Confession by S. G. Klein Page B

standing by the door looking straight at me as one might stare at an exhibit in a museum. ‘You had your eyes shut?’ he said, ‘yet you were writing?’
    I covered my notebook with my arm.
    ‘You should not creep up on people like that, Monsieur. How long have you been standing there?’
    ‘Long enough – ’
    ‘Was there something you wanted?’
    ‘I forgot to give you this.’ Monsieur handed me a small volume of verse – Lamartine’s
Harmony
.
    ‘Thank you. You are always very kind.’
    ‘Not kind.’
    ‘Monsieur?’
    ‘You and your sister are gifted. You do not think I notice these things because I mark your work harshly, but I see everything. For instance you come in here night after night to study long after the others have given up, bending over your books, reading, writing.’
    ‘You’ve been spying on me?’
    ‘Spying? No. I take an interest in the more able of my pupils and, I repeat, you and
    Mademoiselle Emily are very gifted. You work extremely hard –’
    ‘Being gifted and working hard do not necessarily correspond,’ I remarked. ‘One can study all one’s life and never be a great writer.’
    ‘Is that your ambition?’
    ‘No,’ I stammered. ‘Possibly. Maybe. If – ’
    ‘Well even the greatest writers must study their craft.’
    ‘Surely great poetry arises directly from the soul?’
    ‘The soul?’
    ‘I believe so, Sir, yes.’
    ‘Great poetry might well do so but a writer, even one of exceptional talents, still needs a framework, an acquaintance with the past, perhaps even an eye towards the – ’
    ‘But the flame,’ I said interrupting him while putting my hands up to my cheeks for I felt suddenly hot. ‘The inspiration, the overwhelming force of genius – ’
    ‘That was what you were doing when you had your eyes closed? Calling on Inspiration or was it Genius?’
    ‘You are mocking me, Sir – ’
    ‘A little,’ Monsieur Heger replied sitting down at the desk opposite. His eyes glanced around the room, bright and restless. ‘Is writing something you have always wanted to pursue?’
    ‘We have plans to open our own school back in England. I taught as a governess in Rawdon – ’
    ‘That is not what I asked. Remember…remorselessly sacrifice everything that does not contribute to clarity
–
’
    I took a deep breath. ‘As children we wrote a little, yes Monsieur.’
    ‘Better.’
    ‘We wrote stories and poetry – ’
    ‘Were these stories based on your own experiences?’
    ‘Not our experiences, no Monsieur, but the experiences of those we read about. Kings and queens, the Duke of Wellington, Napoleon – ’
    Now it was Monsieur who smiled.
    ‘I do not want to say the wrong thing, Monsieur. I do not want you to think me more foolish than you already do.’
    ‘Not foolish – ’
    ‘Ridiculous then or unwise?’
    ‘Do I appear to you as if I found you ridiculous?’
    I shook my head.
    ‘Do you know what I see?’ he said. ‘I see a caged bird, one that longs to spread its wings.
    The bars of its cage are made of metal, they are incredibly strong, but this bird is stronger.
    One day it will escape, if it wants to.’
    ‘Will it?’ I murmured feeling as he spoke as if something marvelous were beginning to form within me – something so tantalizing, so ephemeral – but it lasted only a few moments.
    ‘Undoubtedly. She already has in a way – ’
    ‘By coming to Brussels?’
    ‘By writing.’
    ‘We all wrote stories and poetry when we were children. We enjoyed talking about the worlds we created. I would like to think I had some gift for it. But necessity demands that I teach – ’
    ‘There are worse things in life.’
    For a third time in as many minutes, blood rose to my cheeks. ‘I did not mean to disparage your profession, Monsieur,’ I said. ‘But unlike yourself I have no flare for it. I am too selfish. Besides this school, this place is not hidden away out of sight, you live in a city, students come to you from France and Italy