The Well of Loneliness. Radclyffe HallЧитать онлайн книгу.

      CHAPTER 6

       Table of Contents

      1

      Mrs. Bingham departed unmourned and unmourning, and in her stead reigned Mademoiselle Duphot, a youthful French governess with a long, pleasant face that reminded Stephen of a horse. This equine resemblance was fortunate in one way—Stephen took to Mademoiselle Duphot at once—but it did not make for respectful obedience. On the contrary, Stephen felt very familiar, kindly familiar and quite at her ease; she petted Mademoiselle Duphot. Mademoiselle Duphot was lonely and homesick, and it must be admitted that she liked being petted. Stephen would rush off to get her a cushion, or a footstool or her glass of milk at eleven.

      ‘Comme elle est gentille, cette drôle de petite fille, elle a si bon cœur,’ would think Mademoiselle Duphot, and somehow geography would not seem to matter quite so much, or arithmetic either—in vain did Mademoiselle try to be strict, her pupil could always beguile her.

      Mademoiselle Duphot knew nothing about horses, in spite of the fact that she looked so much like one, and Stephen would complacently entertain her with long conversations anent splints and spavins, cow hocks and colic, all mixed up together in a kind of wild veterinary jumble. Had Williams been listening, he might well have rubbed his chin, but Williams was not there to listen.

      As for Mademoiselle Duphot, she was genuinely impressed: ‘Mais quel type, quel type!’ she was always exclaiming. ‘Vous êtes déjà une vraie petite Amazone, Stévenne.’

      ‘N’est-ce pas?’ agreed Stephen, who was picking up French.

      The child showed a real ability for French, and this delighted her teacher; at the end of six months she could gabble quite freely, making quick little gestures and shrugging her shoulders. She liked talking French, it rather amused her, nor was she averse to mastering the grammar; what she could not endure were the long, foolish dictées from the edifying Bibliothèque Rose. Weak in all other respects with Stephen, Mademoiselle Duphot clung to these dictées; the Bibliothèque Rose became her last trench of authority, and she held it.

      ‘ “Les Petites Filles Modèles,” ’ Mademoiselle would announce, while Stephen yawned out her ineffable boredom; ‘Maintenant nous allons retrouver Sophie—Where to did we arrive? Ah, oui, I remember: “Cette preuve de confiance toucha Sophie et augmenta encore son regret d’avoir été si méchante.

      ‘ “Comment, se dit-elle, ai-je pu me livrer à une telle colère? Comment ai-je été si méchante avec des amies aussi bonnes que celles que j’ai ici, et si hardie envers une personne aussi douce, aussi tendre que Mme. de Fleurville!” ’

      From time to time the programme would be varied by extracts of an even more edifying nature, and ‘Les Bons Enfants’ would be chosen for dictation, to the scorn and derision or Stephen.

      ‘La Maman. Donne-lui ton cœur, mon Henri; c’est ce que tu pourras lui donner de plus agréable.

      ‘—Mon cœur? Dit Henri en déboutonnant son habit et en ouvrant sa chemise. Mais comment faire? il me faudrait un couteau.’ At which Stephen would giggle.

      One day she had added a comment of her own in the margin: ‘Little beast, he was only shamming!’ and Mademoiselle, coming on this unawares, had been caught in the act of laughing by her pupil. After which there was naturally less discipline than ever in the schoolroom, but considerably more friendship.

      However, Anna seemed quite contented, since Stephen was becoming so proficient in French; and observing that his wife looked less anxious these days, Sir Philip said nothing, biding his time. This frank, jaunty slacking on the part of his daughter should be checked later on, he decided. Meanwhile, Stephen grew fond of the mild-faced Frenchwoman, who in her turn adored the unusual child. She would often confide her troubles to Stephen, those family troubles in which governesses abound—her Maman was old and delicate and needy; her sister had a wicked and spendthrift husband, and now her sister must make little bags for the grand shops in Paris that paid very badly, her sister was gradually losing her eyesight through making those little bead bags for the shops that cared nothing, and paid very badly. Mademoiselle sent Maman a part of her earnings, and sometimes, of course, she must help her sister. Her Maman must have her chicken on Sundays: ‘Bon Dieu, il faut vivre—il faut manger, au moins—’ And afterwards that chicken came in very nicely for Petite Marmite, which was made from his carcass and a few leaves of cabbage—Maman loved Petite Marmite, the warmth of it eased her old gums.

      Stephen would listen to these long dissertations with patience and with apparent understanding. She would nod her head wisely: ‘Mais c’est dur,’ she would comment, ‘c’est terriblement dur, la vie!’

      But she never confided her own special troubles, and Mademoiselle Duphot sometimes wondered about her: ‘Est-elle heureuse, cet étrange petit être?’ she would wonder. ‘Sera-t-elle heureuse plus tard? Qui sait!’

      2

      Idleness and peace had reigned in the schoolroom for more than two years, when ex-Sergeant Smylie sailed over the horizon and proceeded to announce that he taught gymnastics and fencing. From that moment peace ceased to reign in the schoolroom, or indeed anywhere in the house for that matter. In vain did Mademoiselle Duphot protest that gymnastics and fencing thickened the ankles, in vain did Anna express disapproval, Stephen merely ignored them and consulted her father.

      ‘I want to go in for Sandowing,’ she informed him, as though they were discussing a career.

      He laughed: ‘Sandowing? Well, and how will you start it?’

      Then Stephen explained about ex-Sergeant Smylie.

      ‘I see,’ nodded Sir Philip, ‘you want to learn fencing.’

      ‘And how to lift weights with my stomach,’ she said quickly.

      ‘Why not with your large front teeth?’ he teased her. ‘Oh, well,’ he added, ‘there’s no harm in fencing or gymnastics either—provided, of course, that you don’t try to wreck Morton Hall like a Sampson wrecking the house of the Philistines; I foresee that that might easily happen—’

      Stephen grinned: ‘But it mightn’t if I cut off my hair! May I cut off my hair? Oh, do let me, Father!’

      ‘Certainly not, I prefer to risk it,’ said Sir Philip, speaking quite firmly.

      Stephen went pounding back to the schoolroom. ‘I’m going to those classes!’ she announced in triumph. ‘I’m going to be driven over to Malvern next week; I’m going to begin on Tuesday, and I’m going to learn fencing so as I can kill your brother-in-law who’s a beast to your sister, I’m going to fight duels for wives in distress, like men do in Paris, and I’m going to learn how to lift pianos on my stomach by expanding something—the diapan muscles—and I’m going to cut my hair off!’ she mendaciously concluded, glancing sideways to observe the effect of this bombshell.

      ‘Bon Dieu, soyez clément!’ breathed Mademoiselle Duphot, casting her eyes to heaven.

      3

      It was not very long before ex-Sergeant Smylie discovered that in Stephen he had a star pupil. ‘Some day you ought to make a champion fencer, if you work really hard at it, Miss,’ he told her.

      Stephen did not learn to lift pianos with her stomach, but as time went on she did become quite an expert gymnast and fencer; and as Mademoiselle Duphot confided to Anna, it was after all very charming to watch her, so supple and young and quick in her movements.

      ‘And she fence like an angel,’ said Mademoiselle fondly, ‘she fence now almost