For a long time Joris was disturbed, perplexed, uncertain of his destiny and of himself. Up to this point he had followed a broad,
monotonous road, without stopping, without looking around. He had lived his life, drawn on by a unique goal, a rare ideal, but all at once he had started to have doubts about it.
The death of van Hulle was a point at which he paused to examine himself. Had he perhaps taken the wrong direction? Was there not a better means of achieving happiness, and of achieving it immediately? Was it not a delusion to renounce the world just in order to see, for a moment, one’s dream realised? Thus the lesson of death turned against itself.
Joris trembled at the idea that he might have been wrong.
Fearfully he wondered, ‘So many years already wasted as far as happiness is concerned!’
It was the tower that was to blame.
He had wanted to climb high above the world . To ascend into his dream. Now, at the death of van Hulle, he had come to see the certainty, but also the futility, of the realisation of a long-held dream. Perhaps the world offered more. There were pleasures that were more tangible which he had never considered, but in which other men found their joy. Like him, van Hulle had ignored and rejected them for the pursuit of a goal which was only within him . The Flemish Movement, of which he had been the first apostle, already seemed a beautiful illusion. It was collapsing.
Joris foresaw that he, in his turn, would devote his energies to it in vain. And as for his devotion to Bruges, it was as futile as the devotion to a tomb.
To live! He had to live in the world. Life is such a fleeting thing. It was the bell-tower that had discouraged him and given him a taste for death. Now, when he entered it, with each step he climbed he felt he was leaving behind a new possibility of joy.
Henceforward there was doubt in his mind as he climbed the tower.
It seemed to him that he was wrong to abandon the world where there was something calling to him, holding him back with a voice close to his ear and mysterious promises. On the narrow stairway, with its darkness and sepulchral damp, he felt, just for a moment, as if he had ceased to be, had anticipated his death.
During those days he did not linger at the top of the tower any more after the time appointed for the carillon. When he came back down he had the impression he had gone there to die a little.
II
In becoming part of Joris’s household Godelieve brought, if not an improvement, at least a respite. Barbara, slightly distracted and influenced by her sister’s presence, restrained herself more, curbed her fits of anger, her frequent contrary moods, her constant irritation with her husband. Gentleness can be contagious. Godelieve’s arrival there was like a pocket of silence appearing in the forest, like the wine-cup the King of Thule cast into the sea. She seemed so agreeable, with the
graceful arch of her countenance, her forehead as smooth and pure as a temple wall, her beautiful honey-coloured hair; and a voice of the same colour as her hair, never darkened by impatience, her never changing, placid temperament, accepting everything with docility, the docility of the canals in which the skies and houses, reflected, come to a standstill. Godelieve, too, was a mirror of calm.
Behind its curtain of ever restless trees, the old house on the Dijver enjoyed a little peace and calm, a relaxation of tension, such as a truce brings, the empty quiet of a Sunday morning.
Godelieve wove her spell. She went from one to the other, it seemed, pouring balm on their wounded hearts, healing, reconciling them, like a Sister of Charity between two patients.
Did she suspect the silent drama being played out and seek to resolve it, to bring it to the peace of forgiveness? Or was she perhaps simply being herself, radiating pure goodness?
Whatever the case, a new dawn broke in Joris’s household. He above all rejoiced in the unexpected quiet. Everything seemed changed. He felt he must be in another place. It was as if he had returned from a tedious journey and was coming home in the spring. A sense of toleration was released within him, a love of the world and of men. He went out more often, and no longer, as previously, to the mournful canals, to the ecclesiastical districts. He no longer avoided other people, was more sociable, interested in the chance encounters of the street. He seemed to be a different person. Did he have new eyes? Formerly they had been full of withered things. In his eyes the whole world had been withered. And it had been because of Barbara, harsh, irascible Barbara who had disappointed him, maltreated him, made him disillusioned with everything. Woman is the window through which we see the world.
And now a different woman had come. Oh, the perturbation of a man who is still young when a woman becomes part of his household!
Borluut felt as if the house were brighter, the air warmer.
Godelieve’s large eyes were like two new windows, wide open.
Inside, where it had so long been gloomy, it was less sad. Voices could be heard, resonant like voices among ruins. There was conversation at table, the meals were not cut short any more.
Joris described his projects, his ambitions; Godelieve expressed interest, drew Barbara into the conversation. Sometimes she talked of her father, prompted by some detail, one of his favourite dishes, a victory for the Movement, a shared memory which brought all three together. And the love they had shared for the old antiquary, their laments at his passing, made them feel closer. It was as if they were holding hands around his grave.
As the months passed, Borluut was more and more amazed at Godelieve’s gentleness. Nothing disturbed it for one single
minute, not even Barbara’s fits of impatience, which were sometimes directed at her. An equable temperament, seraphic mildness. Her voice came and went, folding and unfolding like a large white wing, always level, with the same spotless words, the same arpeggio of feathers. It had a calming effect, the simplicity of a sky breeze, something peaceful, soothing. Now Borluut could comprehend old van Hulle’s affection for Godelieve, his jealous, cloistered existence with her; it had been like living with an angel – a foretaste of paradise.
Now that Borluut was living with the two sisters, he compared them: Barbara, Catholic and violent; Godelieve, mystical and gentle. One was the Spanish graft on the race; she was truly Spanish in the pleasure she took in causing suffering, her body like an executioner’s fire, her lips like an open wound; a taste for torture, inquisition and blood. The other was the original, fundamental type, the fair-haired Flemish Eve of van Eyck and Memling. And yet, despite all that, they were not too different; the centuries and heredity had diluted the foreign blood. When one recalled their father’s face, one could see that they shared the same features. They both had his slightly aquiline nose, his high forehead, smooth and calm, and those eyes, the colour of the canals, of people who live in the north, in the countries bound by water. Each one of them resembled him in her own way and thus each resembled the other.
At most there was a different lighting. It was the same flower, but in the shade or in the sunlight, born during the day or born during the night.
That had made the difference and Borluut’s fate had been determined.
Seeing how they resembled each other, now that he was living with both of them, only increased Joris’s vexation and grief. What ill-luck to have chosen, between two almost twin sisters, Barbara, who was irritable, cruel and neurotic, who blighted all his joy. But do we not always love that which will make us suffer? It is the secret of Fate, which does not want us to be happy because unhappiness is the rule, because capturing joy for oneself would discourage other men from living. Our will does see the trap and tries to save us, to get us to make a different choice. But Fate is stronger and we rush headlong into unhappiness.
Now that, with Godelieve living in his house, he had become aware of her angelic sweetness, Joris was all the more able to appreciate his irreparable ill-luck. To think that he could have been living surrounded by that goodness, that tranquility, that calm affection, that soft voice, that ever-acquiescent soul. He had come so clo
se to happiness. The most depressing part was that he had sensed it, had hesitated for a good while over his choice.
Now Joris recalled how he had long been undecided, uncertain about his passion. Whenever he had gone to visit van Hulle, some
instinct had told him the house contained his future, but nothing more precise. He sought an answer, but his love, lacking clear vision, wavered between the two faces. And in this it was above all the bell-tower that was to blame. He remembered how he kept being drawn to the Bell of Lust which, for some unknown reason, provoked within him a desire for Barbara, a vision of her body, slim and supple like that of the women swooning in ecstasy in the bronze reliefs. At the top of the tower, he wanted Barbara. When he came back down into the world, he loved Godelieve. And she had loved him. Why had she not spoken instead of Barbara, who had boldly made up his mind for him, committing him with one brief, irrevocable kiss? There was not the slightest doubt, it was all down to Fate. Joris realised how little the choice had been his.
But who can choose in love? Circumstances envelop us, act of their own accord, tie threads we only become aware of once our hearts are bound.
What is it that decides the happiness or unhappiness of a whole life? Now Joris realised how decisive the choice between two alternatives had been for him. In choosing Barbara, he had embraced all the unhappiness; in choosing Godelieve he would have embraced all the happiness.
And that had been decided in a moment, by a single word, a minute detail. If Godelieve had made a sign, uttered a word, given him a glimpse of the shadow of the love within her, everything would have turned out differently. Three lives would have been changed.
And his life would have flowed along happily, like a stream over a bed of flowers. But Godelieve had not spoken and he had not suspected anything. It was van Hulle who had revealed it, at first fearing, when Joris asked for his daughter’s hand in marriage, that it was Godelieve he wanted, becoming alarmed, panicking at the thought of losing her.
Now Joris thought about Godelieve’s love. ‘How much did she love me?’ he wondered.
It had certainly not been one of those fleeting passions, a light haze, a dawn mist in a young girl’s heart which soon dissipates.
With her the emotion must have persisted. Joris recalled another scene, a later one when, at Farazyn’s request and to humour Barbara, he advised her to marry his friend. Immediately she appeared anxious, with a distraught expression, an imploring gesture: ‘Oh, don’t say that. You … you of all people!’ That was all she had said and he had remained silent, guessing at a great secret that was dead and buried and that he did not want to know.
And now he was seized with a desire to throw light on this mystery. Perhaps it was because of this one unfulfilled love that she had renounced love altogether. There are hearts that are not made for new beginnings. Having failed to marry him, she would have abandoned the whole idea of marriage. And that without rancour or bitterness, either towards any person or towards life, all gentleness and resignation, having folded her chaste love
away within herself, like the trousseau of a maiden who had died on the morning of her marriage.
Joris was saddened at the thought of all that time in the past when he had been so close to happiness without realising it, without grasping it. He bemoaned himself, Godelieve, the wretchedness of life. Moved, troubled in some way, he still wondered, as if speaking in a low voice, ‘And now, has she completely got over it?’
She seemed so placid, her eyes elsewhere, appearing to float rather than to walk. Nothing disturbed the steadiness of her voice, her even phrases which gave the impression of the texts on the banderoles in paintings by the Primitives. You looked for a narrow scroll coming out of her mouth. Her words undulated silently.
Nevertheless Joris noticed how she was concerned to soothe Barbara, to take everything on herself, to avoid conflict, to conciliate at the least alarm. It required unobtrusive and loving attention. Barbara, irascible, prickly, quick to take offence, was not very responsive. Godelieve would increase her sisterly efforts. Sometimes, thanks to her, the atmosphere relaxed, conversation was open, more amicable. She stood between them like a canal between two stone embankment s . The embankment s are face to face, nevertheless apart and will never unite, but the waters mix their reflections, merge them, appear to join them together.
Thanks to her, life improved for Borluut. He spent several months of calm. However, one day Barbara had another violent fit of anger and, this time, refused to be intimidated by Godelieve. As always it had been set off by a trifle: Joris had lost a key. As they looked for it, Barbara became irritated, started to dwell on his carelessness, brought up old grievances, imaginary wrongs, immediately expressing herself in the harshest terms. And now Joris, less resigned on that particular day, or perhaps encouraged by the presence of Godelieve, hit back, reproaching Barbara for her lack of consideration, her perpetual bad temper.
The debacle was instantaneous. Barbara turned livid and started to scream, emitting a whole avalanche of hurtful words which erupted like stones, raining down on Joris, cutting him to the quick. Although wild with rage, Barbara did not hit out at random. She found sensitive spots, chose the most wounding insults and allusions. Joris felt he was tied at the stake with the flames of her Spanish anger licking round him in a blaze no one could have stopped. But that did not prevent the other tortures of inquisition being deployed: an old reproach poured into his ear like molten lead; then a sudden look of hatred pierced his eyes with a red-hot needle. It went on for a long time. Barbara paced up and down the room, truly ablaze.
Then her furious anger abated, subsided, having consumed itself for want of fuel since Joris had quickly fallen silent, realising
he should do nothing to aggravate the situation, which would immediately end in disaster, approaching tragedy, death.
Godelieve looked on, silent, stupefied, feeling powerless in the face of an outburst more extreme than she ever could have imagined. Barbara on the other hand, having exhausted her anger and her nerves, left, slamming the door as usual, filling the stairs and corridors with her final cries, with the sound of her staccato footsteps growing fainter in the silence.
Joris, overcome and embarrassed, had gone over to the window that looked out on the garden, leaning his forehead against the glass to cool his fever with its chill moisture, to alleviate his sorrow.
Godelieve watched him. When, a moment later, he turned round, she saw that his eyes were filled with tears. How distressing to see a man cry! Moved to compassion, more than a sister, pity bringing out the mother in her, she went up to him and silently took his hands, not finding any words, not daring to touch the deep, intimate wound for which the balm of a look was sufficient.
To explain, excuse the cruelty of the scene, Joris said, ‘She’s unwell.’
‘Yes,’ said Godelieve, ‘but you are unhappy?’
‘Very unhappy …’
Joris wept. Unable to hold back any longer, he burst out sobbing, as if his heart itself were leaving, were rising up as if to die in his mouth. The moans of an animal or a child that cannot take any more, a cry no longer human, howling loud and long.
Godelieve felt old memories come alive again, everything she thought had been dead and buried in her heart. Forgotten dust fluttered and, thinking of what might have been, she whispered,
‘If only it had been God’s will.’
And seeing Joris weep brought her to tears as well.
Mute consolation. It is in silence that souls finally come together, listen and speak to each other. They tell each other things their lips never can. For them it is as if they were in eternity already. And the promises they make each other in such moments will never cease.
Godelieve and Joris felt their souls touch. They were united by a communion stronger than love. Henceforth there was a secret between them, an exchange more sacred than that of kisses: the exchange of mingled tears.
III
‘If only it had been God’s will.’
From that point onwards Godelieve’s words affected Joris, obsessed him, coloured the air around him, filled his sleep with images. The lament of unallayed regret! The murmur of a spring one thought had dried up! A cry of avowal suddenly bursting forth, ringing out in his unhappiness like a voice in a graveyard. At a stroke the young girl had given away the secret of her life. Her love, which he had thought superficial and ephemeral, persisted, reappearing here and there like the water of the canals in the town.
Joris recalled the successive proofs: van Hulle’s revelation; Godelieve’s later half confession, when he had encouraged her to marry Farazyn; now, finally, the decisive words which had slipped out, almost instinctively, with the sincerity of a gesture.
‘If only it had been God’s will.’
So she had not got over it, never would get over it. There are women whose love only ends with death. Now Joris understood the gentleness she spread, her willing presence about the house, her concern to mitigate any discord, the calm her look brought, the sweetness her voice gave. In the troubled house, she was a haven of silence. She was trying to bring happiness to his home.
Perhaps that was the reason why she had come to live with them, out of the affection she still bore him, in order to offer him her protection and comfort, like a sister at least, a Sister of Charity who would dress his hurts whenever he was wounded and bleeding. And to think that she could have been his wife! He kept on going over the chance he had missed, the blissful life he would have led. He repeated to himself Godelieve’s nostalgic sigh: ‘If only it had been God’s will.’
From now on, when he climbed the tower he no longer had the impression he was moving towards death. He was accompanied by the words of brightness. They went before him, climbing the dark steps one by one. They left him behind, running to the top in one breath, then coming back down to meet him, swelled by the wind, panting from the run. No longer was Joris alone. He climbed with the loving words, which were the voice of Godelieve. And he replied to her voice. He spoke out loud, told of his hopes, expunged the hateful past, spent hours conversing with her. Now the belfry no longer frightened him; he no longer blamed the tower for taking him away from the world.
The Bells of Bruges Page 12
