Villette by Charlotte Bronte · Audiobook preview

Fillet by Charlotte Bronte My godmother lived in a handsome house in the clean and ancient town of Breton. Her husband's family had been residents there for generations, and bore indeed the name of their birthplace. When I was a girl, I went to Breton about twice a year, and well I liked the visit. One child in a household of grown people is usually very much made of, and in a quiet way I was a good deal noticed by Mrs. Breton, who'd been left a widow with one son before I knew her. Her husband, a physician, having died while she was yet a young and handsome woman. She was not young as I remember her, but she was still handsome, tall and well made. In the autumn of one year I was staying at Breton, my godmother having come in person to claim me of the kinsfolk with whom was at that time fixed my permanent residence. I believe she then plainly saw events coming, whose very shadow I scarce guessed, yet of which the faint suspicion sufficed to impart unsettled sadness, and made me glad to change scene and society. One day a letter was received of which the contents evidently caused Mrs. Breton surprise and some concern. I thought at first it was from home, and trembled expecting I knew not what disastrous communication. To me, however, no reference was made, and the cloud seemed to pass. The next day on my return from a long walk, I found as I entered my bedroom an unexpected change. In addition to my own French bed in its shady recess, appeared in a corner a small crib draped with white, and in addition to my mahogany chest of drawers, I saw a tiny rosewood chest. I stood still, gazed and considered. Of what are these things the signs and tokens? I asked. The answer was obvious. A second guest is coming. Mrs. Breton expects other visitors. On descending to dinner, explanations ensued. A little girl, I was told, would shortly be my companion, the daughter of a friend and distant relation of the late Dr. Breton's. This little girl, it was added, had recently lost her mother. Mrs. Breton had offered to take charge of her while her father found a place for them to settle on the Continent. And I hope, added my godmother in conclusion, the child will not be like her mama, a silly and frivolous little flirt as ever sensible man was weak enough to marry. For, she said, her father, Mr. Holme, is a sensible man in his way, though not very practical. He is fond of science and lives half his life in a laboratory trying experiments, a thing his butterfly wife could neither comprehend nor endure. And indeed, confessed my godmother, I should not have liked it myself. That same evening, at nine o'clock, a servant was dispatched to meet the coach by which our little visitor was expected. Mrs. Breton and I sat alone in the drawing-room, waiting her coming. Her son, John Graham Breton, being absent on a visit to one of his schoolfellows who lived in the country. A little before ten, the doorbell announced the servant's return. No sooner was the door opened than I ran down into the hall. There lay a trunk and some band-boxes. Beside them stood a person like a nurse-girl, and at the foot of the staircase was Warren with a shawled bundle in his arms. Is that the child? I asked. Yes, miss. I would have opened the shawl and tried to get a peep at the face, but it was turned from me to Warren's shoulder. Put me down, please, said a small voice, when our manservant opened the drawing-room door. And take off this shawl, continued the speaker, extracting with its minute hand the pin, and with a sort of fastidious haste doffing the clumsy wrapping. The creature, which now appeared, made a deft attempt to fold the shawl, but the drapery was much too heavy and large to be sustained or wielded by those hands and arms. Give it to my maid, Harriet, please, was then the direction, and she can put it away. This said, it turned and fixed its eyes on Mrs. Breton. Come here, little dear, said the lady. Come and let me see if you are cold and damp. Come and let me warm you at the fire. The child advanced promptly. Relieved of her wrapping, she appeared exceedingly tiny, but was a neat, completely fashioned little figure, light, slight and straight. Seated on my godmother's ample lap, she looked a mere doll, her neck delicate as wax, her head of silky curls increased, I thought, the resemblance. Mrs. Breton talked in little fond phrases as she chafed the child's hands, arms and feet. First she was considered with a wistful gaze, but soon a smile answered her. Mrs. Breton was not generally a caressing woman. Even with her deeply cherished son, her manner was rarely sentimental, often the reverse. But when this little stranger smiled at her, she kissed it, asking, What is my little one's name? Missy. But besides Missy. Polly, Papa calls her. Will Polly be content to live with me? Not always, but till Papa comes for me. Papa is gone away. On going up to what was now my shared bedroom an hour after the child retired, I found her still wide awake. She had arranged her pillow so as to support her little person in a sitting posture. Her hands, placed one within the other, rested quietly on the sheet, with an old-fashioned calm, most unchildlike. I abstained from speaking to her for some time, but just before extinguishing the light, I recommended her to lie down. By and by, was the answer. But you will take cold, Missy. She took some tiny article of raiment from the chair at her crib side, and with it covered her shoulders. I suffered her to do as she pleased. Listening a while in the darkness, I was aware that she wept, wept under restraint, quietly and cautiously. On descending next morning, I found Paulina, the child called herself Polly but her full name was Paulina Mary, seated at the breakfast table by Mrs. Breton's side. A mug of milk stood before her. A morsel of bread filled her hand, which lay passive on the tablecloth. She was not eating. How we shall conciliate this little creature, said Mrs. Breton to me, I don't know. She tastes nothing, and by her look she has not slept. I expressed my confidence in the effects of time and kindness. If she were to take a fancy to anybody in the house, she would soon settle. But not till then, replied Mrs. Breton. One evening, not long after, we were seated round the fire after tea when Graham joined our circle. I should rather say broke it up, for of course his arrival made a bustle. Graham was at that time a handsome, faithless-looking youth of sixteen. I say faithless-looking not because he was really of a very perfidious disposition, but because the epithet strikes me as proper to describe the fair, Celtic, not Saxon, character of his good looks. His waved, light, auburn hair, his supple symmetry, his smile frequent and destitute neither of fascination nor subtlety in no bad sense. A spoiled, whimsical boy he was in those days. Mother, he said, after eyeing the little figure in silence for some time. Mother, I see a young lady in the present society to whom I have not been introduced. Mr. Holmes, little girl, I suppose you mean, said his mother. Miss Paulina. Indeed, ma'am, replied her son. I consider your expression of the least ceremonious. Miss Holmes, I should certainly have said, in venturing to speak of the gentlewoman to whom I allude. Now, Graham, I will not have that child teased. Don't flatter yourself that I shall suffer you to make her your butt. Miss Holmes, pursued Graham, undeterred by his mother's remonstrance. Might I have the honour to introduce myself, since no one else seems willing to render you and me that service? Your slave, John Graham Breton. She looked at him. He rose and bowed quite gravely. She, curtsying with unspeakable seriousness, said, How do you do? I have the honour to be in fair health, only in some measure fatigued with a hurried journey. I hope, ma'am, I see you well. Torerably well, was the ambitious reply of the little child. I hope, ma'am, the present residence, my mother's house, appears to you a convenient place of abode. Not particularly. I want to go home. A natural and laudable desire, ma'am, but one which, notwithstanding, I shall do my best to oppose. I reckon on being able to get out of you a little of that precious commodity called amusement which Mama and Mistress Lucy Snow there fail to yield me. I shall have to go with Papa soon. I shall not stay long at your mother's. Yes, yes, you will stay with me, I am sure. I have a pony on which you shall ride, and no end of books with pictures to show you. Are you going to live here now? I am. Does that please you? Do you like me? No. Why? I think you odd. My face, ma'am? Your face, and all about you. You have long red hair. Auburn hair, if you please. Mama calls it auburn or golden, and so do all her friends. But even with my long red hair, and he waved his mane with a sort of triumph, tawny he himself well knew it was, and he was proud of the leonine hue, I cannot possibly be odder than is your ladyship. You call me odd? Certainly. After a pause. I think I shall go to bed. A little thing like you ought to have been in bed many hours since. But you probably sat up in the expectation of seeing me. No, indeed. She wished Mrs. Breton and myself a good night. She seemed hesitating whether Graham's desserts entitled him to the same attention when he caught her up with one hand, and with that one hand held her poised aloft above his head. She saw herself thus lifted up on high in the glass over the fireplace. The suddenness, the freedom, the disrespect of the action were too much. For shame, Mr. Graham, was her indignant cry. Put me down! And when again on her feet, she departed upstairs. That evening, by restoring Graham to the maternal roof his days were passed at school, brought us an access of animation, a quality not diminished by the nature of the scenes that was pretty sure to be enacted between him and Miss Paulina. A distant and haughty demeanour had been the result of the indignity put upon her the first evening of his arrival. Her usual answer when he addressed her was, I can't attend to you. I have other things to think about. Being implored to state what things? Business. Graham would endeavour to seduce her attention by opening his desk and displaying its multifarious contents. Seals, bright sticks of wax, pen knives with a miscellany of engravings, some of them gaily coloured, which he had amassed from time to time. Nor was this powerful temptation wholly unavailing. Her eyes, furtively raised from her work, cast many a peep towards the writing table, rich in scattered pictures. An etching of a child playing with a Blenheim Spaniel happened to flutter to the floor. Ah, pretty little dog, said she delighted.