The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (18 page)

This pronouncement rendered me entirely speechless. Anne gasped in dismay.

“Branwell, don’t,” said Emily.

“Don’t what? Don’t talk about Charlotte’s big secret?” To me, he said, “Emily told me all about it. You’ve been writing letters to your professor in Brussels, and crying into your tea.”

“Branwell,” said Emily, darting me an apologetic look, “you misunderstood what I was trying to say.”

“Oh, I understood just fine,” drawled he. “What I don’t understand,
Charlotte dear,
is why you judged me so severely for my relationship with the married Lydia Robinson, when you were carrying on in the very same manner with a
married man,
all the while that you were in Belgium!”

My cheeks grew hot; my pulse pounded in my ears. “That is a complete lie.”

“That’s not what Emily Jane tells me,” intoned he, as he pushed past me and threw open the front door, admitting a blast of wind and rain. “Charlotte the harlot!” he called back with a
strident laugh, as he stepped out, coatless, into the downpour. “You know what they say: if the shoe fits!” With that, he slammed the door and was gone.

A shattering silence filled the passage. My sisters and I stood in shock, as I tried to gather my senses. My voice shaking, I said: “What did you tell him, Emily?”

“I never said that you were
carrying on
with any one,” replied Emily, shaking her head in annoyance. “I only said that you had developed
feelings
for our professor, and that—well, that things might have got a little out of hand.”

“‘Out of hand’?” I cried. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“Do not look so high and mighty, Charlotte! I only told him what I believe to be true. I was trying to comfort him—he was so depressed, crying and going on about how much he misses Mrs. Robinson—I said he should follow your example, and learn to bear up under his misery with more fortitude.”

“How dare you even
think
of comparing my situation to his?” I shot back with rising fury. “Branwell carried on a love affair for
three years
! He violated every rule of morality and decency! I did nothing of the sort!”

“Perhaps not,” said Emily, “but you were smitten—besotted—infatuated. I know it!”

I stared at her. “How can you know what I felt, or what occurred? You went home after the first year in Brussels, Emily! You were not there!”

“Charlotte, do you think I am blind and stupid? Or are you so completely ignorant of your own heart? I have read your poetry: ‘
Unloved—I love; unwept—I weep.’
And
Gilbert’s Garden
! Your yearning is plain to see on the page! You talked of nothing else but Monsieur Héger for a
full year
after you came home. Even now, you check the post every day, desperate for a letter from him that never comes!”

Hot tears sprang into my eyes; I could listen no more. I turned and—to my abject horror—saw that the door to papa’s study, not three feet away, was standing ajar. Within, sat Mr.
Nicholls; I caught his eye; from his expression, it was clear that he had heard every word of the conflict that had just ensued.

Gasping with mortification, I fled upstairs. Emily, relentless, followed quick at my heels. As I dashed into my chamber and threw myself on my bed, she slipped in after me and slammed the door.

“I just realised,” cried Emily as she advanced on me, her voice diffused with newfound surprise, “
that
is why your book is so passionless—so soulless. That is why the characters you now write are like sticks of wood!”

“What?” I wailed indignantly, looking up at her through my tears. “What has my
book
to do with any of this?”

“It has everything to do with it. You have been writing about your time in Brussels, but it is only a surface image, with none of its depths. You invested more emotion in your description of the scenery upon William’s arrival in Belgium, than you did in a single scene between him and Frances. We feel nothing for your professor and his dull little lady, because you are
afraid to let us feel.
Admit it, Charlotte: something happened in Belgium—something you have not told us! You are still too affected by it, to write about
it,
or anything else, with any force of feeling. You will not even allow
yourself
to feel! You have walled up your heart!”

I burst into fresh tears. Burying my head in my arms, I cried, “Get out! Leave me alone!”

Emily went. I wept. I unleashed, in a great torrent, all the fury and humiliation that infused my soul. Branwell had called me a harlot.
A harlot!
He had accused me of carrying on with a married man, and Emily had corroborated it—all in earshot of papa and Mr. Nicholls! Oh, misery! Oh, anguish! What would they think of me, after hearing such sordid and base accusations as to my character? As I wept, I tortured myself with the recollection of every terrible thing that my brother and sister had uttered:

It seems that I am not the only person in this house who is pining for an absent love.

Things might have got a little out of hand.

Something happened in Belgium—something you have not told us.

You developed feelings. You were smitten—besotted—infatuated.

The accusations were true—every word of them. As darkness descended on the room, the memories came flooding back: memories I had tried to banish from my mind, of a journey which had begun with so much promise four years earlier, to a country far away from home: to Belgium.

B
elgium! What a complex myriad of emotions are raised within my breast, at the sound of that single word. Belgium! The name has become synonymous in my mind with a person, and a place, both of which—or of whom—combined to exert such a profound influence on me, as to irrevocably change my life.

It was a cold, wet morning on the 13th of February, 1842, when Emily and I gained our first glimpse of the Belgian country-side, determined—at ages twenty-three and twenty-five respectively—to become school-girls again for six months, to acquire enough proficiency in French and German to run our own school. At that time, Anne was in her second year at Thorp Green; Branwell was still working on the railroad; and Aunt Branwell, who had generously provided the funds for our educational venture, was alive and efficiently running the household at the parsonage.

We were chaperoned on our journey by papa, and piloted by my friend Mary Taylor and her brother Joe, who had both made the crossing from London several times before. As the
new railway line between the port of Ostend and Brussels had not yet fully opened, we were obliged to take the diligence,
²²
a journey of nearly seventy miles, which took an entire day.

“What a dreary landscape!” complained Joe Taylor (a practical and well-travelled young man who helped run his family’s woollen manufacturing business) as we rode along. “Just a dull, flat nothingness.”

“It is not dull at all,” I countered, gazing out the window of the coach with a smile. “It is lovely in its wintry aspect.” In truth, not a single picturesque object met our eyes along the whole route, yet to me—so happy was I to be in a foreign land—that all was beautiful, all was more than picturesque. As the sun set, it began to rain in earnest; and it was through the streaming and starless darkness that my eye caught the first gleam of the lights of Brussels.

We spent the night at a comfortable hotel. The next morning, Mary and Joe Taylor took their leave of us, for she was to join her sister Martha at the Château de Koekleberg, an exclusive German school.

The Pensionnat Héger, a “Maison d’education pour les Jeunes Demoiselles,”
²³
was situated in the city’s ancient quarter, in the rue d’Isabelle, a narrow street dating from the period of the Spanish Occupation. The street lay at the foot of a flight of steps leading up to the entrance to the central park, in close proximity to the Churches of Saint Michael and Saint Gudule, whose towers appeared to fill the sky, and whose great, melodious bells solemnly and comfortingly punctuated the hours.

“The rue d’Isabelle,” explained Mr. Jenkins (the English chaplain to the British Embassy at Brussels, who, in the company of his wife, kindly escorted papa, Emily, and me in his carriage from the hotel to the school) “constitutes a halfway point between the lower, medieval part of town, and the fashionable eighteenth-century quarter above.”

“We have a lovely park and palace here,” added Mrs. Jenkins, “and many splendid, aristocratic houses and hotels.”

It was some time, however, before Emily and I found time to explore the fascinating city in which we had come to live. When I first beheld the Pensionnat on that grey February morning, I thought it a stark and unappealing edifice. Just forty years old, the building, which, at two storeys high, was much larger and a storey taller than those around it, had a row of large, barred, rectangular windows looking out upon the street. The bleakness of the exterior, however, belied the charms of the interior.

We were admitted by a portress, who led our little party of five through an entry passage paved with black-and-white marble. The long hall was painted in imitation marble as well, and lined with wooden pegs on which cloaks, bonnets, and cabas
²⁴
were suspended.

“Look!” cried Emily, with surprise and a hint of a smile. “A garden!” She pointed to a glass door at the far end of the corridor, through which I caught a glimpse of trailing ivy and other wintry shrubs; but I had not much time to study it, for we were ushered into a room to the left, and bidden to wait.

We found ourselves in a glittering salon with a highly polished floor, colourfully upholstered chairs and sofas, gilt-framed pictures and gilded ornaments, a handsome centre table and a green porcelain stove. This type of stove, with which I was to become very familiar, was the Belgian equivalent of a fire-place; although it lacked the beauty of a flaming hearth, it served up heat very efficiently and effectively.

“Monsieur Brontë, n’est-ce pas?”
²⁵
intoned a voice behind us, in an accent of the broadest Bruxellois.

I almost jumped, for I had not heard or seen any one enter. I turned and encountered, with some surprise, our Directrice. I say surprise, because I had unconsciously expected some one older and more spinsterish—some one more akin to my former
headmistress, Miss Wooler. Instead, the woman before me looked to be no more than thirty years of age (she was, in fact, thirty-eight). She was short and somewhat stout, but carried herself with grace. Her features were irregular—not beautiful, but neither was she plain; there was a serenity in her blue eyes, a freshness in her pure white complexion, and a shine to her abundant, nut-brown hair (formally dressed in curls) that was pleasing to behold. Her dark silk dress fitted her with a precision bearing testament to the skills of the French sempstress who created it, presenting her best features to advantage, in a sweet and motherly aspect—for she was then in her seventh month of pregnancy.

“Je m’appelle Madame Héger,” said she, with a brief smile and a tone of formal welcome, as she held out her hand first to papa, then to Mr. Jenkins, Mrs. Jenkins, Emily, and me. She was the epitome of the well-dressed Continental woman. Lightweight slippers peeked out from beneath the hem of her gown—slippers which had allowed her, I realised, to enter silently by a little door behind us—a soundless method of perambulation which, I later discovered, proved an invaluable asset in the management of her establishment.

When papa conveyed that he spoke virtually no French, and she admitted, “My
Engliss
is no good,” a rapid conversation followed between her and the Jenkinses, of which I understood very little. I realised, with a dash of panic, that my command of French, which I had presumed at least tolerably proficient before coming over, was in fact negligible; speaking a foreign language in an English schoolroom bore very little resemblance to the living, breathing experience of conversing with foreigners in their native tongue.

The Jenkinses served as translators, giving us to know that we would be allowed to settle in, and would meet Monsieur Héger that evening—for he was at present teaching at the Athénée Royal, the premier boys’ school in Brussels, which stood next door. We would thankfully not be expected to begin instruction until the next day.

The main building was comprised of two distinct halves: the Hégers’ private quarters on the left, and the school premises on the right. We were taken on a brief tour of the school, and allowed to peek into two large and pleasant schoolrooms, filled with young ladies at their devoir
s,
²⁶
and the long réfectoire, where, Madame Héger explained, we would dine, and also prepare our evening lessons.

“Well,” said papa with a pleased expression when the tour was completed, “I am satisfied with the arrangements. I think you will get on well here, girls.”

We thanked the Jenkinses for their guidance and assistance, hugged papa good-bye, and tearfully watched as the coach drove away, knowing we would not see papa for at least half a year, and concerned for his health and safety on his voyage. We were relieved to receive the letter he posted a week later, telling us how much he had enjoyed touring the sights of Brussels, Lille, and Dunkirk, before his return home by steamer from Calais.

No sooner had our elders departed, than a clanging bell rang out in the yard. At the same time, a clock somewhere rang out the noon hour. The corridor was suddenly filled with a horde of pupils—nearly a hundred in total—emerging from the schoolrooms in a tumult. The girls, who ranged in age from twelve to eighteen, were well dressed and chattering gaily; more than half retrieved their cloaks, bonnets, and satchels and poured out into the back garden; these, I thought, must be the day pupils, who had brought their own refreshment. Two maitresses
²⁷
appeared, their shrill voices vainly endeavouring to enforce some sort of order upon the remaining pensionnaires, or boarders, but all their remonstrances and commands had no effect. Discipline seemed to be an impossibility, though this was considered one of the best-conducted schools in Brussels.

I had not long to wait, to discover the source of that well-earned reputation.

Madame Héger (who had been standing in the shadow of the doorway to her salon) strode deliberately into the hall and, her brow smooth, her manner tranquil, pronounced one word, calmly and forcibly:

“
Silence!
”

Instantly, the assemblage quieted; order ensued; the young ladies began to pour en masse into the salle-a-manger.
²⁸
Madame Héger observed their behaviour with a self-satisfied but critical expression, as a general might observe the movement of his troops. It was clear from the reactions of those around her, that both pupils and teachers regarded her with deference, if not affection.

Madame Héger quickly exchanged words with one of the teachers (a dried-up-looking, middle-aged woman, who I would come to learn was called Mademoiselle Blanche) and then took her leave. Mademoiselle Blanche showed Emily and me in to dinner, a delicious meal which consisted of some kind of meat, nature unknown, served in an odd but pleasant sauce; some chopped potatoes made savoury with I know not what; a “tartine,” or slice of bread and butter; and a baked pear. The other girls nattered away, taking no notice of us.

Once the other pupils returned to the schoolrooms, Emily and I were shown to the dormitory above, a long room lit by five massive casement windows as large as doors. Ten narrow beds stood on each side of the apartment, each bed shrouded in a white curtain draping from the ceiling. Beneath each bed was a long drawer, which, Mademoiselle Blanche explained, served for a wardrobe; between each bed stood a small chest with additional drawers, upon which rested a personal basin, ewer, and looking-glass. Everything was neat, clean, and orderly, I noticed with approval.

“Madame Héger has reserved the corner for you,” said Mademoiselle Blanche in French, as she showed us to the beds at the extreme end of the room, which were curtained off from the
rest. “She had these curtains hung especially, in deference to your age, believing you would wish a bit of privacy.”

“How thoughtful of her,” replied I in her language, as I glanced about our quarters with a smile. I sensed that we would be very happy here. It might be strange at first, to find myself a school-girl again at nearly twenty-six years of age, and to be obliged, after years of governessing and teaching, to obey orders instead of give them; but I believed that I would like that state of things. It had always been far more natural to me to submit, where the attainment of knowledge was concerned, than to command.

Emily and I spent the remainder of the afternoon unpacking and settling in. That evening, we received an invitation to join the Hégers in their family sitting-room.

I knew that Madame and Monsieur Héger had been married six years, and that they had, at the time of our arrival, three daughters, ranging in age from one to four years old. Nevertheless, I was unprepared for the scene which Emily and I encountered upon entering: Madame lay half-reclining on the sofa by the porcelain stove, one stout arm cradling to her chest her youngest girl; she held in her other hand a book, from which she was reading a story aloud; her oldest daughter sat listening attentively beside her, and her middle child played quietly on the carpet at her feet. It was a picture of such casual and complete maternal bliss as I had never encountered in all my time as a governess.

It was then that I understood what made this school feel so unusual: being run by a married couple, whose family lived on the premises, it was infused with a domestic atmosphere—and thus strikingly different from any educational establishment I had previously known. This difference was very shortly to become even more markedly pronounced.

Madame Héger smiled as we entered, and nodded towards the sofa on the other side of the room. “Bon soir. Asseyez-vous, s’il vous plaît. Monsieur approche dans un instant.”
²⁹

We sat. As promised, an approaching footstep was soon heard in the corridor, but—far from a gentle sound—it resembled the rapid, echoing boom of thunder, a portent of some coming fury. My heart began to pound with alarm even before, with a vehement burst of latch and panel, the door flew open. Like a harsh apparition, a dark little man stormed in, trailing a billow of cigar smoke. He was clad in a shapeless, soot-black paletôt, with a tasseled bonnet-grec balanced at a haphazard angle on his closely shorn black head.
³⁰
In a terrible rage, he marched up to the woman on the sofa, wrathfully wagging his cigar and spewing forth a tirade in French, of which I caught very little substance, although from the frequent occurrence of the words “
étudiant
” and “
Athénée
,” I assumed it had to do with a student at the boys’ school next door.

Who
is
this horrible little man? I wondered, as Emily and I shared an alarmed glance, hoping against all hope that it was
not
Monsieur Héger. Madame listened calmly, silently, and patiently; the children barely blinked a collective eyelash.

“Mon cher,” said the Madame, when her husband (for it was, indeed, Monsieur Héger) paused for an instant in his diatribe to inhale deeply from his cigar, “les pupilles Anglaises sont arrivées.”
³¹
She nodded in our direction.