A Vow Of Silence

by Veronica Black

‘When is general confession?’

  ‘Not until Friday evening,’ Sister Lucy told her. ‘The penances here are very light. Reverend Mother Ann believes the religious life should be a happy and satisfying one.’

  ‘If you imagine,’ Sister Joan’s own Novice Mistress had said, ‘that you will upon taking your perpetual vows enter at once into an existence of perpetual bliss, let me disillusion you forthwith. Being a nun is not automatically a happy situation to be in and your old faults will surface always when you least expect them. Penance is the discipline of the soul, a discipline that must not be carried to extreme, but must be carried out whenever the personal will threatens to overrule the Will of God.’

  ‘I will come with you to religious instruction,’ Sister Lucy said. ‘We meet in the Prioress’s parlour. The room that used to be the library? I told you.’

  ‘Yes, you did.’ Sister Joan hastened her step as the other went rapidly along the narrow corridor and across the hall.

  There had been some slight rearrangement of furniture in the parlour, the tapestry-covered sofas having been pushed back and some stools brought in. Reverend Mother Ann however still occupied a comfortable basket chair. Other members of the Community were filing in, save for the old ladies, the lay sisters and Sister Hilaria.

  ‘Are we all present then?’ The Prioress looked around expectantly at the eight attentive faces before her.

  ‘All present and correct, Reverend Mother Ann.’

  Another moment, Sister Joan thought, and Mother Emmanuel might start saluting.

  ‘As Sister Joan is the newcomer among us,’ the Prioress said, ‘I propose to spend a few minutes explaining the purpose of this instruction. Of course it is the custom in each of our Houses that on five days of the week a period of religious instruction is held every afternoon between five thirty and seven. The form this takes is dependent upon the Prioress. For my own part I feel strongly that since Vatican Two a breath of fresh air has blown through our doctrine. Open discussion, even dissension, is the norm instead of the exception. The old certainties are dissolving.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Sister Joan thought wryly, ‘we have a raging liberal here.’ In her limited experience, inside every liberal was a diehard traditionalist.

  ‘Reverend Mother Ann has been examining some of the new ideas now being aired in certain quarters,’ Mother Emmanuel said. ‘We have been looking at the possibility of women priests.’

  ‘His Holiness has ranged himself on the side of the conventional thinkers, men who do not believe there is any place for the female within the liturgy of the Church save as silent sisters. What is your opinion, Sister Joan?’

  The Prioress smiled at her encouragingly. Sister Joan felt a tremor of alarm.

  ‘May I be permitted to listen for a while, Reverend Mother?’ she asked. ‘I am not used to this kind of completely open discussion.’

  ‘But you must have some opinion, Sister,’ Sister Dorothy said. ‘I noticed you borrowed Isis In Palestine.’

  ‘One of my late father’s most successful books.’ Reverend Mother Ann looked gratified.

  ‘I fail to see—’ Sister Joan hedged.

  ‘Isis was the generic name given to the Mother Goddess of the human race,’ the Prioress said. ‘It was my dear father’s opinion that Our Lady was in the same tradition, and ought therefore to be worshipped in partnership with Her Spouse.’

  Mariolatry run mad, Sister Joan thought. She said cautiously,

  ‘I was always taught that worship is given only to the Blessed Trinity and that hyperdulia, great respect, is to be paid to Our Blessed Lady.’

  ‘We are in the Age of Aquarius,’ Sister Lucy said brightly.

  ‘A pertinent point. Women are now coming into their own. My late father was of the opinion that originally all religious ritual was in the hands of the women, but that this was superseded by the patriarchal beliefs and practices of the early Israelites. Now the Goddess is coming into her own again.’

  With a silent spasm of hysterical laughter Sister Joan wondered if the Bishop was ever invited to one of these sessions. She thought it highly unlikely.

  ‘In ancient times,’ Mother Emmanuel said, ‘the prettiest young girls laid their virginity at the service of the Goddess. There is a most interesting passage about that in Isis In Palestine, Sister. It explains a great deal.’

  ‘Is Veronica pretty and a virgin?’ the Prioress had asked.

  ‘Sister Magdalen was very pretty,’ someone had said.

  Sister Joan sat very still, letting the voice of the Prioress slide past her. What was being discussed here was as near to heresy as made no difference. Were the novices being fed this pagan viewpoint? Was that why Sister Magdalen had left so abruptly? Why Sister Sophia had hanged herself?

  She slid her eyes along the row, noting expressions and attitudes. Mother Emmanuel was leaning forward slightly, her eyes intent on Reverend Mother Ann, her head nodding frequent agreement. A woman nearing sixty trapped in the emotions of her teenage years. Sister Dorothy sat hunched up, the late afternoon sunlight striking the lenses of her spectacles so that she looked curiously blind and mole-like. Sister Lucy was running her tongue round the inside of her lips like a cat that scents milk or a mouse. Sister David was listening with an expression of such intelligence on her face that Sister Joan wondered if she knew what they were talking about. Sisters Martha and Katherine sat side by side looking blank. At the end of the semicircle Sister Perpetua’s hand gripped her crucifix so tightly that the knuckles showed white.

  Something about a crucifix. No, a statue. Something about a statue. Her mind groped but failed to bring the image into focus.

  She ought to have asked Sister Margaret for a sandwich. Her stomach was growling. Reverend Mother Ann was talking about the Canaanites and their worship of Astarte. She had some good points to make, Sister Joan admitted, pressing her hand against her stomach. The link between paganism and Christianity was too seldom explored, but the Prioress seemed to be suggesting that one should regress to the other. Her stomach growled again and Sister David gave a stifled giggle.

  ‘Sister Joan went without her lunch because she was busy at the school,’ Mother Emmanuel said.

  ‘Sister, you must go at once to the kitchen and ask for something to tide you over until suppertime,’ Reverend Mother Ann said. ‘You are excused.’

  She sounded relieved rather than annoyed to be rid of a disruptive influence in the quality of her audience.

  Sister Joan gripped her book, rose obediently and bowed, receiving in return the ice-cream smile.

  To the right of the Prioress the last rays of scarlet sun gilded the statue.

  Sister Joan must have walked to the door and opened it and passed through because she found herself on the other side of it in the antechamber. She stood, staring at the smooth panels, trying to decide if the Prioress or any of the others were aware that the Madonna in the parlour was an exact copy of the crowned Isis she had once admired in the British Museum. The museum statue had been of dark red marble or porphyry. This one was of smooth pale wood. The splashing red of the falling sun had focused the image in her mind. Quite unbidden there rose up in her mind the entirely impious question,

  ‘What the hell’s going on here?’

  EIGHT

  Though her stomach was still growling Sister Joan turned not in the direction of the kitchen, but in the direction of her cell. Perhaps it was time to have a look at the book she had borrowed.

  Isis In Palestine was, as she had surmised, an analysis of the Mother Goddess cult in the Holy Land, written in a fluent but scholarly style that was pleasant to read. Professor Gillespie clearly knew his subject and took a faintly mischievous delight in tracing connections between the worship of Astarte/Isis and the Catholic devotion shown to the Virgin Mary. There were several photographs of many-breasted Dianas and of the professor himself at the sites of various digs. What she failed to find as she skimmed through it was any spark of truly original research. Professor Gillespie le
aned fairly heavily on the work of previous investigators, and seldom bothered to credit them with having done the research first. The impression she gleaned was of a man whose undoubted intelligence was derivative rather than initiative and whose personality was a mixture of charm and egotism. She suspected that he had bequeathed those qualities to his daughter. Which did nothing to solve the mysteries of the death of Sister Sophia or the abrupt departure of Sister Magdalen. She would have to find out more about the former. There would be the official notice of her death which was sent round to all the convents. It had been sent to her own mother House but she clearly hadn’t been paying attention when it was read out. There would be a copy of it in the library and time to read it before she had to go in to supper. She put the book on the shelf next to her Bible and Missal and went swiftly along the corridor and down the stairs.

  The wing containing the guest parlour and chapel with the library and storerooms above was deserted, only the Perpetual Lamp dissipating the twilight. She switched on the overhead light on the narrow stairs and went briskly up them.

  The death notices were in a series of books, one for each decade since the founding of the order. Five large closely written volumes detailing the blameless ends of the various Daughters of Compassion who had died in the several Houses. They were in chronological order which made her task easy. Within a few minutes she was reading with close attention.

  ‘The death is announced of Sister Sophia, born Sophia Brentwood, 5th April, 1963 in Reading. Sister Sophia was an only child, orphaned at the age of nine and reared by an aunt, Miss Mary Brentwood, died 1982. Sister Sophia was educated at the Convent of the Sacred Heart in her home town where she was described as a popular and hard-working pupil, with a definite leaning towards the religious life from an early age. In 1980 she took a two-year course in Primary Schooling at Reading Technical Training College and gained a Diploma with Honours. She taught in the Infants’ Section of the Sacred Heart Convent from September 1982 until July 1984 and in September of that year entered the order as a novice. During her novitiate she impressed her superiors by her dedication, her energy and her devotion to duty. In September 1986 she took her temporary vows and thereafter combined her religious duties with teaching in the Moor School. In September 1987 she took her final vows and was fully professed in the presence of His Lordship the Bishop and the rest of the Community. On the 6th December of that year, having volunteered to test the fire-escape apparatus at Cornwall House, she slipped and fell, the underarm strap tightening about her neck. Both the Prioress, Reverend Mother Ann, and Sister Felicity, Lay Sister, were witnesses of this tragic accident. Despite their attempts and those of Sister Perpetua, Infirmarian, to revive her and the ministrations of the local doctor who was immediately summoned Sister Sophia was pronounced dead. Father Malone in his eulogy after the funeral stressed that though Sister Sophia had died without the consolation of Last Rites her character was such that he believed her already at peace. Her cheerfulness and good humour coupled with a deeply serious attitude to spiritual matters rendered her beloved by her sisters in Christ and by the children she taught, many of whom sent floral tributes. Sister Sophia was in the twenty-sixth year of her age and the third month of her profession.’

  On the other side of the page was the standard photograph taken at the time of her final profession. From beneath a wreath of white roses the square, glowing young face smiled out. A plain, healthy, sensible girl who was clearly delighted to consecrate her life to God, Sister Joan thought, and wondered what could have possibly happened to drive her to suicide — if it had been suicide, and for that she had only Sister Perpetua’s word. Sister Joan replaced the book and looked further along the shelves for the Register of Novices. Under the rules of the order a full account of each intending Daughter of Compassion had to be kept on view in the convent where she was training so that other sisters could consult it. On her making her full profession the file was then placed in the archives, her previous life being considered irrelevant.

  She was rather afraid that the item relating to Sister Magdalen might have been removed already but it was still there, a neatly typed sheet of paper slipped into a cellophane folder and clipped inside the larger file.

  ‘Brenda Williams entered the order as a novice on 2nd September, 1987. She has taken the name of Magdalen. Born and bred in Matlock, Derbyshire, eldest of three children. Born on 8th June, 1968. Sister Magdalen is a lively, yet deeply serious girl, somewhat idealistic. She has a fervent devotion to Our Blessed Lady. She has been helping out during the recent epidemic of influenza and has made herself very well-liked by the infirmary nuns.’

  At the bottom someone had typed tersely,

  ‘Sister Magdalen left the order on the 6th of March, 1988.’

  Three months after Sister Sophia had died. Was it possible that the girl had known the death was actually a suicide and, disillusioned at the official cover-up, decided to leave? It seemed unlikely. She would have to remember to ask Sister Perpetua if she had mentioned the matter.

  A footfall in the corridor alerted her. She slid the cellophane folder back into the file and put it on the shelf, rising as Sister Lucy came in.

  ‘I saw the light on the staircase,’ the other said by way of explanation. ‘Did you enjoy your sandwich, Sister?’

  ‘She knows I haven’t been anywhere near the kitchen,’ Sister Joan thought, irritated.

  ‘I decided that if I gave in to my stomach it would go on dominating me,’ she answered calmly. ‘That’s something else I shall have to remember for general confession. First lack of care for a dumb beast and now disobedience in matters of diet. It isn’t a very auspicious beginning.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t tell,’ Sister Lucy said, as she had said before. ‘I always come out a few minutes ahead of the others to light the candles for Benediction and get the incense burning properly. The charcoal can be tricky. The religious instruction today was very interesting, didn’t you think so?’

  ‘Unusual certainly,’ Sister Joan said cautiously.

  ‘It was a pity you had to leave so soon. Reverend Mother Ann explained everything so beautifully. We cannot neglect the female aspect of God.’

  ‘But Our Blessed Lady was not a goddess,’ Sister Joan said, forgetting caution. ‘She was a human being, Sister, and the fact that many of the titles given to her were originally bestowed upon Astarte and Isis doesn’t alter the fact.’

  ‘She was in the line of succession, like her mother Saint Anne,’ Sister Lucy said. Her voice had the patient note of one explaining something to a rather backward child. ‘Now that we are in the Aquarian age it is time for the Messiah to come again. Who will be privileged to bear Him a second time? Eh, Sister Joan?’

  She gave a curious little skip, half mischief, half expectation, and went away, padding softly over the carpet into the corridor.

  ‘But He will return as a king in glory,’ Sister Joan said in bewilderment, staring after her. ‘He won’t be born all over again.’

  The cloistered silence of the library pressed her round. She waited a few moments and then went down quietly into the now candlelit chapel. The others sisters were filing in and the put-put-putting of an ancient car outside announced the arrival of Father Malone. Did Father Malone know that Reverend Mother Ann was filling the heads of her nuns with a heady mixture of gnostic heresy and exaggerated Mariolatry? She rather doubted it, having summed up the little priest as the pure-hearted not over-intelligent product of a rural Seminary. Certainly she could hardly ask him. Loyalty to one’s Prioress was important. She would have to weigh it against her greater loyalty to the doctrine of the Faith. Certainly discussion within the Church was freer and more unconventional now. All of this might be no more than intellectual juggling with ideas designed to impress the sisters with the brilliance of their Superior. She would have to wait and see. Meanwhile she bowed her head, beginning the Five Glorious Mysteries in unison with her sisters, feeling as the beads slid through her fingers the usual lessening of ten
sion. It was only half way through the service that she realised that the Benediction had preceded supper which was a reversal of the normal convent routine.

  Filing out with the others she took the opportunity to whisper to Sister Katherine,

  ‘Benediction was early tonight?’

  ‘No.’ Sister Katherine looked blank for a moment, then smiled. ‘Ah, you came on Saturday, didn’t you? You won’t know the timetable yet. On Saturdays and Sundays supper is before Benediction but on weekdays it is afterwards when we have had our recreation. Father Malone has quite a large area to cover and this makes things easier for him to get round.’

  An innocuous reason but in practice it meant that the sisters would have two and a half hours of solid religious instruction and worship with no break to lift their energies, and it also meant that the benediction after which the nuns retired to their cells for the night had been replaced by a late meal which struck her as an untidy way in which to end the day.

  The trouble with me, she thought wryly, is that I am too accustomed to the routine at my mother House. The Prioress has the right to set her own timetable to suit her particular convent.

  In the recreation room she took a square of canvas from the table and some lengths of tapestry wool. She would begin on a set of cushion-covers, she decided. The old longing to have a paintbrush in her hand still surfaced now and then, but could generally be sublimated into other work.

  The Prioress was not there which was something of a relief. Those amused dark eyes above the high cheekbones and the sweetly smiling mouth made her uneasy.

  ‘How did you get on at the school this morning, Sister?’

  The delicate-looking Sister Martha had taken a seat next to her. This was the nun in charge of the garden, she remembered, and thought again how unsuited the other seemed to heavy manual work.

  ‘It was exhausting but enjoyable,’ she answered. ‘It’s five years since I stood in front of a class and I was quite nervous that I’d mess it up, but it went off without anything dreadful happening. I’m even hoping a few of the pupils will return tomorrow morning.’