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It was as well I had left my final visit until after lunch, as it would have been seriously damaging to the most robust appetite. The Capuchin church, glimpsed through the locked grille, looked unremarkable. You would have passed it without a second glance - if it weren't for the crypt.
A couple of centuries ago, it was common for anyone who was - or had been - anybody, to be interred in open coffins among the ex-monks in the |
 Capuchin Church, Brno* |
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| crypt of the Capuchins. Whether the site was believed to confer extra sanctity on the departed, or whether it was just a fashionable idea which caught on, no-one now can remember. Quite simply, it became de rigueur for the smart set to join the party. No self-respecting corpse would be seen dead anywhere else.
And there they still lie, mummified in the fusty underground air, lined up to be admired, as they were in life, by the hoi polloi. Their faces are still disconcertingly human, although the cheekbones protrude and the lips are drawn back over yellow teeth; their once fine clothing is faded to a monochrome sepia. A sign over the entry reads MEMENTO MORI; in case the message hasn't got home, another inside reminds you with grisly relish, "TU" FUI; "EGO" ERIS. I was once you; you will become me. Whoever drew up the placings had a macabre sense of humour. Immediately inside the door was an alcove with three members of the same family. A tablet over their coffins named them: the brothers Grimm. |
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