Three Loves

by A. J. Cronin

  Tonight there was no song from the nightingale, but, with a regular rise and fall, through the thin wall of the adjoining cell came the slow stertor of Wilhelmine’s snoring.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘And when the holy Benedict,’ read out Emilie gently, ‘ was praying in his cell, Satan appeared to him in horrible form and mockingly told him that he was going to visit his children at their work. The holy man was alarmed at this intelligence, and immediately sent an angel to warn the brothers to be upon their guard. No sooner, however, had the angel arrived upon the scene than by the power of the devil the wall which they were building suddenly gave way, killing in its fall a young novice. The monks were greatly distressed, not only at the loss of their labour, but at the loss of their brother. One of them ran quickly to tell Benedict, who calmly bade them bring the boy to his cell. But the youth was so mangled and crushed that there was no way of carrying him except by placing the pieces in a sack. In this manner they brought him to the saint, who laid the pieces on the mat where he was accustomed to prostrate himself in prayer. Then Benedict, having dismissed them all and locked the door, implored God not to let His enemy triumph. Suddenly a terrific clap of thunder rent the air; the pieces drew together, and the dead youth leaped up sound and –’

  The even voice of Emilie ran on within the common-room of the novitiate, where, under the eye of Marie Emmanuel, some twenty novices were congregated for spiritual reading. Amongst those novices, seated upon the last of the unbacked benches which surrounded the lectern, was Lucy. Yes; her period of postulancy was over, her dress discarded for the habit and white veil, her foot now set within the enclosure of the novitiate – all this achieved, consummated by her recent clothing. A great change! – a change which at that ceremony she had eagerly embraced.

  In the Postulat she had been, in her own thought, ‘neither the one thing nor the other’: a thought which had constantly sustained her through those few months of postulation. ‘ This is not the religious life,’ she had inwardly insisted, forcing herself the while to conform to those usages which seemed so perversely in conflict with her devotion. It was all the shaping of a pattern; a preparation for that life which she had so determinedly embraced; this she had fully recognised. Yet there was no doubt – it had been a period of difficulty, filled by reccurent reminders of her ineptitude. The day on which she had forgotten to cleanse the remote corners of her dustpan with the little stick kept particularly for the purpose; that dreadful moment when she had entered the church without her veil; that occasion when, in the garden, straying inadvertently upon a walk reserved exclusively for the professed religious, she had been driven back by the agitated command: ‘Go away! Go away! It is forbidden!’ – these were but a few of the blunders of her inexperience.

  But now the Postulat lay behind her – now she had the habit, the veil, the discipline, the book of the holy Rule – now she was advanced upon the way to her ultimate profession!

  ‘The angels,’ went on the tranquil voice of Emilie, ‘conducted Benedict on his way; and angels also came out to meet him: the guardian angels of the poor deluded inhabitants. With joy unbounded they implored the blessed saint to drive out the spirits of darkness –’ Though, with a stumbling acquaintance of the French tongue, she could follow adequately the clearly spoken words, unconsciously Lucy’s attention began to waver – not that she questioned the miracles of the good St Benedict! She did believe! It was a miracle, that – like the miracle of the loaves and fishes, the walking on the waters, the raising of Jairus’ daughter. Yet, despite herself, she was thinking of the culpe. As in the Postulat, there were usages here, usages to which she must gently yield and come gently to understand. The culpe! Always after this reading the culpe took place, and today, which was Friday, there would be, not simply the ordinary culpe, but the: chapitre de culpes, the open avowal upon the knees of the accumulated transgressions of the past week.

  The culpe! Of course it was necessary: part of the Rule which now she accepted as the word of God: yet strangely she could not contemplate its near approach without an inward discomposure. In the chapel that morning she had been distracted by this same thought, turned from her prayers by the consideration of what was so obviously constituted for her good. That was not reasonable: nor was there any hardship in the culpe to warrant this strange objection. It was easy; simple; absurdly simple: a mere declaration of the trivial violations of the Rule. Yet somehow the very simplicity of this open court – that it was which so confused her. No sense of frightful ordeal, but the abashed feeling of a child before authority, something which seemed subversive of all the high nobility of her belief. Abruptly she shook herself: why was she thinking like this – again? She frowned. She must not so easily submit to these distractions.

  ‘Benedict’s countenance shone with a heavenly light, and the peasants, seeing this, gathered round him and listened awestruck to his –’

  Here the bell clanged, and at its first imperative note Emilie stopped dead in the middle of the sentence, as though stricken by a thunderbolt. That was admirable: implicit obedience to the Rule: and Marie Emmanuel, observant as ever, rose from, her straight-backed chair with a faint approving inclination of her head. Already the docile Emilie stood high in her good graces.

  With the movement of the mistress, immediately the others had arisen, and now in silence they knelt before the statue of the Sacred Heart which rested upon a varnished bracket beside the lectern.

  The Veni Creator Spiritus was repeated aloud.

  ‘Veni Creator Spiritus,

  Mentes tuorum visita:

  Impie superna gratia

  Quae tu creasti pectora.’

  After the ‘Amen’ there came a short pause for recollection, then the mistress stood up and, followed in single file by the others – who ranged themselves scrupulously in order of seniority – entered the adjoining room. Already this had been prepared: a single large chair placed imposingly in the middle of the floor, and surrounding it a wide semicircle of smaller seats grouping like satellites around a planet.

  Marching directly towards her throne, Marie Emmanuel occupied it impressively, whilst the novices – each standing before her appointed place – awaited the signal to be seated. A moment passed whilst she sent her glance over their faces, then her; speaking eye ceded this consent. There was a quiet rustle, then again silence; once more all attention was bound to that central figure; once more, too, Lucy felt within her that restive uneasiness which she so deplored. Observing Marie Emmanuel – now considering impassively a note-book containing the record of all faults discovered during the previous week – she had a quick impulse to remove her eyes.

  She loved Marie Emmanuel – she must love her and respect her – these things were implicit in this house of God. And yet, new as she was to the novitiate, actually she had been harassed by a vague unrest. Surely it was impossible, this presentiment. Here all were sisters within the arms of Jesus; all of necessity bound by their common love under this common roof, and with her whole heart she desired to give and to receive that love.

  Why, then, had she this strange intuition that Marie Emmanuel and she were not in sympathy? In the Postulat, Joséphine had smiled with her reproofs, but this other, so impersonal, so exalted, she did not smile. No; her pale eyes, which observed everything, were cold, her manner detached, free from all human feeling, her presence rigid with a glacial impassivity. The very fashion in which she set herself to order this unimportant court breathed of a high severity. She recognised her duty and would not stint its execution. If a serpent must be slain, she would slay it, then grind the mangled corpse into the dust.

  Now, with a characteristic gesture of her fine hands – already Lucy knew that gesture well – she straightened her casque and let her gaze dwell upon the first novice. It was the moment of the commencement of the culpe. A deeper expectant hush hung upon the air: the eagerness of those who liked it; the recoil of those to whom it was disagreeable: a bated anticipation of this trifling interl
ude cutting the monotone of life.

  ‘Commence,’ said Marie Emmanuel briefly.

  Instantly the first novice plumped upon her knees, so that the floor re-echoed with a hollow note beneath the impact of her heavy frame. Cheerful and composed, she rattled off her rote:

  ‘By holy obedience I make my culpe of all the faults I have, committed against the Rule, particularly’ – she drew a quick breath – ‘in lacking in the spirit of poverty by breaking a needle whilst sewing.’

  The mistress closed her eyes, and seemed to reflect.

  ‘You will say three paters,’ she declared unemotionally. ‘And in the future be careful of your needle. Those needles, they cost the community very dear.’

  The first novice bowed her head complaisantly, and commenced the penance, whilst the next, a young Italian – Assunta was her name – fell upon her knees before the mistress and began, quickly, nervously:

  ‘By holy obedience I make my culpe of all the faults I have committed against the Rule, particularly – particularly,’ she stammered, ‘particularly in lacking in religious modesty by walking too hurriedly along the corridors.’ There was a pause – an awkward pause; Marie Emmanuel slowly opened her pale yet piercing eyes.

  ‘Have you nothing more to tell?’

  ‘No, bonne mère,’ answered Assunta, blushing painfully. ‘I cannot think.’

  ‘Try, please, to recollect,’ came the frigid answer.

  ‘I – I cannot recollect, ma bonne mère,’ stammered the other; quickly her flush faded, leaving her not swarthy, but suddenly pale, ridiculously pale and flinching. Marie Emmanuel raised her eyes dispassionately to the ceiling, making the silence suddenly oppressive.

  ‘In your armoire,’ she exclaimed icily, ‘on examining it yesterday, I have discovered your two handkerchiefs folded below your towel. That, you are well aware, is against order. Always you have been instructed to place the large articles beneath. The handkerchiefs must remain above the towel – not the towel above the handkerchiefs.’ She broke off, then added mordantly: ‘For that you will say three aves – les bras en croix – in refectory during the dinner hour.’

  Despite herself. Lucy felt something turn within her, so paltry was the offence, so pitiful the mortification of the offender. She had marked this Sister Assunta before – a small, insignificant woman, pious and delicate, who seemed attuned sensitively to shrink beneath the slightest word of censure. Surely it was unjust, a mean and petty tyranny, to punish so weak a creature. Again that feeling which she so dreaded swept over her in a hot tide. And to place such emphasis upon the simple arrangement of two handkerchiefs, to make of the position of a towel a matter of such gravity – was it not grotesque? Could she indeed have believed it possible? Her lips drew in and her fingers tightened nervously. A heat was in her soul and a quivering, reborn shame. Yes, at the previous culpes there had been this abject and degrading shame. Why, why, why need there be this –? With a start she checked herself. She must not think like this; she must curb her too impetuous spirit; a sin it was, and a grievous one, to set her judgement against the authority placed above her by the will of God. She lowered her eyes. Slowly the culpe was working along the line towards her.

  This one had been negligent of her office. Three aves.

  The next had spoken to a professed nun. Only two aves – surely she was a favoured child.

  Beyond was one who had broken the silence. Three paters and a homily.

  The one after admitted to leaving food upon her plate. Yes, three glorias upon her knees for scales left on the back-bone of a herring.

  And the next had been too reserved at the recreation. This was her own especial fault; not yet could she match the birdlike laughter and the twitterings that bespoke the pure of heart.

  But oh, she must not think like this; it was bitter and wrong and contrary to the holy Rule! She lowered her eyes as the next novice fell upon her knees. It was Marguerite now, who had spilled water upon the floor of the corridor. Here the homily was long. Twenty francs had been expended the previous year upon varnishing these floors. And the water it ate, veritably it consumed, the varnish.

  The culpe worked down. Each had something to confess – a dreadful sin against humility it would have been to protest a perfect innocence: what presumption! Besides, as the Rule ordained that each must tell upon the other, it was wiser by far to tell upon oneself. Yet all the faults admitted, multiplied and magnified, weighed but a feather in the scale. It was all so meaningless – incomprehensible; a childish game of forfeits about nothing. What! was she thinking that again? Her brow furrowed with dismay: she bit her lips and murmured a silent prayer for succour. Small wonder that she dreaded the culpes, when they induced such rank iniquity as this. She must – she must conquer that wicked obstinacy of her spirit; submit patiently to the will of God.

  Shortly it would be her turn. Next to her, Wilhelmine moved restlessly; her full, stolid face worked anxiously; with jaw dropped and eyes fixed in a fascinated stare upon Marie Emmanuel, she seemed keyed to a pitch of dull apprehension, like a placid cow menaced by some grave calamity. When she dropped on her knees she could scarcely articulate:

  ‘By holy obedience I make my culpe of all the faults I have committed against the Rule, particularly – particularly –’ She faltered and broke down; then her full bosom heaved, she swallowed, and stammered out: ‘ I could not help it – this morning I have broken my pot.’

  There was a stiff silence.

  ‘Why did you not inform me?’ enquired Marie Emmanuel. With mouth wide open, Wilhelmine blinked her eyes in agitation, bovinely perturbed; her head rolled over sideways, stupidly.

  ‘You are aware that all broken articles must be taken down and placed upon the side-table of the refectory,’ persisted the mistress in a sharper voice.

  But Wilhelmine could stand no more; she began to slaver, to weep hysterically, drawing in great noisy gusts of air between her fearful sobs.

  For a moment Marie Emmanuel contemplated her with an expressionless face; then she said frigidly:

  ‘Raise yourself. Take your chair and sit in the corner of the room with your back to me – in order that I may not be obliged to see you.’

  Gasping, Wilhelmine heaved to her feet and dragged her chair to the far corner of the room, where, like a child disgraced, she sat down as she had been bidden. For long her lowing lamentations rent the air, but with a cold front Marie Emmanuel would not proceed until they had subsided.

  And now it was Lucy’s turn. Detachedly she had felt herself almost a spectator at the grotesque confusion of the Flamande, finding no edification in the disclosure that this fount of holiness had broken her chamber. She knelt down. What was she to say before this gathering? A thought came to her head – yes, she too had been reserved at the recreation – and with quite a gush of words she admitted her culpability, then waited for her penance. But she received no penance.

  ‘Have you nothing more to tell?’

  She started as with a sudden pang, and looked up to find Marie Emmanuel observing her judicially. Surely she was not – yes, it was she – being so addressed? She made no answer.

  ‘Is it not your office of this week to attend to the wash-basins?’ pursued the other.

  Lucy’s brows came togther, and she slowly replied:

  ‘Yes, ma bonne mère.’ It was her duty, and she had discharged it scrupulously; the basins were spotlessly clean.

  But the mistress persisted:

  ‘Today I have found two small portions of soap broken from the main piece and lying loose in the dish. This is against the Rule. In your book of office you will find that in such circumstances the main cake of soap must be removed and the broken portions placed in a piece of muslin until they are fully utilised. This you have not accomplished.’

  Lucy looked up. Was there a latent antagonism behind those pale eyes? Impossible. Fiercely she drove away the thought; and so she forced herself to say:

  ‘No, ma bonne mère.’

  ‘You un
derstand that the office of the week must be accomplished perfectly?’

  A terrific desire: the fragment of soap against her eternal salvation: but she controlled herself.

  ‘Yes. ma bonne mère;’ and she lowered her head to receive her penance and a sharp rebuke. When she had said her paters she rose from her knees. She was the last. The culpe was over; she drew a long breath: yes, it was over – over until next week.

  Chapter Eight

  The peach-trees of the convent garden had borne their blossoms and scattered them upon the grass like foam. Already the honeysuckle fronds had opened; already the rambling glycine sprayed its heliotrope across the arbours. The copper beech behind the church stood burnished to a deeper lustre, its drooping leaves caressed by the light and tender airs of early summer.

  But the sweet languor of the season was distant to Lucy – distant as a dream. Nor did the mild air reach her as, sewing within the workroom of the novitiate, she sat absorbed by the concentration of her thoughts. With the change of season seemingly she, too, had changed, how much she did not know, for, as in the Postulat, no mirror was here, and the inspection of the body was not permitted by the Rule. Cloaked by the habit, her figure was invisible, yet she was thinner, much thinner, and her shoulders had a more rigid set. Her face seemed smaller, clasped by the white casque to a narrow compass; her eyes, by contrast, shadowed, her hands thin and strangely nervous in their actions.