CHAPTER VIII
A HIGHER STEP
As Chris, on the eve of his profession, looked back over the year thathad passed since his reception at the guest-house, he scarcely knewwhether it seemed like a week or a century. At times it appeared as ifthe old life in the world were a kind of far-away picture in which hesaw himself as one detached from his present personality, moving amongcurious scenes in which now he had no part; at other times the familiarpast rushed on him fiercely, deafened him with its appeal, and claimedhim as its own. In such moods the monastery was an intolerable prison,the day's round an empty heart-breaking formality in which his soul wasbeing stifled, and even his habit, which he had once touched soreverently, the badge of a fool.
The life of the world at such times seemed to him the only sanity; thesemen used the powers that God had given them, were content with simpleand unostentatious doings and interests, reached the higher vocation bytheir very naivet?, and did not seek to fly on wings that were not meantto bear them. How sensible, Christopher told himself, was Ralph's ideal!God had made the world, so Ralph lived in it--a world in which great andsmall affairs were carried on, and in which he interested himself. Godhad made horses and hawks, had provided materials for carriages and fineclothes and cross-bows, had formed the sexes and allowed for love anddomestic matters, had created brains with their capacities of passionand intellect; and so Ralph had taken these things as he found them,hunted, dressed, lived, managed and mixed with men. At times in his cellChris saw that imposing figure in all its quiet bravery of dress, thatsane, clever face, those pitying and contemptuous eyes looking at him,and heard the well-bred voice asking and commenting and wondering at themisguided zeal of a brother who could give all this up, and seek to livea life that was built on and sustained by illusions.
One event during his first six months of the novitiate helped tosolemnise him and to clear the confusion.
Old Dom Augustine was taken sick and died, and Chris for the first timein his life watched the melting tragedy of death. The old monk had beenmoved from the dortor to the sick-room when the end seemed imminent, andone afternoon Chris noticed the little table set outside the door, withits candles and crucifix, the basin of cotton-wool, and the other signsthat the last sacraments were to be administered. He knew little of theold man, except his bleared face and shaking hands as he had seen themin choir, and had never been greatly impressed by him; but it wasanother matter when in the evening of the same day, at his master'sorder he passed into the cell and knelt down with the others to see theend.
The old monk was lying now on the cross of ashes that had been spread onthe floor; his features looked pinched and white in the candlelight; hisold mouth moved incessantly, and opened now and again to gasp; but therewas an august dignity on his face that Chris had never seen therebefore.
Outside the night was still and frosty; only now and again the heavystroke of the bell told the town that a soul was passing.
Dom Augustine had received Viaticum an hour before. Chris had heard thesteady tinkle of the bell, like the sound of Aaron's garments, as thepriest who had brought him Communion passed back with his sacred burden,and Chris had fallen on his knees where he stood as he caught a glimpseof the white procession passing back to the church, their frosty breathgoing up together in the winter night air, the wheeling shadows, and theglare of the torches giving a pleasant warm light in the dull cloister.
But all that was over now, and the end was at hand.
As Chris knelt there, mechanically responding to the prayers on whichthe monk's soul was beginning to lift itself and flutter for escape,there fell a great solemnity on his spirit. The thought, as old asdeath, made itself real to him, that this was the end of every man andof himself too. Where Dom Augustine lay, he would lie, with his pastbehind him, of which every detail would be instinct with eternal import.All the tiny things of the monastic life--the rising in time for thenight office, attention during it, the responses to grace, the littlemovements prescribed by etiquette, the invisible motions of a soul thathad or had not acted for the love of God, those stirrings, falls,aspirations, that incessant activity of eighty years--all so incrediblyminute from one point of view, so incredibly weighty from another--theaccount of all those things was to be handed in now, and an eternaljudgment given.
He looked at the wearied, pained old face again, at the tight-shut eyes,the jerking movements of the unshaven lips, and wondered what waspassing behind;--what strange colloquy of the soul with itself or itsMaster or great personages of the Court of Heaven. And all was set inthis little bare setting of white walls, a tumbled bed, a shutteredwindow, a guttering candle or two, a cross of ashes on boards, a ringof faces, and a murmur of prayers!
The solemnity rose and fell in Chris's soul like a deep organ-notesounding and waning. How homely and tender were these last rites, thisaccompaniment of the departing soul to the edge of eternity with allthat was dear and familiar to it--the drops of holy water, the mellowlight of candles, and the sonorous soothing Latin! And yet--and yet--howpowerless to save a soul that had not troubled to make the necessaryefforts during life, and had lost the power of making them now!
* * * * *
When all was over he went out of the cell with an indescribable gravity athis heart.
* * * * *
When the great events in the spring of '34 began to take place, Chriswas in a period of abstracted peace, and the rumours of them came to himas cries from another planet.
Dom Anthony Marks came into the cloister one day from the guest-housewith a great excitement in his face,
"Here is news!" he said, joining himself to Chris and another young monkwith whom the lonely novice was sometimes allowed to walk. "MasterHumphreys, from London, tells me they are all in a ferment there."
Chris looked at him with a deferential coldness, and waited for more.
"They say that Master More hath refused the oath, and that he is lodgedin the Tower, and my Lord of Rochester too."
The young monk burst into exclamations and questions, but Chris wassilent. It was sad enough, but what did it matter to him? What did itreally matter to anyone? God was King.
Dom Anthony was in a hurry, and scuffled off presently to tell thePrior, and in an hour or two there was an air of excitement through thehouse. Chris, however, heard nothing more except the little that thenovice-master chose to tell him, and felt a certain contempt for theanxious-eyed monks who broke the silence by whispers behind doors, andthe peace of the monastery by their perturbed looks.
* * * * *
Even when a little later in the summer the commissioner came down totender the oath of succession Chris heard little and cared less. He wasaware of a fine gentleman striding through the cloister, lolling in thegarth, and occupying a prominent seat in the church; he noticed that hismaster was long in coming to him after the protracted chapter-meetings,but it appeared to him all rather an irrelevant matter. These thingswere surely quite apart from the business for which they were allgathered in the house--the _opus Dei_ and the salvation of souls; thisor that legal document did not seriously affect such high matters.
The novice-master told him presently that the community had signed theoath, as all others were doing, and that there was no need for anxiety:they were in the hands of their Religious Superiors.
"I was not anxious," said Chris abruptly, and Dom James hastened to snubhim, and to tell him that he ought to have been, but that novices alwaysthought they knew everything, and were the chief troubles that Religioushouses had to put up with.
Chris courteously begged pardon, and went to his lessons wondering whatin the world all the pother was about.
But such moods of detachment were not continuous they visited him forweeks at a time, when his soul was full of consolation, and he wasamazed that any other life seemed possible to anyone. He seemed tohimself to have reached the very heart and secret of existence--surelyit was plain en
ough; God and eternity were the only things worthconsidering; a life passed in an ecstasy, if such were possible, wassurely more consonant with reality than one of ordinary activities.Activities were, after all, but concessions to human weakness and desirefor variety; contemplation was the simple and natural attitude of a soulthat knew herself and God.
But he was a man as well as a novice, and when these moods ebbed fromhis soul they left him strangely bitter and dry: the clouds wouldgather; the wind of discontent would begin to shrill about the angles ofhis spirit, and presently the storm of desolation would be up.
He had one such tempestuous mood immediately before his profession.
During its stress he had received a letter from his father which he wasallowed to read, in which Sir James half hinted at the advisability ofpostponing the irrevocable step until things were quieter, and his hearthad leaped at the possibility of escape. He did not know till then howstrong had grown the motive of appearing well in the eyes of hisrelatives and of fearing to lose their respect by drawing back; and nowthat his father, too, seemed to suggest that he had better re-considerhimself, it appeared that a door was opened in the high monastery wallthrough which he might go through and take his honour with him.
He passed through a terrible struggle that night.
Never had the night-office seemed so wearisomely barren. The glamourthat had lighted those dark walls and the double row of cowls anddown-bent faces, the mystical beauty of the single flames here andthere that threw patches of light on the carving of the stalls and thesombre habits, and gave visibility and significance to what without themwas obscure, the strange suggestiveness of the high-groined roof and thehigher vault glimmering through the summer darkness--all this had fadedand left him, as it seemed, sane and perceptive of facts at last. Outthere through those transepts lay the town where reasonable folk slept,husband and wife together, and the children in the great bed next door,with the tranquil ordinary day behind them and its fellow before; therewere the streets, still now and dark and empty but for the sleepingdogs, where the signs swung and the upper stories leaned together, andwhere the common life had been transacted since the birth of the townand would continue till its decay. And beyond lay the cool round hills,with their dark dewy slopes, over which he had ridden a year ago, andall England beyond them again, with its human life and affairs andinterests; and over all hung the serene stars whence God looked downwell pleased with all that He had made.
And, meanwhile, here he stood in his stall in his night shoes and blackhabit and cropped head, propped on his misericorde, with the great pagesopen before him, thumbed and greasy at their corners, from which he wasrepeating in a loud monotone formula after formula that had had time togrow familiar from repetition, but not yet sweet from associations--herehe stood with heavy eyelids after his short sleep, his feet aching andhot, and his whole soul rebellious.
* * * * *
He was sent by his novice-master next day to the Prior, with hisfather's letter in his hand, and stood humbly by the door while thePrior read it. Chris watched him under half-raised eye-lids; saw theclean-cut profile with its delicate mouth bent over the paper, and thehand with the enamelled ring turn the page. Prior Crowham was acultivated, well-bred man, not over strong-willed, but courteous andsympathetic. He turned a little to Chris in his carved chair, as he laidthe letter down.
"Well," he said, smiling, "it is for you to choose whether you willoffer yourself. Of course, there is uneasiness abroad, as this lettersays, but what then?"
He smiled pleasantly at the young man, and Chris felt a little ashamed.There was silence for a moment.
"It is for you to choose," said the Prior again, "you have been happywith us, I think?"
Chris pressed his lips together and looked down.
"Of course Satan will not leave you alone," went on the monk presently."He will suggest many reasons against your profession. If he did not, Ishould be afraid that you had no vocation."
Again he waited for an answer, and again Chris was silent. His soul wasso desolate that he could not trust himself to say all that he felt.
"You must wait a little," went on the Prior, "recommend yourself to ourLady and our Patron, and then leave yourself in their hands. You willknow better when you have had a few days. Will you do this, and thencome to me again?"
"Yes, my Lord Prior," said Chris, and he took up the letter, bowed, andwent out.
* * * * *
Within the week relief and knowledge came to him. He had done what themonk had told him, and it had been followed by a curious sense of reliefat the thought suggested to him that the responsibility of decision didnot rest on him but on his heavenly helpers. And then as he served massthe answer came.
It was in the chapel of the Blessed Virgin, a little building enteredfrom the north transept, with its windows opening directly on to theroad leading up into the town; there was no one there but the two. Itwas about seven o'clock on the feast of the Seven Martyrs, and thechapel was full of a diffused tender morning light, for the chapel wassheltered from the direct sunshine by the tall church on its south.
As they went up to the altar the bell sounded for the Elevation at thehigh-altar of the church, at the _missa familiaris_, and the footstep ofsomeone passing through the north transept ceased instantly at thesound. The priest ascended the steps, set down the vessels, spread thecorporal, opened the book, and came down again for the preparation.There was no one else in the chapel, and the peace of the place in thesummer light, only vitalized by the brisk chirping of a sparrow underthe eaves, entered into Christopher's soul.
As the mass went on it seemed as if a veil were lifting from his spirit,and leaving it free and sensible again. The things around him fell intotheir proper relationships, and there was no doubt in his mind that thisnewly restored significance of theirs was their true interpretation.They seemed penetrated and suffused by the light of the inner world; thered-brocaded chasuble moving on a level with his eyes, stirring with theshifting of the priest's elbows, was more than a piece of rich stuff,the white alb beneath more than mere linen, the hood thrown back in theamice a sacramental thing. He looked up at the smoky yellow flamesagainst the painted woodwork at the back of the altar, at thediscoloured stones beside the grey window-mouldings still with theslanting marks of the chisel upon them, at the black rafters overhead,and last out through the shafted window at the heavy July foliage of theelm that stood by the road and the brilliant morning sky beyond; andonce more he saw what these things meant and conveyed to an immortalsoul. The words that he had said during these last weeks so mechanicallywere now rich and alive again, and as he answered the priest heperceived the spiritual vibration of them in the inner world of whichhis own soul was but a part. And then the climax was reached, and helifted the skirt of the vestment with his left hand and shook the bellin his right; the last shreds of confusion were gone, and his spiritbasked tranquil and content and certain again in the light that wasnewly risen on him.
He went to the novice-master after the morning-chapter, and told himthat he had made up his mind to offer himself for profession if it wasthought advisable by the authorities.
* * * * *
Towards the end of August he presented himself once more before thechapter to make his solemn demand; his petition was granted, and a dayappointed for his profession.
Then he withdrew into yet stricter seclusion to prepare for the step.
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