Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  “My dear Teresa, I noticed that you did not communicate once this week.”

  She could only say that an overwhelming sense of her unworthiness had obliged her abstention. She could not bring herself to confess that she, Sister Teresa, a nun dedicated to perpetual adoration, did not believe, or had doubts regarding the actual presence of God in the sacramental wafer.

  There was a time, she remembered it well, when her communions alone marked the passage of time. She remembered how she used to count the hours which divided her from God, how she welcomed sleep, for sleep obliterated consciousness of time. And she remembered how she used to awake in the morning thinking that the hour of the Lord was by. She used to go to the communion table with a wonderful flutter in her breast, keen hunger for the divine food. As she knelt, her head bowed, she was conscious only of her soul and God; she hardly dared open her mouth; and as the sacrament dissolved she was taken with a great fear, for to swallow seemed like sacrilege, and she covered her face lest the action of swallowing should be perceived. When she had swallowed, the sense of happiness and immortal union grew more intense; her senses seemed to consume one by one, and she was conscious of an exquisite harmony, in which every atom seemed to beat in unison with another atom. In those days she used to live in God, God was always about her, and the sense of God’s presence enveloped her, and looking back upon that time it seemed to her that she had been dead or sleeping ever since, and it seemed as if the thick besetting dream of circumstance would never break again.

  She noticed the quality of the food and the length of time in chapel, and every day she found it more difficult to think of God, more difficult to keep her lovers out of her mind, and the music that she used to sing for their delight. One day she began to play the prelude to “Lohengrin” from impulse and to see what an effect it would have on Veronica, and when she had finished, she asked her for her idea of it.

  “It seemed to me,” she said, “as if I stood waiting on some mountain-top, somewhere where there is no boundary. The dawn seemed to be breaking, light seemed to increase, the rays grew brighter, and my soul seemed to be waiting amid the increasing light.”

  “Yes, it is that, Veronica — that is a very good description; how did you think of it?”

  “I did not think it.... I felt like that.”

  “Elsa sings a beautiful melody in the balcony — listen.” After singing it she said, “It is as deep as the hush of the summer night. How the voice falls on the word calme.”

  “Oh, Sister, that music is not like our life here.... It is far away. You used to sing that music, and yet you came here.”

  “Perhaps I came here to escape from it, Veronica.”

  The prelude to “Tristan” and the “Forest Murmurs,” and the Rhine journey could not but trouble the quiet souls of Sister Elisabeth and Sister Veronica, and Evelyn knew that in playing this music to them she was doing a wicked thing. But a strange will had taken possession of her and she had to obey it. She stopped in the cloister to remember that she had saved the convent, and now she wished to destroy it. Was this really so? She could not believe it. Good heavens! Why did she hate those nuns? Was it possible that she hated them? Did she wish to destroy the peace of mind of her innocent companions? No, she did not desire such wickedness. She could not help herself; something was behind her, and she began to fear she was possessed by the devil.

  And though she feared her brain was going the way Miss Dingle’s had gone, she could not resist tile temptation to wear a blue scapular. And she listened more attentively than she ever did before to Miss Dingle’s experiences. At last, unable to bear her present state of mind any longer, she resolved to consult the chaplain.

  “I have come to consult you, Father, about a great many things; if you have finished with your other penitents perhaps you may be able to give me a little more time than usual.”

  He seemed to awake from a pious lethargy. The new chaplain reminded Evelyn of Sister Cecilia.

  “Father, I have come to confess certain sins and obtain forgiveness for these sins. But over and above my sins I have come to consult you, and I feel you will be able to give me the advice I want.”

  It seemed to her that she had better begin by telling him her general attitude of mind towards the convent, for she wished him to understand that a change had come, whether transitory or permanent she did not know. An enumeration of her little criticisms of the nuns would convey no true picture of her trouble, and yet it was all so instinct with her trouble that she felt she must tell him that she had smiled at the excitement of the novices and the younger nuns over the shrines in the passages and in the garden.

  “I have been lacking in humility — that, I suppose, is what it comes to.”

  Fearing any inclination to extenuate, she entered into details, and then her confession seemed to her sillier and more trivial than the pious fancies that had excited her irony, and she hurried on, trying to hit upon something definite, some less evanescent emotion, which could be expressed by words. If she could say something that the priest would understand, something that would help him to divine the very real trouble and unrest of soul. But she could express nothing of what she felt. The fact that she had emphasised sentences, which even caricatured the sentiment of a popular piece of music did not seem to him a serious sin; and settling his cassock over his knees, he reminded her that singing had paid off the convent’s debts.

  “Yes, I know,” she said, “and that very day a lady was so delighted with the ‘Ave Maria’ that she sent the last fifty pounds required to pay off the debt.”

  “On that very day! Now I will give you absolution.”

  “But, Father, there is a real burden on my mind, and you must have patience with me, for my trouble is very real, and I want your advice.”

  Again the priest settled his cassock and concentrated his attention.

  “I have thought of men whom I knew before I entered the convent, whom I knew sinfully. I have not been able to keep their faces and recollections of my sins out of my mind. I do not know if you know that I was an opera singer before I became a nun.... I thought that the opera singer was dead in me, but the other day I played some of the music I used to sing. I don’t know if I am deceiving myself, but it seemed to me that I played that music to the nuns in order to trouble their lives as mine has been troubled. I can imagine no sin more horrible, and I hope I have not been guilty of it.”

  The priest asked her what music she had played, and when she told him he said, —

  “But I do not know any more devotional music than the prelude to ‘Lohengrin,’ and the other music you speak of seems to me to be entirely unobjectionable. I have taken great pleasure in it myself — the prelude to ‘Parsifal,’ for instance.”

  “But I wish to forget that music; it is full of associations for me, and my intentions in playing it were—”

  “I do not think, my daughter, that you are in a frame of mind to judge your intentions. We are not responsible for passing thoughts.”

  There still remained her doubts regarding the Real Presence, and she said, —

  “I cannot imagine anything more terrible than to be a nun, vowed to perpetual adoration, and not to believe implicitly in the Real Presence.... I can imagine no more terrible fate, and that fate may be mine — I was going to say is perhaps mine already.”

  “But, my dear child, you do not say that you do not believe in the Real Presence, and if you do not deny you believe.”

  “Does that follow, Father? I certainly do not deny. I do not even disbelieve, but I fear my faith in the sacrament is waning. Think what my position would be in the convent if such a thing were to happen.”

  “It can only be that the trial you are now enduring has been sent to test you, and you must pray.”

  “But, Father, I seem to have lost control of my thoughts. Only this morning, when you bent down over the altar to take the sacrament, trivial thoughts passed through my mind; is it necessary that I should tell them to you?”

/>   “No, it is not necessary.”

  “They are so vivid and near me, and yet they do not seem like my thoughts, and sometimes I fear to turn my head lest I should see the devil. I have almost come to believe in him as Miss Dingle does — I mean in his visible presence and in his power to lay material hands on me. Think, then, what it must be to kneel before the altar! I cannot shake this haunting spirit out of me. Not only blasphemous, but indecent thoughts rise up in my mind, and they are so distinct and clear that I cannot but think the devil is whispering in my ear. I must tell you all. The moment I kneel to take my watch the voice begins, and the last time I communicated...”

  She ceased speaking and hid her face in her hands.

  “There is no reason why you should recall these painful visitations.”

  “Yes, visitations; they can be nothing else. I dare not communicate; you have noticed my abstention? If these thoughts do not cease I cannot live in the convent — I cannot live in blasphemy.”

  “Have you spoken to the Prioress on this matter?”

  “No.”

  The Prioress reserved the spiritual guidance of her nuns to herself.... Father Daly had been dismissed for interference. The Chaplain reflected. He could think of no argument which would convince her of the Real Presence in the Eucharist. His brain seemed a little torpid that afternoon. Had he not better refer the penitent to the Prioress? On the other hand, would it be right to avoid the responsibility that had come upon him. But at that moment an argument was being revealed to him, and he began, though he knew he risked a great deal, the three minutes, the limit the Prioress allowed her nuns in the confessional, were over long ago.

  “My dear child, your position is very serious. But God never deserts those who do not desert Him.”

  And while trying to disentangle an argument wherewith to convince her of the Real Presence, he spoke to her of the sin of despair, the most terrible of all sins, and the one to be dreaded most. “If we accept the evidence of our senses,” he said, “we would believe the earth to be flat and stationary. But this conflicts with the evidence of our senses regarding the rising and setting of constellations, and so it is with the mystery of Transubstantiation. If we accept our immediate sensation, no change has taken place during the words of consecration, and God is not in the sacred wafer any more than He is in any other wafer; but just as in astronomy we arrive at an absurdity if we do not accept the theory of the motion of the earth, so do we arrive at an absurdity in theology if we do not accept the teaching of our holy Church. To call into question the Real Presence in the sacred wafer not only calls into question the trustworthiness of the Church’s teaching, but also the very words of Christ, who said, ‘Take and eat, for this is my body,’ and again, ‘This is my blood of the New Testament, which is shed for you and for many for the remission of sins.’ Then this doctrine in the New Testament must be dismissed as a fable, for did not Christ say, ‘I came not to destroy the law but to fulfil it’? So you see, to deny any one article of the faith involves a denial of everything, and if Christ be not God, and the New Testament a myth, then all the world, and all the stars, and everything that happens in life are but a series of chances.”

  “Yes, Father, yes, and it is a great help to me to hear you; and what you say is quite true. I used to believe that this world and human life were due to a series of chances.”

  “And the scientific explanation failed to satisfy you. I will give you some books to read on the subject, and with patience and prayer your doubts will pass away, my dear child.”

  The priest then said a little prayer with her, and he gave her absolution for any fault that might be hers in not resisting more strenuously the thoughts that had come, against her will, from a far time.

  CHAP. XXXIV.

  ONE NIGHT IN her convent bed she saw flames about her, and she began to remember the scene — how it begins with Siegfried’s own motive, and underneath it the ripple of the Rhinegold.

  The day has began; the last rosy clouds vanish In light melodies, cool as the wind blowing out of the dawn, and the hero stands on the mountain-top. Below him the warrior woman sleeps in her war gear, surrounded by flames, and at once is heard the mysterious “Question to Fate.” Evelyn’s eyes closed, and she dreamed “The Love Spell,” as it emerges from the orchestra; and the young hero, whose mother she had rescued, descended the rocks to her side, and amid enchanting melodies— “Love’s Confusion,”

  “Love’s Rapture,” and “Love’s Delight” — he took her buckler and her helmet from her, and looking upon her breasts, dreamed she might unclasp her girdle for him in the pine wood dose by.

  The nun strove against the dream, but God seemed to have abandoned her; and she could not resist the temptation of mortal lips; the music overtook her as a net overtakes the escaping fish, she heard her vows die as Siegfried’s lips pressed hers apart. The music rose out of the depths of the orchestra; it ascended to the heights on the violins, and she heard the exultant chords expressive of her rapture when she awakens to the beauty of the world. Sitting up on the rock where she has lain for so many years, she asks, “Who is the hero who has awakened me?” and they both sing the rapture of the meeting.

  Siegfried watches her as the sun watches the marvel of the spring. He sings his wonder at her beauty, and a pang of reciprocal longing awakens, and her delight is like earth’s answer to the sun. What accents of courage and triumph, and amid them her own “justification,” for had she not been compassionate to the unhappy parents? The impetuous boy implores her, but in the midst of her desire she remembers she is a goddess, and again, amid the temptation to yield to the delight of the senses, she hears the theme of “Renundation.” To surrender to love is to surrender her immortal life; and her elemental nature rises up like the wind; and she hears her sisters fly to her. But in spite of her endeavour to resist she turns her eyes to Siegfried, and she sees him leading her into the fir wood, and her senses sicken a little as she thinks how she may unclasp her girdle for his pleasure and for hers. And amid the flutter and rapture of such melodious phrases as “Love’s Confusion” and “Love’s Rapture” the gods strive vainly for her virginity. She turns to the fir wood, her hands fall to her girdle, but she hears the theme of Valhalla.

  The nun’s face grew pale in her dream, and she tossed on her bed, for she was striving to remember. The next part of the scene seemed to elude her, and she seems to wander through long woods, following some distant and evasive music sung by a bird. At last, coming to a rocky desert place, “The Curse” is suddenly thundered in her ears, and she remembers that death follows all delight. But immediately peaceful memories breathe in her ears. Siegfried is beside her, she is enfolded in her desire of him, though she hears in the quivering air some faint echo of tremulous annihilation. She listens, and the alluring dimness of the Valhalla motive overcomes her, and breaking away she foregoes the fatal gift of love. But Siegfried sings his irresistible phrase, his triumphal “Come what May,” and the joy of life is accepted amid the tempestuous beat of the flying hoofs of “The Ride,” the mysterious call of the bird; and the love themes are repeated, and after them “The Heritage of the World” is heard. “Siegfried’s own Motive” rises out of the depths, and the boy and the maid exult in a final trill.

  The nun’s eyes opened, and she lay with wide open eyes in a state between sleeping and waking, her thoughts so completely detached from her will that she seemed to be listening rather than thinking. She lay quiescent, and her whole life seemed to be read out to her, and at the end of the long reading she answered, “No Siegfried will come to release me from this prison of invisible bars. And if Siegfried came to release me from these flames — for every will is a flame — of what use should I be to him?”

  “Of what use” repeated like antiphony, and at the end of each verse she repeated, “What use should I be to him?” and this was sometimes followed by the addition, “or to anyone? God has cast me off,” she cried, “and men have cast me off, and my present singing would app
eal to them as little as my body. No man can love me again.”

  In the silence of the dawn, the evening she had found Owen watching for her in her drawing-room at Park Lane returned. She had been near to yielding to him, but he had refrained, though he loved her as much as ever. She had not understood at the time, only long afterwards, and by degrees, that the prayers of the nuns had withheld him from her. The prayers of the nuns had withheld her from him in Thornton Grange. Ah, how dim a spectre she would seem to him now, and to Ulick too, who in his pagan mysticism hated Christianity even more than Owen.

  She suddenly became aware that the convent had moulded her to its ideas more completely than Owen Asher had done; her insomnia was like a glass in which she saw herself clearly; the very ends of her soul were revealed to her. It seemed to her that she must die, so great was her fear. She shrank from the convent, the chapel, the refectory, and the passages were reflected upon her brain. The nuns passed by her, and she knew their faces in every minute reflection of line, in every slight difference of colour, and she heard them tell her that this was the end, that no further change would come into her life. As they passed her she asked them if her life would be prolonged, but they passed without answering her question, and she thought how friendless the convent would be when the Prioress died. Sister Mary John was the only one to whom she could tell her trouble of soul, the only one who could help her to bear the trial of her unfaith. It seemed to her that she had been strangely indifferent to her friend’s departure. She had forgotten her quickly, and it seemed to her that during the term of their friendship she had always been curiously unresponsive.’ Evelyn saw her friend far away in France. She might be dead, she would never hear of her again, and she cried out, “Come back!” hoping the cry might reach her.