Women in the Wall (14 page)

“It stimulates religious feeling, my lord.”

“A rapacious religion, but I suppose that’s something. I suppose so. Her other fancies too. They delight the people. She has her uses. Maybe they’ll make her a saint, make Gregory a saint, make her abbess and that poet of hers a saint. Maybe you and I will be the only anonymous forgotten ones—or reviled ones if Gregory puts us into his history. Our taste will have been too good. We will have refused to enter their circus where one may perform miracles or—since miracles must surely be rare—tricks. Mind you, the circus is a dangerous place: challenging. People have mislaid their minds there, come out mad, demonic, sick and/or sainted. But at its best it lacks taste. And Christianity has another side.”

“But is first of all an institution?”

“And an institution needs support, you are going to say, Florius? Needs the crowd and to get the crowd what must one do? Join the circus. Put on my best vestments and receive Radegunda’s procession with appropriate pomp?”

“I didn’t say it, my lord.”

“No. I did. I said it myself. I am a churchman. I should not let personal distaste for her sort of piety get in the way of my duty, should I, Florius?”

“No, my lord.”

“But neither should I allow my authority to be flouted?”

“No, my lord.”

“No, and as there seems to be a clash of principles here, it would seem that I
can
take my choice. I can see that the Radegundas and Gregories are going to have things their own flamboyant way for a while. Discipline and order are ghosts. Even memory is dying, do you realize that? Do you realize that the younger generation, your
generation
, hardly reads? Can’t read, is illiterate. It is an odd feeling to be alive at a time like this, to watch the slow destruction of a whole mental universe and to be incapable of saving it. Oh, I suppose if
I
were writing history instead of poor, muddle-headed young Gregory with his dazzled eyes like a rabbit caught by a boy with a torch … but it’s too hopeless. Why try? I shall go into mourning for the passing of reason and drink a toast to the age of miracles which is upon us: the kingdom of the imagination. I drink. What else should I do? The imagination is the barbarian of the mind and, wed to the spiritual, can produce unhealthy offspring.”

“My lord, if I might voice …?”

“Voice, voice it whatever it is. It’ll be safer voiced than fermenting in your brain.”

“You said, my lord, that Radegunda was proud.”

“And I am proud too, is that it?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Yes. It’s true. I admit it. I am proud and I am not angry. Watch me, Florius. One of the last men of reason. What would a Frank do? What would the late King Clotair or the present King Chilperic have done if you were to turn his argument round and catch him in the net of his own garrulity?”

“Quite possibly kicked me.”

“Very possibly, Florius. It’s an aggravating trick. Yes, I’m proud, proud with the pride and lucidity of despair. Maybe Radegunda and I will burn in the same part of Purgatory, eh? The Purgatory of the proud. Not that I believe in Purgatory. It’s a concept, a symbol, a place of the mind. She believes in it as a place she can and will touch with her live flesh. Poor Radegunda: pursued by physical horrors! I am only pursued by mental ones. Who is happier? I am already in my purgatory, burning, Florius, burning. That’s why I drink. But I shan’t meet her procession. There’s a clash of principles, Florius, a clash. Maybe that’s for the good of the Church, what do you say to that, Florius?”

“The good, my lord? I don’t understand.”

“I’m not drunk, Florius. I was just thinking of clashes, you know, between my kind of Christianity and Radegunda’s and how clashes make sparks and sparks throw light. You have to have two sides so that they may clash and correct each other.
My
pride is humbled—a salutory experience—by having to deal with
miracle-mongers
and believers in a horned Satan who smells of shit—that
is
what they believe, you know. You haven’t been out among the people yet, Florius. You’ve been living in your father’s villa with your volumes of Euclid, your swans and partridges and your hot baths. A lost world. Living in the past. How many of your kind do you think exist today? You’ll learn—and maybe you’ll take a little comfort from this good Chian wine if they’re still importing it when your day of need comes. Do you know that in our own diocese within the last few years a man was sacrificed to the devil? That there have been scalpings … Maybe you’re right after all and Radegunda can
communicate
better with these people than I can. Maybe you’re right. But I shan’t meet her procession. She may learn something from my refusal. And the city gates shall not be opened.”

“My lord, she may call on the king.”

“She may. She will. Let her play her part. I’ll play mine. Good-night, Florius. I’m leaving for my estates in the morning.”

Maroveus struggled upstairs to his bedroom and the secretary called to a servant to put out the red terracotta oil-lamps which stood in every room in the church house, flickering in draughts, smoking and throwing twisty shadows some of which were not at all unlike Satanic horns.

Although
the
next
decades
were
to
be
bloody
ones
for
Poitiers
,
the
event
of
that
time
which
future
generations
would
commemorate
was
neither
a
siege
nor
the
lifting
of
one.
It
was
the
coming
of
the
True-Cross
fragment
from
Constantinople.

For
weeks
beforehand
rumours
,
omens
and
domestic
mishaps
kept
people
in
a
fever
which
spread
to
the
animal
and
even
the
spirit
world.
Cows
went
dry
,
hens
laid
monstro
sities
and
there
was
no
doubt
but
that
the
demon
population
of
the
town
was
in
a
state
of
malignant
terror.
Demons
were
even
seen
within
the
convent
walking,
in
the
shape
of
small
goats,
across
the
refectory
wall
,
but
when
the
blessed
Rade
gunda
raised
her
hand
to
sketch
the
sign
of
the
cross,
they
turned
into
smoke
and
evaporated.
She
was
acting
with
her
accustomed
tenacity
on
two
fronts.
On
hearing
that
Bishop
Maroveus
had
so
unaccountably
taken
to
horse
and
left
for
his
estate,
she
sent
word
to
the
bearers
of
the
Great
Relic
telling
them
to
turn
back.
She
did
not
want
to
welcome
the
cross
in
a
hugger-mugger
way
and
was
resolved
that
it
should
not
enter
Poitiers
until
another
bishop
had
been
found
to
receive
it.
Accordingly
,
she
prayed
,
kept
vigil
,
wept
and
wrote
letters
to
King
Sigibert.
While
awaiting
the
outcome
of
these
endeavours
,
she
advised
the
bearers
to
seek
hospitality
in
the
male
monastery
which
she
had
founded
years
before
on
a
visit
to
the
town
and
shrine
of
Tours.
The
monks
received
the
relic
with
joy,
proper
pomp
and
a
chanting
of
psalms
which
they
kept
up
for
the
whole
time
of
its
stay.
This
was
not
prolonged
,
for
Sigibert
acted
with
all
speed
in
persuading
Eufronius
,
bishop
of
Tours,
to
accompany
the
relic
to
Poitiers.
The
ceremony
devised
by
Radegunda
was
of
a
splendour
never
before
seen
in
Gaul
,
as
befitted
the
welcoming
of 
spiritual
riches
such
as
Gaul
had
never
seen.
The
Emperor
Justin
had
generously
added
several
lesser
relics
—
bones,
hair,
nail-parings
,
teeth
and
strips
of
the
dried
flesh
of
martyrs
and
apostles
—
from
his
personal
collection.
The
power
of
these
,
although
enclosed
in
an
iron-clad
box,
sent
tremors
of
violent
joy
and
terror
through
bystanders
and
even
penetrated
into
surrounding
houses,
where
many
sick
and
bedridden
people
were
afterwards
found
to
have
been
cured
of
their
maladies
and
haunted
or
uncanny
rooms
to
have
grown
salubrious.
The
box
was
borne
at
the
head
of
the
procession
by
the
clerics
who
had
brought
it
from
Constantino
ple
.
Behind
walked
local
priests,
chanting
and
carrying
a
great
profusion
of
lighted
tapers
whose
glow
seemed
to
pale
and
multiply
as
they
walked
through
open
spaces
,
then
to
blaze
like
knives
in
the
darker
gulleys
of
the
town.
Incense
was
burned
and
scents
scattered
whose
fumes
astonished
the
simple
citizenry
,
many
of
whom
had
to
climb
on
the
roofs
,
as
the
procession
itself
took
up
the
whole
width
of
the
streets
through
which
it
passed.
It
was
said
afterwards
that
several
people
had
fallen
and
been
found
miraculously
intact
and
other
wonders
too
were
witnessed,
although
,
no
doubt,
the
high
point
of
the
day
came
when
the
procession
reached
the
convent.
There,
on
the
walls
,
the
nuns
were
waiting
,
looking
,
in
their
white
,
fluttering
habits
,
like
doves
ready
to
fly
up
to
heaven.
The
iron
box
was
opened
and
the
relic
shown
in
its
naked
glory.
It
was
in
five
pieces
arranged
in
the
form
of
a
double-barred
cross
on
a
plaque
of
lapis
lazuli.
The
crowd
fell
to
its
knees
and,
as
it
did,
there
rose
,
first
gently,
then
booming
and
echoing
from
all
sides,
the
strong
strains
of
Fortunatus
’
s
new
,
now
famous
hymn
whose
martial
syllables
so
splendidly
celebrate
the
pain
,
power
and
paradox
of
the
cross
: