"There is no truth in what that young man has said," she answered.
"He has abused both my name and Mr. Presley's. My name is not nearly as
interesting to the press, but it does make a good story. So it is not
right for this young man to try to create such an atmosphere in order to
further his career."
There was no reason to disbelieve her, since many of the nuns
happily admit love affairs before taking holy orders--as well as
temptations afterward. I asked her what kind of life she led there? Did
she work or just pray?
"I do all sorts of work here. In fact, I would like to invite you
to visit and stay at the abbey because you have certainly been gracious
and kind to me. I would like to extend our hospitality. Monastic life is
very simple. You'd have to come up and see. But I cannot promise you we
would ever meet. Would you like to stay?"
THE FOLLOWING WEEKEND THE CROTCHETY, BESPECTACLED SISTER Mary
Elisabeth picked me up at the bus station in a big, scarred station wagon
and drove me toward the aptly named Bethlehem. Only seven of the 47 nuns
ever leave the estate to do chores--such as collecting me. The rest spend
the remainder of their lives there.
"I hope your cell's not too hot," said the sister. "We have no
air-conditioning, and it's almost 100 degrees today. Hot for
haymaking."
I stayed at a cottage for male visitors. My cell was tiny, hot,
austere: exactly like the nuns' cells in their quarters. As I stood
peering at the "enclosure"--a wall surrounding the sisters' living
area--I heard the roar of a tractor as it whizzed by, just missing me by
a hair--a determined and somewhat ancient nun at the wheel, driving at
top speed.
Later, I heard bells ringing and saw a nun driving a chariot pulled
by two oxen--my introduction to the bucolic pleasures of Mother Dolores'
life after Hollywood.
WANDERING around the 400 acres, I found the most active nuns I
could have imagined: Mother Stephen, head of the farm (she bears one of
the abbey's splendid array of medieval titles: Land Master), was feeding
cows, supervising strawberry picking, haymaking, and milking. She called
each cow by its nickname and fed it by hand. When I asked her about
Mother Dolores, she shrugged as she poured out the hay: "Everyone here is
blessed with some special gift."
In between all this muscular activity, the nuns have a praying
routine that fills up most of their days. They must also rise at 1:15
A.M. to sing Matins for an hour and then again at 6:15 A.M. for Laudins.
Bells ring to summon them to prayer.
At 8 the next morning I attended Mass. The nuns were huddled on the
other side of the altar, behind a wooden grille, singing like celestial
canaries in incomprehensible Latin. I could not see whether Mother
Dolores was there or not--the grille was too dense, the curtain too
opaque.
By a rather bizarre coincidence that Mother Dolores would most
likely call the "Will of God," Father-Abbot Matthew Stark's "early
morning homily" (as the nuns call his sermon) began: "in a time when the
word 'awesome' is used to describe a slice of pizza and it is said that
Elvis lives while God is dead, it is easy to see how out of touch we are
with the glory of the Lord."
After Mass I was summoned by the Guest Master (another medieval
title), Mother Placid, who has been at the abbey since 1949. I walked to
the edge of the enclosure wall and around the back of it to a little
door. I knocked. A voice said "Enter.' There was another door on which a
sign read SAINT PLACID. I knocked again and entered. The jolly and
energetic nun sat on the other side of a wooden grill to enlighten me
about the lives of the saints. It was so hot that both Mother Placid, who
was 66 and of course wearing her full habit, and I were sweating
profusely in the little parlor of Saint Placid.
She asked if I would like to work that day, and I told her I would
like to help with the harvest. "Mother Stephen will be delighted," she
smiled.
"And will I able to meet Mother Dolores?" I asked.
Mother Placid shrugged gaily. "She's very busy, but maybe you'll be
lucky...."
THE SUN WAS BEATING down on the rich, golden fields. It was the
hottest day of a record-breaking heat wave. Mother Stephen was driving a
bale-making machine behind her tractor while I worked with some nuns and
volunteers piling up the bales, throwing them onto trucks, and then
unloading them into bales near the dairy cows. It was hard work. Mother
Stephen insisted we drink every five minutes, and the nuns prepared huge
vats of iced lemon juice to prevent us from getting heat stroke.
The scene was surreal if idyllic--something from another century.
But the strangest part was that the nuns were harvesting in their black
habits as if they were in chapel. Yet they worked very hard, sweating and
laboring in the dust and heat as if they were farmers.
But there was still no sign of Mother Dolores.
I must admit that I had expected long, cold, stone corridors and
nuns lamenting in Latin behind iron grilles--not this sort of rural
paradise. These nuns were so muscular that they could throw bales of hay
10 feet in the air, to the very top of the stack. When I tried the same
feat, I almost dislocated my arm. The nuns, their habits covered in hay
stubble and earth, hooted with laughter at my lack of strength.
Tags:
abbey of regina laudis,
benedictine order,
bethlehem connecticut,
cold stone,
Dolores Hart,
elvis presley,
exquisite beauty,
grace kelly,
hollywood fame,
horse drawn carriages,
king creole,
love affair,
nun,
oxen,
plows,
prayer,
pythonesque,
rat race,
rigors,
rumor,
s child,
scandal,
simon sebag montefiore,
sinister place
