The Professor (17 page)

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.

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; dissatifaction 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 reel 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.

In the course of another fortnight I had seen sufficient of
Frances Evans Henri, to enable me to form a more definite opinion
of her character. I found her possessed in a somewhat remarkable
degree of at least two good points, viz., perseverance and a
sense of duty; I found she was really capable of applying to
study, of contending with difficulties. At first I offered her
the same help which I had always found it necessary to confer on
the others; I began with unloosing for her each knotty point, but
I soon discovered that such help was regarded by my new pupil as
degrading; she recoiled from it with a certain proud impatience.
Hereupon I appointed her long lessons, and left her to solve
alone any perplexities they might present. She set to the task
with serious ardour, and having quickly accomplished one labour,
eagerly demanded more. So much for her perseverance; as to her
sense of duty, it evinced itself thus: she liked to learn, but
hated to teach; her progress as a pupil depended upon herself,
and I saw that on herself she could calculate with certainty; her
success as a teacher rested partly, perhaps chiefly, upon the
will of others; it cost her a most painful effort to enter into
conflict with this foreign will, to endeavour to bend it into
subjection to her own; for in what regarded people in general the
action of her will was impeded by many scruples; it was as
unembarrassed as strong where her own affairs were concerned, and
to it she could at any time subject her inclination, if that
inclination went counter to her convictions of right; yet when
called upon to wrestle with the propensities, the habits, the
faults of others, of children especially, who are deaf to reason,
and, for the most part, insensate to persuasion, her will
sometimes almost refused to act; then came in the sense of duty,
and forced the reluctant will into operation. A wasteful expense
of energy and labour was frequently the consequence; Frances
toiled for and with her pupils like a drudge, but it was long ere
her conscientious exertions were rewarded by anything like
docility on their part, because they saw that they had power over
her, inasmuch as by resisting her painful attempts to convince,
persuade, control—by forcing her to the employment of coercive
measures—they could inflict upon her exquisite suffering.
Human beings—human children especially—seldom deny themselves
the pleasure of exercising a power which they are conscious of
possessing, even though that power consist only in a capacity to
make others wretched; a pupil whose sensations are duller than
those of his instructor, while his nerves are tougher and his
bodily strength perhaps greater, has an immense advantage over
that instructor, and he will generally use it relentlessly,
because the very young, very healthy, very thoughtless, know
neither how to sympathize nor how to spare. Frances, I fear,
suffered much; a continual weight seemed to oppress her spirits;
I have said she did not live in the house, and whether in her own
abode, wherever that might be, she wore the same preoccupied,
unsmiling, sorrowfully resolved air that always shaded her
features under the roof of Mdlle. Reuter, I could not tell.