CHAPTER 30.

M. PAUL.

Yet the reader is advised not to be in any hurry with his kindly¹ conclusions, or to suppose, with an over-hasty charity, that from that day M. Paul became a changed character—easy to live with, and no longer apt to flash danger and discomfort² round him.

No; he was naturally a little man of unreasonable³ moods. When over-wrought, which he often was, he became acutely irritable⁴; and, besides, his veins⁵ were dark with a livid belladonna tincture, the essence of jealousy⁶. I do not mean merely the tender jealousy of the heart, but that sterner, narrower sentiment whose seat is in the head.

I used to think, as I sat looking at M. Paul, while he was knitting his brow or protruding⁸ his lip over some exercise of mine, which had not as many faults as he wished (for he liked me to commit faults: a knot of blunders was sweet to him as a cluster of nuts), that he had points of resemblance to Napoleon Bonaparte. I think so still.

In a shameless disregard of magnanimity, he resembled the great Emperor. M. Paul would have quarrelled with twenty learned women, would have unblushingly carried on a system of petty bickering⁹ and recrimination with a whole capital of coteries¹⁰, never troubling himself about loss or lack of dignity. He would have exiled fifty Madame de Staëls, if they had annoyed, offended, outrivalled, or opposed him.

I well remember a hot episode of his with a certain Madame Panache¹¹—a lady temporarily employed by Madame Beck to give lessons in history. She was clever—that is, she knew a good deal; and, besides, thoroughly¹² possessed¹³ the art of making the most of what she knew; of words and confidence she held unlimited¹⁴ command. Her personal appearance was far from destitute¹⁵ of advantages; I believe many people would have pronounced her “a fine woman;” and yet there were points in her robust¹⁶ and ample attractions, as well as in her bustling¹⁷ and demonstrative presence, which, it appeared, the nice and capricious tastes of M. Paul could not away with. The sound of her voice, echoing through the carré, would put him into a strange taking; her long free step—almost stride—along the corridor, would often make him snatch up his papers and decamp on the instant.

With malicious¹⁹ intent he bethought himself, one day, to intrude²⁰ on her class; as quick as lightning he gathered her method of instruction; it differed from a pet plan of his own. With little ceremony, and less courtesy, he pointed²¹ out what he termed her errors. Whether he expected submission²² and attention, I know not; he met an acrid²³ opposition²⁴, accompanied by a round reprimand for his certainly unjustifiable interference.

Instead of withdrawing with dignity, as he might still have done, he threw down the gauntlet of defiance²⁵. Madame Panache, bellicose²⁶ as a Penthesilea, picked it up in a minute. She snapped her fingers in the intermeddler’s face; she rushed upon him with a storm of words. M. Emanuel was eloquent²⁷; but Madame Panache was voluble. A system of fierce antagonism²⁸ ensued. Instead of laughing in his sleeve at his fair foe²⁹, with all her sore amour-propre and loud self-assertion, M. Paul detested³⁰ her with intense seriousness; he honoured her with his earnest fury; he pursued her vindictively³¹ and implacably, refusing to rest peaceably in his bed, to derive³² due benefit from his meals, or even serenely³³ to relish³⁴ his cigar, till she was fairly rooted out of the establishment. The Professor conquered, but I cannot say that the laurels³⁵ of this victory shadowed gracefully³⁶ his temples. Once I ventured to hint³⁷ as much. To my great surprise he allowed that I might be right, but averred³⁸ that when brought into contact with either men or women of the coarse, self-complacent quality, whereof Madame Panache was a specimen³⁹, he had no control over his own passions; an unspeakable and active aversion impelled⁴⁰ him to a war of extermination⁴¹.

Three months afterwards, hearing that his vanquished⁴² foe had met with reverses, and was likely to be really distressed⁴³ for want of employment, he forgot his hatred⁴⁴, and alike active in good and evil, he moved heaven and earth till he found her a place. Upon her coming to make up former differences, and thank him for his recent kindness, the old voice—a little loud—the old manner—a little forward—so acted upon him that in ten minutes he started up and bowed her, or rather himself, out of the room, in a transport of nervous irritation⁴⁵.

To pursue a somewhat audacious parallel, in a love of power, in an eager grasp after supremacy⁴⁶, M. Emanuel was like Bonaparte. He was a man not always to be submitted to. Sometimes it was needful to resist; it was right to stand still, to look up into his eyes and tell him that his requirements went beyond reason—that his absolutism verged⁴⁷ on tyranny.

The dawnings, the first developments of peculiar⁴⁸ talent appearing within his range, and under his rule, curiously⁴⁹ excited, even disturbed him. He watched its struggle into life with a scowl⁵⁰; he held back his hand—perhaps said, “Come on if you have strength,” but would not aid the birth.

When the pang⁵¹ and peril⁵² of the first conflict were over, when the breath of life was drawn⁵³, when he saw the lungs expand and contract, when he felt the heart beat and discovered life in the eye, he did not yet offer to foster.

“Prove yourself true ere I cherish you,” was his ordinance⁵⁴; and how difficult he made that proof! What thorns and briers, what flints, he strewed⁵⁵ in the path of feet not inured⁵⁶ to rough travel! He watched tearlessly—ordeals that he exacted should be passed through—fearlessly. He followed footprints that, as they approached the bourne, were sometimes marked in blood—followed them grimly, holding the austerest police-watch over the pain-pressed pilgrim. And when at last he allowed a rest, before slumber⁵⁷ might close the eyelids⁵⁸, he opened those same lids wide, with pitiless finger and thumb, and gazed deep through the pupil and the irids into the brain, into the heart, to search if Vanity, or Pride, or Falsehood, in any of its subtlest forms, was discoverable in the furthest recess⁵⁹ of existence. If, at last, he let the neophyte⁶⁰ sleep, it was but a moment; he woke him suddenly up to apply new tests: he sent him on irksome errands when he was staggering with weariness; he tried the temper, the sense, and the health; and it was only when every severest test had been applied⁶¹ and endured, when the most corrosive⁶² aquafortis had been used, and failed to tarnish⁶³ the ore, that he admitted it genuine, and, still in clouded silence, stamped it with his deep brand of approval.

I speak not ignorant of these evils.

Till the date at which the last chapter closes, M. Paul had not been my professor—he had not given me lessons, but about that time, accidentally hearing me one day acknowledge an ignorance of some branch of education (I think it was arithmetic), which would have disgraced a charity-school boy, as he very truly remarked, he took me in hand, examined me first, found me, I need not say, abundantly deficient⁶⁴, gave me some books and appointed me some tasks.

He did this at first with pleasure, indeed with unconcealed exultation⁶⁶, condescending⁶⁷ to say that he believed I was “bonne et pas trop faible” (i.e. well enough disposed, and not wholly destitute of parts), but, owing he supposed to adverse⁶⁸ circumstances, “as yet in a state of wretchedly imperfect mental development.”

The beginning of all effort has indeed with me been marked by a preternatural imbecility. I never could, even in forming a common acquaintance, assert or prove a claim to average quickness. A depressing and difficult passage has prefaced every new page I have turned in life.

So long as this passage lasted, M. Paul was very kind, very good, very forbearing; he saw the sharp pain inflicted⁶⁹, and felt the weighty humiliation⁷⁰ imposed by my own sense of incapacity; and words can hardly do justice to his tenderness and helpfulness. His own eyes would moisten, when tears of shame and effort clouded mine; burdened as he was with work, he would steal half his brief space of recreation to give to me.

But, strange grief! when that heavy and overcast⁷¹ dawn began at last to yield to day; when my faculties⁷² began to struggle themselves, free, and my time of energy and fulfilment came; when I voluntarily doubled, trebled, quadrupled the tasks he set, to please him as I thought, his kindness became sternness; the light changed in his eyes from a beam to a spark; he fretted⁷³, he opposed, he curbed⁷⁴ me imperiously; the more I did, the harder I worked, the less he seemed content. Sarcasms⁷⁵ of which the severity amazed and puzzled me, harassed⁷⁷ my ears; then flowed out the bitterest inuendoes against the “pride of intellect.” I was vaguely⁷⁸ threatened with I know not what doom⁷⁹, if I ever trespassed⁸⁰ the limits proper to my sex, and conceived a contraband⁸¹ appetite for unfeminine knowledge. Alas! I had no such appetite. What I loved, it joyed me by any effort to content; but the noble hunger for science in the abstract—the godlike thirst after discovery—these feelings were known to me but by briefest flashes.

Yet, when M. Paul sneered⁸² at me, I wanted to possess them more fully; his injustice⁸⁴ stirred in me ambitious wishes—it imparted a strong stimulus—it gave wings to aspiration⁸⁵.

In the beginning, before I had penetrated⁸⁶ to motives⁸⁷, that uncomprehended sneer⁸³ of his made my heart ache, but by-and-by it only warmed the blood in my veins, and sent added action to my pulses. Whatever my powers—feminine or the contrary—God had given them, and I felt resolute⁸⁸ to be ashamed of no faculty⁸⁹ of his bestowal⁹⁰.

The combat was very sharp for a time. I seemed to have lost M. Paul’s affection; he treated me strangely. In his most unjust moments he would insinuate⁹¹ that I had deceived him when I appeared, what he called “faible”—that is incompetent⁹²; he said I had feigned⁹³ a false incapacity. Again, he would turn suddenly round and accuse me of the most far-fetched imitations and impossible plagiarisms⁹⁴, asserting that I had extracted the pith out of books I had not so much as heard of—and over the perusal⁹⁵ of which I should infallibly have fallen down in a sleep as deep as that of Eutychus.

Once, upon his preferring such an accusation⁹⁶, I turned upon him—I rose against him. Gathering⁹⁷ an armful of his books out of my desk, I filled my apron⁹⁸ and poured them in a heap upon his estrade, at his feet.

“Take them away, M. Paul,” I said, “and teach me no more. I never asked to be made learned, and you compel me to feel very profoundly that learning is not happiness.”

And returning to my desk, I laid my head on my arms, nor would I speak to him for two days afterwards. He pained and chagrined⁹⁹ me. His affection had been very sweet and dear—a pleasure new and incomparable: now that this seemed withdrawn¹⁰⁰, I cared not for his lessons.

The books, however, were not taken away; they were all restored with careful hand to their places, and he came as usual to teach me. He made his peace somehow—too readily, perhaps: I ought to have stood out longer, but when he looked kind and good, and held out his hand with amity¹⁰¹, memory refused to reproduce with due force his oppressive moments. And then, reconcilement is always sweet!

On a certain morning a message came from my godmother, inviting¹⁰² me to attend some notable lecture to be delivered in the same public rooms before described. Dr. John had brought the message himself, and delivered it verbally to Rosine, who had not scrupled¹⁰³ to follow the steps of M. Emanuel, then passing to the first classe, and, in his presence, stand “carrément” before my desk, hand in apron-pocket, and rehearse the same, saucily¹⁰⁴ and aloud, concluding with the words, “Qu’il est vraiment beau, Mademoiselle, ce jeune docteur! Quels yeux—quel regard! Tenez! J’en ai le cœur tout¹⁰⁵ ému!”

When she was gone, my professor demanded of me why I suffered “cette fille effrontée, cette créature sans pudeur,” to address me in such terms.

I had no pacifying¹⁰⁶ answer to give. The terms were precisely¹⁰⁷ such as Rosine—a young lady in whose skull¹⁰⁸ the organs of reverence¹⁰⁹ and reserve were not largely developed—was in the constant habit of using. Besides, what she said about the young doctor was true enough. Graham was handsome; he had fine eyes and a thrilling glance. An observation to that effect actually formed itself into sound on my lips.

“Elle ne dit que la vérité,” I said.

“Ah! vous trouvez?”

“Mais, sans doute.”

The lesson to which we had that day to submit was such as to make us very glad when it terminated. At its close, the released pupils rushed out, half-trembling, half-exultant. I, too, was going. A mandate¹¹⁰ to remain arrested me. I muttered that I wanted some fresh air sadly—the stove was in a glow, the classe over-heated. An inexorable voice merely recommended silence; and this salamander—for whom no room ever seemed too hot—sitting down between my desk and the stove—a situation in which he ought to have felt broiled¹¹¹, but did not—proceeded to confront me with—a Greek quotation¹¹²!

In M. Emanuel’s soul rankled¹¹³ a chronic¹¹⁴ suspicion that I knew both Greek and Latin. As monkeys are said to have the power of speech if they would but use it, and are reported to conceal⁶⁵ this faculty in fear of its being turned to their detriment¹¹⁵, so to me was ascribed a fund of knowledge which I was supposed criminally and craftily¹¹⁶ to conceal. The privileges of a “classical education,” it was insinuated¹¹⁷, had been mine; on flowers of Hymettus I had revelled¹¹⁸; a golden store, hived in memory, now silently sustained my efforts, and privily¹¹⁹ nurtured¹²⁰ my wits.

A hundred expedients¹²¹ did M. Paul employ to surprise my secret—to wheedle¹²², to threaten, to startle it out of me. Sometimes he placed Greek and Latin books in my way, and then watched me, as Joan of Arc’s jailors tempted¹²³ her with the warrior’s accoutrements, and lay in wait for the issue. Again he quoted I know not what authors and passages, and while rolling out their sweet and sounding lines (the classic tones fell musically from his lips—for he had a good voice—remarkable for compass, modulation¹²⁴, and matchless expression), he would fix on me a vigilant¹²⁵, piercing, and often malicious eye. It was evident he sometimes expected great demonstrations¹²⁶; they never occurred, however; not comprehending, of course I could neither be charmed nor annoyed.

Baffled—almost angry—he still clung to his fixed¹²⁷ idea; my susceptibilities were pronounced marble—my face a mask. It appeared as if he could not be brought to accept the homely¹²⁸ truth, and take me for what I was: men, and women too, must have delusion¹²⁹ of some sort; if not made ready to their hand, they will invent exaggeration for themselves.

At moments I did wish that his suspicions had been better founded. There were times when I would have given my right hand to possess the treasures he ascribed to me. He deserved condign¹³⁰ punishment for his testy¹³¹ crotchets. I could have gloried in bringing home to him his worst apprehensions¹³² astoundingly realized. I could have exulted¹³³ to burst on his vision, confront and confound his “lunettes,” one blaze of acquirements. Oh! why did nobody undertake to make me clever while I was young enough to learn, that I might, by one grand, sudden, inhuman¹³⁴ revelation—one cold, cruel, overwhelming triumph—have for ever crushed the mocking spirit out of Paul Carl David Emanuel!

Alas! no such feat¹³⁵ was in my power. To-day, as usual, his quotations¹³⁶ fell ineffectual: he soon shifted his ground.

“Women of intellect” was his next theme: here he was at home. A “woman of intellect,” it appeared, was a sort of “lusus naturae,” a luckless accident, a thing for which there was neither place nor use in creation, wanted neither as wife nor worker. Beauty anticipated her in the first office. He believed in his soul that lovely, placid¹³⁷, and passive feminine mediocrity was the only pillow on which manly¹³⁸ thought and sense could find rest for its aching temples; and as to work, male mind alone could work to any good practical result—hein?

This “hein?” was a note of interrogation intended to draw from me contradiction or objection. However, I only said—“Cela ne me regarde pas: je ne m’en soucie pas;” and presently added—“May I go, Monsieur? They have rung the bell for the second déjeuner” (i.e. luncheon).

“What of that? You are not hungry?”

“Indeed I was,” I said; “I had had nothing since breakfast, at seven, and should have nothing till dinner, at five, if I missed this bell.”

“Well, he was in the same plight¹³⁹, but I might share with him.”

And he broke in two the “brioche” intended for his own refreshment¹⁴⁰, and gave me half. Truly his bark was worse than his bite; but the really formidable attack was yet to come. While eating his cake, I could not forbear expressing my secret wish that I really knew all of which he accused me.

“Did I sincerely feel myself to be an ignoramus?” he asked, in a softened¹⁴¹ tone.

If I had replied meekly¹⁴² by an unqualified affirmative, I believe he would have stretched out his hand, and we should have been friends on the spot, but I answered—

“Not exactly. I am ignorant, Monsieur, in the knowledge you ascribe to me, but I sometimes, not always, feel a knowledge of my own.”

“What did I mean?” he inquired, sharply.

Unable to answer this question in a breath, I evaded¹⁴³ it by change of subject. He had now finished his half of the brioche: feeling sure that on so trifling¹⁴⁴ a fragment he could not have satisfied his appetite, as indeed I had not appeased¹⁴⁵ mine, and inhaling¹⁴⁶ the fragrance¹⁴⁷ of baked apples afar from the refectory, I ventured to inquire whether he did not also perceive that agreeable odour. He confessed that he did. I said if he would let me out by the garden-door, and permit me just to run across the court, I would fetch him a plateful; and added that I believed they were excellent, as Goton had a very good method of baking, or rather stewing¹⁴⁸ fruit, putting in a little spice, sugar, and a glass or two of vin blanc—might I go?

“Petite gourmande!” said he, smiling, “I have not forgotten how pleased you were with the pâté â la crême I once gave you, and you know very well, at this moment, that to fetch the apples for me will be the same as getting them for yourself. Go, then, but come back quickly.”

And at last he liberated¹⁵⁰ me on parole. My own plan was to go and return with speed and good faith, to put the plate in at the door, and then to vanish incontinent, leaving all consequences for future settlement.

That intolerably keen instinct of his seemed to have anticipated my scheme: he met me at the threshold, hurried me into the room, and fixed me in a minute in my former seat. Taking the plate of fruit from my hand, he divided the portion intended only for himself, and ordered me to eat my share. I complied with no good grace, and vexed¹⁵¹, I suppose, by my reluctance¹⁵², he opened a masked and dangerous battery. All he had yet said, I could count as mere⁷ sound and fury, signifying nothing: not so of the present attack.

It consisted in an unreasonable proposition with which he had before afflicted¹⁵³ me: namely, that on the next public examination-day I should engage—foreigner as I was—to take my place on the first form of first-class pupils, and with them improvise¹⁵⁴ a composition in French, on any subject any spectator might dictate¹⁵⁵, without benefit of grammar or lexicon¹⁵⁶.

I knew what the result of such an experiment would be. I, to whom nature had denied the impromptu¹⁵⁷ faculty; who, in public, was by nature a cypher; whose time of mental activity, even when alone, was not under the meridian¹⁵⁸ sun; who needed the fresh silence of morning, or the recluse¹⁵⁹ peace of evening, to win from the Creative Impulse one evidence of his presence, one proof of his force; I, with whom that Impulse was the most intractable, the most capricious, the most maddening of masters (him before me always excepted)—a deity¹⁶¹ which sometimes, under circumstances—apparently propitious¹⁶², would not speak when questioned, would not hear when appealed to, would not, when sought, be found; but would stand, all cold, all indurated, all granite¹⁶³, a dark Baal with carven lips and blank eye-balls, and breast like the stone face of a tomb; and again, suddenly, at some turn, some sound, some long-trembling sob¹⁶⁴ of the wind, at some rushing past of an unseen stream of electricity, the irrational¹⁶⁵ demon¹⁸ would wake unsolicited, would stir strangely alive, would rush from its pedestal like a perturbed¹⁶⁶ Dagon, calling to its votary¹⁶⁷ for a sacrifice, whatever the hour—to its victim for some blood, or some breath, whatever the circumstance or scene—rousing its priest, treacherously¹⁶⁸ promising¹⁶⁹ vaticination, perhaps filling its temple with a strange hum of oracles¹⁷⁰, but sure to give half the significance to fateful winds, and grudging¹⁷¹ to the desperate listener even a miserable¹⁷² remnant—yielding it sordidly¹⁷³, as though each word had been a drop of the deathless ichor of its own dark veins. And this tyrant¹⁷⁴ I was to compel into bondage¹⁷⁵, and make it improvise a theme, on a school estrade, between a Mathilde and a Coralie, under the eye of a Madame Beck, for the pleasure, and to the inspiration of a bourgeois¹⁷⁶ of Labassecour!

Upon this argument M. Paul and I did battle more than once—strong battle, with confused noise of demand and rejection¹⁷⁷, exaction¹⁷⁸ and repulse¹⁷⁹.

On this particular day I was soundly rated. “The obstinacy¹⁸⁰ of my whole sex,” it seems, was concentrated in me; I had an “orgueil de diable.” I feared to fail, forsooth! What did it matter whether I failed or not? Who was I that I should not fail, like my betters? It would do me good to fail. He wanted to see me worsted (I knew he did), and one minute he paused to take breath.

“Would I speak now, and be tractable¹⁶⁰?”

“Never would I be tractable in this matter. Law itself should not compel me. I would pay a fine, or undergo an imprisonment¹⁸¹, rather than write for a show and to order, perched up on a platform.”

“Could softer motives influence me? Would I yield for friendship’s sake?”

“Not a whit¹⁸², not a hair-breadth. No form of friendship under the sun had a right to exact such a concession¹⁸³. No true friendship would harass⁷⁶ me thus.”

He supposed then (with a sneer—M. Paul could sneer supremely¹⁸⁴, curling his lip, opening his nostrils¹⁸⁵, contracting his eyelids)—he supposed there was but one form of appeal to which I would listen, and of that form it was not for him to make use.

“Under certain persuasions¹⁸⁶, from certain quarters, je vous vois d’ici,” said he, “eagerly subscribing¹⁸⁷ to the sacrifice, passionately¹⁸⁸ arming for the effort.”

“Making a simpleton, a warning, and an example of myself, before a hundred and fifty of the ‘papas’ and ‘mammas’ of Villette.”

And here, losing patience, I broke out afresh with a cry that I wanted to be liberated—to get out into the air—I was almost in a fever.

“Chut!” said the inexorable, “this was a mere pretext¹⁸⁹ to run away; he was not hot, with the stove close at his back; how could I suffer, thoroughly screened by his person?”

“I did not understand his constitution. I knew nothing of the natural history of salamanders. For my own part, I was a phlegmatic¹⁹⁰ islander, and sitting in an oven did not agree with me; at least, might I step to the well, and get a glass of water—the sweet apples had made me thirsty?”

“If that was all, he would do my errand.”

He went to fetch the water. Of course, with a door only on the latch¹⁹¹ behind me, I lost not my opportunity. Ere his return, his half-worried prey¹⁹² had escaped.