Joris felt sorry for her, felt infinite pity deep within for this poor creature, who doubtless could not help herself, while he himself was so far away, having taken refuge inside himself, in that dark recess, that farthest chamber of the soul which no one can enter. It was there that he met Godelieve, smiling silently at his love. What did anything else matter? These eruptions left Barbara drained, a crumpled rag of flesh and nerves, a sail slumped at the bottom of the mast. She lay down for a long time, pale and unmoving, moaning too because of the tingling pain in every limb: threads stretched along her legs, knotted at her knees, the skein continuing up into her throat, blocking it so that she was suffocating.
She complained to Godelieve, ‘I’m aching, aching.’
And her voice became high and thin, cracked, a little voice breaking, the voice of a sick child crying for help. She curled
herself up, would have probably liked to cuddle up, to warm herself against someone.
‘And I’m so cold as well.’
Then Godelieve, moved to pity, would cosset her, wrap her in shawls and run her hands over her – the contact pacified her, soothed her, as if they possessed an invisible, calming force. At that point Barbara would become aware of her fits and seem embarrassed: ‘I don’t know what I’m saying.’
Immediately Godelieve went to tell Joris, to heal his wounds, to bring him back and attempt a reconciliation which at least would bring peace, if not forgiveness. But he refused in a sad voice:
‘She has caused me too much suffering. Aware of it or not, she has bruised my heart too much.’
Godelieve tried to work on her sister, ventured a gentle reproach: ‘You’re hurting yourself and your hurting others.’
But Barbara, only temporarily pacified, bristled, her anger and her complaints returned, this time directed at Godelieve. She reproached her sister, imagining grievances, wrongs, finding a hurtful intention or inflection in everything she said.
‘I want to die!’
And all at once she opened the window, as if she were going to throw herself out. Instead, she swept out of the house, scarcely pausing to put a hat on her head, a coat round her shoulders, and started to stride along the strrets with hasty steps, towards the canals and the ponds on the outskirts of the town, looking as if she intended to throw herself into the water and was choosing her spot. Joris was told and hurried along after her, pale himself, as if he were about to faint, his heart beating like a clock in his chest, anxious, his fear of a scandal intermingled with the first stirrings of sorrow for poor Barbara, whom he believed he no longer loved but whom he could not bear to imagine dead, covered in blood from a fall or with Ophelia’s water plants.
In spite of everything, he remembered the beginning, saw her once more in her white bridal veil, thought of her lips that had been so red.
Barbara had bouts of nervous exhaustion, of melancholy, which made it easier to feel sorry for her. Things were less strained, it was a period of depression after one of over-excitation. She seemed to emerge from the ruins. It was as if she had been walking in the rain for a long time; there was something faded about her. Looking at her made one think of a shipwreck and that she must have seen death.
She seemed to regret having escaped it, to still be sitting in his house.
‘I’m in your way,’ she sometimes said to Joris. ‘We’re unhappy.
It would be better if I were to die.’
Joris gave a start. But she couldn’t have guessed his love for Godelieve, which he kept secret, shut up deep inside himself. But does instinct not sometimes see things that are invisible to the naked eye? Joris dismissed the suggestion which frightened him and which had touched on something he did not want to think about.
Far from letting her die, since Barbara seemed to be ill they had to relieve her suffering, find a cure. He summoned a doctor, informing him in advance about the case. The diagnosis was clear: anaemia and nervous exhaustion, the old blood in decline, the scourge of the age which had even reached those out-of-the-way towns. In Barbara it was hereditary. The remedy? Her condition would improve later, with age. In the meantime taking the waters would alleviate it, the mountain air would tone up the nervous system, have a calming effect. It so happened that Barbara was in contact with some cousins who lived in a spa, a little village in Germany where she had visited them in the past. She had no objection to going there again. But she insisted on going alone, with no one to accompany her, thus breaking with her present life for a while, cutting the bonds which attached her to her family, losing all memory of the home where she had spent such black days, setting off on the journey as if she were going to a different life. Was her irritation with those around her, those rather than others, perhaps not one of the symptoms of her illness? She did not want them with her and left by herself a few days later. In vain Joris had offered to accompany her, as had Godelieve, even more insistently, racking her brains for reasons, constantly changing tack, thinking up specious arguments, promising she wouldn’t take up any room at all, wouldn’t be a nuisance, would be there to pamper her.
The fact was that Godelieve was afraid, terrified, at the thought of staying alone with Joris. Barbara’s departure would open the door to danger. As long as she was there in the house, Godelieve felt protected, sweetly secure. True, since she had always loved Joris she had not managed entirely to stop herself loving him, nor letting him see it. She was not too ashamed of all the little pleasures they found, almost by chance, as soon as they were alone together: a swift embrace, lingering hands, a brush of the lips, all the endearments of a love which is scarcely carnal, in which it is the souls that mate.
Godelieve consented to these harmless kisses, which did not seem very different from a sister-in-law’s kisses. She could have openly acknowledged them, though not the inner turmoil they caused her, the divine reverberations that went through her whole being, as if a host imprinted with Joris’s face were coming down into her.
And was it not a good work, a work of domestic charity and of human compassion, to grant Joris the comfort of a little tenderness, a cooling draught from her young lips in the arid heat of his home. No, she had no cause to blush at her love, she was not ashamed to talk to God about it.
But she had a vague feeling that everything had changed now that Barbara had left. It meant the end of her security, the innocent intimacy, their pardonable liberties, their pure, unstained love, which could have lasted to the end of their days. They were going to be alone together and therefore free and open to the worst temptation.
Having dinner that evening, the two of them together, they both felt very awkward. Godelieve had blushed as she sat down. She realised that from now on she would always blush in Joris’s presence. He was smiling, exultant, amazed, all of a tremble.
Could it be that chance had decided, for a moment at least, to restore their destiny? They were together in this house that was theirs, alone together, in the lamplight, like a happily married couple. It could have been – it was for the moment. An intimate, almost conjugal evening together. Joris opened his heart, poured out his feelings. Godelieve listened, acquiescent. She had taken up her lace, manipulating the bobbins, often not concentrating on it but reassured by the interplay of the threads with which she kept her hands occupied, for a long time, out of fear that Joris might take hold of them…
VI
Love burst out in them like spring. One sunny day is enough to turn all the peach trees pink, to cover the old walls with leaves. And thus their prejudices, their fears and their scruples vanished in an instant under an explosion of flowers, that rising tide of fragrance signifying renewal. They knew resistance was vain. The season was ripe, the inevitable had arrived. It was the normal course of Nature, their will triumphant after all the trials, the waiting. They became a couple who, long engaged but separated by time and tide, belong together and are reunited. And it was not mere chance they had to thank, something more mysterious had arranged everything: Barbara’s worsening nervous exhaustion, the disco
rd in the home, her solitary departure leaving them together, prey to themselves. In reality their destiny had resumed its course, was once more flowing downstream after having disappeared for a while among rocks and gone underground. All the time during which they had been unable to see their reflections in it they had felt as if they were lost.
Now each could see the other’s face as their lives flowed on.
Now all the rest seemed to have been so short, so insubstantial, so unreal; already it was past. Not two days had passed since Barbara had left, since they had started to live together in the intimacy of the house, and they had the impression they had always lived like that. Living like a perfect couple. Shared
harmony, never marred by the slightest difference. Joris was constantly filled with wonder at Godelieve’s gentleness, her angelic temperament, always true to itself, as if her soul were under glass and nothing, not the tug of a nerve, not a word, not a wind, not a grain of dust from the world could reach it and affect it.
Oh, the calm assurance such a presence brought to his home, the steady, constant light such a love cast!
Joris made comparisons, still recalling now and then the wild flame that was Barbara which always either burnt him or sent him into semi-darkness. How he had suffered for his mistake, for having listened to the bad advice of the bell, for his lack of clear sight when he came back down from the bell-tower!
He was now in a position to judge what a delightful life would have been his had he chosen Godelieve. And that could have been, would have been, had not Barbara intervened and at a stroke, with one irrevocable kiss, desecrated and ruined their future.
But now his mistake was being put right; circumstances were conspiring with him. God Himself seemed to be tempting them.
The time had come to restore their destiny.
During the day they enjoyed the enchanting illusion that nothing of what had been had happened. Not once when they were together at table did they sense an empty place, at no moment did Barbara’s absence come between them.
Only during the evening, as the time to go to bed approached, did Joris fall prey to a fever of agitation. He fell silent while in his mind’s eye he imagined Godelieve in her bedroom, already in the intimate whiteness of her underwear. He pictured her, using the way she had looked on certain days in the past, her hair not properly dressed and in her morning gown, not suspecting the arousal it caused, nor its surreptitious aid to future images.
Joris visualised her pink on the pillow with, all around, the blond stream of her hair, playing in meanders round her head. He would have so liked to see her asleep.
The evening drew on. Neither dared give the signal to part. They were unaccustomed to being parted. They had spent the day together, just the two of them, a couple enraptured, perfect lovers who are alike, think the same thing without having to say it, vibrating in such unison that they remain silent together to let their souls communicate. And it had long been so, always, since those far-off days when their souls had been betrothed.
One evening Joris was more affectionate, more tender. He followed Godelieve down the corridor and up the stairs as she made her way to her room. He delayed his goodnight and took her hands, pressing his face against hers. He recalled their past: Godelieve
had fallen in love with him straight away, and he, basically, had never loved anyone but her. It was Fate that was to blame. But Fate had relented, had brought them back together. Should they fight against themselves now?
Godelieve, pure as she was, was not an innocent. She guessed, understood Joris’s tender entreaty, still quivering from his words, his caresses, his emotion, the fire in his expression, youthful once more. At the same time the great mystery, of which she was ignorant, filled her with alarm. Her voice changed as she asked, ‘What is missing from our happiness?’
Joris stammered a reply.
Godelieve murmured, ‘It would have been so good to continue as we are.’
Joris said, ‘Who will know?’
‘God will,’ Godelieve replied sharply.
As she spoke, she pulled away in consternation, suddenly recovering her old self. God! The word had rung out in her confusion, in her first steps towards defeat, like one single bell, all the more tragic for being one single peal. Her expression became solemn, was transfigured, lighting up the gloom. Certainty flooded her eyes like dawn breaking. She looked Joris straight in the face, serenely. She took his hands, with nothing sensual in the gesture now, as if they were just flowers she was taking. And she said, in a voice which sounded as if she were praying out loud:
‘Yes, we must belong to each other. But not like this. First we will go to the church. I feel that my love is so blameless that I want to take it to God, to have it blessed by God. God will marry us, if you’re willing. Tomorrow evening, in the parish church?
After that I will no longer be myself … I will be yours … I will be your wife .
The following day, towards six o’clock, Godelieve made her way to St Saviour’s Cathedral. Joris had expressed a preference for that church, thinking it more beautiful and wanting their love to be surrounded by beauty. She entered by a side door and went to wait for him, as agreed, in one of the chapels in the apse. She was afraid, though without knowing why. Who could have guessed? Who would have suspected if they saw them together? Was she not his sister-in-law, was it not perfectly normal for them to go out together, to enter a church and pray for a while? Nevertheless, it was with slight apprehension that she had scanned the few people scattered round the naves. They were women of the people, humble servants of God, almost entombed in their vast cloaks, whose hoods open out in the shape of a stoup for holy water. They merged more and more with the incipient darkness. Only the windows were still radiant. The rosettes formed a wheel. They
were blue peacocks, rigid with pride. Immense silence. All that could be heard was the sputter of a few candles, the intermittent crack of the wood of the confessionals or the stalls, the vague respiration of sleeping objects. The blazing colours on the walls and columns faded. A veil of invisible black crepe descended over everything. There was a smell of musty incense, of mouldering glory, of the dust of centuries. The faces on the old pictures were dying, recalling the bones in the reliquaries.
Godelieve waited in a mixture of agitation and melancholy. She knelt on a chair, wrapped herself in the sign of the cross and looked through her prayer book for the marriage service. When she found it, she crossed herself once more and started to read the introit, her eyes fixed on the page, reading out the words with slow movements of her lips to avoid any distraction that would have been a sacrilege. Despite that, she had difficulty following the text. She felt uneasy and disturbed, standing up all the time and looking round, even to the farthest parts of the church, at the slightest noise echoing on the stone floors of the aisles.
Then she put her hands together and, her eyes on the altar, directed a fervent prayer at the Paschal Lamb, all in gold and bearing a cross, that is depicted on the swivel door of the tabernacle. ‘O my Lord, tell me that it does not offend you and that you forgive me. I have suffered so much, Lord. And you have not forbidden us to love. He is the one I love, have always loved, the one to whom I have always been engaged. He is the one I have chosen before you, Lord, for my only and eternal husband.
Even if he is not my husband in the eyes of men, he will be my husband before you. O my Lord, tell me that you forgive me, tell me that I have your blessing. Tell me that you will unite us, O
my Lord, that you will marry us when you hear my vow and his…’
Abruptly she turned round. She could hear steps coming towards her. Someone was approaching through the accumulated darkness and it must be Joris. She could see him with her soul’s eyes. She shivered and felt that she had gone very pale. Her blood, abandoning her face, surged into her heart in a hot, red flood.
She felt a warmth in her breast, a brief touch like a caress of happiness, a rose suddenly opening, making it Maytime in her heart.
The human shadow grew, entered the ambulatory and was soon behind her, very quietly murmuring, ‘Godelieve,’ over her shoulder.
‘Is that you, Joris?’ she said, still a little anxious, a little uncertain of her happiness.
Then she pointed to a chair she had put next to hers and, without looking at him, without saying anything, opened her prayer book and went back to reading the marriage service.
Joris looked at her, captivated by the angelic mysticism with which she was carried away, transfiguring the impending sin. She
was laying her soul bare before God, without remorse, with joy and certainty, as if she had seen Him giving His assent and His blessing from the depths of His mysterious paradise. For her it was not mere pretence, a way of deluding herself, of granting herself absolution. She was celebrating her true marriage.
Perhaps she was right from the perspective of eternity. Joris was overcome with great joy. He was moved to see that she had taken care to be well dressed, had fastened on secret jewels, a luxurious display hidden beneath her long coat, but that she would doubtless reveal to him when they returned home.
The Bells of Bruges Page 14
