The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet, Katherine Cowley [books successful people read .TXT] 📗

in the mirror. Mr. Linton sat across from her, drawing furiously, with only an occasional pause and glance in her direction. She wondered what he drew. Finally she drew her own lips. She had just started on her hair when Mr. Linton said, “one more minute,” so she hastily sketched her hair in a bun.

She breathed out and considered her work. It was not perfect, but for her first attempt at drawing a person, it certainly had some merit.

Mr. Linton stood and examined her drawing. She waited for some praise of her effort, but instead he said, “Your proportions do not match that of a real human face. For instance, the eyes are much too high on the head, well into the area where the forehead should be.”

He took a fresh paper and sketched an oval. He then drew a slightly curved line at the halfway point. “If you study the human body, you will find that the eyes always fall at the midpoint between the top of the head and the bottom of the chin. I recommend blocking those first and then positioning the nose and the mouth beneath them.” He demonstrated the positioning and moved on to show the placement of the ears, eyebrows, and hairline. “Children’s faces are proportioned a bit differently, but we will cover that another day.”

Mary looked at his sketch of proportions and then back to her self-portrait. Suddenly it seemed woefully inadequate, like something drawn by a young child.

“Why did you not teach me this before I drew my face?”

“Because then you would not appreciate the knowledge, and you would be less likely to remember it.”

Mary sniffed. That was, to her, not the ideal teaching method. Why force a student to fail before providing proper instruction? She almost said as much, but an image of Elizabeth and Jane appeared in her mind. They would look down on such a comment, consider it improper even, and perhaps they were right.

“While you were drawing, I did a quick sketch of your face. Ideally, I would spend an hour or two more, but it does provide a resemblance.”

Mary took in a quick breath of air. The portrait was absolutely marvelous, the work of a true artist. She had not even been sitting still, and yet in fifteen minutes he had managed to pin her to the page. She could not possibly imagine what he would improve if he spent an hour or more on it.

“If you apply yourself with diligence, in a few months you should be able to draw a self-portrait that satisfies you.”

“One’s commitment to hard work is a reflection of the value one places on one’s own soul.” If there was anything Mary knew how to do, it was to apply herself. And if she had the potential to draw anything like what Mr. Linton had, she would do all that was required.

“Keep every page you sketch on. It will be a record so you can see your own improvement, and so I can give you specific feedback on what is and is not working. Please date and sign each of your pages.” He then gave her instruction on what he wanted her to complete before her next lesson: three still lifes; a page each of ears, noses, mouths, eyes, and hands; and three landscapes. She was to have drawing lessons twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and as today was a Thursday, that gave her five days to complete the task.

Mr. Linton packed up his things.

“Can I keep the portrait you drew of me?”

“If you would like.” He signed the page. “Maybe someday I will draw a better one.”

As he left, Mary studied her portrait. It was excellently done, but on closer consideration, she looked scared and timid. There was nothing noteworthy about her appearance; it was the sort of face that people would ignore and dismiss as unimportant. Yet a real artist had found it worth drawing, worth putting in pencil on a page.

Mary’s ruminations were interrupted by the housekeeper, Mrs. Boughton, who announced the arrival of the second tutor, a Madame Dieupart.

Madame Dieupart was a small woman with dark, curly hair and pronounced cheekbones. She wore simple, dark-coloured clothing, a style Mary approved of.

She curtsied to Mary. “Bonjour.”

Now that was a word Mary did know how to say. “Bonjour.”

Madame Dieupart clucked. “Non, non, non. Bonjour.”

She looked at Mary expectantly, but Mary did not know what she expected her to say.

“Quand je dis quelque chose, il faut écouter bien et répéter. Bonjour. Répétez.”

Mary understood bonjour, but Madame Dieupart spoke so quickly that Mary had no idea what any of the other words meant. Reading had truly not prepared her to speak the language.

Madame Dieupart pointed at herself and said, “Bonjour,” pointed at Mary and said, “Bonjour. Répétez.”

Mary supposed the woman wanted her to repeat. She must have said the word inadequately.

“Bonjour,” said Mary. They went back and forth saying bonjour to each other until finally Madame Dieupart said, “Enfin!”

What did that mean? Mary had not the least idea.

“Asseyez-vous.”

Vous meant you, but Madame Dieupart had spoken very quickly, and Mary could not figure out how the first thing her teacher had said was spelled, so she did not know what it meant.

“Asseyez-vous.” Her teacher gestured at the chair, so Mary sat, and Madame Dieupart followed suit.

The next hour continued in a similar manner, Madame Dieupart saying a word or a phrase in French and insisting Mary repeat it back dozens of times. Mary wondered if Lady Trafford had employed someone to teach her French who did not speak a word of English. She also questioned whether this would actually teach her French. If she was forced only to repeat words without understanding them, how would she ever learn to speak?

Mary wanted to tell her that she could read French. She wanted to ask questions and learn something about the language. But instead it was just this endless repetition. Every time Mary attempted to say something in English, Madame Dieupart ignored her.

She