by A. J. Cronin
She was weak, very weak. It was strange. An effort to raise her hand from the coverlet; a still greater effort for her to raise her head from the pillow.
Then suddenly she became aware that she was not alone in the bedroom and her eyes widened with a wondering enquiry. A curious old woman was facing her, a woman with a face so thin and worn and wrinkled as to be almost ludicrous, with dab grey hair, cut short like a boy’s, and large, dark eyes staring from gaunt sockets. And the hands of the woman were like the face, bony, incredibly emaciated. Unconsciously Lucy lifted her own hand, and simultaneously the movement was effected by that other. She recoiled painfully – almost in fear. It was she herself, her reflection in the mirror carelessly left tilted by the sister infirmière, that she observed.
Stunned, she lay back, staring away from her image towards the ceiling. Such a little grey rat of a woman – this actually was what she had become! She was not yet forty-five. And only yesterday she had been a young and careless creature, quick with the eagerness of life, waiting in that glorious sunshine at her gate – for Frank. And now? No tears came to those large, dark eyes which fixed themselves so stiffly upon the ceiling; but they dulled and grew distant; and the pale lips of the face drew downwards with an infinite pathos. How ordinary, and yet how strange her life had been. Nothing unusual; just humdrum. Yes, that was the word – humdrum. Working for something which never came; reaching out her hand towards the infinite!
She lowered her eyes slowly. The door had opened softly, and now there entered Bonne Mère Générale, old Sister Infirmière, and finally, incredibly, the Mistress of Novices. Incredibly, too, they all were smiling; they entered amidst a perfect wreath of smiles.
‘So, so, you are awake,’ said Bonne Mere Générale, advancing to the edge of the bed. ‘Already you look refreshed.’ Her small, pugnacious chin retreated as, almost playfully, she turned her head and demanded of the infirmière: ‘Monsieur le docteur is satisfied?’
‘But yes, Bonne Mere Générale,’ answered the old woman obsequiously. ‘Perfectly. Already I have explained –’
Bonne Mère Générale put up her hand.
‘He does not come again?’ It was more a declaration than a question.
‘But no, Bonne Mère Générale. He reports confidence in me. He remarks –’
The Superior turned her broad back.
‘You see,’ she remarked to Lucy, pursing her lips pleasantly, ‘it is not serious for you. A little malaise. Some little fever in the head. Nothing’ – she waved her hand – ‘nothing at all.’
‘Already she has the air more tranquil,’ advanced Marie Emmanuel with a white smile. ‘It is so agreeable.’
‘Truly my cordial is remarkable,’ put in the little infirmière. ‘Monsieur le docteur himself remarks it to be very extracted. High praise from him, I assure you, ma Bonne Mère Générale.’
‘You must have all that is required,’ declared Bonne Mère blandly.
There is bouillon for you, and wine, and egg with milk. Then we must not forget the so extracted cordial of Sister Marthe.’
The three smiled at the little joke.
‘Some fruit might be agreeable,’ murmured Marie Emmanuel with a regal air. ‘So refreshing – so cool, I imagine.’
Lucy’s eyes puckered. What lay behind all this? Could this be the woman who had forced her through the degradation of the past six months – now suggesting that she have fruit?
‘Decidedly,’ averred the Superior. ‘Some fruit would be agreeable.’ She paused, then rose. ‘It shall be done. And now we must not fatigue your patient, Sister.’ They moved to the door. No mention of her deplorable delinquency; no mention of punishment; no direct question; nothing but indulgent friendliness.
They retired smiling, in perfect amity and order. She had not opened her lips during the entire interview.
She lay back weakly, wonderingly. Why, after such severity, this present pampering? What were they going to do with her? And again, what was to become of her?
Sister Marthe returned silently upon her prunella boots, bearing triumphantly a blue delf plate heaped with fruit. Plums and nectarines were there, with peaches and some vivid mulberries empurpled almost by their dusted bloom. She placed the plate on the chair beside the bed and remarked:
‘There it will be to your hand when you desire it.’
Lucy followed the other’s movements slowly with her heavy eyes, then slowly she demanded:
‘How long have I been here?’ Her voice sounded cracked and reedy in her ears. Marthe inclined her head appraisingly towards the heaped blue plate.
‘Only one day,’ she exclaimed cheerfully. ‘It is not much.’
There was a pause; then across the silence of the room Lucy’s voice came back:
‘What is to happen – with me?’
But the infirmière pretended not to hear. Her soft feet nosed gently over the floor towards the armoire and, still with her head inclined, she measured into a worn spoon a darkish liquid from a long-necked bottle.
‘Come,’ she declared, turning again. ‘It is time for your medicament.’
It was syrupy, the medicine, yet tinctured with a bitter warmth; and afterwards a cup of soup was swallowed. Then there was silence, broken by a stray tapping upon the windowpane from a shoot of clematis. A passive hush, in which she too was static. Her body motionless, her emaciated hands flat upon the coverlet; her eyes once more directed into a distance that was remote and absolute. Tip-tap-tip, went the tedious tapping on the pane. Then silence. Away, far off, there came a faint murmur of singing; outside, the ivy fluttered its glistening scales; slowly the patch of sunlight drifted round and upwards, losing its brilliance as it mounted the grey wall, and fading finally into wells of wavering twilight. Before the last thin gleam was gone the drug had lulled her into sleep.
It was a dreamless sleep; a merciful oblivion into which she sank without resistance. So long without an adequate repose, she lay motionless, extended, breathing lightly, nor did she wake again until Sister Marthe touched her upon the shoulder. Unbelieving, she considered the rising sun; the night, lately so long and full of torment, had passed her in a flash.
‘You are too kind to me,’ she said to the infirmière, a faint quiver moving across her lips.
‘Soon you will be well,’ returned the other, nodding her head eagerly. ‘My cordial. You understand. It is specific.’
A wan smile trembled on Lucy’s lips. She did indeed feel better. Her head was heavy, but through her body returning currents of vitality began to stir like thin streams of sap within a parched tree. But how weak she was! As she drank her chocolate – so thick and strong – her trembling hand with difficulty supported the cup. And still her mind was numb, paralysed by a weight of doubt.
All morning she lay in this inertia, then at noon the door swung open to admit again those visitors of the previous day.
Once more she was complimented upon her improvement, then with a gesture the Superior dismissed the old infirmière.
‘You look much recovered,’ she declared, standing close to the edge of the bed. She paused, then in a light, agreeable tone, with a quick nodding of her head, added: ‘Soon you shall be fit to travel.’
Lucy’s eyes did not leave the other’s face. It was what she had expected; it was inevitable. Yet somehow her passive and enfeebled spirit stiffened at the words. They were getting rid of her: pleasantly, all without fuss. That, indeed, or so it seemed to her, was the reason of this attentiveness, those too agreeable smiles.
‘So I am going, then?’ she said slowly.
‘It is so much better for your health,’ exclaimed the other volubly. She turned to Marie Emmanuel. ‘It is clear that we regret the step greatly.’ She shrugged her shoulders in justification. ‘But with health so enfeebled – what would you?’
‘That is so,’ said Marie Emmanuel. ‘What would you?’
During the short silence that slow wave of bitterness welled up in Lucy’s breast. With a calm, set face she decl
ared distinctly:
‘I was well when I entered the community. There was my medical certificate.’
‘Perhaps the age?’ suggested Marie Emmanuel with infinite tact. ‘That was against you.’
‘It is you who are against me,’ returned Lucy in a low voice, ‘and everything that is here. I entered wishing to raise myself to God, and always you have thrust me down – dragged me back into something mean and paltry. You have robbed me of everything!’
‘Still you do not understand,’ gasped the other. ‘It is the Rule – that perfect submission. Only to allow you to acquire it have I been severe. It is you who have estranged yourself. So different. Bonne Mère Générale is aware –’
She broke off and threw out her hands in vindication.
‘Now it is not significant,’ said the Superior evenly, with her eyes on Lucy. ‘It is a great tribulation to the community that you are not convenable, but nevertheless the affair is terminated. And now you must be calm to think of your return.’
Lucy compressed her pale lips. Still no excuses, no recriminations; it was assumed from the outset that she was in the wrong; simply the matter was not to be discussed. And they wanted to be rid of her – that she clearly perceived. Well, she had now no wish to remain!
‘You need have no fear,’ she said with a dignity strangely pathetic. ‘I shall write to my son at once.’
‘Already I have written,’ answered Bonne Mère Générale quietly. ‘He should receive that letter today, your good son.’
They had done even that – written to her son in terms of which she was ignorant, and must still remain ignorant. The same injustice, chafing her in the same way, causing the old resentment to rise within her!
Deliberately she controlled the tremulous twitching of her cheek.
‘A letter is not enough,’ she said calmly. ‘You must wire. Wire that I arrive tomorrow.’
‘No! No! It is impossible,’ they expostulated together. ‘It is too soon. In another week perhaps.’
‘I do not wish to remain here,’ she answered with a slow intensity which, cost her dear. ‘Here it is hateful to me.’
‘But you are still too – too fatigued!’
‘I will not remain here,’ she repeated again, firmly, imperatively; and in all her weakness she strove desperately for an outward calm and quietude. She would not betray herself. Yet with a rising agitation she exclaimed:
‘If you do not wire that I arrive tomorrow evening, I shall go of my own accord.’
They stared at her in the silence of misgiving; each looked at the other, then back again to her.
‘You must remain tranquil,’ said one soothingly at length. ‘You know we cannot detain you. But it is not possible.’
‘It is possible,’ reiterated Lucy with set lips. Tomorrow morning I shall leave.’
There was a long abashed silence.
‘Well, if you desire it,’ said the Superior at last, with a protesting shrug. ‘But, truly, it is not reasonable.’
She made no answer; nor did she move. But she closed her eyes, as though she must efface their hateful presence from her sight. For a long time after they had gone she lay still, her thin, veined hands motionless upon the counterpane, her cheek turned sideways towards the window, white and twisted. But for all her stillness a passionate shame was in her. A phrase of Frank’s, long forgotten, flashed into her mind. Yes, for all her pretence of dignity, they had ‘chucked her out’. She was chucked out! Her lip twitched. She was not suitable to them. She had entered this house bursting with the fervour of the love of God, with one passionate desire: to be the bride of Jesus. And now, her love refused, her fervour rejected, her soul emptied, the jilted bride of Jesus, she was going back – to what? Worn and stripped and empty as she was, devoid of everything, she was still conscious of a strange outreaching of her soul.
Outside, the sunshine lingered amongst the trees, and the flowers were ringed by the humming bees; and something beyond beckoned vaguely through the hazy distance. Perhaps for her there was still something? Without moving, her cheek still pressed sideways into the pillow and without sound, her heart flowed over, and she wept.
Chapter Twelve
The following morning, which she had decided to be the morning of her going, broke fresh and clear. A brisk breeze fluttered the spray of clematis against the window-pane, and, beyond, she could see the trees whisking in a wind which sent the leaves of the copper beech soaring like startled swallows against the immobile sky. And it was colder. At one breath the summer had turned to autumn.
She had awakened early, and for a long time she remained in thought. Then at eight o’clock she rose slowly – even cautiously. She stumbled and swayed at odd moments. But it behoved her to be careful, lest under the curious eyes of Marthe she should betray the dreadful weakness that assailed her. It was incredible, that weakness: a struggle to hold her head upright upon her limp neck, an effort to keep those hands from trembling as she dressed.
It was the black dress which she had worn in the Postulat that she assumed, but now, too large upon her meagre frame, it hung loosely in folds like a coat upon a scarecrow. Never had that dress been prepossessing, but now, pinned and tucked and tightened upon her by the old infirmière, it had an air both ludicrous and tragic.
As she rose with a swimming head from lacing her boots, suddenly she saw herself in the mirror. What a spectacle, she thought weakly! The dragged-in skirt, that comical pouching of the bodice, the hat falling askew upon the cropped head. And it was she – she who once had been elegant, fastidious: Frank had even called her beautiful!
‘Do you feel all right now you are risen?’ old Marthe was asking her solicitously.
She turned. ‘Perfectly,’ she answered in a low voice.
‘Then let us descend,’ said the other.
They went down to the parlour, where already Marie Emmanuel and Joséphine were awaiting her. These two, once instructed to receive her, had now apparently been detailed for her departure.
Bonne Mère Générale was not present, but occupied at this hour with her devotions.
Her trunk was also in that parlour, open, with all her clothing – everything which she had brought in – laid out meticulously. And she was obliged to remain whilst an inventory was made before her eyes. Nothing, it was demonstrated, had been retained. All that she had brought was here and was now surrendered. Even the money, to the last sou, was accounted for; more than sufficient for her fare, it had been. Her ticket was taken, the cab ordered, everything done. It was just! And she had used the word ‘robbed’!
At last the trunk was packed and, because the lock, yielding finally, was broken, they corded it down with rope. It was secure; they said, but as the leather case, wherein were all her goods, stood upon its end in the prim parlour, it had an air almost like her own: worn and bedraggled by its batterings and journeying.
They waited, the three – for the old infirmière had slipped out without speaking – facing each other across the round, oilcloth-covered table. There was no excitement, no tension, no sense of the unusual. Nothing could disturb the inexorable movements of the machine which had accepted her, engulfed her, and which now disgorged her. It went on and on and on.
‘Bonne Mère Générate regrets that she is occupied,’ said Marie Emmanuel for the second time. ‘In effect, she is not agreeable to your going so soon, but she cannot detain you.’
The bell clanged, but it came faintly, as from a distance.
‘The wire has been dispatched this morning,’ remarked Marie Emmanuel once more.
Outside, the swishing of dry leaves made sudden intermittent little gushes of sound.
‘This package,’ said Josephine, indicating a neat parcel before her, ‘ it is a very good luncheon for you.’ She miled: ‘Sandwiches and paté – yes, even sausage. All specially made ready for you.’
Still loading her with these temporal benefits, these little attentions and smiles, when here it was that everything had been stolen from her.<
br />
Suddenly she raised her head.
‘If it is permitted, I should like to take good-bye of Sister Adrienne.’
At once the two religious looked at each other deprecatingly; Marie Emmanuel was silent, but at length Joséphine smiled her expressionless smile:
‘But that is not possible, I fear,’ she said. ‘Early on the morning of her anniversary the good sister was found unconscious. A stroke of the brain – and she has since died.’ She smiled very gaily. ‘Yes, there is great joy in heaven. They are welcoming another saint.’
So that was how old Adrienne had spent her anniversary – without her little tasse of coffee and her gâteau glacé. A great sadness came over Lucy with a sudden sense of loss. To her Adrienne alone in this place of unreality had seemed actual and human. And her passing was greeted with a childish, ingenuous smile: a smile at those golden gates opening for the old woman who had not wished to leave the sunshine of the earth. It was too fantastic.
There was the crunch of a wheel upon the drive.
‘The cab awaits,’ said Marie Emmanuel, rising. ‘I shall send the driver for the baggage.’
They followed her outside: the same closed cab, the same old coachman in the same faded bluish coat buttoned to his neck, touching his glazed hat, disappearing into the porch, reappearing bowed beneath her trunk, heaving that trunk upon the box. And in the air was that nip of autumn which she had always loved.
Marie Emmanuel turned the brass-ringed handle and opened the door.
‘We shall accompany you to the station.’
Lucy’s eyes followed her movements.
‘No,’ she said evenly, ‘I prefer to go alone.’
