Ophelia: Chapter 39-Epilogue

“But I see one vital difference. Here there are no men to vie for your love. You worship only Christ, and he bestows his love equally. At a prince’s court, no woman would share her lover, nor would a man share his mistress.”

“But this bishop serves Count Durufle, who is our convent’s chief patron and a morally scrupulous man.”

“At least Durufle and the bishop are seldom seen among us. But the count has appointed his nephew, a surly and discourteous youth, to be our steward. He oversees the servants and the convent's business, though he has no ability for the work. Last week Marguerite called him a fool to his face!”

“No; I am more unkind than you know. I am jealous of Marguerite’s beauty and her favor with Mother. I boil with impatience at Angelina’s slowness and I blame her when we must fast and eat nothing but stale bread. Sometimes I steal sugar from the larder!”

Instead I give her something paltry and useless: a verb to conjugate.

December bolds us all in its thrall; not even the fires in the stoves and grates can loosen its icy grip.

I rub my hands together for the feeble warmth as I pass by the door of the refectory, where the nuns eat in silence, their heads bent in a row over their food.

Spoons scrape dully on the wooden trenchers.

The voice of Mother Ermentrude rises and falls as she reads aloud. “Let us partake with temperance and sober piety and due thanksgiving, only food that is proper and nourishing. Remember that Christ’s body was broken and that bread and water are here broken to be taken into our bodies. So in the Eucharist does Christ’s body nourish us.”

“Obey the Lord and his laws, and the prioress and her rule, and your every need will be fulfilled, your every fear assuaged,” Mother Ermentrude’s voice intones.

There is no guile in her replies, only sincerity and truth.

The Rule calls the nuns to test the supplicant’s spirit, to see if it comes from God.

Let them question or reprove me.

“God’s will! How do you know God’s will? Does he speak to you about me, and not deign to answer my prayers?”

“Is it not true,” I say, “that the nuns are loath to allow the village doctor to examine them when they are ill?”

But Sister Lucia, an elderly, corpulent nun, is less trusting than the others.

“All right, for the sight of my blood does make me swoon. But surely you will look at my water.”

Salts, dissolved in hot water, draw the suppurations from boils.

The nuns sigh with contentment as they do when their bellies are full of wholesome food and their souls sated with prayer.

Today as we labor in the cold sunshine, Therese pulls her threadbare cloak tight about her thin body.

"Last night a great wind blew, and I awoke to see a seraph above me,” she says, looking toward heaven at the memory.

Surely her hair beneath her wimple is as yellow as the marguerite’s petals.

“Agnes took her vows at Pentecost, and seemed a veritable angel as she sang in the choir. But she deceived us. By the Feast of All Saints, she was heavy with child.”

Lent is the season of penitence, the time of grief one must undergo before the joy of Easter comes.

“She wants to die. What madness holds her in its thrall? What grief moves her to want to end her life?” I entreat Mother Ermentrude.

When Father Alphonse sees me, he reddens to the very roots of his sparse tonsure.

He threatens to withdraw his patronage and force its doors to close.

The paneling that surrounds me is carved with figures of angels and the apostles.

His black eyes accost me as if I am the devil made flesh.

He stamps his foot for emphasis, then adds in a low and oily voice, "This foul business impugns my family’s good name. I tell you, it bodes ill for this convent.”

He stamps his foot for emphasis, then adds in a low and oily voice, "This foul business impugns my family’s good name. I tell you, it bodes ill for this convent.”

Mother comes to my side, and her strong arms keep me from falling prostrate.

The yellow daffadowndillies have burst into bloom, and the tiny cupped flowers of crocuses are spreading their pied blankets of white and purple.

Tomorrow is the feast of Christ’s resurrection, and while the nuns attend the Easter Vigil service in the chapel, I keep my own vigil at Therese’s bedside.

Now the precise outlines of her skull show through the skin of her face, presaging death.

Then I hear a rising cadence of joy that makes the benches, walls, and windows seem to tremble.

The congregation gasps, as if an unseen bellows were blowing the very breath of life into them.

Angelina asks, her voice inflected with hope.

“Jesus, come to me,” she says, her voice weak and plaintive.

Already the nuns are saying that a miracle was manifested in Therese’s death.

“Pray do not mock me, Ophelia,” says Marguerite, with a semblance of her former haughty manner toward me.

“My purpose is to write the life of Therese, and you are distracting me from it,” she says, sounding officious.

One day I hope to write a compendium of all my cures, including those Elnora taught me. It will include an essay on how the mind can assist—or resist—the body’s health.

Abashed at my appearance, I quickly unbind my skirts so they fold about my legs, hiding my muddy feet.

“Poor Cristiana, to lose her love, though he was unworthy,” I say, surprised that I feel pity for my erstwhile enemy.