For a moment I stood there, surrendering myself to the enchantment. Then, suddenly, and for no apparent reason, things began to happen.
First of all, the miasma of depression lifted. It was as if some sea-borne wind had rushed in and whirled it away.
Next, in the wake of this sweeping and garnishing came, not a still small voice, but something that was like a burst of song.
And it took possession of me, so that I found myself suddenly and inexplicably filled with a longing so violent and overwhelming as to be almost unbearable. And I knew—beyond all possibility of doubting—that what I really did want, fiercely and dreadfully and more than anything else in the world, was a home of my own with perhaps a scrap of garden in the offing, in which and with which I could do exactly what I pleased.
And then—just for an instant (and not with the eyes of the body, mark you, but with what St. Augustine speaks of so often as the ‘eyes of the soul’)—I saw it.
It was crouching, as you might say, on a little nest of cloud, in a kind of rift in my inner consciousness, and looking at me. And I knew immediately that it was the palace of my heart’s desire.
The smallest imaginable mouse-trap of a cottage; with a frill of garden round it; and a cliff behind. And in the foreground rocks and sand and the sea; and at the gate of the garden a cat was sitting. I am nearly sure it was a Siamese.
Then, gently and softly, as they had opened only an instant before, the gates swung to.
(6)
To anyone who has persevered as far as this rhapsodic interlude, it will be obvious that, after such an experience, nothing could ever be quite the same again. One had been drifting, vaguely, and with no apparent end in view: and then, in a single blazing instant, everything in one had suddenly found itself fixed in this tremendous Act of Wanting upon that Vision in the clouds.
It changed everything. Life took on a new meaning.
Instead of walking abstractedly past rows of houses, one examined them thoughtfully. Always, one felt, there might be something to be gleaned: a door-knocker; an idea for window-curtains; more often, some detail to be avoided. One gazed into shop windows. One studied baths and basins. One meditated upon the mysteries of coal-holes and kitchenettes.
Obviously, it would be a long time before the dream could materialize. Certainly not until after the war. But, in the meantime, one could at least learn some of the endless things about houses and domesticity of which one was so calamitously ignorant. And one could lay aside every possible penny ‘against the day’.
Now, I am fully aware that this sudden and quite overwhelming desire for a small country cottage may seem rather extraordinary. The fact is, however, that—although it appeared to me in the form of a cottage—it stood, in reality, for a great deal more than that. The cottage—and its surroundings—were the outward and visible sign of an inward and psychological fact, which was that, by it, and through it, but—best of all—in it, I was at last, quite simply, going to be ME.
But to understand just what that idea meant to me, we must return to the convent.
Looking back, it now seems to me that what was hardest on human nature in religious life was the absolute subjection, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, of one’s free will to the exigencies of the Rule.
It would not be too much to say that in those few words are contained all the agonies of what is called ‘a life of perfection’.
From the moment of awakening, till the hour when at last you are permitted to fall asleep, the Rule holds you in its grip.1
Nothing, except the degree of obedience to what is commanded, is left to individual choice. Not only what you do, but when, and even how, you do it is meticulously prescribed.
The five years spent in the Noviceship are all too short in which to master the vast amount of information that has to be acquired. The Rule itself—the endless, intricate ceremonial of choir and refectory; the complicated observances of Holy Week; the horarium, varying as it does for the countless feasts and seasons of the liturgy; the slow and arduous acquisition of what is called ‘religious behaviour’; the observance of silence, including absolute noiselessness in one’s movements, especially in the opening and shutting of doors; the avoidance of anything ‘worldly’ in one’s speech or actions, such as slang, exaggerated language, a loud voice, the habit of excusing oneself when corrected; dealings with the rest of the religious; or, indeed, any departure from the customs of the house.
Each moment of the day is provided for. One prays, reads, eats, walks in the garden, at the appointed hour; no religious is allowed to follow her own inclinations in the disposal of her time.
When the cloister bell rings as the signal for a change of occupation, all must abandon whatever they are doing with the utmost promptitude. Should you be writing, no matter how ardently genius may burn, the Rule exacts that you should break off in the middle, not only of a sentence, but of a word. To ‘disobey the first sound of the bell’ and continue—even for an instant—an occupation which, the moment the bell sounds, has ceased to be ‘of Rule’, is to commit a fault.
Neither are you left free as to the manner in which you do things. Everything is ordained, down to the very way you sit or move or hold your hands.
Even when you sweep or dust, it must be done exactly in the particular fashion that was taught to you in the Noviceship. Should an enterprising novice attempt to try out some ‘new and better’ way of doing things, she would be corrected at once. One soon realizes that, in Religious Life, what one does seems comparatively unimportant; what matters is that it should be done at the time and in the manner that the Rule ordains.
So conservative are the old religious orders that, for a thing to have been done in principio is quite sufficient reason for it to continue thus—even when there has ceased to be any reason for it—in saecula saeculorum, Amen.
No better illustration of this could be given than the case of the choir-mantles.
From time immemorial, long, heavy cloaks lined with rough serge were worn in winter by the nuns, while reciting the Divine Office in an entirely unwarmed choir. (And even then they would often come out with their toes and fingers blue with cold.) After the 1914 war, central heating was installed in the damp and icy church—chiefly for the sake of the priest and congregation, who found mediaeval austerities very little to their taste. The radiators were enormous, which quite often made the choir extremely hot. Yet the heavy, sergelined mantles continued to be worn. At the same time, even when the snow lay on the ground, or the wind blew cold and glassy as an iceberg, the mantles might not be worn out of doors. Spiritual Reading had to be performed as one walked up and down in a blast that suggested a lunge from the weapon of a horribly expert swordsman. One walked about in house and garden, winter and summer, wearing identically the same clothes.
I remember once asking the Mistress of Novices why it was that we were made to wear mantles in choir when we were too hot and no mantles in the garden when we were too cold.
She said:
‘All these things are a part of the life of penance and mortification which we embraced when we made our Vows. If you feel the cold too much when you walk in the garden, you had better wear a shawl.’
This solution to the problem did not appeal to me at all.
So deeply did the Rule cut into one’s liberty that even the mind was subject, at certain times, to the most rigorous discipline. Though one was always taught to be on one’s guard against ‘vain, perverse and even wandering thoughts’, there were occasions when even more than that was required.
Half an hour before the last bell which summoned the nuns to the Divine Office, the cloister bell rang solemnly to remind them that ‘Strict Silence’ had begun and that, from now onwards, until that particular ‘Hour’ of the Divine Office should be ended, to occupy the mind with anything but spiritual thoughts would be a fault against the Rule.
In fact, wherever there might otherwise have been a chance of escaping down one of those lush green la
nes of individual choice which are so dear to human nature, the Rule invariably stepped in—an Angel with a flaming sword—and barred the way. For the Rule, even in its smallest and apparently most insignificant details was, to the religious, the Will of God. And so, in all things and at all times, her own individual will was voluntarily sacrificed.
There was another point.
By the Vow of Poverty, none of the religious might possess anything whatsoever of their own.
In the Order to which I belonged, the nuns, like the early Christians, had ‘everything in common’. There was no such thing as mine and thine; everything was always spoken of as ‘ours’—‘our knife and fork’, ‘our breviary’, ‘our choirmantle’ … even ‘our brush and comb’. In the world outside, people express themselves through their surroundings. By their books and clothes and furniture, even by the houses they live in, one can generally tell, more or less, the kind of people that they are. In Religious Life, however, nothing of this sort is possible. There is no scope whatsoever for the expression of individual taste. Everything one has is, to begin with, exactly like that used by everybody else; and, since it is only lent to one, nothing of one’s own personality is to be found in it. The enjoyment of seeing one’s own ideas and tastes mirrored in everything around one, because one has chosen it and arranged it exactly as one likes, is unknown.
Indeed, everything in the convent combines to prevent, as much as possible, the external exercise or expression of anything personal at all.
It will, therefore, be apparent that such phrases as ‘my very own’, or ‘exactly as I please’, held for me a peculiar and urgent fascination. The idea of possessing—actually possessing, as my own—a place (no matter how small and simple) in which I could put furniture that I had chosen, curtains whose colours I had decided upon, books and pictures that I actually wanted and liked, was almost too wonderful to be realized. And the thought of a garden of my own, with potential roses and delphiniums … and the knowledge that I should be able to cook my own meals, weed my own garden, say my prayers, read (and, perhaps, write) books, and get up and go to bed exactly when and where and how I pleased, was—well—so intoxicating that I hardly dared let my mind dwell upon it for too long at a time.
It is a very wonderful experience indeed when, at fifty years old, you suddenly discover that for the first time in your life you are really free to be yourself.
(7)
I am still doubtful whether my second job was a comedy or a tragedy. Perhaps it would be best to describe it simply as a flop.
One May morning, when I was nearing the completion of my drawing course, the Principal summoned me into the hutch at the back of the office.
Here I found a sulky-looking young man with a fat back to his neck and a marked disinclination to look one straight in the eyes. This was Mr. Percy Hambledon, representative of a firm in the Midlands. They specialized in aircraft repairs and wanted a lady designer for one of their factories. It was suggested that I might like to consider the job.
Mr. Hambledon struck me as what this generation would call a really nasty piece of work. I knew, however, that fastidiousness would get me nowhere; so, being anxious to start on war work as soon as possible, I composed myself to hear what he had to say.
Mr. Hambledon told me that the job was a ‘composite affair’, for, besides sketching the damage on aircraft that came in for repairs and preparing diagrams for the factory, I should be required to operate what he called ‘the photostat’—a comparatively new and somewhat complicated process of photography. This last would necessitate my undergoing a short course of training before actually taking up the job. About this, Mr. Hambledon promised that he would ‘let me know’.
He then handed me an official form of really staggering dimensions. It was the first of its kind that I had encountered and it filled me with considerable awe. Such precautionary probings and pryings into the most intimate concerns of prospective employees must surely indicate a post of quite supreme importance. The long hours, compulsory overtime, and low wages—one pound fifteen shillings a week, including war bonus—in no way daunted me. I even remember a vague thrill of satisfaction at the thought of various uncomfortablenesses which would allow me, though even in so small a measure, to experience something at least analagous to what was being endured by some of those who were actually fighting the war.
In the end, I signed the form; and the unpleasing Mr. Hambledon promised to ring me up later about the photostat.
I then went forth, feeling—if possible—even grander and more important than when I had made my début at the Stourport Labour Exchange.
About a fortnight later, a trunk call from my new employer directed me to report to South Africa House. There, I was told, I should receive instructions about the photostat.
As I cautiously lowered myself from the bus into Trafalgar Square, I wondered inconsequently how long it would be before I really felt myself to be a part of this odd, exciting, noisy, scurrying world. Everything in it seemed to be the antithesis of all that had made up the greater part of my life. The expressions of the passers-by—unhappy, hard, coarse, bestial, or just vacant—what a contrast they were to the serene, spiritual faces which had hitherto surrounded me! For nuns should—and almost invariably do—look serene, as they are not only holy but happy. If they fail to do this, there is something wrong.
I asked the way of what appeared to be a policeman. How different was this quite unpadded and slightly disdainful young man from the huge and rubicund bobby of my youth. And why, instead of the traditional helmet, was he wearing a peaked cap like that of an army officer? His voice and speech when he directed me were unmistakably those of a gentleman. It was all very bewildering.
I tried to assume a suitable air of self-possession as I entered South Africa House, though I could hardly have felt more nervous if its portals had been those of the Kremlin.
In the hall, an omnipotent-looking official, whose uniform suggested that he must be at least a field-marshal, took charge of me. By him I was wafted in lifts (a new and exciting experience), conducted down corridors, and finally led into the presence of a Personage with the most unsmiling eyes I have ever seen. I remember them even now: they were long-distance eyes, which never once during the interview that followed condescended to focus upon me.
I told him my business; and when he had asked me a few questions, he did some telephoning. Finally, with his eyes still contemplating an invisible horizon, he told me that there must be some mistake, because nobody at South Africa House had ever heard of either Mr. Hambledon or his photostat.
And the strange thing is that, both at Africa House in Kingsway—whither I was subsequently directed—and at the Ministries of Air, Supply and Information, to which it was there suggested that I should apply, I received the same answer. None of them had ever been in communication with Mr. Hambledon.
What is even more odd is that to this day the mystery remains unsolved. Whether there ever was a photostat, or whether Mr. Hambledon was merely the kind of lunatic who amuses himself by directing gullible persons to imaginary courses of instruction in the manipulation of non-existent machines, I shall never know. Probably, if I had followed the matter up, interesting discoveries might have resulted.
But I anticipate.
(8)
Somewhere about two o’clock, I found myself in the neighbourhood of Victoria. I was feeling so cross and tired I could have cried.
I saw a place with ‘Empire Restaurant’ over the door. So, with hunger gnawing at my vitals, I went in.
It was crowded with what looked like shop-girls, office clerks, weary middle-aged women, and youth of both sexes in uniform. As I had never heard of the cafeteria system, I just sat down at one of the little tables and waited for someone to come and attend to me.
Nobody came. So far as I could see, there was nobody to come. I looked about and observed a long queue of people with trays in their hands, apparently serving themselves at a kind of counter behind a bar. To
them I joined myself, a little nervously, and presently secured a cup of coffee and some rather unappetizing food. With this, I proudly returned to my table.
And here, for the next fifteen minutes, I sat and meditated upon the experiences of the last few hours.
Never had I dreamed of anything like these great Ministries—the power-houses, I supposed, of our Government—into which I had just been permitted a glimpse. Several of them were not even in existence in 1914 when I retired from the world. And even those that were must have been far less vast and complicated than they are to-day.
I was particularly impressed by the gloom of Africa House in Kingsway and the sheer immensity of the Ministry of Information. There was something faintly terrifying in the thought of those gigantic buildings, honeycombed with endless passages, along which men and women scuttled like ants; and the tiny cell-like offices where millions spent their lives clicking away on typewriters or dealing with official forms. But the power and intricacies of our titanic government machine left me without enthusiasm. Some instinct within me even rebelled at the thought of a civilization that had such a system at its nerve-centres. And I began to ask myself frightening and paralysing questions—questions that had no answers, or, if they had, I certainly hadn’t a notion what they were.
How different was the government of empires from that of convents!
About the more modern congregations I am confessedly ignorant; but the old mediaeval monastic houses were ruled on highly efficient lines.
I Leap Over the Wall Page 9
