by George Moore
Sister Mary John came striding over the broken earth, followed by her jackdaw. The bird stopped to pick up a fat worm, and the nun sent Miss Dingle away very summarily.
“I can’t have you here, Alice. Go to the summerhouse and drive the devil away with your holy pictures. There’s not time for you, dear, either,” she said to the jackdaw, who had just alighted on her shoulder. And, looking up and down a plot of ground twenty yards long and about ten wide, protected from the east wind by a high yew hedge, she said, “This is the rhubarb bed, and this piece,” she said, walking to another plot between the yew hedge and the gooseberry bushes, “will have to be dug up; we were short of vegetables last year.”
At the prospect of so much digging Evelyn’s courage failed her, and she was relieved to hear that one of these beds had been dug in the autumn, and that no more would be required from her than the hoeing out of the weeds.
But she found hoeing harder work than she had expected, and when she had cleared a large piece of weeds she had to go over the ground again, having missed a great many.
At dinner-time she thought she was too tired to eat, but Sister Mary John consoled her with the assurance that she would soon get accustomed to the work, and in order that she might do so, the nun kept her digging from week’s end to week’s end. Evelyn said she had found salvation in the garden, but Sister Mary John answered that an absent-minded person was no saving of labour in a garden; and without further words the nun told her she was to go in front with a dibble and make holes for the potatoes, for Sister Mary John said she could not be trusted with the seed potatoes, that she would be sure to break the shoots. Sister Mary John seemed to think that she should know by instinct that French beans need not be set as closely together as the scarlet runners; nor could the nun understand that it was possible to live twenty years in the world without knowing that broad beans must be trodden firmly into the ground.
In about three weeks their work was done in the kitchen garden, and Sister Mary John said they must weed the flower beds or there would be no flowers for the Virgin in May. They weeded the beds for many days, filling in the gaps with plants from the nursery. Soon after came the seed sowing: mignonette, sweet peas, stocks, larkspurs, poppies, and nasturtiums, all of which should have been sown earlier, the nun said, only the vegetables had taken all their time, and there was no one but she who cared for the garden. They all liked to see the flowers on the altar, “but not one of them will tie up her habit and dig, and they are as ignorant as you are, dear.”
“Sister, that is unkind. I’ve learnt as much as could be expected in a month.”
“You’re not as careless as you were.”
“I had a friend,” Evelyn said, “who used to hear the earth as we hear voices, or very nearly.... How mysteriously soft the wind blows over the Common!”
“God created the earth before He created man,” the nun said, as she passed on, weeding rapidly and skilfully. “Our love of the earth is deeper than our love of art.”
Sister Mary John pointed to the daffodils that a warm night had nearly brought to blossom, and Evelyn followed the nun with her eyes, as she wandered by the beds. She moved so silently and worked so instinctively that she seemed as much a part of the garden as the wind, or the rain, or the sun.
CHAP. XXIII.
EVELYN PERCEIVED THE wisdom of the Prioress in these long mornings spent in manual work. Veronica, on account of her age, could not reprove her, nor could she submit herself so easily to Veronica’s authority, and she often stood looking through the sacristy forgetful of the half-cleaned candlestick in her hand. In these moments the cup of life seemed unendurably bitter; a long life in the convent affrighted her, and she could not return to the world. To remember that she was alone and would have to go on living had become a grief that pierced her like a sword; a sense of desolation swept over her mind; sometimes in the midst of her singing she would lose control over herself, and the Sister would look round from the organ, fearing she would not be able to continue her song.
“She must take the veil,” the Prioress said to herself as she knelt in her stall; “nothing else will set her free from her grief.” The Prioress remembered the great relief that the mere putting on of the habit brings to the soul; and she rose from her knees quite determined. She would be opposed by Mother Hilda, but Mother Hilda would not have Mother Philippa’s support.
“I look upon her past life,” the sub-Prioress said, “as so much dead wood; all the rubble and wreck must be cleared away before the new growth can begin in her. You will agree, Mother, that the veil makes a great difference; it’s like marriage after a long engagement — you know what I mean, dear Mother.”
“Yes, I think I do,” the Prioress answered, looking approvingly at the sub-Prioress. “When one has taken the white veil, the past is behind us, one knows where one is going. But I fear, Mother Hilda, that you are not with us in this matter.”
“It’s because of Evelyn’s present state of mind that I do not feel sure that this is the best moment for her to receive the white veil. When her mood passes, as it will pass, she may think quite differently.”
“I do not think that,” the Prioress said. “A more serious objection is that she has only been in the novitiate three months.”
“And her postulancy has been broken by a month in Rome. It should begin again,” said Mother Hilda.
“On that point the bishop will have to be consulted,” and she tried to conciliate Mother Hilda by reminding her that Monsignor had telegraphed for Evelyn. “Her journey to Rome, you will admit, was quite unavoidable. Will you tell her, Mother Hilda, when you go downstairs, that I shall be glad to see her in my room?”
And when Evelyn came to the Prioress’s room she was addressed as Sister Teresa, and the Prioress told her that she had chosen that name on account of Evelyn’s admiration for the saint’s writings and character.
“I felt I should like to call you Teresa, and you will prove yourself worthy of the name, my dear child.”
“But, Mother, my postulancy!”
“Hasn’t the Mother Mistress told you that I intend to lay your case before the bishop. To-morrow you go into the week’s retreat which precedes the clothing. And now you must think of your past life as being really behind you; you are Evelyn Innes no longer, you are Sister Teresa.”
“But my past, dear Mother, has been behind me this long while. There can be no manner of doubt about that. I am filled with wonder when I think of the life I used to lead before my conversion.”
“You feel that you could not return to the world?”
“To my old friends, to those who still pursue shadows? No, dear Mother, I could not go back to the world, to the stage, and sing operas for the money and applause I should get by singing.”
“That I believe; but do you think that the life here is the most suitable to you? Is it the life of your deliberate choice? Remember that there are many other rules of life — there are the active orders.”
“Dear Mother, there is no time for thinking any more; I must act. I cannot tell you if the rule here is more suitable than some other rule which I have not tried. I have had some experience of your rule; if you will take me I am yours. If you do not” — she stopped, and stood looking at the Reverend Mother— “I cannot think what will happen. I’ve been through a great deal, and feel that I am unequal to any further experiments. Don’t you know what I mean?”
“Oh, yes, I think I know very well indeed.... You are still suffering from the shock of your father’s death.”
“My father’s death, dear Mother, was a great shock to me, but his death was only a link in a very long chain; from the very beginning it was all ordained, every step was marked out. At the time I did not understand why I was perplexed, why I had doubts, but things have become much clearer. In my youth I accepted the conventions, but there was always an uneasy feeling in my heart. This feeling was in me in the beginning, but it died away; for years I think I must have lived without scruples of any kin
d. My tether was a long one; I wandered far, but suddenly I came to the end of it. That’s how it was.”
“You see, my dear child, my responsibility in admitting you to the convent is a great one. Convince me that you have a vocation, and I shall not mind the responsibility.”
“How shall I convince you, Mother?”
“By telling me your story, by telling me everything you know about yourself. If I am a mm, I am an old woman, and I suffered deeply before I came here.”
Evelyn told her story from the day she met Owen Asher to the day she went to confession to Monsignor.
“And the strange part of it is that I would not marry. Owen Asher often asked me to marry him, but something always held me back from marriage. Ulick Dean nearly succeeded;” and she told of the extraordinary lassitude which had overcome her one evening, how she had sat in her armchair looking at the fire, unable to get up. “My tether was a sense of that one sin, for I always felt it to be wrong to live with a man who was not your husband; but it was not until my father died that I began to perceive that my life was wrong from end to end. It usen’t to seem wrong to me to spend months learning an opera and singing it for a great deal of money, or to spend as much on a dress as a workman and his family could live on for a whole year. But I think I always thought it wrong to live with Owen Asher, and as I did not want to give up living with him, I was forced to deny God. Owen Asher knew all the atheistical arguments very well, and I read all the books he gave me to read. But to live without faith, dear Mother, is a nightmare. Driving home in the brougham after singing, I never failed to ask myself, What is the use of all this? it is all over now. Sometimes before I went down to the theatre I used to say, ‘In three hours — in four hours it will be all over, and then it will be the same as if I hadn’t sung at all!’ If one doesn’t believe in God, life ceases to have a meaning; that is the atheist’s difficulty. Owen Asher used to feel the same as I did. I remember his once stopping me; he looked round suddenly, and there was such conviction in his eyes when he said, ‘Evelyn, there’s nothing in it. I’ve tried everything, and there’s nothing in it.’ Still he goes on living, pursuing pleasures in which he knows there is nothing except disappointment.
“Looking back upon my life, that is how I see it. I cannot live without faith, without authority, without guidance. I am weak, I require authority. I am bound to tell you all these things so that you may be able to decide whether I have a vocation.”
“The ways by which we come back to God are many, and I think I understand very well how you have been brought back. This convent was but an instrument in His hands for the purpose of bringing you back, and it may be it has served its purpose now and you can return to the world. One can love God in the world and serve Him in the world. Some serve Him best in the world, some in the convent. When your grief has died down a little you may be able to return to the world.”
The Prioress waited for Evelyn to answer, but she did not answer, and she said, —
“My dear child, tell me of what you are thinking; confide in me.”
“It’s just that, Mother — what I have told you. I cannot live without faith, and if I leave the convent I lose my faith, or part of it. Even in the month I spent in Rome I lost something. Dogma does not appeal to me as much as practice, and Rome is full of worldly ecclesiastics who quarrel and abuse each other and contradict each other. I hardly dare to say it, but their worldliness, or what seemed to me their worldliness, was near destroying my faith again. It is only here that I can believe as I want to believe. Here everyone is humble, here everyone has renounced the lust of the flesh; so I know that you all believe, for your lives prove it.”
“We prayed, and our prayer was answered. Prayer is the only real power in the world, my dear Teresa, and you have had proof of the efficacy of our prayers; and if anyone here needed proof of the efficacy of prayer she would find it in you — how you came here, how you were brought here, is surely one of the most wonderful things in the world, and yet one of the most natural, if one thinks of it.”
The Prioress got up from her chair, and Evelyn followed her to the novitiate, where the novices were making the dress that Evelyn was to wear when she received the white veil.
“You see, Teresa, we spare no expense or trouble on your dress,” said the Prioress.
“Oh, it’s no trouble, dear Mother;” and Sister Angela rose from her chair and turned the dress right side out and shook it, so that Evelyn might admire the handsome folds into which the silk fell.
“And see, here is the wreath,” said Sister Jerome, picking up a wreath of orange blossom from a chair.
“And what do you think of your veil, Sister Teresa? Sister Rufina did this feather-stitch; hasn’t she done it beautifully?”
Evelyn examined the veil, and her interest was sincere in it, for she believed that the ritual and its symbolic garments were necessary to complete the inward conviction that she was liberated from the world.
“And Sister Rufina is making your wedding-cake. Mother Philippa has told her to put in as many raisins and currants as she pleases; yours will be the richest cake we have ever had in the convent.” Sister Angela spoke very demurely, for she was thinking of the portion of the cake that would come to her, and there was a little gluttony in her voice as she spoke of the almond paste it would have upon it.
“It is indeed a pity,” said Sister Jerome, “that Sister Teresa’s clothing takes place so early in the year.”
“How so, Sister Jerome?” Evelyn asked incautiously.
“Because if it had been a little later, or if Monsignor had not been delayed in Rome — I only thought,” she added, stopping short, “that you would like Monsignor to give you the’ white veil — it would be nicer for you, or if the bishop gave it,” she added, “or Father Ambrose. I am sure Sister Veronica never would have been a nun at all if Father Ambrose had not professed her. Father Daly is such a little frump.”
“That will do, children. I cannot really allow our chaplain to be spoken of in that manner.”
The Prioress and Evelyn descended the novitiate stairs together, and the Prioress said, —
“I think, dear Teresa, your retreat had better begin to-morrow.”
CHAP. XXIV.
THE SILENCE OF the convent had once seemed to her a hardship, and now these extra hours of silence seemed to her no hardship at all, and she passed a whole week without speaking, and in special humility of the spirit. She accepted all Mother Hilda’s instruction as a patient accepts her medicines. She looked forward to the gown, the veil, the wreath and the ceremony as the patient looks forward to the doctor’s ordinances, and she was anxious to exceed the rule, to do a little more than it required of her. The stage had enabled her to escape from herself, her vows were a more serious escapement, and on the day of her clothing she was the most infantile nun in the convent. She joined in all the babble and laughter, and her appreciation of the wedding-cake exceeded Sister Agatha’s. But she overdid it a little, and in the midst of her gaiety her mood changed, and she asked if she might go into the garden. Sister Jerome was particularly noisy that afternoon, her unceasing humour had begun to jar, and Evelyn felt she must get away from it.
It was a relief to watch the gardener.
He was mowing between the flower-beds, and the thick young grass that had just grown up after the winter lay along the lawn in irregular lines; and she noticed that the summer had not yet covered the earth, and that brown patches showed among grey-green tulip leaves, the tall May tulips which the Dutchmen used to paint. She looked towards the orchard, where the white pear blossom was shedding, and the apple blossom was beginning to show in tight pink knots amid brown boughs.
The convent pets had increased, and Evelyn in her walk round the garden met three goslings straying under the flowering laburnums. She returned them to their mother in the orchard, and a little farther on she came upon the cat playing with the long-lost tortoise. He had found the tortoise among the potato ridges, and, sitting in front of it
, tapped the black head whenever it appeared beyond the shell. And holding the great grey torn cat by his front paws she decided to carry him to the other end of the garden, to where sparrows were pecking up the sweet peas. And then she wandered in St. Peter’s Walk, watching the young leaves swinging.
The mystery of the spring seemed afloat in the misty distances, and standing on the terrace, her eyes fixed on the wooded horizon, she thought of the Birmingham girl whose renunciation of the world had been much more complete than hers had been that morning. For the order of the Carmelites was more severe than that of the Passionists. She remembered the lilacs in the courtyard, and the smell of the wax inside the church, and the quavering voices of the nuns, and the priest’s intoning of the Veni Creator. She did not linger over these external appearances — she was more concerned with her personal impression. Three years ago the ceremony had seemed to her like a gross mediaeval superstition. She remembered how it had frightened her. That a girl should choose to forego lover, husband, children, riches, fame — everything! All these things might have been hers, but she had put them away, knowing them to be vain things.
Evelyn remembered how even then she had begun to perceive the unreality of the things which the world calls real things. Yet on the day of the girl’s clothing it had seemed to her that for a time one should be the dupe of that illusion which the world calls reality. It had seemed to her that the girl should have tasted of the cup before she had refused it. She could have sympathised with a renunciation, but she could not then sympathise with a refusal. She could not admit that anyone should know from the beginning that the world was a vain thing; such precocity; and conflicted with her prejudice. She remembered how she had been taken with a sudden impulse to ask this girl what reason had compelled her to refuse life, and how she had followed Merat through a side door and down a passage. She had come to a room divided by a grating, and behind the grating she had seen the girl, her face suffused with tears, and she had not been able to ask what she had come to ask. The conviction that the girl could not answer her had stayed the question on her lips. The mere sight of the girl had told her that she had been led by a sublime instinct beside which the wisdom of all the philosophers was very little....