by Klein, S. G.
Six o’clock the following morning. The moon was an icy blur in the sky, a halo of milky white light that heralded in dawn. Monsieur Heger had done as he had promised and summoned Diana up for me. I lay in bed and smiled inwardly as the birds began to stir in the trees.
Two hours later and Emily and I had risen from our beds, dressed ourselves quickly then after our breakfast, we had made our way along the long central corridor towards Monsieur Heger’s study.
Eyes have long been a fascination of mine. The quickest way to pin a character down is to describe the eyes – their colour, size, the way the pupils dance or appear dead like those of a fish. Neither of us had seen Madame Heger since our drawing class earlier in the week however that morning we both caught sight of her hovering outside the door that led to the back of the teacher’s lecturn in the main classroom. The door was slightly ajar and Madame was leaning towards it. She was listening to Mademoiselle Haussé teaching a history lesson – that much was certain and her eyes – which at this distance looked dark as grit – glittered brightly.
Emily and I stopped in our tracks. Surely we had not just witnessed our directrice in the ungenerous act of spying on one of her teachers. The indignity! The shame of it! Not only to be doing such a thing, but to be caught in the act, yet Madame Heger, when she finally noticed us watching her, instead of blushing or seeming flustered, momentarily skewered us with the blackest of looks then swiftly turned this darkness into a smile.
‘Good-morning Mademoiselles,’ she said as she swept past so defiantly I felt almost jealous. The keys at her waist jangled as Emily and I stood and stared at each another.
‘She had to make certain the lesson ran smoothly,’ I whispered.
‘She was spying on Mademoiselle Haussé!’
‘You cannot know that,’ I replied although at the same time thinking that – were I in Madame Heger’s position – I would do much the same for Mademoiselle Haussé was hardly the most gifted of teachers. She taught in a similar fashion to the way in which she dressed for despite being a tall, handsome woman she never chose clothes that conveyed discipline of character, instead preferring an odd mis-match of styles.
The girls constantly giggled behind her back – her feet were too big they said, her petticoats too short and her ankles – which were permanently on display due to the sorry state of her petticoats – were thick and red as bacon.
‘What else could she have been doing?’ Emily hissed.
I hesitated, momentarily at a loss for words. ‘Spying is too harsh a description,’ I said acutely aware that this time it was Emily’s gentle, yet perceptive eyes that were upon me. ‘She was assessing the situation.’
Emily looked at me curiously. ‘We should go in,’ she said nodding towards the door at the far end of the corridor. ‘We do not want to keep Monsieur waiting.’
Monsieur Heger’s study was an untidy, poorly maintained room - yet civilized. Two desks were placed in the centre whilst at the far end Monsieur Heger’s own table stood piled high with leather-bound volumes together with sheathes of vellum and blotting paper and countless bottles of ink. One side of the room was dominated by bookshelves. I had always thought Father’s study held the most books, now I was disillusioned of that fact. Row upon row of titles were stacked one after the other on the shelves, their titles glittering me towards them enticingly.
By the window stood a glass cabinet displaying a collection of birds’ eggs laid out in order of size on what appeared to be a thick layer of wool.
Everything was exactly as I had imagined the study of a serious man of letters to be, all except the sweet scent of cigar smoke that lingered in the air.
‘Welcome!’ Monsieur Heger said jumping up from his desk and showing us to our seats. ‘You have settled in well I hope, Mademoiselle?’ he said turning to Emily who responded with a nod of the head but not, much to my embarrassment, anything more civil. ‘Bien!’ he declared. ‘Ca c’est tres bien! Now would you please repeat Monsieur Heger’s [here he spoke of himself in the third person which made both Emily and I smile] recipe for success!
Spirit of Wisdom, guide us: - he boomed.
Spirit of Wisdom, guide us – we repeated:
Spirit of Truthfulness, teach us:
Spirit of Charity, invigorate us:
Spirit of Prudence, preserve us:
Spirit of Strength, defend us:
Spirit of Justice, enlighten us:
Comforting spirit, soothe us.1
Emily looked bewildered, as did I, but we did as we were bid and repeated the phrases to the best of our abilities after which Monsieur proceeded to outline how our lessons with him would be conducted.
He was dispensing with grammar, he said, with a keen flourish. Firstly we were going to listen to him reading passages from the French classics so that we could acclimatize to the feeling and rhythm of well-written French. We would also begin, he hoped, to discern the motives behind each author’s work and their different styles. Yes! This was Monsieur Heger’s approach to the French language, a tried and tested method which had never failed him. We would afterwards critique what he had read out aloud and finally we would attempt to key into what the author had written as a piano tuner might attempt to tune his instrument by imitating the writer as closely as possible in subjects of our own choosing.
‘This is the only way to learn a language. From the heart,’ he said, dramatically thumping his chest. ‘I want you to find the truth,’ he added emphasizing ‘truth’ as if life itself depended upon it. ‘Spirit of Truth; teach us!’
Can words conjure up desire? Can they jolt the mind physically? Disturb the body spiritually? At that moment I believed so.
Monsieur picked up a book. ‘Ecoutez!’ he shouted as loudly as the bells of Ste Gudule and before we could even draw breath he had begun on an intimidating passage from Chateaubriand’s Prière du Soir à bord d’un Vaisseau. I closed my eyes, allowing the words to wash over and through me, occasionally pinpointing a familiar sentence as if I had glimpsed dry land but otherwise overwhelmed by the sheer beauty and magnificence of the ocean itself. I did not even peep to see how Emily fared although, when Monsieur Heger eventually came to a halt and I opened my eyes again, I could tell something was worrying my sister because of the frown creasing her forehead.
Monsieur closed the book and placed it back on the shelf behind him.
‘Do you see how the author shaped his argument? How each scene was described and how each description consequently led into the main discussion? Each word, I believe, was scripted for that very purpose. Each phrase calculated to lead you into following the first topic then onto the second and so on and so on – ’ Monsieur Heger continued to critique Chateaubriand, illustrating various points by the repetition of a sentence here, a paragraph there after which Emily and I had our say although, and I do not mention this to boast, I contributed more than my little sister during this part of the lesson because I had understood more. Nevertheless Monsieur seemed happy with both of us, until that is, he repeated his request that our homework should comprise of writing an essay in the style of Chateaubriand.
‘I cannot do that,’ Emily said.
Monsieur Heger looked puzzled.
He cocked his head to one side just as he had done at our first meeting.
‘What is the point,’ Emily continued realizing she needed to expand further, ‘in imitating someone else’s style? I have my own style, my own way of saying things, to imitate someone else is to show a lack of imagination.’
‘No, no,’ Monsieur Heger was swift to correct her, ‘not when you are learning a language. This is the best way I can assure you of acclimatizing yourself to your new surroundings. If you were to walk through a jungle, you would want the best guide to show you the way rather than to march off on your own. Your route would be slow, you might get lost?’
Much to my astonishment (and slight discomfort) Emily begged to differ. ‘Sir, I do not see it like that. If I were to walk out into a jungle …’
‘Mademoiselle? – ’
‘Monsieur?’
‘Who is the teacher here? I wish you to follow my instructions. I am well aware you will have what you call “your own style” but in this establishment, in this classroom you are to forego all self-styled methods and imitate – to the best of your abilities – those writers I recommend.
‘It is impossible. If I could – ’
But here Monsieur Heger cut my sister short.
‘Time,’ he said knitting his brows so that his eyes, already dark, grew even darker, ‘does not permit me to argue this point. I am expected elsewhere. Please indulge me this once.’
Emily glowered.
Two seconds later and Monsieur Heger was gone.
‘We shall be late for Madamoiselle Sophie,’ I said standing up, but Emily remained glued to her seat.
‘I do not like him,’ she whispered.
‘It will take time.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘He looks like an insane type of Tom-cat. Not at all how you described him.’
‘I said he was dark and expressed himself bluntly – ’
‘He is rude – ’
‘We have never been tutored by a man before, or a foreigner,’ I reminded her. ‘Their methods are different to ours, that is all. Will you do as he wishes?’
Emily narrowed her eyes and looked at me as though I had asked a trick question.
‘Reason tells me I should – ’
‘But does that mean that you will?’
She glowered. ‘He has no dominion over me. He cannot command what I think.’
‘But dearest’ I said in as reasonable a tone as I could muster for I had no wish to fight with my sister. ‘We are here to learn, are we not? We are here as pupils and as such we should do what is requested of us.’
Emily’s eyes met mine. I knew she could tell what I was thinking. There was no need to explain myself further. For a couple of moments we were silent, Emily remained seated while I stood staring at the walls. A clock on the mantelpiece chimed eleven o’clock. I could hear scurrying outside in the corridors, the sound of laughter. Emily stood up and collected her books.
‘We are going to be late for Mademoiselle Sophie,’ she said.
IV
Dear Ellen
Is it the fashion now a days to send sheets of blank paper instead of letters to friends in foreign parts – ’ I wrote referring to the envelope I had received from my friend Ellen Nussey which contained two sheets of blank paper upon which she had written no more than a question mark.
The letter had arrived several weeks previously but it was only now that I had time to sit down and write the type of detailed description she so obviously desired.
The schoolroom was quiet. A few students milled around the desks. Emily was sitting beside me agonizing over an essay.
‘This is a large school,’ I wrote, ‘in which there are about 40 externes or day-pupils and 12 pensionaires or boarders – Madame Heger the head is a lady of precisely the same cast of mind degree of cultivation and quality of character as Miss Catherine Wooler – I think the severe points are a little softened because she has not been disappointed & consequently soured – in a word – she is a married instead of a maiden lady.’
I paused. This was an accurate description although I was quite well aware that neither Ellen nor myself were married, therefore to label Miss Wooler ‘soured’ might sound hypocritical, but Ellen would understand my meaning. We had shared a great deal when we were at school together at Roe Head.
I picked up my pen again, dipped the nib into the inkwell. ‘All in this house are Catholics except ourselves one other girl and the gouvernante of Madam’s children – an Englishwoman in rank something between a lady’s maid and a nursery governess the difference in Country & religion makes a broad line of demarcation between us & all the rest we are completely isolated in the midst of numbers – yet I think I am never unhappy – my present life is so delightful so congenial to my own nature compared to that of a Governess – my time constantly occupied passes too rapidly – hitherto both Emily and I have had good health & therefore we have been able to work well There is one individual of whom I have not yet spoken Monsieur Heger the husband of Madame – he is professor of Rhetoric a man of power as to mind but very choleric and irritable in temperament.’ Was that an unfair description? I read it back to myself. No, it was accurate – perhaps even mild – ‘he is a little, black, ugly being with a face that varies in expression, sometimes he borrows the lineaments of an insane Tom-cat,’ I wrote stealing Emily’s phrase. I admit that at the time she had said it I had not found it in the slightest degree amusing, but now as I penned the words a smile played on my lips.
‘Very seldom he discards these perilous attractions and assumes an air not above a hundred degrees removed from what you call mild & gentleman-like he is very angry with me just at present because I have written a translation which he chose to stigmatize as peu-correct – not because it was particularly so in reality but because he happened to be in a bad humour when he read it.’
‘Finished!’ Emily exclaimed closing her exercise book and emitting, an exhausted sigh. ‘Shall we go upstairs?’
‘I am writing to Ellen. I won’t be much longer. You go ahead and I will join you shortly?’
But Emily hung back. ‘I shall wait with you. Have you told Ellen about these Papist girls?’ she added raising her head and staring over at the other students who were sat in a tight little huddle around the stove.
‘I’ve not had time. I think if we talked to them more, they might like us better perhaps?’
‘How would that be?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said picking up my pen again while Emily continued to stare at her adversaries.
‘You will abuse this letter for being short I daresay, and there are a hundred things which I wish to tell you but I have not the time. Do write to me and cherish Christian charity in your heart! Brussels is a beautiful city – the Belgians hate the English – their external morality is more rigid than ours – to lace the stays without any handkerchief on the neck is considered a disgusting piece of indelicacy – Remember me to Mercy & your Mother, and believe me, my dear Ellen – Yours, sundered by the sea – ’
V
I don’t recall if it was the third or fourth Sunday after our arrival at the Pensionnat that Emily and I left the building for the first time.
We were to attend church.
The only Protestant church in the city – the Chapelle Royale.
As we walked we studied our new surroundings carefully. Carts and carriages clattered across the cobbles, birds rose in grey flurries from the tops of the buildings, children ran to and fro, some carrying baskets, others scampering in and out of the alleyways – half angels, half rats.
‘Look at the way that man is dressed.’
‘Can you see those trees? Their bark is so white.’
‘What is that woman shouting?’
‘That girl’s hair is redder than madder.’
‘I still miss home,’ Emily said, softly slipping the sentence into our conversation like a knife into butter.
I did not know what to say.
‘Look at that?’ I pointed out a young woman we had just passed in the street whose hat was so lacey she resembled a Michalemas daisy.
Back home Emily would have laughed at such an absurdity. Today she simply leant her head on my shoulder.
‘I know,’ I murmured. ‘I know my darling, but what can I do?’ I continued to prattle on about the surrounding beauty which even on a day such as this – when the cold bit visciously at our cheeks – was nothing less than astounding. The sparkling fountains and dress shops whose windows were brimful with velvet and silk, the faraway domes and nearby gardens ablaze with spring flowers. Finally we turned into the Place du Musée at the far end of which stood the Chapelle Royale. The building, once a Catholic church had been decreed Protestant by Napoleon at the turn of the century, or so we had been told
, although one could barely believe it for on stepping inside Emily declared we had entered a jewel. Everything shone golden and white, was painted and ornate with cherubs floating by on flounces of white cloud. By comparison our church at home was a dull relation, not one however I was willing to abandon. After all how could one concentrate on a service in the Chapelle Royale when there was nowhere to rest ones eyes? How could one be a servant to Truth in a place where so much was fabricated?
‘How in short,’ I asked Monsieur during the proceeding week, ‘can the word of God be heard in such a cacophony as adorn those walls?’
Monsieur put down his book from which he had been reading out loud. ‘You did not find the Chapelle to your taste?’
‘Vertue Bassompiere’s dress is plainer than the walls of that church.’
‘Would you not consider that the decoration is to the glory of God?’
‘God does not require our glorification, he requires our attention.’ I sounded prim and I knew it, but the vulgarity of the Chapelle Royale was an affront and I had thought that the professor might agree given his preference for clear, unadorned prose.
‘Well put,’ he said, ‘but if your attention is so easily distracted one might surmise that it is your attention that is at fault rather than your surroundings? The same can be said of your prose. It is peppered with irrelevant phrases, infelicitous words. Here for instance,’ he said bending down over my desk to point to a passage in my homework that had been scored out in black ink. ‘You must learn to structure your argument better, never use two words where one will suffice. To truly express yourself, to allow your soul to sing and be understood - these techniques have to be studied. And this applies to you too,’ he continued turning to Emily although somewhat, I fear, as an afterthought. ‘You are both exceptional women of that there is no doubt but cleverness is not enough if literature and learning are to be your chosen path.’
My chosen path?
His words rang in my ears. No one had spoken to me in this manner before. It was as if he had seen into my very soul.