Confession (23 page)

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?’

‘Certainly not! He was a dullard. I am to marry Francois de la Ville. Such a promising name, don’t you agree? His father is in shipping – Francois says they are going to call one of their vessels after me. It is family tradition apparently – ’

‘I rather favoured George – ’

‘Dull!’

I raised an eyebrow.

‘George Wilkins could never have afforded a ring like this. Of course you think me shallow, Mademoiselle. I can see it in your eyes, but oughtn’t we to make ourselves as happy as possible, isn’t that our duty? Unhappy citizens don’t make better people, quite the contrary, they make everyone else’s life a misery and that doesn’t do at all. No one would want that – ’ here Vertue Basompierre stopped to draw breath, her eyes widened and then the queerest thing happened. I saw myself reflected in her pupils. A pale, almost colourless woman; a figure so fragile that one could easily put one’s hand straight through her as if she did not exist at all.

XI

‘But it is raining outside,’ Monsieur Heger said.

After Monsieur & Madame Heger and I had spent the evening together in their private apartments alongside Mademoiselle Blanche, I retired to the dormitory but could not sleep. What had been said during the evening played on my mind. I tossed and turned in my bed, tried to concentrate my thoughts on any number of things but to no end. Finally – because the students had not yet returned for the new term I lit my lamp and, wrapping a shawl around my shoulders, crept downstairs to the main classroom.

My intention was to take a walk in the garden.

Monsieur Heger’s voice made me jump. He was sitting in the shadows at the far end of the room.

‘What are you doing down here at this hour?’ he whispered.

‘I could ask the same thing. I could not sleep. I wanted to take a walk – ’

‘But it is raining outside.’

I unlocked the door then stepped into the garden. Immediately the cool, wet air refreshed my cheeks. A definite hint of autumn had begun to creep into the nights. The garden smelt of damp, rotting vegetation mingled with a deeper, sweeter scent – that of late musk roses full-blown and on the very edge of collapse. Rain pattered against the leaves. I walked down the central path towards the orchard, lifting my face so that my skin could feel the raindrops as they trickled and dripped off the branches.

‘You look thinner,’ Monsieur Heger’s voice came from behind.

I walked a bit further.

‘You should go in Monsieur,’ I said. ‘ Madame will be wondering where you are.’