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 oftwo English baptismal names, Frances and Evans, in addition toher 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 oftenbegan 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 oddcontradiction, 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 inyour 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 certainlydevise 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, youought 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 lookedup, 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 lessonswell—”
“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—shedoes 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.”
