by George Moore
“Why, Alice,” said Mrs. Barton, “how tired you look, dear! Will you have a cup of tea? it will freshen you up, you have been walking yourself to death.”
“Thanks, mamma, I will have a cup of tea; Cecilia and I went to see the Brennans.”
“And are any of them going to he married yet?” said Olive.
“I really don’t know; I didn’t ask them.”
“Well, they ought to be doing something with themselves; they have been trying it on long enough. They have been going up to the Shelbourne for the last ten years. Did they show you the dresses they brought down this season? They haven’t worn them yet — they keep them wrapped up in silver paper.”
Amazed, Alice looked at her sister; whence had come this flow of bitter gossiping?
“And how did you hear all that?” she asked.
“Oh! one hears everything: I don’t live with my nose buried in a book like you. That was all very well in the convent.”
“But what have I done that you should speak to me in that way?”
“Now, Alice dear,” said Mrs. Barton, coaxingly, “don’t get angry. I assure you Olive didn’t mean it.”
“No, indeed, I did not,” exclaimed the corn-coloured girl, holding her sister by the arms and forcing her back into the chair.
Arthur’s attention, however, had been too deeply absorbed in the serenade in “Don Pasquale,” to give heed to the feminine hickering with which his studio was ringing, until he was startled suddenly from his musical dreaming by an angry exclamation from his wife.
The picture of the bathers, which Alice had seen begun, had been only partially turned to the wall, and Mrs. Barton had caught sight of one of the faces of the women. After examining it for a few moments, she got up, and, without a word, she seized the picture. Olive uttered a cry, and, looking terrified, Arthur broke off in the middle of a bar. The two naked creatures who were taking a dip in the quiet, sunlit pool were Olive and Mrs. Barton; and, so grotesque were the likenesses, that Alice could not refrain from laughing.
“This is monstrous! this is disgraceful, sir; how often have I forbidden you to paint my face on any of your shameless pictures?” exclaimed Mrs. Barton, purple with rage; “and your daughter too — and just as she is coming out! Do you want to ruin us? I should like to know what anyone would think if—” and, unable to complete her sentence, either mentally or aloud, Mrs. Barton wheeled the easel, on which the larger picture stood, into the full light of the window.
If Arthur had wounded the susceptibilities of his family before, he had outraged them now. The great woman, who had gathered to her bosom one of the doves her naked son, Cupid, had knocked out of the trees with his bow and arrow; was Olive. The white face and its high nose, beautiful as a bead by Canova is beautiful; the corn-like tresses, piled on the top of the absurdly small head, were, beyond mistaking, Olive. Mrs. Barton stammered for words; Olive burst into tears.
“Oh! papa, how could you disgrace me in that way? Oh! I am disgraced! there’s no use in my going to the drawingroom now.”
“My dear, my dear, I assure you I can change it with a flick of the brush,” said the blond delinquent; “admiration carried away by idea — I promise you I’ll change it.”
“Come away, Olive, come away,” said Mrs. Barton, casting a look of burning indignation at her husband. “If you cry like that, Olive, you won’t be fit to be looked at, and Captain Hibbert is coming here to-night.”
When they had left the room, Arthur looked inquiringly at Alice.
“This is very disagreeable,” he said; “I really didn’t think the likeness was so marked as all that; I assure you I didn’t. I must do something to alter it — I might change the colour of the hair; but no, I can’t do that, the entire scheme of colour depends upon that. It is a great pity, for it is one of my best things; the features I might alter, and yet it is very hard to do so, without losing the character. I wonder if were to make the nose straighter — Alice, dear, would you mind turning your head this way?”
“Oh! no, no, no, papa dear! you aren’t going to put my face upon it;” and she ran smothered with laughter from the room.
When this little quarrel was over and done, when Arthur had altered, beyond recognition, the faces in his picture, and Olive had ceased to consider herself a disgraced girl, the allusion that had been made to Mass as a means of meeting Captain Hibbert remained like a sting in Alice’s memory. It surprised her at all sorts of odd moments, and often forced her, under many different impulses of mind, to reconsider the «religious problem more passionately and intensely than she bad ever done before. She asked herself if she had ever believed? Perhaps in very early youth, in a sort of vague, half-hearted way she had taken for granted the usual traditional ideas of heaven and hell, but even then, she remembered, she used to wonder how it was that time was found for everything else but God. If he existed it seemed to her that monks and nuns, or puritans of the sternest type, were alone in the right. And yet she couldn’t quite feel that they were right. She had always been intensely conscious of the grotesque contrast between a creed like that of the Christian, and having dancing and French lessons, and going to garden-parties, yes, and making wreaths and decorations for churches at Christmas-time. If one only believed, and had but a shilling, surely the only logical way of spending it was to give it to the poor, or a missionary — and yet nobody seemed to think so. Priests and bishops did not do so, she herself did not want to do so; still, so long as Alice believed, she was unable to get rid of the idea. Teachers might say what they pleased, but the creed they taught spoke for itself, and prescribed an impossible ideal, an unsatisfactory ideal which aspired to no more than saving oneself after all.
This represents the religious struggle that had filled Alice’s mind from her twelfth to her sixteenth year. Then a few books read: Darwin on the origin of Species, a History of the French Revolution, Byron, Shelley’s Satires on the absurdity of Revelation, the Immaculate Conception, and belief in God, an all-seeing, all-powerful, and Eternal Governor of the Universe, burst, like a wind-filled bladder under the point of a pin. How, then, with this rectitude of soul, had she consented to live so many years conforming outwardly to all the tenets of a religion which she recognised as an absurdity? The explanation of this seeming anomaly is found in the last line of the preceding paragraph: “An unsatisfactory ideal, which aspires to no more than saving oneself after all.” In every nature there is a dominating force, which decides victory or defeat on all occasions. In Alice, this took the form of supreme unselfishness; she could not — it was impossible for her to do or say anything — when, by so doing, she knew she might cause suffering, or give pain to anyone, even an enemy. And it was this defect in Alice Barton’s character that forced her pitilessly, against any will of her own, to enact, to live up to what she deemed a lie. Often she had longed, and longed again, until she was sick with grief and longing, to tell the truth and be saved the mummery of attending at Mass, of bowing her head at the elevation of the Host. But when she realised the consternation, the agony of mind, it would cause the nuns she loved, she held back the word — cowardly, treacherously if you will; but it was this treachery — tins imperfection, that linked her to and made her of the same nature as the four other heroines of this story. Cecilia alone had guessed the truth, and, at the first hint, Alice had told her all. The confession was a supreme relief; but, while unable to accept the counsel to ruthlessly break the oneness of their lives, she had hoped, she had looked forward to acting independently, and living an individual life at home. But at home, as in the convent, her resolution failed her. Her courage sank in the terrible and chilling tides of loneliness that surged about her; and the ever-present sense of mental separateness frightened her from all confidences. Since she had been at home, all her ideas and sensations had received violent contradiction; not one of the many practical rectitudes of which she had so fondly dreamed, had been found; and, therefore, in the brutal overthrow and wreck of so many illusions and hopes, her religious
convictions and projects had been more than usually forgotten.
But they had again become the acute strain in this symphony of suffering; and now the weekly exhibition of best clothes, silk hats, carriages, gravity, collectedness, public proof of the world’s unworldliness: proof that all, no matter what the facts said, did possess an ideal, horrified this straight-souled girl, until she felt the life she was leading as a leprosy upon her. Twenty times she had determined to speak to her mother, twenty times something had occurred to prevent her. Friday and Saturday went by, and, as the hour approached when they should go to Mass to meet Captain Hibbert, the desire to say that her going to chapel was but a mockery, and to beg to be allowed to stay away, grew almost irresistible. It was only a foolish fear that such a declaration might interfere with her sister’s prospects that stayed the words as they rose to her lips; and at last, her gloves on and prayer-book in hand, she found herself packed into the brougham, watching the expressionless church-going faces of her family. From afar the clanging of a high swinging bell was heard, and the harsh reverberations travelling over the rocky townlands summoned the cottagers to God. The stone pillars of the chapel-gateway stared with bright yellow proclamations. The tenant-farmers were called upon to assemble by thousands and assert their rights. Landlordism and land-grabbing must be put down. Messrs. I. M. Brady, M.P., Matthew Hagan, and P. Flanagan we rid address the meeting.
The roadway was filled with young peasants in frieze coats and pot-hats; they stood in silent groups, or leaned in lines along the low wall that marked the precincts of the chapel. A look of quiet cunning overspread their faces, and showed that they guessed the annoyance the Land League proclamation would cause the gentry. Here and there was seen an old man in a traditional tail-coat and knee-breeches, walking apart, mumbling his toothless gums, evidently as incapable of thinking as of dressing up to the ideas of the present generation. And, mimicking modesty, came the girls — thick, short, fit for work in the fields; some with rosy cheeks, nice, with their shawls folded about their shoulders, their hair drawn into a knot, and tied with a ribbon at the back of their heads; others like nothing at all, in cheap millinery bought in the county-towns — shapeless hats with ostrich feathers of nameless hues — formless mantles. There was no giggling; only the very shyest glance to see if their boys were near. The bell continued to clang, and the servants from the different gentlemen’s establishments passed in; they were a class in themselves, and were sleek, cringing, bashful under the public gaze.
“Now, Arthur — do you hear? — you mustn’t look at those horrid papers!” Mrs. Barton whispered to her husband; “we must pretend not to see them. I wonder how Father Shannon can allow such a thing, making the house of God into — into I don’t know what, for the purpose of preaching robbery and murder. Just look at the country-people, how sour and wicked they look — don’t they, Alice?”
“Well, I don’t know that they do, mamma,” said Alice, who had already begun to see something wrong in each big house being surrounded by a hundred small ones, all working to keep it in sloth and luxury.
“I don’t know how it is, you always contradict me, and you seem to take pleasure in holding opinions that no one else does.”
Then they entered a large whitewashed building. In the middle of the earthen floor there was a stone basin filled with water, into which each person dipped a hand, and therewith blessed themselves.
A plaster angel knelt at each side of the altar; the chancel-window was made out of extensive squares of yellow and green glass, which, coming against the raw glare of whitewash, had a hideous effect. On the left-hand side, next to the communion-rails, half-a-dozen prie-Dieu and cushions had been set; and this one trace of comfort and aristocracy had a pert and curious look in this very rural church.
“Goodness me!” said Olive, “who in the world can those people be in our pew?”
Mrs. Barton trembled a little. Had the peasants seized the religious possessions of their oppressors? Dismissing the suspicion, she examined the backs indicated by Olive.
“Why, my dear, it is the Goulds; what can have brought them all this way?”
“I don’t know; but isn’t it nice of them to come?” The expected boredom of the service was forgotten, and Olive shook hands warmly with Mrs. Gould and May.
“Why, you must have driven fifteen miles; where arc your horses?”
“We took the liberty of sending the carriage on to Brookfield, and we are coming on to lunch with you; that is to say, if you will let us?” cried May.
“Of course, of course; but how nice of you!”
“Oh! we have such news; but it was courageous of us to come all this way. Have you seen those terrible proclamations?”
“Indeed we have. Just fancy a priest allowing his chapel to be turned into a political — political what shall I call it?”
“Bear-garden,” suggested May.
“And Father Shannon is going to take the chah’ at the meeting; he wouldn’t get his dues if he didn’t.”
“Hush, hush! they may hear you; but you were saying something about news.”
“Oh! don’t ask me,” said Mrs. Gould; “that’s May’s affair — such work!”
“Say quickly! what is it, May?”
“Look here, girls, I can’t explain everything now; but we arc going to give a ball; that is to say, all the young girls are going to subscribe. It will only cost us about three pounds apiece — that is to say, if we can get forty subscribers — we have got twenty already, and we hope you will join us. It is going to be called the spinsters’ ball. But there is such a lot to be done; the supper to be got together, the decorations of the room (splendid room, the old schoolhouse, you know). We are going to ask you to let us take Alice away with us.”
The conversation was here interrupted by the appearance of the priest, a large fat man, whose new, thick-soled boots creaked terribly as he ascended the steps of the altar. He was preceded by two boys dressed in white and black surplices. They rang little brass bells furiously, and immediately a great trampling of feet was beard. The peasants came, coughing and grunting with monotonous, animal-like voices; and the sour odour of cabin-smoked frieze arose, and was almost visible in the great beams of light that poured through the eastern windows; and whiffs of unclean leather, mingled with a smell of a sick child, flaccid as the prayer of the mother who grovelled, beating her breast, before the third Station of the Cross; and Olive and May, exchanging looks of disgust, drew forth cambric pocket-handkerchiefs, and in unison the perfumes of white rose and eau d’opoponax evaporated softly.
Alice watched the ceremony of Mass, and the falseness of it jarred upon her terribly. The mumbled Latin, the by-play with the wine and water, the mumming of the uplifted hands, were so appallingly trivial, and, worse still, all realisation of the idea seemed impossible to the mind of the congregation. Passing by, without scorn, the belief that the white wafer the priest held above his head, in this lonely Irish chapel, was the Creator of the twenty millions of suns in the Milky Way, she mused on the faith as exhibited by those who came to worship, and that which would have, which must have, inspired them, were Christianity now, as it once was, a burning, a vital force in the world. Looking round, what did she see? Here, at her elbow, were the gentry. How elegantly they prayed, with what refinement! Their social position was as manifest in their religion as in their homes, their language, their food. The delicate eyelids were closed from time to time; the long slim fingers held the gilt missals with the same well-bred grace as they would a fan; their thoughts would have passed from one to the other without embarrassment. Clearly they considered one the complement of the other. At the Elevation, the delicate necks were bowed, and, had lovers been whispering in their ears, greater modesty could not have been shown.
They had come to be in the absolute presence of God, the Distributor of Eternal rewards and punishments — and yet they had taken advantage of this stupendous mystery to meet for the purpose of arranging the details of the ball.
> The peasantry filled the body of the church. They prayed coarsely, ignorantly, with the same brutality as they lived. Just behind Alice a man groaned. He cleared his throat with loud guffaws: she listened to hear the saliva fall: it splashed on the earthen floor. Further away a circle of dried and yellowing faces bespoke centuries of damp cabins, brutalising toil, occasional starvation. They moaned and sighed, a prey to the gross superstition of the moment. One man, bent double, beat a ragged shirt with a clenched fist; the women of forty, with cloaks drawn over their foreheads and trailing on the ground in long black folds, crouched until only the lean hard-worked hands that held the rosary were seen over the bench-rail. The young men stared arrogantly, wearied by the length of the service.
They, too, had come to be in the absolute presence of God — the Distributor of Eternal rewards and punishments — and yet they had taken advantage of the occasion of this stupendous mystery to meet for the purpose of arranging a land meeting.
Alice was troubled, as if by the obscure sensations of a nightmare. Surely, if their belief — gentry and peasants, she put them together — was not a mockery, a mere familiar usage, they could not be so indifferent as they were. If they did realise that the white wafer was God — God the Creator! before whom all things are nothing — something more full of meaning, more worthy than this little Sunday mummery would be the result. The early Christians, forgetting their food, had died in starving ecstasy in the desert! Then Alice felt, more calmly than she had ever done before, that what she was now witnessing was but the dust of an old-world faith, the sweeping away of which had only been delayed because a man is idle, and “loves to lie abed in the unclean straw of his intellectual habits.”
Soon after came the sermon — to Alice an incomprehensible jargon of ideas. The Ladies Cullen were denounced for proselytising. Instances were given: they had pursued one poor boy until he took refuge in an empty house, the door of which he was fortunately enabled to fasten against them; they had sent a sick woman blankets, in which they had not neglected to enclose some tracts; tracts that declared that reading the Bible — the Bible being admittedly the word of God — must be the way to know Him. Amateur shopkeeping, winter clothing, wood, turf, presents of meal, wine, and potatoes were all vigorously attacked as the wiles of the Evil One to lead the faithful from the true Church.
