He alighted from the train with all the other student pilgrims from Paris. Most of them were Roman Catholics but he was Protestant. At least he was reared as one. Mostly he saw himself as incarnating the real meaning of the word, someone who protests. Indeed he quite admired Martin Luther who seemed to him to have a lot of courage especially when he nailed his 95 theses to the Wittenberg church door. It was the action of a radical student,and radicalism appealed to Gerard. He hated Thomas More whom he saw as a sanctimonious prick. Gerard was not taken in by A MAN FOR ALL SEASONS even though the theatre crowd was gaga about the play. A good play about an awful man. I guess Marx was right that religion is the opium of the people. Not that Gerard thought highly of the people, le peuple, the vulgar plebs, the hoi polloi, a Greek remark, a Latin word and one that's French as W. S. Gilbert quipped; Gerard was not one to throw up his sweaty nightcap to praise Pompey and then switch to Caesar. No, he was a person of reason. It was drummed into him at London University. Think first and then speak, sparingly.
All these thoughts flooded his mind as the trainload of Parisian students formed themselves into a mighty column of walkers, blocks of boys and girls on their way upwards to the shrine of St. Francis, the body of St. Clare and of course the priceless Giottos. The sound of the hymn to Mary echoed back and fore as one group sang the verse and the other the refrain.
Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grace,
le Seigneur est avec vous,
vous êtes bénie entre toutes les femmes,
et Jésus le fruit de vos entrailles est béni.
Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu, priez pour nous pauvres pécheurs, maintenant et à l’heure de notre mort.
I salute you Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. You are blesed among women and Jesus the fruit of thy womb is also blessed. Holy Mary, Mother of God. pray for us poor sinners, now and at the hour of our death.
Gerard, despite his reason, was overcome suddenly, hypnotized by the incantation, the religiosity, the fervor of his fellows. He raised his eyes in the deepening gloom to the great gate and the wall of the hill town of Assisi and there it was. He looked and looked and quite clearly saw the head of the saint, with a magnificent golden halo, the profile defined, St. Francis, the eyes lifted upward, mouth slightly open as in prayer and praise, the nose hopeful and seeking. He wondered if anyone else could see what he saw. Was he the only one. Was it a sign? Was he at nineteen at last finding the way to his destiny?
As they approached nearer he saw what he thought was his vision was the jagged edge of the walled gateway which they approached at an angle, the halo the result of a street lamp just inside the wall.
He felt let down. He had not seen a vision. It had been an illusion. The crowd pressed forward and poured into a residence. A monk looked at them sternly and asked in Italian who they were. As the French students looked somewhat confused, Gerard spoke up in his first year Italian, his English accent ringing out: Siamo pelegrini da Parigi. Ah, benvenuti, welcome, and the monk smiled at him. Even though he had not had a vision he was suddenly very popular with his fellow students. Maybe, he thought, that was a sign and he relaxed.
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