IF I was punctual in quitting Mdlle. Reuter’s domicile, I was at least
equally punctual in arriving there; I came the next day at five minutes
before two, and on reaching the schoolroom door, before I opened it, I
heard a rapid, gabbling sound, which warned me that the “priere du midi”
was not yet concluded. I waited the termination thereof; it would have
been impious to intrude my heretical presence during its progress. How
the repeater of the prayer did cackle and splutter! I never before or
since heard language enounced with such steam-engine haste. “Notre Pere
qui etes au ciel” went off like a shot; then followed an address to
Marie “vierge celeste, reine des anges, maison d’or, tour d’ivoire!” and
then an invocation to the saint of the day; and then down they all sat,
and the solemn (?) rite was over; and I entered, flinging the door wide
and striding in fast, as it was my wont to do now; for I had found
that in entering with aplomb, and mounting the estrade with emphasis,
consisted the grand secret of ensuring immediate silence. The
folding-doors between the two classes, opened for the prayer, were
instantly closed; a maitresse, work-box in hand, took her seat at her
appropriate desk; the pupils sat still with their pens and books before
them; my three beauties in the van, now well humbled by a demeanour of
consistent coolness, sat erect with their hands folded quietly on their
knees; they had given up giggling and whispering to each other, and no
longer ventured to utter pert speeches in my presence; they now only
talked to me occasionally with their eyes, by means of which organs
they could still, however, say very audacious and coquettish things. Had
affection, goodness, modesty, real talent, ever employed those bright
orbs as interpreters, I do not think I could have refrained from giving
a kind and encouraging, perhaps an ardent reply now and then; but as it
was, I found pleasure in answering the glance of vanity with the gaze
of stoicism. Youthful, fair, brilliant, as were many of my pupils, I can
truly say that in me they never saw any other bearing than such as an
austere, though just guardian, might have observed towards them. If any
doubt the accuracy of this assertion, as inferring more conscientious
self-denial or Scipio-like self-control than they feel disposed to
give me credit for, let them take into consideration the following
circumstances, which, while detracting from my merit, justify my
veracity.
Know, O incredulous reader! that a master stands in a somewhat different
relation towards a pretty, light-headed, probably ignorant girl, to
that occupied by a partner at a ball, or a gallant on the promenade.
A professor does not meet his pupil to see her dressed in satin and
muslin, with hair perfumed and curled, neck scarcely shaded by aerial
lace, round white arms circled with bracelets, feet dressed for the
gliding dance. It is not his business to whirl her through the waltz,
to feed her with compliments, to heighten her beauty by the flush of
gratified vanity. Neither does he encounter her on the smooth-rolled,
tree shaded Boulevard, in the green and sunny park, whither she repairs
clad in her becoming walking dress, her scarf thrown with grace over her
shoulders, her little bonnet scarcely screening her curls, the red rose
under its brim adding a new tint to the softer rose on her cheek; her
face and eyes, too, illumined with smiles, perhaps as transient as the
sunshine of the gala-day, but also quite as brilliant; it is not his
office to walk by her side, to listen to her lively chat, to carry her
parasol, scarcely larger than a broad green leaf, to lead in a ribbon
her Blenheim spaniel or Italian greyhound. No: he finds her in the
schoolroom, plainly dressed, with books before her. Owing to her
education or her nature books are to her a nuisance, and she opens them
with aversion, yet her teacher must instil into her mind the contents
of these books; that mind resists the admission of grave information, it
recoils, it grows restive, sullen tempers are shown, disfiguring frowns
spoil the symmetry of the face, sometimes coarse gestures banish grace
from the deportment, while muttered expressions, redolent of native and
ineradicable vulgarity, desecrate the sweetness of the voice. Where the
temperament is serene though the intellect be sluggish, an unconquerable
dullness opposes every effort to instruct. Where there is cunning but
not energy, dissimulation, falsehood, a thousand schemes and tricks
are put in play to evade the necessity of application; in short, to the
tutor, female youth, female charms are like tapestry hangings, of which
the wrong side is continually turned towards him; and even when he sees
the smooth, neat external surface he so well knows what knots, long
stitches, and jagged ends are behind that he has scarce a temptation to
admire too fondly the seemly forms and bright colours exposed to general
view.
Our likings are regulated by our circumstances. The artist prefers a
hilly country because it is picturesque; the engineer a flat one because
it is convenient; the man of pleasure likes what he calls “a fine
woman”--she suits him; the fashionable young gentleman admires the
fashionable young lady--she is of his kind; the toil-worn, fagged,
probably irritable tutor, blind almost to beauty, insensible to airs and
graces, glories chiefly in certain mental qualities: application, love
of knowledge, natural capacity, docility, truthfulness, gratefulness,
are the charms that attract his notice and win his regard. These he
seeks, but seldom meets; these, if by chance he finds, he would fain
retain for ever, and when separation deprives him of them he feels as if
some ruthless hand had snatched from him his only ewe-lamb. Such being
the case, and the case it is, my readers will agree with me that there
was nothing either very meritorious or very marvellous in the
integrity and moderation of my conduct at Mdlle. Reuter’s pensionnat de
demoiselles.
My first business this afternoon consisted in reading the list of
places for the month, determined by the relative correctness of the
compositions given the preceding day. The list was headed, as usual,
by the name of Sylvie, that plain, quiet little girl I have described
before as being at once the best and ugliest pupil in the establishment;
the second place had fallen to the lot of a certain Leonie Ledru, a
diminutive, sharp-featured, and parchment-skinned creature of quick
wits, frail conscience, and indurated feelings; a lawyer-like thing, of
whom I used to say that, had she been a boy, she would have made a
model of an unprincipled, clever attorney. Then came Eulalie, the proud
beauty, the Juno of the school, whom six long years of drilling in the
simple grammar of the English language had compelled, despite the stiff
phlegm of her intellect, to acquire a mechanical acquaintance with most
of its rules. No smile, no trace of pleasure or satisfaction appeared in
Sylvie’s nun-like and passive face as she heard her name read first.
I always felt saddened by the sight of that poor girl’s absolute
quiescence on all occasions, and it was my custom to look at her, to
address her, as seldom as possible; her extreme docility, her assiduous
perseverance, would have recommended her warmly to my good opinion;
her modesty, her intelligence, would have induced me to feel most
kindly--most affectionately towards her, notwithstanding the almost
ghastly plainness of her features, the disproportion of her form, the
corpse-like lack of animation in her countenance, had I not been aware
that every friendly word, every kindly action, would be reported by her
to her confessor, and by him misinterpreted and poisoned. Once I laid my
hand on her head, in token of approbation; I thought Sylvie was going to
smile, her dim eye almost kindled; but, presently, she shrank from me;
I was a man and a heretic; she, poor child! a destined nun and devoted
Catholic: thus a four-fold wall of separation divided her mind from
mine. A pert smirk, and a hard glance of triumph, was Leonie’s method of
testifying her gratification; Eulalie looked sullen and envious--she had
hoped to be first. Hortense and Caroline exchanged a reckless grimace on
hearing their names read out somewhere near the bottom of the list; the
brand of mental inferiority was considered by them as no disgrace, their
hopes for the future being based solely on their personal attractions.
This affair arranged, the regular lesson followed. During a brief
interval, employed by the pupils in ruling their books, my eye, ranging
carelessly over the benches, observed, for the first time, that the
farthest seat in the farthest row--a seat usually vacant--was
again filled by the new scholar, the Mdlle. Henri so ostentatiously
recommended to me by the directress. To-day I had on my spectacles; her
appearance, therefore, was clear to me at the first glance; I had not to
puzzle over it. She looked young; yet, had I been required to name her
exact age, I should have been somewhat nonplussed; the slightness of her
figure might have suited seventeen; a certain anxious and pre-occupied
expression of face seemed the indication of riper years. She was
dressed, like all the rest, in a dark stuff gown and a white collar; her
features were dissimilar to any there, not so rounded, more defined, yet
scarcely regular. The shape of her head too was different, the superior
part more developed, the base considerably less. I felt assured,
at first sight, that she was not a Belgian; her complexion, her
countenance, her lineaments, her figure, were all distinct from theirs,
and, evidently, the type of another race--of a race less gifted with
fullness of flesh and plenitude of blood; less jocund, material,
unthinking. When I first cast my eyes on her, she sat looking fixedly
down, her chin resting on her hand, and she did not change her attitude
till I commenced the lesson. None of the Belgian girls would have
retained one position, and that a reflective one, for the same length of
time. Yet, having intimated that her appearance was peculiar, as
being unlike that of her Flemish companions, I have little more to say
respecting it; I can pronounce no encomiums on her beauty, for she was
not beautiful; nor offer condolence on her plainness, for neither
was she plain; a careworn character of forehead, and a corresponding
moulding of the mouth, struck me with a sentiment resembling surprise,
but these traits would probably have passed unnoticed by any less
crotchety observer.
Now, reader, though I have spent more than a page in describing Mdlle.
Henri, I know well enough that I have left on your mind’s eye no
distinct picture of her; I have not painted her complexion, nor her
eyes, nor her hair, nor even drawn the outline of her shape. You cannot
tell whether her nose was aquiline or retrousse, whether her chin was
long or short, her face square or oval; nor could I the first day,
and it is not my intention to communicate to you at once a knowledge I
myself gained by little and little.
I gave a short exercise: which they all wrote down. I saw the new pupil
was puzzled at first with the novelty of the form and language; once
or twice she looked at me with a sort of painful solicitude, as not
comprehending at all what I meant; then she was not ready when the
others were, she could not write her phrases so fast as they did; I
would not help her, I went on relentless. She looked at me; her eye
said most plainly, “I cannot follow you.” I disregarded the appeal, and,
carelessly leaning back in my chair, glancing from time to time with a
NONCHALANT air out of the window, I dictated a little faster. On looking
towards her again, I perceived her face clouded with embarrassment, but
she was still writing on most diligently; I paused a few seconds; she
employed the interval in hurriedly re-perusing what she had written, and
shame and discomfiture were apparent in her countenance; she evidently
found she had made great nonsense of it. In ten minutes more the
dictation was complete, and, having allowed a brief space in which to
correct it, I took their books; it was with a reluctant hand Mdlle.
Henri gave up hers, but, having once yielded it to my possession, she
composed her anxious face, as if, for the present she had resolved to
dismiss regret, and had made up her mind to be thought unprecedentedly
stupid. Glancing over her exercise, I found that several lines had been
omitted, but what was written contained very few faults; I instantly
inscribed “Bon” at the bottom of the page, and returned it to her; she
smiled, at first incredulously, then as if reassured, but did not
lift her eyes; she could look at me, it seemed, when perplexed and
bewildered, but not when gratified; I thought that scarcely fair.