DEATH
Whenever I entered the gates of the Villa San Girolamo
an immediate sense of peace fell over me.
A long avenue, bordered with shrubs and flowers, led up to the front
door. Behind the villa rose an old
orchard in terraced steps, and by the side of the house at the front there was
a pathway along which the nuns used to walk back and forth, praying and telling
their beads. In earlier times
hermits had occupied the cellars.
There was a pervading atmosphere of peace and beauty.
My mother had spent six weeks here, most of them in
bed. Now she was up and well
enough to take her meals in the dining room. There was one long central table where we all sat, with
small tables round the sides mainly occupied by the permanent residents, both
men and women. Visitors came from all over the world, so one might be sitting
next to a Swedish couple, or someone from Ireland, America or England. It was very international. Priests often came from Rome to stay
there, to relax and have a rest from their duties.
A very nice young priest sat next to my mother and
made a point of chatting to her.
My mother was always very interested in politics and they were soon in
animated conversation. I was very
grateful to him and glad to see my mother in such a lively mood.
There was just one day left before we were due to
return to Brussels. My mother was
still making her own clothes and she asked me to find some material for her in
Florence to go with a skirt she was making, which was a dove grey velvet. I found a dark grey chiffon material
which I thought would suit. To my
relief, my mother seemed pleased with it.
On our last evening I took my mother to bed, gave her
a bath, soaping her breasts and putting talcum powder on them afterwards. She seemed content and at peace. At one point she said:
“I wonder
what it would be like to die?” I
made no comment.
As I was leaving she looked at me, smiling, and said:
“I’m looking forward to going home.”
I felt happy at that, and went to bed and to sleep.
The following morning, I was getting up and half
dressed, when there was a knock at my door.
“Daphne, come down quickly.”
It was one of the nuns.
I hurriedly finished dressing and went down to my
mother’s room. My mother was lying
in her bed. She was already dead,
her face at a slightly crooked angle after the stroke.
Shock affects you in different ways. Everything seemed unreal. Other people seemed to be bustling
around. I was in a frozen space –
no feeling – nothing. I was led
away and went up to my room. But I
went back to my mother’s room and sat - as if
by sitting there I could bring her back.
Sister Angela, the Mother Superior, took me in
hand. She was a gentle, soft
spoken Irish woman, easy to be with.
I wanted my mother to be buried in Italy, no reason to take her back to
Brussels. We went down to Florence
to see if she could be buried in the English cemetery there, but were told it
was full. She could be buried in
the cemetery at Fiesole though, and Sister Angela made all the arrangements.
There was a short service at the Villa, with just the
priest, two sisters and myself. I
saw my mother one last time, lying in the coffin. In death her face looked stern. She had not had an easy
life. I bent to kiss her
forehead and sobbed briefly. We were
driven up to the cemetery, which lay on a hillside above Fiesole. Like all Italian cemeteries, the
gravestones were ornate, with photographs and statuary and many flowers. A
white wall, with still more burial urns set into it and vases on brackets for
flowers, enclosed the cemetery. It
was very pretty, colorful, and I liked the thought of my mother having her
final resting place there.
At some point I heard a little voice in my head which
said: ‘I’m glad.’ I put that thought quickly away.
I intended to stay on for a few days. At some point a strange thing
happened. I felt my mother inside
me, I felt her essence, she felt closer to me than she ever had in life, I felt
loved and protected. I felt very
calm and again, not quite in the real world.
I rang Brussels, hoping to speak to Mrs. Schoup and I
got Mr. Schoup.
“Good heavens!” he said when I gave him my news. This did not seem like an adequate
response, but I asked him if he would let my boss know.
I wrote letters to everyone I could think of to let
them know of my mother’s death.
Once I had done that there seemed no point in staying on longer and I
returned to Brussels. As soon as I arrived in Brussels I went back to work. About a week had elapsed since my
mother’s death.
I was still being sustained by the sense of my
mother’s presence inside me.
Everyone was very kind to me.
I think they were surprised to find me so calm. I remember saying to my boss:
“Tout le mal est passé et il n’y a que le bien qui
reste.”
“Oh, que c’est beau”, he replied. *
I returned to the School. There was an evening event and we had to wear long
dresses. Mrs. Schoup came up to
me.
“You look wonderful.”
I was perturbed by her comment. I told her of the little thought which
I had had.
“I shouldn’t worry about it” she said.
Slowly the feeling of my mother’s presence began to
leave me and after about two weeks it was gone altogether.
* All the bad has gone and only the good remains
Oh, that
is beautiful
