I
Stone saints, seated in symmetric series
along the pointed vault, graven angels
of the transept, and the sonorous golden soul
of the bells imprisoned in the tall slender cage
of the belfry tower—all these knew Odile,
as did the poor who crouched shivering
beside the carven balustrade.
So did the clover worked into the pillars,
and the lilies pictured in the windows,
pale blue blooms aglow
through leaden lattice veins;
so did the lamp that shone like a silver star
in the choir’s depth—they all knew and blessed
Odile, every holiday and Sunday,
seeing her rosy face and downcast eyes
(blue as periwinkles). When she entered
the dark gothic portal, holding to her heart
her old missal in its ivory binding
with heavy enamel clasps, a freshness
and a warmth as of dawn filled the church,
the clock gave its timely cry
more joyously, ringing out the hour
through the sky towards eternity.
Granite apostles in the church’s cave-dark porch
spread their arms in benediction,
looking on her
with their stone and sightless eyes; the angels
standing sculpted along the balconies
in that high vaulted space overwrought with dragons
and bat-winged snakes—those angels seemed to soar
with more enormous assurance;
one could almost hear the roar
of their vast wings on the downstroke,
taking stone immobile flight
across their quarried heaven,
seemingly weightless
and free as sparrows circling in the infinite
azure of a summer afternoon.
Such was the magic that environed Odile,
whose pure soul would have shown
white in the midst of lilies,
for she was no less innocent than they.
The long folds of her dress, though richly woven,
were simple linen, unadorned by any jewel.
Among the proud rich women of the city
who filled the church’s aisles with the hiss of their silks
and the jingle of their jewelry, Odile passed,
with unpainted face, through the shadows,
like a Madonna’s silhouette.
She gave alms discreetly to the poor at the door,
humbly evaded the gaze of the handsome
young lords ablaze in brocades,
noisy as peacocks and boastful as crows,
toying with their collars of ruby and pearl,
dipping their long and delicate fingers
in the holy water to offer a sarcastic
sprinkle of blessing to the heavy-set
wives of magistrates.
Odile swerved to avoid these fine folk
who stood in her way with arrogant grins,
and headed straight for the ragged beggars
in the square. With pensive sympathetic expression,
she kissed the brows of the sick,
gave them white bread from her own table.
By the basin of holy water,
Saint Mark with his eagle, John with his lamb,
Luke with his dog, seemed to see all she did
and see that it was good.
II
Among those bored young lords, love-hunters
and lady-slayers, laying snares
for unwary demoiselles, appeared Count Horn,
just returned from Rome (where Saint Peter’s trustee
led a merry life), bringing with him a company
of Tuscan adventurers, fierce to the weak,
soldiers of fortune whose leers all ladies feared.
Proud of his strength, proud of his breastplate
inlaid with silver, and his gold-embroidered gloves
—which he considered far more impressive
than that Madonna with her lilies
in the church window’s stained glass,
Count Horn addressed his fellows on the steps,
“May the Blessèd Virgin strike me dead
and Saint John flay me living,
if things go on like this. I’ve stood
and shivered in the shadows of these portals
hoping for a kiss from that pious child
Odile, who keeps us waiting
as though we were her servants.
God’s blood, what a joke she’s played on us!
I’ve sat through three masses
with interminable sermons
already today, not to mention confessions,
sitting with my ear to the partition in the hope
of hearing her whisper some dim little sin.
That virtuous brat’s made fools of us all!
We forfeit our glory, our reputation
as conquerors—on which so much of conquest depends.
At the duke’s yesterday, Madame de Bouillon
raised a laugh that rippled to verge of her circle,
suggesting we needed to hone our skills
by ruining the reputation of a few chambermaids!
So exorbitant’s the cost to us
of Odile’s virtue. We’re hers to play with
like a set of dolls. Instead of us attacking
her virtue like a castle, she leads us like sheep.
What time have we wasted being gallant,
kissing hands—girls don’t like to give
what they want you to take.
I know how women’s minds work,
and I swear before you all that before this month is out
Odile will kiss my boots, kneel at my feet
and rub her muzzle against my leg
like a hungry cat. You don’t believe me?
I don’t need your belief, just be witnesses.
When those pious cows have done lowing to the Lord
and that pretty infant simpers out with her missal
at the head of the weakling herd of hypocrites—
may I receive the beating a braggart deserves
if I don’t kiss Odile right on the lips,
and if she doesn’t thank me! I’ll give my blade
with its all-gold pommel, my damascened cuirass
(which all of you envy), my chestnut horse
with its saddle and trappings, to anyone here
who hears this promise and can say a month from now
my vaunt was nothing but words.” With a laugh
they accepted his pledge.
Just then the organ’s distant roar
marked the end of the mass. The crowd flowed out,
the carillon pealed its joyous din
above the ancient town, filled sky with glad clangor,
and Odile, with snowy neck modestly inclined,
emerged from the pillared shadows. Sweet,
unhurried, she paused to give alms to the lepers
crouching on the church steps. Her blond hair haloed
her face in gold, like a painted saint’s.
Heaven shone in her face.
Brutish, chest thrust out
in arrogance and anger, Count Horn rose
before her, took her delicate fingers
in his great hairy hands, squeezed them cruelly
as though to crush them, said, “Your lips insist
on a kiss, like a flower whose sweet scent solicits
the bee.” He met her mouth ferociously with his.
His friends, those cynical indecent monsieurs,
howled with glee. The crowd circled round to see,
shocked to tears at the maiden outraged.
She didn’t so much as blush, only lifted
her purse, opened it and asked the count,
“Have you nothing better to offer for the poor?”
He who’d jeered now shuddered and staggered with anger,
wide eyes rolling like a fearful delirious
drunk’s. His teeth began to chatter,
his fists unclenched, he clawed in his doublet
for money, then deluged with ducats
the virgin’s purse! Pale with rage,
trembling, all against his will,
he emptied his embroidered coin-bag into Odile’s.
She, with calm and pleasant expression,
went on her way through the parting crowd
that backed off in terror.
Odile turned again, very self-possessed, and said
to the young lords, “Stay and pray.” They remained
on their knees on the dirty flagstones, in tears,
elegant gentlemen among the begging lepers.
As the days went by their brocade fell away,
shred by splendid shred. Their knees
poked out through the holes in their silken hose,
shriveled yellow flesh might be glimpsed through their rags.
Their beards grew long and their blackened nails
became claws. Thirty days and a day,
in the company of old folks on crutches, they wept
and prayed, watching over Count Horn in his coma
outstretched underneath the church’s great portal.
Every morning Odile walked among them,
held out her hand, asked in her golden voice,
“Have you anything today for the poor, my lords?”
They plucked their gemmy pins, slid off rings,
unfastened heavy neck chains, and gave.
On the Feast of the Holy Apostles
the month was done. Bishop Otto
celebrated mass. Beside him stood the clergy,
before him all the people kneeled.
Odile, in white, led a poor old woman,
blind and toothless, whose each unsteady step
cost her a groan, very slowly to where Count Horn lay,
had her kiss his forehead on behalf of the thankful poor.
Then, with Odile’s help, he was able to rise.
She said, “Lord Horn, you should be grateful; after all,
it’s thanks to me you’ll be keeping your sword
with the golden hilt, the cuirass inlaid with silver,
the velvet-covered saddle and the chestnut horse,
finely bridled, with buckles and bit
and fittings from the goldsmith. They’re all still yours
because I kept your promise:
you kissed me in front of all the town
and my reply is to thank you for such an affront.”
She bowed to the count and entered the church.
Horn, with ashen face, looked around at his friends
in a row along the wall, and joined his hands in prayer
as he heard the golden bells from their tower
like the choral voice of all the stone saints,
each one from their niche with its pointed arch,
intoning a melodious blessing on Odile,
and proclaiming the victory of Christ. Hearing this,
the heart of Count Horn, then and forever
found peace.
This poem has since appeared in Justin Brumby’s translation of Jean Lorrain’s Le Sang des Dieux