CHAPTER VIII.

MADAME BECK.

Being delivered into the charge of the maîtresse, I was led through a long narrow passage into a foreign kitchen, very clean but very strange. It seemed to contain no means of cooking—neither fireplace nor oven; I did not understand that the great black furnace which filled one corner, was an efficient substitute for these. Surely pride was not already beginning its whispers in my heart; yet I felt a sense of relief when, instead of being left in the kitchen, as I half anticipated, I was led forward to a small inner room termed a “cabinet.” A cook in a jacket, a short petticoat and sabots, brought my supper: to wit—some meat, nature unknown, served in an odd and acid, but pleasant sauce; some chopped potatoes, made savoury with, I know not what: vinegar and sugar, I think: a tartine, or slice of bread and butter, and a baked pear. Being hungry, I ate and was grateful.

After the “prière du soir,” Madame herself came to have another look at me. She desired me to follow her up-stairs. Through a series of the queerest little dormitories—which, I heard afterwards, had once been nuns²’ cells: for the premises³ were in part of ancient date—and through the oratory—a long, low, gloomy room, where a crucifix hung, pale, against the wall, and two tapers⁴ kept dim vigils—she conducted me to an apartment where three children were asleep in three tiny beds. A heated stove made the air of this room oppressive; and, to mend matters, it was scented⁵ with an odour rather strong than delicate: a perfume, indeed, altogether surprising and unexpected under the circumstances, being like the combination of smoke with some spirituous essence—a smell, in short, of whisky.

Beside a table, on which flared⁶ the remnant of a candle guttering⁷ to waste in the socket⁸, a coarse woman, heterogeneously⁹ clad in a broad striped showy silk dress, and a stuff apron¹⁰, sat in a chair fast asleep. To complete the picture, and leave no doubt as to the state of matters, a bottle and an empty glass stood at the sleeping beauty’s elbow.

Madame contemplated¹¹ this remarkable¹² tableau¹³ with great calm; she neither smiled nor scowled¹⁴; no impress of anger, disgust, or surprise, ruffled¹⁵ the equality of her grave aspect; she did not even wake the woman! Serenely¹⁷ pointing to a fourth bed, she intimated that it was to be mine; then, having extinguished the candle and substituted for it a night-lamp, she glided¹⁹ through an inner door, which she left ajar—the entrance to her own chamber²⁰, a large, well-furnished apartment; as was discernible through the aperture²¹.

My devotions that night were all thanksgiving. Strangely had I been led since morning—unexpectedly had I been provided for. Scarcely could I believe that not forty-eight hours had elapsed since I left London, under no other guardianship²² than that which protects the passenger-bird—with no prospect²³ but the dubious²⁴ cloud-tracery of hope.

I was a light sleeper²⁵; in the dead of night I suddenly awoke. All was hushed, but a white figure stood in the room—Madame in her night-dress. Moving without perceptible sound, she visited the three children in the three beds; she approached me: I feigned²⁶ sleep, and she studied me long. A small pantomime ensued, curious enough. I daresay she sat a quarter of an hour on the edge of my bed, gazing at my face. She then drew nearer, bent²⁷ close over me; slightly raised my cap, and turned back the border so as to expose my hair; she looked at my hand lying on the bedclothes. This done, she turned to the chair where my clothes lay: it was at the foot of the bed. Hearing her touch and lift them, I opened my eyes with precaution, for I own I felt curious to see how far her taste for research would lead her. It led her a good way: every article did she inspect. I divined her motive²⁸ for this proceeding²⁹, viz. the wish to form from the garments a judgment³⁰ respecting the wearer, her station, means, neatness, &c. The end was not bad, but the means were hardly fair or justifiable³¹. In my dress was a pocket; she fairly turned it inside out: she counted the money in my purse; she opened a little memorandum-book, coolly perused³² its contents, and took from between the leaves a small plaited lock of Miss Marchmont’s grey hair. To a bunch of three keys, being those of my trunk, desk, and work-box, she accorded special attention: with these, indeed, she withdrew a moment to her own room. I softly rose in my bed and followed her with my eye: these keys, reader, were not brought back till they had left on the toilet of the adjoining room the impress of their wards¹ in wax. All being thus done decently and in order, my property was returned to its place, my clothes were carefully refolded. Of what nature were the conclusions deduced from this scrutiny³³? Were they favourable³⁴ or otherwise? Vain question. Madame’s face of stone (for of stone in its present night aspect it looked: it had been human, and, as I said before, motherly, in the salon) betrayed no response.

Her duty done—I felt that in her eyes this business was a duty—she rose, noiseless as a shadow: she moved towards her own chamber; at the door, she turned, fixing her eye on the heroine of the bottle, who still slept and loudly snored. Mrs. Svini (I presume this was Mrs. Svini, Anglicé or Hibernicé, Sweeny)—Mrs. Sweeny’s doom³⁵ was in Madame Beck’s eye—an immutable³⁶ purpose that eye spoke³⁷: Madame’s visitations for shortcomings might be slow, but they were sure. All this was very un-English: truly I was in a foreign land.

The morrow made me further acquainted with Mrs. Sweeny. It seems she had introduced herself to her present employer as an English lady in reduced circumstances: a native, indeed, of Middlesex, professing³⁸ to speak the English tongue with the purest metropolitan³⁹ accent. Madame—reliant on her own infallible expedients⁴⁰ for finding out the truth in time—had a singular intrepidity⁴¹ in hiring service off-hand (as indeed seemed abundantly proved in my own case). She received Mrs. Sweeny as nursery-governess to her three children. I need hardly explain to the reader that this lady was in effect a native of Ireland; her station I do not pretend to fix: she boldly declared that she had “had the bringing-up of the son and daughter of a marquis.” I think myself, she might possibly have been a hanger-on, nurse, fosterer, or washerwoman, in some Irish family: she spoke a smothered⁴² tongue, curiously⁴³ overlaid with mincing⁴⁴ cockney inflections. By some means or other she had acquired, and now held in possession, a wardrobe of rather suspicious splendour—gowns of stiff and costly⁴⁵ silk, fitting her indifferently, and apparently⁴⁶ made for other proportions than those they now adorned⁴⁷; caps with real lace borders, and—the chief item in the inventory⁴⁸, the spell by which she struck a certain awe⁴⁹ through the household, quelling⁵⁰ the otherwise scornfully disposed teachers and servants, and, so long as her broad shoulders wore the folds of that majestic⁵¹ drapery, even influencing Madame herself—a real Indian shawl—“un véritable cachemire,” as Madame Beck said, with unmixed reverence⁵² and amaze. I feel quite sure that without this “cachemire” she would not have kept her footing in the pensionnat for two days: by virtue⁵³ of it, and it only, she maintained the same a month.

But when Mrs. Sweeny knew that I was come to fill her shoes, then it was that she declared herself—then did she rise on Madame Beck in her full power—then come down on me with her concentrated weight. Madame bore this revelation and visitation so well, so stoically, that I for very shame could not support it otherwise than with composure. For one little moment Madame Beck absented herself from the room; ten minutes after, an agent of the police stood in the midst of us. Mrs. Sweeny and her effects were removed. Madame’s brow had not been ruffled during the scene—her lips had not dropped one sharply-accented word.

This brisk little affair of the dismissal was all settled before breakfast: order to march given, policeman called, mutineer expelled; “chambre d’enfans” fumigated⁵⁴ and cleansed⁵⁵, windows thrown open, and every trace of the accomplished⁵⁶ Mrs. Sweeny—even to the fine essence and spiritual fragrance⁵⁷ which gave token so subtle and so fatal of the head and front of her offending—was annihilated⁵⁸ from the Rue⁵⁹ Fossette: all this, I say, was done between the moment of Madame Beck’s issuing like Aurora⁶⁰ from her chamber, and that in which she coolly sat down to pour out her first cup of coffee.

About noon, I was summoned to dress Madame. (It appeared my place was to be a hybrid⁶¹ between gouvernante and lady’s-maid.) Till noon, she haunted the house in her wrapping-gown, shawl, and soundless slippers⁶². How would the lady-chief of an English school approve this custom?

The dressing⁶³ of her hair puzzled me; she had plenty of it: auburn, unmixed with grey: though she was forty years old. Seeing my embarrassment⁶⁴, she said, “You have not been a femme-de-chambre in your own country?” And taking the brush from my hand, and setting me aside, not ungently or disrespectfully, she arranged it herself. In performing other offices of the toilet, she half-directed, half-aided me, without the least display of temper or impatience⁶⁵. N.B.—That was the first and last time I was required to dress her. Henceforth, on Rosine, the portress, devolved that duty.

When attired⁶⁶, Madame Beck appeared a personage of a figure rather short and stout⁶⁷, yet still graceful⁶⁸ in its own peculiar⁶⁹ way; that is, with the grace resulting from proportion of parts. Her complexion⁷⁰ was fresh and sanguine⁷¹, not too rubicund⁷²; her eye, blue and serene¹⁶; her dark silk dress fitted her as a French sempstress alone can make a dress fit; she looked well, though a little bourgeoise; as bourgeoise, indeed, she was. I know not what of harmony pervaded⁷³ her whole person; and yet her face offered contrast, too: its features were by no means such as are usually seen in conjunction with a complexion of such blended freshness and repose⁷⁴: their outline was stern: her forehead was high but narrow; it expressed capacity and some benevolence⁷⁵, but no expanse; nor did her peaceful yet watchful⁷⁶ eye ever know the fire which is kindled⁷⁷ in the heart or the softness which flows thence. Her mouth was hard: it could be a little grim; her lips were thin. For sensibility and genius, with all their tenderness and temerity⁷⁸, I felt somehow that Madame would be the right sort of Minos in petticoats.

In the long run, I found she was something else in petticoats too. Her name was Modeste Maria Beck, née Kint: it ought to have been Ignacia. She was a charitable woman, and did a great deal of good. There never was a mistress whose rule was milder. I was told that she never once remonstrated⁷⁹ with the intolerable Mrs. Sweeny, despite her tipsiness, disorder⁸⁰, and general neglect; yet Mrs. Sweeny had to go the moment her departure became convenient. I was told, too, that neither masters nor teachers were found fault with in that establishment; yet both masters and teachers were often changed: they vanished and others filled their places, none could well explain how.

The establishment was both a pensionnat and an externat: the externes or day-pupils exceeded one hundred in number; the boarders were about a score. Madame must have possessed⁸¹ high administrative⁸² powers: she ruled all these, together with four teachers, eight masters, six servants, and three children, managing at the same time to perfection the pupils’ parents and friends; and that without apparent effort; without bustle⁸³, fatigue⁸⁴, fever, or any symptom of undue⁸⁵ excitement: occupied she always was—busy, rarely. It is true that Madame had her own system for managing and regulating this mass of machinery⁸⁶; and a very pretty system it was: the reader has seen a specimen⁸⁷ of it, in that small affair of turning my pocket inside out, and reading my private memoranda⁸⁸. “Surveillance,” “espionage⁸⁹,”—these were her watchwords.

Still, Madame knew what honesty was, and liked it—that is, when it did not obtrude⁹⁰ its clumsy scruples⁹¹ in the way of her will and interest. She had a respect for “Angleterre;” and as to “les Anglaises,” she would have the women of no other country about her own children, if she could help it.

Often in the evening, after she had been plotting and counter-plotting, spying and receiving the reports of spies all day, she would come up to my room—a trace of real weariness on her brow—and she would sit down and listen while the children said their little prayers to me in English: the Lord’s Prayer, and the hymn⁹³ beginning “Gentle Jesus,” these little Catholics were permitted to repeat at my knee; and, when I had put them to bed, she would talk to me (I soon gained enough French to be able to understand, and even answer her) about England and Englishwomen, and the reasons for what she was pleased to term their superior intelligence, and more real and reliable probity⁹⁴. Very good sense she often showed; very sound opinions she often broached⁹⁵: she seemed to know that keeping girls in distrustful restraint, in blind ignorance, and under a surveillance that left them no moment and no corner for retirement⁹⁶, was not the best way to make them grow up honest and modest women; but she averred⁹⁷ that ruinous consequences would ensue if any other method were tried with continental⁹⁸ children: they were so accustomed to restraint, that relaxation⁹⁹, however guarded, would be misunderstood and fatally presumed on. She was sick, she would declare, of the means she had to use, but use them she must; and after discoursing¹⁰⁰, often with dignity and delicacy¹⁰¹, to me, she would move away on her “souliers de silence,” and glide¹⁸ ghost-like through the house, watching and spying everywhere, peering through every keyhole, listening behind every door.

After all, Madame’s system was not bad—let me do her justice. Nothing could be better than all her arrangements for the physical well-being¹⁰² of her scholars. No minds were overtasked: the lessons were well distributed and made incomparably easy to the learner; there was a liberty of amusement, and a provision for exercise which kept the girls healthy; the food was abundant and good: neither pale nor puny¹⁰³ faces were anywhere to be seen in the Rue Fossette. She never grudged¹⁰⁴ a holiday; she allowed plenty of time for sleeping, dressing, washing, eating; her method in all these matters was easy, liberal, salutary, and rational: many an austere¹⁰⁵ English school-mistress would do vastly well to imitate her—and I believe many would be glad to do so, if exacting¹⁰⁶ English parents would let them.

As Madame Beck ruled by espionage, she of course had her staff of spies: she perfectly¹⁰⁷ knew the quality of the tools she used, and while she would not scruple⁹² to handle the dirtiest for a dirty occasion—flinging this sort from her like refuse rind, after the orange has been duly squeezed—I have known her fastidious in seeking pure metal for clean uses; and when once a bloodless and rustless¹⁰⁸ instrument was found, she was careful of the prize, keeping it in silk and cotton-wool. Yet, woe¹⁰⁹ be to that man or woman who relied on her one inch beyond the point where it was her interest to be trustworthy: interest was the master-key of Madame’s nature—the mainspring of her motives—the alpha and omega of her life. I have seen her feelings appealed to, and I have smiled in half-pity, half-scorn at the appellants. None ever gained her ear through that channel, or swayed her purpose by that means. On the contrary, to attempt to touch her heart was the surest way to rouse her antipathy¹¹⁰, and to make of her a secret foe¹¹¹. It proved to her that she had no heart to be touched: it reminded her where she was impotent and dead. Never was the distinction between charity and mercy better exemplified than in her. While devoid¹¹² of sympathy, she had a sufficiency of rational benevolence: she would give in the readiest manner to people she had never seen—rather, however, to classes than to individuals. “Pour les pauvres,” she opened her purse freely—against the poor man, as a rule, she kept it closed. In philanthropic schemes for the benefit of society at large she took a cheerful part; no private sorrow touched her: no force or mass of suffering concentrated in one heart had power to pierce hers. Not the agony in Gethsemane, not the death on Calvary, could have wrung¹¹³ from her eyes one tear.

I say again, Madame was a very great and a very capable woman. That school offered her for her powers too limited a sphere; she ought to have swayed a nation: she should have been the leader of a turbulent legislative¹¹⁴ assembly. Nobody could have browbeaten¹¹⁵ her, none irritated her nerves, exhausted¹¹⁶ her patience, or over-reached her astuteness¹¹⁷. In her own single person, she could have comprised the duties of a first minister and a superintendent¹¹⁸ of police. Wise, firm, faithless; secret, crafty¹¹⁹, passionless; watchful and inscrutable; acute and insensate—withal perfectly decorous—what more could be desired?

The sensible reader will not suppose that I gained all the knowledge here condensed for his benefit in one month, or in one half-year. No! what I saw at first was the thriving outside of a large and flourishing educational establishment. Here was a great house, full of healthy, lively girls, all well-dressed and many of them handsome, gaining knowledge by a marvellously easy method, without painful exertion¹²⁰ or useless waste of spirits; not, perhaps, making very rapid progress in anything; taking it easy, but still always employed, and never oppressed. Here was a corps¹²¹ of teachers and masters, more stringently¹²² tasked, as all the real head-labour was to be done by them, in order to save the pupils, yet having their duties so arranged that they relieved each other in quick succession whenever the work was severe: here, in short, was a foreign school; of which the life, movement, and variety made it a complete and most charming contrast to many English institutions of the same kind.

Behind the house was a large garden, and, in summer, the pupils almost lived out of doors amongst the rose-bushes and the fruit-trees. Under the vast and vine-draped berceau, Madame would take her seat on summer afternoons, and send for the classes, in turns, to sit round her and sew and read. Meantime, masters came and went, delivering short and lively lectures, rather than lessons, and the pupils made notes of their instructions, or did not make them—just as inclination¹²³ prompted; secure that, in case of neglect, they could copy the notes of their companions. Besides the regular monthly jours de sortie, the Catholic fête-days brought a succession of holidays all the year round; and sometimes on a bright summer morning, or soft summer evening; the boarders were taken out for a long walk into the country, regaled with gaufres and vin blanc, or new milk and pain bis, or pistolets au beurre (rolls) and coffee. All this seemed very pleasant, and Madame appeared goodness itself; and the teachers not so bad but they might be worse; and the pupils, perhaps, a little noisy and rough, but types of health and glee.

Thus did the view appear, seen through the enchantment¹²⁴ of distance; but there came a time when distance was to melt for me—when I was to be called down from my watch-tower of the nursery, whence I had hitherto made my observations, and was to be compelled into closer intercourse¹²⁵ with this little world of the Rue Fossette.

I was one day sitting up-stairs, as usual, hearing the children their English lessons, and at the same time turning a silk dress for Madame, when she came sauntering into the room with that absorbed air and brow of hard thought she sometimes wore, and which made her look so little genial¹²⁶. Dropping into a seat opposite mine, she remained some minutes silent. Désirée, the eldest¹²⁷ girl, was reading to me some little essay of Mrs. Barbauld’s, and I was making her translate currently from English to French as she proceeded, by way of ascertaining¹²⁸ that she comprehended what she read: Madame listened.

Presently, without preface or prelude¹²⁹, she said, almost in the tone of one making an accusation¹³⁰, “Meess, in England you were a governess?”

“No, Madame,” said I smiling, “you are mistaken.”

“Is this your first essay at teaching—this attempt with my children?”

I assured her it was. Again she became silent; but looking up, as I took a pin from the cushion, I found myself an object of study: she held me under her eye; she seemed turning me round in her thoughts—measuring my fitness for a purpose, weighing my value in a plan. Madame had, ere this, scrutinized¹³¹ all I had, and I believe she esteemed¹³² herself cognizant of much that I was; but from that day, for the space of about a fortnight, she tried me by new tests. She listened at the nursery door when I was shut in with the children; she followed me at a cautious distance when I walked out with them, stealing within ear-shot whenever the trees of park or boulevard afforded a sufficient screen: a strict preliminary process having thus been observed, she made a move forward.

One morning, coming on me abruptly¹³³, and with the semblance¹³⁴ of hurry, she said she found herself placed in a little dilemma¹³⁵. Mr. Wilson, the English master, had failed to come at his hour, she feared he was ill; the pupils were waiting in classe; there was no one to give a lesson; should I, for once, object to giving a short dictation exercise, just that the pupils might not have it to say they had missed their English lesson?

“In classe, Madame?” I asked.

“Yes, in classe: in the second division.”

“Where there are sixty pupils,” said I; for I knew the number, and with my usual base habit of cowardice¹³⁶, I shrank into my sloth¹³⁷ like a snail¹³⁸ into its shell, and alleged¹³⁹ incapacity and impracticability as a pretext¹⁴⁰ to escape action. If left to myself, I should infallibly have let this chance slip. Inadventurous, unstirred by impulses of practical ambition, I was capable of sitting twenty years teaching infants the hornbook, turning silk dresses and making children’s frocks. Not that true contentment dignified¹⁴¹ this infatuated resignation: my work had neither charm for my taste, nor hold on my interest; but it seemed to me a great thing to be without heavy anxiety, and relieved from intimate trial: the negation¹⁴² of severe suffering was the nearest approach to happiness I expected to know. Besides, I seemed to hold two lives—the life of thought, and that of reality; and, provided the former was nourished with a sufficiency of the strange necromantic¹⁴³ joys of fancy, the privileges of the latter might remain limited to daily bread, hourly work, and a roof of shelter.

“Come,” said Madame, as I stooped more busily than ever over the cutting-out of a child’s pinafore, “leave that work.”

“But Fifine wants it, Madame.”

“Fifine must want it, then, for I want you.”

And as Madame Beck did really want and was resolved to have me—as she had long been dissatisfied with the English master, with his shortcomings in punctuality, and his careless method of tuition—as, too, she did not lack resolution and practical activity, whether I lacked them or not—she, without more ado, made me relinquish¹⁴⁴ thimble and needle; my hand was taken into hers, and I was conducted down-stairs. When we reached the carré, a large square hall between the dwelling-house and the pensionnat, she paused, dropped my hand, faced, and scrutinized me. I was flushed, and tremulous from head to foot: tell it not in Gath, I believe I was crying. In fact, the difficulties before me were far from being wholly imaginary; some of them were real enough; and not the least substantial lay in my want of mastery over the medium through which I should be obliged to teach. I had, indeed, studied French closely since my arrival in Villette; learning its practice by day, and its theory in every leisure moment at night, to as late an hour as the rule of the house would allow candle-light; but I was far from yet being able to trust my powers of correct oral expression.

“Dîtes donc,” said Madame sternly, “vous sentez vous réellement trop faible?”

I might have said “Yes,” and gone back to nursery obscurity, and there, perhaps, mouldered¹⁴⁵ for the rest of my life; but looking up at Madame, I saw in her countenance¹⁴⁶ a something that made me think twice ere I decided¹⁴⁷. At that instant she did not wear a woman’s aspect, but rather a man’s. Power of a particular kind strongly limned¹⁴⁸ itself in all her traits, and that power was not my kind of power: neither sympathy, nor congeniality, nor submission¹⁴⁹, were the emotions it awakened¹⁵⁰. I stood—not soothed¹⁵¹, nor won, nor overwhelmed. It seemed as if a challenge of strength between opposing gifts was given, and I suddenly felt all the dishonour¹⁵² of my diffidence—all the pusillanimity¹⁵³ of my slackness to aspire¹⁵⁴.

“Will you,” she said, “go backward or forward?” indicating with her hand, first, the small door of communication with the dwelling-house, and then the great double portals of the classes or schoolrooms.

“En avant,” I said.

“But,” pursued she, cooling as I warmed, and continuing the hard look, from very antipathy to which I drew strength and determination, “can you face the classes, or are you over-excited?”

She sneered¹⁵⁵ slightly in saying this: nervous excitability was not much to Madame’s taste.

“I am no more excited than this stone,” I said, tapping the flag with my toe: “or than you,” I added, returning her look.

“Bon! But let me tell you these are not quiet, decorous, English girls you are going to encounter. Ce sont des Labassecouriennes, rondes, franches, brusques, et tant soit peu rebelles.”

I said: “I know; and I know, too, that though I have studied French hard since I came here, yet I still speak it with far too much hesitation—too little accuracy to be able to command their respect I shall make blunders that will lay me open to the scorn of the most ignorant. Still I mean to give the lesson.”

“They always throw over timid teachers,” said she.

“I know that too, Madame; I have heard how they rebelled against and persecuted¹⁵⁷ Miss Turner”—a poor friendless English teacher, whom Madame had employed, and lightly discarded; and to whose piteous history I was no stranger.

“C’est vrai,” said she, coolly. “Miss Turner had no more command over them than a servant from the kitchen would have had. She was weak and wavering; she had neither tact¹⁵⁸ nor intelligence, decision nor dignity. Miss Turner would not do for these girls at all.”

I made no reply, but advanced to the closed schoolroom door.

“You will not expect aid from me, or from any one,” said Madame. “That would at once set you down as incompetent¹⁵⁹ for your office.”

I opened the door, let her pass with courtesy, and followed her. There were three schoolrooms, all large. That dedicated¹⁶⁰ to the second division, where I was to figure, was considerably¹⁶¹ the largest, and accommodated an assemblage more numerous, more turbulent, and infinitely¹⁶² more unmanageable than the other two. In after days, when I knew the ground better, I used to think sometimes (if such a comparison may be permitted), that the quiet, polished, tame first division was to the robust¹⁶³, riotous¹⁶⁴, demonstrative second division, what the English House of Lords is to the House of Commons.

The first glance informed me that many of the pupils were more than girls—quite young women; I knew that some of them were of noble family (as nobility goes in Labassecour), and I was well convinced that not one amongst them was ignorant of my position in Madame’s household. As I mounted the estràde (a low platform, raised a step above the flooring), where stood the teacher’s chair and desk, I beheld¹⁶⁵ opposite to me a row of eyes and brows that threatened stormy weather—eyes full of an insolent¹⁶⁶ light, and brows hard and unblushing as marble. The continental “female” is quite a different being to the insular¹⁶⁷ “female” of the same age and class: I never saw such eyes and brows in England. Madame Beck introduced me in one cool phrase, sailed from the room, and left me alone in my glory.

I shall never forget that first lesson, nor all the under-current of life and character it opened up to me. Then first did I begin rightly to see the wide difference that lies between the novelist’s and poet’s ideal “jeune fille” and the said “jeune fille” as she really is.

It seems that three titled belles¹⁵⁶ in the first row had sat down predetermined that a bonne d’enfants should not give them lessons in English. They knew they had succeeded in expelling obnoxious¹⁶⁸ teachers before now; they knew that Madame would at any time throw overboard a professeur or maitresse who became unpopular with the school—that she never assisted a weak official to retain his place—that if he had not strength to fight, or tact to win his way, down he went: looking at “Miss Snowe,” they promised themselves an easy victory.

Mesdemoiselles Blanche, Virginie, and Angélique opened the campaign by a series of titterings and whisperings; these soon swelled¹⁶⁹ into murmurs¹⁷⁰ and short laughs, which the remoter benches caught up and echoed more loudly. This growing revolt of sixty against one, soon became oppressive enough; my command of French being so limited, and exercised under such cruel constraint¹⁷¹.

Could I but have spoken in my own tongue, I felt as if I might have gained a hearing; for, in the first place, though I knew I looked a poor creature, and in many respects actually was so, yet nature had given me a voice that could make itself heard, if lifted in excitement or deepened by emotion. In the second place, while I had no flow, only a hesitating trickle¹⁷² of language, in ordinary circumstances, yet—under stimulus¹⁷³ such as was now rife¹⁷⁴ through the mutinous¹⁷⁵ mass—I could, in English, have rolled out readily phrases stigmatizing¹⁷⁶ their proceedings¹⁷⁷ as such proceedings deserved to be stigmatized¹⁷⁸; and then with some sarcasm¹⁷⁹, flavoured with contemptuous bitterness for the ringleaders, and relieved with easy banter¹⁸⁰ for the weaker but less knavish¹⁸¹ followers¹⁸², it seemed to me that one might possibly get command over this wild herd¹⁸³, and bring them into training, at least. All I could now do was to walk up to Blanche—Mademoiselle de Melcy, a young baronne—the eldest, tallest, handsomest, and most vicious—stand before her desk, take from under her hand her exercise-book, remount the estrade, deliberately¹⁸⁴ read the composition, which I found very stupid, and, as deliberately, and in the face of the whole school, tear the blotted¹⁸⁵ page in two.

This action availed to draw attention and check noise. One girl alone, quite in the background, persevered¹⁸⁶ in the riot with undiminished energy. I looked at her attentively¹⁸⁷. She had a pale face, hair like night, broad strong eyebrows¹⁸⁸, decided features, and a dark, mutinous, sinister¹⁸⁹ eye: I noted¹⁹⁰ that she sat close by a little door, which door, I was well aware, opened into a small closet where books were kept. She was standing¹⁹¹ up for the purpose of conducting her clamour with freer energies. I measured her stature¹⁹² and calculated her strength. She seemed both tall and wiry; but, so the conflict were brief and the attack unexpected, I thought I might manage her.

Advancing up the room, looking as cool and careless as I possibly could, in short, ayant l’air de rien, I slightly pushed the door and found it was ajar. In an instant, and with sharpness, I had turned on her. In another instant she occupied the closet, the door was shut, and the key in my pocket.

It so happened that this girl, Dolores by name, and a Catalonian by race, was the sort of character at once dreaded¹⁹³ and hated by all her associates; the act of summary justice above noted proved popular: there was not one present but, in her heart, liked to see it done. They were stilled for a moment; then a smile—not a laugh—passed from desk to desk: then—when I had gravely and tranquilly¹⁹⁴ returned to the estrade, courteously¹⁹⁵ requested silence, and commenced a dictation as if nothing at all had happened—the pens travelled peacefully over the pages, and the remainder of the lesson passed in order and industry.

“C’est bien,” said Madame Beck, when I came out of class, hot and a little exhausted. “Ca ira.”

She had been listening and peeping through a spy-hole the whole time.

From that day I ceased to be nursery governess, and became English teacher. Madame raised my salary; but she got thrice the work out of me she had extracted from Mr. Wilson, at half the expense.