Villette Charlotte Brontë (summer reads .txt) 📖

man did not please, and would not suit me. I had consented to take a man’s name and part; as to his dress⁠—halte là! No. I would keep my own dress, come what might. M. Paul might storm, might rage: I would keep my own dress. I said so, with a voice as resolute in intent, as it was low, and perhaps unsteady in utterance.

He did not immediately storm or rage, as I fully thought he would he stood silent. But Zélie again interposed.

“She will make a capital petit-mâitre. Here are the garments, all⁠—all complete: somewhat too large, but⁠—I will arrange all that. Come, chère amie⁠—belle Anglaise!”

And she sneered, for I was not “belle.” She seized my hand, she was drawing me away. M. Paul stood impassable⁠—neutral.

“You must not resist,” pursued St. Pierre⁠—for resist I did. “You will spoil all, destroy the mirth of the piece, the enjoyment of the company, sacrifice everything to your amour-propre. This would be too bad⁠—monsieur will never permit this?”

She sought his eye. I watched, likewise, for a glance. He gave her one, and then he gave me one. “Stop!” he said slowly, arresting St. Pierre, who continued her efforts to drag me after her. Everybody awaited the decision. He was not angry, not irritated; I perceived that, and took heart.

“You do not like these clothes?” he asked, pointing to the masculine vestments.

“I don’t object to some of them, but I won’t have them all.”

“How must it be, then? How accept a man’s part, and go on the stage dressed as a woman? This is an amateur affair, it is true⁠—a vaudeville de pensionnat; certain modifications I might sanction, yet something you must have to announce you as of the nobler sex.”

“And I will, Monsieur; but it must be arranged in my own way: nobody must meddle; the things must not be forced upon me. Just let me dress myself.”

Monsieur, without another word, took the costume from St. Pierre, gave it to me, and permitted me to pass into the dressing-room. Once alone, I grew calm, and collectedly went to work. Retaining my woman’s garb without the slightest retrenchment, I merely assumed, in addition, a little vest, a collar, and cravat, and a paletôt of small dimensions; the whole being the costume of a brother of one of the pupils. Having loosened my hair out of its braids, made up the long back-hair close, and brushed the front hair to one side, I took my hat and gloves in my hand and came out. M. Paul was waiting, and so were the others. He looked at me. “That may pass in a pensionnat,” he pronounced. Then added, not unkindly, “Courage, mon ami! Un peu de sangfroid⁠—un peu d’aplomb, M. Lucien, et tout ira bien.”

St. Pierre sneered again, in her cold snaky manner.

I was irritable, because excited, and I could not help turning upon her and saying, that if she were not a lady and I a gentleman, I should feel disposed to call her out.

“After the play, after the play,” said M. Paul. “I will then divide my pair of pistols between you, and we will settle the dispute according to form: it will only be the old quarrel of France and England.”

But now the moment approached for the performance to commence. M. Paul, setting us before him, harangued us briefly, like a general addressing soldiers about to charge. I don’t know what he said, except that he recommended each to penetrate herself with a sense of her personal insignificance. God knows I thought this advice superfluous for some of us. A bell tinkled. I and two more were ushered on to the stage. The bell tinkled again. I had to speak the very first words.

“Do not look at the crowd, nor think of it,” whispered M. Paul in my ear. “Imagine yourself in the garret, acting to the rats.”

He vanished. The curtain drew up⁠—shrivelled to the ceiling: the bright lights, the long room, the gay throng, burst upon us. I thought of the black-beetles, the old boxes, the worm-eaten bureau. I said my say badly; but I said it. That first speech was the difficulty; it revealed to me this fact, that it was not the crowd I feared so much as my own voice. Foreigners and strangers, the crowd were nothing to me. Nor did I think of them. When my tongue once got free, and my voice took its true pitch, and found its natural tone, I thought of nothing but the personage I represented⁠—and of M. Paul, who was listening, watching, prompting in the side-scenes.

By-and-by, feeling the right power come⁠—the spring demanded gush and rise inwardly⁠—I became sufficiently composed to notice my fellow-actors. Some of them played very well; especially Ginevra Fanshawe, who had to coquette between two suitors, and managed admirably: in fact she was in her element. I observed that she once or twice threw a certain marked fondness and pointed partiality into her manner towards me⁠—the fop. With such emphasis and animation did she favour me, such glances did she dart out into the listening and applauding crowd, that to me⁠—who knew her⁠—it presently became evident she was acting at some one; and I followed her eye, her smile, her gesture, and ere long discovered that she had at least singled out a handsome and distinguished aim for her shafts; full in the path of those arrows⁠—taller than other spectators, and therefore more sure to receive them⁠—stood, in attitude quiet but intent, a well-known form⁠—that of Dr. John.

The spectacle seemed somehow suggestive. There was language in Dr. John’s look, though I cannot tell what he said; it animated me: I drew out of it a history; I put my idea into the part I performed; I threw it into my wooing of Ginevra. In the “Ours,” or sincere lover, I saw Dr. John. Did I pity him, as erst? No, I hardened my heart, rivalled and out-rivalled him. I knew myself but a