A Day and a Life

by Penelope Wilcock

  Something in the vehemence of this last gives Colin pause. He wonders how to reply. He cautiously explores the idea of trying simple truth. “Father,” he says tentatively, “you sound very tired. Thank you. You’ve given me a great deal to think on. Would it be better I go? Would you like some quietness? And can I ask you – is it – er – are you feeling upset about Brother Cedd?”

  This question, it seems, is not admissible. His novice master makes no reply. But Colin, observing the glitter of Father Theodore’s eyes in the sombre mask of his face, the tightening line of his mouth, sees that it is so. And now he wonders about permission. He is supposed to wait until his master dismisses him. But maybe it’s not always and only about rules. Father Theodore is, after all, only human. So after a few moments’ hesitation, carefully not looking at his novice master, he gets up to go. After all, he thinks, when you live in community, solitude and privacy are the gifts of your brother’s sensitivity. Sometimes it may be necessary to know when not to ask permission. How complicated.

  Father Theodore says nothing. Colin, resisting the temptation to look back, quietly lets himself out. He seems to be learning more than he expected to today.

  Chapter

  Twelve

  Moments like this fill Colin’s heart with wonder. He walks briskly along from the novitiate, scurrying down the night stairs to the cloister, the quickest route to the choir, through the south transept. Already as he strides the few short steps from the bottom of the stairs to the entrance of the massive church, he can hear the indistinct sound of singing. It rings out clearly as soon as he opens the door. Going in, he carefully and quietly closes the door behind him again, reflecting as he does so that he’s already picking up on the mindfulness of monastic ways – and that makes him feel happy. Then for those few moments he just stands, listening, before he lets his feet take him, drifting, towards the nave where the spine-tingling sound carries like eddies and swirls of mist. And it is, he thinks, so beautiful.

  The acoustics catch and swell the sound, bellying it out into an expanding cloud of music; just two voices – but how captivating, spell-binding. Before he came here, he didn’t know music could be like this.

  What he’s listening to moves between the simple, peaceful river of plainchant and a complicated, cascading, bubbling, luminous effervescence of notes sparkling like light on a waterfall. What can it be? Whatever is this song they’re singing?

  And then the tissue of sound breaks into a few wobbly, misjudged notes, and collapses into the ordinary sound of Brother Cassian and Brother Boniface laughing. The enchantment is broken, and Colin walks round under the gate in the rood screen to join the small group of men standing in the choir.

  “Ah! Colin! You remembered. We were waiting for you – just running through the Viderunt Omnes – we shan’t need it until Christmas of course, but there can be no harm in starting early. Especially because, depending on how you get on, we might consider attempting the Pérotin.”

  Colin looks at him. “The what?”

  “Oh – I’m sorry. The Viderunt Omnes – the Pérotin setting is for four voices, where the Léonin we were singing is only for two. It’s for the feast of the Circumcision, so we’ll not need it until into Christmastide, but we have either option to fall back on depending how you get on.”

  “Father, I – I’m sorry to be obtuse – I don’t even know what a Léonin is, or a Pérotin, or a vee… er – veed… er… what did you say?”

  He feels so grateful that it’s Brother Cassian and Brother Boniface standing listening to this, both of them grinning but entirely without condescension. He feels sure if Brother Felix had been part of the mix he would right now be shrivelling at the embarrassment of his ignorance. Father Gilbert doesn’t sneer at him, though he doesn’t think to conceal his surprise at this lack of familiarity with what, to him, is life and breath.

  “Ah!” says the precentor: “I see what you mean. I do beg your pardon, I should have aimed for better clarity. What we were singing when you came in is the Viderunt Omnes – er, Viderunt omnes fines terræ salutare Dei nostri. It means, ‘All the ends of the earth have seen the salvation of our God’. It’s a gradual – you… you do know what a gradual is?”

  “Oh, yes, of course I do! It’s the hymn or the chant we have before the Gospel Alleluia.”

  “Yes, quite so. Now Léonin, working at Notre Dame – that’s in France – about a hundred and fifty years ago, began to develop some of these lovely descants and so forth that are trickling through to us now. And he worked with the chant, superimposing these top melodies that I think you must have heard our young men here singing. Pérotin came a little bit later – same place, of course – and built on Léonin’s work. So his Viderunt Omnes is more complex – has the four voices against Léonin’s two. And my great hope is that we may be able to tackle the Pérotin, with you on board. You – you can read music?”

  “Doesn’t matter if he can’t,” says Brother Cassian quickly, accurately interpreting Colin’s expression. “He can sing the base chant, can’t he? It goes so slow; just as long as he’s got good wind and can do a tolerable imitation of a bull lowing, we can manage the rest.”

  Father Gilbert nods thoughtfully, not replying to this. “I can try,” offers Colin. He thinks the precentor looks crestfallen, his eagerness punctured by Brother Cassian’s prosaic take on the music in hand. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Very good.” The precentor pulls himself together and smiles at the helpful postulant. “Well, let’s give it a go. I’ve got copies for the Beata Viscera here – that’s also Pérotin. When you hear it, I’m sure you’ll immediately recognize it because we sang it at High Mass just this last week when we celebrated the Birth of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

  “If I explain the principle, and let these lads show you, perhaps it’ll help you get a grip on it.

  “With Pérotin, the tenor’s the thing. He holds the melody – the chant. Now somewhere here” – he reaches over the ledge into the stall, muttering to himself as he roots about in the pile of scores to find what he’s looking for – “Ah – yes – here it is. The Benedicamus Domino will serve as a perfectly good illustration. There are two treatments of it, two possible ways to go. Either the discantus – er, descant – or the organum purum – that’s the florid organum, of course.

  “Now look – do you see?” He indicates the place on the score and Colin, anxious to appear willing, peers at it cooperatively. “Syllabic chant melody, just a few ligatures – only the three, all simple. So that’s our harmonic basis. What we do – look, you can see on the score – is stretch out the syllables, elongating the word, then superimpose the duplum, the new florid line that works towards the next note the tenor will sing. That’s clear, yes?”

  Just every now and then, in this new life he has undertaken, Colin has moments when he honestly wishes he was dead. This is one of them. He has absolutely no idea how to even begin to formulate a reply. He stands, his lips slightly parted, staring in complete blank bewilderment at Father Gilbert.

  “Why don’t we just show him?” suggests Brother Boniface good-naturedly, stretching out his hand for the music.

  “Oh! Certainly!” Father Gilbert gives it to him, and roots about a second time to find a copy for Brother Cassian.

  “Like this,” says Boniface, giving Colin an encouraging grin.

  Boniface takes a deep breath, then sets off in his clear, beautiful tenor voice: “Beeeeee – neeeeeee – diiiiiiiiiii – caaaaaaaa – muuuuuuus…” Brother Cassian gets ready, and as Boniface begins the “Dooooooo –” of Domino, he enters with a stream of notes like the music of a nightingale, this upper part continuing to ripple and flow above Boniface’s tenor like a butterfly over flowers, the same glorious, transporting, free-flowing melodic waterfall as they were singing when he came into the church. They work through the syllables of the word together, Boniface slow and measured, Cassian creating the cascade of multiple notes. They both finally touch down on the same tone as Bonifac
e reaches the last “oooooooo” of Domino. Then they all look at Colin.

  “It’s called a melisma,” explains Brother Cassian.

  “What is?” Colin loves it, but is beginning to feel too confused by the musical terms to even pretend to understand.

  “Loads of notes allocated to each syllable of the text,” says Cassian. His eyes, holding Colin’s gaze, are full of merriment and kindness. “Don’t worry,” he says: “I’d never come across it either, but it’s not as hard as it sounds. All it’s made up of is one of us singing one word as long and slow and drawn out as you can possibly imagine, while the other one sings the same word, but all twiddly over the top. We both end up together. It’s called ‘polyphony’. It’s how they do it in France. Father Gilbert’s teaching us, so we don’t get too stuck in the mud. We can be a bit behind the times up here in Yorkshire. He’s making sure we’re not.”

  “We – I expect you’ve seen this” – Father Gilbert looks at Colin hopefully – “I think Father Chad will have shown you – in the library we have copies of both Johannes de Garlandia’s De Mensurabili Musica and Franco of Cologne’s Ars cantus mensurabilis. I think you might find them very useful for your private reading – they explain the theory of the music most helpfully. Anyway – would you like to have a go?”

  “Sing the base chant with me,” says Brother Boniface. “Watch my hand; I’ll conduct you through it so you know when to change syllable. Benedicamus again, Father? Off we go, then.”

  Colin has by now heard several such pieces at High Mass on Sundays and feast days, but this is the first time he’s been invited to participate. The complicated explanations and unfamiliar terms make it seem so daunting that he doesn’t even want to try, but the friendliness in the novices’ faces encourages him, besides which he doesn’t see how he could refuse. This is a requirement. So he stands with Boniface, and sings when he sings, through the long drawn out chanting of the words. Then Cassian once more fills in the complex, free upper voice. To his amazement, Colin discovers that it’s all different when you actually join in. Just as chanting the psalms and responsories of the Office with the community lifts him above everything mundane to something peaceful and wholesome beyond imagining, so being part of this new polyphony is more exhilarating than he would ever have guessed. He feels his own voice, breath in his body, the power of his core, all the more intensely for the awareness of the other men’s voices, uniting, blending. By the end of the two short words of the opening phrase, Benedicamus Domino, his eyes are shining.

  Father Gilbert smiles. “Would you like to have a go at the Beata Viscera? We’ve got our four voices, and three of us are singing more or less the same thing at any one time. Don’t worry if you go wrong. It’s the only way to learn. Yes? You can sing with Brother Boniface again. It goes so slowly you won’t have any trouble following your part on the page. Off you go, then, Brother Cassian – you have the opening verse as well as the top line.”

  Growing in confidence as they help him work with the unfamiliar forms, Colin feels excitement fizzing inside him at the discovery and the mastery of something so beautiful. Standing right inside the music, feeling the harmonies resonating through his own body, he is taken aback by how close it makes him feel to the men singing beside him; as though the harmony were not only musical but relational.

  Father Gilbert looks happy when he sends the other two on their way, leaving some time before None to listen to Colin practise his readings. After a disastrous début the day before, intensive rehearsal seems like a good idea. Reading in refectory is a week-long job; it’s only because Colin is very new that he had a one-off try at reading, to acclimatize him without over-burdening him.

  “I’m sorry I messed it up yesterday,” he says ruefully. “It’s so hard to read ahead and see what’s coming. The Rule says only people who are good at reading should be allowed to, doesn’t it? Maybe I won’t ever be good enough.”

  “Oh, you will!” Father Gilbert sounds quite sure. “It’s my responsibility to see to it that you are. Don’t you worry about that. It’s not next week, is it? It’s the week after. So you can practise several times with me, and also when you’re by yourself in your cell. You’ll be magnificent.”

  The books themselves are large, meant for refectory reading, the lettering bold and clear. Someone – probably Father Gilbert – has already gone through the texts marking the stress syllables to assist with correct pronunciation, and here and there tiny margin notes have been added giving extra directions. Colin sees it’s not going to be as difficult as he at first thought, provided he takes his time and makes certain to practise. Just now they’re working through the book of Esther, which is an interesting story. This helps, because it engages his attention.

  By the time the precentor decides they’ve done enough, reading in refectory has shrunk from being more terrifying than Colin can contemplate, to being a challenge he’s not sure he can meet but wants to try.

  “I think you liked the music,” says Father Gilbert, as they carry the big reader’s books back through the cloister to the recessed shelves under the reader’s pulpit in the frater.

  “It was wonderful,” says Colin. “I loved it. What amazed me was how close it made me feel to the rest of you singing with me. I never expected that. It truly was harmony.”

  “Oh, yes,” Father Gilbert agrees enthusiastically. “That’s exactly right. Singing the Office, the Mass, every day – it creates the deepest bonds. And this is what’s so exciting about the new music from France – the polyphony. It’s community in music. Each man has his part to sing, but it has to be precisely fitted together with the other parts. It’s a wonderful thing, as you said – it balances, varies, echoes, departs, and returns. It’s how people are. And the key to it is, you have to sing loud enough for the man next to you to hear, and quiet enough so you can hear him. It’s not for showing off or outdoing one another. The magic is in working together for the good of the whole. The world will see in time, you mark my words. Once they’ve got over grumbling about how strange and outlandish it is, they’ll get the vision. People will see that polyphony builds community – it’s the music of relationship, fellowship sublime.”

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  Brother Conradus promised to pray for their missing novice, and he’s as good as his word. He treads the cloister to the kitchen buildings with a most purposeful look in his eye.

  Our Lady Queen of Heaven who watches over Father James working in the robing room is a being of indisputable glamour. Her mild and beautiful eyes, her rose-petal lips and creamy complexion, her towering crown and graceful fall of robes, combine into a heavenly sophistication beyond compare.

  Our Lady of Good Counsel who watches over the kitchen is an entirely different perspective on the Mother of God. She stands on a table against the wall, near the scullery door. Our Lady herself is sometimes unsure whether the Good Counsel part of it is hers or Brother Conradus’s, because he has a lot to say to her. He likes this statue. She’s short and sturdy, with a capable look to her, holding the infant Jesus firmly; evidently not about to drop him or let him wriggle free. She has sensibly given him that lily to amuse him, since they will be here for a very long time. Her dress is a cheery red, and her veil faded blue. The baby Jesus in her arms has a lively, interested expression and sports a tunic in practical peasant russet. Nobody has splashed out on gold for this homely pair. Her nose is chipped, and one of her fingers has been knocked off. She was sent here from the chapel when Our Lady of Sorrows was donated. At her feet stands a pot, one of Brother Robert’s misshapes from his early days learning from Brother Thaddeus, with a casual posy of hawkbit, feverfew, tansy, and scabious, the last of the summer flowers, the ones Brother Conradus could still find to bring her.

  “Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum,” he murmurs as he fetches the flour and the yeast. “Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus.” He goes for the jar of oil, and the precious salt. “Sancta Maria, Ma
ter Dei” – he pauses before the statue, his head reverently bent – “ora pro nobis pecatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.15 Wait here. I’ll be back.”

  He dashes into the garden to gather a big bunch of thyme – the best bread herb of all. Returning, he brings the fragrant bundle to the work-table, and begins expertly stripping the leaves from the tough stalks, into a small heap.

  With a practised eye, he takes measures of flour, oil, and salt, and the mug of ale-barm16 that Brother Walafrid brings over from the brewhouse and leaves out for him.

  He dissolves a little honey in warm water – a jug of cold from the well, warmed up with a dipper of hot from the kettle hanging on chains over the fire. He mixes everything with the effortless familiarity of daily practice; and with the firm rhythm of kneading begins his prayer.

  “Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum – what are we going to do about Brother Cedd? He wasn’t at chapel, Mother, and Father John is worried about him. Whatever does he think he’s playing at? What’s happened? Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Blessed Mother, what do your eyes see? You searched for Jesus, your lad who wandered off; please search for ours now. You found Jesus where he said he was bound to be, in the temple, about the Father’s work. Dearest Mother, search down your lad again. In the living temple of our lad Cedd’s troubled heart, maybe your lad Jesus is fielding difficult questions again. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis pecatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen. Mother Mary, God trusted you with the care of his lad Jesus – for sure you can be trusted to look after ours. Now, look, Mother dearest, surely it’s like this. If your lad Jesus is hiding in the temple of our lad Cedd’s heart, well, if you go and hunt for him, search for him – your lad, I mean – look for him everywhere until you find him and bring him home, he’ll have our Cedd attached to him, won’t he, because that’s where he’ll be. So please… Mother, please… for me, for Father John, for Father Clement, God bless him, with his failing eyes… for Father Theodore – did you not notice, blessed Mother, he looks so sad today… for Cedd himself – he can do better than this… May it be so, dear Mother; may your lad Jesus find his way into our lad Cedd’s troubled heart, and may you track him down right there and bring him home. Brother Cedd, I mean. With Jesus in the sanctuary of his heart. Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum…”