The White Garden (14 page)

‘I think it might have stopped,’ Violetta said.

All my life I had gazed up at the mermaid clock with its blue and orange pictures, the fat faces of the cherubs, the scaly tails of the mermaids. I had listened as its lonely tick marked the heartbeat of the house.

‘Listen,’ Violetta said. ‘It isn’t ticking.’

Something awful had happened. There was nothing to be done. She climbed down from the chair and we tiptoed back to the garden where we sat on a rock and ate the cakes.

It was the ninth of April, the day of my entry, the happiest day
of my life. We had all gathered round the family table for the
last time on the day before. The room was filled with flowers,
and I saw in the eyes of my King great joy and pride and also a
deep sadness. The clock under the glass bell in the dining room
was ticking our poor earthly lives away, and I was beginning
on my greatest journey. The next morning I left, with scarcely
a glance at the house where I had spent so many happy years.

I heard Mass in the company of many members of my family
who were all sobbing at the thought that I was leaving them. I
shed no tears, but as I made my way to the door of the enclosure
which would take me forever, my heart beat so violently I
thought I was going to die. The agony of such a moment has to

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be experienced to be understood. I knelt before Papa to receive
his blessing, and he knelt also, and he wept. The doors of
Carmel closed behind me and I was embraced by a whole new
family whose love and tenderness can not be guessed at by the
outside world.

I swam in the sea with my sisters and the sea was as blue as the deep arched cloak of heaven, as blue as the wildest cornflower, as blue as light. With the fish we would glide between the branches of the underwater forests where the leaves sway gently with the motion of the water. Deep, deep in the deepest part of the deepest ocean we dwelt. In a place beyond darkness, a place of brilliant light. Our father’s palace was made from coral and amber and studded with pearls. The shipwrecks were our playground; the dolphins were our pets. Beware of lurking dangers in the deep. I swam in the sea with my sisters, our hair like foam, our tails shimmering with the rainbows inspired by petrol spilling on wet tar. Holding hands we would ride up, up on the rising, curling swell. All the waters of the world, all the perfumes of Arabia, all the stars of heaven.

We were a troupe, a team, a laughter, a tranquillity, a marvel of mermaids. And I swam in the sea with my sisters, and the sun shone all day long.

The little cell where I lived gave me a special pleasure, a
tranquil happiness where no cloud darkened my sky, where
not the slightest breeze ruffled the waters on which my little
boat was foaling. With profound joy I was able to say to myself,

‘Now I am here for good, forever.’ Although there were thorns
on my path, there were also roses. I suffered from grievous
spiritual dryness, and the Lord allowed the prioress to treat
me with a great harshness and severity. Once when I had
overlooked a cobweb in the cloister the prioress announced
in front of all the nuns: ‘It’s easy to see our cloister is swept
by a child of fifteen.’ Then she said to me: ‘Go and sweep the
cobweb away and be more careful in future.’ I could not see
how to correct my faults such as my slowness and my lack of
thoroughness. When I was a postulant the novice mistress sent
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me to weed the garden every afternoon at half-past four. On
the way I was certain to meet the prioress, and on one of these
encounters she said loudly. ‘This child does absolutely nothing.

What kind of novice is one who has to be sent for a stroll every
day?’

I now thank God for such firm and valuable training, a
priceless favour. For what should I have become if I had been
the pet of the community — as some people outside the convent
thought I truly was. My love of suffering grew steadily, but
nobody knew of it. This was the hidden flower I wanted to offer
to Jesus, the flower that breathes out its perfume only in the garden of heaven. I found it hard to express to my confessor, Father
Pinchon, how I felt. However, once, after I had made a general
confession, he said to me: ‘Before God, the Blessed Virgin, the
angels, and all the saints, I declare that you have never committed a single mortal sin; thank Our Lord for what he has freely
done for you without any merit on your part.’ Father Pinchon’s
assurance seemed to come from God Himself.

I have imagined the end of the world where the world is a garden full of tangled weeds, weeds as tall as mountains, as old as the hills, weeds as thick as the legs of elephants, as tough as thoughts. Slime slides down the stems of every evil plant; cobwebs lace the air, bind the leaves together in a dark, damp matting. Let there be darkness and there was darkness and the weeds grew and the darkness flourished and there was an odour of mushrooms and I was trapped in a smooth glass egg, batting around inside the slippery shell, peering out through moisture into the gloom. The end of the world never ends, this is life everlasting, and I am the only creature I can find among all this dripping forest. All colour has gone, gone in a gondola with the going light.

One of the old nuns seemed to understand what I was going
through, and at recreation one day she said to me: ‘It strikes
me, child, that you cannot have much to say to your superiors.

Your soul is very simple, but when you are perfect you will be

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more simple still. The nearer one gets to God, the simpler one
becomes.’

My mind sometimes flies back to my early days in the
convent when Papa used to embarrass me by sending gifts.

Wonderful baskets offish, apples, cherries, plums, pears, green
vegetables and wild bunches of flowers would appear as if from
nowhere. Of course they were to be shared out, but everyone
knew that my dear Papa was thinking of me alone. He once
sent a white sugar mouse, just like the one my aunt had given
me years before. It was as if he wanted to remind me that
I was the youngest, the baby, the little white mouse in his
life.

Yet I hope for colours and fruits and flowers, for sounds and laughter and music and words in golden letters on decorated pages. I hope and long for the perfume of roses and the juice of oranges. Blue bowls filled with pomegranates, figs. Pink glass dishes heaped with white marzipan mice glittering with sugar, sharp eyes, long tails, fine, fine whiskers. On deep red carpets I will lie, on silk velvet cushions I will read from embossed volumes of
The Imitation
brought to me on silver salvers by dark, mysterious servants.

I would walk along the corridors of the convent, where the walls
are white, and slowly read the texts written in bold letters on
the walls. Just to read and say softly aloud ‘The Bread of Life’

was enough; I could then put my feelings of embarrassment at
Papa’s love and attention out of my mind. I would walk along
the cinder paths of the convent, past the rose bushes and the
beds of geraniums, along the chestnut walk, and my heart
would rejoice within me.

I am the little flower at the door of the tabernacle. So small
was I when I made my First Confession that the priest could not
see me, and did not know, at first, that I was there.

I am the little flower at the door of the tabernacle, so very, very small, and strong as an eyelash. The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away, but I will not fall. I am the small
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eternal flame at the door of the tabernacle. My light is the light of lights, my sister, my spouse, my white sugar mouse. Mouse in the wainscot will not wither. I sat in the sun with my sister, with Rosie, my sister Rosie, and she brushed and brushed and brushed my hair until there appeared in the air around me a bright golden halo. Look, look, Rosie said, Therese has got a halo, I brushed her up and polished her and she has got a halo.

I had a halo. Sleek locks and glowing heavenly halo. The girl with the golden halo.

I sometimes let my thoughts ramble and they take me to the
attic I inherited when my beloved Pauline left it to go into
the convent. I had my aviary full of linnets and canaries, my
baskets of grasses and dried flowers, my books, my crucifix,
and my statues. In those days I wove a crown of forget-me-nots
and daisies to hang on the statues. I had my desk with its green
cloth and its hourglass which would forever remind me of the
passing of time.

How I have loved always the deep quiet of the Great Silence
that falls between Vespers and the dawn. I sometimes make
myself recall and dwell upon such things as the nightmares
that have visited me in the past. Like the demons I saw dancing in the garden at the time when my mother was so very
ill.

I saw demons dancing in the garden. The colours were so bright, glowing, translucent, succulent. The red of the pomegranate, pink of the fig, blue of the swimmer crab, gold of flame and desire. I will dance with the demons in the dead of night; I will eat those demons up, eat, and eat and eat.

The time came for me to take the habit. It was the tenth of
January, my Clothing Day. Against all expectation Papa had
recovered from a second attack of paralysis. Nothing was
missing on this day, not even snow. Oh, how I love snow!

Even when I was a tiny child the whiteness of snow fascinated me, and now I wonder how I got this special fond-ness for it. Perhaps it is because I was a little winter flower

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and the first thing I ever saw was the earth adorned with a
mantle of white. On the day I received the habit I longed to see
the world dressed in white — as I was. The day before was as
mild as spring, and I gave up all hope of snow. By ten o’clock
in the morning of the day there was still no sign of snow, and
I thought there was no chance of having my childish wish
fulfilled.

I swam in the sea with my sisters my mystery sisters and I danced in the garden with demons. Dance, dance, dance little lady, lady in the snow, snowchild in the storm. A whirling ice-maiden I dance and I swim and I fly with the wild flying insects. We fly north for the winter, north, south, east, west.

Where to go? Where to go? I keep swimming. The sea is thick and dark, very, very thick and dark. There are ghosts in the sea, deep down.

My bridal gown was made from the purest white velvet and it
shimmered with swansdown. It was adorned with lace made
long ago by my mother. No earthly gown is fine enough to adorn
the bride of Jesus, but I knew that mine was at least the most
glorious gown on earth.

Two angels in black vestments embroidered with scenes from the life of Jesus; two barefoot angels with long white hands and wings of black and red and green and golden feathers lifted me up from the waves of the swimming sea and hovered above the water, holding me with nacreous fingers. The sky was pink and blue and green and gold and white birds flew behind us. Seals swim below. God’s in his heaven, I suppose.

After the ceremony, as I stepped back into the enclosure, the
first thing I saw was the statue of the Child Jesus smiling at me
from the midst of flowers and the light of the candles. Then I
turned towards the quadrangle and I saw at once that it was
completely covered with snow. Since then, many people who
knew of my longing for the snow have spoken of the ‘little
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miracle’ of my Clothing Day. The Spouse of Virgins loves his
lilies to be white as snow.

I close my eyes and with the eye of the mind I see the snow and I know I am in the eye of the storm, safe in the arms of the angels, above the waves, idle in the eye of the hurricane, held by the angels in a holding pattern pouring forth a silent song. I fold my hands in prayer; I peer from between my eyelashes and what I see is snow, snow like the softest feathers, snow like the petals of the almond tree, the first tree to bloom, the flowers of Aaron’s rod. Biblical angels show me these things. They tell me not to look too closely; The light of heaven burns your eyeballs.

Put your cool white trust in the doctor they say, and he will put his dark red dick in you. It is for the best.

Snow is cooling and consoling, silent, soft, gentle, sweet.

Snow is the sugar of the earth.

As always, the Bishop spoke of how I had put up my hair when
I visited him with Papa. He put his hands on my head as he
talked, and I stood still for a long time as he stroked my head,
and I thought of how Our Lord will lavish caresses on me in the
presence of the saints. This attention from the Bishop was like a
foretaste of the glories of heaven.