AFTER all I
had profited but imperfectly
by the opportunity
I had so boldly achieved of speaking
to Mdlle. Henri; it was my intention
to ask her how she came to be
possessed of two English baptismal
names, Frances and Evans, in
addition to her French surname,
also whence she derived her good
accent. I had forgotten both
points, or, rather, our colloquy
had been so brief that I had
not had time to bring them forward;
moreover, I had not half tested
her powers of speaking English;
all I had drawn from her in that
language were the words "Yes," and "Thank
you,
sir." "No matter," I reflected. "What has been left incomplete now, shall be
finished another day." Nor did I fail to keep the promise thus made to myself.
It was difficult to get even a few words of particular conversation with one
pupil among so many;
but, according to the old proverb, "Where there is a will, there
is a way;" and again and again I managed to find an opportunity for exchanging
a few words with Mdlle. Henri, regardless that envy stared and detraction whispered
whenever I approached her.
"Your book an instant." Such
was the mode in which I often
began these brief dialogues;
the time was always just at the
conclusion of the lesson; and
motioning to her to rise, I installed
myself in her place, allowing
her to stand deferentially at
my side; for I esteemed it wise
and right in her case to enforce
strictly all forms ordinarily
in use between master and pupil;
the rather because I perceived
that in proportion as my manner
grew austere and magisterial,
hers became easy and self-possessed--an
odd contradiction, doubtless,
to the ordinary effect in such
cases; but so it was.
"A pencil," said
I, holding out my hand without
looking at
her. (I am now about to sketch
a brief report of the first of
these conferences.) She gave
me one, and while I underlined
some errors in a grammatical
exercise she had written, I observed--
"You are not
a native of Belgium?"
"No."
"Nor of France?"
"No."
"Where, then,
is your birthplace?"
"I was born
at Geneva."
"You don't
call Frances and Evans Swiss
names, I presume?"
"No, sir; they
are English names."
"Just so; and
is it the custom of the Genevese
to give their
children English appellatives?"
"Non, Monsieur;
mais--"
"Speak English,
if you please."
"Mais--"
"English--"
"But" (slowly and with embarrassment) "my
parents were not all the two
Genevese."
"Say BOTH,
instead of 'all the two,' mademoiselle."
"Not BOTH Swiss:
my mother was English."
"Ah! and of
English extraction?"
"Yes--her ancestors
were all English."
"And your father?"
"He was Swiss."
"What besides?
What was his profession?"
"Ecclesiastic--pastor--he
had a church."
"Since your
mother is an Englishwoman,
why do you not speak English
with more facility?"
"Maman est
morte, il y a dix ans."
"And you do
homage to her memory by forgetting
her language. Have
the goodness to put French out
of your mind so long as I converse
with you--keep to English."
"C'est si difficile,
monsieur, quand on n'en a plus
l'habitude."
"You had the
habitude formerly, I suppose?
Now answer me in your
mother tongue."
"Yes, sir,
I spoke the English more than
the French when I was
a child."
"Why do you
not speak it now?"
"Because I
have no English friends."
"You live with
your father, I suppose?"
"My father
is dead."
"You have brothers
and sisters?"
"Not one."
"Do you live
alone?"
"No--I have
an aunt--ma tante Julienne."
"Your father's
sister?"
"Justement,
monsieur."
"Is that English?"
"No--but I
forget--"
"For which,
mademoiselle, if you were a
child I should certainly
devise some slight punishment;
at your age--you must be two
or three and twenty, I should
think?"
"Pas encore,
monsieur--en un mois j'aurai
dix-neuf ans."
"Well, nineteen
is a mature age, and, having
attained it,
you ought to be so solicitous
for your own improvement, that
it should not be needful for
a master to remind you twice
of the expediency of your speaking
English whenever practicable."
To this wise
speech I received no answer;
and, when I looked
up, my pupil was smiling to herself
a much-meaning, though not very
gay smile; it seemed to say, "He
talks of he knows not what:" it
said this so plainly, that I
determined to request information
on the point concerning which
my ignorance seemed to be thus
tacitly affirmed.
"Are you solicitous
for your own improvement?"
"Rather."
"How do you
prove it, mademoiselle?"
An odd question, and bluntly
put; it excited a second smile.
"Why, monsieur,
I am not inattentive--am I?
I learn my lessons well--"
"Oh, a child
can do that! and what more
do you do?"
"What more
can I do?"
"Oh, certainly,
not much; but you are a teacher,
are you not,
as well as a pupil?"
"Yes."
"You teach
lace-mending?"
"Yes."
"A dull, stupid
occupation; do you like it?"
"No--it is
tedious."
"Why do you
pursue it? Why do you not rather
teach history,
geography, grammar, even arithmetic?"
"Is monsieur
certain that I am myself thoroughly
acquainted
with these studies?"
"I don't know;
you ought to be at your age."
"But I never
was at school, monsieur--"
"Indeed! What
then were your friends--what
was your aunt about?
She is very much to blame."
"No monsieur, no--my aunt is
good--she is not to blame--she
does what she can; she lodges
and nourishes me" (I report Mdlle.
Henri's phrases literally, and
it was thus she translated from
the French). "She is not rich;
she has only an annuity of twelve
hundred francs, and it would
be impossible for her to send
me to school."
"Rather," thought
I to myself on hearing this,
but I continued,
in the dogmatical tone I had
adopted:--
"It is sad,
however, that you should be
brought up in ignorance
of the most ordinary branches
of education; had you known something
of history and grammar you might,
by degrees, have relinquished
your lace-mending drudgery, and
risen in the world."
"It is what
I mean to do."
"How? By a
knowledge of English alone?
That will not suffice;
no respectable family will receive
a governess whose whole stock
of knowledge consists in a familiarity
with one foreign language."
"Monsieur,
I know other things."
"Yes, yes,
you can work with Berlin wools,
and embroider handkerchiefs
and collars--that will do little
for you."
Mdlle. Henri's lips were unclosed
to answer, but she checked herself,
as thinking the discussion had
been sufficiently pursued, and
remained silent.
"Speak," I continued, impatiently; "I
never like the appearance of
acquiescence when the reality
is not there; and you had a contradiction
at your tongue's end."
"Monsieur,
I have had many lessons both
in grammar, history,
geography, and arithmetic. I
have gone through a course of
each study."
"Bravo! but
how did you manage it, since
your aunt could not
afford lo send you to school?"
"By lace-mending;
by the thing monsieur despises
so much."
"Truly! And
now, mademoiselle, it will
be a good exercise for
you to explain to me in English
how such a result was produced
by such means."
"Monsieur, I begged my aunt
to have me taught lace-mending
soon after we came to Brussels,
because I knew it was a METIER,
a trade which was easily learnt,
and by which I could earn some
money very soon. I learnt it
in a few days, and I quickly
got work, for all the Brussels
ladies have old lace--very precious
--which must be mended all the
times it is washed. I earned
money a little, and this money
I grave for lessons in the studies
I have mentioned; some of it
I spent in buying books, English
books especially; soon I shall
try to find a place of governess,
or school-teacher, when I can
write and speak English well;
but it will be difficult, because
those who know I have been a
lace-mender will despise me,
as the pupils here despise me.
Pourtant j'ai mon projet," she
added in a lower tone.
"What is it?"
"I will go
and live in England; I will
teach French there."
The words were
pronounced emphatically. She
said "England" as you might
suppose an Israelite of Moses'
days would have said Canaan.
"Have you a
wish to see England?"
"Yes, and an
intention."
And here a voice, the voice
of the directress, interposed:-
"Mademoiselle
Henri, je crois qu'il va pleuvoir;
vous feriez
bien, ma bonne amie, de retourner
chez vous tout de suite."
In silence, without a word
of thanks for this officious
warning, Mdlle. Henri collected
her books; she moved to me respectfully,
endeavoured to move to her superior,
though the endeavour was almost
a failure, for her head seemed
as if it would not bend, and
thus departed.
Where there is one grain of
perseverance or wilfulness in
the composition, trifling obstacles
are ever known rather to stimulate
than discourage. Mdlle. Reuter
might as well have spared herself
the trouble of giving that intimation
about the weather (by-the-by
her prediction was falsified
by the event--it did not rain
that evening). At the close of
the next lesson I was again at
Mdlle. Henri's desk. Thus did
I accost her:--
"What is your
idea of England, mademoiselle?
Why do you wish
to go there?"
Accustomed by this time to
the calculated abruptness of
my manner, it no longer discomposed
or surprised her, and she answered
with only so much of hesitation
as was rendered inevitable by
the difficulty she experienced
in improvising the translation
of her thoughts from French to
English.
"England is
something unique, as I have
heard and read; my
idea of it is vague, and I want
to go there to render my idea
clear, definite."
"Hum! How much
of England do you suppose you
could see if
you went there in the capacity
of a teacher? A strange notion
you must have of getting a clear
and definite idea of a country!
All you could see of Great Britain
would be the interior of a school,
or at most of one or two private
dwellings."
"It would be
an English school; they would
be English dwellings."
"Indisputably;
but what then? What would be
the value of observations
made on a scale so narrow?"
"Monsieur,
might not one learn something
by analogy? An-echantillon--a--a
sample often serves to give an
idea of the whole; besides, narrow
and wide are words comparative,
are they not? All my life would
perhaps seem narrow in your eyes--all
the life of a--that little animal
subterranean--une taupe--comment
dit-on?"
"Mole."
"Yes--a mole,
which lives underground would
seem narrow even to me."
"Well, mademoiselle--what
then? Proceed."
"Mais, monsieur,
vous me comprenez."
"Not in the
least; have the goodness to
explain."
"Why, monsieur,
it is just so. In Switzerland
I have done
but little, learnt but little,
and seen but little; my life
there was in a circle; I walked
the same round every day; I could
not get out of it; had I rested--remained
there even till my death, I should
never have enlarged it, because
I am poor and not skilful, I
have not great acquirements;
when I was quite tired of this
round, I begged my aunt to go
to Brussels; my existence is
no larger here, because I am
no richer or higher; I walk in
as narrow a limit, but the scene
is changed; it would change again
if I went to England. I knew
something of the bourgeois of
Geneva, now I know something
of the bourgeois of Brussels;
if I went to London, I would
know something of the bourgeois
of London. Can you make any sense
out of what I say, monsieur,
or is it all obscure?"
"I see, I see--now
let us advert to another subject;
you propose
to devote your life to teaching,
and you are a most unsuccessful
teacher; you cannot keep your
pupils in order."
A flush of painful confusion
was the result of this harsh
remark; she bent her head to
the desk, but soon raising it
replied--
"Monsieur,
I am not a skilful teacher,
it is true, but practice
improves; besides, I work under
difficulties; here I only teach
sewing, I can show no power in
sewing, no superiority--it is
a subordinate art; then I have
no associates in this house,
I am isolated; I am too a heretic,
which deprives me of influence."
"And in England
you would be a foreigner; that
too would deprive
you of influence, and would effectually
separate you from all round you;
in England you would have as
few connections, as little importance
as you have here."
"But I should
be learning something; for
the rest, there are probably
difficulties for such as I everywhere,
and if I must contend, and perhaps:
be conquered, I would rather
submit to English pride than
to Flemish coarseness; besides,
monsieur--"
She stopped--not
evidently from any difficulty
in finding
words to express herself, but
because discretion seemed to
say, "You have said enough."
"Finish your phrase," I
urged.
"Besides, monsieur,
I long to live once more among
Protestants;
they are more honest than Catholics;
a Romish school is a building
with porous walls, a hollow floor,
a false ceiling; every room in
this house, monsieur, has eyeholes
and ear-holes, and what the house
is, the inhabitants are, very
treacherous; they all think it
lawful to tell lies; they all
call it politeness to profess
friendship where they feel hatred."
"All?" said I; "you
mean the pupils--the mere children
--inexperienced,
giddy things, who have not learnt
to distinguish the difference
between right and wrong?"
"On the contrary,
monsieur--the children are
the most sincere;
they have not yet had time to
become accomplished in duplicity;
they will tell lies, but they
do it inartificially, and you
know they are lying; but the
grown-up people are very false;
they deceive strangers, they
deceive each other--"
A servant here entered:--
"Mdlle. Henri--Mdlle.
Reuter vous prie de vouloir
bien conduire
la petite de Dorlodot chez elle,
elle vous attend dans le cabinet
de Rosalie la portiere--c'est
que sa bonne n'est pas venue
la chercher--voyez-vous."
"Eh bien! est-ce que je suis
sa bonne--moi?" demanded Mdlle.
Henri; then smiling, with that
same bitter, derisive smile I
had seen on her lips once before,
she hastily rose and made her
exit.
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