what could she call it, a notion, a suggestion, a promise? This promise that somebody was coming back for her. It was both a comfort and a great frustration to Montse, this. As she grew up, the lock of every door and cupboard in the monastery was tested, to no avail. Please call her Montserrat.Ī golden chain was fastened around her neck, and on that chain was a key. You have a Black Madonna here, so you will know how to love this child almost as much as I do. In looking upon that great lady, the monk received a measure of her unquestioning love and fell to his knees to pray for further guidance, only to find that he’d knelt on a slip of paper that the baby had dislodged with her wriggling. His eyes met the wooden eyes of the Virgin of Montserrat, a mother who has held her child on her lap for centuries, a gilded child that doesn’t breathe or grow. The monk who found this basket searched desperately for an explanation. The child had got lost in a corner of it, but courageously wriggled her way back up to the top fold of the blanket in order to peep out. And the baby was so wriggly and minuscule that the basket she was found in looked empty at first glance. Once upon a time in Catalonia a baby was found in a chapel. This was over at Santa Maria de Montserrat.
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