upon the pain and sorrows of Our Lord. Especially His agony in the garden, His scourging at the pillar, His being crowned with a garland of thorns.”
She stands in her white-painted room, seeing no moon, in a sour nightgown that itches, on floor planks that are keen as iron against the skin of her feet. She loses one word of a prayer and then she loses another. She begins again and forgets that she’s begun. She thinks she’s gotten through the Annunciation and so she says to herself, “The second joyful mystery: the Visitation.”
And then she sags against the gray stone sill of the window casing and twists away from the night outside, tenderly holding her sore right breast as if she’s just discovered it.
She skids down the wall until she’s squatting in the night of the room.
Twenty-fifth Sunday after Pentecost.
Compline. She prays without thought. Without emotion. She is a book without words or pictures. She is a night without moon.
Mass of Saint Sylvester, Abbot.
Sleep get up pray pray pray pray pray pray pray .
Mass of Saint Saturninus, Martyr.
Mariette is slowly walking the great dining hall with a Jeroboam of straw-white wine at dinner, when Mother Saint-Raphaël belatedly arrives, spiking her crooked cane on the floor planks and sitting down with the great weight of old age. She scowls at the five novices and then at Mariette and taps her knuckles on the ironed tablecloth in order to beckon the postulant over.
Mariette cradles the Jeroboam as she obeys, crouching by the refectory table so that Mother Saint-Raphaël can talk confidingly. She whispers, “We two shall dispense with silence.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Mother Céline is ill. You are to take a hot pot of tea to Reverend Mother, and you will please put in it three teaspoons of this wild senna.” She gives Mariette a white slip of paper that she’s rolled and twisted shut at both ends. “She will be purged of her pernicious humors and the great vessels will be emptied.”
“You honor me.”
Mother Saint-Raphaël looks away.
Mariette pauses in the hallway to counterpoise a hot teapot, a Japanese cup and saucer, and tightly vased strawflowers on a tray. She then puts an ear to the prioress’s door and raps twice. She hears the slight rasp of sandals on the floor.
Sister Aimée just open the door just an inch and jealously peeks out at the postulant and the red and orange strawflowers. “She’s sick,” the infirmarian says.
“I have this from Mother Saint-Raphaël. She says Mother Céline should drink some hot tea.”
Sister Aimée sighs impatiently and steps outside to get the tray, saying, “I’ll be sure to put it by her palliasse.”
Mariette pettishly retracts the tray and says, “Mother Saint-Raphaël particularly wanted me to give it to the prioress.”
“You only?”
“She was thinking it a penance.”
Sister Aimée simpers and says, “You see, it is just that Mother Superior is sleeping now.”
Mariette smiles insincerely and inches toward the door.
Sister Aimée tries to stop her, hissing, “You are being impossible, Sister!”
“And you are being possessive and invidious!”
“Have it your way,” says Sister Aimée. “Again.” And she’s overwrought with juvenile emotions as she scuttles down the hallway.
Reverend Mother Céline rests on her side on the palliasse as if she could be peering at the tempera painting of Our Mother of Perpetual Help that is hanging on the wall. Wild sleep has tossed aside the gray wool blanket and sheet and twisted her nightgown on her body so that it seems shameless and slatternly. A great gush of blond hair veils her pillow.
Mariette adeptly puts the tray on the sill so there is no more noise than a tap. She sees a sparrow tilt high up in the air and swoop westward out of sight. She then hesitantly turns and stoops over the prioress to assess her illness and pain. She almost feels for the high temperature on Mother Céline’s
She stands in her white-painted room, seeing no moon, in a sour nightgown that itches, on floor planks that are keen as iron against the skin of her feet. She loses one word of a prayer and then she loses another. She begins again and forgets that she’s begun. She thinks she’s gotten through the Annunciation and so she says to herself, “The second joyful mystery: the Visitation.”
And then she sags against the gray stone sill of the window casing and twists away from the night outside, tenderly holding her sore right breast as if she’s just discovered it.
She skids down the wall until she’s squatting in the night of the room.
Twenty-fifth Sunday after Pentecost.
Compline. She prays without thought. Without emotion. She is a book without words or pictures. She is a night without moon.
Mass of Saint Sylvester, Abbot.
Sleep get up pray pray pray pray pray pray pray .
Mass of Saint Saturninus, Martyr.
Mariette is slowly walking the great dining hall with a Jeroboam of straw-white wine at dinner, when Mother Saint-Raphaël belatedly arrives, spiking her crooked cane on the floor planks and sitting down with the great weight of old age. She scowls at the five novices and then at Mariette and taps her knuckles on the ironed tablecloth in order to beckon the postulant over.
Mariette cradles the Jeroboam as she obeys, crouching by the refectory table so that Mother Saint-Raphaël can talk confidingly. She whispers, “We two shall dispense with silence.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Mother Céline is ill. You are to take a hot pot of tea to Reverend Mother, and you will please put in it three teaspoons of this wild senna.” She gives Mariette a white slip of paper that she’s rolled and twisted shut at both ends. “She will be purged of her pernicious humors and the great vessels will be emptied.”
“You honor me.”
Mother Saint-Raphaël looks away.
Mariette pauses in the hallway to counterpoise a hot teapot, a Japanese cup and saucer, and tightly vased strawflowers on a tray. She then puts an ear to the prioress’s door and raps twice. She hears the slight rasp of sandals on the floor.
Sister Aimée just open the door just an inch and jealously peeks out at the postulant and the red and orange strawflowers. “She’s sick,” the infirmarian says.
“I have this from Mother Saint-Raphaël. She says Mother Céline should drink some hot tea.”
Sister Aimée sighs impatiently and steps outside to get the tray, saying, “I’ll be sure to put it by her palliasse.”
Mariette pettishly retracts the tray and says, “Mother Saint-Raphaël particularly wanted me to give it to the prioress.”
“You only?”
“She was thinking it a penance.”
Sister Aimée simpers and says, “You see, it is just that Mother Superior is sleeping now.”
Mariette smiles insincerely and inches toward the door.
Sister Aimée tries to stop her, hissing, “You are being impossible, Sister!”
“And you are being possessive and invidious!”
“Have it your way,” says Sister Aimée. “Again.” And she’s overwrought with juvenile emotions as she scuttles down the hallway.
Reverend Mother Céline rests on her side on the palliasse as if she could be peering at the tempera painting of Our Mother of Perpetual Help that is hanging on the wall. Wild sleep has tossed aside the gray wool blanket and sheet and twisted her nightgown on her body so that it seems shameless and slatternly. A great gush of blond hair veils her pillow.
Mariette adeptly puts the tray on the sill so there is no more noise than a tap. She sees a sparrow tilt high up in the air and swoop westward out of sight. She then hesitantly turns and stoops over the prioress to assess her illness and pain. She almost feels for the high temperature on Mother Céline’s
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