Three Women in a Mirror (30 page)

As he headed into the urinals, Ethan came upon the spectacle he had hoped for months he would never see. Lying lifeless on the floor, Anny was still breathing, but no longer reacted to either noise or touch.

She had overdosed, and lost consciousness.

She had surely never been this happy.
Since she had gone to live with the beguines, Anne was blooming. To live with women who accepted or even sought an exceptional fate encouraged her to find her way. Yes, it was possible to have goals other than sweeping, or subjecting oneself to male domination, or wiping the bottom of one child after the next: that was what they thought, the women in her entourage, whether they came from the aristocracy or the poor neighborhoods. The community they formed was neither closed nor religious, and they preferred to live together and work and deepen their faith by leading a life of austerity and prayer. While they did obey written rules, they took no vows, and they were free to stay or to go.

The béguinage in Bruges was a town in itself, nestled against the town proper. Surrounded by water, more easily accessible to ducks and swans than to men, it rose like an island among the houses. The moment one went over the arch of the bridge, one entered a calm site where plants and buildings coexisted in harmony. Trees grew among the buildings, overlooking the façades like the columns of a natural cathedral, filtering the light through their leafy stained-glass windows, amplifying birdsongs, calling one to gaze at the sky and meditate. Anywhere else this large square would have been paved over, but here it was allowed to grow. From their threshold, the beguines could see their neighbors through the trees.

When Anne went to be alone on the banks of the river or under her linden tree no one came to disturb her. As long as a woman fulfilled her tasks, the other boarders accepted unusual behavior. Here, therefore, instead of suffering from her difference, Anne was able to explore her individuality. At last her ideas could grow and take flight at her leisure.

Under the influence of Braindor and the Grande Demoiselle, she began to write down her poetry. But whenever she copied her text onto a sheet of paper she expressed her dissatisfaction.

“It's not right.”

“But it is,” answered Braindor, reading her lines with emotion.

“No.”

The moment she entered the heart of her meditation, staring at the azure sky, observing the fish, following the journey of the birds, it was not them she saw, but the energy that lay underneath them, the joy that brought life with it, the intoxication of creation. Beneath the generous linden tree she could leave everything behind: herself to start with, and then the material world, and then when she reached the dizzy heights of experience, she escaped from words and ideas and concepts. All that remained was what she felt. It was as though she were being dissolved in the infinite light that wove the web of the cosmos.

“Braindor, words were only invented to reflect the universe, to make lists of creatures and put labels on objects. But I can get away from the world, I go beneath it, above it, behind it, I go off into the invisible . . . How can I describe it?”

“The way you already are describing it.”

“There are no words to tell the invisible.”

“But there are—the words of poetry.”

“My sentences remain vague and inaccurate. My images are all wrong, they are heavy, leaden, because they are connected to the material world.”

“No, Anne, a fertile image surpasses the material world the moment it indicates a world beyond; it creates playful comparisons, like the facets of a cut diamond.”

“That may be. My language only allows me a rough approximation. Is it because of the Flemish? Would I manage better if I knew Latin? Or Greek?”

While she continued to write, Anne concluded that she would never be able to find the appropriate way to express herself.

In the evening, the Grande Demoiselle and Braindor read her pages with delight.

 

The clear mirror where I could see you,

That mirror is neither glass nor water.

Deep inside me I can perceive it,

In my naked soul, beyond my skin,

Without impediment, far from treacherous words,

I slip into your arms, I melt.

I lie in the shadow of your brilliance:

'Tis you as much as me, for it is my heart.

 

When Anne had gone, they indulged in the compliments she would never have tolerated.

“She is a mystical poetess!” exclaimed the Grande Demoiselle.

“Who better has evoked the God one meets within?”

“I have rarely come into contact with such pure faith.”

 

Now Anne agreed to acknowledge that her poems were about God. Once again, it was just a question of words, these awkward, imperfect words: if the people she loved the most, Braindor and the Grande Demoiselle, cherished her texts because they described God, then let it be God! One word was worth another insofar as no words were worth anything.

Anne piously attended Mass on Sunday, where she prayed and sang with the beguines; buoyed by the ardent faith around her, she was gratified that her texts belonged to this community where she felt so at home.

In order to prepare her for the interview with the archdeacon, the Grande Demoiselle questioned her on points of dogma, such as the Trinity or hell and damnation; Anne remained silent, for these were questions she did not ask herself. However, she was fascinated by the mystery of the Eucharist: yes, it was the divine that she received together with the host, and she had no difficulty imagining that the bread could be something other than what it was.

Aunt Godeliève and her two cousins came to see her regularly. In the beginning Anne protested, saying that she could go to them. But through their allusions she understood that Ida would not accept her intrusion; moreover, these visits inside the peaceful walls of the béguinage had a calming effect on her aunt and her cousins.

Ida was an ever-increasing source of worry to Godeliève. As she had said she would, the young woman had set out to prove that she could attract men. While her prior behavior had been simply to stop them in the street to strike up a conversation, now she threw herself at them.

“She is a slut, my little Anne, she has gone completely wild. A mere wink suffices for her to say yes. There is no need to speak politely to her, even less to ask her—she will lie with a man at the first request. Of course, I am ashamed, because no one has ever behaved like this in our family, but above all I am afraid. Her behavior is so extreme that I get the impression she is in search of . . . the very worst.”

“What would be the very worst, Aunt Godeliève?”

“I do not know. But she will find it! Oh, fortunately my beloved daughters are not following that path.”

Hadewijch and Bénédicte, who were cut from a different cloth than Ida, were growing up with tranquility, joy, and wisdom. Of all the older people around them, it was Anne they admired most.

“Pray for her, Anne, I beg you. Pray for her.”

Anne nodded, confused. She did not know how to ask favors of God. Of course she had sometimes turned to the Creator with her requests, on nights when she felt rebellious, or days when she felt too much pain, yet she knew that these demands of hers were only a stage, the bottom steps of a stairway; at the top there would be something better: worship. The purpose of prayer was not to ask but to accept.

She tried awkwardly to think about her cousin, to convey through her thoughts the strength Ida needed to refrain from sinning; fairly quickly she gave up. Although she did not doubt that God was listening, she did doubt that he would intervene. God shone with a brilliance one must attain, He was not some individual one could implore, seduce, or convince.

She hated bargaining with God. Since childhood that was all she had ever seen, sinners promising to mend their ways if God would help them; vicious individuals agreeing to be redeemed on condition that God would favor them. Most impure of all was the practice of indulgences: through acts of piety—prayer, masses, donations—people bought a reduction of their time in Purgatory. Already she found it shocking that one could put a price on sin; but she was scandalized by the idea that some people kept accounts in the hereafter. For a start, she did not believe in Purgatory, that intermediary place between Hell and Paradise where one awaits one's departure; only the priests spoke about it. In the name of what? Had they ever been there? Did they know it? Which explorer could certify what he had seen? Moreover, she suspected all these transactions reflected an exploitation of fear through avarice. What did a soul have to do with an
écu
? Would the sound of gold dropping into the moneybox change the heavens? Clearly that money went to finance the building of churches and—what was worse—the luxurious lifestyle of the prelates. In Anne's opinion, just as one ought not to demand anything of God, one ought not to make compromises with him.

 

One night she woke up bathed in sweat: something horrible was going on. She leapt breathlessly out of her bed, dressed hastily, and ran out.

The béguinage was bathed in restful darkness. Not a single flickering candle showed its gold in a window. The women were sleeping peacefully.

A bell rang, dreamily.

Had she merely imagined it?

On looking up she could tell from the movement high up in the trees, the myriad rustling sounds and sudden flight, that the birds, too, had sensed danger.

She walked across the wooded courtyard to the walls of the béguinage. When she reached the wall she saw that the geese were restless.

What was happening?

There was no way to go out because at night the huge doors were locked to ensure the safety of the women. It didn't seem a good idea to rouse the guards, because explaining to them that she sensed some vague danger, along with the geese, the squirrels, or the magpies, would make her look ridiculous.

So she decided to climb over the stone wall.

As soon as she reached the top of it, she saw a red glow in the distance.

There was a fire on the horizon, flames licking the sky.

She could hear women screaming, bells ringing the alarm, and shouts of heave-ho from the men carrying buckets of water.

She was able to determine the neighborhood of the fire and grasp the situation in a split second: if her intuition had roused her from her bed, it was because it was Aunt Godeliève's house that was on fire.

She immediately jumped from the wall into the cold water and swam to the other side, then, without taking the time to wring out her clothing, she ran through the dark streets. As she came closer to the raging furnace, she met her fellow citizens leaving their beds to give their assistance. If one building caught fire in the town it could consume ten others. If they did not react energetically the entire neighborhood would disappear.

When she was outside the burning building, Anne was dismayed to see she had been right: Aunt Godeliève's house was nothing more than a flaming torch. She hurried to the neighbors.

“Where is my aunt? Where are my cousins?”

They reassured her.

“She is staying with Franciska, your grandmother, in St. André.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Oh, yes. Godeliève promised to bring us fresh eggs.”

Anne gave a sigh of relief; however, deep inside, she was not yet tranquil. Why was she so worried?

A neighbor came running over to the group.

“In fact, I only saw Godeliève and her two youngest leave. Didn't you?”

“Actually, now that you mention it . . . yes. There were only three of them.”

“Where is Ida?” exclaimed Anne.

Just then, the flames burst from the windows of the upper floor, and with them a screaming figure was projected at the speed of lava from an erupting volcano, a silhouette that bore a vague resemblance to a human shape as it plummeted twelve feet and crashed onto the ground.

It was Ida, her hair and clothes nothing but a swirl of flames.

Vienna, March 28, 1907

 

Dear Gretchen,
I'm enclosing a photograph of Dr. Calgari, because I want you to know what he looks like. A good-looking man, don't you agree? I love the vigorous luster of his black hair and eyebrows, I find it so much stronger and more intriguing—in a word, more manly—than Franz's blond hair. You'll have no trouble locating him on this print that was taken during a congress of psychoanalysts, as the others are all twice his age. He is standing in the group at the back, a few steps behind Sigmund Freud, the founder, the man with the strict beard and tortoiseshell glasses. What a relief I had the sense not to go to him! My therapist is something else altogether, don't you think?

Return this picture to me right away because I have to put it back. To tell you the truth, I stole it from Calgari's desk when he slipped out for a moment; if he can find anything in that shambles of books, letters, and files, I bet it would take him a while to realize that the photo had disappeared.

In any case, I now have a copy a photographer made for me . . .

So, my analysis is progressing. I have explored my labyrinths and I am beginning to feel better. I should add that Calgari and I make a good team; hence the success of the treatment. With another therapist I would still be wading about in the swamp of my memories.

For example, I have understood that when I was little I chose you as a symbolic mother. And while I may have always introduced you as “my cousin,” it was because I needed to invent a blood tie between us, a connection that did not exist because your father was only the legal guardian appointed by my parents in their will. When you got married, I felt as if you were abandoning me; so I behaved more childishly than ever, denying the corporal dimension of adolescence, and swearing that I would never get married; in fact, by acting so childishly, I wanted to oblige you to become my mother again.