Tell Us Something About Yourself

The Archbishop’s daughter stopped by our pew. We had been alone, my theology student friend and I, listening to the organist practice his Bach, while a bird mocked his efforts, flitting and cawing in the high vaulting. The Archbishop’s daughter was tall and pretty, and socially at ease, with a brightness that suggested genuine interest in whomever she met. My friend introduced us, and as I stood to take her hand I remembered I was not wearing socks. I liked her immediately: she was the sort of girl who, when introduced, did not look at your feet.

She sat with us, occasionally looking at the bird above and smiling.

My friend asked her to join us in town for a hamburger. We took a table at an outdoor shop, and while we waited to be served she asked me how an American would prepare hamburgers. I explained the value of Worcestershire Sauce. While I spoke she watched my eyes, as if my eyes were doing the talking. I wondered if she didn’t somehow pity me.

That night, in my room at the monastery, I lay on my narrow bed and thought about her pretty face. I realized she might be plain but that her attentiveness and lack of weariness over convention probably gave her a well-serving inner light. It was very pleasant keeping the image of her face as I lay there. Then I thought better of it. In the morning I put on socks.