by Klein, S. G.
Monsiuer Heger – for so I presumed this man to be - smiled at the teaching staff, however I noted that he barely acknowledged his wife other than to give a cursory nod in her direction, nor did they choose to sit near each other.
As the meal drew to a close Monsieur Heger rose from his seat and a hush fell across the room. This was the start of what we soon learnt to be the Lecture Pieuse, an event that took place every evening after supper. Later Madame Heger was at pains to point out that it was unnecessary for either Emily or myself to attend, neither of us being Catholic, however on that evening we both remained in our seats.
But oh! what a queer little event it was – one which I am ashamed to admit immediately re-awoke in me the clouded view of religion I had harboured ever since Aunt had attempted to drum into me her type of Methodism. This time however it was the Catholic Church that brought me out in a rash for if there was ever an hour during which Reason was soundly defeated, Intellect trampled underfoot, the hour of the Lecture Pieuse was it.
Monsieur Heger’s voice, thin and reed-like, droned on monotonously. It was the type of voice that spoke of long hours spent in prayer, strait gates, meagre rations. I did not like it one jot, but even so I attempted to pay attention, after all it was good practice for my ear to grow accustomed to the new cadences of the language, but alas my attentiveness did not last long. My mind drifted; was that Vertue sneezing behind me? Did I just see that bovine girl at the end of our table stifle a giggle? What was it Madame Heger kept looking at?
Our directrice sat studying her students, her eyes darting about the room. One minute she was nodding approval at the way in which a particular girl sat listening to the lecture, the next she was narrowing her eyes when she thought someone was fidgeting.
Nothing escaped her notice although at this stage I did not realise how true an observation this was or how dark a shadow it would cast over my life.
That night in the dormitory Emily and I drew our curtain for privacy. We did not want to speak with the others who quickly changed into their white nightdresses and, until the lights were turned down, flitted between each other’s beds, thin as moonlight.
There was much giggling. Our ignorance of current fashions gave these creatures a great deal of pleasure. One of their number, Grace Giradoux I believe, commented on Emily’s style of dress – the leg of mutton sleeves she favoured, the lack of full petticoats and the muted colours she wore. Her words hurt. They were shabby. They were words that knew nothing of where we had come from, nor where we were headed.
‘Our first night in Brussels,’ Emily sighed as she knelt by her bed to say her prayers. I knelt down too although I could not concentrate on what I was saying because I was happy and that was too infrequent an experience. Everything that had happened over the past few days seemed so exquisitely beautiful. The intricacies of the London streets. St Paul’s Cathedral – the dome of which had hovered above us – the most serene and wondrous of angels. The majesty of our ship – not to mention the sea that had looked pure as silver. I had never crossed a sea before, nor felt water on my face that tasted of salt, nor been in a country where I could not speak the language. Would my dreams be different now that I had to speak French? Did this new language possess the subtleties of English? I stood up and crossed the room to look out the window.
A moon was in the sky, a pale silver disc caught in the branches of a nearby tree. In a land where everything else was foreign, she at least was no stranger.
‘What is that?’ I said turning around to see Emily placing something under her pillow.
‘It is to remind me of home. A stone I picked up. On Blackstone Edge.’
‘Blackstone?’
Emily nodded. ‘Perhaps it will bring us good fortune.’ Her voice trailed off as she closed her eyes. ‘Goodnight,’ she said.
‘Goodnight,’ I replied and then again very quietly… ‘goodnight.’
II
For the first four or five days in Brussels the rain did not stop. I had thought home a dank place but Brussels could lay equal claim to the description although in a city the rain is duller. Nor was that the only observation I made during those first few weeks for it was as if my very skin had grown eyes so sensitive did it feel to every change in light and difference in sound. I opened a door and the touch of the handle was cooler and smoother than at home. The sound my footsteps made when I walked across the wooden floors of the classroom were louder than I was used to. Light appeared warmer, coffee sweeter, water clearer. If I had died then risen again the world could not have been more vibrant. Not that we had much opportunity during those first few weeks to explore further than the school environs for we were too preoccupied with our studies to sightsee.
Our lessons began each morning at nine and stopped at noon for lunch. In the afternoons we were taught from two o’clock until four and after we had taken our evening meal we again returned to the schoolroom for an hour’s study followed by the Lecture Pieuse then soon afterwards bed.
The lessons themselves were for the most part confined to History, French Literature, a little German, Music & Drawing. Madame Heger – when she was not occupied with the day-today running of her school – took this latter class for she was quite the draughtswoman and evidently enjoyed the process of teaching. The pains she took with the older students were unlike any I had experienced back in England although her criticisms were sharp.
Nevertheless she praised Emily & I frequently during our first lesson – observing that Emily showed a fine eye for detail while my mastery of shadow & light was nothing short of commendable.
Other than this my sister and I confined our studies to French grammar which meant endlessly declining verbs, memorising tenses followed by the copying and translating of vast amounts of vocabulary.
‘Forget your mother tongue,’ our French teacher, a Monsieur Pouilly from the city of Lille, instructed in his clipped voice. He sounded like a pair of Aunt’s silver scissors.
‘Do not speak English, especially between yourselves and soon you will be writing and dreaming in French. You should talk to the other students as much as possible; they will help you enormously. Pronunciation is key.’
Monsieur Pouilly liked the sound of his own voice but he was well meaning enough although sadly misguided for Emily and I had no intention of engaging with the other students. We were not interested in them and they were solely interested in their fine silks and ribbons.
Instead we whispered phrases back and forth between each other; we were like two newborn calves wobbling unsteadily in our first attempts at walking. If I stumbled Emily helped and encouraged me and vice-a-versa. We sat side by side at our desks, reading and absorbing everything. Knowledge is a journey of sorts, is it not? And the further one travels, the more easily one can interpret the landscape. Day by day our skills improved, our understanding of how far we had come and how much further we had to go, increased. It was not a romantic journey; there were no stars or snow-capped mountains glittering in the distance. The path was not strewn with rose petals nor was it moonlit, indeed dark clouds hovered ahead.
‘Why not?’ Vertue cornered me alone in the schoolroom early one evening when Emily had gone upstairs to fetch her shawl. ‘If you sit next to me you will learn more.
I can teach you a lot.’
‘I sit next to my sister.’
‘But it is not the law to sit next to her, is it?’ she snapped then tried, unsuccessfully, to turn her scowl in to a smile. ‘I thought you would like to sit beside me. Tell me about yourself. Who are you? Which part of England do you come from?’
‘Yorkshire,’ I said.
There was a pause. ‘That is to the north, is it not?’
‘Not if you live in Scotland,’ I replied.
‘But I do not live in Scotland! I live in Paris. Please sit next to me, it would be so amusing to have someone English as a companion – ’
‘I sit next to my sister,’ I repeated dumbly as I did not wish to offend.
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-six.’ Twenty-six, plain, unmarried, a spinster for life – if Vertue’s eyes could have spoken this is what they’d have said.
‘Your sister,’ she continued ‘wears her hair strangely. But you do not. She should look more to you, don’t you think?’
‘My sister is free to do as she wishes.’
‘But would you not agree that…’
‘No,’ I snapped ‘and I would thank you to leave my sister in peace.’
Vertue shrugged and stuck out her bottom lip like the petulant little madam she was. Her eyes, which only moments before had been dancing, turned to stone. She could look exceedingly ugly when she did not get her own way.
‘As you like, she sniffed and then, ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’
‘Tell them what?’ I said. It was not one minute since we had begun this conversation and already its pettiness bored me.
‘That you have declined to sit next to me. Promise me you will not tell anyone. We will pretend I never asked, shall we?’ Her face brightened at this idea, the stubborn lower lip was withdrawn and it occurred to me then that what she wanted was not my collusion so much as my intimacy.
I shuddered.
‘Consider it forgotten,’ I answered at which point the girl skipped over to where I was standing and gave me a hug.
‘So you see, we shall be friends after all, shall we not? All is forgotten. You will not say anything will you?’
Oh, how easily history can be manipulated! The little vixen could twist anything any which way it suited her. To be in possession of a gift such as that; to be so cavalier with the truth. Nothing I said or did to Vertue Basompierre would have any lasting impression - one could just as easily have drawn a finger across water.
‘You will not say anything will you?’ Vertue repeated, the effervescence of her youth bubbling up.
I did not reply, instead I walked swiftly from the room only to feel myself immediately bowled over by something small and child-shaped hurtling along the corridor at far too great a speed.
‘Marie Pauline!’ a male voice pursued this diminutive cannonball down the corridor after which the man himself charged into view. ‘Marie Pauline! You little scoundrel!’ he exclaimed loudly without any acknowledgement of my presence.
The little girl giggled and hid her face in my skirts.
‘An escaped prisoner?’ I enquired of the gentleman.
‘Quite correct,’ he said looking me up and down and then, glancing at the child as if to say ‘now look what you have done, I am being made to speak to a foreigner.’ He turned back to face me. ‘You would be one of the English pupils? There are two of you, are there not?’
‘Yes,’ I said slowly for I was wondering who on earth this interloper might be, a relative of the Hegers perhaps or a teacher I had not yet come across.
‘Your accent is passable I suppose – ’
‘You are very gracious, Sir, I am sure,’ I said, not meaning to sound impudent, but none the less sufficiently ruffled to query his presence. ‘And who are you?’
‘That is papa,’ Marie Pauline piped up sticking her head out from behind my skirts.
‘Papa?’
‘Constantin Heger,’ Monsieur Heger said.
I blushed. I did not know where to look. ‘But…I thought – I was under the impression that you were – ’
He cocked his head to one side, waiting, eyeing me up as a farmer might a bullock to see how much meat was on its bones. In Monsieur’s case I was hoping ‘meat’ might translate to ‘intellect’ but seeing I had been struck dumb, it was a vain hope. I smoothed down my skirts feeling more than a little rumpled under such intense scrutiny. Not that Monsieur stood the test of careful inspection himself. He was a thin, wiry man, with dark unruly hair, a swarthy complexion, dressed soberly but with oh!…what blue, confrontational eyes.
His eyes were the same colour as Marie-Pauline’s.
‘You arrived…when exactly did you arrive?’
‘Two-and-half-weeks ago, Monsieur.’
‘And what are you reading?’
‘Reading Monsieur?’ I repeated sounding more like the aforementioned bullock than I cared to admit.
‘Les livres,’ Marie Pauline lisped up at me.
‘Yes, books. Literature? What are you currently reading?’ repeated Monsieur Heger tugging Marie Pauline’s hair gently.
Again my mind went a blank as if I had never picked up a book in my life. Did I even know what one looked like? Then I heard my voice stutter, ‘Byron? Wordsworth? Southey? Milton of course and Shakespeare.’
‘Poetry then rather than history?’
‘I read history too. Hume, Rollin’s Histoire Ancienne.’
‘Biographies perhaps?’
‘Yes,’ I said feeling astonished that a man such as this was interested in what I might read. ‘Thomas Moore’s life of Byron and his work on Sheridan are two such that I admire – ’
‘And in your lessons, what are you studying there, please?’
I mentioned the name of the small French grammar both Emily and I had been given on our arrival but on hearing its title Monsieur Heger let out a grunt of horror and threw up his hands in such a fashion, he looked quite absurd.
‘From tomorrow you and your sister begin lessons with me. French is not a language to be strangled at birth’ (I think I understood this phrase correctly). ‘You will come to my study at 10am. We will work very hard.’ He spat this last sentence out as if it were a challenge. Then, just as a storm raddled sea is able to transform itself into something placid and calm, he asked in a much, much gentler voice, ‘Are you content here? Is there anything you need or are lacking?’
I paused.
Monsieur waited.
‘The moon,’ I said. ‘I have not seen it since our first night here. I would like to see the moon.’
‘The moon?’ he repeated.
I nodded and if I am not mistaken I think I detected the hint of a smile at the very edge of his mouth.
‘Tell me again,’ said Emily when I returned to the dormitory. She was scrabbling under her bed.
‘What have you dropped?’
‘I’m putting something away.’
‘What?’ I asked although I knew she wouldn’t tell me because my sister was that rarest of creatures – a young woman fluent in the unspoken word.
‘Tell me what he said please.’
‘He said that we should begin lessons – ’
‘No, no, from the beginning, ’she insisted for in this respect my sister was like my father, always needing to have the whole story explained to her, never just one part of it, because parts only misled. ‘If one has never experienced the seasons,’ she explained ‘and was only told about Spring, Summer and Autumn, how would you know what to expect from Winter?’Winter was Emily’s favourite season. When the land was bare, when the trees and leaves crackled. She liked the ice on our windows which we scratched off with our fingernails. Emily came alive in the winter. ‘It is the season when everything begins,’ she said. ‘People think that is in Spring, but it is not. Winter is when the resurrection begins.’
‘Monsieur Heger,’ I explained, ‘was not the man we saw in the refectory our first night here. The one who read the Lecture Pieuse?’
‘The dull man?’
‘Exactly. This Monsieur Heger is remarkably different. He is younger than his wife, of that I am certain. And darker of complexion. He asked what I liked to read and I told him Byron, Cowper, Wordsworth – then he asked if I liked to read history or philosophy and I said I enjoyed both.’ Emily nodded her approval. ‘He asked what we were being taught, what we were reading during our lessons, he looked unamused when I gave him the name of the grammar we are studying.’ I said warming to my theme. ‘In fact his face went quite red and that is when he insisted we study with him.’
‘Every day?’
‘I hope so, yes.’
‘And it is just to be us?’
‘We ar
e extremely privileged, Emily. I have heard some of the girls talking about him. He is a brilliant man, a famous teacher,’ I added then, without meaning to, I laughed out loud.
‘Shhhh,’ Emily whispered pointing to the curtain - and then a little louder, ‘Why are you laughing?’
‘I am excited. Aren’t you excited? We have wings Emily. Real wings.’
‘Strange creature.’
I pulled a face.
‘Very strange creature – ’
‘He is…’ I searched for a good word to describe him but could only think of his voice. ‘Loud,’ I said. ‘And quite short and dresses in black.’
‘Like Celia Amelia?’ she snorted referring to one of father’s curates, Mr Weightman, whom she had given this nickname.
‘Nothing at all like Mr Weightman. Emily, my mind is so rusty I need this, I need something, someone who can fire me into thinking again.’ My head was clear as glass as I said this, each word sparkling.
‘You are happy,’ she said. ‘And I am happy for you.’
‘Yes,’ I murmured resting my head on my pillow and closing my eyes but I was too full of questions for sleep. Would it be different being taught by a man rather than a woman? Father had taught us but that was a long time ago and besides we were his daughters, his flesh and blood. On the other hand Monsieur Heger had trained as a teacher, no doubt spoke many languages, studied Latin and Greek, History, Literature, he was employed at the Athénée Royal. My mind darted from one subject to the next. I tried to calm down, to fall asleep but each time I closed my eyes I could feel the excitement rising inside me again. The drab woman who had once haunted my life had suddenly metamorphosed into a wondrous creature.
That night I dreamt this creature escaped. It….she was a mixture of light and dark, ambition and purpose.
When I caught sight of her I recognized her, she thrilled and repelled me, but the greatest of these was recognition.
III