CHAPTER VII Reader, perhaps you were never in Belgium. Happily you don't know the physiognomy of the country. You have not its lineaments defined upon your memory, as I have them on mine. Three, nay, four pictures, line the four-walled cell, where are stored for me the records of the past. First, eaten. All in that picture is, in far perspective, receding, diminutive, but freshly coloured, green, dewy with the spring sky, piled with glittering yet showery clouds, for my childhood was not all sunshine, it had its overcast, its cold, its stormy hours. Second, ex, huge, dingy, the canvas cracked and smoked, a yellow sky, sooty clouds, no sun, no azure, the verdure of the suburbs, blighted and solid, a very dreary scene. Third, Belgium. And I will pause before this landscape. As to the fourth, a curtain covers it, which I may hereafter withdraw, or may not, as suits my convenience and capacity. At any rate, for the present it must hang undisturbed. Belgium. Name, unromantic and unpoetic, yet name that whenever uttered has in my ear a sound In my heart an echo, such as no other assemblage of syllables, however sweet or classic, can produce. Belgium. I repeat the words now as I sit alone near midnight. It stirs my world of the past like a summons to resurrection. The graves unclosed, the dead are raised, thoughts, feelings, memories that slept are seen by me ascending from the clouds, haloed most of them. And while I gaze on their vapoury forms, and strive to ascertain definitely their outline, the sound which wakened them dies, and they sink each and all like a light wreath of mist absorbed in the mould recalled to urns resealed in monuments. Farewell, luminous phantoms. This is Belgium, reader. Look, don't call the picture a flat or a dull one. It was neither flat nor dull to me when I first beheld it. When I left Ostend on a mild February morning, and found myself on the road to Brussels, nothing could look vapid to me. My sense of enjoyment possessed an edge wetted to the finest, untouched, keen, exquisite. I was young, I had good health, pleasure and I had never met, no indulgence of hers had enervated or sated one faculty of my nature. Liberty I clasped in my arms for the first time, and the influence of her smile and embrace revived my life like the sun and the west wind. Yes, at that epoch I felt like a morning traveller, who doubts not that from the hill he is ascending he shall behold a glorious sunrise. What if the track be straight, steep and stony? He sees it not. His eyes are fixed on that summit, flushed already, flushed and gilded, and having gained it he is certain of the scene beyond. He knows that the sun will face him, that his chariot is even now coming over the eastern horizon, and that the herald breeze he feels on his cheek is opening for the God's career a clear, vast path of azure amidst clouds soft as pearl and warm as flame. Difficulty and toil were to be my lot, but sustained by energy, drawn on by hopes as bright as vague, I deemed such a lot no hardship. I mounted now the hill in shade, there were pebbles, inequalities, briars in my path, but my eyes were fixed on the crimson peak above. My imagination was with the refulgent firmament beyond, and I thought nothing of the stones turning under my feet or of the thorns scratching my face and hands. I gazed often, and always with delight, from the windows of the diligence, these, be it remembered, were not the days of trains and railroads. Well, and what did I see? I will tell you faithfully. Green, reedy swamps, fields fertile but flat, cultivated in patches that made them look like magnified kitchen gardens, belts of cut trees, formal as pollard willows, skirting the horizon. Narrow canals, gliding slow by the roadside, painted Flemish farmhouses, some very dirty hovels.  Not a beautiful, scarcely a picturesque object met my eye along the whole route. Yet to me, all was beautiful, all was more than picturesque. It continued fair so long as daylight lasted, though the moisture of many preceding damp days had sodden the whole country. As it grew dark, however, the rain recommenced, and it was through streaming and starless darkness my eye caught the first gleam of the lights of Brussels. I saw little of the city but its lights that night. Having alighted from the diligence, a fiacra conveyed me to the Hotel de Blanc, where I had been advised by a fellow traveller to put up. Having eaten a traveller's supper, I retired to bed, and slept a traveller's sleep. Last morning I awoke from prolonged and sound repose, with the impression that I was yet in X. And perceiving it to be broad daylight, I started up imagining that I had overslept myself, and should be behind time at the counting-house. The momentary and painful sense of restraint vanished before the revived and reviving consciousness of freedom, as, throwing back the white curtains of my bed, I looked forth into a wide, lofty, foreign chamber. How different from the small and dingy, though not uncomfortable, apartment, I had occupied for a night or two at a respectable inn in London, while waiting for the sailing of the packet. Yet far be it from me to profane the memory of that little dingy room. It too is dear to my soul. For there, as I lay in quiet and darkness, I first heard the great de Belle of St. Paul's telling London it was midnight. And well do I recall the deep, deliberate tones, so full-charged with colossal flam and force. From the small, narrow window of that room I first saw the dome, looming through a London mist. I suppose the sensations, stirred by those first sounds, first sights, are felt but once. Treasure them, memory, seal them in urns, and keep them in safe niches. Well, I rose. Travellers talk of the apartments in foreign dwellings being bare and uncomfortable. I thought my chamber looked stately and cheerful. It had such large windows, cosies that opened like doors, with such broad, clear panes of glass, such a great-looking glass stood on my dressing-table, such a fine mirror glittered over the mantelpiece. The painted floor looked so clean and glossy. When I had dressed and was descending the stairs, the broad marble steps almost awed me, and so did the lofty hall into which they conducted. On the first landing I met a Flemish housemaid. She had wooden shoes, a short red petticoat, a printed cotton bed-gown.  When I spoke to her in French, she answered me in Flemish, with an air the reverse of civil, yet I thought her charming. If she was not pretty or polite, she was, I conceived, very picturesque. She reminded me of the female figures in certain Dutch paintings I had seen in other years at Secum Hall. I repaired to the public room. That too was very large and very lofty, and warmed by a stove. The floor was black, and the stove was black, and most of the furniture was black. Yet I never experienced a freer sense of exhilaration than when I sat down at a very long black table, covered however in part by a white cloth, and having ordered breakfast, began to pour out my coffee from a little black coffee-pot. The stove might be dismal looking to some eyes, not to mine, but it was indisputably very warm, and there were two gentlemen seated by it talking in French, impossible to follow their rapid utterance or comprehend much of the purport of what they said. Yet French, in the mouths of Frenchmen, or Belgians, I was not then sensible of the horrors of the Belgian accent, was as music to my ears. One of these gentlemen presently discerned me to be an Englishman, no doubt from the fashion in which I addressed the waiter, for I would persist in speaking French in my execrable south of England style, though the man understood English. The gentleman, after looking towards me once or twice, politely accosted me in very good English. I remember I wished to God that I could speak French as well. His fluency and correct pronunciation impressed me, for the first time with a due notion of the cosmopolitan character of the capital I was in. It was my first experience of that skill in living languages I afterwards found to be so general in Brussels. I lingered over my breakfast as long as I could, while it was there on the table, and while that stranger continued talking to me, I was a free, independent traveller. But at last the things were removed, the two gentlemen left the room. Suddenly the illusion ceased, reality and business came back. I, a bondsman just released from the yoke, freed for one week from twenty-one years of constraint, must of necessity resume the fetters of dependency. Hardly had I tasted the delight of being without a master, when duty issued her stern mandate, go forth and seek another service. I never linger over a painful and necessary task, I never take pleasure before business, it is not in my nature to do so, impossible to enjoy a leisurely walk over the city, though I perceived the morning was very fine, until I had first presented Mr. Hunston's letter of introduction, and got fairly on to the track of a new situation. Wrenching my mind from liberty and delight, I seized my hat, and forced my reluctant body out of the hotel de Blanc, into the foreign street. It was a fine day, but I would not look at the blue sky or at the stately houses around me. My mind was bent on one thing, finding out Mr. Brown, numero blank, rue royal, for so my letter was addressed. By dint of inquiry I succeeded. I stood at last at the desired door, knocked, asked for Mr. Brown, and was admitted. Being shown into a small breakfast-room, I found myself in the presence of an elderly gentleman, very grave, business-like, and respectable-looking. I presented Mr. Hunston's letter. He received me very civilly. After a little desultory conversation he asked me if there was anything in which his advice or experience could be of use. I said, yes, and then proceeded to tell him that I was not a gentleman of fortune travelling for pleasure, but an ex-counting-house clerk who wanted employment of some kind, and that immediately, too. He replied that, as a friend of Mr. Hunston's, he would be willing to assist me as well as he could. After some meditation he named a place in a mercantile house at Liège, and another in a bookseller's shop at Louvain. Clark and shopman murmured I to myself, no, I shook my head. I had tried the high stool, I hated it. I believed there were other occupations that would suit me better. I did not wish to leave Brussels. I know of no place in Brussels, answered Mr. Brown, unless indeed you were disposed to turn your attention to teaching. I am acquainted with the director of a large establishment who is in want of a professor of English and Latin. I thought two minutes, then I seized the idea eagerly. The very thing, sir, said I. But, asked he, do you understand French well enough to teach Belgian boys English? Fortunately, I could answer this question in the affirmative. Having studied French under a Frenchman, I could speak the language intelligibly, though not fluently. I could also read it well and write it decently. Then, pursued Mr. Brown, I think I can promise you the place, for Monsieur Pellet will not refuse a professor recommended by me. But come here again at five o'clock this afternoon, and I will introduce you to him. The word Professor struck me. I am not a Professor, said I. Oh! returned Mr. Brown, Professor here in Belgium means a teacher, that is all. My conscience thus quieted. I thanked Mr. Brown, and, for the present, withdrew. This time I stepped out into the street with a relieved heart. The task I had imposed on myself for that day was executed. For the first time I remarked the sparkling clearness of the air, the deep blue of the sky, the gay, clean aspect of the whitewashed or painted houses. I saw what a fine street was the Rue Royale, and walking leisurely along its broad pavement, I continued to survey its stately hotels, till the palisades, the gates and trees of the park appearing in sight, offered to my eye a new attraction. I remember before entering the park I stood a while to contemplate the statue of General Belia, and then I advanced to the top of the great staircase just beyond, and I looked down into a narrow back street, which I afterwards learnt was called the Rue d'Isabel. I well recollect that my eye rested on the green door of a rather large house opposite, where on a brass plate was inscribed Pensionin de Demoiselles. Pensionin. The word excited an uneasy sensation in my mind. It seemed to speak of restraint. Some of the Demoiselles, external, no doubt, were at that moment issuing from the door. I looked for a pretty face amongst them, but their close little French bonnets hid their features. In a moment they were gone. I had traversed a good deal of Brussels before five o'clock arrived, but punctually as that hour struck I was again in the Rue Royal. Re-admitted to Mr. Brown's breakfast-room I found him, as before, seated at the table, and he was not alone. A gentleman stood by the hearth. Two words of introduction designated him as my future master. Mr. Pele, Mr. Crimsworth, Mr. Crimsworth, Mr. Pele. A bow on each side finished the ceremony. I don't know what sort of a bow I made, an ordinary one, I suppose, for I was in a tranquil commonplace frame of mind. I felt none of the agitation which had troubled my first interview with Edward Crimsworth. Mr. Pele's bow was extremely polite, yet not theatrical, scarcely French. He and I were presently seated opposite to each other. In a pleasing voice, low, and out of consideration to my foreign ears, very distinct and deliberate, Mr. Pele intimated that he had just been receiving from, le respectable Mr. Brown, an account of my attainments and character, which relieved him from all scruple as to the propriety of engaging me as professor of English and Latin in his establishment. Nevertheless, for forms' sake, he would put a few questions to test my powers. He did, and expressed in flattering terms his satisfaction at my answers. The subject of salary next came on. It was fixed at one thousand francs per annum, besides board and lodging. And in addition, suggested Mr. Pele, as there will be some hours in each day during which your services will not be required in my establishment, you may in time obtain employment in other seminaries, and thus turn your vacant moment to profitable account. I thought this very kind, and indeed I found afterwards that the terms on which Mr. Pele had engaged me were really liberal for Brussels, instruction being extremely cheap there, on account of the number of teachers. It was further arranged that I should be installed in my new post the very next day, after which Mr. Pele and I parted. Well, and what was he like, and what were my impressions concerning him? He was a man of about forty years of age, of middle size, and rather emaciated figure.  His features were pleasing and regular. They had a French turn, for Mr. Pele was no Fleming, but a Frenchman, both by birth and parentage. With the degree of harshness inseparable from Gallic lineaments, was in his case softened by a mild blue eye, and a melancholy, almost suffering expression of countenance. His physiognomy was, Fin a spirituelle, I use two French words because they define better than any English terms the species of intelligence with which his features were imbued. He was altogether an interesting and pre-possessing personage. I wondered only at the utter absence of all the ordinary characteristics of his profession, and almost feared he could not be stern and resolute enough for a schoolmaster. Externally at least, Mr. Pele presented an absolute contrast to my late master, Edward Crimsworth. Influenced by the impression I had received of his gentleness, I was a good deal surprised when, on arriving the next day at my new employer's house, and being admitted to a first view of what was to be the sphere of my future labours, namely the large lofty and well-lighted schoolrooms, I beheld a numerous assemblage of pupils, boys, of course, whose collective appearance showed all the signs of a full, flourishing and well-disciplined seminary. As I traversed the classes in company was Mr. Pele, a profound silence reigned on all sides, and if by chance a murmur or a whisper arose, one glance from the pensive eye of this most gentle pedagogue stilled it instantly. It was astonishing, I thought, how so mild a check could prove so effectual. When I had perambulated the length and breadth of the classes, Mr. Pele turned and said to me, Would you object to taking the boys as they are and testing their proficiency in English? The proposal was unexpected. I had thought I should have been allowed at least three days to prepare, but it is a bad omen to commence any career by hesitation, so I just stepped to the professor's desk near which we stood, and faced the circle of my pupils. I took a moment to collect my thoughts, and likewise to frame in French the sentence by which I proposed to open business. I made it as short as possible. Monsieur, prenez vos livres de lecture. Anglais français, Monsieur, demanded a thick set moon-faced young flamande in a blouse. The answer was fortunately easy. Anglais. I determined to give myself as little trouble as possible in this lesson. It would not do yet to trust my unpracticed tongue with the delivery of explanations. My accent and idiom would be too open to the criticisms of the young gentleman before me, relative to whom I felt already it would be necessary at once to take up an advantageous position, and I proceeded to employ means accordingly. Comment say, cried I, when they had all produced their books. The moon-faced youth, by name Jules van de Kerkhoff, as I afterwards learnt, took the first sentence. The livre de lecture was the vicar of Wakefield, much used in foreign schools because it is supposed to contain prime samples of conversational English. It might, however, have been a runic scroll for any resemblance, the words, as enunciated by Jules, bore to the language in ordinary use among the natives of Great Britain. My God! how he did snuffle, snort, and wheeze! All he said was said in his throat and nose, for it is thus the flamande speak. But I heard him to the end of his paragraph, without proffering a word of correction, for at he looked vastly self-complacent, convinced, no doubt, that he had acquitted himself like a real born-and-bred anglais. In the same unmoved silence I listened to a dozen in rotation, and when the twelfth had concluded, with splutter, hiss, and mumble, I solemnly laid down the book. Arrête, said I. There was a pause, during which I regarded them all with a steady and somewhat stern gaze. A dog, if stared out hard enough and long enough, will show symptoms of embarrassment, and so at length did my bench of Belgians, perceiving that some of the faces before me were beginning to look sullen, and others ashamed. I slowly joined my hands and ejaculated in a deep voire de poitrine, com s'est affreux. They looked at each other, pouted, coloured, swung their heels. They were not pleased, I saw, but they were impressed, and in the way I wished them to be. Having thus taken them down a peg in their self-conceit, the next step was to raise myself in their estimation, not a very easy thing considering that I hardly dared to speak for fear of betraying my own deficiencies. Ecoute, monsieur, said I, and I endeavoured to throw into my accent the compassionate tone of a superior being, who, touched by the extremity of the helplessness which at first only excited his scorn, deigns at length to bestow aid. I then began at the very beginning of the vicar of Wakefield, and read, in a slow distinct voice, some twenty pages, they all the while sitting mute and listening with fixed attention. By the time I had done, nearly an hour had elapsed. I then rose and said, c'est assez pour aujourd'hui, monsieur, demain nous recommencerons, et j'espère que tout ira bien. With this oracular sentence I bowed, and in company with Monsieur Pelé, quitted the schoolroom. C'est bien, c'est très bien, said my principal, as we entered his parlour. Je vois que monsieur a de l'adresse, cela me plaît, car, dans l'instruction, l'adresse fait tout autant que le savoir. From the parlour, monsieur Pelé conducted me to my apartment, my chambre, as monsieur said, with a certain air of complacency. It was a very small room, with an excessively small bed, but monsieur Pelé gave me to understand that I was to occupy it quite alone, which was of course a great comfort. Yet though so limited in dimensions, it had two windows, light not being taxed in Belgium, the people never grudge its admission into their houses. Just here, however, this observation is not very apropos, for one of these windows was boarded up. The open windows looked into the boy's playground. I glanced at the other, as wondering what aspect it would present if disincumbered of the boards. Monsieur Pelé read, I suppose, the expression of my eye. He explained. La fenêtre fermée donne sur un jardin appartenant à un pensionnat de l'oumoselle, c'est qui. Et les convenances exigent, enfin vous comprenez, n'est-ce pas, monsieur? Oui, oui, was my reply, and I looked of course quite satisfied. But when monsieur Pelé had retired and closed the door after him, the first thing I did was to scrutinise closely the nailed boards, hoping to find some chink or crevice which I might enlarge, and so get a peep at the consecrated ground. My researches were in vain, for the boards were well joined and strongly nailed. It is astonishing how disappointed I felt. I thought it would have been so pleasant to have looked out upon a garden planted with flowers and trees, so amusing to have watched the d'oumoselle at their play, to have studied female character in a variety of phases. Myself the wild sheltered from view by a modest muslin curtain, whereas, owing doubtless to the absurd scruples of some old duena of a directress, I had now only the option of looking at a bare graveled court, with an enormous pas de géant in the middle, and the monotonous walls and windows of a boy's school-house round them. Not only then, but many a time after, especially in moments of weariness and low spirits, did I look with dissatisfied eyes on that most tantalising board, longing to tear it away and get a glimpse of the green region which I imagined to lie beyond. I knew a tree grew close up to the window, for though there were as yet no leaves to rustle, I often heard at night the tapping of the branches against the panes. In the daytime, when I listened attentively, I could hear, even through the boards, the voices of the d'oumoselle in their hours of recreation, and to speak the honest truth, my sentimental reflections were occasionally a trifle disarranged, either not quite silvery, in fact the too often brazen sounds, which, rising from the unseen paradise below, penetrated clamorously into my solitude. Not to mince matters, it really seemed to me a doubtful case whether the lungs of mademoiselle Reuters' girls or those of Monsieur Pele's boys were the strongest, and when it came to shrieking the girls indisputably beat the boys hollow. I forgot to say, by the way, that Reuters was the name of the old lady who had had my window boarded up. I say old, for such I, of course, concluded her to be, judging from her cautious, chaperone-like proceedings. Besides, nobody ever spoke of her as young. I remember I was very much amused when I first heard her Christian name. It was Zorade. Mademoiselle Zorade Reuter. But the continental nations do allow themselves vagaries in the choice of names, such as we sober English never run to. I think indeed we have too limited a list to choose from. Meanwhile my path was gradually growing smooth before me. I, in a few weeks, conquered the teasing difficulties inseparable from the commencement of almost every career. Airlong, I had acquired as much facility in speaking French, as set me at my ease with my pupils, and as I had encountered them on a right footing at the very beginning, and continued tenaciously to retain the advantage I had early gained, they never attempted mutiny. Which circumstance, all who are in any degree acquainted with the ongoings of Belgian schools, and who know the relation in which professors and pupils too frequently stand toward each other in those establishments, will consider an important and uncommon one. Before concluding this chapter I will say a word on the system I pursued with regard to my classes. My experience may possibly be of use to others. It did not require very keen observation to detect the character of the youth of Brabant, but it needed a certain degree of tact to adapt one's measures to their capacity. Their intellectual faculties were generally weak, their animal propensities strong, thus there was at once an impotence and a kind of inert force in their natures. They were dull, but they were also singularly stubborn, heavy as lead, and like lead most difficult to move. Such being the case, it would have been truly absurd to exact from them much in the way of mental exertion. Having short memories, dense intelligence, feeble reflective powers, they recoiled with repugnance from any occupation that demanded close study or deep thought. Had the abhorred effort been extorted from them by injudicious and arbitrary measures on the part of the professor, they would have resisted as obstinately, as clamorously, as desperate swine, and though not brave singly, they were relentless acting en masse. I understood that before my arrival in Mr. Pele's establishment, the combined insubordination of the pupils had affected the dismissal of more than one Englishmaster. It was necessary, then, to exact only the most moderate application from natures so little qualified to apply, to assist in every practicable way understanding so opaque and contracted, to be ever-gentle, considerate, yielding even to a certain point, with dispositions so irrationally perverse. But having reached that culminating point of indulgence, you must fix your foot, plant it, root it in rock, become immutable as the towers of Saint-Goudule, for a step, but half a step farther, and you would plunge headlong into the gulf of imbecility. There lodged you would speedily receive proofs of Flemish gratitude and magnanimity in showers of Brabant's saliva and handfuls of low-country mud. You might smooth to the utmost the path of learning, remove every pebble from the track. But then you must finally insist with decision on the pupil taking your arm and allowing himself to be led quietly along the prepared road. When I had brought down my lesson to the lowest level of my dullest pupil's capacity, when I had shown myself the mildest, the most tolerant of masters, a word of impertinence, a movement of disobedience, changed me at once into a despot. I offered them but one alternative, submission and acknowledgement of error, or ignominious expulsion. This system answered, and my influence by degrees became established on a firm basis. The boy is father to the man, it is said. And so I often thought when I looked at my boys, and remembered the political history of their ancestors, Pele's school was merely an epitome of the Belgian nation. CHAPTER VIII And Pele himself, how did I continue to like him? Oh, extremely well! Everything could be more smooth, gentleman-like, and even friendly than his demeanour to me. I had to endure from him neither cold nor neglect, irritating interference, nor pretentious assumption of superiority. I fear, however, too poor, hard-worked Belgian ushers in the establishment could not have said as much. To them the director's manner was invariably dry, stern, and cool. I believe he perceived once or twice that I was a little shocked at the difference he made between them and me, and accounted for it by saying, with a quiet sarcastic smile, ce ne sont que des flamands, elle est. And then he took his cigar gently from his lips and spat on the painted floor of the room in which we were sitting. Flamands certainly they were, and both had the true flamand physiognomy, were intellectually inferiority as marked in lines none can mistake. Still they were men, and, in the main, honest men, and I could not see why their being aboriginals of the flat dull soil should serve as a pretext for treating them with perpetual severity and contempt. This idea of injustice somewhat poisoned the pleasure I might otherwise have derived Trumpelle's soft, affable manner to myself. Certainly it was agreeable, when the day's work was over, to find one's employer an intelligent and cheerful companion, and if he was sometimes a little sarcastic, and sometimes a little too insinuating, and if I did discover that his mildness was more a matter of appearance than of reality, if I did occasionally suspect the existence of flint or steel under an external covering of velvet, still we are none of us perfect, and weary as I was of the atmosphere of brutality and insolence in which I had constantly lived at X. I had no inclination now on casting anchor in calmer regions to institute at once a prying search after defects that were scrupulously withdrawn and carefully veiled from my view. I was willing to take Pele for what he seemed, to believe him benevolent and friendly until some untoward event should prove him otherwise.  I suspected a degree of laxity in his code of morals. There was something so cold and blasé in his tone whenever he alluded to what he called lebo-sex. But he was too gentlemanlike to intrude topics I did not invite, and as he was really intelligent and really fond of intellectual subjects of discourse, he and I always found enough to talk about without seeking themes in the mire. I hated his fashion of mentioning love, I abhorred from my soul mere licentiousness. He felt the difference of our notions, and by mutual consent we kept off ground debatable. Pele's house was kept and his kitchen managed by his mother, a real old Frenchwoman. She had been handsome—at least she told me so, and I strove to believe her. She was now ugly, as only continental old women can be. Perhaps though her style of dress made her look uglier than she really was. Indoors she would go about without cap, her grey hair strangely dishevelled. Then when at home she seldom wore a gown, only a shabby cotton-camisole. Shoes too were strangers to her feet, and in lieu of them she sported roomy slippers trodden down at the heels. On the other hand, whenever it was her pleasure to appear abroad, as on Sundays and Fate Days, she would put on some very brilliant-coloured dress, usually of thin texture, a silk bonnet with a wreath of flowers, and a very fine shawl. She was not in the main an ill-natured old woman, but an incessant and most indiscreet talker. She kept chiefly in and about the kitchen, and seemed rather to avoid her son's august presence. Of him indeed she evidently stood in awe. When he reproofed her, his reproofs were bitter and unsparing, but he seldom gave himself that trouble. Madame Pele had her own society, her own circle of chosen visitors, whom, however, I seldom saw, as she generally entertained them in what she called her cabinet, a small den of a place adjoining the kitchen, and descending into it by one or two steps. On these steps, by the by, I have not unfrequently seen Madame Pele seated, with a trencher on her knee, engaged in the threefold employment of eating her dinner, gossiping with her favourite servant the housemaid, and scolding her antagonist the cook. She never dined, and seldom indeed took any meal with her son, and as to showing her face at the boy's table, that was quite out of the question. These details will sound very odd in English ears, but Belgium is not England, and its ways are not our ways. Madame Pele's habits of life then, being taken into consideration, I was a good deal surprised when, one Thursday evening, Thursday was always a half-holiday, as I was sitting all alone in my apartment, correcting a huge pile of English and Latin exercises, a servant tapped at the door, and, on its being opened, presented Madame Pele's compliments, and she would be happy to see me to take my goutte, a meal which answers to our English tea, with her in the dining-room. Plaitil, said I, for I thought I must have misunderstood, the message and invitation were so unusual. The same words were repeated. I accepted, of course, and, as I descended the stairs, I wondered what Wim had entered the old lady's brain. Her son was out, gone to pass the evening at the sal of the grand harmonie or some other club of which he was a member. Just as I laid my hand on the handle of the dining-room door, a queer idea glanced across my mind. Surely she's not going to make love to me, said I. I've heard of old French women doing odd things in that line, and the goutte, they generally begin such affairs with eating and drinking, I believe. There was a fearful dismay in this suggestion of my excited imagination, and if I had allowed myself time to dwell upon it, I should no doubt have cut there and then, rushed back to my chamber and bolted myself in. But whenever a danger or a horror is unveiled with uncertainty, the primary wish of the mind is to ascertain first the naked truth, reserving the expedient of flight for the moment when its dread anticipation shall be realised. I turned the door handle, and, in an instant, had crossed the fatal threshold, closed the door behind me, and stood in the presence of Madame Pele. Gracious heavens! The first view of her seemed to confirm my worst apprehensions. Where she sat, dressed out in a light green muslin gown, on her head a lace cap with flourishing red roses in the frill, her table was carefully spread, there were fruits, cakes, and coffee, with a bottle of something, I did not know what. Already the cold sweat started on my brow, already I glanced back over my shoulder at the closed door, when, to my unspeakable relief, my eye, wandering mildly in the direction of the stove, rested upon a second figure, seated in a large fauteau beside it. This was a woman, too, and, moreover, an old woman, and as fat and as rubicund as Madame Pele was meager and yellow. Her attire was likewise very fine, and spring flowers of different hues circled in a bright wreath the crown of her violet-coloured velvet bonnet. I had only time to make these general observations, when Madame Pele, coming forward with what she intended, should be a graceful and elastic step, thus accosted me. Monsieur is indeed most obliging to quit his books, his studies, at the request of an insignificant person like me. Will Monsieur complete his kindness by allowing me to present him to my dear friend Madame Reuter, who resides in the neighbouring house, the young lady's school? Ah! thought I! I knew she was old. And I bowed and took my seat. Madame Reuter placed herself at the table opposite to me. How do you like Belgium, Monsieur? asked she, in an accent of the broadest Bruisellois. I could now well distinguish the difference between the fine and pure Parisian utterance of Monsieur Pele, for instance, and the guttural enunciation of the flamons. I answered politely, and then wondered how so coarse and clumsy an old woman as the one before me should be at the head of a lady's seminary, which I'd always heard spoken of in terms of high commendation. In truth there was something to wonder at. Madame Reuter looked more like a joyous, free-living old Flemish firmier, or even a maîtresse de bourges, than a staid, grave, rigid, directrice de pensionnard. In general, though continental, or at least the Belgian, old women, permit themselves a licence of manor's speech and aspect such as our venerable grand-dames would recoil from as absolutely disreputable, and Madame Reuter's jolly face bore evidence that she was no exception to the rule of her country. There was a twinkle and leer in her left eye, her right she kept habitually half-shut, which I thought very odd indeed. After several vain attempts to comprehend the motives of these two droll old creatures for inviting me to join them at their gutté, I at last fairly gave it up, and resigning myself to inevitable mystification, I sat and looked first at one, then at the other, making care meantime to do justice to the confitures, cakes, and coffee with which they amply supplied me. They too ate, and that with no delicate appetite, and having demolished a large portion of the solids, they proposed a petit verre. I declined. Not so, Madame, Pele, and Reuter. Each mixed herself, or I thought, rather a stiff tumbler of punch, and placing it on a stand near the stove they drew up their chairs to that convenience, and invited me to do the same. I obeyed, and, being seated fairly between them, I was thus addressed, first by Madame Pele, then by Madame Reuter. "'We will now speak of business,' said Madame Pele, and she went on to make an elaborate speech which, being interpreted, was to the effect that she had asked for the pleasure of my company that evening, in order to give her friend, Madame Reuter, an opportunity of broaching an important proposal which might turn out greatly to my advantage. "'Pour vous que vous soyez sages,' said Madame Reuter, "'et à vrai dire, vous en avez bien l'air, take one drop of the punch,' or ponche, as she pronounced it, it is an agreeable and wholesome beverage after a full meal. I bowed, but again declined it. She went on. "'I feel,' said she, after a solemn sip, I feel profoundly the importance of the commission with which my dear daughter has entrusted me. For you are aware, monsieur, that it is my daughter who directs the establishment in the next house.' "'Ah! I thought it was yourself, madame.' "'Though indeed, at that moment I recollected that it was called mademoiselle, not madame, Reuter's pensionar.' "'I—oh, no—I manage the house, and look after the servants, as my friend madame Pele does for monsieur her son. Nothing more. Ah! You thought I gave lessons in class, did you?' And she laughed loud and long, as though the idea tickled her fancy amazingly. "'Madame is in the wrong to laugh,' I observed. If she does not give lessons, I am sure it is not because she cannot. And I whipped out a white pocket-anchive and wafted it with a French grace, past my nose, bowing at the same time. "'Quel charmant jeune homme,' murmured madame Pele in a low voice, madame Reuter being less sentimental, as she was flammant and not French, only laughed again. "'You are a dangerous person, I fear,' said she. "'If you can forge compliments at that rate, the raid will positively be afraid of you. But if you are good, I will keep your secret and not tell her how well you can flatter. Now, listen to what sort of a proposal she makes to you. She has heard that you are an excellent professor, and as she wishes to get the very best masters for her school, car Zored fait-tu comme une reine, c'est une véritable maîtresse femme, she has commissioned me to step over this afternoon and sound madame Pele as to the possibility of engaging you. Zored is a wary general. She never advances without first examining well her ground. I don't think she would be pleased if she knew I had already disclosed her intentions to you. She did not order me to go so far. But I thought there would be no harm in letting you into the secret, and madame Pele was of the same opinion. Take care, however, you don't betray either of us to Zored, to my daughter, I mean. She is so discreet and circumspect herself, she cannot understand that one should find her pleasure in gossiping a little. All the world has changed since our girlhood, rejoined the other. Young people have such old heads now, but to return, monsieur. Madame Pele will mention the subject of your giving lessons in my daughter's establishment to her son, and he will speak to you. And then tomorrow you will step over to our house and ask to see my daughter. And you will introduce the subject as if the first intimation of it had reached you from monsieur Pele himself. And be sure you never mention my name, for I would not displease Zored on any account. Bien, bien, interrupt did I. For all this chatter and circumlocution began to bore me very much. I will consult monsieur Pele, and the thing shall be settled as you desire. Good evening, madame. I am infinitely obliged to you. Comment? Vous vous en allez déjà? exclaimed madame Pele. Prenez encore quelque chose, monsieur, une pomme cuite des biscuits, encore une teste de café. Merci, merci, madame. Au revoir. And I backed at last out of the apartment. Having regained my own room, I set myself to turn over in my mind the incident of the evening.  The two old women had made quite a little intricate mess of it. Still I found that the uppermost feeling in my mind on the subject was one of satisfaction. In the first place it would be a change to give lessons in another seminary, and then to teach young ladies would be an occupation so interesting. To be admitted at all into a ladies' boarding school would be an incident so new in my life. Besides, thought I, as I glanced at the boarded window. I shall now at last see the mysterious garden. I shall gaze both on the angels and their Eden. I could not, of course, object to the proposal made by Mademoiselle Router. Permission to accept such additional employment should it offer, having formed an article of the terms on which he had engaged me. It was, therefore, arranged in the course of next day, that I should be at liberty to give lessons in Mademoiselle Router's establishment four afternoons in every week. When evening came, I prepared to step over in order to seek a conference with Mademoiselle herself on the subject. I had not had time to pay the visit before, having been all day closely occupied in class. I remember very well that, before quitting my chamber, I held a brief debate with myself, as to whether I should change my ordinary attire for something smarter. At last I concluded it would be a waste of labour. Doubtless, thought I, she is some stiff old maid. For though the daughter of Mademoiselle Router, she may well number upwards of forty winters. Besides, if it were otherwise, if she be both young and pretty, I am not handsome, and no dressing can make me so, therefore I'll go as I am. And off I started, cursorily glancing sideways as I passed the toilet table, surmounted by a looking-glass, a thin, irregular face I saw, with sunk dark eyes under a large square forehead, complexion destitute of bloom or attraction, something young but not youthful, no object to win a lady's love, no but for the shafts of Cupid. I was soon at the entrance of the Pancenard. In a moment I had pulled the bell, in another moment the door was opened, and within appeared a passage paved alternately with black and white marble. The walls were painted in imitation of marble also, and at the far end opened a glass door, through which I saw shrubs in a grass-plot, looking pleasant in the sunshine of the mild spring evening, for it was now the middle of April. This then was my first glimpse of the garden. But I had not time to look long. The portraits, after having answered in the affirmative my question as to whether her mistress was at home, opened the folding doors of a room to the left, and having ushered me in, closed them behind me. I found myself in a salon, with a very well-painted, highly varnished floor. Chairs and sofas covered with white draperies, a green porcelain stove, walls hung with pictures and gilt frames, a gilt pendule and other ornaments on the mantelpiece, a large lustre pendant from the centre of the ceiling, mirrors, consoles, muslin curtains, and a handsome centre-table completed the inventory of furniture. All looked extremely clean and glittering, but the general effect would have been somewhat chilling, had not a second large pair of folding doors, standing wide open and disclosing another and smaller salon, more snugly varnished, offered some relief to the eye. This room was carpeted, and therein was a piano, a couch, a chiffonnet. Above all, it contained a lofty window and a crimson curtain, which, being undrawn, afforded another glimpse of the garden, through the large, clear panes, round which some leaves of ivy, some tendrils of vine, were trained. Monsieur claims vault, Nisper? Said a voice behind me, and starting, involuntarily, I turned. I had been so taken up with the contemplation of the pretty little salon that I had not noticed the entrance of a person into the larger room. It was, however, mademoiselle Router, who now addressed me, and stood close beside me, and when I had bowed with instantaneously recovered sang-fois, for I am not easily embarrassed. I commenced the conversation by remarking on the pleasant aspect of her little cabinet, and the advantage she had over Monsieur Pele in possessing a garden. Yes, she said, she often thought so, and added, It is my garden, Monsieur, which makes me retain this house. Otherwise I would probably have removed two larger and more commodious premises long since. But, you see, I could not take my garden with me, and I should scarcely find one so large and pleasant anywhere else in town. I approved her judgment. But you have not seen it yet, said she, rising. Come to Zuindo and take a better view. I followed her. She opened the sash, and, leaning out, I saw in full the enclosed domain which had hitherto been to me an unknown region. It was a long, not very broad, strip of cultured ground, with an alley bordered by enormous old fruit trees down the middle. There was a sort of lawn, a parterre of rose-trees, some flower-borders, and, on the far side, a thickly planted copse of lilacs, lebernums, and acacia. It looked pleasant to me. Very pleasant. So long a time had elapsed since I had seen a garden of any sort. But it was not only on Mademoiselle Reuter's garden that my eyes dwelt. When I had taken a view of her well-trimmed beds and budding shrubberies, I allowed my glance to come back to herself, nor did I hastily withdraw it. I had thought to see a tall, meager, yellow, conventional image in black, with a close white cap bandaged under the chin like a nun's headgear, whereas there stood by me a little and roundly formed woman, who might indeed be older than I, but was still young. She could not, I thought, be more than six or seven and twenty. She was as fair as a fair English woman. She had no cap. Her hair was nut-brown, and she wore it in curls. Pretty her features were not, nor very soft, nor very regular, but neither were they in any degree plain, and I already saw cause to deem them expressive. What was their predominant cast? Was it sagacity, sense? Yes, I thought so, but I could scarcely as yet be sure. I discovered, however, that there was a certain serenity of eye and freshness of complexion most pleasing to behold. The color on her cheek was like the bloom on a good apple, which is as sound at the core as it is red on the rind. Mademoiselle Rooter and I entered upon business. She said she was not absolutely certain of the wisdom of the step she was about to take, because I was so young, and parents might possibly object to a professor like me for their daughters. But it is often well to act on one's own judgment, said she, and to lead parents rather than be led by them. The fitness of a professor is not a matter of age, and from what I have heard, and from what I observe myself, I would much rather trust you than Monsieur Redroux, the music master, who is a married man of near fifties. I remarked that I hoped she would find me worthy of her good opinion, that if I knew myself I was incapable of betraying any confidence reposed in me. Du reste, said she, the surveillance would be strictly attended to. And then she proceeded to discuss the subject of terms. She was very cautious, quite on her guard. She did not absolutely bargain, but she warily sounded me to find out what my expectations might be. And when she could not get me to name a sum, she reasoned, and reasoned with the fluent, yet quiet, circumlocution of speech. And at last nailed me down to five hundred francs per annum. Not too much, but I agreed. Before the negotiation was completed, it began to grow a little dusk. I did not hasten it, for I liked well enough to sit and hear her talk. I was amused with the sort of business talent she displayed. Edward could not have shown himself more practical, though he might have evinced more coarseness and urgency, and then she had so many reasons, so many explanations. And after all she succeeded in proving herself quite disinterested, and even liberal. At last she concluded she could say no more, because, as I acquiesced in all things, there was no further ground for the exercise of her parts of speech. I was obliged to rise. I would rather have sat a little longer. What had I to return to but my small empty room? And my eyes had a pleasure in looking at Mademoiselle Routa, especially now, when the twilight softened her features a little, and in the doubtful dusk I could fancy her forehead as open as it was really elevated. Her mouth touched with turns of sweetness, as well as defined in lines of scents. When I rose to go, I held out my hand, on purpose, though I knew it was contrary to the etiquette of foreign habits. She smiled and said, Ah! secom tu les anglais, but gave me her hand very kindly. It is the privilege of my country, Mademoiselle, said I, and remember I shall always claim it. She laughed a little, quite good-naturedly, and with the sort of tranquillity obvious in all she did—a tranquillity which soothed and suited me singularly. At least I thought so that evening. Brussels seemed a very pleasant place to me when I got out again into the street, and it appeared as if some cheerful eventful upward-tending career were even then opening to me, on that self-same mild still April night. So impressionable a being is man! Or at least such a man as I was in those days. Next day the morning hours seemed to pass very slowly at Monsieur Poulet's. I wanted the afternoon to come, that I might go again to the neighbouring pensioner, and give my first lesson within its pleasant precincts, for pleasant they appeared to me. At noon the hour of recreation arrived. At one o'clock we had lunch. This got on the time, and at last Saint-Guduil's deep bell tolling slowly to marked the moment for which I had been waiting. At the foot of the narrow back stairs that descended from my room I met Monsieur Poulet. Comme vous avez l'air réunant, c'est-à-dire, je ne vous ai jamais vu aussi gaie. Que s'est-il donc passé? Apparemment que j'aime les changements, le plein d'un. Ah, je comprends, c'est cela. Soyez sages seulement, vous êtes bien jeunes, trop jeunes pour le rôle que vous allez jouer. Il faut prendre garde, savez-vous. Mais quel danger a-t-il? Je n'en sais rien. Ne vous laissez pas aller à de vives impressions. Voilà tout. I laughed. A sentiment of exquisite pleasure played over my nerves at the thought that vives impressions were likely to be created. It was the deadness, the sameness of life's daily on-going that had hitherto been my bane. My blouse-clad-eleve in the boys' seminary never stirred in me any vives impressions, except it might be occasionally some of anger. I broke from Monsieur Poulet, and as I strode down the passage he followed me with one of his laughs, a very French, rake-ish mocking sound. Again I stood at the neighbouring door, and soon was readmitted into the cheerful passage with its clear dove-colour imitation marble walls. I followed the fortress, and descending a step and making a turn, I found myself in a sort of corridor. A side door opened. Mademoiselle Reuter, little figure as graceful as it was plump, appeared. I could now see her dress in full daylight. A neat, simple, mousseline laine gown fitted her compact round shape to perfection. Delicate little colour and monchette of lace, trim Parisian bodica, showed her neck, wrists, and feet to complete advantage. But how grave was her face as she suddenly came upon me? Solicitude and business were in her eye. On her forehead she looked almost stern. Bonjour Monsieur was quite polite, but so orderly, so commonplace, it spread directly a cool, damp towel over my vive impression. The servant turned back when her mistress appeared, and I walked slowly along the corridor side by side with Mademoiselle Reuter.  Dictation or reading will perhaps be the best thing to begin with, for those are the easiest forms of communicating instruction in a foreign language, and at the first a master naturally feels a little unsettled. She was quite right, as I had found from experience. It only remained for me to acquiesce. We proceeded now in silence. The corridor terminated in a hall, large, lofty, and square. A glass door on one side showed within a long, narrow refractory, with tables and armoire and two lamps. It was empty. Large glass doors in front opened on the playground and garden. A broad staircase ascended spirally on the opposite side. The remaining walls showed a pair of great folding doors now closed, and admitting doubtless to the classes. Mademoiselle Reuter turned her eye laterally on me to ascertain probably whether I was collected enough to be ushered into her sanctum sanctorum. I suppose she judged me to be in a tolerable state of self-government, for she opened the door, and I followed her through. A rustling sound of uprising greeted our entrance. Without looking to the right or left, I walked straight up the lane between two sets of benches and desks, and took possession of the empty chair and isolated desk raised on an estrade of one step high, so as to command one division. The other division, being under the surveillance of a maîtresse, similarly elevated. At the back of the estrade, and attached to a movable partition dividing this schoolroom from another beyond, was a large tableau of wood painted black and varnished. A thick crayon of white chalk lay on my desk, for the convenience of elucidating an achromatical or verbal obscurity which might occur in my lessons by writing it upon the tableau. A wet sponge appeared beside the chalk to enable me to efface the marks when they had served the purpose intended. I carefully and deliberately made these observations before allowing myself to take one glance at the benches before me. Having handled the crayon, looked back at the tableau, fingered the sponge in order to ascertain that it was in the right state of moisture, I found myself cool enough to admit of looking calmly up and gazing deliberately round me. And first I observed that Mademoiselle Reuter had already glided away, she was nowhere visible. A maîtresse or teacher, the one who occupied the corresponding estrades to my own, alone remained to keep guard over me. She was a little in the shade, and with my short sight I could only see that she was of a thin, bony figure, and rather tallowy complexion. And that her attitude, as she sat, partook equally of listlessness and affectation. More obvious, more prominent, shone on by the full light of the large window where the occupants of the benches just before me, of whom some were girls of 14, 15, 16, some young women from 18, as it appeared to me, up to 20. The most modest attire, the simplest fashion of wearing the hair, were apparent in all. And good features, ruddy, blooming complexions, large and brilliant eyes, forms full, even to solidity, seemed to abound. I did not bear the first view like a stoic, I was dazzled, my eyes fell, and in a voice somewhat too low I murmured, Prenez vos cahiers de dictée, mes d'moiselles. Not so had I bid the boys that pulleys take their reading books. A rustle followed, and an opening of desks. Behind the lifted lids, which momentarily screamed the head, spent down to search for exercise books, I heard tittering and whispers. He la lis, chuis prête à pas m'éderir, observed one, comme il a rougi en parlant. Oui, c'est un véritable blanc bec. T'ais-toi autant, si on nous écoute. 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, none-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, Ortens, 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. A 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. Ortens 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 be token to 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 shallow about the neck, formed in her that assemblage of points whose union many persons regard as the perfection of beauty. How, with the tintless pallour 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 results left no uncertainty on the beholder's mind. She was sensual now, and in ten years time she would be coarse. Promise Plaine 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. Orteens 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.  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 façon. Beautiful as Pauline Borghese, she looked at the moment scarcely purer than Lucras 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 breastplate of steely indifference, and let down a visor of impassable austerity. Take your pens and commence writing, said I, in as dry and trite a voice as if I had been addressing only Jules van de Kelkhoff and Coe. The dicté now commenced. My three bells 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. Comme on dit-on point virgule, en anglais, monsieur. C'est mes colons, mademoiselle. C'est mes colons. Ah, comme c'est drôle, giggle. J'ai une si mauvaise plume impossible de créer. 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, mademoiselle. No silence followed. On the contrary, the three ladies in front began to talk more loudly. C'est si difficile, l'anglais. Je déteste l'addicté. Quelle ennuit d'écrire quelque chose 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. Donnie-moi votre cahier. C'est d'être une allie in an abrupt tone, and bending over I took it before she had time to give it. Et vous, mademoiselle, donnie-moi le vôtre. 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 curtsy. I glanced over the two dictations. Villaliz was slurred, blotted, and full of silly mistakes.  It contained no error against sense, and but few faults of orthography. I culledly read aloud both exercises, marking the faults. Then I looked at Villaliz. 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. Villaliz swelled like an incensed turkey. But the mutiny was quelled. The conceited cocketry and futile flirtation of the first bench were exchanged for a taciturn sullenness, much more convenient to me, and the rest of the 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 out of a certain public college immediately afterwards. Order dissolved instantly. Up started every pupil. I hastened to seize my hat, bow to the maîtresse, and quit the room before the tide of externat should pour from the inner class, where I knew near a hundred were imprisoned, and whose rising tumult I already heard. I had scarcely crossed the hall and gained the corridor when mademoiselle Reuter came again upon me. Step in here a moment, said she, and she held open the door of the side room from when she had issued on my arrival. It was a cell à manger as appeared from the buffet and the armoire vitrée 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 maîtresse 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 mademoiselle Reuter in the most calm, equitable 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 pensionada de maizelle presented to my vague ideal of the same community. I was only enlightened and amused. Consequently I felt in no disposition to complain to mademoiselle 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. Eh, les trois de maizelle du premier banc, said she. Ah, tout voir au mieux, was my answer, and mademoiselle 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 director's manner changed. The anxious business air passed from her face, and she began chatting about the weather and the town, and asking enably wise after monsieur and mademoiselle. 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, buried 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 common places, 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, 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, where at 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. What was El 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 Monsieur Perlès.  Is she like the women of novelists and romances? To read a female character is 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 tallyon was ever more passionless than Zorahid Reuter. So I thought then, I found afterwards that blunt susceptibilities are very consistent with strong propensities. End of chapter 10, recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 11 of The Professor. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Martin Geeson. The Professor by Charlotte Bronte. Chapter 11.  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, Monsieur Perlès would probably have greeted him with a public rebuke, and would certainly have malted 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 dispatched a servant to the kitchen to bring me a plate of purée au carat, for this was a maigre day, and before sending away the first course, reserved for me a portion of the stockfish of which it consisted. Dinner being over, the boys rushed out for their evening play. Kint and Fundam, 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 pitted 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 Monsieur Pelé behind me as I set my foot on the first step of the stair. Où allez-vous? Venez à la salle à manger que je vous grande 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 Monsieur Pelé 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 half, a little round table between us with a coffee pot, a sugar basin, and two large white china cups. While Monsieur Pelé 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 responsabilité que la surveillance observed I. Clétille, said Monsieur Pelé, I remarked that I thought Monsieur Fandam and Kint must sometimes be a little fatigued with their labours. Mehmed scornfully the director. Meantime I offered him his cup of coffee. 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 Mademoiselle Reuters. I know that lessons conclude in her establishment as in mine at four o'clock, and when you returned it was past five. Mademoiselle 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 Reuters, the old duena, 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 Monsieur Pelé, and he smiled and looked into the fire. On y soit qui m'allupance, murmur d'oeil, significantly. 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 my breast, Cremeswort. I felt the blood stir about my heart and rise warm to my cheek. Some women might, Monsieur. Is Mademoiselle Reuters of the number? Come speak frankly, mon fils.  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?  Ah, yes, her mouth, said Monsieur Poulet, 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, not withstanding. 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 crack 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 mean. Observe, then, her eyebrows. I will take careful notice the first opportunity, said I. And then, continued Monsieur Poulet, 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 Poulet, 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, claims Vaud. Of her steps, confounded, no, my heart is not a plank to be walked on, but the soft touch of a pat de velour will do it no harm. She offers me no pat de velour, she has all form and reserve with me. That, to begin with, let respect be the foundation, affection the first floor, love the superstructure. Mademoiselle Reuter is a skillful architect. An interest, M. Poulet, 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 directoris, what of the pupils? 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 sans croix. 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 aren't croquettes. Je les connais, exclaimed M. Poulet, elles sont toujours au premier rang, l'église et 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. Artance, with her rich chestnut loc, so luxuriently knotted, plattid, twisted, as if she did not know how to dispose of all their abundance, with her vermillion lips, damask cheek, and roguish laughing eye. And Caroline de Blémont, ah, there is beauty, beauty in perfection, what a cloud of sable curls about the face of her orée.  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 Zorahid 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 gentleman-like, 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 Monsieur Peulet was accustomed to read passages from the drama and the ballet to his pupils. He did not wait for my answer, but Rising left the room, humming as he went some gay strain of berranges. End of Chapter 11 Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey


Hi, welcome to CUBE Conversations. I'm Stu Miniman and we're at the Wikibon office in Marlboro, Massachusetts. Happy to have on the program first-time guest Chris Ferry, who's the co-founder and CTO of Store Magic. Chris, thank you for making the trip across the pond and welcome to Wikibon. Thank you, I'm glad to be here. All right, so Chris, about 10 years ago you were one of the founders of Store Magic.  What's your background and what led to the creation of Store Magic? Well, I'd been working in storage for probably about 15 years and for about five or six years in ice-guzzy storage. We thought we saw an opportunity for ice-guzzy storage, which 10 years ago was just beginning to take off. We were particularly focused on smaller businesses, the SMB, and producing sort of low-cost, easy-to-use solutions. Fairly quickly, we refocused away from the SMB to the distributed enterprise and to virtualized environments where we saw the advantages of bringing a simple, low-cost, highly available storage solution to the distributed enterprise. Yeah, wow. I think back 10 years ago I was working on ice-guzzy stuff too. You know, many looked at it as a disruptive alternative to some of the traditional, you know, kind of big block storage options that are out there. I mean, a lot has changed in the last 10 years, Chris. So, you know, when we think of Store Magic, you know, what's the focus of the company today? So, the focus of the company today is producing low-cost, highly available storage solutions for the edge in a virtualized environment. So, where you need applications at the edge which need to be highly available, but you don't want an expensive solution, you want something that can just run on a pair of servers using the internal storage in the servers, you don't want to buy external boxes or anything like that. So, our software runs as a virtual storage appliance on a hypervisor. It virtualizes the storage that's in the server and makes it highly available and then presents it to the environment so that if you get any failures, then it will instantly fail over to the other side and you've got complete high availability. Yes. So, in some ways, similar to what we've seen with virtualization, but the edge has a lot of different characteristics.   What do you see in your customer environment? Exactly, yes. You know, a lot of the sites that we're in, it's a pair of servers, they might just be in a cupboard. There's no IT people on site or anything like that.  They just want it to work. If something goes wrong, if you get a storage failure or something like that, then they want to know about that. So, you've got to provide all the right management tools so that you can monitor the environment, let them know when something goes wrong, and then just provide very simple ways of recovering from those failures. Yeah, so I think back, you know, 10 years ago, we talked about iSCSI. You've seen software-defined storage roll-in, discussions of hyperconvergence, you got Wikibon talking about server sands. Has the discussion changed a lot from the customer standpoint? How do they look at it? What kind of architectures do they build and, you know, what's the role of hardware in the solution that you guys put together? Well, I think the role of hardware has changed. I mean, a few years ago, sort of storage was all about hardware, about external boxes and often expensive external boxes. Now, the focus has changed. It's really about the software that's providing the storage services, which can run anywhere. It can run in a virtual storage appliance, and you can just use any commodity hardware you like. The other thing that's changed is go about a few years, and if you wanted to get to high performance, then you need to put loads of disks there, not for the capacity, but just to get the number of spindles up to get the performance. Now, when you throw flash and SSDs into the mix, you can get the performance without needing large numbers of disks. So you can put together some pretty impressive, highly high-performance systems with maybe just a small amount of flash storage and just a small number of spindles of conventional hard disks. All right, Chris, could you maybe talk a little bit about, you know, what's some of the key use cases you see?  But, you know, what are some of the applications?  You know, why is the data so important? Why is it critical to company businesses? Well, it obviously depends what the data is. So if you're talking about retail, then, excuse me, then typically at the store, they'll be running a number of applications, they'll be running pointer sales, stock control, all of that sort of thing. The data there obviously is critical and the systems can't go down. So, you know, the data needs to be protected and it typically some of the data will get sent back to the data center for, you know, for analysis or whatever. Other sites, other sorts of environments we're in, things like process control, wind farms, for example. These may be at very remote locations or maybe out in the middle of the North Sea or something like that. They've got a large number of windmills there. They all need to be controlled. They're gathering data from a lot of sensors. You know, this is really Internet of Things stuff. They're gathering data from a lot of sensors. They need to be monitoring and controlling the wind farm and they need to be sending some of that data back. But typically they'll be doing analysis at the edge and then sending back, analyze data back to the center. All right. You brought up the buzzword lately, IOT. Wikibon CTO David Floyer wrote an architectural piece talking about how all those edge devices, we're going to really have to, you know, manage process and handle that data more at the edge than back at a centralized location. What's your view of the world? How much data lives out at the edge versus, you know, pulling it back to some kind of central location to manage it?  If you're at the edge, say on a wind farm, as the example I gave there or maybe out on an oil rig or something like that, then your connectivity to the data center, to the cloud, is limited. So you've got to do the analysis of the data at the edge and just send back refined data back to the center. All right. So, Chris, let's talk a little bit about some store magic partnership. So you talked about virtualization. You guys started with VMware but also work across Microsoft and your Linux base. So you can talk first about the virtualization environment, what you see, what your customers are using. Yeah, we are biggest, you know, the majority of our customers are still running on VMware, on ESX. And, you know, that's where we started. We provided one of the first virtual storage appliances to run on ESX. Hyper-V, we've seen sort of quite significant take up over the last sort of three years. I think with the release of server 2012, Hyper-V became a credible hypervisor. Before that it was maybe a little bit iffy. So we've certainly seen quite a bit of take up there. We are looking at other hypervisors as well. KVM is particularly interesting because we run on Linux. And I think if you want small footprint software running on sort of lightweight edge devices, then KVM could be quite important. Okay. What about from a server partner standpoint, you know, where are you engaging with customers? What do you see in the field? We're engaging with all of the main server manufacturers. So we're doing quite a lot with Cisco, with Lenovo. We've got sites out there running on Dell, HP servers and so forth. Okay. Can you maybe unpack for us a little bit the Cisco piece, you know, Cisco's done a lot with kind of converged and virtualized environments that the UCS was designed for. What differentiates your solution in how you partner with Cisco versus the rest? One of the things is our solution is very lightweight. You know, the hardware requirements are very modest, but at the same time it's very scalable as well. Throw hardware at it and you get high performance. We're particularly doing work with Cisco on the UCS mini, which is an interesting platform. It can start off with just as few as two blades and then grow up to eight blades. We can run our software there. We can virtualize the storage that is actually on the blades, or we can work with external storage, which could come from a Cisco UCS C-Series, for example. We can basically provide the software to provide the highly available and scalable storage using Cisco hardware. Also, we've been doing a lot of integration with other Cisco management tools, particularly UCS Director. So if you want to completely automate your environment and automate provisioning, orchestration and all that sort of thing, then we're fully integrated with UCS Director now. So you can provision storage from there. You can provision the storage appliances out to the blades, whatever. All right. Chris, I want to give you the last word.  Who manages those remote environments and how much do they need to do upfront? And then once it's installed, how much do they need to do after the fact? A typical customer, it could be literally thousands of sites. It'll all be managed from a data center. The management may even be outsourced to a company possibly in another country. What they need to do is they need to initially roll out the solution to lots of sites. One area we've done a lot of work is tools to actually simplify that process. So tools using PowerShell, so you can script deployment. So, for example, one customer, they were rolling out over 2,000 stores and they were able to roll out over 30 stores a night using this scripted deployment. It was basically a matter of create a recipe, then run the scripts and they're up and running it at 30 stores the next day. Once the systems are up and running, it's just about monitoring it. So we integrate with a lot of standard monitoring tools like System Center Operations Manager, VMware vCenter, with SNMP, whatever, so you can monitor the environment. And if something goes wrong, typically it's a storage failure, it wouldn't be a software failure, but if something goes wrong, a storage failure, then they need to know about that at the data center so they can basically send out a replacement server. And another bit of technology we've got is something that simplifies the replacement of a server so they can just simply ship out a new server and then the software will automatically rebuild itself to the configuration it was with the previous server which had failed. All right, well Chris Ferry with StoreMagic, really appreciate you coming in. So many discussions of how software changed the world, something you guys have been working on a decade and the value of data at the edge, something we expect to see lots more through 2016 beyond. So thanks so much for joining us. Be sure to check out wikibon.com for all the research on this area and siliconangle.tv for upcoming reviews. Thanks so much for watching.