This passage is excerpted from Charlotte Bronte, Villette. Originally published in 1853. In this chapter, the narrator and her host, Mrs. Bretton, are trying to occupy a young girl, Paulina, who is staying with them.
One afternoon, Mrs. Bretton, coaxing [Paulina] from her
usual station in a corner, had lifted her into the window-seat,
and, by way of occupying her attention, told her to watch the
passengers and count how many ladies should go down the
street in a given time. She had sat listlessly, hardly looking, and
not counting, when—my eye being fixed on hers—I witnessed
in its iris and pupil a startling transfiguration. These sudden,
dangerous natures—sensitive as they are called—offer many a
curious spectacle to those whom a cooler temperament has
secured from participation in their angular vagaries. The fixed
and heavy gaze swum, trembled, then glittered in fire; the
small, overcast brow cleared; the trivial and dejected features
lit up; the sad countenance vanished, and in its place appeared
a sudden eagerness, an intense expectancy. “It is!” were her
words.
Like a bird or a shaft, or any other swift thing, she was gone
from the room. How she got the house-door open I cannot tell;
probably it might be ajar; perhaps Warren was in the way and
obeyed her behest, which would be impetuous enough. I—
watching calmly from the window—saw her, in her black frock
and tiny braided apron (to pinafores she had an antipathy), dart
half the length of the street; and, as I was on the point of
turning, and quietly announcing to Mrs. Bretton that the child
was run out mad, and ought instantly to be pursued, I saw her
caught up, and rapt at once from my cool observation, and
from the wondering stare of the passengers. A gentleman had
done this good turn, and now, covering her with his cloak,
advanced to restore her to the house whence he had seen her
issue.
I concluded he would leave her in a servant’s charge and
withdraw; but he entered: having tarried a little while below, he
came up-stairs.
His reception immediately explained that he was known to
Mrs. Bretton. She recognised him; she greeted him, and yet she
was fluttered, surprised, taken unawares. Her look and manner
were even expostulatory; and in reply to these, rather than her
words, he said,—“I could not help it, madam: I found it
impossible to leave the country without seeing with my own
eyes how she settled.”
“But you will unsettle her.”
“I hope not. And how is papa’s little Polly?”
This question he addressed to Paulina, as he sat down and
placed her gently on the ground before him.
“How is Polly’s papa?” was the reply, as she leaned on his
knee, and gazed up into his face.
It was not a noisy, not a wordy scene: for that I was
thankful; but it was a scene of feeling too brimful, and which,
because the cup did not foam up high or furiously overflow,
only oppressed one the more. On all occasions of vehement,
unrestrained expansion, a sense of disdain or ridicule comes to
the weary spectator’s relief; whereas I have ever felt most
burdensome that sort of sensibility which bends of its own will,
a giant slave under the sway of good sense.
Mr. Home was a stern-featured—perhaps I should rather
say, a hard-featured man: his forehead was knotty, and his
cheekbones were marked and prominent. The character of his
face was quite Scotch; but there was feeling in his eye, and
emotion in his now agitated countenance. His northern accent
in speaking harmonised with his physiognomy. He was at once
proud-looking and homely-looking. He laid his hand on the
child’s uplifted head. She said—“Kiss Polly.”
He kissed her. I wished she would utter some hysterical cry,
so that I might get relief and be at ease. She made wonderfully
little noise: she seemed to have got what she wanted—all she
wanted, and to be in a trance of content. Neither in mien nor in
features was this creature like her sire, and yet she was of his
strain: her mind had been filled from his, as the cup from the
flagon.
One afternoon, Mrs. Bretton, coaxing [Paulina] from her
usual station in a corner, had lifted her into the window-seat,
and, by way of occupying her attention, told her to watch the
passengers and count how many ladies should go down the
street in a given time. She had sat listlessly, hardly looking, and
not counting, when—my eye being fixed on hers—I witnessed
in its iris and pupil a startling transfiguration. These sudden,
dangerous natures—sensitive as they are called—offer many a
curious spectacle to those whom a cooler temperament has
secured from participation in their angular vagaries. The fixed
and heavy gaze swum, trembled, then glittered in fire; the
small, overcast brow cleared; the trivial and dejected features
lit up; the sad countenance vanished, and in its place appeared
a sudden eagerness, an intense expectancy. “It is!” were her
words.
Like a bird or a shaft, or any other swift thing, she was gone
from the room. How she got the house-door open I cannot tell;
probably it might be ajar; perhaps Warren was in the way and
obeyed her behest, which would be impetuous enough. I—
watching calmly from the window—saw her, in her black frock
and tiny braided apron (to pinafores she had an antipathy), dart
half the length of the street; and, as I was on the point of
turning, and quietly announcing to Mrs. Bretton that the child
was run out mad, and ought instantly to be pursued, I saw her
caught up, and rapt at once from my cool observation, and
from the wondering stare of the passengers. A gentleman had
done this good turn, and now, covering her with his cloak,
advanced to restore her to the house whence he had seen her
issue.
I concluded he would leave her in a servant’s charge and
withdraw; but he entered: having tarried a little while below, he
came up-stairs.
His reception immediately explained that he was known to
Mrs. Bretton. She recognised him; she greeted him, and yet she
was fluttered, surprised, taken unawares. Her look and manner
were even expostulatory; and in reply to these, rather than her
words, he said,—“I could not help it, madam: I found it
impossible to leave the country without seeing with my own
eyes how she settled.”
“But you will unsettle her.”
“I hope not. And how is papa’s little Polly?”
This question he addressed to Paulina, as he sat down and
placed her gently on the ground before him.
“How is Polly’s papa?” was the reply, as she leaned on his
knee, and gazed up into his face.
It was not a noisy, not a wordy scene: for that I was
thankful; but it was a scene of feeling too brimful, and which,
because the cup did not foam up high or furiously overflow,
only oppressed one the more. On all occasions of vehement,
unrestrained expansion, a sense of disdain or ridicule comes to
the weary spectator’s relief; whereas I have ever felt most
burdensome that sort of sensibility which bends of its own will,
a giant slave under the sway of good sense.
Mr. Home was a stern-featured—perhaps I should rather
say, a hard-featured man: his forehead was knotty, and his
cheekbones were marked and prominent. The character of his
face was quite Scotch; but there was feeling in his eye, and
emotion in his now agitated countenance. His northern accent
in speaking harmonised with his physiognomy. He was at once
proud-looking and homely-looking. He laid his hand on the
child’s uplifted head. She said—“Kiss Polly.”
He kissed her. I wished she would utter some hysterical cry,
so that I might get relief and be at ease. She made wonderfully
little noise: she seemed to have got what she wanted—all she
wanted, and to be in a trance of content. Neither in mien nor in
features was this creature like her sire, and yet she was of his
strain: her mind had been filled from his, as the cup from the
flagon.