Gay for XXX

(Recorded by the pen of Brother Andre Boulin des Barres, Lyon, 1762)



“A Monk’s Progress”



They called him Julian the Saint.



Not that he was chaste.



My friend was not even particularly pious, but as for all that, I loved him anyway.



He preferred spirited debate to humble supplication, the Science of Man to the Glory of God, and never failed to let me remember this-



“Andre,” he would say to me, smiling- and here poor Andre would be on his guard, for his smile was always treacherous-

“Andre, you must realize that men are their own gods.”



“Ludicrous,” I would murmur, laughing, for his nature did not offend me.



If anything I had always delighted in it, his unpredictability, his charm- I was secretly thrilled when he spoke words like those to me, for I knew that it was indeed Julian who spoke them.



They called him Julian the Saint, but it was more for the cut of his jib than the shape of his heart. More still for his smile- quick to bloom and slow to fade, and his manner, the epitome of Grecian grace. And- I am sure- for his pale eyes, limpid like water- his hair of gilt cream, waving softly to shoulder. For those things, he might have been an angel.



Ah, is my affection not evident?



And indeed, he did resemble the paintings I beheld when I raised my head from prayer- often I thought of Julian d’Artaugn when my eye was cast upon the glorious likeness of the Archangel Michael, and I was glad, for I missed him.



My friend, for all his merry heresy, was beloved of me.



It had been scarcely two years since I had seen him- though his letters came with unusual consistency- and the memory of our acquaintance was one I had cherished since we had become men and gone on to our respective métiers-



He to the coffeehouse, I to the cloister.



Yes, I am a priest- a monk, for I live among brothers; our abbey- a keep, in the woods just outside of Lyon.



And much further outside of Versailles, where Julian dallies in the idle court, biding his time until his father’s lands are his. He has written of women, of courtiers- and enthusiastically, of courtesans- of dancing and King Louis’ deplorable wretchedness at it, and more, of women.



And then, this, which came by courier one evening, and was given to me by the Abbott- a letter, known to me by its seal, was put in my hand.



I was, of course, from Julian d’Artaugn, now of Versailles- I recognized the backward slant of his hand, and rejoiced, for I had not expected another letter to come, so quickly on the heels of the last.



I tore it open and found it brief, little more than four lines, and though I tried in vain to banish such greed in reaction, I was disappointed.



‘ “Dearest Andre, or is it Unseemly to call you anything but Father? I know not! Perhaps you might Edify me in the Flesh, as I will be Passing through Lyon on My way to my Father’s house. My Intent was to take a bed at the Monastery, where I might both pass the night and spend it with my Erstwhile Friend. Will you not Welcome me?



my Devotion, Julian Emile Rouchant d’Artaugn ‘



Will you not welcome me? I mouthed the words, for I could not speak, having taken the vow.



Would I not welcome him?



My joy was boundless- my friend would again be here- that we might reminisce, of our boyhood, our days in Jesuit school- we might talk once more-



But even as I thought it, I realized it could not be as it was.



I had taken the vow.



I could not speak to him, nor laugh at his sharp jests- I could only listen. I could but listen, and quietly admire the charm of his words. I could but listen, and silently adore.



It is enough, I thought, wild in my joy.



It was not mine to ask for more, when the Lord had graciously seen fit to bring him tome.



I passed the days in a haze of anticipation, as I transcribed, as I studied, as my candle burned late into the night.



In the margins of these crumbling texts there were sometimes little notes, scrawled absently by long-dead scholars, by my brothers before me, centuries gone now- yet these little scribbles endured, as proof of their existence, their devotion, their humanity.



I studied one of these, struggling to form the breaks over the words, to translate the old Gaelic. I managed, with the exception of but two words that were lost to age, weathered beyond even the grasp of my excellent young eyes.



It has broken us, it has crushed us, it has ___ us, oh King of the star-bright kingdom of Heaven! The wind has consumed us, swallowed us, as ____ is devoured by crimson fire from Heaven!



What had he been thinking of, the author of this?



I did not know the context, not precisely, but it stirred me- and I thought, surely this resonates with me because it was written in the praises of God.



The passion of it was clear- and was it not because I was a servant of the Lord that I felt such affinity?



Despite his saintly moniker, Julian d’Artaugn had not understood it- my friend did not think me fit for a life behind the walls of a cloister.



When first I told him I would be going into the priesthood, his eyes had drawn up in horror.



“You cannot,” he had uttered, stricken. “Why, think, Andre- you shall be a prisoner- and of God, at that! No, no. This is mad.”



I had merely shaken my head and smiled.



“There is nothing for it, Mon frere- I am the youngest son.”



“Don’t call me brother,” he’d shuddered, “for all too soon your brothers will be consigned to the same fate as you.”



“Please,” I said, gently. “Do not think ill of my choice- or if you must think ill of it, think fondly of me.”



He rolled his eyes.



“I will never,” he sighed, “think ill of you. Only of Fate.”



The bells awoke me; it was nightfall, and I had fallen asleep in the library over the great, crumbling book- my senses flooded with the rich scent of its ancientness, the dust of centuries.



I rose slowly, stretching, and went down to supper with my brothers at our table, which was laid with cream and cross buns, meat and figs and apricots. We do not eat as modestly as the hermits of old, I will confess- nor do we pine or suffer such great denial- such is the way of the modern world, and I do not begrudge it.



There are other things that I know of at work in the priesthood, things at one time thought ultimately blasphemous, that have become almost banal in our century- this age de lumieres. I never spoke of these, for reasons made obvious earlier, and I do not write of them, for they are known.



But I have seen them.



If it does not malign God, whispered Brother Adrien, or compromise his work, then it is not impiety,

Frere Andre.



Adrien was languorous, golden-haired, and had always preferred the pursuit of brotherly love. In the bosom of Christ he had found a refuge.



“Surely God cannot condone- what you endeavor,” I had said, fearful of the cast of his laconic gaze. “It is implicit sacrilege.”



He had laughed, and he had a silvery laugh, not unlike a maid- but with a young man’s depth.



“Pauvre Andre,” he had said in a hush. “Let me comfort you- let me ease your mind.”



For a moment I blanched. Could I do what he implied- was it even possible that I could go forward with such an unnatural act? That I could learn to accept what he suggested?



But no, he was too like Julian- though not so masculine in form and features, I saw my closest friend in his fair hair, the blue of his eyes- and that, I could never bear.



We had gazed with sheep’s eyes at shepherdesses, we had grown up together; Julian breezily wrote of a drawer that overflowed with prizes, ribbons he’d gleaned from the garters of demoiselles.



No, if it was to be like this, for me, it must not be with thoughts of him in mind.



I would like to believe it was the horror of sin itself that drove me from the vault that day, but to say this would be a lie, and that is a clear sin in the eyes of God, even among the many arguable sins.



No, it was not that.



And because it was not that, I found myself outside the door of Frere Christophe that night, when all was quiet. I knocked and he answered, smiling kindly when he saw me- and asked what I needed, letting me into his room.



I told him of Adrien, of my fears, of my doubts. And Christophe had smiled, wearily, and put his hand on my shoulder.



“There is no irreverence in love,” he said. “Perhaps you do not wish to love Adrien in this way- but God will not punish you if you choose to do so- with another.”



How could that be, I asked him, but I had weakened already, before I sought the solace of his wisdom.



“God rejoices in brotherly love among us,” Christophe told me. His eyes were hazel and mild, and he kissed my forehead as he said it. He could not have been more than nine and twenty, but his serenity was complete.



His thick black hair was nothing like Julian’s.



It was the next morning that I took the vow of silence, after administering thirty sharp blows to my own back- the whip to punish, the silence, to chastise.



Since then I had been mute, and immaculate.



Adrien eyed me, even now, across the table, but I had naught to do but smile pleasantly and nod.



“A horse,” said the Abbot, from the window, hands behind his back. “We have a guest to accommodate- will you go out and meet him, Frere Jean-François? Frere Anton?”



My heart leapt, and me with it. I rose from the table and went quickly with them- cautious, hardly daring to hope; yet, as I saw the passenger who dismounted the handsome Andalusion, I knew him-



It could only be Julian d’Artaugn.



I wanted to shout his name, but mindful of my sacred vow unto God, caught myself before that should happen. Instead I rushed forward, halting a few yards away to let him orient himself, as the Abbot greeted him with a bow of humility.



“Good evening, Monsigneur- you are welcome in our house. Will you allow us to take your horse to the stables?”



Julian nodded his assent, removing his riding gloves and tricorne hat.



He glanced around, and his eye fell upon me, a short distance away.



“Andre!” he exclaimed. “Is that truly you-?”



Julian’s face was a study of delight, and a study in masculine perfection- sculptors might find lessons in the work of God, here, I thought.



His eyebrows arched in vivacious complement to his brightened gaze as he broke ground and came toward me, quickly, catching me by the upper arms.



He looked me over once, as if to be sure it was really I, Andre Boulin des Barres, who stood before him in this guise- then he embraced me with complete joyful abandon, clapping me vigorously on the back, embracing me once more- and through all this I could do nothing but smile.



My rough cassock was at great disparity, even with the relative plainness of his riding clothes- beside his court clothes the contrast should be unimaginable- but he wore not these, although I had seen them, as well as worn them often enough before pledging my life to Christ.



“To see you- I cannot express it! My friend, how I’ve missed you- ”



He faltered, still beaming, but lost for words.



“Will you say nothing?” he exclaimed, at last.



I opened my mouth, and readied my hands- intending to play an elaborate game of charades if need be- but Frere Anton, who was little more than a boy, came to Julian’s side, bowing as he did.



“Monsigneur, I am sorry, but he cannot. Frere Andre has taken the oath of silence,” the boy told him, expressing regret.



Julian seemed struck dumb for a moment, as well, and I thought I might have company in my undertaking, but then he seemed to recover, drawing up, a quizzical expression painting his features.



“Well!” He said. “Marry that.”



There was a silence- because Julian wasn’t speaking.



“You’re quite serious about this, aren’t you?” he said, at last, attempting to jest.



I smiled widely, and because I knew not what else to do, held out my arms.



He laughed and embraced me once more.



“Strange,” he said, touching my hair briefly, “to see you outside without a periwig.”



“Monsigneur- I gather you are known to our brother?”



The Abbott approached, addressing Julian, with a hand on my shoulder.



Julian smiled, his charming smile, the one that had garnered that most sanctimonious nickname- it smoothed over his lips like afternoon sunlight.



“Yes, Abbe, a most devoted childhood friend.”



“How wonderful of you to come, Maitre-?”



“D’Artaugn.”



“Please, let us give you hospice. We cannot offer you a room of your own, as we are but men of God, with simple means- but you may take Andre’s bed, as he will doubtless wish it- and he shall sleep quite well on the floor.”



Julian began to dissent, but I put my hand on his arm and nodded, vehemently, yes- that I wished it thus, and he relented, following me to my chamber with his modest satchel in tow.



My room was spare, but not without aesthetic- though doubtless it was positively barren from the perspective of a courtier, accustomed to the gilt and flash of Versailles. The monastery had been built in the 13^th century, and the walls were stone, plastered over sometime in the previous century for warmth. They were smooth but uneven, yellowed to a deep cream over time, aged toward a fawn patina in places, with a few hollowed ledges molded here and there for candles, that one might read into the night.



Inside this room was my low, flat bed- wide enough to accommodate another, should I need to tend the sick- a washstand and basin, a table and a chair.



The single adornment on the wall was a crucifix.



Julian gazed over this, slowly, as I took his satchel from him and set it by the door.



“Truly,” he said in wonder, “this looks like the domicile of a cenobite- almost hallowed.”



I raised my eyebrows and curved my lips in a silent laugh, and Julian did the same, then he sighed.



“Ah, Andre- Mon ami, how I well would love to hear you speak.”



I nodded, and of course, I wished for nothing more- to tell him, if nothing else, how much his letters meant- how much his bawdy, irreverent epistles cheered me in my solitude.



Shaking my head I put out my hands, appealingly, as if to show him it was out of their influence, and he smiled.



“But wait-” he said, abruptly. “It is an oath of silence, that is what you’ve taken- not an oath- of words?”



Realization began to dawn in my mind, bells rung, as I began to nod.



“Can you write?” he asked, his eyes wide. “I’ve a ledger.”



I nodded, anxious, gesturing for it.



“Ah, good!” he said, laughing. “That is something, in any case.”



He procured a bound book from his satchel and handed it to me, and I, finding a lead, set at once to writing.



Where is your valet? I wrote. How is it you did not come by coach?



Julian glanced over my shoulder, interest lighting his face.



“Ah- as to that- he, the coach and footmen elected to stay at the inn in Lyon- I determined that I shouldn’t need them for this, but one night-”



I nodded, pleased at his response- at being able to speak with him at last, and he smiled, slowly, and indicated that I should write more.



I did so, eagerly, noting his face.



Are you weary, my friend? Do you wish to retire?



“Not overly weary, no- are you?”



I shook my head.



Wine, then? I asked. Perhaps a bath?



We had no shortage of wine, as we tended our own vineyard. It filled our cellars in casks higher than I- casks with great heavy taps that required all the strength in one’s arms to turn.



Julian laughed.



“A bath,” he said. “Then the wine.”



Julian the Saint, I scrawled. Indeed.



He rolled his eyes.



“I’ve never called myself anything of the sort- besides, isn’t wine the blood of Saints?”



He had removed his fashionably sleek, powdered perruke, and I was gratified, somehow, at the sight of his angelic hair, tied back loosely at the nape of his neck, shorter strands framing his face as they came free.



No- wine is the blood of grapes, Monsigneur.



He laughed and embraced me once again.



“Come, show me where you bathe.”



I led him down the narrow tunnel of spiraling stairs, through the kitchens, into an adjacent room. Here were shallow tubs of the kind used by simple folk and inns, as well as by abbots and nuns- merely a huge brass platter with slightly lipped, raised edges- that one might pour water over oneself while standing on.



I knew this to be known most commonly as a “whore’s bath”, for it was thusly that women in the bawdy houses tidied up betwixt clientele- but I had never heard it called as much here, for obvious reasons.



Still less so at the convent, I suspected, smiling to myself at the impropriety of my thoughts.



Fortuitously, Frere Anton had been heating water in the great kettle over the stove with which to do the laundry, and there was plenty left for our use, once I had mixed kettle and cold to a pleasing temperature.



When I returned to the anteroom, Julian had divested himself of his just-au-corps, his shirt, the ribbon at his throat, so that only his breeches remained. I turned to set down the basin and when I saw him again, the breeches, too, were gone.



He had changed in form, had Julian the Saint, I thought fondly, as I untied the coarse cord of my sash, and slipped off my vestment. Shoulders broadened, all conforming in time, to the ideal of man- no longer was his body that of a boy cast over a man’s frame.



I stood naked now, as I reached for the basin, having only my cassock to shed. We went barefoot, as a rule, inside the abbey- and had no use for garments of modesty.



“What is this, Andre- you’ve gained the body of a pugilist in the service of God,” Julian exclaimed, and I saw that he was looking at me, bemused.



I smiled faintly, unsure of what he meant, and tried to look askance.



He nodded, vigorously.



“Truly, all this labor has made you Herculean.”



While I was not Herculean, exactly, anymore than he was saintly, I understood what he meant. I had not seen myself clearly for some time- mindful of the sin of vanity, there were no mirrors at the abbey- yet I had felt my body as it was torn down and rebuilt, and noticed certain things.



I took up more space in the material world- and although I had not closely examined myself, eager to be self-effacing, I had noticed the twining musculature in my arms and legs, had I not?



Hadn’t Adrien said something about it, in that awful way of his?



Pouring water over myself as Julian had done I studied him from beneath the cascade of my dampening hair. He was slightly leaner than I, though still considerably made, yet his muscles were wrought more definitely under the smooth noble skin, which he carelessly washed with a muslin cloth and our rough ash soap.



Water clung to my lashes and I blinked, taking up a cloth with which to scrub my flesh. I ran the cloth over the contours of my mortal being, allowing myself to view it- at least perceive it- although strictly it was not right that I should do so. Self-awareness was internal, as taught by God. A body- this was but a transient vessel.



Men are their own Gods.



I remembered Julian saying this to me, years ago.



How sacrilegious, such a statement!



Yet, I allowed, if it were true- if it were true- surely Julian d’Artuagn would be Apollo.



He rinsed the soap from his body with another tip of the basin, and I regretted that we had no better, that this court-born skin, that had never been lathed by anything coarser than rosewater and goats’ milk from Provence should be subjected to ash and lye.



“Most excellent, that,” Julian pronounced, as he dried himself with another muslin. He seemed hale, exuberant and hardly concerned by the conditions of our existence, which I found nothing short of remarkable.



I dried my own skin and returned to my cassock, slowly tightening the rope sash across my loins.