by Klein, S. G.
‘We are both conflicted, Sir – ’ I said standing up and crossing the room to the bookcase for I could not in all certainty continue to look at my teacher without betraying myself. ‘This room is all that stands between myself and the sea – ’
‘Then I shall shore it up. I shall build walls from these books, construct towers out of every word at my disposal – ’
‘I can still hear the waves lapping – ’ I said for although his declarations made my skin burn and a thrill run along every nerve in my body suddenly I felt colder, paler, emptier than ever before.
Can a frost descend in mid-summer? Can snow fall upon roses? Encase bees in ice? Suddenly
I felt all these things to be true for every minute spent in my master’s presence I would be forced to suffer hours, days, weeks without exchanging one word with him. Not even the smallest bird could subsist on such meagre rations. The driest of deserts requires more than one droplet of rain if it is to thrive.
I tried to calm my breathing.
‘Turn around,’ he said, his voice filled with sadness.
I did not move.
‘Turn around,’ he said.
Still I kept my eyes to the bookcase until finally I felt his breath on my cheek, his arms wrapped around my waist.
XIII
Madame Heger gave birth to her fifth child, Julie Marie Victorine, on the 15th November 1843. According to the children’s nursery maid it was a difficult birth owing to Madame’s age. Consequently she was confined to her bed-chamber for several weeks afterwards leaving the day-to-day running of the pensionat to Mademoiselle Blanche, not an unhappy turn of events as it meant Mademoiselle Blanche was too preoccupied with her new duties to be of much consequence to either myself or any other of the unfortunate creatures whom she so enjoyed torturing. For his part Monsieur Heger kept an eye on Mademoiselle Blanche, ensuring his wife was kept abreast of events but aside from that, his days were spent either at the Athenée or in his study.
That I spent time with him in that room went unnoticed for being without friends in that establishment, I was not missed.
None of the staff were interested in how I spent my days, besides which everyone was already use to me slipping off to sit by myself in the refectory or upstairs in the dormitory when I was not teaching in the classrooms.
For what seemed like hours Monsieur Heger and I would read to each other, discuss poetry, Scott & Byron for the most part. Or he would recite passages from Pascal and Chateaubriand. It was a happy interval. Monsieur Heger’s mind was my library, mine his refuge. We spoke about religion; Monsieur teased me that I was Protestantism’s foot soldier, I that only his Catholicism could forgive him that slander whilst in quieter moments we tended to reflect upon nature – the changing of the seasons, the falling of the leaves and on clear afternoons the passage of the moon which traversed the sky like a ghost.
Occasionally Monsieur Heger would grow distracted. He would glance upwards to the apartments above, perhaps at the sound of a child crying or the murmur of voices, the creaking of floorboards or a raised, angry voice. I would not comment upon it. The shadow that hung over us was dark enough.
My other duties continued. Every day I taught my classes, ate my meals, occasionally took a walk out into the countryside, but all these things I did, not from the heart, but because they were there to be done. It was as if I were sleepwalking, my pupils talked to me but their voices were disembodied.
Even Vertue Basompierre noticed my distraction.
‘You do one thing,’ she said in a moment of uncharacteristic acuity, ‘yet for certain your mind is occupied in doing something quite other.’
‘Is that right?’ I replied vigorously rubbing my hands together – for at the time we were standing by the stove in the main classroom, our breath misting out in front of us in small frosted clouds.
‘It is not only right, it is true,’ she said. ‘If I did not know better I would say you were in – ’ but here she stopped mid sentence. ‘You need not look so disagreeable, Mademoiselle. You forget, in this arena I am an expert. Look at this letter from Monsieur de la Ville,’ Vertue said producing an envelope from her skirt pocket as evidence. ‘Read it.’
I protested. ‘It is not mine to read,’ I said, ‘put it away please.’
‘But I give you permission,’ she said placing the letter once again into my hands.
‘Dearest One,’ it began – ‘It seems like days since I last heard from you, yet it is only twenty-four hours! I cannot settle to anything, my mind wanders from subject to subject, I find myself listening to my father prate on over dinner about all manner of things and yet when it comes to knowing what he has said, I cannot remember one word. Can it be that I will not see you again for a full month and a half? Every day I am separated from you is like a small death. I want to know how you spend each hour of every day, each minute of every hour. Do not miss out a single moment! – ’
This missive was indeed saturated with unadulterated devotion, adoration, call it what you will. It was all there in black ink, each and every word testifying to that one, irrefutable fact. ‘So’ said my young interrogator ‘if you are not in… whatever it is…then what is it that occupies you? It cannot be your lessons for you could give those standing on your head. And it cannot be your family for only yesterday you received a letter from England and it concerned you not in the slightest.’
‘How would you know whether my letter concerned me or not?’
Vertue shrugged. ‘It was a guess,’ she said, her insolence returning once more.
‘Then your guess was incorrect. My letter did contain some unfortunate news,’ I lied. ‘My father, he has not been in the best of health recently, added to which I am missing my family.’ This last was not a lie. I was still missing home, its comforts and easy familiarity.
Often of late I would sit and think about Emily walking out on the moors and wonder if she missed her big sister as much as I missed her. I had said as much in a letter, talked about how I wanted to be back in our kitchen cutting up hash with Tabby next to us blowing the fire and boiling the vegetables to a fine glue.
With December came the first fall of snow. White flakes fell from the sky silent as starlight. From the window I watched as the garden paths disappeared, trees and shrubs changed shape and the few birds that remained flittered and foraged for food through the continuing fall.
Early one morning while sitting at my desk on the teacher’s dais I heard laughter coming from the direction of the garden and telling my students to remain seated, I crossed to the window.
Outside Monsieur Heger was playing with his two eldest children, Marie Pauline and Louise Florence. They were running in circles around each other throwing snowballs, Louise Florence giggling uncontrollably while soon enough Monsieur and Marie Pauline fell to the ground in a heap of arms and legs and laughter. It was the most joyful of pictures and it made me smile to see my teacher so happy, so independent of worldly concerns.
The children continued to shriek and laugh and suddenly I was filled with an overwhelming desire to join them, to be of their company.
Monsieur stood up and brushed his coat free of snow. His cheeks were glowing, he looked happier and healthier than I had seen him months.
I put my hand up to the glass at the exact same moment that he glanced back at the house. He raised his head and for a brief second I thought he had seen me but then it became clear he wasn’t looking at me, his eyes were directed at something quite other, to the window above.
Monsieur raised his hand and waved and smiled and the children waved and smiled also.
‘What are you looking at, Mademoiselle?’ Vertue Basompierre’s voice brought me back to the room but I did not answer. Instead I turned around and resumed my seat on the dais at the same time as instructing my pupils to continue their work for I would not tolerate being interrupted again.
A few days later, on 10 December I was sent a note by Mrs Jenkins asking me – in the unforeseen absence of the
Revd Jenkins – to accompany her to a concert at the recently opened Salle de la Grande Harmonie. The concert, wrote Mrs Jenkins, was to be attended by the King and Queen of the Belgiums alongside their young son the Duc de Brabant and afterwards there was to be a lottery in aid of the poor.
‘Show me what you will wear?’ cried Vertue clapping her hands together on hearing of my good fortune. I unfolded my Sunday best dress, which caused much amusement. ‘You shall have to borrow one of mine,’ declared she leading me by the hand to her trunk from which she pulled several extraordinary garments. ‘You shall have to alter one to fit you, but you are so good with the needle – ’
‘Thankfully there is no time, besides I shall be quite happy wearing my own garment. No one shall be looking at me.’
‘Not if you wear that!’ declared the little minx but in the event I was more than comfortable in my grey velvet.
I had been in Brussels two years’ now, but this was the first time I had left the pensionat to spend the evening amongst high society. To me, the whole world seemed gathered in that one golden building. Outside snow glittered on every surface, inside every surface glittered like snow. A huge chandelier hung under the central gold & white dome comprised of a million droplets of crystal each of which shone like starlight. Clusters of emeralds, rubies and sapphires dripped from the necks of every woman present. Diamonds adorned every ear. The very light of the building was pearled, matched only by the music that drifted through the outer rooms in sweet anticipation of the concert to come.
Mrs Jenkins and I took our seats in the main auditorium, the tiers of which rose steeply from the small platform at the bottom upwards as if in an attempt to reach heaven so many layers were there to this intricate structure. It made me feel quite dizzy looking at all the ladies and gentlemen’s faces gathered around us. Indeed it was almost too much to take in, but take it in I did. I drank in the atmosphere as one might imbibe an ambrosial mixture of velvet and silk. The stir & commotion of the crowd was also was quite overwhelming, a crescendo of voices all laughing and chattering and murmuring like a vast parliament of birds, each one perched in his or her tree until suddenly a hush fell over the whole.
Every eye turned towards the royal box.
My first impressions of the couple were not revolutionary. Aside from the splendour of their costumes, the magnificence of her jewels and the impressive collection of medals pinned to his chest the overwhelming feeling was of a quiet, dignified pair although as I studied them further I could not help but notice a certain melancholy bearing of the King’s, a particular sadness in his demeanour which did not go unnoticed by his wife who seemed to mirror, if not recognize each and every shadow that passed across her husband’s face.
I turned to look around me, to judge what others made of the couple, to see if they too had registered the sadness writ large across their King’s face – only then did my eyes alight on those of a certain gentleman who was seated on the opposite side of the auditorium next to his wife.
Madame Heger had not left the Pensionat since the birth of Julie Marie Victorine. Indeed only the day before she had come downstairs for the first time since her confinement to begin running the school again. I had met her in the corridor and congratulated her on the birth of her daughter as well as adding how blessed this child was to have such devoted parents. Madame acknowledged my compliments then moved swiftly on to ask about my classes, how they were progressing, were any of my students lagging behind in their work. I stared out across the concert hall. Madame looked resplendent that evening dressed as she was in blue silk with what looked like sapphires at her ears, her dark hair coiled on top of her head, black as tarred rope. Her cheeks glowed, her eyes darted about the room as she acknowledged all her several friends and acquaintances.
But it was not Madame with whom I was interested. Instead my eyes rested on Monsieur as his did on mine and for a number of moments, across the vast expanse of tiaras and feathers and finery, across the heads of the ever-increasing audience, we spoke to each other. What he said did not shock me; rather, I think it shocked him for he it was who broke the gaze first in order to look at Madame who was talking animatedly to Monsieur Chappelle seated on her left.
Why was I not shocked? Because happy endings, happy unions – call them what you will – are so infrequent in life they are nothing if not fanciful. That was the truth of the matter, painful, torturous, ruinous though it was to admit.
Tears filled my eyes, the room grew flooded as all the glitter and sparkle of only seconds before turned blurry and uncertain. Colours pooled together, blues and aquamarines, corals and violets, all mixed and merged as edges softened, clarity faded.
‘What is it my dear?’ asked Mrs Jenkins leaning forward in her seat, her face nothing but a soft pink smudge of powder and rouge.
I shook my head, ‘I am absolutely fine,’ I whispered.
‘But you look so pale, are you too hot? All these people, perhaps – ’
‘Really, I am fine,’ I said again just as the lights dimmed and the music began.
When I returned to the pensionat later that night the building was silent, all the students long since having gone to bed. I brushed the snow from my cloak then crept through the house glad of its dark interior, its thick walls and narrow corridors, glad too of its dimly lit classrooms made all the dimmer after the glare of the concert hall. Here was where I belonged, here at my desk with nothing but the moonlight for company and silence in place of idle chit-chat and gossip.
*
‘I shall write to you. We shall write to each other. You shall tell me what occupies you, how your days are filled and I shall do the same – ’
‘No –’
‘But I must – ’ my voice was steady although my hands were shaking. That morning I had
given Madame Heger my notice for the second time in as many weeks and she had accepted it.
‘You are sure this time?’ she said gazing up at me. ‘I cannot have a repeat of what happened before, it unsettles everyone – ’
I assured Madame I would not change my mind.
‘You have made the right decision. Your father will be happy to have you home.’
And you, I thought, shall be happy to see me leave.
‘Corresponding is out of the question,’ Monsieur Heger’s voice was hollow. ‘Unless you want to exchange trivialities – ’
‘To be forgotten is not trivial – ’
‘Is that what you think of me? You have been my brightest student, you are my …I shall not forget you Mademoiselle – ’
‘Then allow me to write to you – ’
Monsieur Heger did not reply. Instead he stood at the window, his face turned away from me watching the snow as it continued to fall.
‘It is very beautiful, is it not?’ he said quietly.
I agreed.
‘How do you think the crystals are formed?’
‘Sometimes I think it is more beautiful that we don’t know – nature should be allowed her secrets – ’
Monsieur Heger turned around. He was frowning, his eyes distant, but calm. ‘One day someone shall discover it – ’ he said.
‘Perhaps – ’
‘If you write to me, I shall not always reply – ’
I took a step forward, but Monsieur Heger held up his hand.
‘You look so melancholy,’ I said.
‘And you are not, I suppose? – ’
How much at that moment did I wish to say one hundred and one different things to my teacher?
That I would miss him; his voice, the manner in which he recited poetry, the smell of his cigars, the sound his footsteps made along the corridors of the school. That I had grown to value his opinions, to love and respect him. That everything I wrote from that day forward – be it a sentence, a paragraph, a novel – would always contain something of him within it. That – without him – I did not know what my life should be any more.
There was so much I wanted to say and yet I said nothing.<
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*
The date of my departure from the Pensionat was set for the first day of the New Year. I would spend the night at Ostend then sail for England the following morning. What happened in the lead up to this leave-taking was far less clear for the days that followed passed in a haze.
I remember writing several letters to Emily alerting her of my return. I recall I also received a few notes from my pupils telling me how sad they would be to see me go. The latter surprised me for I did not think my presence at the Pensionat had brought anyone other than myself – together with one notable exception – any degree of pleasure. Vertue Basompierre even went so far as to give me a small bouquet of white roses.
‘I shan’t miss you, but no doubt you shall miss me,’ she said tossing the flowers into my hands on the morning she left to join her mother, father and husband-to-be in Paris. ‘Whatever are you going to do when you get back to… wherever it is that you are going? I can never remember its name – ’
‘I shall think of something,’ I laughed.
‘Well don’t think of writing to me for I shan’t write back. There won’t be time – ’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘No,’ she said then opening the lid of her trunk she withdrew a handkerchief and blew her nose. ‘I have something in my eye, please do not mistake this for crying. My face will look all blotchy now, does it? Please say that it doesn’t – ’
On Christmas day the Jenkins invited me to share in their festivities and dine with them at their home. Mary Dixon’s father, Abraham Dixon, who had returned to Brussels for a brief spell was there also and despite my melancholy it was generally-speaking a merry occasion.
On 29th December I packed my trunks. Kneeling on the floor of the dormitory it suddenly struck me that I would not be returning to this room again. When Emily and I had left the Pensionat the previous year we were in such a hurry to reach Antwerp, I had had no time for reflection.
Now each thing I did was freighted with meaning.