Shirley. Brontë Charlotte

as it was uncommon to find so much talent united with so much solidity, and so on." Once on the theme of her own merits, mademoiselle was fluent.

      Cradled at last in blissful self-complacency, she took her knitting, and sat down tranquil. Drawn curtains, a clear fire, a softly-shining lamp, gave now to the little parlour its best, its evening charm. It is probable that the three there present felt this charm. They all looked happy.

      "What shall we do now, Caroline?" asked Mr. Moore, returning to his seat beside his cousin.

      "What shall we do, Robert?" repeated she playfully. "You decide."

      "Not play at chess?"

      "No."

      "Nor draughts, nor backgammon?"

      "No, no; we both hate silent games that only keep one's hands employed, don't we?"

      "I believe we do. Then shall we talk scandal?"

      "About whom? Are we sufficiently interested in anybody to take a pleasure in pulling their character to pieces?"

      "A question that comes to the point. For my part, unamiable as it sounds, I must say no."

      "And I too. But it is strange, though we want no third – fourth, I mean (she hastily and with contrition glanced at Hortense), living person among us – so selfish we are in our happiness – though we don't want to think of the present existing world, it would be pleasant to go back to the past, to hear people that have slept for generations in graves that are perhaps no longer graves now, but gardens and fields, speak to us and tell us their thoughts, and impart their ideas."

      "Who shall be the speaker? What language shall he utter? French?"

      "Your French forefathers don't speak so sweetly, nor so solemnly, nor so impressively as your English ancestors, Robert. To-night you shall be entirely English. You shall read an English book."

      "An old English book?"

      "Yes, an old English book – one that you like; and I will choose a part of it that is toned quite in harmony with something in you. It shall waken your nature, fill your mind with music; it shall pass like a skilful hand over your heart, and make its strings sound. Your heart is a lyre, Robert; but the lot of your life has not been a minstrel to sweep it, and it is often silent. Let glorious William come near and touch it. You will see how he will draw the English power and melody out of its chords."

      "I must read Shakespeare?"

      "You must have his spirit before you; you must hear his voice with your mind's ear; you must take some of his soul into yours."

      "With a view to making me better? Is it to operate like a sermon?"

      "It is to stir you, to give you new sensations. It is to make you feel your life strongly – not only your virtues, but your vicious, perverse points."

      "Dieu! que dit-elle?" cried Hortense, who hitherto had been counting stitches in her knitting, and had not much attended to what was said, but whose ear these two strong words caught with a tweak.

      "Never mind her, sister; let her talk. Now just let her say anything she pleases to-night. She likes to come down hard upon your brother sometimes. It amuses me, so let her alone."

      Caroline, who, mounted on a chair, had been rummaging the bookcase, returned with a book.

      "Here's Shakespeare," she said, "and there's 'Coriolanus.' Now, read, and discover by the feelings the reading will give you at once how low and how high you are."

      "Come, then, sit near me, and correct when I mispronounce."

      "I am to be the teacher then, and you my pupil?"

      "Ainsi, soit-il!"

      "And Shakespeare is our science, since we are going to study?"

      "It appears so."

      "And you are not going to be French, and sceptical, and sneering? You are not going to think it a sign of wisdom to refuse to admire?"

      "I don't know."

      "If you do, Robert, I'll take Shakespeare away; and I'll shrivel up within myself, and put on my bonnet and go home."

      "Sit down. Here I begin."

      "One minute, if you please, brother," interrupted mademoiselle. "When the gentleman of a family reads, the ladies should always sew. – Caroline, dear child, take your embroidery. You may get three sprigs done to-night."

      Caroline looked dismayed. "I can't see by lamp-light; my eyes are tired, and I can't do two things well at once. If I sew, I cannot listen; if I listen, I cannot sew."

      "Fi, donc! Quel enfantillage!" began Hortense. Mr. Moore, as usual, suavely interposed.

      "Permit her to neglect the embroidery for this evening. I wish her whole attention to be fixed on my accent; and to ensure this, she must follow the reading with her eyes – she must look at the book."

      He placed it between them, reposed his arm on the back of Caroline's chair, and thus began to read.

      The very first scene in "Coriolanus" came with smart relish to his intellectual palate, and still as he read he warmed. He delivered the haughty speech of Caius Marcius to the starving citizens with unction; he did not say he thought his irrational pride right, but he seemed to feel it so. Caroline looked up at him with a singular smile.

      "There's a vicious point hit already," she said. "You sympathize with that proud patrician who does not sympathize with his famished fellow-men, and insults them. There, go on." He proceeded. The warlike portions did not rouse him much; he said all that was out of date, or should be; the spirit displayed was barbarous; yet the encounter single-handed between Marcius and Tullus Aufidius he delighted in. As he advanced, he forgot to criticise; it was evident he appreciated the power, the truth of each portion; and, stepping out of the narrow line of private prejudices, began to revel in the large picture of human nature, to feel the reality stamped upon the characters who were speaking from that page before him.

      He did not read the comic scenes well; and Caroline, taking the book out of his hand, read these parts for him. From her he seemed to enjoy them, and indeed she gave them with a spirit no one could have expected of her, with a pithy expression with which she seemed gifted on the spot, and for that brief moment only. It may be remarked, in passing, that the general character of her conversation that evening, whether serious or sprightly, grave or gay, was as of something untaught, unstudied, intuitive, fitful – when once gone, no more to be reproduced as it had been than the glancing ray of the meteor, than the tints of the dew-gem, than the colour or form of the sunset cloud, than the fleeting and glittering ripple varying the flow of a rivulet.

      Coriolanus in glory, Coriolanus in disaster, Coriolanus banished, followed like giant shades one after the other. Before the vision of the banished man Moore's spirit seemed to pause. He stood on the hearth of Aufidius's hall, facing the image of greatness fallen, but greater than ever in that low estate. He saw "the grim appearance," the dark face "bearing command in it," "the noble vessel with its tackle torn." With the revenge of Caius Marcius, Moore perfectly sympathized; he was not scandalized by it; and again Caroline whispered, "There I see another glimpse of brotherhood in error."

      The march on Rome, the mother's supplication, the long resistance, the final yielding of bad passions to good, which ever must be the case in a nature worthy the epithet of noble, the rage of Aufidius at what he considered his ally's weakness, the death of Coriolanus, the final sorrow of his great enemy – all scenes made of condensed truth and strength – came on in succession and carried with them in their deep, fast flow the heart and mind of reader and listener.

      "Now, have you felt Shakespeare?" asked Caroline, some ten minutes after her cousin had closed the book.

      "I think so."

      "And have you felt anything in Coriolanus like you?"

      "Perhaps I have."

      "Was he not faulty as well as great?"

      Moore nodded.

      "And what was his fault? What made him hated by the citizens? What caused him to be banished by his countrymen?"

      "What do you think it was?"

      "I