast through a magnificent street and square with the grandest houses around, And amidst them, The outline of more than one overbearing palace or church, I could not tell. Just as I passed a portico, Two moustached men came suddenly from behind the pillars. They were smoking cigars, Their dress implied pretensions to the rank of gentlemen, But poor things, They were very plebeian in soul. They spoke with insolence, And as fast as I walked, They kept pace with me a long way. At last I met a sort of patrol, And my dreaded hunters were turned from the pursuit, But they had driven me beyond my reckoning. When I could collect my faculties, I no longer knew where I was. The staircase I must long since have passed. Puzzled, Out of breath, Or my pulses throbbing in inevitable agitation, I knew not where to run. It was terrible to think again of encountering those bearded, Sneering simpletons, Yet the ground must be retraced and the steps sought out. I came at last to an old and worn flight, And taking it for granted, This must be the one indicated, I descended. The street into which they led was indeed narrow, But it contained no inn. On I wandered, In a very quiet and comparatively clean and well-paved street, I saw a light burning over the door of a rather large house, Loftier by a storey than those rounded. This must be the inn at last. I was getting quite exhausted. My knees now trembled under me. No inn was this. A brass plate embellished the great porte cochere. Pensionnant de Demoiselle was the inscription, And beneath a name, Madame Beck. I started. About a hundred thoughts volleyed through my mind, Yet I planned nothing and considered nothing. I had not time. Providence said, Stop here, This is your inn. Fate took me in her strong hand, Mastered my will, Directed my actions, And I rang the doorbell. While I waited, I would not reflect. I fixedly looked at the street stones, Where the door lamps shone, And counted them and noted their shapes and the glitter of wet on their angles. I rang again. They opened at last. A bonne in a smart cap stood before me. May I see Madame Beck? I enquired. I believe if I had spoken French, She would not have admitted me, But as I spoke English, She concluded I was a foreign teacher come, And even at this late hour, She let me in without a word of reluctance or a moment of hesitation. The next moment I sat in a coal glittering salon with porcelain stove, Unlit and gilded ornaments with a polished floor. A pendule on the mantelpiece struck nine o'clock. A quarter of an hour passed. How fast beat every pulse in my frame, How I turned cold and hot by turns. I sat with my eyes fixed on the door, A great white folding door with gilt mouldings. I watched to see a leaf move and open. All had been quiet, Not a mouse had stirred. The white doors were closed and motionless. You are English? Said a voice at my elbow. I almost bound it, So unexpected was the sound, So certain had I been of solitude. I looked. No ghost stood beside me or anything of spectral aspect, Merely a motherly, Dumpy little woman in a large shawl, Wrapping gown and a clean, Trim nightgown. I said I was English, And immediately, Without further prelude, We fell to a most remarkable conversation. Madame Beck had exhausted her command of insular speech when she said, You are English? And then she proceeded to work volubly in her own tongue. I answered in mine and she partially understood. Then she asked when my luggage would arrive, And at that moment a man's step was heard in the vestibule, Hastily proceeding to the outer door. Meanwhile, I told her I had left my own country, Intent on extending my knowledge and gaining my bread, How I was ready to turn my hand to any useful thing, Provided it was not wrong or degrading, How I would be a child's nurse or a lady's maid, And would not refuse even housework adapted to my strength. Madame heard this, And questioning her countenance, I almost thought the tale won her ear. She asked my name and my age and sat and looked at me, Not pittingly and not with interest, Never a gleam of sympathy or a shade of compassion. Then the man entered. Mon cousin, Began Madame. I want your opinion. We know your skill, Physiognomy. Use it now. Read this countenance. It was a little man and he fixed on me his spectacles. A resolute compression of the lips and gathering of the brow seemed to say he meant to see through me, And that a veil would be no veil for him. Bad or good, Said Madame. Of each kind, Without doubt, Said the diviner. May one trust her word? She wishes me to engage her as a bon or gouvernant. She tells a tale full of integrity but gives no reference. She is a stranger, An Englishwoman as one may see. She speaks French. Not a word. She understands? No. One may then speak plainly in her presence? Doubtless. The man gazed steadily. Do you need her services? I could do with them. You know I'm disgusted with the last Madame. Still, He scrutinised. The judgment when at last it came was as indefinite as what had gone before it. Engage her if good predominates in that nature and the action will bring its own reward. If evil? Yeah. Mes cousins se servent toujours une bonne oeuvre. And with a bow and a bonsoir, This vague arbiter of my destiny vanished. Madame did engage me that very night. By God's blessing I was spared the necessity of passing forth again into the lonesome, Dreary, Hostile street.