Produced by Michael Wooff
The Legend of Sister Beatrix
Charles Nodier (1780-1844)
Not far from the highest peak in the Jura, but descending alittle down its slope facing west, one could still see, goingon for half a century ago, a mass of ruins that had belongedto the church and the convent of Our Lady of the Flowering Thorns.It is at one end of a deep and narrow gorge, much more shelteredto the north, which produces each year, thanks to its favourableaspect, the rarest flowers of that region. Half a league fromthere, from the opposite end of the gorge, the debris of anancient manor house is visible which has itself disappearedlike the house of God. We only know that it used to be livedin by a family renowned for its feats of arms and that the lastof the noble knights to bear its name died in winning back thetomb of Jesus Christ for Christians without an heir to propagatehis line. His inconsolable widow would not abandon a place soconducive to the upkeep of her melancholy, but the rumour ofher piety spread far and wide as did her works of charity anda glorious tradition has perpetuated her memory for futuregenerations of Christians. The people, who have forgotten allher other names, still call her THE SAINT.
On one of those days when winter, coming to an end, suddenlyrelaxes its rigour under the influence of a temperate sky, THESAINT was walking, as usual, down the long driveway leading toher castle, her mind given over to pious meditations. She camein this way to the thorny bushes that still mark its end, andsaw, with no little surprise, that one of these shrubs hadtaken on already all its springtime finery. She hastened toget nearer to it in order to assure herself that this semblancewas not produced by a remnant of snow that had failed to melt,and, delighted to see it crowned, in effect, by an innumerablemultitude of beautiful little white stars with rays of crimson,she carefully detached a branch to hang it in her oratory beforea picture of the Virgin Mary she had held in great reverencesince childhood, and went back joyfully to take to her thisinnocent offering. Whether this modest tribute really pleasedthe divine mother of Jesus or whether a special pleasure, whichit is difficult to define, is reserved for the least outpouringof a tender heart to the object of its affection, never had thesoul of the chatelaine been as open to more ineffable emotionsthan those she felt that mild evening. She promised herself,with a joy that was ingenuous, to go back every day to the bushin bloom in order to daily bring back a fresh garland. We maywell believe that she was faithful to that promise.
One day, however, when her care for the poor and sick had kepther busy longer than usual, it was in vain that she hurried toreach her wild flowerbed. Night got there before her, and it issaid that she started to regret having let herself be taken overquite so much by this solitary place, when a clarity calm andpure, like that which comes to us with daylight, suddenly showedher all her flowering thorns. She stopped walking for a moment,struck by the thought that this light might emanate from a campfire made by bandits, for it was impossible to imagine it havingbeen produced by myriads of glow-worms, hatched before their time.The year was not far gone enough for the warm and peaceful nightsof summer. Nevertheless, her self-imposed obligation came to mindand gave her courage. She walked lightly, holding her breath,towards the bush with the white flowers, seized in a trembling handa branch which seemed to fall of itself between her fingers, solittle resistance it offered to her, and went back to her manorhouse without daring to look behind her.