by George Moore
CHAP. XII.
DURING THE WINTER and spring she had been kept waiting many times in the convent parlour, but this time the Prioress did not keep her waiting. She passed suddenly into the room, and taking Evelyn’s hand in hers, kissed her, in convent fashion, on both cheeks.
“So you have really come to us, Evelyn,” she said, “you are really going to be one of my children?”
“Well, I have come to try, Reverend Mother.”
“But tell me, Evelyn,” said the little old nun, laying her hand on Evelyn’s knee, and looking straight into her face, “are you quite happy at coming?”
“Yes, I am quite happy, for I know that I am doing what I was appointed to do, and there is always happiness in doing that. I’m not frightened as I used to be. I lived in a state of fear, but to-day I don’t feel afraid, though I may be coming here for good.”
“Indeed, I hope you are; and I may tell you I never wished any postulant to succeed as I wish you to.”
“Dear Reverend Mother, you are much too kind to me, I shall never deserve all your kindness; but a vocation is such a mysterious thing. I have come here because I feel that God has sent me to help you and — well, because I feel that outside the convent there is nothing to hold on to.”
She wondered at her own instability of character, and this very instability in the next moment seemed to her like a more elaborate design of life than she had imagined. Looking down the road which had brought her to the present moment of her life, many things which had seemed devious and tangled now seemed simple and plain.
She must, just as the Reverend Mother said, put herself into the hands of God; and she listened, deeply interested, for the Prioress said that very often those who least desired a vocation were irresistibly called to a religious life.
The old nun spoke out of the remembrance of a long life lived and meditated. Her pale blue eyes were fixed on Evelyn, and they looked so weary with wisdom that Evelyn watched them, striving to read in them the secret, the death of some loved one; and in striving to pierce the enigma she felt herself drawn into a new influence. The sensation was not unknown to her, and she remembered suddenly Lady Duckle and the French café.
“You must not allow yourself, my dear child, to think that you will not succeed. We shall all pray for you, and I feel that the will of Heaven is that you should succeed.”
Mother Hilda and Mother Philippa came in; and they, too, kissed her affectionately, and their manner showed her that they knew she had decided to enter the novitiate; they treated her as a member of the community, but she could see they were not of one mind. The Prioress and Mother Philippa had been in favour of admitting her; Mother Hilda seemed a little doubtful.
That very morning Mother Hilda had asked if it were wise to admit a girl into the novitiate who confessed that she was entering the religious life somewhat as an experiment. Even with all that was at stake, was not the risk too great? Might not Miss Innes’s presence have a demoralising effect on the other novices — simple, pious girls with no knowledge of the world? And what good would her money be to them if the spirit of the house were to suffer? But her scruples had been overborne by the Prioress, and her objection that she would find Evelyn’s moods very hard to understand was not entertained by the Prioress.
The Prioress was aware of her personal influence over others, and she did not believe that she might fail to mould Evelyn according to her idea. Mother Philippa’s motherly heart had been won by the singer the first time they had walked together up and down St. Peter’s Path. Her perception of Evelyn’s past life was less clear than Mother Hilda’s, but she divined a lonely soul, and had gone forth to meet her on the road, as it were; and it was characteristic of her to think that all things came right in the end. Moreover, they would pray, and her regret, if she had a regret, was that her pleasant little chats with Evelyn in the parlour must now come to an end; and she thought of the rare opportunities she would have of talking to her during her noviceship. All they were thinking about her seemed afloat in the manner of the three nuns as they gathered round their new Sister. Mother Hilda diffident, Mother Philippa expansive, and the Prioress confident in the strength of her wisdom.
“So you have decided to enter the religious life?” Mother Hilda asked, with a note of insistence in her quiet voice.
“I have come to try,” Evelyn said, “and I am going to stay, if my father does not call me to Rome.”
“I have not told you,” said Mother Philippa, “how delighted I am that you have come. I always believed you would come, didn’t I, Reverend Mother? and I began to pray for it long before anyone else. I seemed to see the hand of Providence in your coming here. We shall have your beautiful voice to sing for us every day at Benediction. But we must not pay you compliments now you are going to be a nun. Do have some cake, my dear. You look tired after your long drive;” and the kind old nun began fussing round the tea things.
Suddenly it seemed that there was nothing more to say, and the Prioress put the question to Evelyn if she would prefer to be a visitor until to-morrow, or to go into the novitiate at once. Evelyn cried impulsively that she would like to begin at once, and the Reverend Mother asked Mother Hilda to take her charge to her cell.
“And, Mother Philippa, will you see that Evelyn’s box is sent upstairs at once? You will have just time, Evelyn, to get into your dress and veil before supper; it is half-past five.”
She followed Mother Hilda into the hall, and through the swing door, past which she had never been, and down the short broad corridor, out of which the main rooms of the ground floor opened.
“That is the refectory,” Mother Hilda said; and Evelyn saw the long narrow tables and tin plates; “and this,” Mother Hilda added, turning to a little winding staircase built in an angle of the passage, “is the way to the novitiate.”
At the top of the staircase there was a short passage, with a door at the further end, and several doors on either side. They were of polished pine, and not of mahogany, and she saw that now they had left the Georgian house, and that this was the new wing.
“That is the novitiate at the end of the passage, and these are the novices’ cells. You are to be next to me.”
The little narrow iron bedstead, without curtains and covered with a check cotton counterpane, nearly filled the space, and there was nothing else in the room save a wooden chair, a small washstand near the window, with a cupboard underneath. It was in this cupboard she would keep her clothes. The colourless, distempered walls were bare, save for the crucifix over the bed, and the bare window did not look over the garden and the Surrey hills, but northward towards a tall bank of trees, and the apse of the church partly intercepted the view.
Reading in her silence some inward disappointment, Mother Hilda thought she had better give Evelyn something to do at once.
“Don’t you think, Evelyn, you had better unpack your things? Shall I help you?”
“Thank you; but I have only a few things, just what you told me. The greater part of my box is full of music.”
She unfolded her little convent trousseau before the eyes of the Mother Mistress. Her calico nightdress, so plain that she had had to have it made for her; and Merat had nearly wept at the idea of mademoiselle wearing anything so coarse. Her petticoats were frill-less, but on unpacking her black merino dress she discovered that Merat at the last moment had added dainty little velvet cuffs, and Evelyn, in her desire to immolate her vanity on the very threshold of the convent, was genuinely vexed.
“Oh, Mother, I expressly told Merat to make the sleeves quite plain, but I can take the cuffs off in an instant.”
“They are not usual, but there is no necessity for taking them off.”
“Oh, yes, but I must take them off,” and in a moment she had found a pair of scissors, and cut through the stitches. “It is entirely my maid’s fault. How could she have been so stupid?”
The very newness of her plain linen collars made them seem out of place, but Mother Hilda did not seem
to think there was anything amiss, and left Evelyn to change her dress, promising to return for her in a few minutes.
She changed her dress almost gaily, thinking that she had not come to the convent for ever, only till her father wanted her — that would be in three months, maybe six, and in that time she hoped her mission would be accomplished. And it was a very demure Evelyn, in her straight black gown, and her dark gold hair neatly brushed back off her face, who was waiting for Mother Hilda when she returned, bringing with her a white cap and black veil, and a prim little black cashmere cape.
“Will you come with me to dear Mother’s room?” said the novice mistress; “she always gives the postulants the cap and veil herself. It is the outward sign that they are admitted as aspirants to the religious life.”
The Prioress’s room was on the ground floor, and its long French windows opened on to the terrace walk. Once no doubt it had been a boudoir; and catching sight of the curiously carved scrolls on the tall wooden mantelpiece, Evelyn thought of the women who had sat there dreaming of their lovers, and waiting for them. Now it was the workroom of a busy woman. The crowded writing-table, on which stood a beautiful crucifix in yellow ivory, occupied the space by the window, and papers and tin boxes were piled in one corner. There was no carpet, and the one armchair was worn and shabby. There were flowers in vases and bowls, and in a large cage canaries uttered their piercing songs.
“I like your room, Reverend Mother; will you let me come and see you here sometimes now I am a nun?”
“This is where I do all my scolding; perhaps you won’t like it when you are sent for,” said the Prioress, but she smiled at Evelyn when she said it, and the words lost their severity. “Now we must hide all this fair hair under a little cap.”
Evelyn knelt in front of the Prioress, so that the little old nun could put the white cap on her head, and pin the black veil over it. When she had done this, she drew Evelyn to her and kissed her.
“Now you look like my own child, with all your worldly vanities hidden away. I believe Monsignor Mostyn would hardly know his penitent in her new dress. And now,” she went on, “let us go to the chapel together and thank our dear Lord that He has brought you to His feet. Give me your arm, my dear child, I am not very strong to-day.”
She laid a faint hand on Evelyn’s arm, and they walked slowly down the corridor to the door leading to the nuns’ choir, and Evelyn was conscious of a sudden new growth of affection for this frail old woman whose spirit stood undaunted amid much adversity. She followed the nun into the choir of the church, and found herself for the first time on the inner side of the high iron grille. The Prioress knelt in her stall, and Evelyn remained kneeling on the floor beside her, and those few moments of silent prayer seemed to unite the two women closely in the purpose which had brought them together.
Mother Hilda had explained to Evelyn that the community assembled for supper immediately after the Angelus. All the customs were unknown to her, and more nervous than she had ever felt before, she placed herself at the head of the procession next to a giggling novice. The refectory doors were thrown open, the Mother Prioress began the processional psalm in Latin, the Sisters repeated the alternate verses. Evelyn felt the novice nudge her, and they began to walk slowly towards the refectory, their eyes fixed on the ground. In the middle of the long room Evelyn and the novice stopped and bowed to the great crucifix which hung between the windows over the table of the Superior. Then they placed themselves in front of one of the tables at the lower end of the room; they were followed by the rest of the novices; the lay Sisters occupied a similar position opposite; the upper portions of the table were reserved for the choir Sisters, and the places of the three Superiors were in front of the table at the top of the room. The Mother Prioress then recited the larger portion of the grace. There were responses and versicles, and these were repeated by the Sisters. The opening sentence of the paternoster was spoken by the Prioress, and it was continned in silence by all, and at the Gloria all bowed their heads.
Then one of the Sisters slipped out of her place, and kneeling before the Prioress murmured a few Latin words, to which was given a Latin reply; she then went to a high reading desk in the corner by the Superior’s table and read aloud a few verses from Holy Scripture. When the reader had finished the whole community responded Deo gratias; and all went to their places in silence, the novices passing this time in front of Evelyn. She found herself at the bottom of the long wooden bench, behind the polished oak table.
In each place there was an enamelled plate and a check blue and white napkin, and a large china mug. Two Sisters went round with cans in their hands, and filled every mug with hot, weak, sugary tea. A large platter piled high with slices of bread and butter was passed down the table, and above the clatter of the knives upon the tin plates the voice of the reader was heard; it was a monotonous chant, and the subject of the reading Evelyn gathered to be the life of some female saint, famous for her austerity.
It was a disappointment to her that she could only see what was trivial and prosaic, and a long line of silent meals stretched out before her through days and years, and she could not eat. Suddenly she was astonished by Sister Veronica’s appearance by her side — slim and straight like a figure in an old Italian picture she stood by her, holding in her hand a plate on which there was a poached egg. None of the Sisters were eating poached eggs, and Evelyn nearly refused it, but Veronica smiled, saying under her breath, “You must eat it,” and she put the plate down before Evelyn with a resolute little gesture.
Soon after a very plain cake was handed round, and the eating of this cake was perhaps the hardest part of the meal. She hesitated a moment, and then decided that the eating of this cake should be her first act of mortification, and she tried to avoid watching the novice beside her, who she noticed had eaten four slices of bread and butter, and was enjoying her cake. As the nuns finished, they folded their hands and sat with eyes cast down. The monotonous voice of the reader droned on, until suddenly, with a little wooden hammer, the Prioress struck the table, giving the signal to rise. The long grace was repeated, with the necessary variations, and the procession passed slowly out in the same order as it had entered.
In the passage the novice at Evelyn’s elbow whispered to her to go up the novitiate stairs. The voice of the professed nuns died away as they turned towards their own community room; and it was a little party of five that walked ahead of Mother Hilda into the room at the end of the novitiate passage.
CHAP. XIII.
THEY KNELT BEFORE the large crucifix which occupied the centre of one of the walls.
Mother Hilda recited the Litany of our Lady, and when it was done, and they had risen to their feet, she said, —
“Now, Evelyn, you must be introduced to your sisters — Sister Barbara I think you have met, as she sings in the choir. This is Sister Angela; this tall maypole is Sister Winifred, and this little being here is Sister Jerome, who was the youngest till you came. Are you not pleased, Jerome, to have one younger than yourself?” The novices said how do you do, and looked shy and awkward for a minute, but their interest in Evelyn was forgotten for the moment in their anxiety to know whether recreation was to be spent indoors or out.
“Mother, we may go out, mayn’t we? Oh, thank you so much, it is such a lovely evening. We need not wear cloaks, need we? Oh, that is all right, just our garden shoes;” and there was a general scurry to the cells for shoes, whilst Evelyn and Mother Hilda made their way downstairs and by another door into the still summer evening.
“How lovely it is,” Evelyn exclaimed, and she felt that if she and Mother Hilda could have spent the recreation hour together, her first convent evening might have been in a way happy. But the chattering novices had caught them up, and when they were sitting all a-row on a bench or grouped on a variety of little wooden stools, they asked her questions as to her sensations in the refectory, and Evelyn felt a little jarred by their familiarity.
“Were you not frightened when y
ou felt yourself at the head of the procession? I was,” said Winifred.
“But you didn’t get through nearly so well as Sister Evelyn; you turned the wrong way at the end of the passage, and Mother had to go after you,” said Sister Angela, “we thought you were going to run away,” and they went into the details as to how they had felt on their arrival, and various little incidents were recalled, illustrating the experience of previous postulants, and these were productive of much hilarity.
“What did you all think of the cake?” said Sister Barbara, suddenly.
“Was it Angela’s cake?” asked Mother Hilda. “Angela, I really must congratulate you, you will be quite a distinguished chef in time.”
Sister Angela blushed with delight, saying, “Yes, I made it yesterday, Mother; but of course Sister Rufina stood over me to see that I didn’t forget anything.”
“Ah, well, I don’t think I cared very much for the flavouring,” said Sister Barbara in pondering tones.
“You seemed to me to be enjoying it very much at the time,” said Sister Evelyn, joining the conversation for the first time, and when she added that Sister Barbara had eaten four slices of bread and butter, the laugh turned against Barbara, and everyone was hilarious. It was evident that Sister Barbara’s appetite was considered an excellent joke in the novitiate.
Evelyn marvelled that grown-up women should be so easily amused; and yet was their conversation more silly than that of a London drawing-room? It was only that it was a different kind of silliness, to which she had not yet grown accustomed; and with a sinking heart Evelyn tried her best to keep up a polite interest in the recreation. The novices were all dressed alike, but Evelyn had quickly decided that besides Sister Veronica only Sister Winifred was a choir Sister; the others were clearly lay Sisters. Sister Barbara and Sister Angela were very young — not more than one or two and twenty; Sister Jerome looked over thirty and had a plain, sad face. They worked while they talked, and Evelyn had to confess that she hated needlework, and had never learnt to knit. They told her that she had better begin at once or she would have no stockings. It was Sister Barbara who was told to teach her, but as neither needles nor wool was available at the moment, the lesson was postponed till next recreation.
