“Nossa Senhora e a Monja Fugitiva do Mosteiro” by Vicente Garcia de Diego (translated into Portuguese)

Num antigo e austero mosteiro habitava uma monja muito jovem, chamada Beatriz, de grande piedade em sua vida religiosa e profundamente devota de Santa Maria, a quem consagrara a metade de sua vida.

            Continuamente a viam de joelhos diante do seu altar, em fervorosa veneração, oferecendo sua esplêndida juventude e angélica pureza à sua Santíssima Mãe.

            A abadessa e todas as irmãs do convento lhe professavam grande carinho, por sua bondade e doçura, e a nomearam para o cargo de sacristã da igreja, que ela desempenhava com grande zelo.

            Porém, sendo Beatriz extraordinariamente bela, despertou a paixão de um clérigo que freqüentava o mosteiro. Tentou convencê-la a fugir do convento com ele. Mas Beatriz, que a princípio resistia com firmeza, sentia desfalecer suas forças ante os embates daquela forte tentação.

Procurava rezar, porém sua devoção se havia convertido em aridez de espírito,

e sua imaginação voava muito longe, sentindo fastio na oração. Numa ocasião em que a igreja estava deserta, o enamorado conseguiu enfim que a monja consentisse em fugir com ele.

            Antes de partir, ela se prostrou de joelhos ante a Virgem, dizendo:

— Soberana Senhora, eu te servi honestamente durante a vida toda, até hoje, e não posso conter esta força que me arrasta longe de ti. Entrego-te e te encomendo as chaves desta igreja.

            E depositando as chaves sobre o altar, fugiu com o clérigo.

            Transcorreu pouco tempo, e o clérigo, uma vez satisfeita sua paixão, abandonou Beatriz, que caiu com a alma desgarrada e grande confusão de espírito.

            Sem atrever-se a voltar ao convento, transformou-se numa mulher pública, levando vida ímpia e vergonhosa durante quinze anos, torturada pelos remorsos de sua consciência e conservando uma vaga esperança de perdão.

            Passava um dia diante do mosteiro, e sentiu o desejo de parar, para saber o que pensavam da irmã sacristã.

            Aproximou-se da porteira do convento, e perguntou:

— Diga-me, irmã, como está Beatriz, a sacristã?

            A porteira respondeu:

            — Vai muito bem, tão santa e devota como sempre, desempenhando maravilhosamente seu ofício de sacristia. Todas as religiosas a admiram. Já está no convento há vinte e seis anos, demonstrando grande piedade.

            Beatriz ficou pensando nas misteriosas palavras que acabava de ouvir, mas sem poder compreendê-las. Então lhe apareceu a gloriosa Virgem, dizendo:

— Beatriz, minha filha, durante quinze anos, em figura tua, Eu desempenho o ofício de sacristã. Volta ao mosteiro, e continua servindo como se nunca tivesses saído, porque nada sabem de teu pecado. Crêem que continuas em teu posto. Faze penitência para alcançar o perdão de teus muitos pecados.

            E nesse momento desapareceu. Beatriz regressou ao convento, e voltando a tomar seus hábitos e as chaves, continuou o ofício de sacristã, sem que ninguém chegasse a se dar conta de sua volta.

            Unicamente o confessor, a quem revelou sua vida e seus pecados, era conhecedor daquele milagre.

            Impôs-lhe severas penitências, que Beatriz cumpriu com rigor, edificando suas companheiras com o exemplo de suas virtudes heróicas e sua santa vida cheia de sacrifícios, para expiar suas culpas.

            Chegada sua última hora, Beatriz chamou toda a comunidade, que a rodeou em seu leito de morte, e em alta voz confessou seu pecado, descobrindo o prodígio de misericórdia operado por Nossa Senhora, que durante quinze anos desempenhou por ela o cargo de sacristã. Foi tudo isso atestado pelo confessor.

            E morreu santamente naquele instante.

            Todas as monjas ficaram admiradas daquele portento, e deram graças à sua Mãe Celestial, que havia feito aquele favor para a religiosa.

“Desde Ontem” by Dorival Caymmi (in Portuguese)

Desde ontem que eu não vejo meu amor

Até parece um ano de sofrimento e dor

Poucas horas e parecem tantos anos

Anos de desenganos, horas de amargor

Se eu soubesse que essas horas tão pequenas

Eram horas de tormento e solidão

Eu voltava e pedia um minuto

Um minuto, um minuto e perdão

"Desde Ontem" sung by Nana Caymmi.

Mark of the Brute by Unknown Writer (in Englsih)

art by Don Heck - Weird Terror #11 - Comic Media, May 1954.

(Nota all’Usignolo della chiesa cattolica) by Pier Paolo Pasolini (in Italian)

    Nel ‘43 quando ho scritto l’Usignolo avevo ventun anni, ma era come se ne avessi sedici. Partito da Bologna, l’incontro col paese materno aveva fatto prendere alla mia bontà di adolescente la figura che la Chiesa chiede a quei suoi figli più pii che sono i catecumeni. Non credevo in dio, ma amavo, o, meglio, volevo amare la Chiesa. Sapevo bene che Pascal aveva scritto in uno dei suoi Pensieri – che erano stati quell’anno coi Canti del popolo greco di Tommaseo il mio livre de chevet – che si può creare artificialmente un accostamento a Dio andando per prova in Chiesa. La Chiesa che io avevo trovato era quella di un povero paese friulano.

        Tutto andò a finire come doveva andare a finire. Della conversione non se ne fece niente. Erano passati tre anni, e quel Friuli che era stato il nido di un vergine finì col trasformarsi in una stalla, un meretricio. Legato da una nostalgia che era vizio, non potevo più strapparmene. Il periodo della santità era ben finito, era ben finito il tempo in cui nei miei scartafacci, sotto la citazione dell’Asperge me hyssopo preso come epigrafe, invocavo d’essere impuro per poter serenamente ritornare alla purezza. Il fatto è che ancora, fino quasi a ventiquattro anni ero ancora praticamente vergine: quando poi questo stato ebbe infine la conclusione che doveva avere, pur ben lontano dal ritrovare – come con mistica ipocrisia mi dicevo – la vera purezza. Al contrario, come ho accennato, caddi sempre più profondamente nelle delizie della perdizione. Ormai non cercavo più la grazia: e la gioia consisteva nel piacere di obbedire ai richiami di una nostalgia viziosamente inmediata, di una sensualità violentissima.

        Ma “Dio” – la mia coscienza, che era limpida nel giudicare, e non aveva nulla di quell’aspetto paterno e moralistico che si analizza nei refoulés, perché tale non sono mai stato: la mia educazione domestica, profondamente e ingenuamente morale, non aveva avuto nulla di applicato e addirittura neanche di religioso nel senso di cattolico; la mia stupenda “mamma” era la creatura più innocente, innocua e timida della terra, la sua era una religione naturale nel senso più puro – Dio dicevo, continuava il suo lavoro dentro di me. Non c’era nessuna ragione per cui io mi condannassi, dato che non credevo in Lui e anzi lo detestavo… Eppure io in quegli anni, di ricaduta in ricaduta, in pieno giardino di Alcina, ero sempre sotto i suoi occhi. Questa è la situazione del “Dio che non amo”.

        Gli istinti (posso chiamarli così) religiosi che erano in me mi portarono al comunismo. Sbagliai, caddi. La contraddizione non poteva che venire alla luce. Non potevo essere a metà religioso; e io che ho sempre scontato (con maniera quasi da nevrotico, malgrado la mia natura serena e sana) ogni minima mancanza, figurarsi se non dovevo scontare una simile contraddizione, una simile vocazione impantanata nel compromesso. Rivoltato come un guanto, esposto come un cristo in croce… Per capire alla lettera Paolo e Baruch del ’49 occorre dunque una chiave: il lettore può immaginarla, altrimenti leggere in questi testi solo ciò che è leggibile – e che importa – il riconoscimiento del mio peccato di superbia (è sempre stato così: io, fiore di modestia ho finito sempre con l’apparire, e quindi in molta parte con l’essere, un superbo); la mia resa di fronte al re di Babilonia.

        Nel ’50 – letteralmente fuggito de Casarsa – venni a Roma, a vivere la vita di un disoccupato, che si ciba e dorme d’elemosina. In tali condizioni ogni problema interiore perde interesse e chiarezza; l’identità personale, come avviene nei momenti di estremo pericolo o di (…), si disgrega… Ho perduto di vista Dio.

“An Heiress from Redhorse” by Amprose Bierce (in English)

Coronado, June 20th.

I find myself more and more interested in him. It is not, I am sure, his--do you know any noun corresponding to the adjective "handsome"? One does not like to say "beauty" when speaking of a man. He is handsome enough, heaven knows; I should not even care to trust you with him--faithful of all possible wives that you are-- when he looks his best, as he always does. Nor do I think the fascination of his manner has much to do with it. You recollect that the charm of art inheres in that which is undefinable, and to you and me, my dear Irene, I fancy there is rather less of that in the branch of art under consideration than to girls in their first season. I fancy I know how my fine gentleman produces many of his effects, and could, perhaps, give him a pointer on heightening them. Nevertheless, his manner is something truly delightful. I suppose what interests me chiefly is the man's brains. His conversation is the best I have ever heard, and altogether unlike anyone's else. He seems to know everything, as, indeed, he ought, for he has been everywhere, read everything, seen all there is to see--sometimes I think rather more than is good for him--and had acquaintance with the QUEEREST people. And then his voice--Irene, when I hear it I actually feel as if I ought to have PAID AT THE DOOR, though, of course, it is my own door.

July 3d.

            I fear my remarks about Dr. Barritz must have been, being thoughtless, very silly, or you would not have written of him with such levity, not to say disrespect. Believe me, dearest, he has more dignity and seriousness (of the kind, I mean, which is not inconsistent with a manner sometimes playful and always charming) than any of the men that you and I ever met. And young Raynor--you knew Raynor at Monterey--tells me that the men all like him, and that he is treated with something like deference everywhere. There is a mystery, too--something about his connection with the Blavatsky people in Northern India. Raynor either would not or could not tell me the particulars. I infer that Dr. Barritz is thought--don't you dare to laugh at me--a magician! Could anything be finer than that? An ordinary mystery is not, of course, as good as a scandal, but when it relates to dark and dreadful practices-- to the exercise of unearthly powers--could anything be more piquant? It explains, too, the singular influence the man has upon me. It is the undefinable in his art--black art. Seriously, dear, I quite tremble when he looks me full in the eyes with those unfathomable orbs of his, which I have already vainly attempted to describe to you. How dreadful if we have the power to make one fall in love! Do you know if the Blavatsky crowd have that power-- outside of Sepoy?

July 1

            The strangest thing! Last evening while Auntie was attending one of the hotel hops (I hate them) Dr. Barritz called. It was scandalously late--I actually believe he had talked with Auntie in the ballroom, and learned from her that I was alone. I had been all the evening contriving how to worm out of him the truth about his connection with the Thugs in Sepoy, and all of that black business, but the moment he fixed his eyes on me (for I admitted him, I'm ashamed to say) I was helpless, I trembled, I blushed, I-- O Irene, Irene, I love the man beyond expression, and you know how it is yourself!

Fancy! I, an ugly duckling from Redhorse--daughter (they say) of old Calamity Jim--certainly his heiress, with no living relation but an absurd old aunt, who spoils me a thousand and fifty ways-- absolutely destitute of everything but a million dollars and a hope in Paris--I daring to love a god like him! My dear, if I had you here, I could tear your hair out with mortification.

            I am convinced that he is aware of my feeling, for he stayed but a few moments, said nothing but what another man might have said half as well, and pretending that he had an engagement went away. I learned to-day (a little bird told me--the bell bird) that he went straight to bed. How does that strike you as evidence of exemplary habits?

July 17th.

            That little wretch, Raynor, called yesterday, and his babble set me almost wild. He never runs down--that is to say, when he exterminates a score of reputations, more or less, he does not pause between one reputation and the next. (By the way, he inquired about you, and his manifestations of interest in you had, I confess, a good deal of vraisemblance.)

            Mr. Raynor observes no game laws; like Death (which he would inflict if slander were fatal) he has all seasons for his own. But I like him, for we knew one another at Redhorse when we were young and true-hearted and barefooted. He was known in those far fair days as "Giggles," and I--O Irene, can you ever forgive me?--I was called "Gunny." God knows why; perhaps in allusion to the material of my pinafores; perhaps because the name is in alliteration with "Giggles," for Gig and I were inseparable playmates, and the miners may have thought it a delicate compliment to recognize some kind of relationship between us.

            Later, we took in a third--another of Adversity's brood, who, like Garrick between Tragedy and Comedy, had a chronic inability to adjudicate the rival claims (to himself) of Frost and Famine. Between him and the grave there was seldom anything more than a single suspender and the hope of a meal which would at the same time support life and make it insupportable. He literally picked up a precarious living for himself and an aged mother by "chloriding the dumps," that is to say, the miners permitted him to search the heaps of waste rock for such pieces of "pay ore" as had been overlooked; and these he sacked up and sold at the Syndicate Mill. He became a member of our firm--"Gunny, Giggles, and Dumps," thenceforth--through my favor; for I could not then, nor can I now, be indifferent to his courage and prowess in defending against Giggles the immemorial right of his sex to insult a strange and unprotected female--myself. After old Jim struck it in the Calamity, and I began to wear shoes and go to school, and in emulation Giggles took to washing his face, and became Jack Raynor, of Wells, Fargo & Co., and old Mrs. Barts was herself chlorided to her fathers, Dumps drifted over to San Juan Smith and turned stage driver, and was killed by road agents, and so forth.

            Why do I tell you all this, dear? Because it is heavy on my heart. Because I walk the Valley of Humility. Because I am subduing myself to permanent consciousness of my unworthiness to unloose the latchet of Dr. Barritz's shoe. Because-oh, dear, oh, dear--there's a cousin of Dumps at this hotel! I haven't spoken to him. I never had any acquaintance with him, but--do you suppose he has recognized me? Do, please, give me in your next your candid, sure- enough opinion about it, and say you don't think so. Do you think He knows about me already and that is why He left me last evening when He saw that I blushed and trembled like a fool under His eyes? You know I can't bribe ALL the newspapers, and I can't go back on anybody who was good to Gunny at Redhorse--not if I'm pitched out of society into the sea. So the skeleton sometimes rattles behind the door. I never cared much before, as you know, but now--NOW it is not the same. Jack Raynor I am sure of--he will not tell him. He seems, indeed, to hold him in such respect as hardly to dare speak to him at all, and I'm a good deal that way myself. Dear, dear! I wish I had something besides a million dollars! If Jack were three inches taller I'd marry him alive and go back to Redhorse and wear sackcloth again to the end of my miserable days.

July 25th.

            We had a perfectly splendid sunset last evening, and I must tell you all about it. I ran away from Auntie and everybody, and was walking alone on the beach. I expect you to believe, you infidel! that I had not looked out of my window on the seaward side of the hotel and seen him walking alone on the beach. If you are not lost to every feeling of womanly delicacy you will accept my statement without question. I soon established myself under my sunshade and had for some time been gazing out dreamily over the sea, when he approached, walking close to the edge of the water--it was ebb tide. I assure you the wet sand actually brightened about his feet! As he approached me, he lifted his hat, saying: "Miss Dement, may I sit with you?--or will you walk with me?"

            The possibility that neither might be agreeable seems not to have occurred to him. Did you ever know such assurance? Assurance? My dear, it was gall, downright GALL! Well, I didn't find it wormwood, and replied, with my untutored Redhorse heart in my throat: "I--I shall be pleased to do ANYTHING." Could words have been more stupid? There are depths of fatuity in me, friend o' my soul, which are simply bottomless!

            He extended his hand, smiling, and I delivered mine into it without a moment's hesitation, and when his fingers closed about it to assist me to my feet, the consciousness that it trembled made me blush worse than the red west. I got up, however, and after a while, observing that he had not let go my hand, I pulled on it a little, but unsuccessfully. He simply held on, saying nothing, but looking down into my face with some kind of a smile--I didn't know-- how could I?--whether it was affectionate, derisive, or what, for I did not look at him. How beautiful he was!--with the red fires of the sunset burning in the depths of his eyes. Do you know, dear, if the Thugs and Experts of the Blavatsky region have any special kind of eyes? Ah, you should have seen his superb attitude, the godlike inclination of his head as he stood over me after I had got upon my feet! It was a noble picture, but I soon destroyed it, for I began at once to sink again to the earth. There was only one thing for him to do, and he did it; he supported me with an arm about my waist.

            "Miss Dement, are you ill?" he said.

            It was not an exclamation; there was neither alarm nor solicitude in it. If he had added: "I suppose that is about what I am expected to say," he would hardly have expressed his sense of the situation more clearly. His manner filled me with shame and indignation, for I was suffering acutely. I wrenched my hand out of his, grasped the arm supporting me, and, pushing myself free, fell plump into the sand and sat helpless. My hat had fallen off in the struggle, and my hair tumbled about my face and shoulders in the most mortifying way.

            "Go away from me," I cried, half choking. "Oh, PLEASE go away, you--you Thug! How dare you think THAT when my leg is asleep?"

            I actually said those identical words! And then I broke down and sobbed. Irene, I BLUBBERED!

            His manner altered in an instant--I could see that much through my fingers and hair. He dropped on one knee beside me, parted the tangle of hair, and said, in the tenderest way: My poor girl, God knows I have not intended to pain you. How should I?--I who love you--I who have loved you for--for years and years!"

            He had pulled my wet hands away from my face and was covering them with kisses. My cheeks were like two coals, my whole face was flaming and, I think, steaming. What could I do? I hid it on his shoulder--there was no other place. And, oh, my dear friend, how my leg tingled and thrilled, and how I wanted to kick!

            We sat so for a long time. He had released one of my hands to pass his arm about me again, and I possessed myself of my handkerchief and was drying my eyes and my nose. I would not look up until that was done; he tried in vain to push me a little away and gaze into my eyes. Presently, when it was all right, and it had grown a bit dark, I lifted my head, looked him straight in the eyes, and smiled my best--my level best, dear.

            "What do you mean," I said, "by 'years and years'?"

            "Dearest," he replied, very gravely, very earnestly, "in the absence of the sunken cheeks, the hollow eyes, the lank hair, the slouching gait, the rags, dirt, and youth, can you not--will you not understand? Gunny, I'm Dumps!"

            In a moment I was upon my feet and he upon his. I seized him by the lapels of his coat and peered into his handsome face in the deepening darkness. I was breathless with excitement.

            "And you are not dead?" I asked, hardly knowing what I said.

            "Only dead in love, dear. I recovered from the road agent's bullet, but this, I fear, is fatal."

            "But about Jack--Mr. Raynor? Don't you know--"

            "I am ashamed to say, darling, that it was through that unworthy person's invitation that I came here from Vienna."

            Irene, they have played it upon your affectionate friend,

MARY JANE DEMENT.

P.S.--The worst of it is that there is no mystery. That was an invention of Jack to arouse my curiosity and interest. James is not a Thug. He solemnly assures me that in all his wanderings he has never set foot in Sepoy.