Three Women in a Mirror (19 page)

Ida, on the other hand, could not hide the hostility she felt toward the woman whom the people of Bruges viewed as God's elect; her rage reached a fever pitch, and her mother was obliged to send her to stay with her grandmother in Saint-André.

The weeks that followed amplified and enhanced Anne's reputation. Why? The wolf had left off his pillaging. Initially it was thought he had moved on because of the battue; however, after three lambs were stolen, and ten hens were reported missing, and once the locals had set aside the theory that riffraff were using the pretext of the wolf in order to shamelessly commit banditry, they concluded that the awful animal must still be marauding in the vicinity. However, it was no longer attacking the peasants.

Rubben added to his marvelous story: Anne had convinced the wolf to refrain from attacking humans. The young lad's theory was more intuitive than playful. He did not realize how close to the truth he was, and he made things up in order to please, to add a sheen to a lovely fable.

As Anne had not contradicted him, for good reason, the legend spread rapidly, from market stall to merchant's store, from slum to palace, from embroiderer to duchess, from local barge to foreign ship. As the town traded with the entire world, Flemish wool merchants spoke of it to English drapers, who repeated it to sheep farmers on the other side of the Channel; pepper and spice merchants carried the news with them to the Orient, and Portuguese sailors to Mediterranean kingdoms—not to mention the French who ruled the town or the Germans who came there for provisions.

Anne was now one of Bruges's attractions, just like the belfry.

This sudden, fleeting glory, which she felt she did not deserve, was repulsive to her. They had appropriated her exploit, the way an aggressor tears the clothing from his victim, asking neither her opinion nor her consent. And in her opinion this notoriety was nothing more than a violation; not only was she being stripped of her story, but they were pillaging her most intimate self, her intentions, the essence of her spirit.

A sound came from below, an iron hand pounding on the door.

Anne decided not to answer.

The knocking continued.

Anne closed her eyes, sure that by lowering her eyelids she could block her ears.

“Anne? Goodwife Godeliève?”

She recognized Braindor's voice. She hurried down the stairs and opened the door to the monk.

“At last!” she cried.

With his hood over on his head, and his coat shabbier than ever, the huge man came into the tiny house.

He sat down heavily by the fireplace. His bags settled on the tiles. He rubbed his swollen ankles. In spite of his youth, his size, and his brute force, he seemed consumed by fatigue.

After a few sighs he removed his hood, and his hair lit up the room. He smiled. Reassured by his presence, Anne admired the clear lines of his strong nose, sharp as an idea that is soberly expressed.

“Well, my little Anne, your reputation reached me some hundred leagues from here. Now everyone thinks what I was the first to think. I am very happy for you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That God has chosen you. That God is expressing himself through you. Without a doubt, you are a chosen one.”

She leapt up, went closer, threatening.

“Oh, not you as well! I was not thinking of God when I went to meet the wolf. Any more than when I fled my engagement to Philippe. God has nothing to do with this. God did not say anything to me. Zounds, I do believe in God, I venerate Him, I pray to Him, yet I doubt that I love him. And I am certain that when I read the Bible, He does not influence me.”

She told him indignantly of the disastrous impression the book had left on her. She had never seen so many massacres, so much sin and injustice, all through the fault of men, of course, but the fault of God, too, who took his revenge like a primitive brute, demanding insane sacrifices—the son of Abraham, torturing Job the Righteous for no reason; in short, behaving as a tyrant, a capricious monarch who showed no more sangfroid or discernment than a highwayman.

“In my opinion, God should be above such pettiness. God should not reveal His power but His forgiveness. God should not inspire obedience but worship.”

Braindor picked her up in his arms.

“Wonderful . . . you have begun to pour the gold of your heart into the mold of words.”

She pulled away from his embrace, not that she feared its force—on the contrary, she rather liked it—but because he was stubbornly refusing to understand her.

“Braindor, listen to me! I am neither a miraculous survivor nor a saint. I merely made the appropriate movements, so the wolf respected me. If he is no longer eating humans, it is because I showed him the traps and was able to dissuade him from approaching the farms.”

“You simply have a way with animals, is that it?”

“I know how to speak to them.”

“And what are animals? God's creatures. So you know how to speak to God's creatures.”

Dismayed, she left off arguing with him. She was enchanted that Braindor viewed animals as creatures of God that were equal to men, and this brought her back to the feeling that impelled her to respect all beings, to cherish life in all its forms. Is that what was called “the love of God?”

Braindor continued, while he was ahead: “Do you know St. Francis of Assisi?”

She grew wary.

“No, and I don't want to know him.”

“And yet he wrote—”

“I haven't finished the Bible.”

Although he was a Dominican, Braindor nurtured a passion for the patron of the Franciscans, a nobleman who had placed poverty and charity at the heart of faith.

“You are right, Anne. Concentrate therefore on the New Testament. In my opinion, Jesus has a great deal to teach you.”

Obstinate, Anne felt like telling him that she doubted it; but she knew it was not something you could say, above all to a man of the church. What a farce! In her mind, she was constantly blaspheming, but the monk, the priests, and the good people of Bruges took her for an outstanding Christian.

“Braindor, I simply behaved naturally, I never imagined what you might conclude from my gestures.”

“Christ, too, behaved naturally, in keeping with his heart, and his teachings still nourish people's minds and spirits today, and shall do so for centuries to come.”

“You are mistaken: you exaggerate my intelligence. I am not important.”

“I do not know if you are important; I know that important things are occurring through you.”

Intrigued yet again, she did not object to that point. When she obeyed her instinct, when she ran away to the woods or went off to speak with the wolf, she was obeying something greater and stronger than herself. But what? Who?

“Why won't you admit that it is God?” whispered Braindor, as if he could read her thoughts.

Anne looked down. It was not that clear. Yes, she believed in God; yes, she thought that God had created everything; yes, she imagined His presence in the world. And yet, if you saw him everywhere, you no longer saw him anywhere, did you?

Demoralized, she gave a sigh.

“What is God, Braindor?”

“It is that which inspires us to do good. The devil is that which causes us to do evil.”

She let her gaze wander to the ashes in the fireplace. If she listened to the monk, she would come round to his way of thinking, she could tell.

He went closer, gently.

“Is it not God who advises you? Do you not think that through your mission to the wolf, you have accomplished good?”

She was obliged to concede that point. He went on: “Simple people imagine that God is watching us and is constantly interfering with our lives. A nice formula, to be sure, but very naïve. I have not seen evidence of God's presence in earthly undertakings, either to stay an assassin's dagger, or to decide on a victory in battle, or to cure an epidemic of the plague, or to reward virtue, or to punish a scoundrel in this life. Neither our misfortunes nor our pleasures are the result of His will. If we stubbornly went on claiming that this was so, we would have to conclude that God has terrible eyesight and that his judgment is impaired.”

“So he does not get involved?”

“No. He acts through us, through mankind. He enlightens us, encourages us, He makes us generous or stubborn. As soon as we understand this, we realize that it is our responsibility to make Him exist, here and now, on this earth.”

“On this earth, not in heaven?”

He nodded gravely.

“God is in our hands.”

Anne found a place to lean against the wall and took a deep breath.

“So, are they right, the people of this place who consider me to be God's special servant? Do they see more clearly what is happening to me than I do myself?”

“The vase in which we place our flowers does not see what the bouquet looks like.”

Anne shuddered. She hated that sort of image, first of all because it intimidated her, then because she never knew what to reply. Still trying to resist, she rejected the flamboyant title of “guide” that Braindor had granted her, and preferred to see herself as a victim.

Why must others always steal her thoughts and actions? Would they stop searching for a second meaning to her words, her acts, her silence? They kept at it, absurdly, inventing meaning. Outrageously, they portrayed her as more significant than she was.

“Braindor, why can't people just leave me alone? And why can I not be content just to live?”

April 7, 1906

 

My dear Gretchen,
Thank you for your letter. Your affectionate compassion has given me a bit of strength.

And yet there's no lack of compassion here; I receive several daily doses because people have been flocking to the house to assure Franz and me of their sympathy. These condolences, however, are too embroidered with misunderstanding to bring me any sort of comfort: not only do my visitors not know that I had no child in my womb, but I suspect them of showing up more out of curiosity than pity. They want to see what an affluent young couple looks like in the face of tragedy. The ladies ascertain that I am devastated, that Franz is dispirited, and that my parents-in-law have preserved their dignity; as for the gentlemen, they try to motivate us by speaking of the future, rattling on with ribald remarks. These are the people who surround me, Gretchen—I have a choice between vipers and roughnecks. So your kind letter, which pities me without judging me, went straight to my heart.

I cannot forgive myself for this phantom pregnancy. Although in all good faith I believed I was pregnant, and that I was misled before I went on to mislead my family, I am nevertheless the one who played such a trick.

Who is this “I”? If I am only my consciousness, then I am innocent, because I sincerely believed in my pregnancy. If I am the body that manufactured the phantom, then it is my body that is behind the subterfuge. But how can one separate one's body and one's consciousness to such a degree? Can one state, “My body is at fault, not me?” It is too easy to dissociate the two. What informed my womb of my aspirations if it were not a part of my soul? Body and consciousness do not remain impermeable, the physical container cannot be reduced to an impersonal hired carriage into which an intellect climbs at random. Thus I suspect that there is an indistinct place, half-body, half-thought, where flesh and mind are mingled, a place where the greatest decisions are made, where one's true “I” is located. In this place my imagination, unbeknownst to my own watchfulness, whispered one day to my womb that I ardently hoped to fall pregnant, and my loins complied.

If this is so, then I am responsible. And culpable. Yes, dear Gretchen, in spite of your words, which cleanse and acquit me, I see myself not as angelic, but rather as blameworthy. My indictment will depend on what is meant by “I.”

I have gone back to my collection.

All my mornings are devoted to my sulfides and my millefiori. The moments I spend with my beloved crystals are joyful, carefree, and exceptional. These cherubs know nothing of my misfortune; they are pure, they cannot rot, they have no record of my recent sorrows; they live in another space, in a different time, a world of immortal flowers and prairies that are always green.

When I stare at a brilliant daisy in its bubble of glass, I imagine myself going to it, leaving this uncertain world behind. Sometimes I have the illusion that I do reach it, I become so enchanted with a color or a reflection that I am indifferent to everything except variations in the light. I cannot help but think that a truth is being brought to me there in the depths of my sulfides, a message that I shall eventually receive. A message that will fulfill me and sweep away all my questioning. A message that will be the end of a quest.

One day I was at an antique shop, bent over an extraordinary millefiori, a fruit millefiori where lemons, oranges, bananas, cherries, dates, apples, and pears were all clustered together, displayed like colorful candies to leave one watering at the mouth until the end of time, when suddenly a voice said to me, “I will give it to you.”

Franz had been spying on me. For half an hour, the sight of my euphoria had been filling him with tenderness, and now that he had come up to me he was even more amused by my stunned expression. Although he offered twice to buy it for me, I did not budge; my eyes were open wide and my throat was burning. I was furious. And yet I wanted to hide my anger: an impression of stupidity was preferable to nastiness. What business was this of his? To give me a millefiori? And in particular this fruit millefiori, this gorgeous rare piece that in my mind I already possessed? Who did he think he was? What business did he have coming between me and my sulfides? It was no concern of his. I was free. I had the means to acquire the treasures of my passion. What did he want? For me to pick up the globe at home and say over and over, “Franz gave this to me.” Unfortunate wretch! How naïve . . . I never thought about him when I gazed at my displays. Ever. And if he left fingerprints on them when he fiddled with them, I wiped them off. And if his purpose now was to set himself up as a magnanimous donor to my collection, I would refuse. He would not come between me and my paperweights.