The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (19 page)

The little man turned and glanced at us. In the gentle flicker of candlelight which illuminated the room, I was able to ascertain his form and features. He was of less than average height; although still youthful (he was thirty-three years old—five years younger than his wife, just seven years my senior), he was a man of no great beauty. His complexion was as dark as the expression which (although slowly fading) had first ravaged his countenance, and the ring of thick, black whiskers which encircled his face and chin curled like those of a wrathful cat.

“Ainsi je vois,” mused he, studying us through his lunettes.
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As if by magic, his angry manner dissolved; in those three words, spoken in gentle, melodious, and purest French, were embodied surprise, warmth, hospitality, and friendliness. This new tone was so completely opposite to that which we had witnessed only moments before, as to seem to issue from a completely different person. He turned back to his wife and gave her an affectionate kiss, followed by a warm embrace for each of his children. Only then did he cross the room and hold out his hand to Emily and me. He spoke in French; indeed,
all
conversation that took place during our stay at the Pensionnat was in French; but for the sake of this diary, and for ease of transcription, I will record the preponderance in English.

“Welcome to Brussels, and our humble establishment,” said he, his blue eyes twinkling as we stood and shook his hand in turn. “Sit! Sit! It is Mademoiselle Charlotte and Mademoiselle Emily, yes? I hope that you had an agreeable voyage?”

Emily nodded silently as we resumed our seats. I replied: “Oui, monsieur,” pleased that I had understood him—but there the pleasure ended.

Monsieur Héger flung himself down into the wide, comfortable chair beside us, and proceeded to speak rapidly in his native tongue. His meaning, at that juncture, was scarcely intelligible to either my sister or to me, and not fully perceived until he translated it in retrospect, some months later:

“When you wrote to us, Mademoiselle Charlotte, my wife and I were so struck by the simple, earnest tone of your letter, in which you explained your ambitions, as well as your financial limitations, that we said: here are the daughters of an English pastor, of moderate means, anxious to learn, with a view of instructing others. Let us accept them at once, and give them advantageous conditions.” He smiled as he paused, apparently waiting for a grateful reply. Receiving none, his dark brows bristled. “I assume you found our financial terms acceptable, as you are here?”

When Emily and I remained mute and uncertain, he said, in an exasperated tone, “You wrote to me in French. I assumed you possessed at least a moderate command of the language. How else do you expect to get on? Do either of you even have the faintest idea of what I am saying?”

His verbal barrage so stunned me, that even had I understood his full meaning, I would not have been able to drum up an intelligent reply. As he glared at us, I had one more fleeting thought: how much worse this must seem to Emily! For, other than the six months of French lessons she had had during her brief tenure at Roe Head School, during part of the time I had served as a teacher there, Emily’s only experience with that language was comprised of what I had taught her at home, and what she had learned herself from her reading.

“Monsieur,” I faltered, my cheeks burning, “je suis désolé, mais vous parlez trop rapidement.”

“Nous ne comprenons pas,” added Emily in a simple, firm tone.
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He visibly winced; I perceived that our North Yorkshire attempts at a French accent sounded execrable to his ears. “Bah!” cried he, springing out of his chair with a scowl and striding lightning-wise back to his wife. “These girls are completely ignorant of our language! They will sink in classes with the general population. If they are to have any chance at all, I will have to tutor them privately myself!” With a great shake of his dark head, he threw open the door and barrelled out of the room.

That night, as Emily and I prepared for bed in our private corner, we wondered aloud what we had got ourselves into. Indeed, for the first few weeks of instruction we were lost much of the time. There were three resident women teachers and seven visiting masters who taught the different branches of education—French, Drawing, Music, Singing, Writing, Arithmetic, and
German—as well as scripture, and “all the needlework that a well-brought-up lady should know.” We were, as anticipated, compelled to speak, read, and write French all day, every day; all lessons (except German, of course) were taught exclusively in that language, and no concessions were sought or given on our behalf. Although I had eagerly looked forward to that circumstance, as the means by which my language skills would improve (and indeed, there is no better improver than immersion), the effort required in following our lessons in general subjects was far more difficult than I had anticipated. How dearly I wished that I had been better prepared before sailing to Belgium!

We applied ourselves diligently to our studies, however, and soon improved, thanks in large part to Monsieur Héger, that personification of both calm and tempest, who gave us weekly private French lessons, sandwiching them in between his classes next door at the Athénée. Emily and I would often sit in tense anticipation in his library, awaiting the sound of his approach, which would signal what his mood would be.

If his footfall was light and steady, it meant he would be in excellent spirits, would praise our progress with good humour, and find much to admire. If, on the other hand, we heard a thundering report of footsteps in the corridor, we shuddered, for it meant he had suffered a bad day. Emily and I would then serve as the whipping boys for his frustration, in a lesson that proved both taxing and brutal. He harangued us on the way we used our tongues when we spoke French, accusing us of mincing words between our teeth as if we were afraid to open our mouths. He often reduced me to tears; Emily, never; but to his credit, if tears would flow, he always quickly followed with an apology and a softening of tone.

Emily and I were not a perfect fit at the Pensionnat Héger. We were much older than our classmates, and all in the house were French-speaking Catholics except ourselves, one other pupil, and the gouvernante of Madame’s children, an Englishwoman
who served as both lady’s maid and nurserymaid. This difference in age, country, language, and religion created a broad line of demarcation between us and the rest, a gulf widened by the private lessons Monsieur Héger gave us, which excited spite and jealousy among the other pupils. We felt ourselves completely isolated in the midst of numbers.

Emily, ever quiet and withdrawn in the presence of any one outside our immediate family, seemed to sink at first under all these difficulties; but then she rallied. “I will conquer these doubts and fears,” she said resolutely one night. “I am determined not to fail.” As the months drew on, Emily never spoke to any one except me, unless spoken to; she drew strength from our private society; and she did her work; she worked like a dog.

In contrast to my sister, I was happy from the start. I found my new life delightful, and much more congenial to my nature, than that which I had endured as a governess. I returned to learning with the same avidity as a cow, that has long been kept on dry hay, returns to fresh grass. My time, constantly occupied, passed rapidly.

We paid a few Sunday visits to the Jenkinses, but they grew visibly frustrated by their unsuccessful attempts to engage us in small-talk, an activity for which Emily and I had little talent, and these engagements were quickly dispensed with. We did greatly enjoy the lively, cheerful days we spent with our friends Mary and Martha Taylor at the Château de Koekelberg, an expensive boarding-school for girls, which lay in the country-side north-west of Brussels. Living amongst strangers, it warmed our blood and our hearts to be with friends for a time.

“I came here to learn French, just as you two did,” said Mary, during our first visit to the Château de Koekelberg that March, as we strolled the impressive school grounds, “but most of the pupils here are English and German, and what little French is spoken is very bad.”

“Do not be such a cry-baby!” retorted Martha, playfully pulling her older sister’s dark, curly hair. Martha, the delightfully arch child who had so amused us all at Roe Head School,
had bloomed into an equally vivacious and fun-loving young woman. “Our new French mistress is coming the day after tomorrow, and we will soon make all the progress you want.”

“We have noticed something strange on our walks through the city,” said I. “Is it our imagination, or do some of the gentlemen here paint themselves?”
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“They do!” cried Mary, with a laugh.

“It is all the fashion!” added Martha. “Is it not funny? I have half a mind to send some paint to Ellen, for her brother George. Oh! And something else is all the fashion nowadays: to send shoals
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of blank paper to friends in a foreign land, instead of letters! Shall we send such a thing to Ellen, as a joke?”

Mary and I laughed at the idea, but Emily frowned and said, “That would be a great waste of both paper and postage,” to which we all ultimately agreed. In high spirits, we repaired to the library, to add our comments to a letter Mary was already writing to Ellen.

In Brussels, I learned how to adapt my clothing to suit my small figure. Aunt Branwell had generously provided Emily and me with a small sum each for incidentals, and, having witnessed the precise skills of Belgian dressmakers, and being apprised of their reasonable rates, I spent a portion of my pocket money on a new dress. I was thrilled when it arrived! I chose a pale grey silk, and had it neatly waisted in a simple, fitted style, with a full skirt, narrow sleeves, and a white-embroidered collar. I also ordered a new, fuller petticoat. It was only one dress, and I was obliged to wear it continuously, except for laundry day, mending it as needed; but thus attired, I felt that I no longer stood out quite so conspicuously.

Emily, on the other hand, insisted on wearing the same old-fashioned dresses and thin petticoats which she had preferred
since childhood. When the other girls made sport of Emily’s odd style of dress, she would stonily reply, “I wish to be as God made me”—a response which was met with disbelieving stares, and only served to keep them at a further distance.

Six weeks after our arrival, Madame Héger gave birth to her first son, Prospère. As such, we saw little of her during our first few months at the Pensionnat; she was generally resting or taken up with nursery duties. Later that semester, as I had more contact with her, I found her to be a woman of dignity and a capable directrice. Within the bosom of this well-structured household, a hundred healthy, lively, well-dressed girls flourished, gaining knowledge without painful exertion or useless waste of spirits. The lessons were well distributed and simple to understand, there was a liberty of amusement and a provision of healthy exercise, and the food was abundant and very good. Many an austere English schoolmistress, I thought, would do well to imitate Madame Héger’s methods.

At least, these were my initial impressions of her—and they did not waver until a great while later.

Emily and I saw Monsieur Héger, by contrast, every day from the beginning, in our Writing class, and once a week for our private lesson. He was an exacting but excellent teacher, and in temper and temperament, the direct opposite of his wife: irritable, tempestuous, volatile, and often unreasonable. Occasionally, however, he revealed a surprisingly different side to his personality: a far lighter, more playful side. It was Monsieur Héger’s custom, on occasion, to burst in unannounced on the evening study hour, which was always held in the refectory, and turn that silent, nun-like encampment into an ebullient
affaire dramatique.

“Mademoiselles!” he would cry, clapping his hands, and taking command of the room like a little Napoleon, “put away your books, your pens and your papers, and take out your work-bags. It is time for a little entertainment.”

Teachers and pupils alike, all seated at two long study tables beneath central lamps, would respond with enthusiasm. Stand
ing at the front of the room, Monsieur Héger would pull out a handsome volume or a series of pamphlets, and regale us with passages from some enchanting tale or witty serial story. He performed with zest and skill, taking care to omit any passages which might be deemed unsuitable for young ladies, often replacing them with hilarious, improvised prose and dialogue. These too-infrequent evenings left all assembled in high spirits, and I came to look forward to them with great anticipation.

The little man continued to be a paradox, however, wavering between light and dark, in patterns impossible to predict. I believe he liked to watch the emotions he could produce, with his ever-changing facial expressions and amazing turns of thought and temper. He could wither a pupil with a slight movement of lip and nostril, or exalt her with a faint flicker of an eyelid. We had been at the Pensionnat a little over two months, when, at one of our private lessons, Monsieur Héger flung my note-book at me, in disgust at my recent translation of an English composition into French.

“You write French like a little automaton!” he snarled. “Every word appears to be the production of an overanxious study of the dictionary and grammatical rules, but with no resemblance to the real pattern of speech! Your younger sister, the one who has less experience, she writes far better and more concise translations!”

“I am sorry, Monsieur,” said I, deeply mortified.

“From now on, Mademoiselle, I forbid you to use either a dictionary or grammar in your translations.”

“But Monsieur! How can I translate without a dictionary or a grammar?”

“Use your brain!” he cried, tapping himself on the head, and glaring at me like thunder through his lunettes. “Listen to what goes on around you! Hear the way French is spoken! And what you hear, let that come through your finger-tips when you write!”