I promised faithfully. Of course, however, the adventure stops here: and _I hope I shall never see the Priest again_. I think you had better not tell Papa this. He will not understand that it was _only a freak_, and will perhaps think I am going to turn Catholic."
Only "a freak"?--an "odd whim"? Even without the knowledge of the special facts we now possess, could any serious student of Charlotte Bronte believe it? Given what we know of her seriousness, of her religious temper, that cannot take spiritual things lightly, of her rational Protestant piety, of her antipathy to Catholic formulas--given all this as characteristic of her aspirations,--and as characteristics of her personality, shyness, and reserve carried almost to morbidness--can any one believe that mere _ennui_, a craving for variety, excitement, flung this normally shamefaced, timid Englishwoman down on her knees, on the stone steps of the Sainte Gudule Confessional; inspired her with the determination needed to withstand the Priest"s objections to allow her, as a Protestant, _de jouir du bonheur de la confesse_; compelled her to insist upon her claim, by virtue of her dire need of this "_happiness_" (or at any rate of this _relief_) of unburthening her soul by a "real Confession"? A _real_ Confession--of _what_? What crime has this poor innocent Charlotte on her conscience that stands in such need of confession? No crime, we may be sure. Only the weight, the misery of this tragic "Secret"; too intimate, too sacred to be confided even to those nearest to her,--even to Emily. But now that her "enemy" holds it, too grievous a secret to remain unshared with Some One, who is not an enemy, nor yet a friend--a stranger, who will not blush nor tremble for her, will not see her whilst she whispers through the grating: whom she will not see, or meet again;--Some One, who by profession, is G.o.d"s Delegate of Mercy to deliver the unwilling offender, who repents him of his secret sins, Some One who is pledged, when he has given pardon and consolation, _never to betray what he has heard--to forget it even_. Some One who, experienced in offering counsel and consolation, may (who can say?) offer some comfort or advice, a.s.sisting her to extricate herself from the snare into which she has fallen, and to recover safety.
Does one not know what the "Confession," whispered through the grating, really was? Or can one doubt what the Priest"s advice was? Was it not necessarily the same advice so urgently forced upon her by Madame Heger?
She must escape from the peril of temptation: she must not show this tragic pa.s.sion any mercy: she must break this spell: she must go back to England. She felt she could not do this thing of herself without "G.o.d"s special grace preventing her"? Therefore she must diligently seek to obtain this grace _by the aid of the Holy Catholic Church_--and she must call in the Rue du Parc--next morning. In so far as the last recommendation went, we know Charlotte did not follow it. _The adventure_--as she says herself, _stopped there_. Nor is there anything in her own story to indicate the existence of any real Jesuit, taking the place of the mischief-making Saint, Pere Silas, familiar to readers of _Villette_. The Priest of Ste. Gudule comes to us as a more impressive personage just because Charlotte _never met him again._
But his advice remained vividly present to her recollection we may feel sure. On the 23rd October, about a month after this event, she writes once more to Ellen Nussey:--
"It is a curious position to be so utterly solitary in the midst of numbers. One day lately I felt as if I could bear it no longer _and I went to Madame Heger and gave her notice. If it had depended upon her I should certainly have soon been at liberty. But M. Heger having heard of what was in agitation, sent for me the day after and p.r.o.nounced with vehemence his decision that I could not leave. I could not at that time have persevered in my intentions without exciting him to anger; and promised to stay a little while longer._"
And so what had to be done in the end was postponed: and the old hidden enmity between Charlotte and Madame Heger went on for another three months.
CHAPTER V
THE LEAVE-TAKING--THE SCENE IN THE CLa.s.s-ROOM--CHARLOTTE LEAVES BRUSSELS
Two other events that we know must have happened within a few days of Charlotte"s departure from Brussels, 2nd January 1844, are lit up by the emotions painted in _Villette._ We cannot doubt that these emotions were suffered by the woman of genius who describes them, because it is, not imagination, but remembrance, that has given these pages the magical touch of life, the "vibration" that translates words "into feelings," so that we are not readers, but witnesses, of what this tormented heart endures.
Anguish of suspense; heart-sickness of hope deferred; despair, following on repeated disappointment; rage and indignation at the cruelty and injustice of this outrage done to a Love, that has wronged no one, robbed no one, that has no desire to inflict injury on others; yet that is refused the right that even the condemned criminal is _not_ refused,--to bid farewell to what he holds most dear on earth before he goes forth to execution--all these feelings are painted in the wonderful pages, where the circ.u.mstances of the story nevertheless are legendary, and belong to the parable of Lucy Snowe: but where the sufferings Lucy endures on the eve of her separation from Paul Emanuel were facts stored up in the experiences of Charlotte Bronte.
Like the incident of Lucy Snowe"s "Confession," the pa.s.sages that in _Villette_ describe the efforts made by Madame Beck and the Jesuit, Pere Silas, to prevent Paul Emanuel from bidding Lucy farewell, before he starts for his voyage to Ba.s.seterres in Guadeloupe, are pages from the spiritual life of Charlotte Bronte--taken out of their proper frame of circ.u.mstances, and altered in some important details. But outside of these alterations, one recognises their truthfulness, in the vivid light they throw upon the facts told us in Charlotte"s correspondence.
In the novel, Paul Emanuel is expected to visit the cla.s.s-room at a certain hour and to take farewell of his pupils. In connection with the real events, it has to be remembered that Charlotte left Bruxelles on the 2nd January, that is to say, in a period when, from Christmas day to perhaps the 7th January, there would be holidays, and the Bruxelles pupils would have gone to their homes. It is probable then that the English teacher, before the breaking-up, would have taken her farewell of her pupils in the cla.s.s-rooms--this was the usual practice when a teacher was leaving for good--and that M. Heger, whom she hoped to have seen upon this occasion, would have been absent.
There would have been also a last lesson in cla.s.s given by M. Heger before the breaking-up for these short Christmas holidays--the last lesson of his, that Charlotte, before she quitted the Pensionnat for ever, would have had the chance of attending. But, _like Madame Beck_, Madame Heger would have kept her English teacher employed in writing letters at her dictation, in her private sitting-room, whilst this cla.s.s was going on. Like Lucy, Charlotte would have broken away at the end, when she heard the sound of moving forms, and shutting desks, proving the lesson ended. But here also Madame Heger would have followed her (even as Madame Beck followed Lucy Snowe)--have kept the under-mistress in the background, and then have taken possession of M.
Heger, on the plea of some business matter demanding his attention.
Certainly also (it seems to me) we may believe in the incident of the sc.r.a.p of paper, handed by one of the smallest girls in the school, to Charlotte, after these two exploits of Madame Heger"s diplomacy, intended to avoid the danger--_and was not the danger real?_--of an emotional scene of leave-taking, that might thwart her endeavour to get Charlotte safely out of the house, without any "inconvenient"
revelations. M. Heger may, or may not, have been as ignorant of all that was going on between his wife and "Mees Charlotte" as Madame Heger desired him to be. But it would have been entirely like him, whether he knew what was happening or not, to wish for an emotional leave-taking with his English pupil. M. Heger liked to foster a certain amount of sensibility in his relationships with his pupils--it did not amount to more than a taste for dramatic situations where he had an interesting part to play that gave his histrionic talents a good field of exercise.
But the message warning Charlotte "_that he must see her at leisure, before she left, and talk with her at length_," appears to me just the sort of message M. Heger would have sent. And more especially he would have acted thus if _in reality he had forgotten all about Charlotte"s near time of departure_ and then had suddenly remembered it, and that "Mees" would feel hurt, and think he had behaved coldly to her. In this case he would have tried to put himself right and to persuade her that he had not forgotten at all, but had arranged a special opportunity for a long talk, etc. And Charlotte believing it all, upon the strength of this note, would have lingered on in his cla.s.s-room, expecting M.
Heger,--who never appeared.
[Ill.u.s.tration: M. HEGER AT SIXTY (He was born in 1809: hence thirty-four, in 1843, when Charlotte bade him farewell)]
It seems to me that, whilst it is _possible_ that Madame Heger _may_ have prevented her husband from keeping the appointment, it is also quite _possible_ that M. Heger may have again forgotten all about it?
That would have been like him too,--as I shall show by and by.
But what I believe to have _certainly happened is that the scene between Madame Heger and Charlotte took place just as the auth.o.r.ess of "Villette" described_. That interview wears, to my mind, the stamp of truth.
The last day broke. Now would he visit us. Now would he come and speak his farewell, or he would vanish mute, and be seen by us nevermore.
This alternative seemed to be present in the mind of not a living creature in that school. All rose at the usual hour; all breakfasted as usual; all, without reference to, or apparent thought of, their late professor, betook themselves with wonted phlegm to their ordinary duties.
So oblivious was the house, so tame, so trained its proceedings, so inexpectant its aspect, I scarce knew how to breathe in an atmosphere thus stagnant, thus smothering.
Would no one lend me a voice? Had no one a wish, no one a word, no one a prayer to which I could say Amen?
I had seen them unanimous in demand for the merest trifle--a treat, a holiday, a lesson"s remission; they could not, they _would_ not now band to besiege Madame Beck, and insist on a last interview with a master who had certainly been loved, at least by some--loved as _they_ could love; but, oh! what _is_ the love of the mult.i.tude?
I knew where he lived; I knew where he was to be heard of or communicated with. The distance was scarce a stone"s-throw.
Had it been in the next room, unsummoned I could make no use of my knowledge. To follow, to seek out, to remind, to recall--for these things I had no faculty.
M. Emanuel might have pa.s.sed within reach of my arm. Had he pa.s.sed silent and unnoticing, silent and stirless should I have suffered him to go by.
Morning wasted. Afternoon came, and I thought all was over.
My heart trembled in its place. My blood was troubled in its current. I was quite sick, and hardly knew how to keep at my post or do my work. Yet the little world round me plodded on indifferent; all seemed jocund, free of care, or fear, or thought. The very pupils who, seven days since, had wept hysterically at a startling piece of news, appeared quite to have forgotten the news, its import, and their emotion.
A little before five o"clock, the hour of dismissal, Madame Beck sent for me to her chamber, to read over and translate some English letter she had received, and to write for her the answer. Before settling to this work, I observed that she softly closed the two doors of her chamber; she even shut and fastened the cas.e.m.e.nt, though it was a hot day, and free circulation of air was usually regarded by her as indispensable. Why this precaution? A keen suspicion, an almost fierce distrust, suggested such question. Did she want to exclude sound? What sound?
I listened as I had never listened before; I listened like the evening and winter wolf, snuffing the snow, scenting prey, and hearing far off the traveller"s tramp. Yet I could both listen and write. About the middle of the letter I heard what checked my pen--a tread in the vestibule. No door-bell had rung; Rosine--acting doubtless by orders--had antic.i.p.ated such reveille. Madame saw me halt. She coughed, made a bustle, spoke louder. The tread had pa.s.sed on to the _cla.s.ses_.
"Proceed," said Madame; but my hand was fettered, my ear enchained, my thoughts were carried off captive.
The _cla.s.ses_ formed another building; the hall parted them from the dwelling-house. Despite distance and part.i.tion, I heard the sudden stir of numbers, a whole division rising at once.
"They are putting away work," said madame.
It was indeed the hour to put away work, but why that sudden hush, that instant quell of the tumult?
"Wait, madam; I will see what it is."
And I put down my pen and left her. Left her? No. She would not be left. Powerless to detain me, she rose and followed, close as my shadow. I turned on the last step of the stair.
"Are you coming too?" I asked.
"Yes," she said, meeting my glance with a peculiar aspect--a look clouded, yet resolute. We proceeded then, not together, but she walked in my steps.
He was come. Entering the first _cla.s.se_, I saw him. There once more appeared the form most familiar. I doubt not they had tried to keep him away, but he was come.
The girls stood in a semicircle; he was pa.s.sing round, giving his farewells, pressing each hand, touching with his lips each cheek. This last ceremony foreign custom permitted at such a parting--so solemn, to last so long.
I felt it hard that Madame Beck should dog me thus, following and watching me close. My neck and shoulder shrank in fever under her breath; I became terribly goaded.
He was approaching; the semicircle was almost travelled round; he came to the last pupil; he turned. But Madame was before me; she had stepped out suddenly; she seemed to magnify her proportions and amplify her drapery; she eclipsed me; I was hid. She knew my weakness and deficiency; she could calculate the degree of moral paralysis, the total default of self-a.s.sertion, with which, in a crisis, I could be struck. She hastened to her kinsman, she broke upon him volubly, she mastered his attention, she hurried him to the door--the gla.s.s door opening on the garden. I think he looked round. Could I but have caught his eye, courage, I think, would have rushed in to aid feeling, and there would have been a charge, and, perhaps, a rescue; but already the room was all confusion, the semicircle broken into groups, my figure was lost among thirty more conspicuous. Madame had her will. Yes, she got him away, and he had not seen me. He thought me absent. Five o"clock struck, the loud dismissal bell rang, the school separated, the room emptied.
There seems, to my memory, an entire darkness and distraction in some certain minutes I then pa.s.sed alone--a grief inexpressible over a loss unendurable. _What_ should I do--oh! _what_ should I do--when all my life"s hope was thus torn by the roots out of my riven, outraged heart?
What I _should_ have done I know not, when a little child--the least child in the school--broke with its simplicity and its unconsciousness into the raging yet silent centre of that inward conflict.
"Mademoiselle," lisped the treble voice, "I am to give you that. M. Paul said I was to seek you all over the house, from the _grenier_ to the cellar, and when I found you to give you that."
And the child delivered a note. The little dove dropped on my knee, its olive leaf plucked off. I found neither address nor name, only these words,--
"It was not my intention to take leave of you when I said good-bye to the rest, but I hoped to see you in _cla.s.se_. I was disappointed. The interview is deferred. Be ready for me. Ere I sail, I must see you at leisure, and speak with you at length. Be ready. My moments are numbered, and, just now, monopolized; besides, I have a private business on hand which I will not share with any, nor communicate, even to you.--Paul."