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Back Margery Kempe Save as PDF
Chapters (69)
  1. Cover
  2. Biographical Notes
  3. Title Page
  4. INTRODUCTION
  5. MARGERY KEMPE
  6. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  7. Dedication
  8. Front
  9. PART ONE
  10. 1
  11. 2
  12. 3
  13. 4
  14. 5
  15. 6
  16. 7
  17. 8
  18. 9
  19. 10
  20. 11
  21. 12
  22. 13
  23. 14
  24. 15
  25. 16
  26. PART TWO
  27. 17
  28. 18
  29. 19
  30. 20
  31. 21
  32. 22
  33. 23
  34. 24
  35. 25
  36. 26
  37. 27
  38. 28
  39. 29
  40. 30
  41. 31
  42. PART THREE
  43. 32
  44. 33
  45. 34
  46. 35
  47. 36
  48. 37
  49. 38
  50. 39
  51. 40
  52. 41
  53. 42
  54. 43
  55. 44
  56. 45
  57. 46
  58. PART FOUR
  59. 47
  60. 48
  61. 49
  62. 50
  63. 51
  64. 52
  65. 53
  66. 54
  67. 55
  68. 56
  69. MY MARGERY, MARGERY’S BOB

He stood up and she followed him into the dusty garden. “If it were possible I would weep with you.” He hesitated, dazzled; he smelled sage. With his feet turned out and his knock-knees and his broad hips tipped forwards and his pointed nose in the air, Margery observed with tender hilarity that her lover looked like an ostrich.

Random fires on the black hills. Clumsy beige moths that crumbled into dry smudges when she touched them. Above, inky clouds lifted in the twilight: it was a longing within her. She never forgot that night. She said, “Jesus, grant me a well of tears through which to receive your body.”

23

An English priest, one of the pilgrims, was attracted to Margery. He was a thin man in his early twenties with wiry black hair. Black curls were sprouting on his butt; he watched them grow with a puzzled expression. He needed to be vindicated. He recognized in Margery the fireworks he wished to ignite in himself, as though unfettered passion were available to everyone, and he locked her in a fixed, painstaking squint. He did not dispute that she had supernatural gifts—but were they malevolent?

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The sun was so bright the shadows of trees seemed to ride on water instead of white dirt. Margery needed support in Rome. She took her broken-backed man to Wenslawe, the priest at St. John Lateran, who asked in German, “Are you the woman who speaks with Jesus?” She was becoming famous.

Wenslawe understood no English so they spoke through Richard. The priest was learned and beloved; he held one of the richest offices in Rome—jasper, malachite, onyx, opal, lapis, and alabaster. He was blond, solemn, his face square as a shoebox. Wenslawe did not have much Promethean fire. Inside himself he was always raising his hand to his forehead, a flighty, hapless gesture at odds with his looks. Margery asked him to pray to understand her English and she would also pray for understanding.

The English priest spread rumors about Margery because her white clothes turned the earth of his heart upside down. His wish to become Margery made him hostile, frightening. He was so critical that people began to justify their existence before they met his ferreting eyes. Margery undressed with her back to the window; she felt observed all the time. He watched her narrowly and said, “You make me sick.” In fact, he was always feeling for the onset of disease. He called Margery hypocrite and whore till the pilgrims refused to eat with her and she was thrown out of the Hospital of St. Thomas.

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