The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (21 page)

In no time the summer was gone, the house full again, and school in session. My experiences as an English teacher confirmed all my best and worst expectations. I had once thought British school-girls were difficult to manage, but England’s worst would be as church mice here. The Belgian girls were truly robust, insolent rebels, bred with a sense of entitlement, with little respect for their elders. The First Division recognised me for what I was: an older student who had turned teacher to earn her keep, and whom they were now obliged to address as “Mademoiselle Charlotte.” In the first months of my tenure, they put me to the test many times; but I rose to the challenge, determined to prove to them—and to the Hégers—that I could hold my own. I found the environment stimulating, electrifying, and I continued to thrive.

Diary: I have heretofore recorded many fond remembrances, as sweet as the honey drawn from flowers; but I must now turn from these pleasant musings. It so happened, that while life wagged on at a steady, graceful pace in Belgium, things were not so rosy back in Haworth. We learned in a letter from papa in
September that cholera had descended on the village. Many people had fallen victim to the disease. Among these was the charming young curate William Weightman; following a visit to the poor and sick, he had taken ill and died.

Bad news, I have found, often comes in threes, and that autumn was no exception. In late October, Martha Taylor died—also from cholera. That Martha could die at an educational establishment as superlative as the Château de Koekelberg in Belgium was unthinkable! I had never known a more care-free friend than Martha; she had been the darling of her family, and a treasured companion to her sister Mary; now, to my grief and astonishment, she had been snatched away at twenty-three, before her life had even truly begun.

The third blow fell just a few days later. Papa wrote to say that Aunt Branwell had died, after suffering from a bowel obstruction. Stunned by this rapid succession of mournful events, Emily and I quickly packed up our belongings. Although it was too late to reach home in time for the funeral, we knew we must return to England at once. Branwell and papa were alone; they could not manage without a woman to run the household.

The evening before we were to depart, I was alone in the dormitory, packing my trunk. As I worked, I was blinded by tears—grieving not only for the passing of my aunt, and Martha, and William Weightman—but for the brutal suddenness of our departure, which was tearing me from a life I had come to love. I heard the door open at the far end of the dormitory. Footsteps approached; male footsteps, instantly recognizable, which halted outside the white curtain, and were followed by Monsieur Héger’s voice: “Mademoiselle Charlotte? May I enter?”

I tearfully replied in the affirmative.

He pulled the curtain aside and crossed to where I stood. “I am so sorry for your loss,” said he, in a tone of the utmost gentleness and sincerity.

I thanked him. He came a step closer, and placed a book in my hands. Through my tears, I saw that it was a beautifully bound German text. “What is this?”

He produced his pocket-handkerchief—a ritual which had been performed countless times in countless schoolroom altercations between us over the past nine months—and as always, I used it to dry my tears. “The book is a gift. I hope it will enable you to continue your studies, in a language of which, I think, you are only just beginning to gain a true appreciation.”

“Thank you,” said I again, touched that he would think of this. I gave him back his handkerchief. As he took it, he squeezed my hand briefly and tenderly; the warmth of this precious human contact made me tremble.

“I understand what it is to lose some one you love very much.”

I nodded silently, my throat too filled with emotion to speak; I assumed he referred to the memory of his father, or his mother. But he did not. He continued softly:

“I was married once before. Did you know?”

Surprise found my voice. “I did not, Monsieur.”

“Her name was Marie-Josephine Noyer.” He pronounced the name with reverence; his blue eyes flickered with moisture, which he blinked away. “We were barely married, when the revolution broke out in 1830. I joined the Nationalists at the barricades. My wife’s young brother was killed at my side, one of the many martyrs who fell in the cause of Belgian liberty. Three years later, on the same morning, my wife and child fell ill. They both died of cholera.”

Fresh tears spilled from my eyes. “I am so sorry, Monsieur.” This, I thought, explained why he so often bore such a grim exterior, and fumed like a bottled storm. No one could emerge from such suffering unaltered.

“It was a long time ago. I only tell you so that you will understand: you are not alone. I sympathise.”

“I would not compare my loss with yours, Monsieur. I have lost two friends, and a beloved aunt; but not a wife and a child.”

“Still, your loss is great. Everything you feel, you feel deeply, Mademoiselle; but rest assured: the pain will fade in time. One day you will look back, and instead of sadness, your heart will
be warmed by fond memories.” At my tearful nod, he again extended his handkerchief. “Keep it, Mademoiselle. You have more need of it than I.” He added: “Please know that you and your sister are always welcome here. Madame and I are both grieved by this parting. We feel as if you are part of our own family. Once things are settled at home, and you have paid your final respects to your aunt, you may come back if you wish.”

“May we?” Events had occurred at such lightning speed, that I had not stopped to consider the future. “Will you not have to hire another English teacher in my absence?”

“We can bring on some one temporarily until Christmas. Your post, if you want it, will be here if you return. Would you like to come back to Brussels, and to us, Mademoiselle?”

I met his gaze, my eyes brimming, this time with tears of gratitude. “Oui, monsieur. I would like that very much.”

From the moment my feet touched the soil of home, I longed to be back in Belgium. I had carried home a precious letter to my father from Monsieur Héger, containing a glowing account of our progress at the Pensionnat, and an eloquent appeal to allow Emily and me to return for a final year’s study—this time with a salary, in exchange for teaching services. Two weighty matters needed to be resolved, however, before papa would sanction our return: who would run the household, now that Aunt Branwell was gone? And what was to be done about my brother? Branwell, who had been dismissed from his post at the railroad earlier that year after a dispute over missing funds, was still unemployed, and hanging about the Black Bull Tavern. The deaths of our aunt and William Weightman had greatly affected him.

“Willie had no thought for himself,” said Branwell, his eyes moist and dull from drink, as we sat by the parsonage fire one stormy November afternoon. “His only concern was for the poor and sick and feeble. ‘Who will look after them?’ he wondered. ‘Who shall take my place?’ A better man never lived, I tell you! And aunt—my God! I sat at her bedside, day and night. I witnessed such agonising suffering as I would not wish
my worst enemy to endure. For twenty years, she was my mother, the guide and director of all the happy days of my childhood—and now I have lost her. How shall I get on? What shall we do?”

I placed my hand on his affectionately. “The only thing we can do. We must honour her memory, in our hearts, our minds, and in the way we choose to live our lives. We must endeavour to make her proud of us.” He stared at me blankly, unable to grasp my meaning. “You must not drink so much, Branwell. It has to stop!”

“What else am I to do with myself? There is no occupation in this God-forsaken village.”

It was that December that Anne wrote from Thorp Green with her solution to the problem: the Robinsons had offered to hire Branwell as the tutor to their son, Edmund Junior. The answer to our domestic issue was also resolved, when Emily declared her intention to stay home and keep house for papa. It did not surprise me; I knew how much she missed our moors. A few days later I received a letter from Madame Héger, reiterating the offer in her husband’s letter.

“Are you very certain you want to go back to Brussels?” Emily asked me, after papa had given his consent.

“I can think of nothing else. I feel idle and useless here.”

“We need not be idle. We have achieved the attainments we sought in Brussels. Our French is now equal to or surpassing that of most English school-teachers, I should think. We can take steps now to open our school, as planned.”

“I am not ready to start a school yet. I wish to be better prepared.”

Emily looked at me. “Are those your real reasons for going back?”

“What do you mean?” I felt my face go hot. “Yes, those are my reasons! But not my
only
reasons. I liked Brussels. It was thrilling to live in a great city, away from this quiet corner of the world—and the Hégers both earnestly wish for my return. I do not wish to disappoint them.”

There was another reason, too, but it was a reason I could, at the time, neither understand nor explain: some irresistible force was drawing me back to Brussels. Although a tiny voice flashed warnings at the corners of my conscience, I ignored it, concentrating all my thoughts on one thing:
I must go back. I must.

H
ad Aunt Branwell been alive to know that I travelled alone from England to Belgium in January 1843, she would have seriously disapproved; but finding no escort, I was obliged to make the voyage on my own. My train was so delayed, that I did not reach London until ten at night. Having already visited the city on my previous journey, I went straight to the wharf, where the coachman dropped me unceremoniously in the midst of a throng of swearing watermen, who struggled for me and my trunk. The packet refused, at first, to let me board at that late hour; at last, some one took pity on me. We sailed the next morning. This time, after reaching the Continent, I was able to take the next day’s midday train to Brussels.

With joy and relief, I arrived at the Pensionnat that evening. It was the dead of winter: the trees were bare and the evening very cold; but how good it felt to be ushered through that familiar, arched stone doorway, into that quaint, black-and-white-marbled entry hall! How wonderful to return to surroundings so beloved to me! I was no sooner in the door, my luggage at my feet, and removing my cloak, than Monsieur Héger emerged
from the salon, shrugging into his own surtout.
³⁹
He caught sight of me and his face lit up.

“Mademoiselle Charlotte! You are back!”

“I am, Monsieur.” I flushed with pleasure at the sight of him. The sound of his voice was like music to my ears; I did not realise how much I had missed it while I was away.

“Where are your companions? Surely you did not travel alone?”

“I did, Monsieur. My father, having no curate, has taken all the duties of the parish upon himself. He could not leave, and there was no one else to ask.”

“Well! Thankfully, you have arrived safe and sound.” He stepped back briefly into the salon, called out for Madame, then turned back to me. “I must go; I am giving a lecture next door. Good-night, Mademoiselle, and welcome home.” With a bow, he issued from the door.

Madame received me with kindness. “Le maître Anglais qui nous avons employé pendant votre absence était absolument incompetent, et les jeunes filles ne cessent pas de demander de vos nouvelles. J’espère que vous resterez longtemps.”
⁴⁰

I assured her that I intended to stay a long while—as long as they would have me.

“You are like our own daughter,” added Madame, with an uncharacteristic smile. “Please consider our sitting-room as your own, and feel free to join us at any hour, or to relax there whenever your schoolroom duties are completed.”

I operated in a new schoolroom, on the playground adjoining the house. In addition to teaching English and continuing my studies in Writing and French, I now served as surveillante
⁴¹
over the First Class at all hours. My salary, at £16 per annum, was modest and did not go far; yet a new duty was soon added to my programme. Monsieur Héger asked if I would consider giving English lessons to him and to Monsieur Chapelle, the brother-in-law of his late wife. I was only too pleased to oblige.

We met in my schoolroom two evenings a week. Monsieur Chapelle was well-mannered and intelligent, and both men showed a sincere desire to learn. These sessions, which brought about a reversal of roles between myself and Monsieur Héger, also brought out his natural ebullience; he could cast off the stern mask he wore all day, and make himself charming.

These lessons became one of my favourite duties. I found myself looking forward, all through the week, to that day and moment after hours, when Monsieur Héger (generally a few minutes behind Monsieur Chapelle) strode into my schoolroom and dropped into a vacant desk, booming out, “I have arrived! Let us commence the speaking of English.” Having learned, in recent months, the art of managing a roomful of difficult students, I was able to bring an exacting energy, imagination, and confidence to the enterprise.

“It is eight hours,” Monsieur Héger would say, as he stared at the clock in my hands.

“Eight
o’clock,
” was my correction.

“How many years have you?” he would inquire.

“How
old
are you?” I would instruct.

“My parents were all the two from Brussels,” Monsieur Chappelle would intone.

“Say
both
instead of ‘all the two,’ Monsieur.”

We started with the basics, but Monsieur Héger—who proved to have a natural aptitude for languages—got on with wonderful rapidity. In a month’s time, he began to speak English very decently. I soon structured our lessons to fit within his more sophisticated tastes and aptitudes. Their earnest attempts to imitate me, however, as I tried to teach them to pronounce like Englishmen, were an amusing spectacle for all concerned. Monsieur Héger’s enunciation of a brief passage by “Weellee
ams Shackspire” (“le faux dieu de ces païens ridicule, les Anglais,”
⁴²
he teased) brought tears of laughter to my eyes.

At times, when Monsieur Héger’s written work needed immediate correction, I playfully motioned to him to rise from his desk, and I installed myself in his place, as he had so often done to me in his schoolroom.

“A pencil, please,” I would say, with an imperious smile, holding out my hand to him—mimicking the request he had so often made of me. He gave me the pencil; but while I underlined the errors in his exercise, he was not content to stand deferentially at my side, as I had been expected to do. Instead, he hovered over and behind me, his arm stretched over my shoulder, his hand leaning on the desk, his head close to mine, as he watched my progress and read aloud my written notations, as if determined to memorise every word.

As I felt the warmth of his breath against my cheek with every utterance, my heart would race, and it became difficult to think. I told myself these physical reactions on my part were only due to the lateness of the hour, and the heat in the room, from an overactive stove; but in my heart, I believe I knew the truth: they were brought on by his nearness, and the sight of his hand so close to mine.

Early one morning, in the first week of my return, I received a shock. When I opened my desk in the still-deserted schoolroom, an unexpected odour assailed my nostrils: it was the pale blue breath of Monsieur Héger’s Indian darlings—the smell of a cigar. Along with this olfactory surprise, came a visual one: some one had rearranged the contents of my desk. Not disarranged—everything was neatly in place—but in a different place than before, as if some unseen, Godlike hand had descended to do a little gentle ransacking.

Moreover, there were two new additions. An unfinished composition I had left, still full of faults, lay atop my papers,
now carefully annotated and corrected. Better still, on top of my worn grammar and sallow dictionary lay a brand-new book, by a French author which I had earlier professed myself keen to read. An accompanying note read simply: “A loan. Enjoy.”

My heart smote me. To think that, with all the many responsibilities which occupied his days and evenings, Monsieur should take a moment to think of me! And more: to think that, while I slept, he stole into this room and made his way to my desk; his gentle, olive hand raised the lid; and there he sat, with his nose buried among my books and papers, examining every item and then carefully putting it back, without even attempting to disguise his machinations. Some people, I thought, might view this act as an invasion of privacy; but I discerned his intent. He wished only to show he cared, and to do me good.

No good, however, could come from that smell. I raised the lid of my desk, opened the nearest window, and carefully waved the book outside in an attempt to purify it in the early-morning breeze. Alas! The schoolroom door burst open and Monsieur himself appeared; catching sight of my activity, and interpreting the inference, his face contorted in a scowl. He bounded towards me across the room. “My offering offends you, I see.”

I quickly brought the book in from the window. “No, Monsieur—”

Before I could say more, he snatched the tome from my startled grasp. “You will be troubled with it no more.” He strode directly to the glowing stove and unlatched the door; to my horror, I realised that he meant to thrust it inside.

“No!” I cried. Racing forward, I grabbed hold of the book; a struggle ensued; had he truly wished to win, there would have been no contest, for my strength, even when roused to fury, could not hope to compare with his. At last he gave way, and I wrestled the spoils from his hands. With relief and a pounding heart, I said, “It is a beautiful new book! How can you even think of destroying it?”

“It is too dirty, it has too much the smell, for your delicate sensibilities. What do you want with it?”

“I wish to read it! And,” I added, with a half-concealed smile, “I am grateful to the genie who loaned it to me, along with my corrected school-work.”

I detected an answering smile in Monsieur’s eyes. “You are not offended, then, by the smell of smoke?”

“I do not like the smell, I admit. The book is no better for it, and neither are you. But I will take the good with the bad, Monsieur, and be grateful.”

He did smile, then; or rather, he laughed, as he turned and strode from the room.

I continued to find such treasures in the ensuing weeks. Watch as I could, however, I never caught the cigar-loving phantom in the act. Most often, it was a classic work that appeared like magic atop my papers; once or twice I discovered a romance, offered for light reading. In time, I held the volumes to my nostrils upon discovery, and inhaled their pungent aroma. It pleased me immensely to think that Monsieur Héger was on intimate terms with my desk.

I was content that first month, although the weather continued bitterly cold through February and into March. I shivered beneath my cloak as I walked alone, every Sunday, to one of the Protestant chapels across the city. I had no friends in Brussels, as Mary Taylor had left after her sister’s death, and I did not like the other teachers, all insincere, bitter old maids who did nothing but complain of their cruel lot in life. I had tried to take up Madame on her kind offer to share their sitting-room in the evening, but found it impractical. Madame and Monsieur were always busy with their children, or engaged in conversation which seemed too private for my ears. As such, I found myself alone most of the time, out of school-hours. I dearly missed Emily’s presence, and came to realise that her companionship had played a great part in making my first year in Brussels so enjoyable.

March 11th was Monsieur Héger’s patronal day: the feast of Saint Constantin.
⁴³
It was the custom, on such a fête day, for pupils to bring their masters flowers. I gave him no bouquet, however; instead, I had planned a more personal and lasting gift. After our English lesson that evening, when Monsieur Chapelle had quit the schoolroom, I felt the time had come to present my little surprise. Before I could do so, however, Monsieur—sitting at his desk—let out a little sigh, and said: “You brought me no flowers to-day, Mademoiselle.”

“No, Monsieur.”

“Neither do you have a bouquet hidden in that desk of yours; if you did, I would have detected its fragrance long ago.”

I hid a smile. “You are correct, Monsieur. I have no flowers.”

“Why is that? It is my fête day. Are you not still my pupil?”

“Surely you cannot bemoan the loss of a bouquet from me, Monsieur, when you received so many others to-day.”

“It is not the quantity which has meaning, but the identity of the bearer, and the thought behind it. But wait, I think I remember—you made me no gift of flowers last year, either!”

“I did not.”

“You do not think highly enough of me, is that it? I am not worthy of such a gift?”

Now I wanted to laugh; I had half a mind to keep what I had made for him. “You are very worthy, Monsieur, and well you know it. But last year, on your fête day, my sister and I had only been in Belgium a few short weeks. We were not acquainted with the custom. Even if we had been, I still could not have bought you flowers.”

“Ah!” He nodded, with eyebrows raised. “I see—because of the expense. Flowers
are
quite dear, and few are to be found in the garden this time of year.”

“It is not the expense, Monsieur. It is something else entirely.
Although I love to see flowers growing, I find no pleasure in them when they are torn from the earth. They appear to me then as far too perishable; their similarity to life, and this assault on their brief mortality, makes me feel sad. I never offer flowers to those I love, and I have no wish to receive them.”

“A curious philosophy. I wonder: do you feel the same way about food? A carrot or potato is also torn, roots and all, from the ground. Every vegetable and fruit is ripped from its stem or branch. And what of the lamb who gives his very life for your nourishment? Do you tremble to eat, Mademoiselle?”

“I do not. I enjoy a pear, a potato, and a green leaf as much as any one. Sometimes, I admit, I feel remorse for the lamb or cow. But it is the way of nature, Monsieur: we must eat or die. We do not, however, require flowers to decorate our tables, to exist.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “An excellent argument; and delivered with the same clarity of thought and firmness of conviction as you present in your compositions. I concede. You have won me over.”

“Good. As it happens, Monsieur, I do have a gift for you—just not of the variety that grows in the ground.”

“Do you?” He had begun to rise from his desk, but he quickly sat back down. The expression on his countenance was almost childlike in its anticipation and delight.

“But perhaps you would prefer to continue our discussion about flowers?”

With downcast eyes, endearing in their humility, he said: “That subject is closed. I will issue no further recriminations.”

I quickly retrieved a small box from my desk, and handed it to him. “For you, Monsieur.” I had purchased the box especially; it was made of some tropic shell, and decked with a little circlet of sparkling blue stones.

“It is beautiful.” He opened it. Inside the lid, I had carefully engraved, with my scissors’ point, the letters C.G.R.H., to stand for his full name: Constantin Georges Romain Héger. A smile lit his face. “How did you know all of my initials?”