Confession (17 page)

When I turned away from the painting I could hear the rustle of the girl’s skirts as she rose from her chair.

Monsieur Heger considered this painting one of his favourites for it displayed an element of truth that many of the more grandiose landscapes with their turbid skies and storm-racked seas, lacked.

Madame on the other hand thought it dull, a criticism I believed harsh but hers was an untrained eye and one should never judge another’s shortcomings.

From the first room we passed into a second then a third, but the more paintings I saw the less attention I paid either to their subject matter or their artistry preferring instead to study the onlookers as they passed to & fro jostling each other.

Everywhere was a sea of eyes and every eye was trained on the paintings. Here they caught sight of a mountain, there a green pasture, a shepherd, a milkmaid. A man entered the gallery accompanied by a young girl whom I presumed was his daughter until some gesture of his, the way he touched her arm – told me this was perhaps not the case. Two gentlemen clad in black stood beside a large canvas entitled Tree of Crows, hands clasped behind their backs, heads inclined towards the floor rather than up at the picture as if they were standing in front of a grave. When one of these gentlemen glanced up and caught me watching him, I moved away quickly, slipping into the next room and then the room after that until presently I found myself standing in what I presumed to be a side gallery above which rose a small glass dome. For a moment, mesmerized by the beauty of the clouds as they drifted across the sky, I forgot about the paintings but my reverie was short-lived for soon enough I caught a glimpse of something scarlet and turning to see what it was, found myself standing in front of an ostentatiously large picture of an ostentatiously large woman reclining on a red couch. Both
woman and couch were draped with enough fabric to clothe every beggar in Brussels yet curiously neither she nor the unfortunate piece of furniture upon which she was sprawled, were adequately upholstered. Not only this but her gaze struck me as equally brazen. She stared from the painting as if challenging her audience to disapprove not only of her inadequate state of dress but also her unashamed indolence. It was a bad painting, poorly executed and consequently of little worth.

‘Mademoiselle!’ Monsieur Heger’s voice came breathlessly from behind. ‘We thought we had lost you!’

‘Lost me?’ I said turning to face him. ‘Not at all, I have been enjoying myself. Have you seen this painting?’ I added.

‘Perhaps it is not the most suitable subject for you to be looking at?’

‘In what way?’ I said turning back to look at the portrait again – only this time I leant in a little closer as I wanted to examine the peculiar brushwork. ‘Do you see here? The artist seems to be trying for an almost sculptural rendition of the flesh but it is not a patch on the work I saw at the Royal Academy in London last year – ’

‘The Royal Academy? You never mentioned that you had seen exhibitions there when I asked earlier on – ’

‘One,’ I said. ‘I have seen one exhibition at the Royal Academy. Last year – when we were on our way from Yorkshire – Emily and I spent the day in London before boarding our boat. I dragged her to the British Museum, the Royal Academy – ’

‘You have seen the Elgin Marbles?’

‘Certainly we saw them. They were most impressive. Their design is quite overwhelming.’

‘I understand they are quite….that they are quite….’

‘Monsieur?’

‘Naturalistic.’

‘Naturalistic, yes,’ I said. ‘But they are so much more than that Monsieur. More beautiful, more truthful. Even though they are crumbling, they touch you in such a way – it recalls our mortality I think – ’

‘The ancient Greeks were nothing if not aware of …’ but here Monsieur Heger paused as if suddenly remembering a long-forgotten difficulty. ‘Mademoiselle, would you not prefer to look at the paintings in the next gallery perhaps? I believe there are some very pretty watercolours amongst them – some depicting your native country as well as a few Italian landscapes – ’

‘But I am quite happy here, thank you – I do think the ancient Greeks very adept at adding a human element to the idea of Beauty. Unlike this abomination,’ I said returning to the picture at hand. ‘Have you seen the crude flesh tones? How course the rendition of the skin and – ’ but here I stopped for Monsieur Heger was looking at me in a way I had not seen before.

He seemed sad.

‘You do not wish me to look at this painting, do you?’ I said.

‘It is not I – ’

‘Then who?’ I asked dumbly, glancing around me at the various men and women as they swilled through the room. There were so many people, all gazing, all concentrating on the various pictures. Then suddenly my eyes came to rest on Madame standing in the far corner, staring at me as if I myself were an exhibit.

Acknowledging me she smiled, sweetly.

I turned back to Monsieur.

‘My wife feels this painting compromises you – ’ he said glancing over to where his wife stood.

‘But half the audience here today are women – ’

‘Nevertheless,’ he replied still with his eyes trained on his wife.

‘And what would Madame Heger prefer me to look at? Something a little more dull perhaps?’

‘That is unfair – ’

‘On whom? The painter or your wife – ’ the words escaped my mouth before I had time to stop myself.

Monsieur Heger looked down at the floor.

‘I beg your pardon,’ I whispered.

From outside rain began to fall. The dome above our heads suddenly echoed with the sound of a million drumbeats, but nothing beat as fast as my heart as slowly I turned away from the painting and – following Monsieur Heger through the crowd – I returned to the gallery’s main thoroughfare and from there to the room housing the watercolours.

*

When we returned to the Pensionat, Mademoiselle Blanche greeted us in the hallway through which she was just then passing although it felt to me as if she had been lingering there, awaiting our arrival for quite some considerable length of time for she seemed exceedingly eager to find out how we had enjoyed the exhibition and in particular Monsieur Heger’s impressions of the paintings we had seen. Madame Heger invited Mademoiselle Blanche to join her husband and myself in their private quarters however I declined the offer and instead retired upstairs to the dormitory for I wanted above all else to be alone.

Alas! Even this small hope was taken from me for when I drew back the curtain that separated my end of the room from the main sleeping arena I found Marianne Wilke sitting on my bed.

Ever since that first evening when I had returned to the school from England and had spoken to Marianne in the main classroom, she had fashioned herself into my shadow as if she detected a similarity between us, something that linked us both physically and spiritually. I would take a walk in the garden and think myself alone only to turn around and find her standing a short distance away. Or I would take a seat at the long table in the refectory and seconds later – of all the girls in the school – Marianne would be the one to sit opposite, staring across at me as if she were my reflection.

‘Mademoiselle, what are you doing here?’ I said, slowly enunciating each word for by this time I had come to know that Marinne Wilke was unlike the rest of us, being slower of wit and generally unable to comprehend even the simplest of queries.

Marianne blinked.

‘Doing?’ she echoed.

‘You are sitting on my bed,’ I said. ‘Should you not be downstairs at this hour, with the others at study hour?’

The girl pulled a face, clown-like in its clumsy expression of sadness. I did not blame her for I had seen how the other girls treated Marianne when they thought no one else watching.

They taunted her much like small children taunt animals, baiting their prey to rise up and react.

‘You must have homework to complete?’ I said but still no answer was forthcoming: instead I was treated to a beatific smile the like of which I had rarely seen in recent months.

Still I was annoyed that Marianne had seen fit to use the small quarter of the dormitory I called my own as if it were hers.

‘You will have to go downstairs,’ I said removing my cloak and laying it on the bed brusquely. ‘Go. Now!’

But instead of moving, the girl began to hum and gently rock backwards and forwards all the time looking up at me, still with that smile written across her broad, moon-like face. What must it be like, I wondered, to be locked in a mind such as hers? What thoughts must this creature entertain? Was there something deep within her soul that knew there to be a more dynamic world around her, a faster, brighter place, but one which it was impossible for her to reach out and touch?

‘Marianne?’ I said holding out my hands whilst her own lay limply in her lap. ‘Come.

Come – ’

Gently I pulled her up, the full weight of her body causing me to struggle a little, but once she was on her feet she seemed more willing to move and in this way I led her down the length of the dormitory to the main staircase and from there directed her to proceed to the classrooms.

V

I used to think that visiting people, in particular distant relations and casual acquaintances, an unpleasant task but on first visiting Mary Dixon on the Rue de la Régence, my opinion changed.

Hers was a warm, unassuming family who welcomed me into their home with genuine affection. Mary and I – because of our shared love for Mary Taylor –immediately found each other’s company endearing. No sooner had I arrived then we were swapping impressions of
Brussels and its inhabitants as well as catching up on news of our friend. A letter had recently arrived from Germany where she was now teaching in a boys’ school, but her words did not strike me as happy. She sounded weary, isolated, she certainly was not enjoying as close a friendship to her employer as I was to Monsieur Heger. Only the previous evening when I had gone downstairs to check that Marianne Wilke was not being set upon by her fellow students I had found yet another small gift from my teacher, tucked away in my desk.

The tell-tale smell of cigar smoke was the first clue to its presence for even before I had lifted the lid I could detect the sweet, smoky perfume. This time Monsieur had given me a slim volume not of verse, but of prose, which I slipped into my pocket. But poor Mary Taylor had no such gifts, no such friendships to buoy her up. Instead she was adrift amidst a sea of foreigners and as I chatted to Mary Dixon this image floated like driftwood in front of my eyes.

Mary Dixon and I chatted merrily for over an hour, quickly establishing a common disdain not merely for the Belgians and their peculiar ways but also for their dismal religion and all that accompanied it. Mary laughed when I described the full horror of the
lecture pieuse
although I was at pains to point out that on occasion there was one person who conducted the
lecture
with great skill.

Later, after we had taken tea with her father and youngest brother, Miss Dixon asked if I would sit for her as she wanted to send my portrait to Mary Taylor as a gift.

‘She will not thank you for it!’ I said laughing out loud – ‘for when we were at school together as children, Polly was at great pains to point out I was hardly what one would call pretty.’

‘She could not have meant it!’ exclaimed Miss Dixon fetching a small sketchpad and pencils
from a desk before ordering me to seat myself in a chair close-by the window. ‘Don’t move, that is right, if you could tilt your head a little to the left and then this way – ’

‘Do you like drawing?’ I enquired. ‘We visited the Salon de Brussels yesterday. There were some interesting pictures,’ I added although I did not mention how my pleasure had been rudely curtailed for I was still sore on that subject.

Mary Dixon replied that she too was going to see the exhibition. ‘When Father has time to accompany me,’ she said. ‘I try to draw whenever I can but I find it frustrating. My pencil rarely describes what it is I am seeing. I am certain it is a matter of skill or in my case the lack of it but no matter how many times or in how many ways I try to draw something, those flowers on the table for instance, what appears on paper is so much less than the real thing and then I am left wondering what
is
the real thing? By describing something, we so rarely understand it –’

‘That is the same with any artistic pursuit,’ I declared. ‘I can describe the moon in a hundred different ways but it does not mean that I comprehend the moon.’

Mary Dixon’s hand, which had been moving rapidly across the paper as it sketched my likeness, paused momentarily.

‘I had not thought of it quite like that,’ she said finally as her brow creased in concentration. ‘Do you describe the moon often?’

‘The moon, the stars, trees, people – ’

‘People?’

‘I use to sketch Emily when she was here – ’

‘Tilt your head a little more to the left. You must miss her very much I imagine?’

I conceded it was different without Emily to talk to, particularly in the evenings which I
found tedious with no one sympathetic at hand.

‘What about the other teachers? Surely they keep you company?’

I smiled.

‘Mademoiselle Haussé is a peculiar sort,’ I said. ‘She is least likely to offend but is particularly small-minded on almost every subject and has no truck with anyone else’s opinions. Mademoiselle Sophie is weak, she cannot discipline her classes nor herself. She speaks sharply of almost everybody behind their backs yet to my knowledge rarely if ever questions her own shortcomings. But Mademoiselle Blanche out-wits both these women when it comes to contemptible behaviour. She hails from Paris and believes this fact alone blesses her with a superior sensibility. In fact it does nothing of the sort. She is all craft & concealment, pretending kindness when it is obvious she does not mean kindness. She and Mademoiselle Haussé do not speak to each other, they hiss.’

Mary Dixon found this highly amusing, particularly when I described an incident that had occurred two days previously when Mademoiselle Haussé requested Mademoiselle Blanche take one of her classes as she was suffering from a headache – something that occurred all too frequently.