The Professor

“Prenez vos cahiers de dictee, mesdemoiselles.”

Not so had I bid the boys at Pelet’s take their reading-books. A rustle followed, and an opening of desks; behind the lifted lids which momentarily screened the heads bent down to search for exercise-books, I heard tittering and whispers.

“Eulalie, je suis prete a pamer de rire,” observed one.

“Comme il a rougi en parlant!”

“Oui, c’est un veritable blanc-bec.”

“Tais-toi, Hortense – il nous ecoute.”

And now the lids sank and the heads reappeared; I had marked three, the whisperers, and I did not scruple to take a very steady look at them as they emerged from their temporary eclipse. It is astonishing what ease and courage their little phrases of flippancy had given me; the idea by which I had been awed was that the youthful beings before me, with their dark nun-like robes and softly braided hair, were a kind of half-angels. The light titter, the giddy whisper, had already in some measure relieved my mind of that fond and oppressive fancy.

The three I allude to were just in front, within half a yard of my estrade, and were among the most womanly-looking present. Their names I knew afterwards, and may as well mention now; they were Eulalie, Hortense, Caroline. Eulalie was tall, and very finely shaped: she was fair, and her features were those of a Low Country Madonna; many a “figure de Vierge” have I seen in Dutch pictures exactly resembling hers; there were no angles in her shape or in her face, all was curve and roundness – neither thought, sentiment, nor passion disturbed by line or flush the equality of her pale, clear skin; her noble bust heaved with her regular breathing, her eyes moved a little – by these evidences of life alone could I have distinguished her from some large handsome figure moulded in wax. Hortense was of middle size and stout, her form was ungraceful, her face striking, more alive and brilliant than Eulalie’s, her hair was dark brown, her complexion richly coloured; there were frolic and mischief in her eye: consistency and good sense she might possess, but none of her features betokened those qualities.

Caroline was little, though evidently full grown; raven-black hair, very dark eyes, absolutely regular features, with a colourless olive complexion, clear as to the face and sallow about the neck, formed in her that assemblage of points whose union many persons regard as the perfection of beauty. How, with the tintless pallor of her skin and the classic straightness of her lineaments, she managed to look sensual, I don’t know. I think her lips and eyes contrived the affair between them, and the result left no uncertainty on the beholder’s mind. She was sensual now, and in ten years’ time she would be coarse – promise plain was written in her face of much future folly.

If I looked at these girls with little scruple, they looked at me with still less. Eulalie raised her unmoved eye to mine, and seemed to expect, passively but securely, an impromptu tribute to her majestic charms. Hortense regarded me boldly, and giggled at the same time, while she said, with an air of impudent freedom—

“Dictez-nous quelque chose de facile pour commencer, monsieur.”

Caroline shook her loose ringlets of abundant but somewhat coarse hair over her rolling black eyes; parting her lips, as full as those of a hot-blooded Maroon, she showed her well-set teeth sparkling between them, and treated me at the same time to a smile “de sa facon.” Beautiful as Pauline Borghese, she looked at the moment scarcely purer than Lucrece de Borgia. Caroline was of noble family. I heard her lady-mother’s character afterwards, and then I ceased to wonder at the precocious accomplishments of the daughter. These three, I at once saw, deemed themselves the queens of the school, and conceived that by their splendour they threw all the rest into the shade. In less than five minutes they had thus revealed to me their characters, and in less than five minutes I had buckled on a breast-plate of steely indifference, and let down a visor of impassible austerity.

“Take your pens and commence writing,” said I, in as dry and trite a voice as if I had been addressing only Jules Vanderkelkov and Co.

The dictee now commenced. My three belles interrupted me perpetually with little silly questions and uncalled-for remarks, to some of which I made no answer, and to others replied very quietly and briefly. “Comment dit-on point et virgule en Anglais, monsieur?”

“Semi-colon, mademoiselle.”

“Semi-collong? Ah, comme c’est drole!” (giggle.)

“J’ai une si mauvaise plume – impossible d’ecrire!”

“Mais, monsieur – je ne sais pas suivre – vous allez si vite.”

“Je n’ai rien compris, moi!”

Here a general murmur arose, and the teacher, opening her lips for the first time, ejaculated—

“Silence, mesdemoiselles!”

No silence followed – on the contrary, the three ladies in front began to talk more loudly.

“C’est si difficile, l’Anglais!”

“Je deteste la dictee.”

“Quel ennui d’ecrire quelquechose que l’on ne comprend pas!”

Some of those behind laughed: a degree of confusion began to pervade the class; it was necessary to take prompt measures.

“Donnez-moi votre cahier,” said I to Eulalie in an abrupt tone; and bending over, I took it before she had time to give it.

“Et vous, mademoiselle-donnez-moi le votre,” continued I, more mildly, addressing a little pale, plain looking girl who sat in the first row of the other division, and whom I had remarked as being at once the ugliest and the most attentive in the room; she rose up, walked over to me, and delivered her book with a grave, modest curtsey. I glanced over the two dictations; Eulalie’s was slurred, blotted, and full of silly mistakes – Sylvie’s (such was the name of the ugly little girl) was clearly written, it contained no error against sense, and but few faults of orthography. I coolly read aloud both exercises, marking the faults – then I looked at Eulalie:

“C’est honteux!” said I, and I deliberately tore her dictation in four parts, and presented her with the fragments. I returned Sylvie her book with a smile, saying—

“C’est bien – je suis content de vous.”

Sylvie looked calmly pleased, Eulalie swelled like an incensed turkey, but the mutiny was quelled: the conceited coquetry and futile flirtation of the first bench were exchanged for a taciturn sullenness, much more convenient to me, and the rest of my lesson passed without interruption.

A bell clanging out in the yard announced the moment for the cessation of school labours. I heard our own bell at the same time, and that of a certain public college immediately after. Order dissolved instantly; up started every pupil, I hastened to seize my hat, bow to the maitresse, and quit the room before the tide of externats should pour from the inner class, where I knew near a hundred were prisoned, and whose rising tumult I already heard.

I had scarcely crossed the hall and gained the corridor, when Mdlle. Reuter came again upon me.

“Step in here a moment,” said she, and she held open the door of the side room from whence she had issued on my arrival; it was a salle-a-manger, as appeared from the beaufet and the armoire vitree, filled with glass and china, which formed part of its furniture. Ere she had closed the door on me and herself, the corridor was already filled with day-pupils, tearing down their cloaks, bonnets, and cabas from the wooden pegs on which they were suspended; the shrill voice of a maitresse was heard at intervals vainly endeavouring to enforce some sort of order; vainly, I say: discipline there was none in these rough ranks, and yet this was considered one of the best-conducted schools in Brussels.

“Well, you have given your first lesson,” began Mdlle. Reuter in the most calm, equable voice, as though quite unconscious of the chaos from which we were separated only by a single wall.

“Were you satisfied with your pupils, or did any circumstance in their conduct give you cause for complaint? Conceal nothing from me, repose in me entire confidence.”

Happily, I felt in myself complete power to manage my pupils without aid; the enchantment, the golden haze which had dazzled my perspicuity at first, had been a good deal dissipated. I cannot say I was chagrined or downcast by the contrast which the reality of a pensionnat de demoiselles presented to my vague ideal of the same community; I was only enlightened and amused; consequently, I felt in no disposition to complain to Mdlle. Reuter, and I received her considerate invitation to confidence with a smile.

“A thousand thanks, mademoiselle, all has gone very smoothly.”

She looked more than doubtful.

“Et les trois demoiselles du premier banc?” said she.

“Ah! tout va au mieux!” was my answer, and Mdlle. Reuter ceased to question me; but her eye – not large, not brilliant, not melting, or kindling, but astute, penetrating, practical, showed she was even with me; it let out a momentary gleam, which said plainly, “Be as close as you like, I am not dependent on your candour; what you would conceal I already know.”

By a transition so quiet as to be scarcely perceptible, the directress’s manner changed; the anxious business-air passed from her face, and she began chatting about the weather and the town, and asking in neighbourly wise after M. and Madame Pelet. I answered all her little questions; she prolonged her talk, I went on following its many little windings; she sat so long, said so much, varied so often the topics of discourse, that it was not difficult to perceive she had a particular aim in thus detaining me. Her mere words could have afforded no clue to this aim, but her countenance aided; while her lips uttered only affable commonplaces, her eyes reverted continually to my face. Her glances were not given in full, but out of the corners, so quietly, so stealthily, yet I think I lost not one. I watched her as keenly as she watched me; I perceived soon that she was feeling after my real character; she was searching for salient points, and weak; points, and eccentric points; she was applying now this test, now that, hoping in the end to find some chink, some niche, where she could put in her little firm foot and stand upon my neck – mistress of my nature, Do not mistake me, reader, it was no amorous influence she wished to gain – at that time it was only the power of the politician to which she aspired; I was now installed as a professor in her establishment, and she wanted to know where her mind was superior to mine – by what feeling or opinion she could lead me.

I enjoyed the game much, and did not hasten its conclusion; sometimes I gave her hopes, beginning a sentence rather weakly, when her shrewd eye would light up – she thought she had me; having led her a little way, I delighted to turn round and finish with sound, hard sense, whereat her countenance would fall. At last a servant entered to announce dinner; the conflict being thus necessarily terminated, we parted without having gained any advantage on either side: Mdlle. Reuter had not even given me an opportunity of attacking her with feeling, and I had managed to baffle her little schemes of craft. It was a regular drawn battle. I again held out my hand when I left the room, she gave me hers; it was a small and white hand, but how cool! I met her eye too in full – obliging her to give me a straightforward look; this last test went against me: it left her as it found her moderate, temperate, tranquil; me it disappointed.

“I am growing wiser,” thought I, as I walked back to M. Pelet’s. “Look at this little woman; is she like the women of novelists and romancers? To read of female character as depicted in Poetry and Fiction, one would think it was made up of sentiment, either for good or bad – here is a specimen, and a most sensible and respectable specimen, too, whose staple ingredient is abstract reason. No Talleyrand was ever more passionless than Zoraide Reuter!” So I thought then; I found afterwards that blunt susceptibilities are very consistent with strong propensities.

Chapter XI

I had, indeed had a very long talk with the crafty little politician, and on regaining my quarters, I found that dinner was half over. To be late at meals was against a standing rule of the establishment, and had it been one of the Flemish ushers who thus entered after the removal of the soup and the commencement of the first course, M. Pelet would probably have greeted him with a public rebuke, and would certainly have mulcted him both of soup and fish; as it was, that polite though partial gentleman only shook his head, and as I took my place, unrolled my napkin, and said my heretical grace to myself, he civilly despatched a servant to the kitchen, to bring me a plate of “puree aux carottes” (for this was a maigre-day), and before sending away the first course, reserved for me a portion of the stock-fish of which it consisted. Dinner being over, the boys rushed out for their evening play; Kint and Vandam (the two ushers) of course followed them. Poor fellows! if they had not looked so very heavy, so very soulless, so very indifferent to all things in heaven above or in the earth beneath, I could have pitied them greatly for the obligation they were under to trail after those rough lads everywhere and at all times; even as it was, I felt disposed to scout myself as a privileged prig when I turned to ascend to my chamber, sure to find there, if not enjoyment, at least liberty; but this evening (as had often happened before) I was to be still farther distinguished.

“Eh bien, mauvais sujet!” said the voice of M. Pelet behind me, as I set my foot on the first step of the stair, “ou allez-vous? Venez a la salle-a-manger, que je vous gronde un peu.”

“I beg pardon, monsieur,” said I, as I followed him to his private sitting-room, “for having returned so late – it was not my fault.”

“That is just what I want to know,” rejoined M. Pelet, as he ushered me into the comfortable parlour with a good wood-fire – for the stove had now been removed for the season. Having rung the bell he ordered “Coffee for two,” and presently he and I were seated, almost in English comfort, one on each side of the hearth, a little round table between us, with a coffee-pot, a sugar-basin, and two large white china cups. While M. Pelet employed himself in choosing a cigar from a box, my thoughts reverted to the two outcast ushers, whose voices I could hear even now crying hoarsely for order in the playground.

“C’est une grande responsabilite, que la surveillance,” observed I.

“Plait-il?” dit M. Pelet.

I remarked that I thought Messieurs Vandam and Kint must sometimes be a little fatigued with their labours.

“Des betes de somme, – des betes de somme,” murmured scornfully the director. Meantime I offered him his cup of coffee.

“Servez-vous mon garcon,” said he blandly, when I had put a couple of huge lumps of continental sugar into his cup. “And now tell me why you stayed so long at Mdlle. Reuter’s. I know that lessons conclude, in her establishment as in mine, at four o’clock, and when you returned it was past five.”

“Mdlle. wished to speak with me, monsieur.”

“Indeed! on what subject? if one may ask.”

“Mademoiselle talked about nothing, monsieur.”

“A fertile topic! and did she discourse thereon in the schoolroom, before the pupils?”

“No; like you, monsieur, she asked me to walk into her parlour.”

“And Madame Reuter – the old duenna – my mother’s gossip, was there, of course?”

“No, monsieur; I had the honour of being quite alone with mademoiselle.”

“C’est joli – cela,” observed M. Pelet, and he smiled and looked into the fire.

“Honi soit qui mal y pense,” murmured I, significantly.

“Je connais un peu ma petite voisine – voyez-vous.”

“In that case, monsieur will be able to aid me in finding out what was mademoiselle’s reason for making me sit before her sofa one mortal hour, listening to the most copious and fluent dissertation on the merest frivolities.”

“She was sounding your character.”

“I thought so, monsieur.”

“Did she find out your weak point?”

“What is my weak point?”

“Why, the sentimental. Any woman sinking her shaft deep enough, will at last reach a fathomless spring of sensibility in thy breast, Crimsworth.”

I felt the blood stir about my heart and rise warm to my cheek.

“Some women might, monsieur.”

“Is Mdlle. Reuter of the number? Come, speak frankly, mon fils; elle est encore jeune, plus agee que toi peut-etre, mais juste asset pour unir la tendresse d’une petite maman a l’amour d’une epouse devouee; n’est-ce pas que cela t’irait superieurement?”

“No, monsieur; I should like my wife to be my wife, and not half my mother.”

“She is then a little too old for you?”

“No, monsieur, not a day too old if she suited me in other things.”

“In what does she not suit you, William? She is personally agreeable, is she not?”

“Very; her hair and complexion are just what I admire; and her turn of form, though quite Belgian, is full of grace.”

“Bravo! and her face? her features? How do you like them?”

“A little harsh, especially her mouth.”

“Ah, yes! her mouth,” said M. Pelet, and he chuckled inwardly. “There is character about her mouth – firmness – but she has a very pleasant smile; don’t you think so?”

“Rather crafty.”

“True, but that expression of craft is owing to her eyebrows; have you remarked her eyebrows?”

I answered that I had not.

“You have not seen her looking down then?” said he.

“No.”

“It is a treat, notwithstanding. Observe her when she has some knitting, or some other woman’s work in hand, and sits the image of peace, calmly intent on her needles and her silk, some discussion meantime going on around her, in the course of which peculiarities of character are being developed, or important interests canvassed; she takes no part in it; her humble, feminine mind is wholly with her knitting; none of her features move; she neither presumes to smile approval, nor frown disapprobation; her little hands assiduously ply their unpretending task; if she can only get this purse finished, or this bonnet-grec completed, it is enough for her. If gentlemen approach her chair, a deeper quiescence, a meeker modesty settles on her features, and clothes her general mien; observe then her eyebrows, et dites-moi s’il n’y a pas du chat dans l’un et du renard dans l’autre.”

“I will take careful notice the first opportunity,” said I.

“And then,” continued M. Pelet, “the eyelid will flicker, the light-coloured lashes be lifted a second, and a blue eye, glancing out from under the screen, will take its brief, sly, searching survey, and retreat again.”

I smiled, and so did Pelet, and after a few minutes’ silence, I asked:-

“Will she ever marry, do you think?”

“Marry! Will birds pair? Of course it is both her intention and resolution to marry when she finds a suitable match, and no one is better aware than herself of the sort of impression she is capable of producing; no one likes better to captivate in a quiet way. I am mistaken if she will not yet leave the print of her stealing steps on thy heart, Crimsworth.”

“Of her steps? Confound it, no! My heart is not a plank to be walked on.”

“But the soft touch of a patte de velours will do it no harm.”

“She offers me no patte de velours; she is all form and reserve with me.”

“That to begin with; let respect be the foundation, affection the first floor, love the superstructure; Mdlle. Reuter is a skilful architect.”

“And interest, M. Pelet – interest. Will not mademoiselle consider that point?”

“Yes, yes, no doubt; it will be the cement between every stone.

And now we have discussed the directress, what of the pupils?

N’y-a-t-il pas de belles etudes parmi ces jeunes tetes?”

“Studies of character? Yes; curious ones, at least, I imagine; but one cannot divine much from a first interview.”

“Ah, you affect discretion; but tell me now, were you not a little abashed before these blooming young creatures?

“At first, yes; but I rallied and got through with all due sang-froid.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It is true, notwithstanding. At first I thought them angels, but they did not leave me long under that delusion; three of the eldest and handsomest undertook the task of setting me right, and they managed so cleverly that in five minutes I knew them, at least, for what they were – three arrant coquettes.”

“Je les connais!” exclaimed M. Pelet. “Elles sont toujours au premier rang a l’eglise et a la promenade; une blonde superbe, une jolie espiegle, une belle brune.”

“Exactly.”

“Lovely creatures all of them – heads for artists; what a group they would make, taken together! Eulalie (I know their names), with her smooth braided hair and calm ivory brow. Hortense, with her rich chesnut locks so luxuriantly knotted, plaited, twisted, as if she did not know how to dispose of all their abundance, with her vermilion lips, damask cheek, and roguish laughing eye. And Caroline de Blemont! Ah, there is beauty! beauty in perfection. What a cloud of sable curls about the face of a houri! What fascinating lips! What glorious black eyes! Your Byron would have worshipped her, and you – you cold, frigid islander! – you played the austere, the insensible in the presence of an Aphrodite so exquisite?”

I might have laughed at the director’s enthusiasm had I believed it real, but there was something in his tone which indicated got-up raptures. I felt he was only affecting fervour in order to put me off my guard, to induce me to come out in return, so I scarcely even smiled. He went on:– “Confess, William, do not the mere good looks of Zoraide Reuter appear dowdyish and commonplace compared with the splendid charms of some of her pupils?”

The question discomposed me, but I now felt plainly that my principal was endeavouring (for reasons best known to himself – at that time I could not fathom them) to excite ideas and wishes in my mind alien to what was right and honourable. The iniquity of the instigation proved its antidote, and when he further added:-

“Each of those three beautiful girls will have a handsome fortune; and with a little address, a gentlemanlike, intelligent young fellow like you might make himself master of the hand, heart, and purse of any one of the trio.”

I replied by a look and an interrogative “Monsieur?” which startled him.

He laughed a forced laugh, affirmed that he had only been joking, and demanded whether I could possibly have thought him in earnest. Just then the bell rang; the play-hour was over; it was an evening on which M. Pelet was accustomed to read passages from the drama and the belles lettres to his pupils. He did not wait for my answer, but rising, left the room, humming as he went some gay strain of Beranger’s.

Chapter XII

Daily, as I continued my attendance at the seminary of Mdlle. Reuter, did I find fresh occasions to compare the ideal with the real. What had I known of female character previously to my arrival at Brussels? Precious little. And what was my notion of it? Something vague, slight, gauzy, glittering; now when I came in contact with it I found it to be a palpable substance enough; very hard too sometimes, and often heavy; there was metal in it, both lead and iron.

Let the idealists, the dreamers about earthly angel and human flowers, just look here while I open my portfolio and show them a sketch or two, pencilled after nature. I took these sketches in the second-class schoolroom of Mdlle. Reuter’s establishment, where about a hundred specimens of the genus “jeune fille” collected together, offered a fertile variety of subject. A miscellaneous assortment they were, differing both in caste and country; as I sat on my estrade and glanced over the long range of desks, I had under my eye French, English, Belgians, Austrians, and Prussians. The majority belonged to the class bourgeois; but there were many countesses, there were the daughters of two generals and of several colonels, captains, and government employes; these ladies sat side by side with young females destined to be demoiselles de magasins, and with some Flamandes, genuine aborigines of the country. In dress all were nearly similar, and in manners there was small difference; exceptions there were to the general rule, but the majority gave the tone to the establishment, and that tone was rough, boisterous, masked by a point-blank disregard of all forbearance towards each other or their teachers; an eager pursuit by each individual of her own interest and convenience; and a coarse indifference to the interest and convenience of every one else. Most of them could lie with audacity when it appeared advantageous to do so. All understood the art of speaking fair when a point was to be gained, and could with consummate skill and at a moment’s notice turn the cold shoulder the instant civility ceased to be profitable. Very little open quarrelling ever took place amongst them; but backbiting and talebearing were universal. Close friendships were forbidden by the rules of the school, and no one girl seemed to cultivate more regard for another than was just necessary to secure a companion when solitude would have been irksome. They were each and all supposed to have been reared in utter unconsciousness of vice. The precautions used to keep them ignorant, if not innocent, were innumerable. How was it, then, that scarcely one of those girls having attained the age of fourteen could look a man in the face with modesty and propriety? An air of bold, impudent flirtation, or a loose, silly leer, was sure to answer the most ordinary glance from a masculine eye. I know nothing of the arcana of the Roman Catholic religion, and I am not a bigot in matters of theology, but I suspect the root of this precocious impurity, so obvious, so general in Popish countries, is to be found in the discipline, if not the doctrines of the Church of Rome. I record what I have seen: these girls belonged to what are called the respectable ranks of society; they had all been carefully brought up, yet was the mass of them mentally depraved. So much for the general view: now for one or two selected specimens.