The bayeux tapestry [antikvár]

Foreword The bayeux tapestry . . . I discovered it long ago. I was twelve years old, the age when one grows out of childhood into adolescence, and niy craving for knowledge, for discovery, knew no bounds. I read everything, voraciously. 1 knew the great Norman writers. Corneille, Flaubert, Maupassant, Barbey d'Aurevilly. I was enthralled by a History of Normandy which celebrated the exalted deeds of the rough northmen of the past. The story of Rollo, who lifted the king of France's foot to his lips rather than submit to bow his head, filled me with enthusiasm. I knew the principal facts of the life of William, bastard, duke and king - and I knew that in a city called Bayeux there was a magnificent cathedral which held in its Treasury - from whence it emerged to be displayed in the chancel on the major feast days - a Tapestry which told in pictures the story of the conquest of England. I was a Norman from the other end of the province, beyond the Seine, and had travelled little; for me the existence of this remote city took on something of a mythical quality. I had just taken my primary school certificate, and, as a reward, my parents drove me across to Mont St Michel - quite an expedition at that time, in the 1930s, when many roads were still rocky or cobbled tracks. We had planned to travel by way of Bayeux and go to Mass on Assumption Day, 15 August. The bishop officiated, attended by his Chapter; it was a Pontifical High Mass. Magnificent! But where was the Tapestry? Nowhere to be seen. The service over, I dragged my parents off to explore the cathedral. Nothing. I caught sight of a verger in full dress, blazing with purple and gold, mustachioed like an ancient Gaul, with stockings a la française and halberd in hand; and I overcame my shyness sufficiently to approach him. 'Excuse me. Monsieur, but why is the Tapestry not on show today?' 'It is not shown in the cathedral, hasn't been for years. You have to go to the library for that, young man. Go out by the side door and it's just opposite.' 'Can't be done,' my father broke in, 'we haven't got time.' My world collapsed in bitter tears of disappointment. The verger, armed with all the majesty of his calling, turned on my father. 'Monsieur, it is just not possible to leave Bayeux without seeing the Tapestry.' My father gave in, and we went into the Deanery building, which housed the Tapestry. Upstairs, in a room which seemed to me immense, there was the masterpiece, all seventy metres of it, and 1 looked - and found myself drawn into the Tapestry, utterly absorbed by this legacy of the distant past. In my imagination, I moved among the characters, identifying myself now with one, now with another in turn. I was King Edward, and then, just as vividly, I became