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The Holy City
Oct. 21st, 2016 08:48 pm "Take me away, carriage! Carry me off, frigate!
Far, far away! Here the mud is made with our tears!
— Is it true that sometimes the sad heart of Agatha
Says: Far from crimes, from remorse, from sorrow,
Take me away, carriage, carry me off, frigate?"---- Charles Baudlaire, Moesta et Errabunda
December, 1841
The lad was weary and wore an expression that flashed between alert and near panic to dead and distant. Young Charles was feeling sick with the burden of the little one and he prayed that there would be answers from friendly folk of the clergy, soon. He didn't like being in charge. "What are they going to call you at the Basilica?" when a stuttering silence answered him, he cleared his throat and asked, "what am I to call you?"
The child's gaze seemed far away and Charles watched the eyes beneath the tiny mask narrow to a glassy slit. The visible cherry-red lower lip quivered and fell open, "I want to be named for the first Sunday after Easter." The words were deliberate and rehearsed. Charles felt the already painful situation grow tedious: he knew so little of the foundling before him, only that his godfather had made it very clear that he was to be delivered to clergy directly, and that his mother dismissed him in the most pathetic scene Charles had yet witnessed in his life. Exhaustion and a guilty smidge of dread overtook the novitiate's lungs and eyes. He strained to remember any kind of significance about the Sunday following the feast of Easter, and while he did, studied the landscape out the cart that they huddled in. Easter felt as far away as ever, as the first candle of Advent was glowing in every front window, proven Rouen to be as devoted Catholics as candles and tallow would allow. He felt drowsy under the thick wool horse blankets and oiled canvas that were variously strapped down or nested around them. He had forgotten when he was trying to remember when the small one suddenly offered "Quasimodo Sunday."
Tallow candles on the roadside unblurred as Charles registered those unusual words, "Quasimodo?" Charles slowly shook his head, "that won't do, not even if you are made bell-ringer. Foundlings generally gain a name from the circumstances upon which they are found," Charles trailed off. It was hard to imagine finding a suitable name for any child buried within his short story. No doubt the mask he wore to conceal his nose and mouth was some part of it.
"Quasi-modo," repeated the young initiate, with a patient resolve, "how is your Latin, brother Charles?"
"I know what it means," Charles responded, a little defensively, "but its not proper. You'll soon learn: all the 'qu' words imply questions, insecurity. Its not a name for a modern child."
The blankets and tarps were heavy on the young man and the tiny child. The cart rattled through the evening slush, the town growing darker and smaller every minute. "If you were a girl, Noel might do, seeing as how Christmas season has just opened."
"Noel..." the child whispered, a bit enchanted by the apparent sound.
Charles huddled closer and took the child's tiny and frozen hands, "We reach Paris Cathedral in time for the holy Feast of St Nicolas. How do you like Nicolas?"
"Nicolas..." the child repeated, clearly less impressed.
It was the final word spoken before reaching Paris, in the frozen and bruised skies of a morning in Early December. Nicolas was born in a little foundling of some unknown age and only partially known pedigree. Nicolas had no past to speak of, bundled in thick mufflers and scarves, scurried up the stairs and into the church offices. Nicolas gave one final attempt to convince those in authority to allow him the name of Quasimodo. When the priest looked incredulous, Nicolas moved forward and with very exact and careful motions, removed the muffler from his face.
The moisture that had condensed beneath his garments was suddenly exposed to the cold, dry air, and the sudden sensation made Nicolas' face ache from the inside out. He winced as the minister drew closer to get a better look.
"Nicolas," the minister concluded, "you shall be seen to by the nurses. Perhaps there's something that can be done for you." He briefly addressed Charles concerning the ride from Paris to Lyon, upcoming in the next few days--the hope was to be there in time for the Virgin's Light Festival on the 8th. The next several weeks were a pilgrimage from the soles of their pious shoes to Rome and to the Vatican--present for the Pope's Christmas address.
Nicolas was born motherless, fatherless and wholly belonging to the Catholic Church as his red and tired eyes saw Paris for what he believed to be the first and last times in his life. He carried only one item on his person-- a worn black walnut violin case. When the nurses saw to Nicolas and his broken face, they were at turns horrified, confused and depressed. They made him tea and sent him to have a nap in a cot, but Nicolas remained awake, listening to the women gossip about his appearance.
Far, far away! Here the mud is made with our tears!
— Is it true that sometimes the sad heart of Agatha
Says: Far from crimes, from remorse, from sorrow,
Take me away, carriage, carry me off, frigate?"---- Charles Baudlaire, Moesta et Errabunda
December, 1841
The lad was weary and wore an expression that flashed between alert and near panic to dead and distant. Young Charles was feeling sick with the burden of the little one and he prayed that there would be answers from friendly folk of the clergy, soon. He didn't like being in charge. "What are they going to call you at the Basilica?" when a stuttering silence answered him, he cleared his throat and asked, "what am I to call you?"
The child's gaze seemed far away and Charles watched the eyes beneath the tiny mask narrow to a glassy slit. The visible cherry-red lower lip quivered and fell open, "I want to be named for the first Sunday after Easter." The words were deliberate and rehearsed. Charles felt the already painful situation grow tedious: he knew so little of the foundling before him, only that his godfather had made it very clear that he was to be delivered to clergy directly, and that his mother dismissed him in the most pathetic scene Charles had yet witnessed in his life. Exhaustion and a guilty smidge of dread overtook the novitiate's lungs and eyes. He strained to remember any kind of significance about the Sunday following the feast of Easter, and while he did, studied the landscape out the cart that they huddled in. Easter felt as far away as ever, as the first candle of Advent was glowing in every front window, proven Rouen to be as devoted Catholics as candles and tallow would allow. He felt drowsy under the thick wool horse blankets and oiled canvas that were variously strapped down or nested around them. He had forgotten when he was trying to remember when the small one suddenly offered "Quasimodo Sunday."
Tallow candles on the roadside unblurred as Charles registered those unusual words, "Quasimodo?" Charles slowly shook his head, "that won't do, not even if you are made bell-ringer. Foundlings generally gain a name from the circumstances upon which they are found," Charles trailed off. It was hard to imagine finding a suitable name for any child buried within his short story. No doubt the mask he wore to conceal his nose and mouth was some part of it.
"Quasi-modo," repeated the young initiate, with a patient resolve, "how is your Latin, brother Charles?"
"I know what it means," Charles responded, a little defensively, "but its not proper. You'll soon learn: all the 'qu' words imply questions, insecurity. Its not a name for a modern child."
The blankets and tarps were heavy on the young man and the tiny child. The cart rattled through the evening slush, the town growing darker and smaller every minute. "If you were a girl, Noel might do, seeing as how Christmas season has just opened."
"Noel..." the child whispered, a bit enchanted by the apparent sound.
Charles huddled closer and took the child's tiny and frozen hands, "We reach Paris Cathedral in time for the holy Feast of St Nicolas. How do you like Nicolas?"
"Nicolas..." the child repeated, clearly less impressed.
It was the final word spoken before reaching Paris, in the frozen and bruised skies of a morning in Early December. Nicolas was born in a little foundling of some unknown age and only partially known pedigree. Nicolas had no past to speak of, bundled in thick mufflers and scarves, scurried up the stairs and into the church offices. Nicolas gave one final attempt to convince those in authority to allow him the name of Quasimodo. When the priest looked incredulous, Nicolas moved forward and with very exact and careful motions, removed the muffler from his face.
The moisture that had condensed beneath his garments was suddenly exposed to the cold, dry air, and the sudden sensation made Nicolas' face ache from the inside out. He winced as the minister drew closer to get a better look.
"Nicolas," the minister concluded, "you shall be seen to by the nurses. Perhaps there's something that can be done for you." He briefly addressed Charles concerning the ride from Paris to Lyon, upcoming in the next few days--the hope was to be there in time for the Virgin's Light Festival on the 8th. The next several weeks were a pilgrimage from the soles of their pious shoes to Rome and to the Vatican--present for the Pope's Christmas address.
Nicolas was born motherless, fatherless and wholly belonging to the Catholic Church as his red and tired eyes saw Paris for what he believed to be the first and last times in his life. He carried only one item on his person-- a worn black walnut violin case. When the nurses saw to Nicolas and his broken face, they were at turns horrified, confused and depressed. They made him tea and sent him to have a nap in a cot, but Nicolas remained awake, listening to the women gossip about his appearance.
