(LifeSiteNews) — Like every writer, Gertrud von Le Fort (1876-1971) has a label attached to her and perhaps this is because she is little known today. Yet the “Catholic” author is artistically on a par with famous writers such as Werfel or Mann; her stories are timeless and always seem as if they were written for times like these.
Le Fort writes clairvoyantly, perhaps prophetically, and her texts reflect a timeless present. They never become unfashionable or obsolete, and this applies most of all to her most important novella, “The Song at the Scaffold.”
This is about the largely authentic fate of the Carmelite nuns of Compiègne during the French Revolution. The story is told by a first-person narrator in the form of a letter; in October 1794, he tells a friend about the martyrdom of the sisters. The reader is transported back to the late 18th century, right down to the intricacies of the language; above all, however, the spiritual attitude of the Carmelite nuns is brought closer.
When “The Song at the Scaffold” was published in 1931, this was a long way off. It was the time of the Great Depression and mass unemployment, the time that paved the way for Hitler. In the same year, Kästner’s novel “Fabian” summed up this mood. In her novella, however, Le Fort seismographically senses the disaster that is to come: As if mirrored, she writes about an imminent upheaval, about the end of the “ancien regime.” She writes about despotism and terror, about the darkest aspects of the revolution. Above all, however, she writes about the devil in man, whether his name is Hitler or Robespierre. The novella can easily be interpreted against this background; the historical subject then becomes a cipher of the Nazi era.
But Le Fort is about more than that. She is neither a political writer nor is she concerned with the French Revolution. Instead, she is concerned with fear and its Christian meaning; basically, she is concerned with Christianity per se. You could say she is concerned with an introductory poetic course in Christianity, which she develops from the frame story.
When the revolution begins, Blanche de la Force enters the Carmel of Compiègne. Contrary to her hopes, however, the events do not stop at the monasteries. They were quickly targeted by the laws of the new rulers, and the persecution of the Church began. Violence and terror flared up, especially among the Jacobins. When the king is beheaded, the Carmelite nuns make a decision: they offer their lives to Christ for the salvation of France – it sounds political, but it is not.
The sisters are concerned with more than politics: they give their lives as atonement for the atrocities of the revolution. Shortly afterward, they are actually convicted in a show trial; one by one, they sacrifice themselves on the scaffold. Shortly afterward, Robespierre falls: the reign of terror is over.
Le Fort is very much guided by these historical facts and unfolds her narrative against this backdrop, which revolves around the central idea of vicarious sacrifice: “France will not be saved by the zeal of its politicians, but by the prayers and sacrifices of its victimized souls: today is the great hour of Carmel! That was the tone to which all those silent women at Compiègne tuned themselves at the time; they were consciously preparing for martyrdom.”
This may seem strange to today’s readers; who likes to sacrifice themselves? It doesn’t suit modern people, not even in 1931 and even less so today. In any case, hardly anyone still knows terms like “sacrifice” and “atonement.”
In contrast, Le Fort’s view goes deeper: in the attitude of the Carmelite nuns, she uncovers the fundamental aspect of Christianity, the core on which it has always depended. This core consists of complete surrender, even of one’s own life, following the example of Christ’s sacrifice on the cross.
Without following the cross and without atonement, there are no Christians.
For many, this sounds “mystical” and perhaps even “hermetic,” but “atonement” can simply be understood as “openness,” as a willingness to personally and concretely share in the Lord’s sacrifice.
What applies to all Christians applies in a special way to Carmel because those who enter there ultimately offer themselves. This is not an egoism of salvation for the ultra-pious; on the contrary, it is about making others partakers of salvation.
This is the highest form of charity; it is about what is called the “salvation of souls.” Without such charity, all other forms of charity have no meaning, at least not a Christian one, and the sisters bear witness to this basic attitude of Christianity.
The novella adds a second, profound aspect to their martyrdom: human weakness, fear. This is also about the average believer, for whom Blanche de la Force stands. Unlike her fellow sisters, Blanche has no inner strength. She only knows fear. Her proud name does not disguise this; it is said that she should actually be called “de la Faiblesse.”
Even when Blanche joins the Carmel, she cannot escape her fear. Basically, she always remains the antithesis of a Carmelite, especially in comparison with her novice mistress, the dashing Marie de l’Incarnation. While the sisters consecrate themselves to martyrdom under her influence, Blanche finds refuge with Christ in Gethsemane: Blanche de la Force becomes “Sister Blanche of the Agony of Christ.” She senses that Christ first took fear upon himself before the cross, not just his own fear, but every fear, the fear of all people and times. That is why Christ’s fear of death has countless faces, and these faces are still everywhere today, such as the fear of war and of a “turning point in time,” which is precisely Blanche de la Force’s fear.
Blanche completely surrenders herself to Christ’s fear of death; she is seized by it to the very end. This is also heroic and in line with the Carmel. But one day, Blanche disappears from the convent. While the sisters prepare for her sacrifice, Blanche falls victim to her fear. Her own sacrifice is different: she remains faithful to fear, she becomes a martyr to fear. She shows that there is a pardoned fear that unites with Christ’s fear of death. This, too, can be a form of atonement that arises, as it were, from the acceptance of one’s own weakness. In the end, Blanche is given strength from this charisma: she is allowed to combine her sacrifice with that of the sisters. As they ascend the scaffold to the chanting of Veni Creator, Blanche is the last to join them.
From the place of execution, she spontaneously takes up the sisters’ song. Before the last voice dies away, Blanche sings the Gloria Patri and is then beaten to death by the mob. The narrator reports: “I clearly heard the confession of the triune God – I no longer heard the Amen.” He writes that in Blanche, they experienced “the miracle in the weak.” And in this miracle lies an “infinite hope.”
The pretty ideas of the Enlightenment, the new ideals of man in the spirit of Rousseau – they all ceased to be valid after the revolution, because “the human alone is not enough, not even the beautiful in human.”
Man is nothing of himself if he does not allow himself to be grasped by God, even if it is in his fear. That is what it is all about. And this is Le Fort’s introductory poetic course in Christianity. It is worth rediscovering it.