Heads to the storm v1 0, p.25
Heads to The Storm (v1.0), page 25
’For my Great Luke. He’s the master-hand of all Four when it comes to devils.’
‘No wonder. He was a physician. You’re not.’
‘Heaven forbid! But I’m weary of our Church-pattern devils. They’re only apes and goats and poultry conjoined. Good enough for plain red-and-black Hells and Judgement Days—but not for me.’
‘What makes you so choice in them?*
‘Because it stands to reason and Art that there are all musters of devils in Hell’s dealings. Those Seven, for example, that were haled out of the Magdalene. They’d be she-devils—no kin at all to the beaked and horned and bearded devils-general.’
The abbot laughed.
‘And see again! The devil that came out of the dumb man. What use is snout of bill to him? He’d be faceless as a leper. Above all—God send I live to do itl—the devils that entered the Gadarene swine. They’d be—they’d be—I know not yet what they’d be, but they’d be surpassing devils. I’d have ’em diverse as the Saints themselves. But now, they’re all one pattern, for wall, window, or picture-work.’
‘Go on, John. You’re deeper in this mystery than I.’
‘Heaven forbid! But I say there’s respect due to devils, damned tho’ they be.’
‘Dangerous doctrine.’
‘My meaning is that if the shape of anything be worth man’s thought to picture to man, it s worth his best thought.’ That’s safer. But I’m glad I’ve given you Absolution.’ There’s less risk for a craftsman who deals with the outside shapes of things—for Mother Church’s glory.’ ‘Maybe so, but, John’—the Abbot’s hand almost touched John’s sleeve—’tell me, now, is—is she Moorish or—or Hebrew?’
‘She’s mine,’ John returned.
’Is that enough?’
‘I have found it so. ’
‘Well—ah well! It’s out of my jurisdiction, but—how do they look at it down yonder?’
’Oh, they drive nothing to a head in Spain—neither Church nor King, bless them! There’s too many Moors and Jews to kill them all, and if they chased ’em away there’s be no trade nor farming. Trust me, in the Conquered Countries, from Seville to Granada, we live lovingly enough together—Spaniard, Moor, and Jew. Ye see, we ask no questions.’
‘Yes—yes,’ Stephen sighed. ‘And always there’s the hope she may be converted. ’
’Oh yes, there’s always hope.’
The Abbot went on into the hospital. It was an easy age before Rome tightened the screw as to clerical connections. If the lady were not too forward, or the son too much his father’s beneficiary in ecclesiastical preferments and levies, a good deal was overlooked. But, as the Abbot had reason to recall, unions between Christian and Infidel led to sorrow. None the less, when John with mule, mails, and man, clattered off down the lane for Southampton and die sea, Stephen envied him.
He was back, twenty months later, in good hard case, and loaded down with fairings. A lump of richest lazuli, a bar of orange-hearted vermilion, and a small packet of dried beetles which make most glorious scarlet, for the Sub-Cantor. Besides that, a few cubes of milky marble, with yet a pink flush in them, which could be slaked and ground down to incomparable background-stuff. There were quite half the drugs that the Abbot and Thomas had demanded, and there was a long deep-red cornelian necklace for the Abbots Lady—Anne of Norton. She received it graciously, and asked where John had come by it.
‘Near Granada,’ he said.
‘You left all well there?’ Anne asked. (Maybe the Abbot had told her something of John’s confession.)
‘I left all in the hands of Cod.’
‘Ah met How long since?’
’Four months less eleven days.’
‘Were you—with her?*
‘In my arms. Childbed.’
‘And?’
The boy too. There is nothing now.’
Anne of Norton caught her breath.
‘I think you’ll be glad of that,’ she said after a while. ‘Give me time, and maybe 111 compass it. But not now.’
*You have your handiwork and your art, and—John—remember there’s no jealousy in the grave.’
‘Ye-es! I have my Art, and Heaven knows I’m jealous of none.’
Thank God for that at least,’ said Anne of Norton, the always ailing woman who followed the Abbot with her sunk eyes. ‘And be sure I shall treasure this’—she touched the beads—’as long as I shall live.’
‘I brought—trusted—it to you for that,’ he replied, and took leave. When she told the Abbot how she had come by it, he said nothing, but as he and Thomas were storing the drugs that John handed over in the cell which backs on to the hospital-chimney, he observed, of a cake of dried poppy-juice: This has power to cut off all pain from a mans body.’
‘I have seen it,’ said John.
‘But for pain of the soul there is, outside God’s Grace, but one drug; and that is a man’s craft, learning, or other helpful motion of his own mind.’
That is coming to me, too,’ was the answer.
John spent the next fair May day out in the woods with the monastery swineherd and all the porkers; and returned loaded with flowers and sprays of spring, to his own carefully kept place in the north bay of the Scriptorium. There, with nis travelling sketchbooks under his left elbow, he sunk himself past all recollections in his Great Luke.
Brother Martin, Senior Copyist (who spoke about once a fortnight), ventured to ask, later, how the work was going.
‘All here!’ John tapped his forehead with his pencil. ‘It has been only waiting these months to—ah God!—be bom. Are ye free of your plain-copying, Martin?’
Brother Martin nodded. It was his pride that John of Burgos turned to him, in spite of his seventy years, for really good page-work.
Then seel’ John laid out a new vellum—thin but flawless. There’s no better than this sheet from here to Paris. Yes! Smell it if you choose. Wherefore—give me the compasses and I’ll set it out for you—if ye make one letter lighter or darker than its next, I’ll stick ye like a pig. ’
‘Never, John!’ The old man beamed happily.
‘But I will! Now, follow! Here and here, as I prick, and in script of just this height to the hair’s-breadth, ye’ll scribe the thirty-first and thirty-second verses of Eighth Luke.’
‘Yes, the Gadarene Swine! “And they besought him that he would not command them to go out into the abyss. And there was a herd of many swine”—Brother Martin naturally knew all the Gospels by heart.
‘Just so! Down to and he suffered them,” Take your time to it. My Magdalene has to come off my heart first.’
Brother Martin achieved the work so perfectly that John stole some soft sweetmeats from the Abbot’s kitchen for bis reward. The old man ate them; then repented; then confessed and insisted on penance. At which, the Abbot, knowing there was but one way to reach the real sinner, set him a book called De Virtutibus Herbarum to fair-copy
St Illod’s had borrowed it from the gloomy Cistercians, do not hold with pretty things, ana the crabbed text kept Martin busy just when John wanted him for some rather specially spaced letterings.
‘See now,’ said the Sub-Cantor improvingly. ‘You should not do such things, John. Here’s Brother Martin on penance for your sake—
‘No—tor my Great Luke. But I’ve paid the Abbot’s cook. I’ve drawn him till his own scullions cannot keep straight-faced. He’ll not tell again.’
’Unkindly done! And you’re out of favour with the Abbot too. He’s made no sign to you since you came back—never asked you to high table.’
‘I’ve been busy. Having eyes in his head, Stephen knew it. Clement, there’s no Librarian from Durham to Torre fit to clean up after you.’
The Sub-Cantor stood on guard; he knew where John’s compliments generally ended.
‘But outside the Scriptorium—’
‘Where I never go.’ The Sub-Cantor had been excused even digging in the garden, lest it should mar his wonderful bookbinding hands.
‘In all things outside the Scriptorium you are the masterfool of Christendie. Take it from me, Clement. I’ve met many.’
‘I take everything from you,’ Clement smiled benignly. ‘You use me worse than a singing-boy.”
They could hear one of that suffering breed in the cloister below, squalling as the Cantor pulled his hair.
‘God love you! So I do! But have you ever drought how I lie and steal daily on my travels—yes, and for aught you know, murder—to fetch you colours and earths?’
’True,’ said just and conscience-stricken Clement. ‘I have often thought that were I in the world—which God forbid!—I might be a strong thief in some matters.’
Even Brother Martin, bent above his loathed De Virtutibus, laughed.
* * * *
But about midsummer, Thomas the Infirmarian conveyed to John the Abbot’s invitation to supper in his house that night, with the request that he would bring with him anything that he had done for his Great Luke.
‘What’s toward?’ said John, who had been wholly shut up in his work.
’Only one of his “wisdom” dinners. You’ve sat at a few since you were a man.’
True: and mostly good. How would Stephen have us—?’
‘Gown and hood over all. There will be a doctor from Salerno—one Roger, an Italian. Wise and famous with the knife on the body. He’s been in the Infirmary some ten days, helping me—even me!’
‘Never heard the name. But our Stephen’s physicus before sacerdos, always.’
And his lady has a sickness of some time. Roger came hither in chief because of her.
‘Did he? Now I think of it, I have not seen the Lady Anne for a while.’
‘Ye’ve seen nothing for a long while. She has been housed near a month—they have to carry her abroad now.’
‘So bad as that, then?’
‘Roger of Salerno will not yet say what he thinks. But—’
‘God pity Stephen!…Who else at table, besides thee?’
‘An Oxford friar. Roger is his name also. A learned and famous philosopher. And he holds his liquor too, valiantly.’
“Three doctors—counting Stephen. I’ve always found that means two atheists.’
Thomas looked uneasily down his nose. That’s a wicked proverb,’ he stammered ‘You should not use it.’
‘Hoh! Never come you the monk over me, Thomas! You’ve been Infirmarian at St Illod’s eleven years—and a lay-brother still. Why have you never taken orders, all this while?’
‘I—1 am not worthy.’
Ten times worthier than that new fat swine—Henry Who’s-his-name—that takes the Infirmary Masses. He bullocks in with the Viaticum, under your nose, when a sick man’s only faint from being bled. So the man dies—of pure fear. Ye know itl I’ve watched your face at such times. Take Orders, Didymus. You’ll have a little more medicine and a little less Mass with your sick then; and they 11 live longer.’
‘I am unworthy—unworthy,’ Thomas repeated pitifully.
‘Not you—but—to your own master you stand or fall. And now that my work releases me for awhile, 111 drink with any philosopher out of any school. And, Thomas,’ he coaxed, ‘a hot bath for me in the Infirmary before vespers.’
When the Abbot’s perfectly cooked and served meal had ended, and the deep-fringed naperies were removed, and the Prior had sent in the keys with word that all was fast in the Monastery, and the keys had been duly returned with the word, ‘Make it so till Prime,’ the Abbot and his guests went out to cool themselves in an upper cloister that took them, by way of the leads, to the South Choir side of the Triforium. Tne summer sun was still strong, for it was barely six o’clock, but the Abbey Church, of course, lay in her wonted darkness. Lights were being lit for choir-practice thirty feet below.
’Our Cantor gives them no rest,’ the Abbot whispered. ‘Stand by this pillar and well hear what he’s driving them at now.’
‘Remember, all!’ the Cantor’s hard voice came up. This is the soul of Bernard himself, attacking our evil world. Take it quicker than yesterday, and throw all your words clean-bitten from you. In the loft there! Begin!
The organ broke out for an instant, alone and raging. Then the voices crashed together into that first fierce line of the ‘De Contemptu Mundi’*
*Hymn No. 226, A. and M., The world is very evil.’
‘Hora novissima—tempora pessima—a dead pause till the assenting sunt broke, like a sob, out of the darkness, and one boy's voice, clearer than silver trumpets, returned the longdrawn vigilemus.
’Ecce minaciter, imminet Arbiter (organ and voices were leashed together in terror and warning, breaking away liquidly to the ille supremus). Then the tone-colours shifted for the prelude to—Imminet, imminet, ut mala terminet—’ “Stop! Again!’ cried the Cantor; and gave his reasons a little more roundly than was natural at choir-practice.
‘Ah! Pity o’ man’s vanity! He’s guessed we are here. Come Away!’ said the Abbot. Anne of Norton, in her carried chair, had been listening too, further along the dark Triforium, with Roger of Salerno. John heard her sob. On the way back, he asked Thomas how her health stood. Before Thomas could reply the sharp-featured Italian doctor pushed between them. ’Following on our talk together, I Judged it best to tell her,’ said he to Thomas. ‘What?' John asked simply enough.
‘What she knew already,’ Roger of Salerno launched into a Greek quotation to the effect that every woman knows all about everything.
‘I have no Greek,’ said John stiffly. Roger of Salerno had been giving them a good deal of it, at dinner.
Then I’ll come to you in Latin. Ovid hath it neatly. “Utque malum late solet immedicabile cancer—’ but doubtless you know the rest, worthy Sir.’
‘Alas! My school-Latin’s but what I’ve gathered by the way from fools professing to heal sick women. “Hocus-pocus—” but doubtless you know the rest, worthy Sir.’ Roger of Salerno was quite quiet till they regained the dining-room, where the fire had been comforted and the dates, raisins, ginger, figs, and cinnamon-scented sweetmeats set out, with the choicer wines, on the after-table. The Abbot seated himself, drew off his ring, dropped it, that all might hear the tinkle, into an empty silver cup, stretched his feet towards the hearth, and looked at the great gilt and carved rose in the barrel-roof. The silence that keeps from Compline to Matins had closed on then-world. ‘Hie bull-necked Friar watched a ray of sunlight split itself into colours on the rim of a crystal salt-cellar; Roger of Salerno had reopened some discussion with Brother Thomas on a type of spotted fever that was baffling them both in England and abroad; John took note of the keen profile, and—it might serve as a note for the Great Luke—his hand moved to his bosom. The Abbot saw, and nodded permission. John whipped out silverpoint and sketchbook.
‘Nay—modesty is good enough—but deliver your own opinion,’ the Italian was urging the Infirmarian. Out of courtesy to the foreigner nearly all the talk was in table-Latin; more formal and more copious than monk’s patter. Thomas began with his meek stammer.
‘I confess myself at a loss for the cause of the fever unless—as Varro saith in his De Re Rustica—certain small animals which the eye cannot follow enter the body by the nose and mouth, and set up grave diseases. On the other hand, this is not in Scripture.
Roger of Salerno hunched head and shoulders like an angry cat. ‘Always that!' he said, and John snatched down the twist of the thin lips.
‘Never at rest, John.’ The Abbot smiled at the artist. ‘You should break off every two hours for prayers, as we do. St Benedict was no fool. Two hours is all that a man can-carry the edge of his eye or hand.’
’For copyists—yes. Brother Martin is not sure after one hour. But when a man’s work takes him, he must go on till it lets him go.’
‘Yes, that is the Demon of Socrates,’ the Friar from Oxford rumbled above his cup.
“The doctrine leans towards presumption,’ said the Abbot. ‘Remember, “Shall mortal man be more just than his Maker?” ’
There is no danger of justice’; the Friar spoke bitterly. ‘But at least Man might be suffered to go forward in his Art or his thought. Yet if Mother Church sees or hears him move anyward, what says she? “No!” Always “No.” ’
‘But if the little animals of Varro be invisible’—this was Roger of Salerno to Thomas—‘how are we any nearer to a cure?’
‘By experiment’—the Friar wheeled round on them suddenly. ‘By reason and experiment. The one is useless without the other. But Mother Church—’
‘Ay!’ Roger de Salerno dashed at the fresh bait like a pike. ‘Listen, Sirs. Her bishops—our Princes—strew our roads in Italy with carcasses that they make for their pleasure or wrath. Beautiful corpses! Yet if I—if we doctors—so much as raise the skin of one of them to look at God’s fabric beneath, what says Mother Church? “Sacrilege! Stick to your pigs and dogs, or you bum!” ’
‘And not Mother Church only!’ the Friar chimed in. ’Every way we are barred—barred by the words of some man, dead a thousand years, which are held final. Who is any son of Adam that his one say-so should close a door towards truth? I would not except even Peter Peregrinus, my own great teacher.’
‘Nor I Paul of Aegina,’ Roger of Salerno cried. ‘Listen, Sirs! Here is a case to the very point. Apuleius affirmeth, if a man eat fasting of the juice of the cut-leaved buttercup— sceleratus we call it, which means ‘rascally” ’—this with a condescending nod towards John—Tiis soul will leave his body laughing. Now this is the lie more dangerous than truth, since truth of a sort is in it.’
‘He’s away!’ whispered the Abbot despairingly.
’For the juice of that herb, I know by experiment, burns, blisters, and wries the mouth. I know also the rictus, or pseudo-laughter, on the face of such as have perished by the strong poisons of herbs allied to this ranunculus. Certainly that spasm resembles laughter. It seems then, in my judgement, that Apuleius, having seen die body of one thus poisoned, went off at score and wrote that the man died laughing.’
