Fantastic Metropolis

The Abbess gives Sister Sebastienne a lesson. The sister reminds her that they last read Phyllis and says she therefore will read Briseis. “No, not Briseis,” the Abbess says sharply. Sister Sebastienne catches her breath in amazement. The Abbess is almost never cross. And Briseis is next. “Discedens oscula nulla dedi,” the Abbess quotes in a tone of voice too grating to be recognizable as hers. Sister Sebastienne recalls that when as a girl the Abbess studied with the Master, he required her to recite every text she studied from memory. “It is an inferior dialogue,” the Abbess says. “Unworthy of Ovid, in my judgment. We won’t waste our time on it.”

Unworthy of Ovid! It would be improper for Sister Sebastienne to question the Abbess. But never has the Abbess said such a thing about any text in the house’s possession. “Phaedra, then? ” Sister Sebastienne asks.

“Quam nisi tu dederis,” the Abbess says, gesturing the sister to continue.

Phaedra is the sister’s favorite text, the text that will lie burning beneath the words of her carmen to Laudri. Yes, yes: What modesty forbade me to say, love has commanded me to write.

12.

They celebrate the special Mass after Terce on Christmas, all of them not only seeing God as they do every morning at mass, but eating Him, too. They celebrate the feast of St. Stephen on the day following, then finally, finally, they celebrate Epiphany, feasting on meat as they rarely do and growing giddy and merry drinking wine. The novices and boarders perform a mystery play. Most of the house’s inmates dance in a chain around the periphery of the refectory. The sound of frank laughter, lilting voices, clapping hands fills the room.

But they don’t neglect to perform the Offices—perfectly, as they must.

They go to bed as usual after Compline. Sister Adele puffs more violently than usual, fueled by meat and wine—making other sisters wakeful and needing the privy. Sister Sebastienne tries to ignore the fullness of her bladder, hoping to wait—as she usually does in winter—to void it after Matins. Her head is reeling; her pulse is racing. Since her thoughts are too jumbled to make poetry, sleep is what she most desires. But as the others gradually drop off—and more of them begin to snore than just Sister Adele, for instance Sister Stephanie, at a pitch and rhythm completely dissonant with Sister Adele’s more modest production—her mind remains stubbornly stimulated and the physical discomfort becomes impossible to ignore. Sister Sebastienne has no choice but to leave her warm bed and face the clammy cold and descend the rickety stairs to the privy.

She rushes through the cloister, which, in the thick, winter fog is impenetrably dark. The only trace of light is the faint glow that strikes the Oratory’s few panes of stained glass from whatever candles may be lit within. The seat of the privy feels even colder on the bare skin of her buttocks than the open air of the cloisters on her face; but of course it is not so cold yet to make resort to a chamber pot necessary (chamber pots being a luxury restricted to the ill in all but the bitterest of seasons). Sometimes when returning from the privy, Sister Sebastienne pauses in the cloisters to look up at the stars. Not so this night, so overcast, so chilly, so moist. And yet something, some sound, perhaps, makes her stop. For several seconds she stands motionless, holding her breath. Then yes, a noise comes to her borne on the dense, damp air. Cries, perhaps, or whispers, or maybe even murmuring…

Sister Sebastienne thinks of the Abbess, often praying long into the night, on her knees in the Oratory.

What she hears does not sound like praying.

Sister Sebastienne hesitates until a great cry, something between a sigh and a scream, penetrates the fog. The sister must know, she must know, she must know if it is the Abbess…grieving secretly.

Seeming so radiant and happy, when all along she is mourning in secret…