The French Lieutenant's Woman (5 page)

Thus she had evolved a
kind of private commandment-- those inaudible words were simply "I
must not"--whenever the physical female implications of her
body, sexual, menstrual, parturitional, tried to force an entry into
her consciousness. But though one may keep the wolves from one's
door, they still howl out there in the darkness. Ernestina wanted a
husband, wanted Charles to be that husband, wanted children; but the
payment she vaguely divined she would have to make for them seemed
excessive. She sometimes wondered why God had permitted such a
bestial version of Duty to spoil such an innocent longing. Most women
of her period felt the same; so did most men; and it is no wonder
that duty has become such a key concept in our understanding of the
Victorian age--or for that matter, such a wet blanket in our own.*
[* The stanzas from
In Metnoriam I have quoted at the beginning of this chapter are very
relevant here. Surely the oddest of all the odd arguments in that
celebrated anthology of after-life anxiety is stated in this poem
(xxxv). To claim that love can only be satyr-shaped if there is no
immortality of the soul is clearly a panic flight from Freud. Heaven
for the Victorians was very largely heaven because the body was left
behind--along with the Id.]

Having quelled the
wolves Ernestina went to her dressing table, unlocked a drawer and
there pulled out her diary, in black morocco with a gold clasp. From
another drawer she took a hidden key and unlocked the book. She
turned immediately to the back page. There she had written out, on
the day of her betrothal to Charles, the dates of all the months and
days that lay between it and her marriage. Neat lines were drawn
already through two months; some ninety numbers remained; and now
Ernestina took the ivory-topped pencil from the top of the diary and
struck through March 26th. It still had nine hours to run, but she
habitually allowed herself this little cheat. Then she turned to the
front of the book, or nearly to the front, because the book had been
a Christmas present. Some fifteen pages in, pages of close
handwriting, there came a blank, upon which she had pressed a sprig
of jasmine. She stared at it a moment, then bent to smell it. Her
loosened hair fell over the page, and she closed her eyes to see if
once again she could summon up the most delicious, the day she had
thought she would die of joy, had cried endlessly, the ineffable . ..

But she heard Aunt
Tranter's feet on the stairs, hastily put the book away, and began to
comb her lithe brown hair.
 

6

Ah Maud, you
milk-white fawn, you are all unmeet for a wife.
--
Tennyson, Maud (1855)

Mrs. Poulteney's
face, that afternoon when the vicar made his return and announcement,
expressed a notable ignorance. And with ladies of her kind, an
unsuccessful appeal to knowledge is more often than not a successful
appeal to disapproval. Her face was admirably suited to the latter
sentiment; it had eyes that were not Tennyson's "homes of silent
prayer" at all, and lower cheeks, almost dewlaps, that pinched
the lips together in condign rejection of all that threatened her two
life principles: the one being (I will borrow Treitschke's sarcastic
formulation) that "Civilization is Soap" and the other,
"Respectability is what does not give me offense." She bore
some resemblance to a white Pekinese; to be exact, to a stuffed
Pekinese, since she carried concealed in her bosom a small bag of
camphor as a prophylactic against cholera .. . so that where she was,
was always also a delicate emanation of mothballs.

"
I
do not know her."

The vicar felt snubbed;
and wondered what would have happened had the Good Samaritan come
upon Mrs. Poulteney instead of the poor traveler.

"
I
did not suppose you would. She is a Charmouth girl."

"
A
girl?"

"
That
is, I am not quite sure of her age, a woman, a lady of some thirty
years of age. Perhaps more. I would not like to hazard a guess."
The vicar was conscious that he was making a poor start for the
absent defendant. "But a most distressing case. Most deserving
of your charity."

"
Has
she an education?"

"
Yes
indeed. She was trained to be a governess. She was a governess."

"
And
what is she now?"

"
I
believe she is without employment."

"
Why?"

"
That
is a long story."

"
I
should certainly wish to hear it before proceeding."

So the vicar sat down
again, and told her what he knew, or some (for in his brave attempt
to save Mrs. Poulteney's soul, he decided to endanger his own) of
what he knew, of Sarah Woodruff.
"
The
girl's father was a tenant of Lord Meriton's, near Beaminster. A
farmer merely, but a man of excellent principles and highly respected
in that neighborhood. He most wisely provided the girl with a better
education than one would expect."

"
He
is deceased?"

"
Some
several years ago. The girl became a governess to Captain John
Talbot's family at Charmouth."

"
Will
he give a letter of reference?"

"
My
dear Mrs. Poulteney, we are discussing, if I understood our earlier
conversation aright, an object of charity, not an object of
employment." She bobbed, the nearest acknowledgment to an
apology she had ever been known to muster. "No doubt such a
letter can be obtained. She left his home at her own request. What
happened was this. You will recall the French barque--I think she
hailed from Saint Malo--that was driven ashore under Stonebarrow in
the dreadful gale of last December? And you will no doubt recall that
three of the crew were saved and were taken in by the people of
Charmouth? Two were simple sailors. One, I understand, was the
lieutenant of the vessel. His leg had been crushed at the first
impact, but he clung to a spar and was washed ashore. You must surely
have read of this."

"
Very
probably. I do not like the French."

"
Captain
Talbot, as a naval officer himself, most kindly charged upon his
household the care of the ... foreign officer. He spoke no English.
And Miss Woodruff was called upon to interpret and look after his
needs."

"
She
speaks French?" Mrs. Poulteney's alarm at this appalling
disclosure was nearly enough to sink the vicar. But he ended by
bowing and smiling urbanely.

"
My
dear madam, so do most governesses. It is not their fault if the
world requires such attainments of them. But to return to the French
gentleman. I regret to say that he did not deserve that appellation."

"
Mr.
Forsythe!"

She drew herself up, but
not too severely, in case she might freeze the poor man into silence.

"
I
hasten to add that no misconduct took place at Captain Talbot's. Or
indeed, so far as Miss Woodruff is concerned, at any subsequent place
or time. I have Mr. Fursey-Harris's word for that. He knows the
circumstances far better than I." The person referred to was the
vicar of Charmouth. "But the Frenchman managed to engage Miss
Woodruff's affections. When his leg was mended he took coach to
Weymouth, there, or so it was generally supposed, to find a passage
home. Two days after he had gone Miss Woodruff requested Mrs. Talbot,
in the most urgent terms, to allow her to leave her post. I am told
that Mrs. Talbot tried to extract the woman's reasons. But without
success."

"
And
she let her leave without notice?"

The vicar adroitly
seized his chance. "I agree--it was most foolish. She should
have known better. Had Miss Woodruff been in wiser employ I have no
doubt this sad business would not have taken place." He left a
pause for Mrs. Poulteney to grasp the implied compliment. "I
will make my story short. Miss Woodruff joined the Frenchman in
Weymouth. Her conduct is highly to be reprobated, but I am informed
that she lodged with a female cousin."

"
That
does not excuse her in my eyes."

"
Assuredly
not. But you must remember that she is not a lady born. The lower
classes are not so scrupulous about appearances as ourselves.
Furthermore I have omitted to tell you that the Frenchman had
plighted his troth. Miss Woodruff went to Weymouth in the
belief that she was to
marry."

"
But
was he not a Catholic?"

Mrs. Poulteney saw
herself as a pure Patmos in a raging ocean of popery.

"
I
am afraid his conduct shows he was without any Christian faith. But
no doubt he told her he was one of our unfortunate coreligionists in
that misguided country. After some days he returned to France,
promising Miss Woodruff that as soon as he had seen his family and
provided himself with a new ship--another of his lies was that he was
to be promoted captain on his return--he would come back here, to
Lyme itself, marry her, and take her away with him. Since then she
has waited. It is quite clear that the man was a heartless deceiver.
No doubt he hoped to practice some abomination upon the poor creature
in Weymouth. And when her strong Christian principles showed him the
futility of his purposes, he took ship."

"
And
what has happened to her since? Surely Mrs. Talbot did not take her
back?"

"
Madam,
Mrs. Talbot is a somewhat eccentric lady. She offered to do so. But I
now come to the sad consequences of my story. Miss Woodruff is not
insane. Far from it. She is perfectly able to perform any duties that
may be given to her. But she suffers from grave attacks of
melancholia. They are doubtless partly attributable to remorse. But
also, I fear, to her fixed delusion that the lieutenant is an
honorable man and will one day return to her. For that reason she may
be frequently seen haunting the sea approaches to our town. Mr.
Fursey-Harris himself has earnestly endeavored to show to the woman
the hopelessness, not to say the impropriety, of her behavior. Not to
put too fine a point upon it, madam, she is slightly crazed."

There was a silence
then. The vicar resigned himself to a pagan god--that of chance. He
sensed that Mrs. Poulteney was calculating. Her opinion of herself
required her to appear shocked and alarmed at the idea of allowing
such a creature into Marlborough House. But there was God to be
accounted to.

"
She
has relatives?"

"
I
understand not."

"
How
has she supported herself since ...?"

"
Most
pitifully. I understand she has been doing a little needlework. I
think Mrs. Tranter has employed her in such work. But she has been
living principally on her savings from her previous situation."

"
She
has saved, then."

The vicar breathed
again.

"
If
you take her in, madam, I think she will be truly saved." He
played his trump card. "And perhaps--though it is not for me to
judge your conscience--she may in her turn save."

Mrs. Poulteney suddenly
had a dazzling and heavenly vision; it was of Lady Cotton, with her
saintly nose
out
of joint. She frowned and stared at her deep-piled carpet.

"
I
should like Mr. Fursey-Harris to call."

And a week later,
accompanied by the vicar of Lyme, he called, sipped madeira, and
said--and omitted--as his ecclesiastical colleague had advised. Mrs.
Talbot provided an interminable letter of reference, which did more
harm than good, since it failed disgracefully to condemn sufficiently
the governess's conduct. One phrase in particular angered Mrs.
Poulteney. "Monsieur Varguennes was a person of considerable
charm, and Captain Talbot wishes me to suggest to you that a sailor's
life is not the best school of morals." Nor did it interest her
that Miss Sarah was a "skilled and dutiful teacher" or that
"My infants have deeply missed her." But Mrs. Talbot's
patent laxity of standard and foolish sentimentality finally helped
Sarah with Mrs. Poulteney; they set her a challenge.

So Sarah came for an
interview, accompanied by the vicar. She secretly pleased Mrs.
Poulteney from the start, by seeming so cast down, so annihilated by
circumstance. It was true that she looked suspiciously what she
indeed was-- nearer twenty-five than "thirty or perhaps more."
But there was her only too visible sorrow, which showed she was a
sinner, and Mrs. Poulteney wanted nothing to do with anyone who did
not look very clearly to be in that category. And there was her
reserve, which Mrs. Poulteney took upon herself to interpret as a
mute gratitude. Above all, with the memory of so many departed
domestics behind her, the old lady abhorred impertinence and
forwardness, terms synonymous in her experience with speaking before
being spoken to and anticipating her demands, which deprived her of
the pleasure of demanding why they had not been anticipated.