Vow of Silence

by Veronica Black

  ‘Perhaps you could make portraits of some of the sisters for jubilee or final profession?’ Sister Katherine suggested. ‘They would be more unusual than photographs and some of the novices look so pretty on their profession day.’

  ‘Cornwall House seems to go in for pretty novices.’

  ‘Only in the last year or so,’ Sister Katherine said. ‘It happens like that sometimes, I dare say. Not that physical beauty is supposed to matter but one cannot avoid noticing it. You should have seen Sister Magdalen. She was the loveliest girl.’

  ‘She left, didn’t she?’ Sister Joan snipped away at a fringe.

  ‘In the middle of February‚’ Sister Katherine nodded. ‘Not that I ever had much to do with her, of course, but she helped out shortly after her arrival when we had the influenza epidemic. A very sweet, happy girl. I was surprised when I heard she had left.’

  ‘You saw her leave?’

  ‘No, but then when a novice leaves she usually does so when most of the Community are in chapel as you know,’ Sister Katherine said, adding with a giggle, ‘I have often wondered why. Perhaps they think we will all follow the bad example and run out after her.’

  ‘At least her leaving gave you an extra task,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Altering her novice dress to fit the next newcomer, I mean.’

  Sister Katherine frowned slightly as if a thought previously thrust down had reared up again. After a moment she said,

  ‘Actually I was not required to make any alteration. Perhaps there was a spare dress that fitted the new novice better.’

  ‘As Linen Mistress you would know.’

  ‘Yes, one would think so,’ Sister Katherine said, her tone still troubled, ‘but the truth is that I don’t, you see.’

  TWELVE

  ‘As you are not going to school today‚’ Reverend Mother Ann said at breakfast the next morning, ‘perhaps you would like to go over to the Novitiate, Sister Joan?’

  Sister Joan, sipping her morning coffee, jumped slightly, wondering if the Prioress was telepathic since she had been trying to think up a way to get into the Novitiate for hours, without a single idea coming into her head. Apart from services in chapel and the general confession once a week the novices were secluded as rigidly as if they all had the plague.

  ‘Certainly, Reverend Mother?’ She let her voice rise into a question.

  ‘Sister Katherine was telling Mother Emmanuel of her idea that portraits of the novices might be painted and Mother Emmanuel considered it an excellent idea,’ the Prioress said. ‘Of course none are near making their profession yet, but little portraits of them might give their families pleasure, don’t you think?’

  It was on the tip of Sister Joan’s tongue to retort that that depended on the quality of the portraits, but that would have displayed pride. It was not for a nun to evaluate her own gifts. And it was a marvellous opportunity.

  ‘I’ll do my best, Reverend Mother,’ she said. ‘Would you want charcoal or watercolour?’

  ‘Perhaps you could make sketches and work them up into watercolour portraits later,’ the other said. ‘You know in the Novitiate it is considered vital that the personality be refined and honed to come closer to the ideal, and it occurred to me that such portraits in revealing certain traits for good or ill might be a spiritual help to the girls.’

  ‘I am not an experienced portrait-artist,’ Sister Joan felt bound to point out. ‘I can catch a likeness, that’s all.’

  ‘We will not expect more,’ Reverend Mother Ann said pleasantly. ‘You will not of course converse with the novices while you are there.’

  ‘No, Reverend Mother.’ Bowing, retreating from the dining-room, Sister Joan resisted the urge to give a hop, skip and jump. Even without conversation it might be possible to find out a great deal.

  She collected her materials and stepped out briskly, waving to Sister David who was on the way down the drive. Lilith would have to do without her exercise today.

  The morning was cool and damp, with a faint scent of violets in the air. There would be clumps of them deep in the woods beyond the moor, she thought, and late bluebells with the darker streaks on their petals fading to white when they were plucked. On the moor tangles of meadowsweet would trail lace over the green bracken and the first purple of heather would spread itself in the hollows. She would have liked to walk in the cool of woods and moor, her ankle length skirt tucked up, her head bare. She savoured the wish for a moment or two, then went smilingly round the corner to the old tennis-court. Sister Hilaria was at the door of the Novitiate, her eyes fixing themselves on Sister Joan’s approaching figure with a look in them of surprise though she had been standing near when the Prioress had made her request.

  ‘Good morning, Sister Hilaria.’ Sister Joan raised her voice slightly. ‘I am to make sketches of the novices.’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ Sister Hilaria gave her vague, slightly distracted smile. ‘They are here somewhere. It is a question of rounding them up. You’ll want them one at a time?’ She spoke as if they were wild ponies to be corralled instead of young girls under obedience.

  ‘That would be splendid, Sister,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘If you will come into the recreation room,’ Sister Hilaria said, standing aside.

  She had almost forgotten the atmosphere of a Novitiate, but it rushed back as she entered the narrow hallway with the steps rising to the upper floor. What struck her most as it had struck her when entering her own Novitiate for the first time was the complete lack of any colours save black and white and grey.

  ‘In training the physical world must be narrowed down,’ her Novice Mistress said, ‘in preparation for the time when you finally renounce the world.’

  Here, as there, were small rooms, tiny windows covered with thick white nets, bare wooden floors, whitewashed walls, naked light bulbs. Sensual loveliness was banished here. In the recreation room a semicircle of stools and a long table were all the furniture.

  ‘I will send them in, Sister,’ the Novice Mistress said.

  ‘I will require more light,’ Sister Joan said, looking round with a measuring eye.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Sister Hilaria looked flustered. ‘You could pull back the curtains but I don’t know what Mother Emmanuel will say.’

  ‘Since you are Novice Mistress there isn’t much she can say,’ Sister Joan said briskly.

  ‘I suppose not.’ The other still seemed unhappy. ‘Well, do what you feel is necessary, Sister. I’ll just go and –’

  She drifted out again, not completing her sentence.

  Sister Joan went to the windows and pulled back each net, letting the pale, greyish light flood in. Cool, clean light, she thought, lifting her palms briefly to it.

  ‘The novices are not to see the portraits,’ Sister Hilaria said, returning. With her was the white-skinned, grey-eyed girl whose hair the Prioress had ruffled.

  ‘And not to talk to me. I know.’ Sister Joan smiled at the girl who stood shyly, her hands clasped at the waist of her pale blue habit. The brim of the white bonnet hid any traces of hair and cast a soft shadow over commonplace features.

  ‘This is Teresa,’ Sister Hilaria said.

  ‘Sit down, Teresa.’ Sister Joan placed a chair where the light fell most strongly and herself took an opposite chair, settling herself with sketch-pad and thick soft pencil. Sister Hilaria had seated herself at the table and was gazing at the crucifix on the wall with eyes that looked as if they wished to see nothing else. Sister Joan suspected that she would not have heard one word if the other two had sung duets. It was a nuisance being vowed to obedience, she thought crossly, especially since this silence was the result of a direct order that couldn’t be circumvented. Then her irritation faded as her fingers, gripping the pencil, began to move in lines and curves, pausing to shade and then moving on. She had not lost her skill, too slight ever to bring her fame, but indisputably there, as she drew the head and shoulders of Sister Teresa. She would have liked to ask questions. When a subject began to talk, to o
pen out, the portrait became stronger, more revealing. On the other hand it was an interesting challenge to catch a likeness in silence, to portray a hint of stupidity in the slant of the eyes, an undeveloped sexuality in the full lower lip.

  ‘Sister Hilaria?’ Half an hour had passed and the sketch was as complete as she could make it. She had scribbled name and details of colouring on the back ready for the translation into watercolours to delight some proud family.

  ‘Sister Joan?’ The Novice Mistress blinked as if she were surfacing briefly from a heavy sleep.

  ‘The sketch is finished. May another of the novices come in?’

  ‘Sister Teresa, tell Rose to come down‚’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Sister. Thank you, Sister Joan.’ The novice bobbed a curtsy and went out. Barely a minute elapsed before a plump novice with a round face and the innocent mischief of a Botticelli angel in her blue eyes came in.

  The same ritual was gone through. Sister Rose sat obediently in the shaft of light that came through the window; Sister Joan gripped a freshly sharpened pencil; Sister Hilaria resumed her contemplation of the crucifix.

  This girl had more personality in her face, Sister Joan reflected, striving to capture the play of light and shade over the pert, mobile features. She wondered if it would be sufficiently suppressed to enable her to settle down in the religious life but privately doubted it. The mischief and humour would bubble forth at inconvenient moments. Sister Rose was succeeded by Sister Barbara who was thin and small and already conducted herself like a miniature prioress, hands folded, eyes downcast so that it was difficult to catch any glimpse of their colour.

  Sister Joan’s hand was beginning to ache slightly. Rubbing it she hoped that Sister Hilaria might offer a cup of tea and a respite, but Sister Hilaria sat still at the table, her brooding gaze on the crucifix, a woman who had left bodily needs behind her and forgot that others hadn’t. Sister Hilaria would obey every command without question but she would notice nothing that threatened to intrude into her spiritual raptures. Sister Joan could almost hear Reverend Mother Agnes’s wry comment.

  ‘A truly elevated soul, and no convent can endure more than one such.’

  Veronica Stirling came in. She had brought a glass of lemonade which she set at Sister Joan’s elbow with the polite bob she had learned in the few days since her arrival.

  ‘Thank you, Sister Veronica.’ Sister Joan nodded her gratitude and drank thirstily.

  Veronica had paused to look at the three sketches laid on the table. None of the others had so much as glanced at them. Veronica had not yet begun to learn custody of the eyes, it seemed, Sister Joan thought, and felt a distinct tendency to cheer loudly. She drained the lemonade and motioned the other to the chair, picking up sketch-pad and new pencil. The light was strengthening now, edged with the faint lemon of a struggling sun. It bathed the exquisite face of the novice who sat, dutifully silent, her fingers clutching the small crucifix at her sash.

  Clutching? Sister Joan recognised the word, examined it, let her eyes move up to the pale, pretty face with the long-lashed blue eyes. Under the brim of the white bonnet the other’s features seemed smaller and tighter than when she had chattered on the train. Was she nervous at having her portrait done? It seemed unlikely, yet there was a nervous quality about her, something fugitive and desperate that peeped out now and then from the tip of the tongue flicking round the inside of the unpainted mouth, the almost clawlike grip of the fingers on the little crucifix. What ailed the girl? Sister Joan wanted to reach out, taking the clutching fingers in her own, to say something light and reassuring, but physical contact between professed nuns was kept to a minimum. Between nuns and novices it was absolutely forbidden. And she was under orders to be silent. She was not, however, under orders not to use any facial gestures. She raised her head from the sketch-pad, flashed a cheerful grin and slowly and deliberately winked. Sister Veronica sent her an anguished glance and went paler than before. There was nothing to be done but draw steadily, softening the anguish into a smooth and meaningless expression that would have graced a chocolate box nicely.

  ‘All finished.’ She spoke with the kind of heartiness she hated in other people. Veronica rose, glanced towards the sketches on the table, bobbed her curtsy and withdrew. Piling the sketches together Sister Joan wondered if she might not mention to Sister Hilaria that Veronica seemed troubled, but that would be an intrusion into private territory. Novice Mistresses were supposed to be on the alert for that kind of thing. A good Novice Mistress knew if one of her charges was unhappy before the novice herself became aware of it. Sister Hilaria might be a holy soul, Sister Joan thought with exasperation, but she was the most unsuitable guide for embryo religious that could possibly be imagined.

  ‘Thank you very much, Sister.’

  Even raising her voice higher didn’t help. Sister Hilaria’s face was entranced; her eyes devoured the tortured figure on the crucifix with a hunger that was almost animal. Too much religious feeling was worse than too little, Sister Joan decided, putting the two chairs back into place and unlooping the nets. The cool, sun-rimmed light became ivory.

  She picked up her things and went out quickly, closing the door, standing for a moment in the narrow corridor while she struggled with temptation.

  No, it was no justification to say that the sketching being done she was released from her silence. Having reached that conclusion she turned in at the open door of the small library where volumes considered safe reading for girls under instruction were ranged. At that instant she had nothing more in her mind than the impulse to glance at the books on the shelves. They were, as might have been expected, standard fare with lives of the Saints jostling The Interior Castle and The Little Flower. A photograph of the Foundress hung on the wall between two netted windows; there were a couple of benches and a modest table with writing-paper, pens and notebooks on it. The door of a low cupboard in the corner swung open, key still in the lock, with a pile of notebooks on top. It was apparent that Sister Hilaria had been interrupted in her task of putting the notebooks away.

  It was certainly none of her business what the notebooks contained. Sister Joan told herself, and went on telling herself while her hands sorted through the pile. Black covers with the names of past novices written on white slips of paper gummed to the front.

  Sister Magdalen’s Spiritual Diary was fifth from the top. Sister Joan extracted it, thrust the other notebooks inside the cupboard, turned the key and feeling as if she had just robbed a bank left the Novitiate.

  Her next task was to find a secluded spot where she could peruse the notebook without fear of discovery. Even while she headed for the orchard where the leafy branches were concealing she was arguing herself into condoning her action. The notebook had no present relevance since its owner had left the convent; the maxim that the end justified the means was Jesuitical in the first place; she was not looking into it out of idle curiosity but because a decent young man was worried about the whereabouts of his friend.

  She stopped beneath the gnarled branches of a wide-spreading apple tree, bunching up her skirts into the traditional cushion and lowering herself to grass that felt dry enough to leave no betraying stain. Staring at the book she reminded herself that she was doing this out of duty, admitted to herself that she was consumed with purely secular curiosity, and opened the book.

  The writing was neat and round, the hand of a docile pupil who knows someone else is going to read it. The entries were not long and most of them were conventional expressions of joy at entering the Novitiate and of hopes she would be able to reach the required standard, interspersed with copious quotations from various religious texts. It was all entirely expected and rather dull.

  ‘I am feeling a bit homesick and must remember that detachment is a virtue for which I must constantly strive. My parents are often in my mind, but in two years’ time I will see them on the happy day I take my first vows. Despite my moments of depression I feel strongly that I have chosen the right life
.’

  There were references to the influenza epidemic.

  ‘It is a real privilege to be able to help out in the Infirmary, Mother Frances is an astonishing old lady. She is past ninety and physically frail now but her mind is clear as a bell. She has been a nun since she was eighteen, and is a marvellous example to the rest of us.’

  Her initial homesickness seemed to have worn off rapidly. By the first week in November she was writing,

  ‘Now that the ’flu seems to have run its course we can concentrate on our spiritual duties. I had never realised before the excitement and beauty of the religious life. Reverend Mother Ann has had several private talks with me, and her words are both inspiring and terrifying. She is, of course, a woman of great vision and courage who will take the Order forward into the twenty-first century. I only pray that I am worthy of such confidence.’ And that was all. The remaining pages showed that at least a dozen had been carefully torn out, only the loose threads of the inner binding revealing the fact.

  Sister Joan sat back on her heels and decided to stop feeling guilty about being inquisitive. Sister Magdalen nee Brenda Williams had been a starry-eyed, somewhat naïve girl who had evidently settled down well in the Novitiate, had helped out cheerfully during the influenza epidemic, had struggled successfully against her very natural homesickness, and had been determined to make a good profession. Everything written in the book merely confirmed the opinions everybody else had given of her, but the missing pages which presumably filled in the weeks between the beginning of November and the sixteenth of February might well take a very different complexion. And her novice’s dress had not been altered for Veronica. That might mean nothing. It was possible there had been a spare outfit nearer to the new novice’s size. The other dress and bonnet might be in some cupboard somewhere, and Sister Katherine had simply forgotten about it. Sister Joan pictured the other’s plain, sensible young face, the neat stitches she had been taking in the costumes for the Solstice’s fete, and thought it unlikely. Sister Katherine, Sister Martha and Sister David were conscientious but not particularly intellectual sisters who kept the rules, worshipped in the simple, unquestioning way of their forebears and never saw what was not pushed under their noses. Whatever was going on beneath the placid routine of conventual life was known only to a selected few of the sisters, she reflected. The Prioress must be the instigator, Mother Emmanuel and Sister Felicity and Sister Lucy were her accomplices – the word entered her mind unbidden and refused to be changed into something less sinister.