SOME time elapsed before I again gave a lesson in the first class; the
holiday of Whitsuntide occupied three days, and on the fourth it was the
turn of the second division to receive my instructions. As I made
the transit of the CARRE, I observed, as usual, the band of sewers
surrounding Mdlle. Henri; there were only about a dozen of them, but
they made as much noise as might have sufficed for fifty; they seemed
very little under her control; three or four at once assailed her with
importunate requirements; she looked harassed, she demanded silence, but
in vain. She saw me, and I read in her eye pain that a stranger should
witness the insubordination of her pupils; she seemed to entreat
order--her prayers were useless; then I remarked that she compressed
her lips and contracted her brow; and her countenance, if I read
it correctly, said--“I have done my best; I seem to merit blame
notwithstanding; blame me then who will.” I passed on; as I closed the
school-room door, I heard her say, suddenly and sharply, addressing one
of the eldest and most turbulent of the lot--
“Amelie Mullenberg, ask me no question, and request of me no assistance,
for a week to come; during that space of time I will neither speak to
you nor help you.”
The words were uttered with emphasis--nay, with vehemence--and a
comparative silence followed; whether the calm was permanent, I know
not; two doors now closed between me and the CARRE.
Next day was appropriated to the first class; on my arrival, I found the
directress seated, as usual, in a chair between the two estrades, and
before her was standing Mdlle. Henri, in an attitude (as it seemed to
me) of somewhat reluctant attention. The directress was knitting and
talking at the same time. Amidst the hum of a large school-room, it was
easy so to speak in the ear of one person, as to be heard by that person
alone, and it was thus Mdlle. Reuter parleyed with her teacher. The face
of the latter was a little flushed, not a little troubled; there was
vexation in it, whence resulting I know not, for the directress looked
very placid indeed; she could not be scolding in such gentle whispers,
and with so equable a mien; no, it was presently proved that her
discourse had been of the most friendly tendency, for I heard the
closing words--
“C’est assez, ma bonne amie; a present je ne veux pas vous retenir
davantage.”
Without reply, Mdlle. Henri turned away; dissatisfaction was plainly
evinced in her face, and a smile, slight and brief, but bitter,
distrustful, and, I thought, scornful, curled her lip as she took her
place in the class; it was a secret, involuntary smile, which lasted but
a second; an air of depression succeeded, chased away presently by one
of attention and interest, when I gave the word for all the pupils to
take their reading-books. In general I hated the reading-lesson, it
was such a torture to the ear to listen to their uncouth mouthing of
my native tongue, and no effort of example or precept on my part ever
seemed to effect the slightest improvement in their accent. To-day,
each in her appropriate key, lisped, stuttered, mumbled, and jabbered as
usual; about fifteen had racked me in turn, and my auricular nerve was
expecting with resignation the discords of the sixteenth, when a full,
though low voice, read out, in clear correct English.
“On his way to Perth, the king was met by a Highland woman, calling
herself a prophetess; she stood at the side of the ferry by which he was
about to travel to the north, and cried with a loud voice, ‘My lord the
king, if you pass this water you will never return again alive!’”--(VIDE
the HISTORY OF SCOTLAND).
I looked up in amazement; the voice was a voice of Albion; the accent
was pure and silvery; it only wanted firmness, and assurance, to be the
counterpart of what any well-educated lady in Essex or Middlesex might
have enounced, yet the speaker or reader was no other than Mdlle. Henri,
in whose grave, joyless face I saw no mark of consciousness that she had
performed any extraordinary feat. No one else evinced surprise either.
Mdlle. Reuter knitted away assiduously; I was aware, however, that at
the conclusion of the paragraph, she had lifted her eyelid and honoured
me with a glance sideways; she did not know the full excellency of the
teacher’s style of reading, but she perceived that her accent was not
that of the others, and wanted to discover what I thought; I masked my
visage with indifference, and ordered the next girl to proceed.
When the lesson was over, I took advantage of the confusion caused by
breaking up, to approach Mdlle. Henri; she was standing near the window
and retired as I advanced; she thought I wanted to look out, and did
not imagine that I could have anything to say to her. I took her
exercise-book out of her hand; as I turned over the leaves I addressed
her:--
“You have had lessons in English before?” I asked.
“No, sir.”
“No! you read it well; you have been in England?”
“Oh, no!” with some animation.
“You have been in English families?”
Still the answer was “No.” Here my eye, resting on the flyleaf of the
book, saw written, “Frances Evan Henri.”
“Your name?” I asked
“Yes, sir.”
My interrogations were cut short; I heard a little rustling behind me,
and close at my back was the directress, professing to be examining the
interior of a desk.
“Mademoiselle,” said she, looking up and addressing the teacher, “Will
you have the goodness to go and stand in the corridor, while the young
ladies are putting on their things, and try to keep some order?”
Mdlle. Henri obeyed.
“What splendid weather!” observed the directress cheerfully, glancing at
the same time from the window. I assented and was withdrawing. “What of
your new pupil, monsieur?” continued she, following my retreating steps.
“Is she likely to make progress in English?”
“Indeed I can hardly judge. She possesses a pretty good accent; of
her real knowledge of the language I have as yet had no opportunity of
forming an opinion.”
“And her natural capacity, monsieur? I have had my fears about that: can
you relieve me by an assurance at least of its average power?”
“I see no reason to doubt its average power, mademoiselle, but really
I scarcely know her, and have not had time to study the calibre of her
capacity. I wish you a very good afternoon.”
She still pursued me. “You will observe, monsieur, and tell me what you
think; I could so much better rely on your opinion than on my own; women
cannot judge of these things as men can, and, excuse my pertinacity,
monsieur, but it is natural I should feel interested about this poor
little girl (pauvre petite); she has scarcely any relations, her own
efforts are all she has to look to, her acquirements must be her sole
fortune; her present position has once been mine, or nearly so; it is
then but natural I should sympathize with her; and sometimes when I see
the difficulty she has in managing pupils, I feel quite chagrined.
I doubt not she does her best, her intentions are excellent; but,
monsieur, she wants tact and firmness. I have talked to her on the
subject, but I am not fluent, and probably did not express myself
with clearness; she never appears to comprehend me. Now, would you
occasionally, when you see an opportunity, slip in a word of advice
to her on the subject; men have so much more influence than women
have--they argue so much more logically than we do; and you, monsieur,
in particular, have so paramount a power of making yourself obeyed;
a word of advice from you could not but do her good; even if she were
sullen and headstrong (which I hope she is not), she would scarcely
refuse to listen to you; for my own part, I can truly say that I never
attend one of your lessons without deriving benefit from witnessing your
management of the pupils. The other masters are a constant source of
anxiety to me; they cannot impress the young ladies with sentiments of
respect, nor restrain the levity natural to youth: in you, monsieur, I
feel the most absolute confidence; try then to put this poor child
into the way of controlling our giddy, high-spirited Brabantoises.
But, monsieur, I would add one word more; don’t alarm her AMOUR PROPRE;
beware of inflicting a wound there. I reluctantly admit that in that
particular she is blameably--some would say ridiculously--susceptible.
I fear I have touched this sore point inadvertently, and she cannot get
over it.”
During the greater part of this harangue my hand was on the lock of the
outer door; I now turned it.
“Au revoir, mademoiselle,” said I, and I escaped. I saw the directress’s
stock of words was yet far from exhausted. She looked after me, she
would fain have detained me longer. Her manner towards me had
been altered ever since I had begun to treat her with hardness and
indifference: she almost cringed to me on every occasion; she consulted
my countenance incessantly, and beset me with innumerable little
officious attentions. Servility creates despotism. This slavish homage,
instead of softening my heart, only pampered whatever was stern and
exacting in its mood. The very circumstance of her hovering round me
like a fascinated bird, seemed to transform me into a rigid pillar of
stone; her flatteries irritated my scorn, her blandishments confirmed
my reserve. At times I wondered what she meant by giving herself such
trouble to win me, when the more profitable Pelet was already in her
nets, and when, too, she was aware that I possessed her secret, for I
had not scrupled to tell her as much: but the fact is that as it was
her nature to doubt the reality and under-value the worth of modesty,
affection, disinterestedness--to regard these qualities as foibles of
character--so it was equally her tendency to consider pride, hardness,
selfishness, as proofs of strength. She would trample on the neck
of humility, she would kneel at the feet of disdain; she would meet
tenderness with secret contempt, indifference she would woo with
ceaseless assiduities. Benevolence, devotedness, enthusiasm, were
her antipathies; for dissimulation and self-interest she had a
preference--they were real wisdom in her eyes; moral and physical
degradation, mental and bodily inferiority, she regarded with
indulgence; they were foils capable of being turned to good account as
set-offs for her own endowments. To violence, injustice, tyranny, she
succumbed--they were her natural masters; she had no propensity to hate,
no impulse to resist them; the indignation their behests awake in some
hearts was unknown in hers. From all this it resulted that the false and
selfish called her wise, the vulgar and debased termed her charitable,
the insolent and unjust dubbed her amiable, the conscientious and
benevolent generally at first accepted as valid her claim to be
considered one of themselves; but ere long the plating of pretension
wore off, the real material appeared below, and they laid her aside as a
deception.