Longing

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  were reading in church last Sunday, about Saul and a witch with a name like Edna -— the place where she makes some person come up, cause the king had forgotten what he looked like.’ But if prayer had failed Stephen, her spells also failed her; indeed they behaved as spells do when said backwards, making her see, not the person she wished to, but a creature entirely dif- ferent. For Collins now had a most serious rival, one who had lately appeared at the stables. He was not possessed of a real housemaid’s knee, but instead, of four deeply thrilling brown legs — he was two up on legs, and one up on a tail, which was rather unfair on Collins! That Christmas, when Stephen was eight years old, Sir Philip had bought her a hefty bay pony; she was learning to ride him, could ride him already, being naturally skilful and fearless. There had been quite a heated discussion with Anna, because Stephen had insisted on riding astride. In this she had shown herself very refractory, falling off every time she tried the side-saddle — quite obvious, of course, this falling off process, but enough to subjugate Anna. And now Stephen would spend long hours at the stables, swaggering largely in corduroy breeches, hobnobbing with Wil- liams, the old stud groom, who had a soft place in his heart for the child. She would say: ‘ Come up, horse!’ in the same tone as Wil- liams; or, pretending to a knowledge she was far from possess- ing: “Is that fetlock a bit puffy? It looks to me puffy, supposing we put on a nice wet bandage.’ Then Williams would rub his rough chin as though think- _ing: ‘ Maybe yes — maybe no—’ he would temporize, wisely. She grew to adore the smell of the stables; it was far more enticing than Collins’ perfume — the Erasmic she had used on her afternoons out, and which had once smelt so delicious. And the pony! So strong, so entirely fulfilling, with his round, gentle eyes, and his heart big with courage — he was surely more worthy of worship than Collins, who had treated you badly because of the footman! And yet — and yet — you owed something to Collins, 38 THE WELL OF LONELINESS just because you had loved her, though you couldn’t any more. It was dreadfully worrving, all this hard thinking, when you wished to enjoy a new pony! Stephen would stand there rub- bing her chin in an almost exact imitation of Williams. She could not produce the same scrabbly sound, but in spite of this drawback the movement would soothe her.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Thus, dear my lord, thy vassal am I grown And of thy might obediently await Grace for my lowliness; Yet wot I not if wholly there be known The high desire that in my breast thou'st set And my sheer faith, no less, Of her who doth possess My heart so that from none beneath the skies, Save her alone, peace would I take or prize. Wherefore I pray thee, sweet my lord and sire, Discover it to her and cause her taste Some scantling of thy heat To-me-ward,--for thou seest that in the fire, Loving, I languish and for torment waste By inches at her feet,-- And eke in season meet Commend me to her favour on such wise As I would plead for thee, should need arise.[293] [Footnote 293: This singularly naïve give-and-take fashion of asking a favour of a God recalls the old Scotch epitaph cited by Mr. George Macdonald: Here lie I Martin Elginbrodde: Hae mercy o' my soul, Lord God; As I wad do, were I Lord God And ye were Martin Elginbrodde.] Dioneo, by his silence, showing that his song was ended, the queen let sing many others, having natheless much commended his. Then, somedele of the night being spent and the queen feeling the heat of the day to be now overcome of the coolness of the night, she bade each at his pleasure betake himself to rest against the ensuing day. HERE ENDETH THE FIFTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON _Day the Sixth_ HERE BEGINNETH THE SIXTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN UNDER THE GOVERNANCE OF ELISA IS DISCOURSED OF WHOSO BEING ASSAILED WITH SOME JIBING SPEECH HATH VINDICATED HIMSELF OR HATH WITH SOME READY REPLY OR ADVISEMENT ESCAPED LOSS, PERIL OR SHAME

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The dance ended, they entered with them into a discourse of the Ladies' Valley and said much in praise and commendation thereof. Moreover, the king, sending for the seneschal, bade him look that the dinner be made ready there on the following morning and have sundry beds carried thither, in case any should have a mind to lie or sleep there for nooning; after which he let bring lights and wine and confections and the company having somedele refreshed themselves, he commanded that all should address themselves to dancing. Then, Pamfilo having, at his commandment, set up a dance, the king turned to Elisa and said courteously to her, "Fair damsel, thou has to-day done me the honour of the crown and I purpose this evening to do thee that of the song; wherefore look thou sing such an one as most liketh thee." Elisa answered, smiling, that she would well and with dulcet voice began on this wise: Love, from thy clutches could I but win free, Hardly, methinks, again Shall any other hook take hold on me. I entered in thy wars a youngling maid, Thinking thy strife was utmost peace and sweet, And all my weapons on the ground I laid, As one secure, undoubting of defeat; But thou, false tyrant, with rapacious heat, Didst fall on me amain With all the grapnels of thine armoury. Then, wound about and fettered with thy chains, To him, who for my death in evil hour Was born, thou gav'st me, bounden, full of pains And bitter tears; and syne within his power He hath me and his rule's so harsh and dour No sighs can move the swain Nor all my wasting plaints to set me free. My prayers, the wild winds bear them all away; He hearkeneth unto none and none will hear; Wherefore each hour my torment waxeth aye; I cannot die, albeit life irks me drear. Ah, Lord, have pity on my heavy cheer; Do that I seek in vain And give him bounden in thy chains to me. An this thou wilt not, at the least undo The bonds erewhen of hope that knitted were; Alack, O Lord, thereof to thee I sue, For, an thou do it, yet to waxen fair Again I trust, as was my use whilere, And being quit of pain Myself with white flowers and with red besee. Elisa ended her song with a very plaintive sigh, and albeit all marvelled at the words thereof, yet was there none who might conceive what it was that caused her sing thus. But the king, who was in a merry mood, calling for Tindaro, bade him bring out his bagpipes, to the sound whereof he let dance many dances; after which, a great part of the night being now past, he bade each go sleep. HERE ENDETH THE SIXTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON _Day the Seventh_

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  It was all part of Collins, yet somehow quite different—it had nothing to do with Collins’ wide smile, nor her hands which were red, nor even her eyes which were blue, and very arresting. Yet all that was Collins, Stephen’s Collins, was also a part of these long, warm days, a part of the twilights that came in and lingered for hours after Stephen had been put to bed; a part too, could Stephen have only known it, of her own quickening childish perceptions. This spring, for the first time, she thrilled to the cuckoo, standing quite still to listen, with her head on one side; and the lure of that far-away call was destined to remain with her all her life. There were times when she wanted to get away from Collins, yet at others she longed intensely to be near her, longed to force the response that her loving craved for, but quite wisely, was very seldom granted. She would say: ‘I do love you awfully, Collins. I love you so much that it makes me want to cry.’ And Collins would answer: ‘Don’t be silly, Miss Stephen,’ which was not satisfactory—not at all satisfactory. Then Stephen might suddenly push her, in anger: ‘You’re a beast! How I hate you, Collins!’ And now Stephen had taken to keeping awake every night, in order to build up pictures: pictures of herself companioned by Collins in all sorts of happy situations. Perhaps they would be walking in the garden, hand in hand, or pausing on a hill-side to listen to the cuckoo; or perhaps they would be skimming over miles of blue ocean in a queer little ship with a leg-of-mutton sail, like the one in the fairy story. Sometimes Stephen pictured them living alone in a low thatched cottage by the side of a mill stream—she had seen such a cottage not very far from Upton—and the water flowed quickly and made talking noises; there were sometimes dead leaves on the water. This last was a very intimate picture, full of detail, even to the red china dogs that stood one at each end of the high mantelpiece, and the grandfather clock that ticked loudly. Collins would sit by the fire with her shoes off. ‘Me feet’s that swollen and painful,’ she would say. Then Stephen would go and cut rich bread and butter—the drawing-room kind, little bread and much butter—and would put on the kettle and brew tea for Collins, who liked it very strong and practically boiling, so that she could sip it from her saucer. In this picture it was Collins who talked about loving, and Stephen who gently but firmly rebuked her: ‘There, there, Collins, don’t be silly, you are a queer fish!’

• From Trash (1988)

  Those were the ones who could make you want to scream low against all the darkness in the world. “That one,” Shannon would whisper smugly, but I didn’t need her to tell me. I could always tell which one Mr. Pearl would take aside and invite over to Gaston for revival week. “Child!” he’d say. “You got a gift from God.” Uh huh, yeah. Sometimes I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t go in one more church, hear one more choir. Never mind loving the music, why couldn’t God give me a voice? I hadn’t asked for thick eyelashes. I had asked for, begged for, gospel. Didn’t God give a good goddamn what I wanted? If He’d take bastards into heaven, how come He couldn’t put me in front of those hot lights and all that dispensation? Gospel singers always had money in their pockets, another bottle under their seats. Gospel singers had love and safety and the whole wide world to fall back on—women and church and red clay solid under their feet. All I wanted, I whispered, all I wanted was a piece, a piece, a little piece of it. Shannon looked at me sympathetically. She knows, I thought, she knows what it is to want what you are never going to have. There was a circuit that ran from North Carolina to South Carolina, Tennessee, Georgia, Alabama. The gospel singers moved back and forth on it, a tide of gilt and fringe jackets that intersected and paralleled the country-western circuit. Sometimes you couldn’t tell the difference, and as times got harder certainly Mr. Pearl stopped making distinctions, booking any act that would get him a little cash up front. More and more, I got to go off with the Pearls in their old yellow DeSoto, the trunk stuffed with boxes of religious supplies and Mrs. Pearl’s sewing machine, the backseat crowded with Shannon and me and piles of sewing. Pulling into small towns in the afternoon so Mr. Pearl could do the setup and Mrs. Pearl could repair tears and frayed edges of embroidery, Shannon and I would go off to picnic alone on cold chicken and chow-chow. Mrs. Pearl always brought tea in a mason jar, but Shannon would rub her eyes and complain of a headache until her mama gave in and bought us RC Colas. Most of the singers arrived late. It was a wonder to me that the truth never seemed to register with Mr. and Mrs. Pearl. No matter who fell over the boxes backstage, they never caught on that the whole Tuckerton family had to be pointed in the direction of the stage, nor that Little Pammie Gleason—Lord, just thirteen!—had to wear her frilly blouse long-sleeved ’cause she had bruises all up and down her arms from that redheaded boy her daddy wouldn’t let her marry. They never seemed to see all the “boys” passing bourbon in paper cups backstage or their angel daughter, Shannon, begging for “just a sip.”

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  * That’s because you’re so tall. I do wish I could grow a bit! ? ‘ No, don’t wish that, you're all right as you are — it’s you, Mary.’ Mary would want to be told about Morton, she was never tired of hearing about Morton. She would make Stephen get out the photographs of her father, of her mother whom Mary thought lovely, of Puddle, and above all of Raftery. Then Stephen must tell her of the life in London, and afterwards of the new house in Paris; must talk of her own career and ambitions, though Mary had not read either of her novels — there had never been a library subscription. But at moments Stephen’s face would grow clouded because of the things that she could not tell her; because of the little un- truths and evasions that must fill up the gaps in her strange life- history. Looking down into Mary’s clear, grey eyes, she would suddenly flush through her tan, and feel guilty; and that feeling would reach the girl and disturb her, so that she must hold Stephen’s hand for a moment. One day she said suddenly: * Are you unhappy? ’ ‘ Why on earth should I be unhappy?’ smiled Stephen. All the same there were nights now when Stephen lay awake even after her arduous hours of service, hearing the guns that were coming nearer, yet not thinking of them, but always of Mary. A great gentleness would gradually engulf her like a soft sea mist, veiling reef and headland. She would seem to be drifting quietly, serenely towards some bless¢d and peaceful harbour. Stretching out a hand she would stroke the girl’s shoulder where she lay, but carefully in case she should wake her. Then the mist would lift: ‘Good God! What am I doing?’ She would sit up abruptly, disturbing the sleeper. 328 THE WELL OF LONELINESS ‘Is that you, Stephen? ° ‘ Yes, my dear, go to sleep.’ | Then a cross, aggrieved voice: ‘Do shut up, you two. It’s rotten of you, I was just getting off! Why must you always persist in talking! ’ Stephen would lie down again and would think: ‘ I’m a fool, I go out of my way to find trouble. Of course I’ve grown fond of the child, she’s so plucky, almost anyone would grow fond of Mary. Why shouldn’t I have affection and friendship? Why shouldn’t I have a real human interest? I can help her to find her feet after the war if we both come through —I might buy her a business.’ That gentle mist, hiding both reef and headland; it would gather again blurring all perception, robbing the past of its crude, ugly outlines. “ After all, what harm can it do the child to be fond of me? ’ It was so good a thing to have won the affec- tion of this young creature. 2

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  He had observed a cold silence for a protracted period, but now and again visited the Paraclete and delivered sermons to the nuns. Heloise received the Story of Misfortunes, and, in receiving it, wrote, addressing him as "her lord or rather father, her husband or rather brother, from his handmaid or rather daughter, his consort or rather sister." Her first two letters have scarcely, if ever, been equalled in the annals of correspondence in complete abandonment of heart and glowing expressions of devotion. She appealed to him to send her communications. Had she not offered her very being on the altar for his sake! Had she not obeyed him in everything, and in nothing would she offend him! Abaelard replied to Heloise as the superior of the nuns of the Paraclete. She was to him nothing more. He preached to her sermons on prayer, asked for the intercession of the nuns on his behalf, and directed that his body be laid away in the Paraclete. He rejoiced that Heloise’s connection with himself prevented her from entering into marriage and giving birth to children. She had thereby been forced into a higher life and to be the mother of many spiritual daughters. Heloise plied him with questions about hard passages in the Scriptures and about practical matters of daily living and monastic dress, —a device to secure the continuance of the correspondence. Abaelard replied by giving rules for the nuns which were long and severe. He enjoined upon them, above

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  God. They who have the spirit of God, have God. They see God. Because the eye has been illuminated, they see God as He is, separate from all else and by Himself. It is the intellectual man that partakes of God’s bliss, and the more God is understood the more do we possess Him. God made man a rational creature that he might understand and that by understanding he might love, by loving possess, and by possessing enjoy.1450 More given to the dialectical method and more allegorical in his treatment of Scripture than Hugo, was Richard of St. Victor. Richard is fanciful where Hugo is judicious, extravagant where Hugo is self-restrained, turgid where Hugo is calm.1451 But he is always stimulating. Of his writings many are extant, but of his life little is known. He was a Scotchman, became subprior of St. Victor, 1162, and then prior. While he was at St. Victor, the convent was visited by Alexander III, and Thomas á Becket. In his exegetical works on the Canticles, the Apocalypse, and Ezekiel, Richard’s exuberant fancy revels in allegorical interpretations. As for the Canticles, they set forth the contemplative life as Ecclesiastes sets forth the natural and Proverbs the moral life. Jacob corresponds to the Canticles, for he saw the angels ascending and descending. Abraham corresponds to the Proverbs and Isaac to Ecclesiastes.1452 The Canticles set forth the contemplative life, because in that book the advent and sight of the Lord are desired. In the department of dogmatics Richard wrote Emmanuel, a treatise directed to the Jews,1453 and a work on the Incarnation, addressed to St. Bernard, 1454in which, following Augustine, he praised sin as a happy misdemeanor,—felix culpa,—inasmuch as it brought about the incarnation of the Redeemer.1455 His chief theological work was on the Trinity. Here he starts out by deriving all knowledge from experience, ratiocination, and faith. Dialectics are allowed full sweep in the attempt to join knowledge and faith. Richard condemned the pseudo-philosophers who leaned more on Aristotle than on Christ, and thought more of being regarded discoverers of new things than of asserting established truths.1456 Faith is set forth as the essential prerequisite of Christian knowledge. It is its starting-point and foundation.1457 The author proves the Trinity in the godhead from the idea of love, which demands different persons and just three because two persons, loving one another, will desire a third whom they shall love in common. Richard’s distinctively mystical writings won for him the name of the great contemplator, magnus contemplator. In the Preparation of the Mind for Contemplation or Benjamin the Less, the prolonged comparison is made between Leah and Rachel to which reference has already been made. The spiritual significance of their two nurses and their children is brought down to Benjamin.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  In less than a quarter of an hour they slept, though the villa shook and rocked with the bombardment. CHAPTER 36 1 T here is something that mankind can never destroy in spite of an unreasoning will to destruction, and this is its own idealism, that integral part of its very being. The ageing and the cynical may make wars, but the young and the idealistic must fight them, and thus there are bound to come quick reactions, blind impulses not always comprehended. Men will curse as they kill, yet accomplish deeds of self-sacrifice, giving their lives for others; poets will write with their pens dipped in blood, yet will write not of death but of life eternal; strong and courteous friendships will be born, to endure in the face of enmity and destruction. And so persistent is this urge to the ideal, above all in the presence of great disaster, that mankind, the wilful destroyer of beauty, must immediately strive to create new beauties, lest it perish from a sense of its own desolation; and this urge touched the Celtic soul of Mary. For the Celtic soul is the stronghold of dreams, of longings come down the dim paths of the ages; and within it there dwells a vague discontent, so that it must for ever go questing. And now as though drawn by some hidden attraction, as though stirred by some irresistible impulse, quite beyond the realms of her own understanding, Mary turned in all faith and all innocence to Stephen. Who can pretend to interpret fate, either his own fate or that of another? Why should this girl have crossed Stephen’s path, or indeed Stephen hers, if it came to that matter? Was not the world large enough for them both? Perhaps not—or perhaps the event of their meeting had already been written upon tablets of stone by some wise if relentless recording finger. An orphan from the days of her earliest childhood, Mary had lived with a married cousin in the wilds of Wales; an unwanted member of a none too prosperous household. She had little education beyond that obtained from a small private school in a neighbouring village. She knew nothing of life or of men and women; and even less did she know of herself, of her ardent, courageous, impulsive nature. Thanks to the fact that her cousin was a doctor, forced to motor over a widely spread practice, she had learnt to drive and look after his car by filling the post of an unpaid chauffeur—she was, in her small way, a good mechanic. But the war had made her much less contented with her narrow life, and although at its outbreak Mary had been not quite eighteen, she had felt a great longing to be independent, in which she had met with no opposition.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  back the conversation was very one-sided. Then too, he was mak- ing it obvious that he, in his turn, was missing Stephen; he would hang around looking discontented when she failed to go out after frequent suggestions. For although his heart was faithful to Mary, the gentle dispenser of all salvation, yet the instinct that has dwelt in the soul of the male, perhaps ever since Adam left the Garden of Eden, the instinct that displays itself in club windows and in other such places of male segregation, would make him long for the companionable walks that had sometimes been taken apart from Mary. Above all would it make him long intensely for Stephen’s strong hands and purposeful ways; for that queer, intangible something about her that appealed to the canine manhood in him. She always allowed him to look after himself, without fussing; in a word, she seemed restful to David. Mary, slipping noiselessly out of the study, might whisper: ‘ We’ll go to the Tuileries Gardens.’ But when they arrived there, what was there to do? For of course a dog must not dive after goldfish — David understood this; there were goldfish at home — he must not start splashing about in ponds that had tiresome stone rims and ridiculous fountains. He and Mary would wander along gravel paths, among people who stared at and made fun of David: ‘ Quel drôle de chien, mais regardez sa queue! ’ They were like that, these French; they had _ laughed at his mother. She had told him never so much as to say: *Wouf! ’ For what did they matter? Still, it was disconcerting. And although he had lived in France all his life — having indeed known no other country — as he walked in the stately Tuileries Gardens, the Celt in his blood would conjure up visions: great beetling mountains with winding courses down which the tor- rents went roaring in winter; the earth smell, the dew smell, the smell of wild things which a dog might hunt and yet remain law- ful — for of all this and more had his old mother told him. These visions it was that had led him astray, that had treacherously led him half starving to Paris; and that, sometimes, even in these placid days, would come back as he walked in the Tuileries Gar- THE WELL OF LONELINESS 393 dens. But now his heart must thrust them aside — a captive he was now, through love of Mary. But to Mary there would come one vision alone, that of a gar- den at Orotava; a garden lighted by luminous darkness, and filled with the restless rhythm of singing. 3

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Melanchthon was reluctant to discuss this point, but admitted that there was an excess of trifling or unnecessary Roman Catholic rites retained in deference to the judgment of the Canonists, and expressed the hope that some of them would be abandoned by degrees. After the Colloquy at Regensburg the two Reformers saw each other no more, but continued to correspond as far as their time and multiplicity of duties would permit. The correspondence of friendship is apt to diminish with the increase of age and cares. Several letters are preserved, and are most creditable to both parties.555 The first letter of Calvin after that Colloquy, is dated Feb. 16, 1543, and is a lengthy answer to a message from Melanchthon.556 "You see," he writes, "to what a lazy fellow you have intrusted your letter. It was full four months before he delivered it to me, and then crushed and rumpled with much rough usage. But although it has reached me somewhat late, I set a great value upon the acquisition .... Would, indeed, as you observe, that we could oftener converse together were it only by letters. To you that would be no advantage; but to me, nothing in this world could be more desirable than to take solace in the mild and gentle spirit of your correspondence. You can scarce believe with what a load of business I am here burdened and incessantly hurried along; but in the midst of these distractions there are two things which most of all annoy me. My chief regret is, that there does not appear to be the amount of fruit that one may reasonably expect from the labor bestowed; the other is, because I am so far removed from yourself and a few others, and therefore am deprived of that sort of comfort and consolation which would prove a special help to me. "But since we cannot have even so much at our own choice, that each at his own discretion might pick out the corner of the vineyard where he might serve Christ, we must remain at that post which He Himself has allotted to each. This comfort we have at least, of which no far distant separation can deprive us, —I mean, that resting content with this fellowship which Christ has consecrated with his own blood, and has also confirmed and sealed by his blessed Spirit in our hearts,—while we live on the earth, we may cheer each other with that blessed hope to which your letter calls us that in heaven above we shall dwell forever where we shall rejoice in love and in continuance of our friendship."557 There can be no nobler expression of Christian friendship.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  convene a peaceful conference of both parties at Strassburg, or Tübingen, or Heidelberg, or Frankfurt, and attend the conference in person with some pious, upright, and moderate men. "If you class me," he concludes, "in the number of such men, no necessity, however pressing, will prevent me from putting up this as my chief vow, that before the Lord gather us into his heavenly kingdom I may yet be permitted to enjoy on earth, a most delightful interview with you, and feel some alleviation of my grief by deploring along with you the evils which we cannot remedy." In his last extant letter to Melanchthon, dated Nov. 19, 1558, Calvin alludes once more to the eucharistic controversy, but in a very gentle spirit, assuring him that he will never allow anything to alienate his mind "from that holy friendship and respect which I have vowed to you .... Whatever may happen, let us cultivate with sincerity a fraternal affection towards each other, the ties of which no wiles of Satan shall ever burst asunder." Melanchthon would have done better for his own fame if, instead of approving the execution of Servetus, he had openly supported Calvin in the conflict with Westphal. But he was weary of the rabies theologorum, and declined to take an active part in the bitter strife on "bread-worship," as he called the notion of those who were not contented with the presence of the body of Christ in the sacramental use, but insisted upon its presence in and under the bread. He knew what kind of men he had to deal with. He knew that the court of Saxony, from a sense of honor, would not allow an open departure from Luther’s doctrine. Prudence, timidity, and respect for the memory of Luther were the mingled motives of his silence. He was aware of his natural weakness, and confessed in a letter to Christopher von Carlowitz, in 1548: "I am, perhaps, by nature of a somewhat servile disposition, and I have before endured an altogether unseemly servitude; as Luther more frequently obeyed his temperament, in which was no little contentiousness, than he regarded his own dignity and the common good." But in his private correspondence he did not conceal his real sentiments, his disapproval of "bread-worship" and of the doctrine of the ubiquity of Christ’s body. His last utterance on the subject was in answer to the request of Elector Frederick III. of the Palatinate, who tried to conciliate the parties in the fierce eucharistic controversy at Heidelberg. Melanchthon warned against scholastic subtleties and commended moderation, peace, biblical simplicity, and the use of Paul’s words that "the bread which we break is the communion of the body of Christ " (1 Cor. 10:16), not "changed into," nor the "substantial," nor the "true" body. He gave this counsel on the first of November, 1559. A few months afterwards he died (April 17, 1560).

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  CHAPTER XVII. CALVIN ABROAD. Calvin’s Correspondence in his Opera, vols. X.–XX.—Henry, III. 395–549 (Calvin’s Wirksamkeit nach aussen).—Stähelin, I. 505–588; II. 5 sqq. § 159. Calvin’s Catholicity of Spirit. Calvin was a Frenchman by birth and education, a Swiss by adoption and life-work, a cosmopolitan in spirit and aim. The Church of God was his home, and that Church knows no boundaries of nationality and language. The world was his parish. Having left the papacy, he still remained a Catholic in the best sense of that word, and prayed and labored for the unity of all believers. Like his friend Melanchthon, he deeply deplored the divisions of Protestantism. To heal them he was willing to cross ten oceans. Thus he wrote, in reply to Archbishop Cranmer, who had invited him (March 20, 1552), with Melanchthon and Bullinger, to a meeting in Lambeth Palace for the purpose of drawing up a consensus creed for the Reformed Churches.1222 After expressing his zeal for the Church universal, he continues (Oct. 14, 1552):— "I wish, indeed, it could be brought about that men of learning and authority from the different churches should meet somewhere, and after thoroughly discussing the different articles of faith, should, by a unanimous decision, deliver down to posterity some certain rule of doctrine. But amongst the chief evils of the age must be reckoned the marked division between the different churches, insomuch that human society can hardly be said to be established among us, much less a holy communion of the members of Christ, which, though all profess it, few indeed really observe with sincerity. But if the clergy are more lukewarm than they should be, the fault lies chiefly with their sovereigns, who are either so involved in their secular affairs, as to neglect altogether the welfare of the Church, and indeed religion itself, or so well content to see their own countries at peace as to care little about others; and thus the members being divided, the body of the Church lies lacerated. "As to myself, if I should be thought of any use, I would not, if need be, object to cross ten seas for such a purpose. If the assisting of England were alone concerned, that would be motive enough with me. Much more, therefore, am I of opinion, that I ought to grudge no labor or trouble, seeing that the object in view is an agreement among the learned, to be drawn up by the weight of their authority according to Scripture, in order to unite Churches seated far apart. But my insignificance makes me hope that I may be spared. I shall have discharged my part by offering up my prayers for what may have been done by others. Melanchthon is so far off that it takes some time to exchange letters. Bullinger has, perhaps, already answered you.

• From Introduction to the Hebrew Bible and Deutero-Canonical Books (2018)

  episode of Judah and Tamar is inserted here and bound to its context by various motifs (e.g., Judah is asked to recognize the pledges he had given to Tamar; Jacob is asked to recognize his son’s robe). Mainly, this episode provides space between Joseph’s captivity and his rise to prominence in Egypt. Joseph experiences the transition from captivity to power not once but twice. First, he is overseer of his master’s house. This happy situation is disrupted when his master’s wife tries to seduce him and then makes a false accusation against him. (This motif has an Egyptian parallel in the Tale of the Two Brothers, where the wife of the elder brother similarly tries to seduce the righteous younger man and then accuses him falsely.) Consequently, Joseph is thrown in prison. He rises again because of his God-given ability to interpret dreams, and now he is placed in authority over all Egypt. He distinguishes himself by storing grain in anticipation of a time of famine. When there is famine in the land of Canaan, his brothers come and fulfill his prophecy by bowing down before him in ignorance of his identity. Joseph tests his brothers, especially with respect to their feelings for their youngest brother, Benjamin, adding to Jacob’s distress in the process. In the end, however, he can no longer control himself and discloses his identity (45:1-3). He does not reproach his brothers for selling him into Egypt, because “God sent me before you to preserve for you a remnant on earth, and to keep alive for you many survivors” (45:7). But Joseph is also responsible for causing Jacob and his whole family to go down into Egypt and settle there as shepherds. Moreover, Joseph is credited with centralizing wealth in the hands of the pharaoh and bringing the people into a state of slavery: “So Joseph bought all the land of Egypt for Pharaoh. All the Egyptians sold their fields, because the famine was severe upon them, and the land became Pharaoh’s. As for the people, he made slaves of them, from one end of Egypt to the other” (47:20-21). Only the land of the priests was exempt. One- fifth of all crops was to go to Pharaoh. It would seem, then, that even as Joseph saved his family from famine, he set the stage for their future oppression. But that oppression, in turn, would be the occasion of their greatest deliverance. Many scholars have tried to find a kernel of history in the Joseph story. There was a time (c. 1750–1550 B.C.E.) when people from Syria, known as the

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  “Brother James Aloysius will drive you to the bus stop in Ayer in the morning and pick you up at night, and I’ll have dinner with you in the evening.” It would be years before I came to appreciate the irony of this new arrangement. Sister Catherine, having failed in her mission to mold me into a bride of Christ, rid herself of me by handing me back to my parents after more than a decade of enforced separation from them. * * * In the darkness before dawn each morning, my father drove me to the Greyhound station where I took the hour-long bus ride into Boston to attend secretarial school. Riding in the car with him and engaging in small talk as we made the fifteen-minute journey was a novel experience. “Do you have your gloves?” he would say if the weather was frigid. I adored him, but I wasn’t used to his playing the role of father and felt at a loss for how to respond in an intimate way, unfamiliar as I was with the natural role of father to daughter. But I would always give him a kiss as I bolted out of the car. In the evening when I stepped off the bus, he would bring me back to the seclusion of St. Joseph’s House, often accompanying me inside so he could have a brief conversation with my mother, in what seemed like a husband-and-wife kind of way. It pleased me to see them together talking softly. Then he’d depart, and Sister Elizabeth Ann and I would eat in the dining room that she had set up in an elegant fashion. For the first few weeks, our conversation at dinner was reserved, almost formal. I was afraid of scandalizing her with a question or a comment. After dinner, in the privacy of my locked bedroom, as I did my homework, I turned on the transistor radio I’d bought during the summer, using earphones to keep my secret secure. I’d tune in to WBZ and listen to Bob Kennedy’s hour-long show Contact , which featured politicians, authors, and celebrities of all kinds, as well as discussions about controversial topics like the death penalty, Vietnam, and abortion. The show inspired me to read Eldridge Cleaver’s Soul on Ice , as well as Richard Wright’s Native Son , books I was well aware would be anathema at the Center. So I kept them hidden under the mattress. My knowledge base was expanding—from the Beatles’ “Eleanor Rigby” during the summer to radical politics—and only a stone’s throw from Sister Catherine’s office. It was empowering, even if I had no one with whom I could exchange ideas or ask questions. Now Christmas was upon us, and with it came a sense of dread. I could remember something special, something that spoke of joy, about each Christmas for the eight years we’d been in Still River.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  I couldn’t find the sin, the evil, or the blasphemy in it. On afternoons when my aunt went out grocery shopping with the two youngest boys, I found books that opened my eyes to the real world. Dr. Benjamin Spock’s Baby and Child Care , in its paperback version, the pages worn from an abundance of use, was a veritable tutorial on the matter of procreation, a subject so closeted at the Center that biology was proscribed as a course in high school. Alone in the house, I pored over the book, and returned it to its place on the shelf before anyone returned. Within a couple of weeks, I had learned “the facts of life.” At 11:30 at night, the local radio station brought its broadcast to a close with the theme song from the recently released movie, Doctor Zhivago . The music was so hauntingly beautiful, so full of romance, it brought tears to my eyes each time it was played, even though I had no notion of the story behind it. A trip to the movies was a venture I was reluctant to take on, lest the word get back to my parents and then to Sister Catherine, who would undoubtedly condemn me to the whole community and ensure that I never saw my siblings again. My curiosity in the sphere of movies was further piqued when my cousin announced that he and his buddies were going to see the season’s newest movie, Georgy Girl , deemed by some reviewers to be risqué. Although my uncle claimed to be shocked at their lack of judgment, he did nothing to prevent them from going, and I found myself fantasizing about what might make the movie so scandalous. Before long, I had memorized the popular theme song with its catchy opening line (“Hey there, Georgy Girl….”), but I wasn’t yet ready to take that giant step into the forbidden land of wicked movies. When my father came down for his weekly visit on Sunday, I saw a man more worldly than the cassocked Big Brother of Still River. Clad now in a black suit and crisp white shirt, his required attire when traveling, he’d settle down on the sofa in his sister’s living room with a copy of the Boston Globe , devouring news on the Red Sox and tennis. He’d chat about things secular—from world affairs to a vast array of cousins. Most particularly, he and Eleanor would reminisce about old times, and I noticed with pleasure how he happily discussed his past life. He was the life of the party at the dinner table, and when he left to return to Still River, I would wonder if he might not prefer the life I was leading to his own. The weeks passed, and as they did, I found myself a little less lost, a tiny bit more comfortable in putting my foot on the first stepping-stones toward assimilation into the world.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  It took weeks, but little by little, the fence was erected and the outside world disappeared—the people who lived in the multifamily houses across the street, the open field where children played, the rag man and his horse and buggy, the banana man who pulled his cart and shouted, “Whoop! Ripe bananas, ten cents a pound apiece.” The fence was painted red, and it formed the circumference of the walled city that encompassed the seven houses in which the married couples and their children lived and where we now had our communal meals and the chapel. The nearly forty single adults continued to live in two separate houses, one each for the men and the women, outside of the red fence. The phrase “out in the world” came to represent the world beyond our compound. “That’s where the bad people live,” Mariam told me in her know-it-all way, as we sat eating our bread, butter, and oregano sandwiches on the picnic bench in our enclosure. I knew the litany of who the bad people were—the Jews, the pagans, the heretics, the infidels, the Protestants, the Freemasons, and the pious frauds, or as Father called them, “PFs.” They were the Irish Catholics of Boston who had turned against him and sided with Archbishop Cushing. The more the world was shut out, the more I longed to see it. One evening, while playing in the newly enclosed yard, I made a discovery. By putting my right eye up to the small sliver of space between the gate and the post to which it was hinged, I was able to spy the top of Boston’s tallest building, the John Hancock in Copley Square. In the fading daylight I could see the steady blue light shining from the weather beacon. [image file=Image00019.jpg] The entire adult community in the summer of 1953. My mother is fourth from the right in the front row; my father is on the far right in the back row. “It’s going to be sunny tomorrow,” I announced with confidence to my father. He had taught me the verse that interpreted the color of the light, which was a weather beacon. Steady blue, clear view. Flashing blue, clouds due. Steady red, rain ahead. Flashing red, snow instead. The only other glimpse I now had into the world beyond the red fence was on Thursday evenings when Father continued to give his once-famous lectures. The throngs of listeners in his heyday were now replaced by a small coterie of ladies, loyalists to Father. Their arrival in an array of “worldly” attire—hats and high-heeled shoes, pocketbooks, and all manner of coats, furs, dresses, and suits—was a feast for my eyes. When a couple of them would head off to “powder their noses,” an expression I found baffling, I followed them to the ladies’ room. Once inside, I stood silently, my back against the wall, observing their rituals.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  “The Center,” first located a short walk from Harvard Square in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and subsequently transported to the bucolic hamlet of Still River, Massachusetts, evolved into a social experiment of sorts, whose purpose was to create a pure-hearted community in which no material thing, no cultural influence, not even the bonds between family members, could impede the path to God. Dedicated to a rigid adherence to Catholic orthodoxy, this community of nearly one hundred people, including my parents and thirty-nine children who were born into it, lived a life completely shielded from an outside world that was considered to be fraught with evil. I was educated within the confines of my community from nursery school through my senior year of high school. For much of my childhood, I grew up without the daily love and attention of my parents. I was just six years old when Leonard Feeney and Catherine Clarke made the decision that my siblings and I were to live apart from our parents. Later, Leonard Feeney pressured my parents to forsake their marital vows, no longer living as husband and wife. A celibate existence, they were told, was more conducive to a life dedicated to God. And so my parents complied. On only one occasion during my life at the Center was I allowed to listen to the radio. That was when the community assembled to hear the inaugural address of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, the country’s first Catholic president. I felt transported at that moment into the vast unreachable outside world—a place I longed to experience. I was eleven years old at the time. I had heard of the Beatles only because Leonard Feeney had once played a fifteen-second snippet of their hit song “I Want to Hold Your Hand” as a demonstration of “music of the devil.” The eruption of rock and roll onto the world stage was lost on me, as was the sexual revolution that came in its wake. Within my community, any personal attachment, any demonstration of familial affection, any expression of romantic love was prohibited. As for sex, the word itself was verboten. There was no explanation of the facts of life, as though by revealing nothing, the course of nature could be manipulated, and the lack of knowledge would lead to lack of interest. But the absence of understanding such things did nothing to inhibit my natural desires. As I matured into my teenage years, I fell into a series of crushes on the grown men within the community, with not a glimmer of understanding about why it happened, what it meant, or what to do about it. Though I’d never had a date, much less kissed a boy, my innocent interest was viewed as subverting God’s will, which was deemed to be that each of the thirty-nine children should embrace religious life and celibacy.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  “Now, dears,” she said in a serious voice, “you must promise me that you will keep this a secret. You mustn’t breathe a word of it to Father. He doesn’t understand little girls the way I do.” I got the picture—Father didn’t want us to have dolls because they were worldly. But I also pondered Sister Catherine’s words—that she understood little girls. I wanted to believe her, and I wanted to think of her in a motherly way. She was now the only person at the Center who could dispense love and I craved it from her. But those moments were fleeting and her love always felt conditional, as though a temporary reward for obedience to her. Bedtime stories, banished in Cambridge by Sister Matilda, after we were separated from our parents, were re-instituted by Sister Catherine. In addition, she took to reading to us during dinnertime several evenings a week. My favorite book was Fabiola , which had the subtitle, The Church of the Catacombs . A nineteenth-century novel by the English Catholic cardinal Nicholas Wiseman, it was a tale of conversion and martyrdom, the latter generally depicted in gruesome detail. The heroine was an elegant and brilliant young woman named Fabiola, the much-loved daughter of a wealthy pagan Roman. Her mother had died when she was an infant. Her confidante was Syra, her most valued slave and a Christian in hiding, who eventually converted Fabiola. While Sister Catherine was endeavoring to inspire us with the honor of martyrdom, what captivated me was the vivid depiction of daily life in a wealthy Roman household in the fourth century. I longed for Fabiola’s lifestyle, her many-roomed mansion with servants and silver, her elegant clothes and expensive jewelry—in particular, a radiant emerald ring. The vivid imagery provided endless new material for reverie, as I imagined myself as Fabiola. Pagan or Christian, she was my model. If, instead of engaging in a session of reading, Sister Catherine had business on her mind, it was evident from the force of her stride, from the glint in her eye, the set of her jaw, and the pursed lips, as she took the few steps to her post in the doorway between our two refectories. And she’d come to the point without any small talk. That’s what happened the evening she introduced the Big Punisher. “For those of you who break the rules, there will be a new form of punishment—the Big Punisher—and it will be unlike anything you have ever experienced before. It’s for the good of your souls.” She didn’t describe it or show it. She deliberately left it a secret, so we had to imagine what kind of device the Big Punisher might be. But the threat was enough to convince me that I would do everything I could to avoid being beaten with it. The Big Punisher was immediately put into use.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  “They’re dried flowers,” Mariam told me on one occasion when I wrinkled my nose at them. Dead was a better description, I thought. Mr. Feeney sat like a crumpled rag doll on a sofa in front of two tall windows covered with red velvet drapes that obliterated daylight. His wife brought us cookies and milk and in between nibbles and sips, we had to recite poems Father had written once upon a time when he was the famous and beloved American Catholic poet, long before his fall from grace. For my part, I couldn’t wait to get back home. * * * With a shovel in his hand, my dad started digging. “Daddy, what are you doing?” I asked, ever curious and fascinated by the multiple deep holes that lined up like sentinels along the sidewalk. “Building a fence, my little princess,” he replied. “Now stay away, so you don’t get hurt.” Mariam filled me in on the rest. “The fence is going to go all around our houses.” She was right. It took weeks, but little by little, the fence was erected and the outside world disappeared—the people who lived in the multifamily houses across the street, the open field where children played, the rag man and his horse and buggy, the banana man who pulled his cart and shouted, “Whoop! Ripe bananas, ten cents a pound apiece.” The fence was painted red, and it formed the circumference of the walled city that encompassed the seven houses in which the married couples and their children lived and where we now had our communal meals and the chapel. The nearly forty single adults continued to live in two separate houses, one each for the men and the women, outside of the red fence. The phrase “out in the world” came to represent the world beyond our compound. “That’s where the bad people live,” Mariam told me in her know-it-all way, as we sat eating our bread, butter, and oregano sandwiches on the picnic bench in our enclosure. I knew the litany of who the bad people were—the Jews, the pagans, the heretics, the infidels, the Protestants, the Freemasons, and the pious frauds, or as Father called them, “PFs.” They were the Irish Catholics of Boston who had turned against him and sided with Archbishop Cushing. The more the world was shut out, the more I longed to see it. One evening, while playing in the newly enclosed yard, I made a discovery. By putting my right eye up to the small sliver of space between the gate and the post to which it was hinged, I was able to spy the top of Boston’s tallest building, the John Hancock in Copley Square. In the fading daylight I could see the steady blue light shining from the weather beacon. The entire adult community in the summer of 1953. My mother is fourth from the right in the front row; my father is on the far right in the back row.