‘What are they taught at school? Nothing at all. If you question them on any important subject, it’s quite pitiful… They haven’t the slightest idea what to answer.’
For this deplorable state of ignorance he blamed Voltaire, the French Revolution, the Government and the Dreyfusards —not publicly from the pulpit, but when he was with friends he could trust. For, despite his uncompromising religious views, the Dean had no intention of losing his salary. Every Tuesday and Thursday he used to gather as many children as possible in the presbytery courtyard, and then he would spend the next couple of hours trying, with amazing pedantry, to instill into them the most fantastic information in order to fill the gaps in their undenominational education.
‘Now listen, children. Do any of you know where the earthly paradise was? If so, hold up your hands … Come on, now …’
But not a single hand went up, and in every eye gleamed a huge question mark. Whereupon, shrugging his shoulders, the Dean would shout:
‘This is scandalous … What on earth do they teach you at school? It’s a fine business, this undenominational education … free and compulsory, indeed! … Very fine! Well then, I’m going to tell you where the earthly paradise was. So listen carefully.’
And, speaking in the most categorical terms, he would continue:
‘Whatever people may tell you, children, the earthly paradise was certainly not at Port-Lançon, nor anywhere else in the Seine-Inférieure … nor even in Normandy, or Paris, or France. And you won’t find it in Europe, or Africa or America … or even in the South Sea Islands. Is that quite clear? You see, some people try to make out that the earthly paradise was in Italy or Spain, because those are the countries where oranges grow, the greedy guts! But they are completely wrong … For one thing, there weren’t any oranges in the earthly paradise, only apples, unfortunately for us … Now, surely one of you can tell me where it was? Speak up.’
And when no one answered, he went on in a voice booming with anger:
‘It was in Asia … for in Asia, in days gone by, there was never any rain, hail, snow, or thunder and lightning … Everything was always green and the air full of delicious scents, and the flowers used to grow as high as the trees, and the trees were as big as mountains. But today, it is not like that any longer. Because of the sins you have committed, there’s nothing at all in Asia nowadays except the Chinese and the Cochin-Chinese and the Turks … black heretics and yellow pagans, who kill our holy missionaries and end up by going to hell… You can take it from me … And that reminds me … do any of you know what faith is?’
With a serious expression on his face, as though repeating a lesson learnt by heart, one of the children began to stammer:
‘Faith, Hope and Charity … It is one of the three theological virtues …’
‘That’s not what I asked you,’ the Dean interrupted sternly. ‘What I want to know is, what does faith mean, what does it consist of? … You see, no one knows that either. Well, faith means believing whatever you are taught by your parish priest, and not what you are told at school… School teachers don’t know what they’re talking about. They teach you about things that never really happened.’
The church at Port-Lançon is well-known to archaeologists and tourists, as one of the most interesting in this part of Normandy, where there is so much admirable religious architecture. In the west front, above the main entrance and delicately supported by a trefoil arcature, there is a superbly light and delicate rose window. The end of the north aisle, approached by a dark passage, is decorated with carvings of a more involved and massive style … Every kind of extraordinary creature, devils, symbolic animals and saints looking like ragamuffins, which, half hidden by the lace-like scroll work of the soffits, appear to be engaged in the most curious antics … Unfortunately most of them have been mutilated or lost their heads, for time and the prudish vandalism of priests have between them ruined these satirical carvings, which were once as gay and bawdy as a chapter of Rabelais. And since the crumbling stone bodies are now clothed with a gloomy covering of moss, it will not be long before it is impossible to distinguish anything but a desolate ruin … The building itself is divided into two by bold, slim arcades, while north and south the windows flame with radiance, and at the east end, above the altar, another huge rose window burns with the red glow of a setting sun.
The Dean’s courtyard, full of ancient chestnut trees, communicates directly with the church by a small door, recently constructed, that opens into one of the transepts, the only key to which is shared between the Dean and Sister Angela, who runs the almshouse. Thin and embittered, though still young in a crabbed and wilting way … strict, talkative, enterprising and a confirmed nosy-parker, Sister Angela is the Dean’s close friend and intimate adviser. They see each other every day, and are forever working out new combinations for the municipal elections, reporting to one another the secrets they have managed to unearth about the people of Port-Lançon, and planning ingenious methods of evading Government decrees and regulations in order to protect the church’s interests. It was there that much of the worst scandal of the neighbourhood originated, and though everyone suspected as much, no one dared say so for fear of the Dean’s biting wit and Sister Angela’s notorious spitefulness, for she ran the almshouse just as she pleased and was both intolerant and vindictive.
Last Thursday, when the Dean was as usual in the courtyard inculcating the children with the most extraordinary theological notions, having explained what thunder, hail, wind and lightning were, he suddenly asked:
‘And what about rain? Does anybody know what it is, where it comes from, who makes it? Of course, these modern scientists say that rain is due to condensation, but they are just liars and will tell you all sorts of things. They’re wicked heretics, the devil’s accomplices … But the truth is, children, rain is the wrath of God … God is angry with your parents, because for years they have been refusing to attend the Rogation processions … So he says to himself: “Right! If you are prepared to let your good parson lead the procession round your fields by himself, with nobody but the beadle and the choir, that’s your look out. But I’m warning you, you’d better look to your harvests, you rascals!” And then he orders the rain to fall. That’s what rain is … If only your parents would be good Christians, and carry out their religious duties properly, it would never rain again.’
As he was speaking Sister Angela suddenly appeared at the little door leading from the church. She was even paler than usual, and in a terrible state … her white headband had come undone and her coif was over one ear, it’s two great wings were fluttering like a frightened bird’s. As soon as she saw the schoolchildren, her first instinct was to go away again and shut the door. But the Dean, taken unawares by her sudden appearance and shocked by her pallor, was already advancing towards her, with contorted lips and agitated eyes.
‘Send the children away immediately,’ begged Sister Angela. ‘At once. I have something to tell you.’
‘Oh my God, whatever’s happened? Eh? What? You are all upset.’
‘Send the children away,’ Sister Angela repeated. ‘Something very serious has happened, very serious indeed.’
As soon as the last child had gone, Sister Angela sank on to a bench, where she sat for several seconds, nervously fingering her bronze crucifix and holy medals till they rattled against the starched bib in which her flat, spinster’s chest was encased. The Dean, anxious to hear her news and speaking in a jerky voice, said:
‘Quick … tell me what’s the matter … You frighten me … What is it?’
‘It’s this,’ she replied. ‘Just now, as I was coming through the cloister, I saw a man on the church, stark naked!’
The Dean opened his mouth to speak, but for a moment he could only gaze at her convulsively. Then he stuttered:
‘A naked man? … You mean to tell me, Sister, that you saw … on my church … a man … stark naked? On my church? You’re quite sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
/>
‘Is it possible that one of my parishioners should be so utterly shameless as to appear on the roof of the church stark naked …? I can hardly believe it!’
And, his face purple with rage, his throat so constricted that he could scarcely speak, he reiterated:
‘Stark naked, on my church …? Oh, what terrible times we live in … But what was he doing there? Surely, not fornicating? …’
‘But you don’t understand,’ interrupted Sister Angela. ‘I never said that it was one of the parishioners … It is one of the statues.’
‘What? One of the statues? Oh well, that’s a very different matter, Sister.’
Considerably relieved by this information, but still breathing loudly, he added:
‘Oh, but what a fright you gave me!’
Assured by his attitude, Sister Angela now became aggressive, and, compressing her pale lips, hissed venomously:
‘So you think it doesn’t matter, then? Are you suggesting that a man is any the less naked just because he’s made of stone?’
‘No, no … I never said that … Nevertheless, surely it’s not quite the same thing?’
‘But I can assure you, this stone man is a great deal more naked than you think … He’s exposing his … his … An instrument of impurity … an enormous horrible, pointed instrument! Surely, Father, you don’t want to make me sully my lips with an obscene word? …’
And she rose to her feet in a state of violent agitation. The Dean was utterly crushed by her revelation. His head was in a whirl and his imagination boggled at the thought of such depraved, such hellish sensuality … He could only mumble like a child:
‘You’re quite certain? … Huge and pointed? … But this is inconceivable. This is horrible, Sister … You are quite sure you actually saw this enormous, pointed thing? You couldn’t have been mistaken? You’re not joking? … Oh, no, it’s inconceivable.’
Sister Angela stamped her foot angrily. ‘And you mean to say that after all the centuries he’s been there disgracing your church you’ve never noticed anything? Did it have to be me … a woman … a nun who had taken the vow of chastity … who had to draw attention to this … this abomination? Who had to come and tell you, “If you please, Father, there’s a devil on the church”?’
Stirred by her passionate words, the Dean quickly pulled himself together and, in a determined tone of voice, answered:
‘We simply cannot allow this scandal to last another day … The devil must be brought to his knees, and I myself accept full responsibility. Come back at midnight, when everybody in Port-Lançon is asleep, and show me where he is. I’ll speak to the verger and tell him to get hold of a ladder … Is it very high up?’
‘Yes, indeed …’
‘And you’re sure you can find it again, Sister?’
‘I could find it blindfolded … I will meet you here at midnight then, your reverence …’
‘God be with you, Sister!’
And, crossing herself energetically, Sister Angela opened the little door and disappeared …
It was a dark, moonless night. In the cloister the lights had long ago been put out, and the street lamps, swaying and creaking on their tall gallows, were only faintly visible. The whole of Port-Lançon was asleep.
‘This is where it is,’ said Sister Angela.
The verger set his ladder against the wall, close to a large window, the panes of which glowed faintly in the light from the sanctuary lamp, while the broken outline of the church stood out against a violent sky, studded here and there with the twinkling of a star. The Dean, armed with a hammer and chisel and carrying a dark lantern, climbed up the ladder, closely followed by Sister Angela, whose coif was concealed beneath a large black shawl. And as they ascended, the Dean mumbled the words of a prayer, to which Sister Angela supplied the responses:
‘Ab omni peccato—Libera nos, Domine—Ab insidiis diaboli—Libera nos, Domine—A spiritu fornicationis—Libera nos, Domine!’
Reaching the top of the parapet, they stopped.
‘There it is,’ exclaimed Sister Angela, ‘to your left.’
And overwhelmed by the darkness and the silence, she whispered hurriedly: ‘Agnus Dei, quix tollis peccata mundi.’
‘Exaudi nos, Domine,’ replied the Dean, shining his lantern on the maze of carvings, amongst which it was just possible to distinguish the apocalyptic figures of saints and demons, dancing and grimacing in the moonlight. Suddenly, as he caught sight of the impure image of sin, aimed directly at him, terrible and furious, the Dean let out a loud cry, while the nun, still clinging to the ladder, managed to stutter:
‘Mater purissima … Mater castissima … Mater inviolata …’
‘Oh, the swine, the filthy swine,’ yelled the Dean, brandishing his hammer. And while, behind him, Sister Angela continued reciting the litany of the Blessed Virgin, and the verger, huddled at the foot of the ladder, prayed in a whining voice, he struck the obscene image a resounding blow. Splinters of stone struck him in the face, and there was the sound of a heavy body crashing on to the roof, slithering towards the gutter, and finally falling with a thud into the cloister below.
The next morning as she was leaving the church after mass, Mademoiselle Robineau, a particularly devout lady, happened to notice on the floor of the cloister, an object which struck her as having the unusual form and curious appearance of those holy relics that one sometimes sees preserved in reliquaries. She picked it up and, after examining it carefully, said to herself:
‘Probably it is a relic, a holy and precious relic, petrified in some miraculous spring … Indeed, God moves in most mysterious ways.’
Her first thought was to offer it to the Dean, but, on further reflection, she decided to take it home with her as a protection against sin and misfortune.
As soon as she got home, Mademoiselle Robineau went up to her room, and there, on a table spread with a white cloth, surmounted by a red velvet cushion with gold tassels, she carefully laid the precious relic. Then, covering it with a glass globe and placing a vase of artificial flowers on either side, she knelt down before this improvised altar and ardently invoked the unknown saint, to whom, in some remote period, this holy object had once belonged. But before long she began to feel worried. The fervour of her prayers, the pure joy of her ecstasy were increasingly disturbed by strangely human preoccupations. She was even assailed by the most terrible and piercing doubts. ‘Can it really be a holy relic?’ she asked herself.
And though she continued to say more and more pater nosters and aves she could not help indulging curiously impure thoughts and listening to a voice which, rising from within herself and drowning the sound of her prayers, kept repeating:
‘Still, he must have been a fine figure of a man!’
Poor Mademoiselle Robineau. When she finally discovered what the stone object really was, she almost died of shame and kept repeating over and over again:
‘And to think how many times I kissed it!’
Today, November 10th, we were busy all day cleaning silver. This is quite an event, a traditional occasion like jam making. The Lanlaires have a magnificent collection of silver, including several antique pieces that are almost unique and extremely beautiful. Madame inherited it from her father who, according to some people, was holding it in trust; though others say that it was given him by a nobleman, as security for a loan. He wasn’t satisfied with buying young men for military service, the old brute. He was up to anything, and one more swindle certainly wouldn’t have worried him. If the grocer’s wife is to be believed, the whole business of the silver was completely crooked, for it appears that Madame’s father not only was repaid the full amount he had lent, but also managed to hang on to the silver. I don’t know the exact circumstances, but there is little doubt it was a super swindle!
Naturally, the Lanlaires never use it. It is kept locked up in a cupboard in the pantry, in three large cases, lined with red velvet and fixed to the wall with strong iron staples. Each year, on the 10th November, t
he cases are brought out, and, under Madame’s personal supervision, the silver is cleaned. Then, for another year, no one sees it again. You should have seen Madame’s expression, at the thought of us being allowed to touch her silver. I’ve never seen a woman with a look of such savage cupidity!
Isn’t it curious the way people like this hide everything away? Bury their silver, their jewels, their wealth, their happiness, and, instead of living happily and luxuriously, insist upon living as though they were hard up?
Having completed the job, and locked up the silver for another year, Madame at last cleared off, though not before she had satisfied herself that we had not taken anything. When she had gone Joseph said in a funny kind of voice:
‘It’s a splendid collection, you know, Célestine, especially the Louis XVI cruet. Jesus, but it’s heavy … The whole lot must be worth at least 25,000 francs. In fact, no one can say what it is worth.’
And looking at me with a fixed, heavy stare, he added:
‘Have you made up your mind to come with me yet?’
Whatever connection can there be between the Lanlaires’ silver and the Cherbourg café … I don’t know why, but the truth is, almost everything Joseph says scares me …
12 NOVEMBER
I said I was going to talk about Monsieur Xavier. I often think of the little wretch! Of all the faces I have ever set eyes on there are few that I recall as often as his, and when I do, sometimes it makes me feel sad, sometimes angry … Still, with that wrinkled, cheeky little face of his, he really was jolly amusing … and utterly depraved! A regular little bounder … A typical product of the times, as you might say.
I had been engaged by a Madame de Tarves, who lived in Varennes Street … a peach of a place … everything up to the nines and excellent wages … a hundred francs a month, free laundry, wine and so on. The morning I got there, feeling very pleased with myself, Madame sent for me to her boudoir … A marvellous room, walls covered with cream-coloured silk … and Madame herself, tall, heavily made up … skin too white, lips too red, hair too fair … still pretty … rustling petticoats … and such elegance, such a presence! Oh, there was certainly no arguing about that …
The Diary of a Chambermaid Page 21
