Chapter 21

A Moment of Joy

Amid Tragedy

 

 

 

Journal Entry

 

“The abbey church at Sainte-Geneviève was decked out, that Saturday morning, as if in preparation for Easter Mass. Brother Anselm had brought in flowers from the monastery gardens with which he had adorned both the altar and the arches all along the nave. The July sun washed much of the church in light, filtered by the blues, reds and yellows of the tall and majestic stained glass windows. Sections not already illuminated by sun light were haloed by the light of dozens and dozens of candles from which rose, like incense, a fresh perfume of bee’s wax. The fragrance of the candles was transported by small wisps of smoke that emanated from the tiny caps of light and permeated the vaulted space like culinary aromas.

“I stood with Testagrossa at the head of the nave, just outside the low barrier that separated the sanctuary from the transept and nave of the church. We looked like clerics in our formal, black academic robes, freshly washed and pressed for the occasion by Mme Beber. The monks processed into their stalls, their hands tucked into the sleeves of their habits, their voices joined in a ‘Te Deum’ that reverberated from the high ceiling and walls – the crystal clarity of monophonic measures ringing from human voices without instrumental accompaniment.

“Prior Bertrand emerged from the sacristy, his habit cover by a white alb, and his white, priestly stole on either side of which were embroidered a pattern of blue and red crosses. Two acolyte monks emerged from either side of the transept and opened the gate of the barrier. The priest passed through the gate and beckoned Bernardo and I to join him in the middle. Then Caterina came forward, with Marie Blanchard and Julie behind her, holding the long train of her dress, which was of fine white linen with a blue silken sash cascading from her shoulder, across her bosom and waist, then gathered around her hips. The sash was held in place by a golden pin upon which was emblazoned a shield depicting a white salamander on a field of golden flame. Around her red flowing hair, Caterina wore a crown of fresh garlands, and it seemed that there were flowers everywhere, in her hair, on her wrists, at her waist and around her hips.

“Now the organ vibrated and voices were raised in psalms of joy. I looked toward the choir stalls and saw Brother Lawrence, the librarian, towering over his fellow monks, a devilish grin lighting his face. Signora Botelli sat at the front weeping dramatically. I could not tell whether she wept for joy at her daughter’s happiness or because she would now never have a titled nobleman for a son-in-law. The couple beside me, however, was oblivious to the torrent of tears.

“We listen as Father Bertrand spoke to them about how their happiness and love were ordained by God. Turning to Bernardo, the priest reminded him that God made woman from the beginning to be man’s equal, his companion, his greatest challenge and his noblest calling. He turned to Caterina and told her that St. Paul had written how love is patient and kind and that it never takes pleasure from others’ short comings. Looking at them both, he reminded them that love bears all things, believes all things, hopes for all things, endures all things, and that such a love never fails. With these words still reverberating from the high domed ceiling above the altar, Bernardo and Caterina repeated their vows and joined themselves in the warmth and moisture of a lingering kiss.

“With that, the monks’ choir burst out with “Jubilate Deo”, as the couple, followed by the whole congregation, processed out of the Church into the full brightness and oppressive humidity of that day in July. Everyone gathered around them to congratulate them and give them encouragement.

“Brother Lawrence, still grinning conspiratorially, reached inside the folds of his sleeve and pulled out a hand copied collection of the poems of Catullus. ‘This is for you and your little sparrow, and so that you will remember our library with pleasure,’ he said, pressing the little book into the bridegroom’s hands.

“When it was Brother Anselm’s turn, he looked uncharacteristically shy and uncertain. He ushered Bernardo a little to the side before untying a small purse from the cord around his waist. What he pulled out of the purse and held between two fingers was not money, but a small vial, containing a clear, blue tinted liquid.

“‘What is it?’ asked Bernardo, a puzzled and dubious expression on his face.

“‘This is a distillation I prepared from a particular recipe of herbs that I’ve been cultivating for some time now. According to the authoritative compendium of Claudius Galen, prepared for the Emperor Marcus Aurelius, this is supposed to – how shall I explain it? – enhance the libido! I don’t know if it really does what Galen claims it can do. Naturally, I could not experiment with it on myself or any of my brothers, but I thought, if you could give it a try and write to me about the result, I’d really appreciate knowing whether it actually works or not – for purely scientific reasons, you realise.’

“‘Of course…thank you,’ said Bernardo before turning to look at how his wife looked absolutely radiant in the sun. ‘Only I don’t think that I shall really need it or that using it will make much of a difference,’ he added with a broad grin of satisfaction.

“‘Just so, just so,’ replied Brother Anselm, also glancing at the lovely Caterina. ‘I’m sure that you’re right about that. God bless you both,’ he added with a brotherly slap on the young man’s shoulder. Bernardo turned to re-join his bride, and Anselm tucked his hands back into his sleeves and walked back toward his brothers.

“Everyone but the monks agreed to meet again that evening at L’Ecurie, where Marie Blanchard promised a memorable feast and, as her gift to the bride and groom, all the wine that the company could drink. Gaudin promised to use all of his contacts to try to track down Dormoy, and Marie assured Julie that no comments about her profession would be tolerated that evening, either from staff or guests, so long as she remained on my arm. I assured her that this was a requirement about which I was quite content.

“I wanted to begin my guardianship right away, but I had to return to the rue St Victor alone to complete a project that had been rattling inside my head for several days, now.”

“Sometimes words came easily to me, the right words in the right sequence, the cadences and the evocative scintillation of the sounds. All of this was to the craftsman of language what brush strokes are to a painter or the contours of marble to a sculptor, but these words were already tied and bundled in the bonds of friendship and genuine admiration. How does one shape what already has line and form, colour what already has tint and shade? How can one make the music new, when the melody is already resonating in one’s mind? I had to put pen to paper and finish before this evening.

“Alone, in my room, above the public house that made up the bottom floor of the Collège du Cardinal Lemoine, I put the finishing touches on my work:

 

‘Hath sultry summer sought two souls to bind,

Alike the slaves of Fortune’s cruellest pain?

Is there no tender breeze of gentler kind,

To wipe their tears and bid them hope again?

Why must they pine in such o’er hanging grief,

Beneath the weight of calumny and loss?

Is love to kindly spirits but a thief,

That steals away the gold and leaves the dross?

No, you have that which suffering will not quell

And passion strong that tempests cannot drown.

Your love for untold ages men will tell

Your names inscribed in tales of great renown.

All future lovers for your names will yearn

Since Love’s immortal laurels you did earn.

 

‘“Now, I was ready to join my friends in boisterous celebration, having found a way to confer nothing less than immortality on Bernardo and Caterina. That was my plan, in any event, but I actually had no idea how the couple would react to my sonnet. ‘After all,’ I thought, ‘neither of them understands English, except for a few words, which were about as much as I understand of Italian.’ I considered that I should have written them something in Latin, in the style of Catullus, but only Bernardo would really be able to appreciate that.

“Then I wondered, ‘am I really writing for them, or am I writing for myself?’ A writer needs an audience, or else he’s just a drunk stumbling out of a tavern, deep in conversation with himself. He might have something to say, but no one’s listening.

“Later, there would be more time to consider such questions, but now I had to hurry to L’Ecurie where there would be feasting and merriment, if only for one evening in the face of an uncertain future.”