Confession (4 page)

Can words conjure up desire? Can they jolt the mind physically? Disturb the body spiritually? At that moment I believed so.

Monsieur picked up a book. ‘Ecoutez!’ he shouted as loudly as the bells of Ste Gudule and before we could even draw breath he had begun on an intimidating passage from Chateaubriand’s
Prière du Soir à bord d’un Vaisseau
. I closed my eyes, allowing the words to wash over and through me, occasionally pinpointing a familiar sentence as if I had glimpsed dry land but otherwise overwhelmed by the sheer beauty and magnificence of the ocean itself. I did not even peep to see how Emily fared although, when Monsieur Heger eventually came to a halt and I opened my eyes again, I could tell something was worrying my sister because of the frown creasing her forehead.

Monsieur closed the book and placed it back on the shelf behind him.

‘Do you see how the author shaped his argument? How each scene was described and how each description consequently led into the main discussion? Each word, I believe, was
scripted for that very purpose. Each phrase calculated to lead you into following the first topic then onto the second and so on and so on – ’ Monsieur Heger continued to critique Chateaubriand, illustrating various points by the repetition of a sentence here, a paragraph there after which Emily and I had our say although, and I do not mention this to boast, I contributed more than my little sister during this part of the lesson because I had understood more. Nevertheless Monsieur seemed happy with both of us, until that is, he repeated his request that our homework should comprise of writing an essay in the style of Chateaubriand.

‘I cannot do that,’ Emily said.

Monsieur Heger looked puzzled.

He cocked his head to one side just as he had done at our first meeting.

‘What is the point,’ Emily continued realizing she needed to expand further, ‘in imitating someone else’s style? I have my own style, my own way of saying things, to imitate someone else is to show a lack of imagination.’

‘No, no,’ Monsieur Heger was swift to correct her, ‘not when you are learning a language. This is the best way I can assure you of acclimatizing yourself to your new surroundings. If you were to walk through a jungle, you would want the best guide to show you the way rather than to march off on your own. Your route would be slow, you might get lost?’

Much to my astonishment (and slight discomfort) Emily begged to differ. ‘Sir, I do not see it like that. If I were to walk out into a jungle …’

‘Mademoiselle? – ’

‘Monsieur?’

‘Who is the teacher here? I wish you to follow my instructions. I am well aware you will have what you call “your own style” but in this establishment, in
this
classroom you are to
forego all self-styled methods and imitate – to the best of your abilities – those writers
I
recommend.

‘It is impossible. If I could – ’

But here Monsieur Heger cut my sister short.

‘Time,’ he said knitting his brows so that his eyes, already dark, grew even darker, ‘does not permit me to argue this point. I am expected elsewhere. Please indulge me this once.’

Emily glowered.

Two seconds later and Monsieur Heger was gone.

‘We shall be late for Madamoiselle Sophie,’ I said standing up, but Emily remained glued to her seat.

‘I do not like him,’ she whispered.

‘It will take time.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘He looks like an insane type of Tom-cat. Not at all how you described him.’

‘I said he was dark and expressed himself bluntly – ’

‘He is rude – ’

‘We have never been tutored by a man before, or a foreigner,’ I reminded her. ‘Their methods are different to ours, that is all. Will you do as he wishes?’

Emily narrowed her eyes and looked at me as though I had asked a trick question.

‘Reason tells me I should – ’

‘But does that mean that you will?’

She glowered. ‘He has no dominion over me. He cannot command what I think.’

‘But dearest’ I said in as reasonable a tone as I could muster for I had no wish to fight with my sister. ‘We are here to learn, are we not? We are here as pupils and as such we should do
what is requested of us.’

Emily’s eyes met mine. I knew she could tell what I was thinking. There was no need to explain myself further. For a couple of moments we were silent, Emily remained seated while I stood staring at the walls. A clock on the mantelpiece chimed eleven o’clock. I could hear scurrying outside in the corridors, the sound of laughter. Emily stood up and collected her books.

‘We are going to be late for Mademoiselle Sophie,’ she said.

IV

Dear Ellen

Is it the fashion now a days to send sheets of blank paper instead of letters to friends in foreign parts –
’ I wrote referring to the envelope I had received from my friend Ellen Nussey which contained two sheets of blank paper upon which she had written no more than a question mark.

The letter had arrived several weeks previously but it was only now that I had time to sit down and write the type of detailed description she so obviously desired.

The schoolroom was quiet. A few students milled around the desks. Emily was sitting beside me agonizing over an essay.

‘
This is a large school,
’ I wrote, ‘
in which there are about 40 externes or day-pupils and 12 pensionaires or boarders – Madame Heger the head is a lady of precisely the same cast of mind degree of cultivation and quality of character as Miss Catherine Wooler – I think the severe points are a little softened because she has not been disappointed & consequently soured – in a word – she is a married instead of a maiden lady
.’

I paused. This was an accurate description although I was quite well aware that neither Ellen nor myself were married, therefore to label Miss Wooler ‘soured’ might sound hypocritical, but Ellen would understand my meaning. We had shared a great deal when we were at school together at Roe Head.

I picked up my pen again, dipped the nib into the inkwell. ‘
All in this house are Catholics except ourselves one other girl and the gouvernante of Madam’s children – an Englishwoman in rank something between a lady’s maid and a nursery governess the difference in Country & religion makes a broad line of demarcation between us & all the rest we are completely isolated in the midst of numbers – yet I think I am never unhappy – my present life is so delightful so congenial to my own nature compared to that of a Governess – my time constantly occupied passes too rapidly – hitherto both Emily and I have had good health & therefore we have been able to work well There is one individual of whom I have not yet spoken Monsieur Heger the husband of Madame – he is professor of Rhetoric a man of power as to mind but very choleric and irritable in temperament.’
Was that an unfair description? I read it back to myself. No, it was accurate – perhaps even mild – ‘
he is a little, black, ugly being with a face that varies in expression, sometimes he borrows the lineaments of an insane Tom-cat
,’ I wrote stealing Emily’s phrase. I admit that at the time she had said it I had not found it in the slightest degree amusing, but now as I penned the words a smile played on my lips.

‘
Very seldom he discards these perilous attractions and assumes an air not above a hundred degrees removed from what you call mild & gentleman-like he is very angry with me just at present because I have written a translation which he chose to stigmatize as
peu-correct
– not because it was particularly so in reality but because he happened to be in a bad humour
when he read it
.’

‘Finished!’ Emily exclaimed closing her exercise book and emitting, an exhausted sigh. ‘Shall we go upstairs?’

‘I am writing to Ellen. I won’t be much longer. You go ahead and I will join you shortly?’

But Emily hung back. ‘I shall wait with you. Have you told Ellen about these Papist girls?’ she added raising her head and staring over at the other students who were sat in a tight little huddle around the stove.

‘I’ve not had time. I think if we talked to them more, they might like us better perhaps?
’

‘How would that be?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said picking up my pen again while Emily continued to stare at her adversaries.

‘You will abuse this letter for being short I daresay, and there are a hundred things which I wish to tell you but I have not the time. Do write to me and cherish Christian charity in your heart! Brussels is a beautiful city – the Belgians hate the English – their external morality is more rigid than ours – to lace the stays without any handkerchief on the neck is considered a disgusting piece of indelicacy – Remember me to Mercy & your Mother, and believe me, my dear Ellen – Yours, sundered by the sea –
’

V

I don’t recall if it was the third or fourth Sunday after our arrival at the Pensionnat that Emily and I left the building for the first time.

We were to attend church.

The only Protestant church in the city – the Chapelle Royale.

As we walked we studied our new surroundings carefully. Carts and carriages clattered across the cobbles, birds rose in grey flurries from the tops of the buildings, children ran to and fro, some carrying baskets, others scampering in and out of the alleyways – half angels, half rats.

‘Look at the way that man is dressed.’

‘Can you see those trees? Their bark is so white.’

‘What
is
that woman shouting?’

‘That girl’s hair is redder than madder.’

‘I still miss home,’ Emily said, softly slipping the sentence into our conversation like a knife into butter.

I did not know what to say.

‘Look at that?’ I pointed out a young woman we had just passed in the street whose hat was so lacey she resembled a Michalemas daisy.

Back home Emily would have laughed at such an absurdity. Today she simply leant her head on my shoulder.

‘I know,’ I murmured. ‘I know my darling, but what can I do?’ I continued to prattle on about the surrounding beauty which even on a day such as this – when the cold bit visciously at our cheeks – was nothing less than astounding. The sparkling fountains and dress shops whose windows were brimful with velvet and silk, the faraway domes and nearby gardens ablaze with spring flowers. Finally we turned into the Place du Musée at the far end of which stood the Chapelle Royale. The building, once a Catholic church had been decreed Protestant by Napoleon at the turn of the century, or so we had been told, although one could barely believe it for on stepping inside Emily declared we had entered a jewel. Everything shone golden and
white, was painted and ornate with cherubs floating by on flounces of white cloud. By comparison our church at home was a dull relation, not one however I was willing to abandon. After all how could one concentrate on a service in the Chapelle Royale when there was nowhere to rest ones eyes? How could one be a servant to Truth in a place where so much was fabricated?

‘How in short,’ I asked Monsieur during the proceeding week, ‘can the word of God be heard in such a cacophony as adorn those walls?’

Monsieur put down his book from which he had been reading out loud. ‘You did not find the Chapelle to your taste?’

‘Vertue Bassompiere’s dress is plainer than the walls of that church.’

‘Would you not consider that the decoration is to the glory of God?’

‘God does not require our glorification, he requires our
attention
.’ I sounded prim and I knew it, but the vulgarity of the Chapelle Royale was an affront and I had thought that the professor might agree given his preference for clear, unadorned prose.

‘Well put,’ he said, ‘but if your attention is so easily distracted one might surmise that it is your attention that is at fault rather than your surroundings? The same can be said of your prose. It is peppered with irrelevant phrases, infelicitous words. Here for instance,’ he said bending down over my desk to point to a passage in my homework that had been scored out in black ink. ‘You must learn to structure your argument better, never use two words where one will suffice. To truly express yourself, to allow your soul to sing and be understood - these techniques have to be studied. And this applies to you too,’ he continued turning to Emily although somewhat, I fear, as an afterthought. ‘You are both exceptional women of that there is no doubt but cleverness is not enough if literature and learning are to be your
chosen path.’

My chosen path?

His words rang in my ears. No one had spoken to me in this manner before. It was as if he had seen into my very soul.

Here was someone who recognised my design.

‘The Chapelle Royale still remains an abomination,’ grunted Emily.

Monsieur Heger raised an eyebrow.

‘You are very outspoken, Mademoiselle,’ he said.

‘I speak as I see fit. The Chapelle Royale is a vulgarity. The purpose of a church is for prayer not decoration – ’

‘You are cut of tough cloth, are you not?’ Monsieur replied, ‘This is not your average schoolroom, it is not decorated with maps like the main classrooms so perhaps you would prefer to be taught with the others next door?’

‘You are behaving,’ Emily said raising her head in a way I had seen her do only rarely before and never to someone outside the family, ‘as if my sister and I were talking nonsense, Monsieur, when all we do is express our opinion. This room is adequate as is the chapel; it does not mean we are obliged to like either of them.’

‘You are frank. I can commend you for that – ’

‘I am afraid you are mistaken again Monsieur for I did not speak up in order that I should be commended. I care not one jot for your approval.’

‘Our faiths are different,’ I interjected.

‘But your sister is correct,’ Monsieur Heger replied.

I wish I could have read his thoughts.

Perhaps Monsieur Heger regretted describing us as exceptional?

Perhaps he regretted taking us on as private pupils?

He continued – ‘Mademoiselle Emily states her case plainly. I commended her, but as she points out she does not require my approval. However,’ here he paused to draw breath. ‘However, might I suggest that as your teacher and your elder I do have the right to be as exacting as I wish?’