I Leap Over the Wall

by Monica Baldwin

  Sext (formerly at the ‘sixth hour’ of the Romans, but now usually recited at 11.30 a.m.) was somehow exactly right for that prosaic hour. In the ancient hymn with which it opens, the notion of heat predominates rather curiously. God, evoked as the Author of the morning’s splendour and the fiery midday heat, is implored to ‘quench the flames of strife’ and to cool that calorem noxium which might imperil peace of soul or body’s health. Such a prayer might well have risen from the lips of the early monks as they gasped to God from the furnace of their desert monasteries. It would almost seem—if one may judge from hints such as those in the liturgy—that the midday devil—daemonio meridiano—prowled during the lunch-hour then, even as he does to-day.

  Though None often followed immediately after Sext, it should, strictly speaking, have been said at the ‘ninth hour’, i.e. at three o’clock in the afternoon. This was the hour of Christ’s death on the cross, which None is intended to commemorate. The hymn asks for the grace of a ‘good death’—sed praemium mortis sacrae perennis instet gloria. In both chapters and responsories the Passion-motif is emphasized.

  Vespers was the evening service of the Church, just as Lauds was her daybreak prayer. And whether or no you were liturgically minded, there was no denying the beauty of this, the most solemn as well as the most popular of the Day Hours. In the fourth century, Vespers was celebrated at nightfall by the light of lamps and candles. The Novice Mistress taught us to see in the clouds of fragrant incense a symbol of the prayer then rising from our hearts to God. The lights on the altar were a figure of Christ, the True Light; a memorial, too, of the sacrificium vespertinum of the Jewish Temple in ancient days. On High Feasts, the singing was accompanied by the organ and the Magnificat was chanted—with immense solemnity—in parts. The plain-chant settings of the antiphons and hymns were often of extraordinary beauty.

  Somehow or other, in spite of its importance, Vespers never really appealed to me. I always felt that something about it seemed vaguely ‘wrong’. I think this was because its poetry and symbolism are inspired by, and belong so essentially to, the approach of nightfall. It harmonizes quite exquisitely with the faintly romantic, exalted soul-mood of that hour. It would be difficult to enjoy, let us say, a bal masqué at eleven o’clock in the morning. To me, Vespers was robbed of half its loveliness and meaning by being celebrated at the appalling hour of half-past three in the afternoon.

  The name Compline is derived from the Latin completorium, because this Office completes and closes the Little Hours of the day. It is brief, simple, intimate—a perfect form of night prayers, a preparation for death no less than for the hours of sleep, closing as it does on a note of loving submission, lit with hope: In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum. Redemisti nos, Domine, Deus veritatis.

  Initiation into the mysteries of the service of the choir usually began with the alarming ordeal of what was known as the ‘Little Week’. As soon as a postulant had learned to walk and sit and stand ‘religiously’, to ‘make her bows’ with arms crossed and the palms of the hands pressed flat against the knees, to recite the monotone and ‘take the note’ from the chantress, she would be led to the choir and taught by the Mistress of Novices how to conduct herself during the next seven days.

  She learnt how to ring the bell in the middle of the choir at the Sanctus and at the Elevation at the various Masses—which was considerably more complicated than it sounds. Both bell and rope were so heavy that one could easily have been swung off one’s feet into the stratosphere above the stalls. And I shall always remember the day when a too-energetic novice dragged the bell-rope from its moorings overhead and sent it whirling and crashing down the whole length of the choir like a gigantic rock-python with a dozen or so of enormous lessonary-books and antiphonarians in its wake.

  Another of the ‘Little Week’ duties was to ‘join’ in the middle of the choir with one’s opposite number, and there—after performing the prescribed bows and genuflections—to sing or say certain versicles, a good many of which had very peculiar tunes. There were antiphons to be given out, bells tolled, candles lighted and extinguished and—most alarming of all—the Martyrology to be read at Prime.

  This duty—owing to the complicated system of announcing the date, and the outlandish and unpronounceable names of so many holy persons therein catalogued—was an ordeal much dreaded by the novices. Were you careless—or unfortunate—enough to stumble, a sharp ‘Ahem!’ from the Mistress’ stall would proclaim the fact to the rest of the community. Were you sharp enough, you might still succeed in righting yourself. Often, however, fright paralysed you, and an appalling silence filled the choir. Then, rising slowly from her stall, the Mistress of Novices, book in hand, would advance like a white wraith and point out to you in a terrifying whisper where you had erred….

  After that, public penance had to be performed in the middle of the choir, and again—probably—during dinner in the refectory.

  After a time—a very long time in some cases—one grew accustomed to the keeping of one’s ‘Little Week’. Usually, the acute nervousness which often paralysed one’s early efforts, arose from the consciousness that each time one performed a ‘duty’, one was examined by the critical eyes of the entire community. And every novice was aware that the least negligence or forgetfulness on her part (and heaven knows there was much to be remembered) would go against her when the day came for the great decision as to whether or no she should be permitted to make her Vows.

  The ‘Great Week’ was even more complicated. One had to lead the choir by beginning each part of the Office with the Deus in adjutorium meum intende, uttered on the exact note given by the chantress. There were prayers to be recited, blessings given, Grace conducted in the refectory—in fact, the ‘hebdomadarian’ (such was the official title of the ‘Great Week’ keeper in the Ceremonial) was continually in evidence. To a nun who was easily distracted, or who had a noticeable difficulty with Latin, it could be a torment both to herself and to the community. The only time I remember this happening, however, was the occasion of so many acts of humility on the part of the one and such forbearance on the other, that it could only have resulted in the general benefit of all concerned.

  Usually, the keeping of one’s ‘Great Week’ was looked upon as what this generation would call the ‘high spot’ of one’s religious life. Nuns would count the weeks eagerly until their turn as ‘hebdomadarian’ came round again. Indeed, it was a solemn and sometimes an almost rapturous experience to stand in one’s stall in the official capacity of mediator, offering to God the needs of the people, drawing down upon the people the grace of God. Surely, this was as near approximation to the priestly office as it was possible for nuns to achieve.

  (5)

  Oddly enough, I find very little to say about the months I spent in Argyll. I think it must be because my impressions of the place were so tremendous, that the people, somehow or other, were crowded out. Anyhow, when I look back on my visit to Duror of Appin, I see Miki, her two small sons, and the Laird, her husband, rather as though they were ghosts…. What really stands out, sharp and clear as though I had only left there yesterday, is the astounding beauty of the place.

  Now, there can be no doubt that Scotland—if you happen to be that kind of person—does something to you. But I find that ‘something’ quite impossible to translate into words. All I know is that this je ne sais quoi which it possesses gives it the same relationship to other places as poetry bears to prose. Mendelssohn, foreigner though he was, sensed this and tried—not unsuccessfully, I think—to express something of it in his Hebrides Overture.

  From the first moment when I set foot in Duror of Appin (Cuil Bay, where my friends lived, lies on the eastern coast of Loch Linnhe), I was as one in a dream. Enchantment held me. I was bound so fast with beauty that I could not escape. Never had I dreamed of such forms of cloud and skyline; such colour; such effects of light and shadow; such wine-strong, salt-sweet air. In vain did Miki—most accomplished of housewives—endea
vour to form me to domesticity. Together we mended socks, wound wool, weeded the strawberry bed, bathed babies, baked bannocks, boiled haggises and stirred saucepans of marmalade and jam. I listened to all she had to tell me about subjects upon which she was something of an authority: cakes, crooners and food-values; film-stars, husbands and the management of the home. Attentively, I lent ear to a vast amount of detailed information, obstetric and otherwise, of which I had hitherto been ignorant. But it was all to no purpose. Try as I would, I could not shake off the spell which had been cast over me. Nothing—absolutely nothing—seemed to matter, except the thrilling loveliness that pressed upon me from every side.

  Sometimes it was the scarred hillsides with their dark, haunted-looking woods and Tyrian embroideries of ling and heather. Or the moors that ran down to the loch edge, slashed and laced with grey and indigo or embossed with emerald and red. Or the massive summits of Ben Cruachan, stained with sunset hues of copper-rose and dusky violet. Or Ben Vair’s three savage peaks, brooding eternally behind thin wrappings of white mist. Or the Shuna Isle, dim and lustrous as an opal, floating on the rippled quicksilver of Loch Linnhe. Or, perhaps, the clouds lifting suddenly to show sharp rain falling like long pointed spears of silver on the unearthly, desolate beauty of the lonely cones of Glencoe.

  I drank it all in, like strong wine. And it intoxicated me, with the result, I’m afraid, that I was not an altogether satisfactory kind of guest.

  There are just a few details which I shall allow myself the luxury of recording.

  One is, that if you take the path from Achadh nan Sgiath (the grey-roofed house where Miki and her husband lived) into Duror of Appin at eight o’clock on a summer morning, you will see much that it is not easy to forget.

  The thick white mist that rises inch by inch from the sides of Lismore and the hills across the water. The sea, delphinium blue, with strips of indigo. Huge black-cap gulls swooping on mighty wings above lace-edged waves that break delicately on the firm biscuit-coloured shore.

  Bracken, up to your eye-level, sparkling with dew and giving forth the subtle earthy odour that wakens so many subconscious memories. Foxgloves, shoulder-high, with their furry clover-coloured bells. A blaze of broom-bushes, fragrant yellow fire against the dark background of their slender foliage. Ox-eye daisies, tall and luxuriant enough to glorify a garden. Wild rose trees, bending beneath the burden of their own pale loveliness, petalled with snow and carmine, gold-anthered, with blood-red thorns.

  After Duror, Ardsheal. And, presently, the road by the sea, with Ben Vair, Creag Ghorm, and Sgurr Dhonuill (their very names are like an incantation) looming on the right. To the left, Loch Leven, a sheet of shimmering sapphire washed with gold.

  Ballachulish, outpost of Glencoe, with its rushing burn and the little fishermen’s church clinging limpet-wise to the steep hillside; and at last, the Glen of Weeping, dark, haunted, and sunk for ever in the deepest melancholy.

  Above the loch, gaunt, cone-shaped peaks rise starkly from the water. Their steep sides, gashed with precipices, frown over gloomy tarns unlightened by the sun. Over them broods an eternal solitude. In their more desolate moods, the grim crags have almost the lonely horror of the mountains of the moon.

  (6)

  During the three months which I spent at Duror, the thought of my Cottage-in-the-Clouds was seldom absent from my mind.

  On the Laird’s estate were a wooden bungalow and a tiny shepherd’s cottage. Miki assured me that either of these would be the very thing for me. I used to gaze upon them reflectively from the boat as we towed back driftwood for the fires from a neighbouring bay. It seemed to me that I could have been extremely happy in either. And yet, recalling the house which had been shown to me in the Vision, I knew that something about them was not exactly right.

  What was more, the war showed not the slightest sign of abating. And I felt that I couldn’t, in conscience, settle down till I had tried, however ineffectually, to Do My Bit.

  Now and again a thrill reached me from Sardinia Street in the guise of a neat little honey-coloured form which told me of various librarianships available to persons possessing the qualifications necessary for such a job.

  There were Club Libraries, Reference Libraries, Medical Libraries, Engineering Libraries, even Film Libraries. Unfortunately, in every case the snag was identical. It was always emphatically stated that previous experience was a sine qua non. Twice, wondering whether I might not be able to bluff my way to success, I took my courage in both hands and sent in an application. In each case I was informed that the post had just been filled.

  After eight weeks or so of this kind of thing, I decided that as what I required did not appear to be forthcoming from Sardinia Street, I had better try to find a job for myself.

  I therefore began once more to study the Situations Vacant columns of the Daily Telegraph.

  And then, one day, suddenly, I found what I wanted.

  It was an advertisement for an assistant matron at a hostel for munition workers in the North of England. And I answered it because it expressly stated that no previous experience was necessary.

  After that, all sorts of things began to happen with the utmost possible rapidity.

  There were letters; then telegrams; finally, a couple of long-distance calls. And—before the week was out—I found myself, always accompanied by my small stock of worldly possessions packed tightly into the two faithful suitcases, steaming slowly out of Duror station. Miki and her family stood on the platform, waving me a long farewell.

  1 See The Faith of the Catholic Church, pp. 115–16, by C. C. Martindale, S.J.

  2 ‘Liturgical Prayer’ is that found in the Missal, Breviary, Ritual, Pontifical and Diurnal.

  3 These, besides being in the Breviary, are also found in a smaller book called a Diurnal or Horae Diurnae.

  4 St. Augustine, De Trinitate, Book xv, ch. xvii, para. 31.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  (1)

  THE journey south was rather an ageing experience.

  Most people, of course, would have accepted it simply as just one more brief series of war-time unpleasantnesses. To me, however, unused to any kind of travelling, ignorant of how to deal with even the most elementary problems and never before having put my nose outside in the black-out, it had a nightmarish quality which I shall not easily forget.

  It was, however, educative. On emerging, I felt that my Experience of Life had been considerably enlarged.

  I spent the first half-hour meditating upon what I had learnt from my stay at Duror.

  From Miki I had certainly picked up an abundance of miscellaneous information. But there was more to it than that. The whole thing had been a deep and wonderful spiritual experience. There was something about those glens and lochs that simply forced one down on to the knees of one’s soul.

  More than fifteen hundred years ago, St. Augustine cried to God in his Confessions, ‘Our soul rises up to Thee, helped upwards by the things that Thou hast made … passing beyond them unto Thee who hast wonderfully made them’.

  Well, that was how I felt about it. The beauty upon which I had looked had done something to me. As a result, I longed for solitude. I wanted to surrender myself to the mouvement d’âme induced by the vision of so much loveliness.

  These pious reflections were interrupted by the train’s arrival at Connel Ferry. During this—the first of the many changes which were to enliven my journey—I realized just what a fool I’d been to agree to my employer’s suggestion that I should travel by night.

  For it was by now quite dark. And there was not a porter to be seen. So that I had to forage for myself in the luggage van and drag my heavy suitcases as best I could across the pitch-dark platform to the waiting train on the other side. Remembering the throngs of obsequious persons in bottle-green corduroy who, in my childhood, used to struggle with one another for the privilege of attending to one’s luggage, I reflected mournfully how very much the world had changed.

  I feel a little ashamed o
f the part I played in the next episode of that frightful journey. It taught me, however, an important lesson. This was that the world to-day consists of two classes of people: the Pushers and the Pushed. That is to say, when other people get in your way, if you yourself don’t do the pushing, you’ll soon find out that they will not hesitate to elbow you out of theirs.

  I discovered this in Glasgow.

  Here, after much to-ing and fro-ing in the abysmal darkness of the blackout, I found myself at the far end of a taxi queue. I wanted to get across to the Central Station. The queue was long, the rain enthusiastic. To distract my thoughts from the chilly sense of desolation which was beginning to assail me, I examined, by the dim light of a street-lamp, the behaviour of my fellow-strugglers in the queue.

  I noticed especially a fat man who seemed to be making his way along with astonishing rapidity. His tactics were simple. Whenever a taxi approached, he simply shoved whoever happened to be in front of him into the gutter and took their place. He was a large man and the tired-looking women who were his victims seemed too weary to retaliate. Very soon, heavy breathing behind me proclaimed that he was close on my heels.

  Another taxi drew up at the kerb. The queue heaved. For the first time I experienced what war-time pushing could really mean. The fat man squared his shoulders, gave a mighty shove that knocked my torch out of my hand and sent me and my suitcases flying after it into the gutter. By the time I had collected myself and my belongings (the torch had vanished for ever into the darkness) the taxi had driven away. The fat man stood, triumphant, at the head of the queue.

  I took stock of the situation.

  I had, I reflected, missed that taxi simply because twenty-eight years of intensive training in charity, courtesy and humility had caused me to stand back instinctively when other people manifested an urgent desire to get past. For a crowd in a convent consists, with very few exceptions, of people who are more concerned that others shall have the first places than themselves. One is taught from the outset that community life would be impossible unless the intercourse of life with life were safeguarded by some definite code. Hence the courtesy towards one another which forms so important a feature of religious life. ‘Honour in one another God, whose living temples you are made,’ wrote St. Augustine to the nuns of his sister’s community in fourth-century Africa. And superiors were never tired of inculcating the same idea. A deep spirit of ‘reverence towards the God-indwelt souls around one’ was instilled in the Noviceship as a preventive against rudeness, selfishness, or even familiarity. A dizzy ideal; but definitely realizable by those whose lives are governed by standards of faith.