Richelieu.
Mass of the Beheading of Saint John the Baptist, and of
Saint Sabina, Martyr.
Père Marriott honors Saint Sabina’s martyrdom just before the Epistle and Sister Sabine flushes pink, and just after giving her Holy Communion, the priest rests his hand on the milkmaid’s head and murmurs, “ Bon anniversaire .” At the noontime meal Sister Sabine is invited to sit next to the mistress of novices, and she beams as her sister externs present her with husking gloves in honor of her saint, but then blushes hotly when Mother Saint-Raphaël asks her to tell them about Saint Sabina, and only slightly rises to announce, “She was persecuted by Herod.”
“Emperor Hadrian,” Mother Saint-Raphaël says.
“Excuse me, Mother. Yes.”
Mother Saint-Raphaël asks, “Was she a virgin?”
Sister Sabine seems dismayed.
“She was not,” Mother Saint-Raphaël says. She turns to the sisters. “She was martyred in Rome in the second century. And she may have been with child.”
“Oh dear,” Sister Monique says.
Sister Sabine says desperately, “She’s told me often in prayer that I do her proud.”
Mother Saint-Raphaël smiles and pats her hand.
Alkali water and powdered sodium carbonate are slopped across the kitchen flooring, and a scullery brush that’s hard as a horse comb scrubs lard and grease and hard clear stains from the dark brown planks.
Sister Zélie is on all fours with the new postulant when she notices that the harsh ripsaw noise of Mariette’s own hard scouring has ceased. She looks to her left and sees the shut-eyed girl kneeling upright on her fingertips and softly praying into the room’s emptiness. Sister Zélie watches until Mariette pauses and raises her knees to release her hands and goes back to her work again.
Sister Saint-Léon walks in with dishes and an iron saucepan of knives and walks out again. The extern knocks the floor with the wooden handle of her scrub brush and Mariette looks up. Sister Zélie signs, Why, under, knees, hands?
So, not, sin, against, purity .
You, always, pray, so?
The pretty girl hesitates and shows her agreement. Since, was, child .
Sister Zélie signs, Easy, purity, here . She grins. Too tired .
September. Mass of Saint Serapia, Virgin, Martyr.
The skies haze with heat and Mariette and Sister Marie-Madeleine are backing along a green hayfield, snagging down the high grass with dull scythes. Sweat rises on their hands like pinheads. A hide of chaff and dust finds the wetness in their habits. And in the turbulence of hot and brutal effort, Sister Marie-Madeleine huffs and shrieks like a mother in labor pains. And then Sister Marie-Madeleine turns and puts down her scythe as if she’s just been called. Mariette stalls in her work and watches as Sister Marie-Madeleine hurries to Mother Céline, half an acre away. She jealously sees them talk, and then sees Sister Marie-Madeleine shroud her face in her hands. She keens and jerks with sobs. Mother Céline holds the nun in her arms and Mariette looks away.
Within a few minutes, Sister Marie-Madeleine is beside Mariette in the green hayfield again.
“Your father?” Mariette asks, and immediately hates her thoughtlessness and childish curiosity.
Sister Marie-Madeleine says, “She recited to me from the psalms. ‘Although they go forth weeping, carrying the seed to be sown, they shall come back rejoicing, carrying their sheaves.’” And then Sister Marie-Madeleine goes back to work, attacking the high grass with her scythe.
Compline. Sister Emmanuelle retreats a half-step in her stall so she can peer behind Sister Antoinette and discreetly adore the new postulant in her simple night-black habit and scarf. She’s as soft and kind as silk. She’s as pretty as affection. Even now, so soon, she prays the psalms distinctly, as if the habit of silence has taught her to cherish speech. And she seems so shrewd, so pure, so prescient. Sister Emmanuelle thinks, She is who I was
Mass of the Beheading of Saint John the Baptist, and of
Saint Sabina, Martyr.
Père Marriott honors Saint Sabina’s martyrdom just before the Epistle and Sister Sabine flushes pink, and just after giving her Holy Communion, the priest rests his hand on the milkmaid’s head and murmurs, “ Bon anniversaire .” At the noontime meal Sister Sabine is invited to sit next to the mistress of novices, and she beams as her sister externs present her with husking gloves in honor of her saint, but then blushes hotly when Mother Saint-Raphaël asks her to tell them about Saint Sabina, and only slightly rises to announce, “She was persecuted by Herod.”
“Emperor Hadrian,” Mother Saint-Raphaël says.
“Excuse me, Mother. Yes.”
Mother Saint-Raphaël asks, “Was she a virgin?”
Sister Sabine seems dismayed.
“She was not,” Mother Saint-Raphaël says. She turns to the sisters. “She was martyred in Rome in the second century. And she may have been with child.”
“Oh dear,” Sister Monique says.
Sister Sabine says desperately, “She’s told me often in prayer that I do her proud.”
Mother Saint-Raphaël smiles and pats her hand.
Alkali water and powdered sodium carbonate are slopped across the kitchen flooring, and a scullery brush that’s hard as a horse comb scrubs lard and grease and hard clear stains from the dark brown planks.
Sister Zélie is on all fours with the new postulant when she notices that the harsh ripsaw noise of Mariette’s own hard scouring has ceased. She looks to her left and sees the shut-eyed girl kneeling upright on her fingertips and softly praying into the room’s emptiness. Sister Zélie watches until Mariette pauses and raises her knees to release her hands and goes back to her work again.
Sister Saint-Léon walks in with dishes and an iron saucepan of knives and walks out again. The extern knocks the floor with the wooden handle of her scrub brush and Mariette looks up. Sister Zélie signs, Why, under, knees, hands?
So, not, sin, against, purity .
You, always, pray, so?
The pretty girl hesitates and shows her agreement. Since, was, child .
Sister Zélie signs, Easy, purity, here . She grins. Too tired .
September. Mass of Saint Serapia, Virgin, Martyr.
The skies haze with heat and Mariette and Sister Marie-Madeleine are backing along a green hayfield, snagging down the high grass with dull scythes. Sweat rises on their hands like pinheads. A hide of chaff and dust finds the wetness in their habits. And in the turbulence of hot and brutal effort, Sister Marie-Madeleine huffs and shrieks like a mother in labor pains. And then Sister Marie-Madeleine turns and puts down her scythe as if she’s just been called. Mariette stalls in her work and watches as Sister Marie-Madeleine hurries to Mother Céline, half an acre away. She jealously sees them talk, and then sees Sister Marie-Madeleine shroud her face in her hands. She keens and jerks with sobs. Mother Céline holds the nun in her arms and Mariette looks away.
Within a few minutes, Sister Marie-Madeleine is beside Mariette in the green hayfield again.
“Your father?” Mariette asks, and immediately hates her thoughtlessness and childish curiosity.
Sister Marie-Madeleine says, “She recited to me from the psalms. ‘Although they go forth weeping, carrying the seed to be sown, they shall come back rejoicing, carrying their sheaves.’” And then Sister Marie-Madeleine goes back to work, attacking the high grass with her scythe.
Compline. Sister Emmanuelle retreats a half-step in her stall so she can peer behind Sister Antoinette and discreetly adore the new postulant in her simple night-black habit and scarf. She’s as soft and kind as silk. She’s as pretty as affection. Even now, so soon, she prays the psalms distinctly, as if the habit of silence has taught her to cherish speech. And she seems so shrewd, so pure, so prescient. Sister Emmanuelle thinks, She is who I was
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