The Beautiful Thread

by Penelope Wilcock

  Robert had no aspirations to further the cause of monastic music, to shine or succeed. His company was dull – his fellow human beings had left him in no doubt of that. He lacked the quick sensitivity of insight that makes men loved, the agile wit that draws admiration. Neither did he have the quality of spirit to scale the heights of prayer or undertake the heady adventures of mysticism. Even his voice was boring. Barely even useful, as he knew quite well, his ambitions could hardly be considered lofty. He just wanted to be included, to have other men laugh at his jokes and let him join in. And though in general they tolerated him with good humour, today they had not. Father Gilbert, driven to distraction by Robert’s unexpurgated incapacity, had eventually, not exactly mean but with asperity, suggested he could be better occupied in the pottery. So all the others got to work on the Mass setting together, but not him. And he knew that later, in their hour of recreation, the talk would be all of the intriguing challenge of tackling polyphony, all about the Mass on which every one of them except him had been working.

  He explained this in his straightforward way. It never occurred to him to turn it to any kind of quip or pretend it didn’t matter. He just related it dolefully, and then stood there looking miserable.

  John’s first reaction to this tale of woe was impatience. The young man’s biggest problem seemed to be complete self-absorption. But on the very edge of saying “Oh dear, I’m sorry about that; well, never mind,” he pulled himself back.

  “Will you be – can you be – firing pots in the next week?” he asked. “Have you anything ready?”

  “I’m not sure we’d planned to, but we could,” said Brother Robert. “It takes five or six hours to bring the kiln up to full heat after we’ve built and stacked it, but if we start early it’ll be done and cool down in time to unload the next day. We’ve got some pots made only wanting the addition of slips and glazes. A few big platters and some bowls and drinking cups.”

  “Well, why,” suggested his abbot, “don’t you and Brother Thaddeus decorate them with some pictures or lettering suitable for the wedding? Nothing too tricksy. A picture of a man and a woman, or just their names – if you like the idea, I’ll write ‘Hannah’ and ‘Gervase’ down for you on a wax tablet, and leave it out on the scribe’s desk in my room. Then if you can get them fired in time, Brother Conradus could use the platters for fruit or cheese, or pastries, and the cups could take pride of place at the wedding feast. Just an idea. Tell Brother Thaddeus I’d like it done if he can see his way to it.”

  As he watched Robert’s crushing despondency give way to delight, saw the excitement in his step as he hurried off to the pottery, filled with enthusiasm to begin, the abbot reflected that taking the trouble to be kind wasn’t all that difficult. Yet its results were transformative. He smiled, enjoying the energetic bustle of Robert vanishing along the cloister. Then he turned away, and made for the library, where he hoped Father Chad had found the inner reserves to keep his Lordship amused.

  He paused at the library door, hearing voices within. This is getting to be a habit, he thought – eavesdropping. Not a practice he admired, but there was something about a Visitation that seemed to develop stealth.

  “And this –” he caught the tone of pride and reverence in Father Chad’s voice: their showpiece – “is a book of Bishop Aelred’s sermons – Bishop Aelred of Rievaulx – written and bound by his own hand!”

  Don’t tell him that, he’ll snitch it for his own place! The abbot noted his own immediate instinct to clutch tighter what he feared might be taken, and thought it did probably not spring directly from the Gospel.

  “Really? Let me see.” John’s heart sank as he heard the avaricious note in the bishop’s reply. He heard the sound of stiff vellum pages being turned in the silence. And then: “Very interesting. No – leave that out, please. I’ll have a word with your abbot about it.” Oh, you idiot, Chad, thought the said abbot.

  “What else have you?” enquired the prelate. “What is your own particular area of study? Who are your favourite theologians?”

  John listened for the answer to this, realizing with a sense of surprise that he had no idea what it would be. He wondered what Father Chad liked to read, what he thought about, and felt ashamed that, had the bishop asked him the same question about Chad’s reading habits, he would have been at a loss to supply the information. And then he found out why.

  “Well…” Now the librarian sounded nervous and apprehensive. “In truth, your Lordship, I am not a great reader. I dust the books and keep them tidy. I take good care of them, checking for mildew and beetles. I make sure everything is in good order. But I don’t read much… at all… really.”

  Though silence is essential to the art of listening at doors, inwardly the abbot groaned. For pity’s sake, Chad! Surely you could have come up with something better than that? Surely you must have read something – even if it was only in the novitiate.

  He thought he heard astonishment in the ensuing hiatus. Then: “For what reason, Father… er … what did you say your name was?”

  “Chad, your Lordship.”

  “I see. Who, Father Chad, made you librarian?”

  “Our present abbot – Father John,” came the reply. Thanks, thought John.

  “Why? If you don’t read. Surely a novice could dust the books.”

  No answer. The air filled with the silence of the bishop waiting. Then: “I used to be the prior.” Chad spoke quietly. “But I was unequal to the demands of that obedience. My vocation means everything to me, your Lordship, but I am in no respect an accomplished man.” Something in the humility of that honesty hurt John’s heart. It could not be easy to live every day with such accurate self-knowledge.

  “I am not gifted in pastoral care, and I am no scholar. I am timid, and some of our guests can be… difficult. And… this became important… I do not find it easy to forgive. So I asked Father John if I could be relieved of that heavy obedience. Out of kindness, he required it of me no longer. It exhausted me. And he let me work here, and in the garden – for the peace. For quiet work to nourish my meagre soul.”

  How strange, thought the abbot, listening. Knowing your own insufficiency immediately beefs up your spirit – makes you more than you might have been.

  “But you know Latin? You know Greek? You have studied – at least in the past? How are you fulfilling your duty of pursuing the study of your religion?”

  “Well… your Lordship… this probably doesn’t sound much. Sometimes when Father John speaks to the daily chapter of the Rule, read in the morning meeting, he treats of some word of the Scriptures – something in Latin or Greek. For instance, a while ago he spoke to us about two words – parvo et humilis. Parvo, he said, means ‘small’ and humilis means ‘humble’ or ‘earthy’. He told us that humilis forms the same root for both things – for humility and for humus, the nutritious, peaty earth plants can grow in. He said these qualities are the stuff of the Gospel. That we cannot walk in the way of Christ without them. We must be parvo and we must be humilis. Lowly, humble, content with insignificance, willing to be of no account. Close to the earth. What he called ‘the valley spirit’ – the lowliness in which streams may flow. In such earth will root the tree of righteousness. That’s what he said. I remembered the Latin words, because how he explained it made sense to me. And Father John’s Chapters are short and easy to understand, so I can take it in. But because these books are long and difficult, I find them… abstruse and… boring.”

  At least he knows the word “abstruse”, thought his abbot, but decided the word “boring” would not help things along, and felt the time had come to intervene. He pushed open the door. “Ah! My lord bishop – here you are! Good afternoon, Father Chad. Oh – I see you have been looking at our book of Aelred’s sermons. We prize it greatly. It is one of the treasures of our library. Occasionally other foundations ask to borrow it, but we do not lend it out – though we are willing to make a copy from time to time. Did you find any other volumes to ta
ke your interest in particular? In my work as an infirmarian I have found our herbals especially useful. Our physic garden was laid out according to the same plan as the one at St Gall, from the book here. And we have some excellent texts – they are in the order of the alphabet – see – Anselm, Augustine, Averroes, Avicenna – some foundational documents for study.”

  John realized as he gestured towards the shelves that, when it came to it, he didn’t know a whole heap more than Father Chad. Neither the infirmary nor the incessant interruptions of the abbacy left him a massive amount of time to lose himself in books, even if he had the inclination. Which Chad’s simple honesty reminded him, he did not.

  But the bishop inspected, considered, nodded, said little. He looked round for the book of Aelred’s sermons once his tour was complete: but Father Chad had already put it away. “Thank you,” said his Lordship, “Father – er – Father Chad. That seems satisfactory.”

  Bishop Eric dined with the abbot, but his conversation that evening focused not so much on the library as on the school, where it transpired he had spent a good part of the morning. Why didn’t I know this? wondered the abbot. Where was I this morning? In the abbey school, the bishop found little to criticize; the children had recited their lessons well. His only reservation – they seemed very happy and confident.

  “Boys,” he advised, “need keeping under. It is essential they understand authority. They have to know who’s in charge. Boys will always take advantage of leniency. Your Brother – er – the novice, the lad who helps out – he should be cultivating an altogether sterner and more distant manner when it comes to the boys. A bit of fear builds their character, keeps them in line. I see there’s a birch rod fastened up on the wall, but I ran my finger along it and, Abbot John, the thing was actually dusty! It should be used, and used within sight of the other lads. It should be soaked in brine, you know, for good effect. It’s how they learn discipline, how they grow up to be men.”

  The abbot listened to this, looking into the amber depths of his wine as he swirled it slowly in his pottery beaker. He could think of no appropriately affirmative reply. “Is it?” he asked quietly. The bishop’s canny gaze rested on him.

  “Things come undone,” he said, “in any establishment infected by indulgence. You cannot govern with kindness, Abbot John. You cannot keep order where you pamper the faults and foibles of men and boys. What starts as weakness strengthens into vice. Too much sympathy is the downfall of any régime. A little fear adds spice, holds them up to the mark, keeps them on their toes. It’s good for them – for men and boys alike. You will need to make them afraid of you if you are to succeed.”

  Mater Dei, thought the abbot. Really? He kept his eyes meekly lowered, and did not speak.

  “Well?” Bishop Eric did not intend to let him off that lightly. “What do you say?”

  “Thank you,” said John carefully. “I am new in this role, and I have so much to learn. Any guidance is always helpful to me. I know I must have my blind spots. I will look into the school, your Lordship, with your words in mind. I do take very seriously the discipline of my house.”

  After that, the talk between the two men seemed to run into the dust. The bishop thought he’d take a stroll down by the river before Compline. John knew he was meant to offer to go with him, but couldn’t face the idea. At a very deep level of his being, he felt he’d seen enough of him for one day. With all respectful courtesy, he ushered him out and closed the door behind him.

  “I’ll help you take those dishes through to the kitchen, Tom,” he said to his esquire, who had begun to clear the table.

  Brother Tom heard this without surprise. In the normal way of things his abbot left him to it; clearing the table was Tom’s job, not John’s. If a spare half hour between supper and Compline presented itself, he would take it as a chance to work on his Chapter address for the morning, or catch up with some of the theological reading it was so easy to let slip. But the kitchen had acquired a remarkable attraction in these last few days. This can only end in tears, thought Tom. “Bring that gravy jug then, and the flagon of wine?” he said.

  The two men found Brother Conradus and Rose wiping down the tables. It was Brother Boniface’s turn to serve, but Father Theodore wouldn’t let any of his novices help (or eat) in the kitchen while they had a woman working there. Both John and Conradus thought this seemed excessively scrupulous, but Theodore had proved more sticky about Rose’s presence than John had ever imagined he might. The abbot, after showing her the checker, the chapel, the infirmary, had been seized by the idea she might like to see the novitiate room where her son had spent so many hours in his formation as a monk. He had asked Theodore when might be a convenient time to bring her; the novice master had looked at him with a face like a stone wall. “Can she come up to meet the novices? No, I think – I don’t wish to disappoint you, Father Abbot – but I think perhaps better not.” He had seemed unduly guarded in his manner, unusually reserved. Simply shy, perhaps, thought John. Not many women came here, after all. Though he hadn’t been shy with Madeleine; he’d been her confessor. And some other of the village women came to Theo to make their confession, too. Seemed unlikely he’d be shy. But he seemed extremely reticent in his manner toward Rose, more than John could really understand.

  Rose, used to hard work and unaware of the ripples her presence sent through the whole community, at the end of this long day simply saw what had to be done and helped her son finish off.

  “Where would you like me to put these?” the abbot asked humbly, addressing the question to Rose rather than Conradus, since she was nearest him. With cheerful thanks, she took them from him and stowed them away.

  “And now,” she said, untying her apron, “I’m going to sit out in the garden for a little while, and watch the sun go down.”

  John smiled at her. “I’ll come with you,” he said.

  “Thanks so much,” said Conradus, beaming with affection at his mother. “It’s been a busy day. I’ll finish off here, and see you in the morning.”

  Tom set down the dishes he had brought, by the sink. He said nothing. With one quick glance he read the warmth of John’s smile, the unaccustomed softness of his abbot’s face.

  As Conradus began to sort out the butter dishes ready for the next day, and Tom went back to the abbot’s house to set everything in order there, John followed Rose out into the garden. They sat on the stone steps looking over the rows of beans, the onions and the salad greens, watching the undersides of the clouds blush pink against the fading azure of the sky.

  “A full day?” asked Rose. “Has the bishop kept you busy?”

  John laughed. “Yes, indeed. He… I have a lot to learn. We don’t always see things the same way.”

  “Ah, well,” said Rose, “each to his own. I can’t imagine at all what it must be like to be the abbot of a monastery, but I’ve been the mother of a large family, and perhaps that gives me a little glimpse, in a way. We each have our own way of doing things. I’ve found I can learn from my mother, from my sisters – but in the end I have to do things my own way. Maybe it’s the same with you? That you could be grateful for the bishop’s wisdom, and take his advice to heart, but still be how God made you, be the man God called you to be? You have to have a system, but it has to be your own.”

  John absorbed these words as he looked out at the green of the plants and the beautiful gold now swelling out from the western rim of the sky.

  “I… I’m not entirely sure I have a system, to be truthful,” he said. “I can’t even account for how I found myself in this position. Sometimes it feels as though I’m just bundling along between birth and death, making the best of it I can, picking up the bits life throws at me and trying to make some sense of them. But they don’t always seem to fit into a pattern.”

  He liked the sound of Rose’s laugh. Not loud or immodest, but easy, happy, free.

  “I know what you mean!” she said. “It can get frantic, catching whatever’s thrown at you and tr
ying to think what to do with it! But… Father John, I hope this is not impertinent of me; it’s not for me to advise you, my son’s abbot.”

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Well then, when things seem tangled and muddled, too fast and too much, I try to imagine our Lord in heaven, looking down and knowing what it all means – where it’s going and what it’s for. I think of it as if I had to work blind, but he can see. I listen for him saying, ‘Pick up this first, Rose; now you need that; now this comes next.’ And I trust him to lead me step by step, and that’s how I get there.”

  She sat, her face quiet and thoughtful, her hands folded peacefully in her lap. “There was one time,” she said, the memory bringing a smile, “when I had just too much to do. Little children underfoot, a babe at the breast, my man coming home hungry, the bread risen and needing knocking back, the pots still dirty from the last meal, and the garden in parched ground begging for water. I almost despaired. I begged Our Lady to help me, for was she not the mother of a family like me? She would understand. And the thought came to me, Look for the gold, Rose. Look for the golden thread and weave it in. I realized that in every moment of every day, there is something that shines. Something the light falls on.” She laughed. “I’m sorry, am I talking in mysteries? This isn’t easy to explain. What I mean is, even when I feel so beset with tasks undone that I hardly know where to turn, if I stop and look, there is one thing the light shines on – something that really matters. And the gold, it’s the royal thread, the holy one. It’s love; it’s kindness. I mean, if my man has to eat from a dirty dish, well that won’t hurt him. If all he has for his supper is a hunk of cheese and an apple, well that’s good food. But if I leave the baby crying, and turn a sour face to my man coming home, in favour of washing pots and cooking complicated dishes, I’ve let the gold thread go, I’ve picked the wrong thing. The gold thread is the one that reflects the light. It’s the one the light shines on. The beautiful thread. Kindness. The loving thing to do.”