Three Loves

by A. J. Cronin

  She knew, of course, that she had lost flesh, but it was a fact recognised without regret. Perhaps the dietary, adequate and wholesome though this might be, had reduced her. The food was unaccustomed, foreign to her palate, and, swallowed only by an effort of her will, perhaps not fully assimilated. But she did not know this to be the cause; nor, indeed, did she care. Like the callouses which had come upon her knees, the state had been of gradual development, and to her it was of trifling importance. Indeed, she made it trifling. She would not think about her health, nor admit the consequences of her debility. Once or twice that light remark of Edward’s had come to her mind, but she had sternly dismissed it. She would stand the life, despite his pompous precognition. This strange new nervousness, the sudden jumping of her heart when someone suddenly addressed her, those dizzy fits which left her with a queer ethereal buoyancy – she resolutely ignored them all.

  No. She had more to think of than that. When they asked her how she felt, she replied that she was well, quite well, and she had an unconscious pride in the firmness of her reply. Yet it was not pride alone which moved her: it was her will, and a mind strung to a more vital tension than the petty considerations of food and health – a mind taut with an inward brooding which had for weeks afflicted her.

  This struggle within herself – she could not free herself of it – of this perpetual conflict. She had prayed for peace, had fought and fought again. Yet always now there was in her a qualm of curious apprehension. Abandoned was her dream of saintly women, moving, madonna-like, with gentle breasts and faces, pure hands, and tongues of placid sweetness. Why had this been her conception of the religious life? They were women; what was it Joe had once said a long, long time ago? – ‘We’re only human, aren’t we?’ Yes, they were all human here. But what a repressed humanity; so strange, a life apart, far removed from what she had expected. Its very strangeness awoke in her sometimes a sudden painful bewilderment. Why was she here, in a queer dress, amongst foreigners, aping their language, their prattle, their infantile ingenuousness? For the love of God. God had led her here, and here she would remain. That was the answer – an answer with which she fiercely strove to scatter her wretched uncertainty.

  Yet she could not evade her fear. And it was Marie Emmanuel, her good mother, who loomed before her as the propagator of that fear.

  Lately, with a strange nervous reaction, she felt as though a fierce antipathy had sprung into being between the mistress and herself: almost – almost a hatred. She shivered. That could not be. It was impossible in this house, where the love of God must infuse the relationships of all within. Yet how else could she account for this perpetual persecution? Persecution – that was indeed the word.

  As her needle flew, she reviewed again, with a tireless introspection, the last few weeks, fastened once more on those bitter recollections, scourged herself with her own thoughts and the morbid re-enactment of her humiliations – all so petty that they cut and mortified by their very triviality. Even this week. The routine inspection of her cupboard – two handkerchiefs not folded with sufficient neatness. The inspection of her cell: an insignificant crease had remained upon her coverlet, one single drop of water spilled upon the floor. ‘Ça mange le vernis!’ – thrust at her in a tone of unexampled bitterness.

  For faults like those she must stand like a child, stand and be pilloried by the tongue of Marie Emmanuel. At the very name her lips drew together, and her needle flew faster. On that first evening at the station, when she had advanced smiling, she had felt instinctively the coldness of the mistress; but now that coldness seemed charged with a bitter antipathy. And she – how violently could she have returned that feeling! But she must not; she must conceal it; stifle it; stamp it out. Yet it was unjust, this persecution. Why should the joy and rapture of her prayer be pierced by the dagger thrusts of perpetual censure? Her brow furrowed at the thought.

  Was it her imagining? But no, that could not be. She had this constant presentiment of disaster, the feeling that somehow she was singled out, apart. She was convinced that Marie Emmanuel hated her.

  Even as she sat sewing, with lowered head, she seemed to feel those pale eyes fixed coldly upon her. In spite of herself, she looked up towards the head of the room, and instantly a wave of uneasiness passed over her, for the mistress was observing her calmly, seeming dispassionately to read her thoughts.

  Quickly she bent her gaze upon the sewing, exasperated by her own apprehension. What had she to fear? She feared no one but God. Never in all her life had she lacked courage to hold her head erect. Unconsciously her posture stiffened.

  Around her the other novices, some twenty or more seated on low benches before the long tables that filled the room, were stitching silently, unconscious of the turmoil in her mind. Suddenly she felt limp, her hand numb and tired; worn out; but she persisted in the work, which was the hemming of an altar cloth. It was nearly finished and at length she laid it in her lap and ceased to sew. Still silence; then:

  ‘Is the piece finished?’ It came from Marie Emmanuel across the stillness of the room.

  ‘It is finished, ma bonne mère,’ answered Lucy, without meeting those eyes. Why did she not meet those eyes? Was it at last humility?

  The mistress rose, and, approaching, inspected the work minutely.

  ‘Tst! Tst!’ She made a sharp clicking with her tongue, then she held up the cloth. Was it mere fancy, or did she hold it contemptuously? Then came the words: ‘How you have made it filthy!’; and to Lucy her intonation of the adjective was diabolic. Sale! A shudder ran through her; an answering demon ranged wildly in her breast. To accuse her of that! The cloth had been given to her dirty. The mistress knew that, and knew, too, that her hands were spotless.

  ‘Do you not understand?’ persisted Marie Emmanuel. ‘ You have rendered this filthy.’

  Her lips formed to reply: ‘Yes, ma bonne mère’; then something within her broke; all her violent indignation rushed to her lips. No matter that the Rule prescribe the meek acceptance of all injustice, a placid atonement for faults that never were committed! She raised her eyes challengingly.

  ‘Do you not understand?’ she repeated slowly and distinctly. ‘The piece was filthy when I received it.’

  This frightful violation of the Rule! A sort of stupefied gasp arose from the other novices at the retort, and at the frightfulness of that retort. But Marie Emmanuel stood quite still. A faint, unreadable expression was on her pale lips. She ignored utterly the remark, but, folding the cloth gently, she said dispassionately:

  ‘It is enough. Before the dinner you will kiss the feet, and during you will kneel in reparation – les bras en croix.’

  Then she turned and moved back to her seat. Lucy held herself rigid; her thin face had a drawn whiteness; the giddiness which so often affected her swam about her head like a mist.

  Why must she submit to this – this tyranny? was the question which burned within her mind. It was without reason, without justice. God did no want His world like this: so petty, so infantile. Must she lower her brow to the dust and grovel there? Must she surrender everything that was she, draw out her spirit, empty herself of everything, to obtain this perfection that was dinned constantly in her ears? There must be power in the human soul – not the faded, bloodless ineptitude demanded of her here.

  Cutting like a knife across her quivering introspection, the bell rang for the dinner – the bell which now ostensibly controlled her. She rose with the others, her face masklike, and joined them when, like children in a row, they filed behind the mistress into the refectory. Yes, she was in a stream now, moving slowly, but always with that stream, always controlled.

  Grace was said; then they sat down upon one side of the long, narrow table, with their backs against the wall. But Lucy did not sit down. She stood with her eyes fixed on Marie Emmanuel, her face calm, shrouding that inner turbulence by a grim tautness of her enfeebled nerves. Never, to the utmost clenching of her will, would she reveal how much it tortured her to make th
is reparation.

  And now the mistress made her little sign, and at that she moved forward slowly to perform the intolerable apology – to Marie Emmanuel or to God?

  Her humour was surely gone, or she might have laughed. Yes, surely she must have laughed at the sight of herself on her knees, kissing the boots of these twenty women: kneeling, lowering her face to the ground, rising, walking forward one pace, kneeling again, lowering her lips once more – kissing those boots. Often as a girl she had played the childish game, chanted the childish song: ‘Kneel down, kiss the ground – kiss the ground – kiss the ground. Kneel down, kiss the ground – my fair lady!’

  Well, to be as a little child – as Joséphine had once said: ‘The little toy of Jesus!’ And why not? What boots, though. Big and small; smooth and cracked; some with the regulation prunella uppers and blue elastic sides; some patched and stitched by the hands of Sister Cordonnière; some bulbous with the ludicrous protrusion of a bunion; some rank with the odour of perspiring feet; but all – all pressed close together for chastity, all lapped closely by a black hem of skirt, all ready to be kissed by her. If Frank could see her now – he who had pressed those lips in love – or Peter, or even Edward, who might now be walking round a golf-course, or savouring a sweetbread and saying ‘Delicious!’ – what would they think of her? They might laugh – it was so funny, this sight of her dragging round on her knees, a middle-aged woman crawling on the floor, pushing her head under the table, bumping that head, kissing the feet of these foreign women! Perhaps Jesus was laughing, too, at the very torture which racked her. He had died for her, and so, at the word of Marie Emmanuel, she must debase herself for Him.

  At last it was over. Stumbling to her feet, she went to the middle of the floor and, with her back to the table, knelt down. She extended her arms – les bras en croix – as had been demanded of her, holding herself stiffly upright, with head thrown back. Now, in this attitude of mind and body, she must abandon herself to inward prayer. But could she pray? Behind her the muffled sounds of the meal began – the passing of plates, the faint clink of fork on china, the quiet scrape of Marie Emmanuel’s chair, the rustle of the lay sister’s habit. And all the time she knelt, with arms extended, trembling with the memory of that grotesque tyranny which embittered and poisoned her mind. And she was supposed to pray!

  She was weak, and the fatigue of her position became insupportable. But she would not give in. She would show this Marie Emmanuel, she would show them all, how she could endure suffering. Had she not suffered in the world? That was why she had come to this place. But, where was the mantle of peace with which she had hoped to enwrap her bruised spirit? Was this it: with les bras en croix, with the eyes of Marie Emmanuel fixed in vigilance upon her back?

  Her hands began to feel like leaden weights; then slowly the feeling stole along her arms, which dragged downwards and pulled painfully upon her, breasts. The ache became insufferable; she wanted to lower them. She felt exhaustion stealing upon her with the heavy rhythm of her heart. She must lower these lifeless leaden arms. But she would not relax. Not acquiescence, but an intensity of pride, held her motionless.

  At last the dinner was over; there came the gentle backward scrape of benches, the quiet sound of a general uprising, the prayers after food; then the slow shuffling towards the door.

  ‘It is enough.’

  The mistress stood beside her, dispassionately indicating that now she might rise and eat her dinner. For a single second Lucy maintained her posture; then her arms dropped downwards; in complete silence she rose. As Marie Emmanuel swept from the room, she went over to her place and sat down. The relief was exquisite; but she felt sick, her fingers so numb they fumbled woodenly with the knife and fork. The lay sister, a little hunchback woman with a withered russet face, brought in her dinner with a swift glance of sympathy. An immense desire flooded Lucy to speak to this simple peasant, in whom she discerned some lingering evidence of humanity. One word of sympathy. But, no. She could not; the Rule demanded silence at this hour.

  And so she ate in silence, desolately, relaxed in this moment of solitude. It was meat she had today – an unusual treat for the community, but not, alas, for her – a slice of flesh, and it was horseflesh, singed merely upon its outer surfaces so that it still retained its first empurpled lividity. Cutting it very small, with slightly trembling fingers and half-averted eyes, she forced herself to eat it. Again this effort, this perpetual struggle, this dragging of an ever-lengthening chain. Unobserved, her air was distraught, her eyes puckered to their faint perplexity, her small face drawn, yet somehow scornful.

  When she had finished, she glanced at the window, and saw that it was raining – a warm, leaf-washing shower, but heavy – heavy enough to have driven the novices from the garden. Rising, she forced herself to enter the common-room, where in wet weather the recreation hour was held.

  Again that inward wrestling when she entered the clamorous room.

  No one took notice of her as she came in – it was against the Rule to intimate, even by a belated greeting, the observance of a reparation; but she knew what she must do. She must talk and smile and laugh with the others, maintaining no memory of her humiliation, giving outward and visible sign that she harboured no rancour. As she sat down by the window, where a little group chattered and giggled – Thérèse, Wilhelmine, and Marguerite were amongst them – she felt the eye of the mistress narrowly watching her. But today, with head averted, she felt careless.

  Outside, the rain came drumming down insistently, but, undeterred, some lay sisters went on working in the garden, habits kilted, blue rumps in the air, sabots widely planted. Neither the rain nor the Rule affected them.

  Suddenly a voice in her ear startled her.

  ‘This will amuse the fingers’ – it was a pleasant voice, from the novice beside her, who now placed upon her lap a cardboard box filled with string. Each had some little occupation for these wet recreation periods – the turning of used envelopes that they might be used again, the rolling and rearranging of snippets of cloth from the workroom, the knotting of cords from which the discipline was made – diverse occupations recommended by the Rule. And now Lucy, wanly returning her neighbour’s smile, set herself to straighten out the tiny ends of twine with which this box was filled. Neatly disentangling string, unknotting it, smoothing it, rolling it into perfect little balls; that was her present task.

  Around her the conversation ranged; words flew to and fro like shuttlecocks.

  ‘We must make some verses of felicitation.’

  ‘But yes, the feast of the anniversary of the bonne mère.’

  ‘You will make some verses, Thérèse.’

  ‘But assuredly – for the bonne mère – it is understood.’

  A pause. Was it her embittered fancy, or were these remarks directed obsequiously to the ear of Marie Emmanuel, with but one desire – and that to please?

  ‘Oh, look, ma bonne mère, the pretty colour!’ said one, with much animation, holding up, with a kittenish gesture, a fragment of satin from her box.

  Marie Emmanuel nodded her head gravely, and looked – but without much animation.

  Suddenly Marguerite pointed to the floor with an air of joyous discovery.

  ‘Oh, again, ma bonne mère, Sister Gabrielle has lost her garter!’ It was the selvedge of tweed used in the community as a garter.

  There was a general laugh, whilst Gabrielle blushed, and laughingly retrieved the small garter.

  ‘It is clear it is not to you,’ said Thérèse to Wilhelmine, who sat next to her.

  Wilhelmine’s deep laugh welled up from her sonorous bosom. There was a short pause, whilst she went on with her task – the meticulous cutting of newspaper into squares, shaped with exactitude, for the love of God and its ultimate purpose in the petit pays. In her immediate coterie, this occupation had all along occasioned an open and ingenuous hilarity, and now Thérèse, reverting to the topic, declared roguishly to the others:

  ‘You must not in
terrupt. You must allow her to proceed with délicatesse.’

  ‘She has wonderful address, has she not?’

  ‘But yes, it is a quality.’

  There was a little titter.

  ‘You will see,’ returned Wilhelmine, with a short guffaw: long, long ago had she recovered from her discomfiture of the culpe. ‘Later – you will see.’ She picked up a square of paper in her fat paw.

  ‘Pray do not hold like that,’ remarked Thérèse primly. ‘It is altogether too significant.’

  There was a lively burst of laughter, to which even Marie Emmanuel, watchful and remote as ever, unbent her firm lips slightly. It was the natural humour, simple, understandable, permissible; to be like little children; to laugh and be joyous. But Lucy did not laugh. To her it was an odious vulgarity, and all that deep resentment seething within her rushed upwards in a sudden flare. Was this the measure of a human soul straining upwards to its Saviour?

  Repelled, shaken, and confused, she still persisted in her own belief. She would go forward, hold on, win through. She set her teeth firmly.

  So there she was, with her pale thin face her worn and rigid frame, a figure of infinite pathos: disentangling the short string with fingers that fumbled and faintly twitched – like a symbol disentangling the short string of her life.

  Chapter Nine

  Were they watching her? She did not know. But she had always the strange and fascinated feeling that they were shadowing the secrets of her mind. Oppressed by the crowding movement of the communal life, she longed passionately for solitude. Yet never was she alone except during those hours of darkness in her cell when she lay stiffly staring into that amorphous darkness striving to make luminous the unseen figure upon the cross fixed to the opposite wall. Only her fancy made that figure luminous during those sleepless nights, except when the moon swung a transient beam through the narrow grille and made the plaster Christ actual and blanched.