lead so many disaffected women toward peace. She would be kind and honest, a good mainland woman, unafraid of hard work, her brown hands callused but deft and gentle. She would enjoy music and gardening. She would be hardheaded; experienced enough in the world’s ways to help us fend for ourselves and yet not too ambitious, not embittered by her knowledge but still able to face the world with simple joy, simple wisdom.
Looking back in amazement at my own simplicity, I realize my fanciful picture owed a great deal to memories of my own mother, Isabelle. Her remembered face has altered a little since I last saw her, I know. Only the eye of love could recall her as I do, so sweet and so strong, her beauty crystallizing in my mind so that she is far lovelier than Clémente or the Holy Mother herself, though I cannot quite remember the color of her eyes, or the contours of her strong brown face. I put my mother’s head onto the shoulders of our new abbess before I even set eyes on her, and the relief I felt was like that of a child left too long in charge of a task too great for her, who, at last, sees her mother coming home. I began to run toward the strangely quiet building, my hair flying and my robes pulled up around my knees.
The cloister was dark and cool. I called out as I entered, but there was no reply. The gatehouse was unoccupied; the abbey seemed deserted. I ran down the broad, sunny slype between the dorters but saw no one. I passed the refectory, the kitchens, the empty chapter house, making my way toward the church. It would be almost time for Sext, I told myself; perhaps the new abbess had called a meeting.
As I approached the chapel I heard voices and chanting. Suddenly wary, I pushed open the door. All the sisters were present. I could see Perette; Alfonsine with her thin hands clasped at her chin; fat Antoine with her moony face and weak, excited eyes; stolid Germaine with Clémente at her side. There was silence as I came in and I blinked, disorientated by the dark and the reek of incense and the faces reflected in the light of many candles.
Alfonsine was the first to move. “Soeur Auguste,” she exclaimed. “Praise God, Soeur Auguste. We have a new-” Her voice broke in what might have been excitement. I was already looking beyond her, my eyes moving eagerly in search of the wise, bright lady of my expectation. But beside the altar I saw only a young girl of eleven or twelve, her small, pallid face impassive beneath a neat white wimple, her hand held out in a limp gesture of benediction. “Soeur Auguste.” The voice was as small and cool as its owner, and I was suddenly very aware of my hoydenish appearance, of my flying curls, my glowing cheeks.
“Mère Isabelle.” Alfonsine’s voice quavered with self-importance. “Mère Isabelle, the Reverend Mother.”
For a second, my surprise was such that I almost laughed aloud. She could not be speaking of this child. The thought was absurd-this child with my mother’s name must be some novice, some protégée of the new abbess who must even now be smiling at my mistake…Then our eyes met. Hers were very light but without brilliance, as if all her vision were turned inward. Looking into her wan young face I could see no gleam of humor, no pleasure, no joy.
“But she’s so
young
!” It was the wrong thing to say. I knew it immediately and regretted it, but in my surprise I had spoken my thought aloud. I saw the girl stiffen, her lips half open to reveal small, perfect teeth. “
Ma mère,
I am sorry.” Too late to unsay my words, I knelt to kiss the pale outstretched hand. “I spoke without thinking.”
I knew even as I felt the cool fingers beneath my lips that my apology was not accepted. For a moment I saw myself through her eyes: a sweating, red-faced island woman, hot with the forbidden scents of summer.
“Your wimple.” Her coldness was catching, and I shivered. “I-I lost it.” I faltered. “I was in the fields. It was
Looking back in amazement at my own simplicity, I realize my fanciful picture owed a great deal to memories of my own mother, Isabelle. Her remembered face has altered a little since I last saw her, I know. Only the eye of love could recall her as I do, so sweet and so strong, her beauty crystallizing in my mind so that she is far lovelier than Clémente or the Holy Mother herself, though I cannot quite remember the color of her eyes, or the contours of her strong brown face. I put my mother’s head onto the shoulders of our new abbess before I even set eyes on her, and the relief I felt was like that of a child left too long in charge of a task too great for her, who, at last, sees her mother coming home. I began to run toward the strangely quiet building, my hair flying and my robes pulled up around my knees.
The cloister was dark and cool. I called out as I entered, but there was no reply. The gatehouse was unoccupied; the abbey seemed deserted. I ran down the broad, sunny slype between the dorters but saw no one. I passed the refectory, the kitchens, the empty chapter house, making my way toward the church. It would be almost time for Sext, I told myself; perhaps the new abbess had called a meeting.
As I approached the chapel I heard voices and chanting. Suddenly wary, I pushed open the door. All the sisters were present. I could see Perette; Alfonsine with her thin hands clasped at her chin; fat Antoine with her moony face and weak, excited eyes; stolid Germaine with Clémente at her side. There was silence as I came in and I blinked, disorientated by the dark and the reek of incense and the faces reflected in the light of many candles.
Alfonsine was the first to move. “Soeur Auguste,” she exclaimed. “Praise God, Soeur Auguste. We have a new-” Her voice broke in what might have been excitement. I was already looking beyond her, my eyes moving eagerly in search of the wise, bright lady of my expectation. But beside the altar I saw only a young girl of eleven or twelve, her small, pallid face impassive beneath a neat white wimple, her hand held out in a limp gesture of benediction. “Soeur Auguste.” The voice was as small and cool as its owner, and I was suddenly very aware of my hoydenish appearance, of my flying curls, my glowing cheeks.
“Mère Isabelle.” Alfonsine’s voice quavered with self-importance. “Mère Isabelle, the Reverend Mother.”
For a second, my surprise was such that I almost laughed aloud. She could not be speaking of this child. The thought was absurd-this child with my mother’s name must be some novice, some protégée of the new abbess who must even now be smiling at my mistake…Then our eyes met. Hers were very light but without brilliance, as if all her vision were turned inward. Looking into her wan young face I could see no gleam of humor, no pleasure, no joy.
“But she’s so
young
!” It was the wrong thing to say. I knew it immediately and regretted it, but in my surprise I had spoken my thought aloud. I saw the girl stiffen, her lips half open to reveal small, perfect teeth. “
Ma mère,
I am sorry.” Too late to unsay my words, I knelt to kiss the pale outstretched hand. “I spoke without thinking.”
I knew even as I felt the cool fingers beneath my lips that my apology was not accepted. For a moment I saw myself through her eyes: a sweating, red-faced island woman, hot with the forbidden scents of summer.
“Your wimple.” Her coldness was catching, and I shivered. “I-I lost it.” I faltered. “I was in the fields. It was
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