The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (22 page)

“I know a great many things, Monsieur.”

A length of plaited chain lay coiled within the box, which I had wrought of brightly-coloured silk and decorated with glimmering beads; for the clasp, I had removed the gold fastening from my sole necklace, and attached it thereupon. “I saw you working at this the last few nights, at study-hour. I had no inkling that it was for me. Is it—a watch-guard, I presume?”

“It is, Monsieur.”

“Well! I like it very much. Thank you.” Beaming, he stood, opened his paletôt and attached the watch-guard, taking special care to arrange it across his chest. “Do I display it to optimum effect? I have no wish to conceal something so decorative.”

The friendly affection on his face set my heart aglow. “It looks very handsome, Monsieur.”

“The box will be a superb bonbonnière,” pronounced he, which greatly pleased me, for I knew he was fond of sweets, and liked to share them with others. “I thank you again. Your gift, mon amie, has proved the perfect end to a most enjoyable day.”

I smiled. So often, in the past, he had presented me with a bland expression, an angry glare, or a disdainful look. Now, he had called me
mon amie,
a phrase which, I had come to understand, carried a greater sense of intimate affection than the English word
friend
. I felt in that moment entirely happy, and as light as a balloon that might soar up into the sky.

A few weeks later, I received a summons to Monsieur’s library. He was sitting behind his desk correcting papers when I entered.

“Ah! Mademoiselle Charlotte. There you are. Please shut the door, and sit down.”

I did as I was bidden, taking the chair opposite his desk. I spied the watch-guard that I had made him, peeking from beneath his black paletôt, and smiled.

“I have something for you. I had a chance to read these.” From a drawer, he removed three small, bound manuscripts and set them on his desk. I recognised them, and panic seized my
throat. They were my manuscripts: a few samples of my early writings which I had brought from home, and had given to Monsieur Héger the week before. Now that his English had improved enough to make some sense of them, I wanted to share these spontaneous creations of my youth. With one look at the expression on his face, however, I wished that I had not.

“You did not like them, did you? You thought them moronic and stupid.”

“Far from it. My English is not too advanced as yet, so I did not understand everything. But they seem to me quite charming, youthful, lively.
The Spell
is particularly fearless and fantastical—yet at the same time, infuriatingly inaccessible—and most amusing.”
⁴⁴

“Inaccessible? Amusing?” My heart sank; that story was meant to be thrilling and dramatic, not humorous. “And—youthful?”

“Yes. But it is to be expected. You were young when you wrote them, eh? You had no direction, no guidance. You had only the impulse to write, and a love of words. You wrote what was then in your mind, and your heart.” Here ensued a pause, in which he produced a cigar from a box in his desk. “You do not mind if I smoke, Mademoiselle?”

I shook my head, steeped in misery.

He lit the cigar, placed it to his lips and inhaled, then breathed out a trail of smoky incense into the room. “Enlighten me: what is in your mind and your heart now, Mademoiselle? Other than the compositions you write for me, what other subjects do you wish to explore in poetry and prose? What stories do you burn to tell?”

“None, Monsieur.”

“I do not believe it. Such a passion for writing in one’s youth, does not dry up and go away by itself.”

“It was a hobby, Monsieur; a hobby which I have put behind me.”

“Then why did you show these to me?”

“I do not know.”

He made an impatient noise. “You are not being honest with me or with yourself, Mademoiselle. You sought my opinion, and now that I have given it, and you do not like the essence of it, your face turns crimson, and you shrink back shyly from your intent, as a mouse would shrink into its hole.”

He spoke the truth; but I could not admit it. “My intent is to run a school. It is the best, and only, occupation open to me.”

“From what I hear, you are a fine teacher; but as I have said, teaching does not preclude writing, nor should it. A well-organised person can do both.” He leaned back in his chair and looked at me. “Do you know what I wished to be, in my youth, Mademoiselle?”

“No, Monsieur.”

“I wished to be a barrister.”

“A barrister? Truly?” I was astonished.

“I grew up in wealth and prosperity, with very rosy prospects, knowing that I could attend any university I liked, and become anything I wished to be. Then one day, my father—he was a jeweler, and a most caring and generous man—he lent a large sum of money to a friend in distress, and lost it all.”

“
All,
monsieur?”

“All. Overnight, my prospects were reversed. I found myself in my teens without a profession, and ill equipped for life. My father sent me to Paris to seek my fortune. My first post was as a secretary to a solicitor, an initiation into the legal world, which greatly attracted me. But now, I had neither the time nor the money to consider such a profession. So I began to teach. The only pleasure I could allow myself at the time was to go to the Comédie Française as a hired applauder. My love of
the court-room and the stage, I was obliged to consign to the schoolroom and the study-hall.”

I believed a sympathetic response was in order, but I blurted out: “Perhaps it is selfish of me, Monsieur—but I cannot regret your loss, for it has been my gain.”

He laughed. “So this is your response, to my tale of woe?”

“I am sorry. I do feel badly for you. Do you regret it, Monsieur? The giving up of your dream?”

“No. I am very happy with all I have. Of what use is it to look back, and wonder what might have been? But what is true for me, is not necessarily true for you, Mademoiselle. You have not yet begun your career. Is this what you truly wish for yourself? A life of teaching?”

“I—I do not know, Monsieur.”

He rose and walked around to the front of his desk, where he stopped immediately before me, half-leaning back upon the desk, his shoes nearly touching my shoes, the dark folds of his long paletôt brushing up against, and blending with, the skirts of my black dress. There he stood, smoking and brooding, just inches from me. For a while, the only sound in the room was the steady tick-tock of the clock on the mantel, which could not keep pace with the rapid beating of my heart. At length, he said: “I have read your early writing. I am well acquainted with your work of to-day. May I be honest with you, Mademoiselle? May I share with you, my true impressions?”

“Please, Monsieur.”

“I find your work remarkable. I think you have elements of the genius in you.”

My breath caught in my throat. “Genius, Monsieur?”

“Yes; and I believe, with further exercise, this genius can be trained into something very worthy.”

My mind feasted on that single word:
genius.
All my life, I had believed that I possessed a gift of some kind, a gift shared by other members of my family, but so far unacknowledged and unrecognised. The strong pulse of ambition returned full force, and beat in every vein I owned; yet something rankled,
too. “If I truly have genius, Monsieur—
if
I do—then is all this training and exercise really necessary? Why all these endless compositions, where I have been obliged to imitate the form of other writers? Why can I not simply write what I wish to write?”

“It is imperative to study form. Without form, you are no poet; with it, your work will be more powerful.”

“But poetry—is it not the faithful expression of something which happens, or has happened, in the soul?”

“One could say that, yes.”

“And is not genius something innate, a gift given to us by God?”

“Man receives this gift from heaven, indisputably.”

“Then I believe that genius, by its very nature, must be rash and daring,” said I, “and should operate like that of instinct—without study or pause for reflection.”

“Genius without study is like force without a lever, Mademoiselle. It is the soul which cannot express its interior song, save in a rough and raucous voice. It is the musician with an out of tune piano, who cannot offer the world the sweet melodies he hears within. It is like these works of your youth, Mademoiselle.” He leaned forward, bent his face down towards me, and gazed directly into my eyes. “Nature gave you a voice, Mademoiselle; but only now are you learning how to employ that voice—to turn it into art. An artist you shall become. Study, persevere, and you will be truly great. Your works will live.”

My heart pounded, in part from his nearness, but even more, I think, from the impact of his words; it was as if a whole new world had been opened up to me. I felt a joyful warmth spread through me, permeating my chest, and rising, like the heat of the sun, to my face.

At that moment, the library door opened, and Madame Héger walked into the room. Her glance fell upon her husband and me, situated thus, and she froze.

Monsieur Héger straightened and puffed casually on his cigar. “Madame?”

Their gazes met. “I did not realise you were holding a lesson,” said she coldly.

“I was only giving Mademoiselle Charlotte some sage advice about her future, and her writing.” To me, he added, “We are finished, Mademoiselle. You may go.”

I issued immediately from the room, my heart still pounding. Madame averted her eyes and stood back to let me pass.

I left Monsieur Héger’s library, trembling with excitement. I needed to get away, to feast my mind on all that he had said. I dashed upstairs, grabbed my cloak, and darted out into the garden.

Darkness had long since fallen; all was cool and still. I stood upon the lawn and inhaled the crisp night air; it smelt fresh and clean from a recent April rain. A canopy of stars twinkled above, beside an incandescent moon, whose reflection glowed upon the tiny, white, emerging blossoms speckling the dark branches of the orchard trees. As I wandered down the central path, my heart was gladdened by the cheerful, chirruping cadence of the crickets and the many-mingled sounds of the surrounding city, which rose like the gentle hum of a distant ocean.

I heard the raising of a latch, and saw the rear door to the Pensionnat swing open on its silent hinges. A figure emerged, paused, and then approached. I knew it was he. I waited. He caught up and fell in step with me. “A beautiful evening, is it not?”

“It is, Monsieur.” We strolled. A smoky essence emanated from his clothing. “Where is your cigar, Monsieur?”

“I put it out. I did not wish for anything to interfere with the fragrance of the spring blossoms.” He inhaled deeply, and smiled. “Now that I see that you are to be my walking companion, I am even more glad of the omission, for I know you do not like it.”

“I have grown accustomed to your cigar, Monsieur. I have even grown to appreciate its aroma, for it reminds me of you.”

“Then you no longer wave the books I loan you out the window?”

“I would not dare to, Monsieur, for fear that you would swoop down on me like an avenging angel, and try to snatch away my prize.”

“Your prize? I am pleased to hear that you consider my little loans in that way.”

“The books that you have shared—they mean the world to me. To think that you would take the time, to think of me, merely a student at your school, and a teacher in your employ—it honours me, Monsieur.”

“Merely a student at my school, and a teacher in my employ?” he cried, shaking his head in bemusement. He then turned to face me, compelling me to stop before him as he gazed at me fondly. “We have been both pupil and teacher to each other, Mademoiselle. But you must know that you are far more to me than that. You are my friend, Mademoiselle; a friend for life.”

My heart swelled with such pleasure as I had never before felt; his words resounded in my ears.
A friend for life.
He had proclaimed it with unfettered affection in his eyes. With a sudden, all-consuming rush, I knew that I had profound feelings for this man. Once, I had feared him; in time, I honoured and respected him; later, I valued him as a friend. Now, I realised, my feelings had grown and changed into something much deeper: I loved him.
I loved him.

Oh! I thought, as I averted my gaze and froze, confusion washing over me. How could this be? How could I love Monsieur Héger? He had a
wife
; a family to whom he was devoted, as he should be; a domestic life of which I could never be a part. To love Monsieur Héger was wrong—
wrong
—a violation of all that was proper, moral, and decent! How could I have allowed my feelings to so carry me away?

With pounding heart, I frantically tried to understand this profound revelation. If I loved Monsieur Héger, there was only one way to justify it: I loved him
not
as a bride loves a bridegroom, or as wife loves a husband;
no
! I loved Monsieur only as a pupil loves her master. Of him I had made an idol; and as a
lower being worships an idol, I had no need for my love to be returned in kind. I was—
I must be
—entirely content with what he could give: this pure and simple friendship that he was so freely offering me. This silent assessment reassured me and assuaged my conscience, until another realisation, just as sudden, followed; with it came a weight of sorrow so great, it brought tears to my eyes.

“Why do you cry, Mademoiselle? I have just said you are my friend for life.”

“As I am yours, Monsieur,” said I softly, brokenly.

“And this makes you sad?”

“No, Monsieur. It is something else which makes me grieve.”

“What is that?”

“It is the knowledge that one day I must leave Brussels, Monsieur.”

“But England is your home. Your family is there. Surely you will be happy to return to them.”

“Yes. But Brussels—this Pensionnat—it has been my home for more than a year now. I have lived here a delightful life. Here, I have talked, face to face, with what I reverence, and with what I delight in—with an original, a vigorous, an expanded mind. I have come to know
you,
Monsieur; and it fills me with sadness to contemplate that one day I must leave you—that we will no longer be able to talk in this way.”