While her body had been laid out on the little bed with pale lilac cambric curtains and a copper crucifix placed in her hands, they needed a branch of boxwood standing in holy water to put beside her on the chest of drawers, according to custom. Sister Monique had not dared bring her own branch back from the church. One by one each of her fellow beguines was asked, to give theirs. They all refused, out of fear or a feeling of rancour towards the one God had punished. In the end they had to resign themselves to taking a branch from sister Monique’s own little garden, which they put in a glass of water beside the body. She had wanted to leave her own garden untouched—but it was touched by death! And the place where they cut into the boxwood, in the Sacred Heart, suddenly looked like a gaping wound, the inevitable wound from which sister Monique had died.
Pride
Old Count Jean Adornes had died, causing great sorrow throughout Flanders. In all the dependent farms the women made their children with their corn-coloured hair kneel down before the plaster statuette of the Madonna, white against the blue-washed walls, and say an Ave for his soul. The bells rang out from village to village, as if drawing trails of sadness through the air, black trails that joined up. His vassals brought all the hollyhocks and sunflowers from their gardens and branches in blossom from their orchards to the castle gates.
Count Adornes was popular throughout the land. There was not a single blot sullying his noble life, he was kind, charitable, chaste, loyal to God and to his name. An illustrious name that had shone brightly since the dark beginnings of recorded history. It was one of his ancestors who had distinguished himself in the first Crusade, taken part in the capture of Jerusalem and, in memory of that, built the chapel in Bruges which bears the name of the holy city and in which he is buried. And his fortified castle of Saint-André is already mentioned in papers in the archives going back to 1200 and 1220. One part still existed, in dressed stone of enormous thickness, with a square tower and a round tower. Circling it was a moat twenty feet deep with drawbridges which, at this moment, were not lowered, as if they had been raised on the divine entry of death.
But the drawbridges would be lowered again for the day of his funeral, which was to take place the following Sunday, so that everyone in the land could attend. The wrought-iron gates would be opened as would all the outside doors and the doors to all the rooms. The castle would belong to the people. For before the cortege could leave, the centuries-old ceremony, which was still observed, had to be gone through. This was the judging of the deceased in the great hall of the castle, which was thus turned into a court of justice. An age-old tradition to which all the lords of the land of Flanders had submitted since the earliest times; so sure they were of the righteousness of their life that they allowed their subjects to discuss it. All their relatives gathered in council with their vassals, tenants, farmers, servants, and this council became a tribunal with pleas for or against the deceased, whose body was waiting in the chapel. The statements were gathered impartially. If the sum total of good was greater than that of evil the coffin was borne with due deference and praise to the family vault; if, on the other hand, the memory of the deceased was tainted by some more serious sin, especially if he had not obeyed the laws of religion scrupulously, if he had caused some scandal, he was carried off without ceremony, almost in secret, to some isolated pit where he was left and forgotten.
A strange custom! Popular justice seen as equal to divine justice. A whole life weighed in the eyes of the masses as if in the scales of a balance.
The day arrived. The widow of the old Count, Lady Ursule Adornes de Borlant, wanted a ceremony full of pomp, worthy of the deceased. Since she was artistically inclined and liked music, she had a large organ installed, whose reverent cadences with their hint of eternity would be appropriate, filling the judgment hall with the solemnity of death, like a catafalque of sound. All the doors were opened and the crowd entered. Because of all the hollyhocks, all the sunflowers from the gardens, because of all the branches full of blossom from the orchards, which were still constantly arriving at the castle, it had less the gloomy melancholy of mourning than the bright adornment of Rogation Days. The widow wept all the more at the sight of this cheerful blossom, but the tears she wept were less bitter. She was the one who had wanted this poetic ceremonial. And, following her wish, before the solemn voices which, when called upon, were going to speak about the deceased, praising or questioning his life, children’s voices would open the proceedings with sweet motets, angelic hymns that happened to have been learnt by the village choirs. Lady Ursule de Borlant wept abundant but sweeter tears as she listened to these sweet voices, voices like those of her own children when they were small, in the early years of her marriage. Years of love that had come to an end. Her husband was at rest. Oh, those pure soprano voices! She felt that they were going to her deceased husband resting in the chapel, in his closed coffin, that they would refresh him in his sleep, perhaps thirsty from the fires of purgatory.
The singing ceased, the organ folded away its heavy velvet. In the silence that followed a voice called on the crowd gathered there, his next of kin, his relations, his friends, his servants, his vassals, his tenant farmers, all the people of the land who had been invited, to speak out: to praise the deceased or question his life, criticise his deeds, reveal some lapse or sin that had remained hidden. No one dared speak, there was a solemn silence which seemed to grow more and more profound, like a vault into which the deceased was already sinking, lower and lower. So in order to encourage the judgment of the people, Lord Borlant, the late Count’s brother-in-law and close friend, set out a kind of questionnaire listing the deadly sins which sum up the great transgressions against God, against one’s fellows and against oneself. ‘Pride?’ At that all the people whispered, ‘No! No!’ The murmur was infectious, unanimous, like corn bending in the same direction as the wind passes.
He continued the list of deadly sins: ‘Avarice?’ The rumble of the same negative spread through the throng—everyone was thinking of the Count’s charity.
‘Lust?’ In an admirable expression of the people’s instinct, the crowd turned towards Ursule de Borlant, the sole love of the deceased Count, his companion in a chaste and fruitful marriage. They all bowed towards her, it was solemn and moving. She gave a cry in which there was sorrow, but also pride. No other woman had tempted him. Faithful to his wife, as she had been faithful to her husband, they had both respected the holy sacrament of marriage.
He finished the list: ‘Envy? Gluttony? Wrath? Sloth?’ each followed by a murmur of denial, the corn waving again.
Then there was profound silence. A slight noise of breathing could be heard, of mourning veils and crepe crackling when someone moved, of the trees waving in the park that came in through the open doors, as did the sound of the crowd outside, for there was only room for some of those who had come. Then the venerable Jean Biscop, who had been the village priest for almost fifty years, came forward and stood in the space that had been left empty. He seemed hesitant, embarrassed, kept his eyes fixed on the floor, never had he looked sadder. He started to speak in the tone he used from the pulpit when he had to censure some scandal that had happened in the parish.
‘It is true that Count Jean Adornes, Baron of the Holy Roman Empire, Lord of Saint-André, was a mighty and charitable lord, and many were his virtues in the eyes of his fellow men and of God. He was indeed unacquainted with avarice, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath and sloth. As for pride, it is also true that no one was simpler, friendlier in his dealings with humble folk… But, my brethren, I owe it to my calling, to my conscience and to the honesty of this public judgment, which is one of the oldest and most precious customs of Flanders, to admit before all of you gathered here that he was not simple in his dealings with God. He committed the sin of pride, and his pride went as far as sacrilege. I alone know this—and God. I am therefore obliged to reveal this to you, since I represent God in this court of justice. I hesitated, but I feel it is my duty. Even when the Coun
t was alive I wanted to oppose him, but I did not dare. I was a coward, I was a partner in his sin of pride. In revealing it today I am almost making a public confession… Count Jean Adornes was filled with pride towards God. Infatuated with his nobility, his titles, his coats of arms he was determined to assert them even in his devotions.
‘Just imagine: not content with having the foremost place in the choir of our church, and the prie-dieu like a throne, which I granted him out of weakness and in response to his generosity, he carried his aristocratic demands even farther. And this was the sacrilege in which, alas, I was all too involved. Even as far as holy communion was concerned, that egalitarian sacrament instituted by Our Lord’s great goodness, he was determined to distinguish himself from the common faithful. Could Jean Adornes, direct descendant of the one who took part in the first Crusade and rests in the Chapel of Jerusalem in Bruges, which he established, take communion in the same way as the other parishioners? He gave me a seal with his ancient coat of arms, that is the count’s crown and the emblem of a battlemented tower surrounded by ornamental leaves.
‘He ordered me to impress his seal on the host that was for him every time he took communion. The sin of pride. A sacrilege of which I am ashamed. God in the host was not enough for him, he had to add his coat of arms to God! Oh, how those emblazoned and consecrated hosts often burnt my fingers as I presented them to the proud lips of the Count! He would look at it to make sure that the whiteness of unleavened bread was embossed with his escutcheon. Only then did he deign to receive it—though in full faith, I have to admit. But I suffered. And doubtless Jesus suffered too. I felt I could see Him, His face captive behind the lacework design of the count’s crown, as if on the battlements of a prison. He was entangled in all those emblems cluttering up the host that hardly left any room for Him. I am sure Jesus was less present in those hosts than in the others…’
Those who heard this were dumbfounded. Yes, the sin of pride, of pride in a name which had dared to bracket itself with the very name of God! A sacrilege for which the deceased had to be made to atone by a penance which was the essence of humility.
Then, following the custom, the priest, the noble lords and the people decided that he would not be laid to rest in the family vault. So the following day Count Jean Adornes, Baron of the Holy Roman Empire, Lord of Saint-André, was taken, without pomp or ceremony, to the village graveyard where he was lowered into the earth—and no stone marked the anonymous grave.
The Canons
The bishop was dead. His end was as resolute as his life. On his deathbed, after having received extreme unction, he searched his conscience and prepared himself to meet God, Monseigneur Prat remained firm, clear of mind and almost jovial in the presence of the stern deans and canons, his servants and faithful valet, who were crying. He was remembering his life. He thanked Providence; he had had a good life, beautiful and eventful, it had matched his dream. He had fought great fights with his crozier, against unbelievers and free-thinkers, his works had covered the diocese with a goodly crop of monasteries, convents and almshouses. He had enjoyed popularity, almost fame. Now he was recalling all the details of his career as bishop and deputy, his visits to Paris, the nice ‘bachelor flat’ he had there, in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, and his successful speeches, his days of triumph addressing the Chamber, where his priestly hands quivered like wings, where his pale hands soared like a dove, the dove of the Holy Spirit, over the assembled deputies, like a bird soaring over the sea.
Monseigneur Prat remembered. Carried away, he exulted, essayed once more some oratorical gestures. Sitting up in his bed, close to expiring, propped up by cushions, he remained cheerful, joyful, almost combative right to the end. He was holding a large ivory crucifix and he was playing with it, making it slip between his fingers, throwing it, catching it, swinging it in a thousand unconscious games, like a fidgety person with a paper-knife reading a new book.
The stern canons were shocked. They would have liked to take the holy crucifix away from the irreverent dying man. But they did not dare. He had persistently treated them in an authoritarian manner and even at death’s door he still inspired fear. His eyes lit up for the last time. He spoke, very lucidly and quickly, making thousands of recommendations. With a malicious smile suggesting a perfidy they did not as yet understand, he gestured the archdeacon to approach and said, gasping for breath, ‘Will… There… Desk drawer… Holograph… No lawyer… Tomorrow… Read to canons tomorrow!’ And he died immediately, as if, having delivered this message, all that was left was to take refuge in death. And the large crucifix slipped out of his hand, dropping onto his chest, where it also seemed to fall asleep, like a friend on his friend’s breast.
There was great mourning among the people, who loved Monseigneur Prat for his generosity, his outspokenness, his resoluteness. In the town and in the whole diocese there was genuinely heartfelt sorrow. The bells of the parish churches rang out, drawing black paths through the air which seemed to be crowded with mourners.
In the bishop’s palace, in the grand chamber, the embalmed body of Monseigneur Prat, dressed in his bishop’s robes, was seated in state on a kind of vast dais lit by candles and surrounded by relays of seminarists for the vigil. They, too, loved their bishop. He had captured the hearts and minds of these young priests, being himself as carefree as the young, free from doubt, trusting in chance and in God. The canons, on the other hand, had lived in a state of perpetual conflict with their bishop. It annoyed them to see him behave in such an unconsidered manner, too daring, too plain-spoken, with no idea of diplomacy, not calculating his ideas any more than his spending. In what state would they find the diocesan administration?
The next day, in accordance with the last wishes of His Lordship, the archdeacon gathered the cathedral chapter in the committee room to read to them Monseigneur Prat’s will, that had indeed been found in the drawer of his desk which he had indicated.
From the very first lines they were dumbfounded. The bishop confessed that his finances were encumbered with debt. His will was a balance sheet, and a very precise one considering how disorganised they thought he had been. He had committed himself too deeply, to many different projects: there were architects’ bills for old folks’ homes, orphanages and new monasteries; loans for the diocesan schools, which had cost so much during the period of the struggle against secular education. On the other side he set out his personal fortune of three hundred thousand francs, which he left to pay off a little of the sums owed; then he listed his furniture, the things he owned in that ‘bachelor flat’ on the Faubourg Saint-German.
The archdeacon paused in his reading of the will. His voice was quivering, he was choking with anger, and with shame at the sudden revelation of such a state of affairs.
‘Scandalous!’ It was one of the youngest canons who had ventured to speak, expressing in that single word what everyone felt.
The others grew bolder, one exclamation was followed by another:
‘He deceived us!’
‘He was a fool!’
‘A scoundrel!’
‘Debts of two million!’
‘What can we do?’
‘Bankrupt! A diocese going bankrupt!’
The archdeacon went on reading the will: ‘In my Paris apartment there are some objects of value the sale of which will increase the sum of my estate: rare books in my library, including first editions of Bossuet, Racine, Ronsard; and my works of art, my pictures—I have two drawings by La Tour, which are worth a good thirty thousand francs, and a Delacroix which must be worth the same.’
At that there was an angry outburst among the canons: ‘A Delacroix! He bought paintings and didn’t pay the masons! Was it for that that he collected from the faithful, fleeced them!’ Once more the exclamations poured out, but the archdeacon was already continuing: ‘I have ten pastoral rings, some with valuable stones. They will suffice to pay—out of my estate but without them being mentioned in the accounts—my publisher who has brought out the
ten volumes of my collected parliamentary speeches, pastoral letters and sermons.’
The exclamations from the assembled canons were even louder; a laugh ran round the gathering, like foam on the waves:
‘His complete works!’
‘Not one copy of which has been sold.’
‘All plagiarised!’
‘Yes! From Lacordaire, from Bourdaloue…’
All the rancour, the long hostility burst out. The red wine of ambition, long bottled up before the bishop’s authority and turned to gall and vinegar, streamed out of their hearts, filling a pool of hatred. A stunned silence followed, then the sneers started up again:
‘And his rings to pay for his books!’
‘Ten rings, like a woman!’
‘Presents, perhaps…’
‘Who knows what kind of life he led, up there in Paris?’ said one of the oldest canons, the dean of the chapter, the one who had expected to be given charge of the See when Monseigneur Prat had been appointed in his place following goodness knows what intrigues and compromises behind closed doors with ministers of the Republic! ‘An apartment! Should not a holy bishop rather stay in a convent, with a priest or, at most, in a house for ecclesiastics… But an apartment!’
‘A bachelor flat!’ the youngest canon exclaimed in a shrill voice.
‘Yes, like a man-about-town!’
‘Who knows, perhaps he entertained women there?’
‘That’s where the money from the diocese will have gone…’
At that there was a veritable storm of cries, laughs, curses, sarcastic remarks, a hullaballoo filling the committee room, battering the walls, threatening to break down the doors and engulf Monseigneur Prat lying in state in the adjoining room. The archdeacon, a cautious hypocrite, signalled the frenzied gathering to be silent: ‘Careful!’ And the canons quietened down to conceal their consternation from the seminarists who, duped by their bishop, were keeping their tearful vigil round him.
Hans Cadzand's Vocation & Other Stories Page 13