by Klein, S. G.
My spirits continued to fail me. My only true companion during this time was memory. I pored over the essays I had written for Monsieur – read and re-read the notes and comments he had made in the margins, closed my eyes to recall the hours I had spent in his company, dwelt on that last snatched moment of intimacy.
But one crumb does not a meal make.
I faded.
Catching sight of myself in the mirror one evening, it took me several moments to recognize my own face and establish that the sunken eyes I saw before me were in fact my own.
Melancholy descended like a mist. I could not write, I could not read. In particular I wanted to study the religious tract that Monsieur Heger had given me. If I read the text closely enough – or so ran my train of thought – might I not begin to see the beauties of Monsieur’s beliefs? Romanism could not all be cloven-hoofed chicanery, surely? But my mind would have none of it. I was too distracted. I would read a paragraph then moments later forget what it was I had read. Or I would begin a sentence only to find my eyes wandering from the page to the scene outside the window. Nor did the ideas I did grasp hold me in any great thrall.
The Stations of the Cross were perhaps the least likely to offend, but when I came to a chapter explaining the Indulgences, I could not help but think these Catholics simpletons. As for the idea that one might be able to pray a lost soul out of Purgatory, surely more solace was to be had in the knowledge that no such place as Purgatory existed? Like Hades it was fanciful – albeit that Hades was where I now resided.
One night a storm hit the city. I had eaten supper early and alone for by this point Marianne Wilke had been collected by an Aunt on her father’s side who thought better than to leave the child throughout the entire holidays while her parents sojourned abroad, while Mademoiselle Blanche had taken herself out to visit some friends.
Supper over I took a walk around the garden. The past few weeks had been hot with brilliant sunshine decking the skies from early morning until nightfall. Now I noticed a stirring in the trees, the leaves rustling noisily overhead and by the time I retired to bed near on midnight the shutters in the empty dormitory were beginning to rattle and crack.
I opened a window and suddenly the storm blew full force against me, rain slashed the darkness, driving across my face as gust after gust of wind screamed around the eaves of the building. I might have been up on the moors rather than in the centre of a city and for a moment the pleasure I felt at the storm’s strength flooded my body. I opened my arms out wide.
Perhaps this was all I needed to shake me from my torpor? Perhaps this was God’s way of showing me that, yes, my master might be out of reach but that my true Master, was very much present.
The next morning I took myself out as soon as the sun rose above the skyline. The streets were scattered with debris, smashed slates from the rooftops and branches from the trees lay strewn across the roads.
I walked out of the city to the Protestant Cemetery and beyond that to the fields and hills that stretched as far as the horizon. Exhaustion was my aim. I reasoned that if I walked far enough and for long enough then I might find some peace of mind, for still I felt tormented, but even when I returned to the city later that evening, I was not ready to return to the Pensionat to sit in absolute silence.
Instead I found myself standing outside the Church of Ste Gudule. Its dark towers rose before me, beckoning me inside. I had passed by this building a hundred times yet had never before stopped to give it a thought. Every day I had listened to its bells ringing Matins and Vespers yet had never seen fit to enter its portals.
Now I hesitated.
Monsieur worshipped at this church, surely that was recommendation enough?
The bells began to toll for evening Salut.
Inside was dark and cool. That was my first impression. Then, as my eyes grew accustomed to the light I became aware of four, pale grey marble columns each speckled unevenly with dark green markings like those of a pheasant’s egg. For a time I leant against one of these columns drinking in my surroundings, breathing in the sweet smell of incense mixed with polish and wax.
Echoes bounded off the high ceilings. An old woman sitting in one of the pews turned the page of her prayer book and the sound filled the air. A young boy sitting with his mother turned to look at me and smiled. I crossed the floor and sat down in an empty pew just as Vespers began.
‘O God, come to my assistance’, sang the priest together with the small congregation, ‘O Lord, make haste to help me. Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning is now and ever shall be world without end. Amen. Alleluia.’
These were the words Monsieur Heger had recited ever since he was a child, these were his rituals. Whatever Romanism represented to me surely I could be allowed to believe that at least one amongst their number was worthy of my respect?
Throughout the whole hour I sat transfixed.
Even when the service finished I did not move. On my left was an antechamber in which sat a small band of worshippers who remained kneeling next to what I quickly realized were the Confessionals.
In two of the Confessionals priests sat. I watched as one by one the worshippers filed in to make their confessions.
‘Hogwash!’ Emily’s voice echoed inside my head. ‘Absolute balderdash and hogwash!’ The two of us had poked fun at this ritual on so many occasions, had mocked Romanism’s priest-craft whenever the opportunity presented itself, it made me smile to find myself seated here.
But what harm could it do? What harm was there in entering the Confessional? After all I had a confession to make, had I not?
The young woman kneeling next to me stood up and entered the booth. Minutes later she reappeared again. Did I imagine it or was she less stooped than before, brighter of countenance?
I heard someone cough and, glancing to my left saw an old woman signalling for me to go in.
‘Allez! Vite, vite!’ she hissed.
‘Bless me Father for I have sinned.’ These first words were the only ones I knew of the ritual for Emily and I had often repeated them to one another in gentle mockery. Now the words escaped my mouth like a spell.
From behind the grid I caught the outline of the priest’s face.
He nodded.
‘I am not a Catholic,’ I whispered to explain why I could not continue with the rest of the formula.
‘Then child, why are you here?’
I hesitated.
‘Mademoiselle, you cannot enjoy the privilege of confession, not as a Protestant – ’
‘Please – ’ I begged. ‘I am a foreigner here. I know no one else in the city – I need to… ’
‘There is a Protestant church in Brussels. I could show you where it – ’
‘No,’ I said. ‘That is not what I, not what I – ’
‘What you want? – ’ the priest’s voice was patient, even so he was struggling to understand what it was I needed. ‘Are you here for instruction, perhaps? If that is the case might I suggest…if you come back tomorrow – ’
‘Instruction?’
‘In the ways of the True Church? To bring you into the fold? You would not be the first Mademoiselle, there are many who have strayed or who have been led astray, taken a wrong path – ’
‘Not I,’ I whispered and then, fearing he might take offence I added, ‘But please hear my confession…’
‘But you are not of our Faith, child. I would not know how to counsel you – ’
‘Nonetheless Father, it can do no harm – ’
Through the grid I saw the priest bend his head. From what I could tell he was an elderly man with thin, greying hair, but I could not see his eyes for these were turned away from me and so there was no way of knowing his character.
‘Very well,’ he whispered. ‘You may give me your confession – ’
And so I began.
The words poured out of me. It did not feel awkward or unwise telling this stranger what was weighing
so heavily on my soul. Indeed as each word left my mouth, as I described my time at the Pensionat, the nature of my studies, the friendship that had sprung up between myself and my teacher, our mutual respect for one another, the growing admiration between us, the more beautiful my confession became.
By the time I left the Church and walked back out on to the street, evening had turned into night. The streetlamps were being lit and the last of the starlings were screaming over the rooftops.
The priest had been very kind to me, very gentle and I did feel calmer that I had spoken with him; even so with every step I took back towards the Pensionat I knew I had a second confession to make.
Dear E. J.
Another opportunity coming to pass, I shall improve it by scribbling a few lines….Yesterday I went on a pilgrimage to the cemetery, and far beyond it on to a hill where there was nothing but fields as far as the horizon. When I came back it was evening; but I had such a repugnance to return to the house, which contained nothing that I cared for, I still kept threading the streets in the neighbourhood of the Rue d’Isabelle and avoiding it. I found myself opposite to Ste Gudul, and the bell, whose voice you know, began to toll for evening salut. I went in, quite alone (which procedure you will say is not much like me), wandered about the aisles where a few old women were saying their prayers, till vespers begun. I stayed till they were over. Still I could not leave the church or force myself to go home – to school I mean. An odd whim came into my head. In a solitary part of the Cathedral six or seven people still remained kneeling by the confessionals. In two confessionals I saw a priest. I felt as if I did not care what I did, provided it was not absolutely wrong, and that it served to vary my life and yield a moment’s interest. I took a fancy to change myself into a Catholic and go and make a real confession to see what it was like. Knowing me as you do, you will think this odd, but when people are by themselves they have singular fancies. A penitent was occupied in confessing. They do not go into the sort of pew or cloister which the priest occupies, but kneel down on the steps and confess through a grating. Both the confessor and the penitent whisper very low, you can hardly hear their voices. After I had watched two or three penitents go and return I approached at last and knelt down in a niche which was just vacated. I had to kneel there ten minutes waiting, for on the other side was another penitent invisible to me. At last that went away and a little wooden door inside the grating opened, and I saw the priest leaning his ear toward me. ..I commenced with saying I was a foreigner and had been brought up a Protestant. The priest asked if I was a Protestant then. I somehow could not tell a lie and said ‘yes’. I was determined to confess, and at last he said he would allow me because it might be the first step towards returning to the true church. I actually did confess – a real confession.
Here I stopped and touched my lips with my hand.
Omission is the better part of history, is it not?
Emily need not know any more than what I had already said. Often the truth is best left unwritten.
X
Eight days later Monsieur & Madame returned.
The servants had been preparing for their arrival for several days, cleaning the house from one end to the other including the white-tiled entry hall which now shone unnaturally bright. Yet despite the commotion and general preparations when at last I heard the carriage draw up outside in the street, the sound was shocking for I believe some part of me thought Monsieur & Madame might never return, that I might never enjoy human company again.
The children ran along the corridors reclaiming the house as their own. From where I sat in the classroom reading my book I heard Madame Heger remonstrating with them but in such a light-hearted manner they paid no attention.
Monsieur Heger’s voice I heard only once. He was directing a servant where to place certain pieces of luggage. I rose as if to go out and greet him, but then thought better of it, preferring instead to wait.
That evening I was invited, alongside Mademoiselle Blanche, to sit with the Hegers in their private apartments. The room was filled with candles for the late summer evenings had already begun to draw in.
Mademoiselle Blanche and Madame Heger chatted animatedly about their respective travels. The former in particular was in high spirits describing her time in Paris, how quickly the weeks had flown by, how delightful it was to attend both the theatre and opera while she stayed in the capital. All the time she talked, her hands moved animatedly. Her eyes sparkled while for her part Madame Heger also looked well; she had caught the sun and her cheeks were plump and pink as plums.
‘You would have enjoyed Paris, Constantin,’ cried Mademoiselle Blanche a little too familiarly for at the sound of his Christian name being spoken I believe I saw Monsieur Heger flinch.
He was standing by the fireplace listening to the ladies’ conversation although barely partaking in it while I sat on the periphery of the group working up a small piece of embroidery I had brought with me so that I would not be required to talk.
Seeing Monsieur Heger again after such a long break was like rediscovering warmth after a long, bitter winter. Heat flooded through me. My star had returned. Occasionally I would glance in his direction and intermittently, I believe, he glanced at me too.
‘You are very quiet?’ Madame Heger suddenly interrupted my reverie. ‘Mademoiselle Blanche and I have monopolised the conversation long enough – ’
‘Not at all,’ I replied. ‘I have very little to say – ’
‘Nonsense! Tell us what you did while we were away – ’
Suddenly I was aware that Monsieur Heger was looking at me.
‘I spent a pleasant summer here –’ I faltered. ‘The city is very quiet in August, of course it was extremely hot – ’
‘Yes, but what did you do?’
‘I walked almost every day Madam, sometimes within the city itself, sometimes I went into the countryside. I visited the Protestant cemetery, I read a little…’
‘Visited friends perhaps?’ Mademoiselle Blanche spoke simperingly. I saw her trying to catch Monsieur’s eye but he would have none of it.
‘I explored the Basse Ville,’ I continued. ‘It is a particularly interesting part of Brussels I think –’
‘Which books?’ asked Monsieur.
‘A few novels – ’
‘Only novels?’
‘I touched on some others, Sir.’
‘Titles?’ Monsieur demanded.
I gave him the titles although I did not look at him as I did so.
‘In Paris everyone is reading Justine Marie by Paul Clairmont this season,’ said Mademoiselle Blanche. ‘It is about a young girl, do you know it? She is betrothed to a writer but her father opposes the union for the writer is poor. The father sends the girl to a convent where she dies two years later, broken hearted. At her own request her body is immured behind the walls in the Convent chapel. Naturally she haunts everyone…I believe they have staged it as well. Perhaps you have seen it, Monsieur?’
‘Indeed I have not,’ replied Monsieur Heger brusquely then returning to me, ‘You did not study any of the history books I recommended over the summer? Or the pamphlet I showed you?’
I replied that I had not for I did not wish to discuss the contents of the pamphlet at this hour or in this particular company.
‘Perhaps you worked on an essay?’
‘I wrote a few letters – ’ I said.
‘You might have accomplished more, surely?’
‘Constantin, you are bullying the girl - ’ remonstrated Madame Heger.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Monsieur is correct, I have been very indolent over the summer – I occupied myself with walking rather than study. I allowed my mind to wander. It did me no good – ’
‘Then you shall be all the more eager to begin teaching again now that you are refreshed? Use those undoubtable talents of yours, is that not right?’ Madame Heger smiled.
Teaching – the word was like lead.
Nonetheless she was correct. These days
my position in the school was more that of teacher than pupil. Had I been in any doubt over this fact, I was swiftly corrected when two days later all the pupils returned and I was handed my new list of duties, which included taking not only my regular English classes but also several Geography ones as well.
For the first time since my return to Brussels I began to feel homesick. Standing on the teacher’s dais, looking out across the dull faces of my students as they practiced their English grammar, recited the poems I had set them, I began to long for a time when I could dispense with teaching and return to what I knew best.
Madame Heger enjoyed instructing others; for her standing at the blackboard in front of a classroom of pupils was the greatest accomplishment of all whereas for me it was Purgatory.
Marianne Wilke stared at me from her seat at the front of the classroom, her pale face blank as a full moon. Vertue Basompierre sat some way back from her, alternately curling a blonde ringlet around her little finger whilst glancing down at her other hand upon which sparkled a diamond engagement ring.
‘Do you see!’ she had cried the moment she set eyes on me on her return from Paris. ‘What do you think? It is the prettiest ring you have ever seen, is it not?’
The diamonds flashed against her pale skin.
‘I have seen better,’ I remarked.
‘Liar! This is the best engagement ring in the whole of Brussels!’
‘Do I take the young man in question to be a certain George Wilkins?’