be deep.
I told her that I thought the doctor should see her wounds, and soon, but she shook her head.
I said nothing more. When I was done, I showed her the cloth I used to wash her wounds—it was yellow with pus and red with blood. She muttered something in a muffled voice and waved me out of the room. I promised myself I would show the cloth to Sister Gertrude. Then perhaps she would call in the doctor.
Mother Fernande fights an inner trouble, I think. It makes her ill-tempered and a thorn in the body of the sisterhood we have here. She says that she is often blessed with the presence of God, who visits her in her meditations. When she comes back to the world, she is usually a little strange in it. She shouts at us and does not make worldly sense. But to the Lord perhaps she makes better sense. How would I know? Unlike Mother Fernande, I have not the delicacy of soul to suffer spiritual agony. Instead I work with my hands to the glory of God. Therefore I fail to understand her.
In any case, a blackness has settled over our convent since she has been mother superior, and there are those of us who hope that in the next election she will be replaced by someone with a sweeter temper. Before Mother Fernande, the sisters ate very well, meat often, raspberries in season, dried fruit in winter, and plenty of good wine. But now, the wine is weak and watered, and we are given more pease than before. I know that earthly food feeds only our imperfect and corrupt bodies and should not be important to us. After all, we partake of the delicious bread and wine of the Holy Sacrament, God’s body and blood. Yet I think God wants us to nourish our bodies with other food as well.
I know that I need food. My work is hard, so that I have no time for whips or hair shirts. I have scabs on my knees from kneeling in the dirt caring for God’s plants. I dedicate the scabs to Him.
But I wonder why it is that the food is poorer. Does Mother Fernande wish to stick more closely to the Rule? Or is it that there is not enough money for food when before there was plenty? Mother Fernande is a large woman, who was seen in the past to enjoy herself at table. For a fact, once her confessor told her that she perhaps was indulging in too much wine. This threw her into a very bad temper. As she said, how would the priest know how much wine she drinks, unless another nun told him during her own confession?
If the convent sells the reliquary, we will have lost the head of our beloved founder, Mother Catherine. She died ten years ago. The sisters say that her body never decayed at all and that it smelled like roses. Sister Marie Paule, who was near to death with a disease of lungs, was miraculously cured when she touched the body. Mother Catherine’s body was buried, but her head became a relic. An artist from Florence made the copper reliquary for it. The reliquary’s eyes are green enamel, and the artist cleverly gave it curly hair, like Mother Catherine’s.
While I weeded the garden, I tried to think of Jesus, who is my spouse, and pray to him, as is the holy way to work. I was unable to do so. Curiosity prevented me. What was plaguing Mother Fernande?
* * * * *
The buzzer on Chateaublanc’s desk broke my concentration—someone seeking entry to the archive. Shortly after, a tall man wearing a tan sweater tied around his neck walked into the room. In addition to the sweater, he wore a pair of expensive chocolate brown slacks, and a snow-white, ironed cotton shirt. He carried a camelhair coat over his arm. His short hair looked crimped – the curl had been cut off almost at the root. Professor Martin Fitzroy. A handsome and formidable man, who knew he was a handsome and formidable man. He marched up to Chateaublanc’s desk with what I could only call an “air”—an air of superiority, an air of expecting that superiority to be recognized. It was clear that he knew all too well that he was eminent. I had read his books on the history of
I told her that I thought the doctor should see her wounds, and soon, but she shook her head.
I said nothing more. When I was done, I showed her the cloth I used to wash her wounds—it was yellow with pus and red with blood. She muttered something in a muffled voice and waved me out of the room. I promised myself I would show the cloth to Sister Gertrude. Then perhaps she would call in the doctor.
Mother Fernande fights an inner trouble, I think. It makes her ill-tempered and a thorn in the body of the sisterhood we have here. She says that she is often blessed with the presence of God, who visits her in her meditations. When she comes back to the world, she is usually a little strange in it. She shouts at us and does not make worldly sense. But to the Lord perhaps she makes better sense. How would I know? Unlike Mother Fernande, I have not the delicacy of soul to suffer spiritual agony. Instead I work with my hands to the glory of God. Therefore I fail to understand her.
In any case, a blackness has settled over our convent since she has been mother superior, and there are those of us who hope that in the next election she will be replaced by someone with a sweeter temper. Before Mother Fernande, the sisters ate very well, meat often, raspberries in season, dried fruit in winter, and plenty of good wine. But now, the wine is weak and watered, and we are given more pease than before. I know that earthly food feeds only our imperfect and corrupt bodies and should not be important to us. After all, we partake of the delicious bread and wine of the Holy Sacrament, God’s body and blood. Yet I think God wants us to nourish our bodies with other food as well.
I know that I need food. My work is hard, so that I have no time for whips or hair shirts. I have scabs on my knees from kneeling in the dirt caring for God’s plants. I dedicate the scabs to Him.
But I wonder why it is that the food is poorer. Does Mother Fernande wish to stick more closely to the Rule? Or is it that there is not enough money for food when before there was plenty? Mother Fernande is a large woman, who was seen in the past to enjoy herself at table. For a fact, once her confessor told her that she perhaps was indulging in too much wine. This threw her into a very bad temper. As she said, how would the priest know how much wine she drinks, unless another nun told him during her own confession?
If the convent sells the reliquary, we will have lost the head of our beloved founder, Mother Catherine. She died ten years ago. The sisters say that her body never decayed at all and that it smelled like roses. Sister Marie Paule, who was near to death with a disease of lungs, was miraculously cured when she touched the body. Mother Catherine’s body was buried, but her head became a relic. An artist from Florence made the copper reliquary for it. The reliquary’s eyes are green enamel, and the artist cleverly gave it curly hair, like Mother Catherine’s.
While I weeded the garden, I tried to think of Jesus, who is my spouse, and pray to him, as is the holy way to work. I was unable to do so. Curiosity prevented me. What was plaguing Mother Fernande?
* * * * *
The buzzer on Chateaublanc’s desk broke my concentration—someone seeking entry to the archive. Shortly after, a tall man wearing a tan sweater tied around his neck walked into the room. In addition to the sweater, he wore a pair of expensive chocolate brown slacks, and a snow-white, ironed cotton shirt. He carried a camelhair coat over his arm. His short hair looked crimped – the curl had been cut off almost at the root. Professor Martin Fitzroy. A handsome and formidable man, who knew he was a handsome and formidable man. He marched up to Chateaublanc’s desk with what I could only call an “air”—an air of superiority, an air of expecting that superiority to be recognized. It was clear that he knew all too well that he was eminent. I had read his books on the history of
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