by Klein, S. G.
He spoke to Emily first saying that she must improve her vocabulary and that her grammar also needed sharpening. ‘But you have obviously thought your subject through thoroughly. You have a head for logic which is rare in one so young,’ he added, a phrase I would have exchanged for all King Midas’s gold to hear in reference to my own work.
But Emily’s face remained blank. If she was pleased she would not allow a stranger to see it. It pained me. Emily had been studying French for far less a time than I, but I did not realise how much it pained me until Monsieur turned his attention to my essay – Prière du Soir dans un camp.
At first I thought he would berate me for choosing to ignore Chateaubriand’s Catholic sensibility, replacing it with my own – more measured - Protestant one.
This was not the case.
Monsieur Heger did not seem to care about my religious preferences, instead he concentrated on the pedestrian failings of my writing.
‘Your command of French vocabulary and idiom is better than that of your sister’s,’ he said, ‘ but it still needs strengthening – as does your grammar. You make too many careless mistakes. You also wander around your subject like a cow wandering aimlessly over the hilltops. You graze here and you graze there, you glance at a pasture below, then one above, loops and zigzags – ’
‘A cow – ’
Monsieur Heger let out a sound like a growl. A low, animal sound.
‘You growled!’ I said looking up at him in astonishment.
‘I am clearing my throat,’ he replied narrowing his eyes as he spoke then placing one hand on my essay he continued, ‘Mademoiselle, for the first half of your essay you describe the scene in camp– you use it as if it were the argument itself. Your setting is well described but it overwhelms everything else – ’
‘I – ’
‘Listen to me. You begin by describing the sunset but then the sun takes precedence over what it was intended to clarify. Tell me, did Chateaubriand write like that? Did he structure his argument as you have structured yours?’
‘My feelings – ’
‘No, he did not,’ Monsieur Heger said riding roughshod over my feeble attempt at a defence. ‘Here for instance,’ he pointed to a particular sentence – the image is good but the rendition is mediocre and clumsy. See how I have tidied it up? Made it more truthful to itself and to the essay as a whole?’
‘I thought it quite good,’ I replied crestfallen. ‘The way you have written it is rather too direct perhaps?’
Emily smiled. I could see her out of the corner of my eye, but Monsieur Heger did not smile.
‘Direct’ he said tapping his finger on the table impatiently.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
‘You speak of direct?’
Tap. Tap. Tap.
‘An essay must have integrity. For integrity the essay must be well constructed. The argument must be truthful to the whole piece. No disorder. No wandering off.’
‘The cow?’ I whispered.
‘Precisely, the cow!’
‘I only digressed for a second – ’
‘The truth is what we are pursuing Mademoiselle. The truth!’
‘But the truth explains nothing.’ I said standing my ground as best I could and raising my voice. ‘Indeed facts require explanation themselves. That’s why the Imagination needs to be heard –’
‘There is a place for the Imagination – but not for its own sake – humour me please?’
‘I – ’
‘Please.’
I nodded though my spirits sagged. Hadn’t I written in this fashion since I was a child, delighted in my phrasing and imagery? Now, not only did I have to master a foreign language, I was being taught how to master a whole new way of approaching language itself. It seemed a defeat and yet here was a man willing to talk to me as an equal. A man who, were I to allow my Imagination free reign, I would compare to one of the gods from Greek mythology perhaps? Zeus or Titan? A strong, stern type, standing on top a mountain, a laurel wreath resting on his brow, a bolt of lightening gripped fiercely in his hand.
‘We shall start again,’ Monsieur Heger said leaning down closer. The smell of cigar smoke filled my nostrils. ‘Here for instance,’ he began, ‘I have deleted this phrase and see what I have done here? By replacing those four words with this one your whole argument is more tailored.’
I nodded.
‘It is clearer, is it not?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It is clearer.’
‘Mademoiselle you must not misunderstand me. I do admire your imaginative powers but for them to be effective you must not sacrifice the structure of your argument on the altar of mere Fancy. Start with some control, let your mind display logic and follow this line through as you might a lifeline. The imagination will sing all the more clearly after that.’
My imaginative powers? Even today, so many years later, I can remember Monsieur Heger’s words and the transformative effect they had upon me.
The whole room turned to gold.
Neither Emily nor myself had set eyes on Madame Heger for several days other than a brief encounter with her when she had entered the music room where Emily was practicing piano one late afternoon. On that occasion Madame Heger appeared surprised that it was Emily and myself seated at the instrument rather than somebody other. Nevertheless she complimented Emily’s playing – declaring it ‘very good, quite charming’ before leaving us in peace, closing the door quietly behind her.
But on the day we left Monsieur Heger’s study after he had gone through our devoirs – and on several occasions afterwards – Emily insisted she saw Madam Heger hovering in the shadows at the far end of the corridor. The first time it occurred Emily said that Madame Heger looked right through her as if she, Emily, were a ghost – before disappearing silently around the corner.
‘She was spying on us,’ Emily said later as we walked arm in arm through the garden as the evening sun was beginning to set. Cherry blossom drifted through the air catching in our hair.
‘Perhaps she needed to speak to Monsieur?’ I replied more practically, ‘but did not want to disturb him.’
Emily would hear none of it.
‘Then why would she not enter the room when we were finished? She is so silent, have you noticed, when she moves she never makes a sound? You can’t hear her approaching – it’s unnatural.’
By this time we had reached the far end of the garden beyond the flowerbeds where the shrubbery became darker. In a few weeks time Spring would be in full force, the honeysuckle and buttercups would be in flower. We had been here a month already. Time was passing swiftly.
Emily pointed to a Yew tree flecked with red berries.
‘A bulk of mystery and gravitas,’ she said.
‘Seething in the breeze of spring,’ I quoted back.
‘Have you ever wanted to eat them? They look so pretty. Like little red cherries?’
‘They’re poisonous.’
‘Perhaps that is what makes them so appealing?’ her voice drifted off.
‘You’re happier today, aren’t you?’ I said.
‘I’ll only be happy when we can go home.’
‘But there are moments when you forget yourself – ’
Emily’s face grew sullen. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Don’t you see? Being here isn’t living, it is existing. I know we are here for a purpose, but that does not mean I don’t feel ill every hour of every day – ’
‘When we are working I forget where I am. We could be anywhere in the world, it doesn’t seem to matter.’
‘I can’t be you,’ Emily replied sternly. She rested her head on my shoulder. ‘We could shorten our stay could we not? Return home early?’
No! – a voice screamed deep from within. I cared for my sister, oh how I cared! But I cared for my studies too.
‘We should try to mix in more,’ I said brightly.
Emily snorted. ‘They don’t want to be our friends. They make fun us, you know they do.’
‘Monsieur does
not make fun us – ’
‘He is tyrannical, look how he is making us study the language, copying others –’
‘He has taken great pains over our studies – ’
‘Great pains? We are good students, we are exceptional students. The others are dolts in comparison to us.’ At this point Emily pulled a face, expressing just how stupid she thought our fellow pupils to be. ‘I hate living here. I want to go home. I shall not change my mind.’
No, I thought, there is no changing how you feel, you are as tyrannical as he is, perhaps even more so.
Above us the bells of Ste. Gudule rang out the hour.
‘I am going in now,’ Emily said turning back towards the house but it was not more than a few seconds later before she let out a small cry.
Madame Heger had appeared as if out of nowhere.
It was amusing and I have to confess I almost allowed myself to laugh out loud.
‘Madame?’ I stuttered desperately trying to stifle my giggles.
‘Mesdemoiselles,’ replied our directrice softy then she tilted her head a little to one side whilst allowing the slightest of frowns to pass across her brow as if she had come upon something untoward. ‘What are you doing in the garden at this time of day? One of the girls said she thought someone was prowling. You will catch your death of cold. Look, you are shivering,’ she said to me as if she had just discovered evidence of some terrible crime. Her preposterousness made me want to laugh even more and I could feel my body beginning to shake.
‘Madame – ’ I began once again but Emily, seeing my lack of composure, rescued the situation by explaining quietly how we liked being outside in the evenings, how for us this was not cold weather but mild.
Madame would hear none of it and kept up her fuss. ‘I do not want you falling ill,’ she remonstrated kindly enough. ‘What would your family say? Besides it is not what we do here – walk around by ourselves at nightfall. Come, it is almost time for the evening meal, you must be hungry and we don’t want you to miss hearing the bell. Come, come – ’
‘But…’
But Madame held up her hand.
‘Come,’ she said again only this time on hearing her speak something inside me snapped. Instead of finding her voice amusing or caring, it grated.
We were being to spoken to as if we were children. Besides – there was something else in her voice, some hidden accusation that we could not be trusted to walk alone in her garden.
Emily tugged at my sleeve but I did not move.
I was still listening to Madame’s voice, filled with supposed concern, yet hollow as a blown egg.
That night as we mounted the stairs to the dormitory I found myself pausing in front of the Virgin Mary. Surrounded by candles her image flickered thinly against the whitewashed walls. I looked at her smooth plaster face and as I did so became conscious for the first time that as much as I was looking at her, so she was looking at me, her eyes steadily drinking me in.
VIII
‘You have five minutes,’ said Mademoiselle Blanche as she paced up and down the schoolroom inbetween our desks pausing only when she reached that of Vertue Basompierre who stared up at her in incomprehension.
‘I cannot possibly finish in that time! You forget I came late to the lesson – ’
‘How could I possibly forget? – ’ replied our instructress disdainfully. ‘Your entrance disrupted us all – ’
If Vertue blushed I did not see it. Instead she took to retying one of the many silk ribbons adorning her hair – an action that provoked Mademoiselle Blanche for suddenly her mouth turned thin and hard. In comparison to her young pupil the elder woman seemed extremely ugly – an impression that was far from the truth as Mademoiselle Blanche was a striking woman in her own right. I had noted as much on the first evening we set eyes on her in the Refectory – how finely her features were drawn, how green her eyes appeared. Her waist was thin as a wasp’s, her hair dark as ravens’ wings. If Vertue Basompierre made the sun dull, Mademoiselle Blanche eclipsed the moon. She certainly outshone all of the other staff put together. And she knew it.
She drew close to mine & Emily’s desks – she was wearing a jet black silk dress, the surface of which was slippery as oil on water.
‘Your handwriting,’ she drawled while glancing down at my sister’s worksheet, ‘where did you learn to write like that?’
Emily shrugged, although whether out of ignorance or mulishness, I do not know.
‘Our father instructed us,’ I said picking up my sister’s slack. ‘He taught us how to read and write – ’
‘It shows,’ replied our teacher curtly.
‘We have had no other complaints. Quite the contrary in fact, our teachers at home were always very complimentary and Monsieur Heger has said nothing at all unfavourable – ’
At the mention of Monsieur Heger’s name I thought I saw a flicker of kindness pass across Mademoiselle Blanche’s face but the moment was brief.
She said, ‘You will have to improve if you do not want people commenting on your failings.’
Again I mentioned the fact that Monsieur had not seen fit to criticize our penmanship. ‘Monsieur Heger is far too busy to concern himself with such trivialities,’ replied Mademoiselle Blanche although whether she was referring to our handwriting or to us was not clear.
Later, after the class was finished, Emily tore up the piece of paper she had been writing on and threw the scraps to the floor.
I bent down to retrieve them.
‘Don’t,’ she said.
‘You are wrong to be angry – ’
‘First we are told to adopt other writers’ styles; then we are told that even our penmanship is inadequate. They reduce us to nothing, soon there will be nothing left of us for them to teach – ’
‘You are out of sorts,’ I replied ‘and little wonder, but you must not upset yourself over such – ’
‘Trivialities?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Do you warm to her?’
‘To Mademoiselle Blanche?’
‘To any of them – ’
‘They are different,’ I conceded. ‘But then we are different too – ’
‘Always so conciliatory,’ Emily said sharply before bending down to retrieve the scraps of paper herself before stuffing them into her pockets. ‘Madame Heger wasn’t much to your liking when she found us in the garden – I saw the way that you looked at her – ’
‘I was out of sorts.’
Emily raised an eyebrow then opening her desk started to talk about how our directrice did seem pleasant enough, quite natural & unaffected although it still concerned her how silently she had crept up on us in the garden as if her footsteps turned everything beneath them to snow.
*
The first gift appeared on the morning of Madame Heger’s half-holiday. I had entered the schoolroom immediately after breakfast to retrieve a book from my desk because I wanted to take it upstairs to study that night. All the other girls, including Emily, had retreated to the dormitory to put on their costumes and the day pupils had yet to arrive so the room was empty.
I crossed over to my desk, lifted the lid whereupon I noticed a small leather-bound volume which had not been there the previous evening. A strong smell of cigar smoke accompanied my discovery.
I coughed slightly then lifted the book – a copy of Schiller’s Ballads - from its resting place and opening it to the title page found a scrap of paper slipped inside with the following inscription. ‘To my pupil to encourage her in her studies.’
Underneath Monsieur Heger had signed his name.
What joy! What delight! Imagine – if you will – a dark forest and then imagine a shaft of sunlight scumbling through the trees, a brilliant, dazzling spiral of light. That light was my pleasure and for a few moments afterwards I stood stockstill looking down at the gift before I closed its pages and returned it to my desk.
I walked towards the door, but no, I could not help but turn around and walk back
to my desk and very slowly lift up the lid again as if a wild animal were crouching inside. Just to smell the cigar smoke made my breath quicken then down came the lid again. Tonight I would read the book after Emily had gone to sleep for she always drifted off well before I did. Then a second thought occurred to me, not one I am proud of, but glancing over my shoulder I carefully lifted the lid of Emily’s desk and peeped inside.
Nothing was there. Nothing that caused alarm anyway; only sheaves of writing paper and a well-thumbed dictionary Emily had brought with her from home.
*
Pandemonium, the high Capital of Satan and his Peers2– best describes the dormitory on my return upstairs. The commotion when I entered the room was unbearable for it seemed that the air was ‘thick swarm’d’ with lace and ribbons, flounces of silk and skeins of laughter. It was merriment on a scale un-encountered, with Vertue Basompierre at its centre.
Emily, dear, sombre Emily sat on her bed with her hands over her ears in an attempt to ignore the commotion, not aided by the fact that Madame had sent up platefuls of cake and little sweet treats for the girls to share amongst themselves. I asked Emily if she was going to change her dress for the performance but she replied that the one she was wearing, that is to say the same brown dress she wore every day except Sundays, would suffice. For myself, I had created a pale blue sash out of an odd scrap of silk I kept in my sewing box which I now attached to my grey woollen dress. The adornment was enough to show willing but not too much to make me uncomfortable.
Downstairs and once more in the schoolroom we began arranging chairs into a semi-circle in front of the teacher’s dais which was to act as the stage. We hung long chains of paper flowers, which the younger girls had been making in the evenings in place of their studies, from the ceiling and around the windows. Everywhere was a mass of colour and indulgence – a reflection of the Romanism of this country and its frivolous nature.
I was still irked by the fact that Emily had not seen fit to tell me what it was she was to perform, indeed I was half expecting her to announce she had a headache or some such other complaint, but to my astonishment she seemed quite content to remain and get things in order.