We are the first and the last, Aleidis and I. She was the first Grand Lady, who ran things here in 1270. Aleidis of Ayshove, we know little about her, which is why she is so quiet. And I, Hermina Hoogewijs, was the last to follow in her footsteps.
Grand Lady is far too fancy a word for me. I was never keen on pomposity, and apart from myself there were no other beguines to lead. But I was never lonely. I talked to Our Lord and Mary every day. Don't call me a bigot. I was a woman of flesh and blood, very different from what the bronze in which I am now cast might suggest. I loved a good laugh.
We still wore hoods the size of sailboats when I entered here in 1938, and long white cotton stockings too, and a black habit. I sometimes spent as long ironing and washing all my garments and underclothing as I did praying. I was the first beguine in this court to start wearing white nylon stockings. We also used to sleep in four-poster beds, with these white curtains that we closed at night. I threw those overboard too.
'Why, Hermina,' said the others. 'Are ye really going to get rid of your heavens?'
'There will be plenty of heaven coming later,' I said.
I don't know how many of us were here when I moved in. The church was still packed, on the cobblestones the rustling of our robes resounded as we walked to mass.
It became quieter and quieter here.
The court was beginning a new life. People from outside came to live there. Men too. A revolution.
I welcomed everyone; I never knew anything else. At home there were nine of us, and here I always lived with all these other sisters.
I loved talking, to everyone. I'm glad I can now gaze at the church here under the lime trees. At the passers-by, at the weddings, and that I can open my prayer book when I hear the Angelus, like I used to. I don't need any more heaven.
Are you really not going to say anything at all, Aleidis?