Villette Charlotte Brontë (summer reads .txt) 📖

mockery in this world ever sounds to me so hollow as that of being told to cultivate happiness. What does such advice mean? Happiness is not a potato, to be planted in mould, and tilled with manure. Happiness is a glory shining far down upon us out of Heaven. She is a divine dew which the soul, on certain of its summer mornings, feels dropping upon it from the amaranth bloom and golden fruitage of Paradise.

“Cultivate happiness!” I said briefly to the doctor: “do you cultivate happiness? How do you manage?”

“I am a cheerful fellow by nature; and then ill-luck has never dogged me. Adversity gave me and my mother one passing scowl and brush, but we defied her, or rather laughed at her, and she went by.”

“There is no cultivation in all this.”

“I do not give way to melancholy.”

“Yes: I have seen you subdued by that feeling.”

“About Ginevra Fanshawe⁠—eh?”

“Did she not sometimes make you miserable?”

“Pooh! stuff! nonsense! You see I am better now.”

If a laughing eye with a lively light, and a face bright with beaming and healthy energy, could attest that he was better, better he certainly was.

“You do not look much amiss, or greatly out of condition,” I allowed.

“And why, Lucy, can’t you look and feel as I do⁠—buoyant, courageous, and fit to defy all the nuns and flirts in Christendom? I would give gold on the spot just to see you snap your fingers. Try the manoeuvre.”

“If I were to bring Miss Fanshawe into your presence just now?”

“I vow, Lucy, she should not move me; or, she should move me but by one thing⁠—true, yes, and passionate love. I would accord forgiveness at no less a price.”

“Indeed! a smile of hers would have been a fortune to you a while since.”

“Transformed, Lucy, transformed! Remember, you once called me a slave! but I am a free man now!”

He stood up: in the port of his head, the carriage of his figure, in his beaming eye and mien, there revealed itself a liberty which was more than ease⁠—a mood which was disdain of his past bondage.

“Miss Fanshawe,” he pursued, “has led me through a phase of feeling which is over: I have entered another condition, and am now much disposed to exact love for love⁠—passion for passion⁠—and good measure of it, too.”

“Ah, Doctor! Doctor! you said it was your nature to pursue Love under difficulties⁠—to be charmed by a proud insensibility!”

He laughed, and answered, “My nature varies: the mood of one hour is sometimes the mockery of the next. Well, Lucy” (drawing on his gloves), “will the Nun come again tonight, think you?”

“I don’t think she will.”

“Give her my compliments, if she does⁠—Dr. John’s compliments⁠—and entreat her to have the goodness to wait a visit from him. Lucy, was she a pretty nun? Had she a pretty face? You have not told me that yet; and that is the really important point.”

“She had a white cloth over her face,” said I, “but her eyes glittered.”

“Confusion to her goblin trappings!” cried he, irreverently, “but at least she had handsome eyes⁠—bright and soft.”

“Cold and fixed,” was the reply.

“No, no, we’ll none of her; she shall not haunt you, Lucy. Give her that shake of the hand, if she comes again. Will she stand that, do you think?”

I thought it too kind and cordial for a ghost to stand; and so was the smile which matched it, and accompanied his “Good night.”

And had there been anything in the garret? What did they discover? I believe, on the closest examination, their discoveries amounted to very little. They talked, at first, of the cloaks being disturbed; but Madame Beck told me afterwards she thought they hung much as usual: and as for the broken pane in the skylight, she affirmed that aperture was rarely without one or more panes broken or cracked: and besides, a heavy hailstorm had fallen a few days ago. Madame questioned me very closely as to what I had seen, but I only described an obscure figure clothed in black; I took care not to breathe the word “nun,” certain that this word would at once suggest to her mind an idea of romance and unreality. She charged me to say nothing on the subject to any servant, pupil, or teacher, and highly commended my discretion in coming to her private salle-à-manger, instead of carrying the tale of horror to the school refectory. Thus the subject dropped. I was left secretly and sadly to wonder, in my own mind, whether that strange thing was of this world, or of a realm beyond the grave; or whether indeed it was only the child of malady, and I of that malady the prey.

XXIII Vashti

To wonder sadly, did I say? No: a new influence began to act upon my life, and sadness, for a certain space, was held at bay. Conceive a dell, deep-hollowed in forest secrecy; it lies in dimness and mist; its turf is dank, its herbage pale and humid. A storm or an axe makes a wide gap amongst the oak-trees; the breeze sweeps in; the sun looks down; the sad, cold dell becomes a deep cup of lustre; high summer pours her blue glory and her golden light out of that beauteous sky, which till now the starved hollow never saw.

A new creed became mine⁠—a belief in happiness.

It was three weeks since the adventure of the garret, and I possessed in that case-box-drawer upstairs, casketed with that first letter, four companions like to it, traced by the same firm pen, sealed with the same clear seal, full of the same vital comfort. Vital comfort it seemed to me then: I read them in after years; they were kind letters enough⁠—pleasing letters, because composed by one well pleased; in the two last there were three or four closing lines half-gay, half-tender, “by feeling touched, but not subdued.” Time, dear reader, mellowed them to a beverage of this mild quality; but when I first tasted