by George Moore
Berlioz’s Memoirs I The faded voices she had heard that morning singing dreary hymns were more wonderful than his orchestral dreams. Nor did she find the spiritual stimulus she needed in Pater’s Imaginary Portraits. Some moody souls reflecting with no undue haste, without undue desire to arrive at any definite opinion concerning certain artistic problems, did not appeal to her. She put the book aside, fearing that she was in no humour for reading that morning; and with little hope of being interested, she took up another book. The size of the volume and the disproportion of the type seemed to drag her to it, and the title was a sort of prophetic echo of the interest she was to find in the book. Her thoughts clouded in a sense of delight as she read; she followed as a child follows a butterfly, until the fluttering colour disappears in the sky. And before she was aware of any idea, the harmony of the gentle prose captivated her, and she sat down, holding in her heart the certitude that she was going to be enchanted. The book procured for her the delicious sensualism of reading things at once new and old. It seemed to her that she was reading things that she had known always, but which she had somehow neglected to think out for herself. The book seemed like her inner self suddenly made clear. All that the author said on the value of Silence was so true. She raised her eyes from the page to think. She seemed to understand something, but she could not tell what it was. The object of every soul is to unite itself to another soul, to be absorbed in another, to find life and happiness in another; the desire of unison is the deepest instinct in man. But how little, the author asked, do words help us to understand? We talk and talk, and nothing is really said; the conversation falls, we walk side by side, our eyes fixed on the quiet skies, and lo! our souls come together and are united in their immortal destiny. She again raised her eyes from the page — now she understood, and she thought a long while. The chapter entitled “The Profound Life” interested her equally. The nuns realised it, but those who live in the world live on the surface of things. To live a life of silence and devotion, illumined not from without but from within, the eternal light that never fails or withers, and to live unconscious of the great stream of things, our back turned to that great stream flowing mysteriously, solemnly, like a river! The chapter entitled “Warnings” had for her a strangely personal meaning. How true it is that we know everything, only we have not acquired the art of saying it. Had she not always known that her destiny was not with Owen, that he was but a passing, not the abiding event of her life? She looked through the convent room, and the abiding event of her life now seemed to murmur in her ear, seemed to pass like a shadow before her eyes. At the moment when she thought she was about to hear and see, a knock came at her door, and the revelation of her destiny passed, with a little ironical smile, out of her eyes and ears.
Her visitor was a strange little nun whom she had not seen before. Over her slim figure the white serge habit fell in such graceful, mediæval lines as Evelyn had seen in German cathedrals; and her face was delicate and childlike beneath the white forehead band. She came forward with a diffident little smile.
“Reverend Mother sent me to you; she is watching now, or she would have come herself, but she thought you might like me to take you round the garden. She will join us there when she comes out of church. But Reverend Mother said you must do just as you liked.”
The little nun corresponded to her mood even as the book had done; she seemed an apparition, a ghost risen from its pages. Her face was a thin oval, and the purity of the outline was accentuated by the white kerchief which surrounded it. The nose was slightly aquiline, the chin a little pointed, the lips well cut, but thin and colourless — lips that Evelyn thought had never been kissed, and that never would be kissed. The thought seemed disgraceful, and Evelyn noticed hastily the dark almond eyes that saved the face from insipidity; the black eyebrows were firmly and delicately drawn, her complexion, without being pale, was extraordinarily transparent, and the thin hands and long, narrow fingers, half hidden beneath the long sleeves, were in the same idea of mediæval delicacy.
“I was longing to go out, but I had not the courage. I feared it might be against the rule for me to go into the garden alone. But tell me first who you are.”
“Oh, I’m Sister Veronica. I’m only a novice as yet.”
Evelyn noticed that, unlike the other nuns she had seen, Sister Veronica wore neither the silver heart on her breast, suspended by a red cord, nor the long straight scapular which gave such dignity to the religious habit. Her habit was held in at the waist by a leather girdle; it looked as though it might slip any moment over the slight, boyish hips, and by her side hung a rosary of large black beads.
Sister Veronica warned Evelyn that she must be careful how she went down the staircase, as it was very slippery. Evelyn said she would be careful; she added that the sisters kept the stairs in beautiful order, and wondered what her next remark would be. She was nervous in the presence of these convent women, lest by some unfortunate remark she should betray herself. And when they reached the garden it was Sister Veronica who was the most self-possessed — she was already confessing to Evelyn that they had all felt very nervous knowing that a “real” singer was listening to them.
“Oh, do you sing?” Evelyn asked eagerly.
“Well, I have to try,” Sister Veronica answered, with a little laugh. “Mother Prioress thought perhaps I might learn, so she put me in the choir, but Sister Mary John says I shall never be the least use.”
“Is Sister Mary John the sister who teaches you?”
“Yes; it is she who played the organ at Mass. She loves music. She is simply longing to hear you sing, Miss Innes. Do you think you will sing at Benediction this afternoon for us? It would be lovely.”
“I don’t know, really. You see I haven’t been asked yet.”
“Oh, Reverend Mother is sure to ask you — at least I hope she will. We all want to hear you so much.”
They were sitting in the shadow of a great elm; all around was a wonderful silence, and to turn the conversation from herself, Evelyn asked Sister Veronica if she didn’t care for their beautiful garden.
“Oh, yes, indeed I do. I’m glad you like it.... When I was a child my greatest treat was to be allowed to play in the nuns’ garden.”
“Then you knew the convent long before you came to be a nun yourself?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve known it all my life.”
“So it was not strange when you came here first?”
“No, it was like coming home.”
Evelyn repeated the nun’s words to herself, “Like coming home.” And she seemed to see far into their meaning. Here was an illustration of what she had read in the book — she and Veronica seemed to understand each other in the silence. But it became necessary to speak, and in answer to a question, Sister Veronica told Evelyn that there were four novices and two postulants in the novitiate, and that the name of the novice mistress was Mother Mary Hilda. The novitiate was in the upper storey of the new wing, above the convent refectory.
“And here is Reverend Mother,” and Sister Veronica suddenly got up. Evelyn got up too, and they waited till the elderly nun slowly crossed the lawn. Evelyn noticed, even when the Reverend Mother was seated, that Veronica remained standing.
“You can go now, Veronica.”
Veronica smiled a little good-bye to Evelyn, and left them immediately.
“Veronica told you, Miss Innes, I was taking my watch?”
“Yes, Reverend Mother.”
“I hope she has not been wearying you with the details of our life?”
“On the contrary, I have been very much interested.... Your life here is so beautiful that I long to know more about it. At present my knowledge is confined to the fact that the second storey in the new wing is the novitiate, and that there are four novices and two postulants.” The Reverend Mother smiled, and after a pause Evelyn added —
“But Sister Veronica is very young.”
“She is older than she looks, she is nearly twenty. Ever since she was
quite a child she wished to be a nun. Even then her mind was quite made up.”
“She told me that when she was a child her great pleasure was to be allowed to walk in the convent garden.”
“Yes. You don’t know, perhaps, that she is my niece. My poor brother’s child. She was left an orphan at a very early age. Her’s is a sad story. But God has been good: she never doubted her vocation, she passed from an innocent childhood to a life dedicated to God. So she has been spared the trouble that is the lot of those who live in the world.”
An accent of past but unforgotten sorrow had crept into her voice; and once more Evelyn was convinced that she had not, like Veronica, passed from innocent childhood into the blameless dream of convent life. She had known the world and had renounced it. In the silence that had fallen Evelyn wondered what her story might be, and whether she would ever hear it. But she knew that in the convent no allusion is made to the past, that there the past is really the past.
“I hope that you will sing for us at Benediction. All the sisters are longing to hear you. It will be such a pleasure to them.”
“I shall be very glad ... only I have brought nothing with me. But I daresay I shall find something among the music you have here.”
“Sister Mary John will find you something; she is our organist.”
“And an excellent musician. I noticed her playing.”
“She has always been anxious to improve the choir, but unfortunately none of the sisters except her has any voice to speak of.... You might sing Gounod’s ‘Ave Maria’ at Benediction; you know it, of course, what a beautiful piece of music it is. But I see that you don’t admire it.”
“Well,” Evelyn said, smiling, “it is contrary to all the principles I’ve been brought up in.”
“We might walk a little; we are at the end of the summer, and the air is a little cold. You do not mind walking very slowly? I’m forbidden to walk fast on account of my heart.”
They crossed the sloping lawn, and walking slowly up St. Peter’s walk, amid sad flutterings of leaves from the branches of the elms, Evelyn told the Reverend Mother the story of the musical reformation which her father had achieved. She asked Evelyn if it would be possible to give Palestrina at the convent and they reached the end of the walk. It was flushed with September, and in the glittering stillness the name of Palestrina was exquisite to speak. They passed the tall cross standing at the top of the rocks, and the Reverend Mother said, speaking out of long reflection— “Have I never heard any of the music you sing? Wagner I have never heard, but the Italian operas, ‘Lucia’ and ‘Trovatore,’ or Mozart? Have you never sung Mozart?”
“Very little. I am what is called a dramatic soprano. The only Italian opera I’ve sung is ‘Norma.’ Do you know it?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve sung Leonore — not in ‘Trovatore,’ in ‘Fidelio.’”
“But surely you admire ‘Trovatore’ — the ‘Miserere,’ for instance. Is not that beautiful?”
“It is no doubt very effective, but it is considered very common now.” Evelyn hummed snatches of the opera; then the waltz from “Traviata.” “I’ve sung Margaret.”
“Ah.”
And as she hummed the Jewel Song she watched the Reverend Mother’s face, and was certain that the nun had heard the music on the stage. But at that moment the angelus bell rang. Evelyn had forgotten the responses, and as she walked towards the convent she asked the Reverend Mother to repeat them once again, so that she might have them by heart. She excused herself, saying how difficult was the observance of religious forms for those who live in the world.
After dinner she wrote two letters. One was to her father, the other was to Monsignor, and having directed the letters she imagined the postal arrangement to be somewhat irregular. After Benediction she would ask Veronica what time the letters left the convent. And looking across the abyss which separated them, she saw her passionate self-centred past and Veronica’s little transit from the schoolroom to the convent. It seemed strange to her that she never had what might be called a girl friend. But she had arrived at a time when a woman friend was a necessity, and it now suddenly occurred to her that there would be something wonderfully sweet and satisfying in the uncritical love of a woman younger than herself. She felt that the love of this innocent creature who knew nothing, who never would know anything, and who therefore would suspect nothing, would help her to forget her past as Monsignor wished. She felt a sympathy awaken in her for her own sex which she had never known before, and this yearning was confounded in a desire to be among those who knew nothing of her past. Now she was glad that she had refrained from taking the Reverend Mother into her confidence, and she wondered how much Monsignor had told her the day they had walked in the garden; it relieved her to remember that he knew very little except what she had told him in confession.
Someone knocked. She answered, “Come in.” It was Mother Philippa and another nun.
“I hope we’re not interrupting.... But you’re reading, I see.”
“No, I was thinking;” and glad of the interruption, she let the book fall on her knees. “Pray come in, Mother Philippa,” and Evelyn rose to detain her.
The nuns entered very shyly. Evelyn handed them chairs, and as she did so she remarked the tall, angular nun who followed Mother Philippa, and whose face expressed so much energy.
“Good afternoon, Miss Innes. I hope you slept well last night, and did not find your bed too uncomfortable?”
“Thank you, Mother Philippa. I liked my bed. I slept very well.” Evelyn drew two chairs forward, and Mother Philippa introduced Evelyn to Sister Mary John. And while she explained that she had heard from the Reverend Mother that Miss Innes had promised to sing at Benediction, Sister Mary John sat watching Evelyn, her large brown eyes wide open. Her eagerness was even a little comical, and Evelyn smiled through her growing liking for this nun. She was unlike any other nun she had seen. Nuns were usually formal and placid, but Sister Mary John was so irreparably herself that while the others presented feeble imitations of the Reverend Mother’s manner, her walk and speech, Sister Mary John continued to slouch along, to cross her legs, to swing her arms, to lean forward and interrupt when she was interested in the conversation; when she was not, she did not attempt to hide her indifference. Evelyn thought that she must be about eight-and-twenty or thirty. The eyes were brown and exultant, and the eyebrows seemed very straight and black in the sallow complexion. All the features were large, but a little of the radiant smile that had lit up all her features when she came forward to greet Evelyn still lingered on her face. Now and then she seemed to grow impatient, and then she forgot her impatience and the smile floated back again. At last her opportunity came, and she seized it eagerly.
“I’m quite ashamed, Miss Innes, we sang so badly this morning; our little choir can do better than that.”
“I was interested; the organ was very well played.”
“Did you think so? I have not sufficient time for practice, but I love music, and am longing to hear you sing. But the Reverend Mother says that you have brought no music with you.”
“I hear,” said Mother Philippa, “that you do not care for Gounod’s ‘Ave Maria.’”
“If the Reverend Mother wishes me to sing it, I shall be delighted to do so, if Sister Mary John has the music.”
Sister Mary John shook her head authoritatively, and said that she quite understood that Miss Innes did not approve of the liberty of writing any melody over Bach’s beautiful prelude. Besides, it required a violin. The conversation then turned on the music at St. Joseph’s. Sister Mary John listened, breaking suddenly in with some question regarding Palestrina. She had never heard any of his music; would Miss Innes lend her some? Was there nothing of his that they could sing in the convent?
“I do not know anything of his written for two voices. You might play the other parts on the organ, but I’m afraid it would sound not a little ridiculous.”
“But have you heard the Benedictine
nuns sing the plain chant; they pause in the middle of the verse — that is the tradition, is it not?”
Meanwhile Mother Philippa sat forgotten. Evelyn noticed her isolation before Sister Mary John, and addressed an observation to her. But Mother Philippa said she knew nothing about music, and that they were to go on talking as if she weren’t there. But a mere listener is a dead weight in a conversation; and whenever Evelyn’s eyes went that way, she could see that Mother Philippa was thinking of something else; and when she looked towards Sister Mary John she could see that she was longing to be alone with her. A delightful hour of conversation awaited them if they could only find some excuse to get away together, and Evelyn looked at Sister Mary John, saying with her eyes that the suggestion must come from her.
“If I were to take Miss Innes to the organ loft and show her what music we have — don’t you think so, Mother Philippa?’
“Yes, I think that would be the best thing to do.... I’m sure the Reverend Mother would see no objection to your taking Miss Innes to the organ loft.”
Mother Philippa did not see the look of relief and delight that passed in Sister Mary John’s eyes, and it was Evelyn who had a scruple about getting rid of Mother Philippa.
“I was so disappointed not to have seen you the day you came here; and what made it so hard was that it was first arranged that it was the Reverend Mother and I who were to meet you. I had looked forward to seeing you. I love music, and it is seven years since I’ve spoken to anyone who could tell the difference between a third and a fourth. There’s no one here who cares about music.”
It seemed to Evelyn that the problem of life must have presented itself to Sister Mary John very much as it presents itself to a woman who is suddenly called to join her husband in India. The woman hates leaving London, her friends, and all the habits of life in which she has grown up; but she does not hesitate to give up these things to follow the man she loves out to India.
“I don’t know why it was settled that Mother Philippa was to meet you instead of me; it seemed so useless, meeting you meant so little to her and so much to me; I’m always inclined to argue, but that day the Reverend Mother’s heart was very bad; she had had a fainting fit in the early morning; we all got up to pray for her.”
