Doris and Daphne have come home in a great state of enthusiasm
from their French lesson this afternoon, and have somewhat
gravely disturbed their mother by assuring her that the most
beautiful line in French poetry is one taken from Racine’s
_Phèdre_. It runs thus:
“La fille de Minos et de Pasiphaë.”
They have been asking me to elucidate the text. While agreeing
with the young lady who has evidently stimulated my daughter’s
appreciation of verbal beauty, may I venture, quite tentatively,
to suggest that it would be wiser in future to seek examples in
the works of Corneille, or if Racine be more fertile in melodious
passages (I am myself a little rusty in these matters), to select
passages from _Esther_ or from _Athalie_ rather than from those
plays which are not usually read in English schools.
Please do not allow this mild suggestion to assume an unduly
critical weight in your consideration and above all, dear lady,
do not for one moment accuse me of wishing to interfere with the
more than admirable conduct of your own high mission at Pelham
House.
Yours, always most cordially,
VINCENT PUNCTUS.
“But,” said Gillian, “Corneille doesn’t——”
“Out of the question,” said Mrs. Lysaght. She was quivering with passion
and the lace which fell from the wrists of her grey silk-muslin gown
shook about her hands as she gesticulated between each fragment of a
phrase.
“Gross indecency—corruption—and now Gautier—nothing but his
verse—selections of course—_Perles de la Poésie Française_—in the
Library—I must see what else——” and she took the manuscript book from
the reading-stand.
“Oh, but Mrs. Lysaght,” protested Gillian, “nobody ever—not even my
mother—it’s quite a private book——”
“Anatole France—_Le Lys Rouge_—monstrous—Gabriele d’Annunzio—steeped in
vice—Swinburne—Rossetti—The Ballad of Hell—my dear Miss Armstrong—how
mistaken—Hugo von Hofmannsthal—unknown to me—Maeterlinck—_Serres
Chaudes_—but this is nauseating—a contamination—confiscate——”
“Give me back my book,” said Gillian, “you are not fit to look at it. It
is full of loveliness you’ll never see.”
“I have been completely deceived in you,” said Mrs. Lysaght,
“completely. This one term of probation will end at the end of this
month. I must ask you to set and correct your own examination papers in
the office—not mix with the school again.” And with this lapse into
lucidity, Mrs. Lysaght trembled out of the room, carrying the Bishop’s
letter reverently folded in her right hand, the left being crammed as
usual with note-book, pencil and a floating supplement of extra
documents which varied in number and intensity with the time of term.
Mrs. Lysaght’s crash into Gillian’s paradisic hour seemed like a
thunderclap in a sunlit garden. It shattered the peace, but only for a
moment. As she sat on, a little stunned by the force of the anger which
had been spent upon her, the waves of beauty began to creep up once
more—the flood of sound to rise in her ears again, drowning the sense of
disaster which had only partially reached her comprehension through the
violence of its onset.
Then another presence made itself vehement. Rigid against the panelled
wall at the back of the room Jane Bird sat, black and white, crimson and
royal blue, hardened again behind her convex glasses as though she never
had, never could have wept.
“Jane, Jane Bird—how did you get there?”
“I didn’t go.”
“But—Mrs. Lysaght——”
“I know. Neither of you saw me. It’s a trick.”
“Do you mean you’ve been there all the time?”
“All the time. Yes. It’s been a great help to me. I shan’t be going to
Oxford after all.”
“Why not?”
“Well, you won’t be here to coach me in French for one thing. I shan’t
tell you the other.”
“Oh, very well.” Gillian began to gather her books and flowers together
standing up rather wearily to do so. Jane was beside her, below the
platform, looking up at her with yellow eyes out of the deep lenses of
her spectacles.
“The matter with you is that you don’t see face values,” said the Chief
Monitor. “You won’t in the least know what this would mean to anyone
else. For you it’ll just be new words I’ve written to an old tune. As
you told me to,” and she placed on the desk a sheet of thin blue paper
on which in her clear, delicate writing, she had set down some verses.
“Good afternoon, Miss Armstrong,” said Jane Bird, and walked out of the
room.
Gillian picked up the paper she had left behind her.