Chapter 6
Enveloped in a velvet-covered, cushioned seat at La Theatre Ode'on, I prepared to snore away an early November night of Meyerbeer's Margherita d'Anjou; a whimsical though insipid melodrama, and one I cared very little for. It was merely the mode of the day to see and be seen at such places of an evening, especially for a recently endowed heir with much money and few demands upon his time. I thought of nothing and searched for nothing; only a lazy seeking of balm to solace me and bring some life into my pre-maturely ancient spirit. The night without was unseasonably warm and the gaslight within oppressed me still further, but a listlessness had settled upon me at the close of the day, and I could not be stirred even to fan myself with the paper fan resting upon my knee. Languid walks along boulevards, café delicacies smothered in chocolate, and penny musicians had lulled me into a stupor which I welcomed after the past months' trouble, and my comatose sojourning through the city made no moving impression upon my soul.
As the entr'acte began and movement below my solitary box suggested a return to the less-than-riveting libretto, I pondered this small, cramped theater and sighed over what ought to be in such a city as Paris. Opera held no especial charm for me at the best of times, but I felt the reason to be that it had never been given its due. No opera would be worth its salt until Paris bit the proverbial bullet and built a monument to it; a palais with a plush, red-carpeted double escalier and a hundred box front taking up an entire city block. Such a building had been discussed and bickered over, but no situation suited thus far, and so a Paris Opera House had yet to become a reality. Instead the Parisians were forced to view their Faust and their Carmen in cramped spaces, lacking acoustic prowess and artistic imagination. A better man than me would make the building of an opera house his maximum opus, and the sooner the better.
The last month had brought an overhaul to Thornfield Hall. The staff were given notice nearly in total, for all but one had treated my father and brother with deference and myself with contempt—I knew that what was needed to ensure the success of my plan was complete loyalty and the successful drawing of a veil between my bride and the world. One concession to utterly dismissing everyone connected to the Hall was the retention of the invaluable Alice Fairfax, in the place of housekeeper. She was family, certainly, and one of the only dependents employed by my late father who treated me—or at least my name—with great respect. Nay, it was more than that. To speak plainly, the worthy dame had been kind to me in boyhood, and I felt an obligation to her not only for my cousin her late husband's sake, but for her own. The most valuable characteristic about her, however, was an unquestioning, simplistic efficiency with which she obeyed her master. Incapable of imagining anything out of the ordinary and believing my every command—no matter how eccentric—to be judicious and above reproach, I knew that Mrs. Fairfax would unswervingly serve me. Such a fortuitous circumstance as her presence afforded me, I gave her directions and left the management of the Hall to her complete discretion. She knew nothing of my marriage, and I determined to keep it so. She knew only that I had travelled the world in my younger years and had fallen to great misfortune. The muddier those waters, the better.
The only servant I insisted on hiring without Mrs. Fairfax's assistance was Mrs. Grace Poole; already installed in the upper story and in perfect charge of Bertha. Beyond her placement, I allowed my housekeeper entire reign over her domain. I was wont to quit the hall as soon as possible, only to return to handle affairs of business from time to time as needed.
I dragged my thoughts back from the preparations at Thornfield to the lovers upon the stage, warbling their devotion in over-exaggerated tones as the villain sang his revenge and exited stage left. The lovers fled stage right, and thus entered the Act III ballet. Normally a necessary evil to be endured while the primary actors changed costume and scene, I expected nothing extraordinary from the performance of prancing girls tonight. My sudden attention was a surprise even to myself when the principle ballerina entered: thin, shapely legs stemming from a full skirt and long white arms outstretched she twirled impossibly on toe-slippers. Her form: lithe, her face and hair: Diaphanous, this woman drew the breath from me as had Bertha when first we met. A young man of twenty-six, I recognized in this stranger the angel of love rather than the object of lusty blood-flow that is the downfall of so many dupes. Standing from my seat I reached through the curtain of the box and pulled the attendant within.
"Oui, Monsieur Rochester, comment puis-je vous aider?" asked the eager, liveried man with alert blue eyes and blindingly white gloves.
"Un programme," I said, refusing to tear my eyes from the vision on stage. "Avez-vous?"
"Oui, Monsieur," said the man, handing me a folded page.
I glanced down at the page and read the names of the actors, searching rather for the Corps de Ballet. It mentioned the name of a ballet school, but not the performers. "Qui est elle?" I asked.
"Monsieur?" questioned the attendant.
I pointed toward the woman at center stage, the belle of the dancers and the delight of my eyes. The man smiled slightly. "Ah, Monsieur, une belle femme," said the man. "Elle est de nouveau sur le corps de ballet."
The damned dolt, I could tell that she was new. Rolling my eyes I persisted. "Son nom?!"
Bowing slightly, the man replied, "Mademoiselle Celine Varens."
OoOoOoOoO
I did not seek out Celine after the performance that night, nor for many nights. I merely sat long after the performances imagining what it might be to speak with her, to hold her, to make love to her. This last I entertained in fancy alone, for my obsession did not yet lead me to commit the sin in body—only in mind. The learned theologian would remind me of Christ's words on the mount: whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart. How I separated the thought from the deed is indicative of my own spiritual state in those days, and though I am loathe to recall it, this is to be a true account of my life, as sordid as it may be.
Indeed, I did not seek her out, but rather she found me. I had come to quite an acquaintance with the box attendant in the following weeks, and I suppose he thought to be conferring on me a great favor by telling the lady of my admiration; for, uninspired by the opera as I was, no truer pilgrim came to worship his shrine with as much devotion as I in my infatuation with Celine.
It was the final performance of Margherita d'Anjou, and following was a break of several weeks before a new show went up. I was resigned to this being the final time I might see La Varens, for like a cowardly pup I had not the fortitude to meet her. Some part of my innocence remained, perhaps, or sense of propriety… well, it was not only innocence, or at least a sense of purity only plaid a small role in my fears. It was a lack of faith in my own power to attract that kept me silent. One such as she could not find favor in a harsh ogre like myself.
A quiet knock on the wood-frame of my box drew me from my reverie. "Come," I said calmly and sat up straight. I mused that it was the attendant or a cleaning woman wishing to finish with this box and urge me from thence. I was utterly amazed when I was instead greeted by dark eyes and full lips. I ignored the attendant's introduction of "un visiteur de vous voir," and instead stared into the perfection that was Celine, standing there in my box, flirting her fan.
"I 'ear much of your patronage to zees 'umble theatre, Monsieur," she said, her dulcet accent charming me at once.
"Yes, I enjoy the play most wonderfully," I blundered.
Celine laughed delightfully, not at my rough manners, but in an almost encouraging sort of way. She asked how I liked the play, and I lied that it was the best I'd ever seen. She asked various introductory questions and did her best to set me at my ease. There was something familiar in her ease of speaking—Bertha had that same way at first, when in her right mind, of engaging a person and making him speak about himself. Though similar, it did not put me on my guard as it should have done. Celine, in her friendly, seductive way, beckoned to me, and I willingly followed to oblivion.
Enough of my remaining history with Celine can easily be found in other volumes, by my own narrative, so I abridge here: during the six-weeks break of the opera I spent money lavishly on Celine and committed the sin of adultery, not in mind alone but enthusiastically in body, half the time denying that any true transgression existed, the other half justifying my actions and stifling the voice of conscience. The rocky slope, once begun sliding gained speed until my folly crashed into a heap.
Like Bertha, Celine too had become unfaithful to me. I broke off our arrangement and she lamely attempted to win back my affections—or at least my bank roll—by presenting me with an infant chit she said was mine. Adele looked nothing like me, but what was more; she would have to have been born at the sixth month to be mine: no child could survive so early.
Still, I quitted Celine, leaving her a sizable sum—I did not wish the mother's folly to result in the child's poverty. Even long after her death, the child would benefit from my care, could I but find a suitable manager for it… but not yet—that part of my story must wait its proper time; and though soon, I have more to tell of my wickedness before the entrance of an angel.