The Professor (20 page)

She made no answer, and, I thought, looked a little sad. I
divined her thoughts, and should much have liked to have
responded to them, had it been expedient so to do. She was not
now very ambitious of my admiration—not eagerly desirous of
dazzling me; a little affection—ever so little—pleased her
better than all the panegyrics in the world. Feeling this, I
stood a good while behind her, writing on the margin of her book.
I could hardly quit my station or relinquish my occupation;
something retained me bending there, my head very near hers, and
my hand near hers too; but the margin of a copy-book is not an
illimitable space—so, doubtless, the directress thought; and she
took occasion to walk past in order to ascertain by what art I
prolonged so disproportionately the period necessary for filling
it. I was obliged to go. Distasteful effort—to leave what we
most prefer!

Frances did not become pale or feeble in consequence of her
sedentary employment; perhaps the stimulus it communicated to her
mind counterbalanced the inaction it imposed on her body. She
changed, indeed, changed obviously and rapidly; but it was for
the better. When I first saw her, her countenance was sunless,
her complexion colourless; she looked like one who had no source
of enjoyment, no store of bliss anywhere in the world; now the
cloud had passed from her mien, leaving space for the dawn of
hope and interest, and those feelings rose like a clear morning,
animating what had been depressed, tinting what had been pale.
Her eyes, whose colour I had not at first known, so dim were they
with repressed tears, so shadowed with ceaseless dejection, now,
lit by a ray of the sunshine that cheered her heart, revealed
irids of bright hazel—irids large and full, screened with long
lashes; and pupils instinct with fire. That look of wan
emaciation which anxiety or low spirits often communicates to a
thoughtful, thin face, rather long than round, having vanished
from hers; a clearness of skin almost bloom, and a plumpness
almost embonpoint, softened the decided lines of her features.
Her figure shared in this beneficial change; it became rounder,
and as the harmony of her form was complete and her stature of
the graceful middle height, one did not regret (or at least I did
not regret) the absence of confirmed fulness, in contours, still
slight, though compact, elegant, flexible—the exquisite turning
of waist, wrist, hand, foot, and ankle satisfied completely my
notions of symmetry, and allowed a lightness and freedom of
movement which corresponded with my ideas of grace.

Thus improved, thus wakened to life, Mdlle. Henri began to take a
new footing in the school; her mental power, manifested gradually
but steadily, ere long extorted recognition even from the
envious; and when the young and healthy saw that she could smile
brightly, converse gaily, move with vivacity and alertness, they
acknowledged in her a sisterhood of youth and health, and
tolerated her as of their kind accordingly.

To speak truth, I watched this change much as a gardener watches
the growth of a precious plant, and I contributed to it too, even
as the said gardener contributes to the development of his
favourite. To me it was not difficult to discover how I could
best foster my pupil, cherish her starved feelings, and induce
the outward manifestation of that inward vigour which sunless
drought and blighting blast had hitherto forbidden to expand.
Constancy of attention—a kindness as mute as watchful, always
standing by her, cloaked in the rough garb of austerity, and
making its real nature known only by a rare glance of interest,
or a cordial and gentle word; real respect masked with seeming
imperiousness, directing, urging her actions, yet helping her
too, and that with devoted care: these were the means I used,
for these means best suited Frances' feelings, as susceptible as
deep vibrating—her nature at once proud and shy.

The benefits of my system became apparent also in her altered
demeanour as a teacher; she now took her place amongst her pupils
with an air of spirit and firmness which assured them at once
that she meant to be obeyed—and obeyed she was. They felt they
had lost their power over her. If any girl had rebelled, she
would no longer have taken her rebellion to heart; she possessed
a source of comfort they could not drain, a pillar of support
they could not overthrow: formerly, when insulted, she wept;
now, she smiled.

The public reading of one of her devoirs achieved the revelation
of her talents to all and sundry; I remember the subject—it was
an emigrant's letter to his friends at home. It opened with
simplicity; some natural and graphic touches disclosed to the
reader the scene of virgin forest and great, New-World river
—barren of sail and flag—amidst which the epistle was supposed
to be indited. The difficulties and dangers that attend a
settler's life, were hinted at; and in the few words said on that
subject, Mdlle. Henri failed not to render audible the voice of
resolve, patience, endeavour. The disasters which had driven him
from his native country were alluded to; stainless honour,
inflexible independence, indestructible self-respect there took
the word. Past days were spoken of; the grief of parting, the
regrets of absence, were touched upon; feeling, forcible and
fine, breathed eloquent in every period. At the close,
consolation was suggested; religious faith became there the
speaker, and she spoke well.

The devoir was powerfully written in language at once chaste and
choice, in a style nerved with vigour and graced with harmony.

Mdlle. Reuter was quite sufficiently acquainted with English to
understand it when read or spoken in her presence, though she
could neither speak nor write it herself. During the perusal of
this devoir, she sat placidly busy, her eyes and fingers occupied
with the formation of a "riviere" or open-work hem round a
cambric handkerchief; she said nothing, and her face and
forehead, clothed with a mask of purely negative expression, were
as blank of comment as her lips. As neither surprise, pleasure,
approbation, nor interest were evinced in her countenance, so no
more were disdain, envy, annoyance, weariness; if that
inscrutable mien said anything, it was simply this—

"The matter is too trite to excite an emotion, or call forth an
opinion."

As soon as I had done, a hum rose; several of the pupils,
pressing round Mdlle. Henri, began to beset her with compliments;
the composed voice of the directress was now heard:—

"Young ladies, such of you as have cloaks and umbrellas will
hasten to return home before the shower becomes heavier" (it was
raining a little), "the remainder will wait till their respective
servants arrive to fetch them." And the school dispersed, for it
was four o'clock.

"Monsieur, a word," said Mdlle. Reuter, stepping on to the
estrade, and signifying, by a movement of the hand, that she
wished me to relinquish, for an instant, the castor I had
clutched.

"Mademoiselle, I am at your service."

"Monsieur, it is of course an excellent plan to encourage effort
in young people by making conspicuous the progress of any
particularly industrious pupil; but do you not think that in the
present instance, Mdlle. Henri can hardly be considered as a
concurrent with the other pupils? She is older than most of them,
and has had advantages of an exclusive nature for acquiring a
knowledge of English; on the other hand, her sphere of life is
somewhat beneath theirs; under these circumstances, a public
distinction, conferred upon Mdlle. Henri, may be the means of
suggesting comparisons, and exciting feelings such as would be
far from advantageous to the individual forming their object.
The interest I take in Mdlle. Henri's real welfare makes me
desirous of screening her from annoyances of this sort; besides,
monsieur, as I have before hinted to you, the sentiment of
AMOUR-PROPRE has a somewhat marked preponderance in her
character; celebrity has a tendency to foster this sentiment, and
in her it should be rather repressed—she rather needs keeping
down than bringing forward; and then I think, monsieur—it
appears to me that ambition, LITERARY ambition especially, is not
a feeling to be cherished in the mind of a woman: would not
Mdlle. Henri be much safer and happier if taught to believe that
in the quiet discharge of social duties consists her real
vocation, than if stimulated to aspire after applause and
publicity? She may never marry; scanty as are her resources,
obscure as are her connections, uncertain as is her health (for I
think her consumptive, her mother died of that complaint), it is
more than probable she never will. I do not see how she can rise
to a position, whence such a step would be possible; but even in
celibacy it would be better for her to retain the character and
habits of a respectable decorous female."

"Indisputably, mademoiselle," was my answer. "Your opinion
admits of no doubt;" and, fearful of the harangue being renewed,
I retreated under cover of that cordial sentence of assent.

At the date of a fortnight after the little incident noted above,
I find it recorded in my diary that a hiatus occurred in Mdlle.
Henri's usually regular attendance in class. The first day or
two I wondered at her absence, but did not like to ask an
explanation of it; I thought indeed some chance word might be
dropped which would afford me the information I wished to obtain,
without my running the risk of exciting silly smiles and
gossiping whispers by demanding it. But when a week passed and
the seat at the desk near the door still remained vacant, and
when no allusion was made to the circumstance by any individual
of the class—when, on the contrary, I found that all observed a
marked silence on the point—I determined, COUTE QUI COUTE, to
break the ice of this silly reserve. I selected Sylvie as my
informant, because from her I knew that I should at least get a
sensible answer, unaccompanied by wriggle, titter, or other
flourish of folly.

"Ou donc est Mdlle. Henri?" I said one day as I returned an
exercise-book I had been examining.

"Elle est partie, monsieur."

"Partie? et pour combien de temps? Quand reviendra-t-elle?"

"Elle est partie pour toujours, monsieur; elle ne reviendra
plus."

"Ah!" was my involuntary exclamation; then after a pause:—

"En etes-vous bien sure, Sylvie?"

"Oui, oui, monsieur, mademoiselle la directrice nous l'a dit
elle-meme il y a deux ou trois jours."

And I could pursue my inquiries no further; time, place, and
circumstances forbade my adding another word. I could neither
comment on what had been said, nor demand further particulars. A
question as to the reason of the teacher's departure, as to
whether it had been voluntary or otherwise, was indeed on my
lips, but I suppressed it—there were listeners all round. An
hour after, in passing Sylvie in the corridor as she was putting
on her bonnet, I stopped short and asked:—

"Sylvie, do you know Mdlle. Henri's address? I have some books
of hers," I added carelessly, "and I should wish to send them to
her."

"No, monsieur," replied Sylvie; "but perhaps Rosalie, the
portress, will be able to give it you."

Rosalie's cabinet was just at hand; I stepped in and repeated the
inquiry. Rosalie—a smart French grisette—looked up from her
work with a knowing smile, precisely the sort of smile I had been
so desirous to avoid exciting. Her answer was prepared; she knew
nothing whatever of Mdlle. Henri's address—had never known it.
Turning from her with impatience—for I believed she lied and was
hired to lie—I almost knocked down some one who had been
standing at my back; it was the directress. My abrupt movement
made her recoil two or three steps. I was obliged to apologize,
which I did more concisely than politely. No man likes to be
dogged, and in the very irritable mood in which I then was the
sight of Mdlle. Reuter thoroughly incensed me. At the moment I
turned her countenance looked hard, dark, and inquisitive; her
eyes were bent upon me with an expression of almost hungry
curiosity. I had scarcely caught this phase of physiognomy ere
it had vanished; a bland smile played on her features; my harsh
apology was received with good-humoured facility.

"Oh, don't mention it, monsieur; you only touched my hair with
your elbow; it is no worse, only a little dishevelled." She
shook it back, and passing her fingers through her curls,
loosened them into more numerous and flowing ringlets. Then she
went on with vivacity: -

Rosalie, I was coming to tell you to go instantly and close the
windows of the salon; the wind is rising, and the muslin curtains
will be covered with dust."

Rosalie departed. "Now," thought I, "this will not do; Mdlle.
Reuter thinks her meanness in eaves-dropping is screened by her
art in devising a pretext, whereas the muslin curtains she speaks
of are not more transparent than this same pretext." An impulse
came over me to thrust the flimsy screen aside, and confront her
craft boldly with a word or two of plain truth. "The rough-shod
foot treads most firmly on slippery ground," thought I; so I
began:-

"Mademoiselle Henri has left your establishment—been dismissed,
I presume?"

"Ah, I wished to have a little conversation with you, monsieur,"
replied the directress with the most natural and affable air in
the world; "but we cannot talk quietly here; will Monsieur step
into the garden a minute?" And she preceded me, stepping out
through the glass-door I have before mentioned.

"There," said she, when we had reached the centre of the middle
alley, and when the foliage of shrubs and trees, now in their
summer pride, closing behind end around us, shut out the view of
the house, and thus imparted a sense of seclusion even to this
little plot of ground in the very core of a capital.

"There, one feels quiet and free when there are only pear-trees
and rose-bushes about one; I dare say you, like me, monsieur, are
sometimes tired of being eternally in the midst of life; of
having human faces always round you, human eyes always upon you,
human voices always in your ear. I am sure I often wish
intensely for liberty to spend a whole month in the country at
some little farm-house, bien gentille, bien propre, tout entouree
de champs et de bois; quelle vie charmante que la vie champetre!
N'est-ce pas, monsieur?"