by George Moore
“Ah, you don’t know what it is to be shut up for more than a year with a lot of women in a convent.”
“But I came here to talk to you about your vocation, to discover whether you are called to separate yourself from all worldly interests.”
“I have made up my mind to be a nun, but now you are here I want to talk about Rome and of its people.”
She had kept all his letters, and knowing his bent for theological discussion she had allowed certain little heresies to creep into her letters, in order that he might disprove them to her admiration. He had replied at length, and his letters were the letters of a man of liberal intelligence, pragmatical and astute. But these letters coming into the conventual monotony had seemed like great manifestations of a great central mind, and she insisted that the book he was writing would give new impetus to Catholic life. She exhorted him to take the lead, to assert himself, for without him Catholic ideas could make no further progress in England. She deplored that he had not been made a cardinal and with an enthusiasm that impressed him.
Taking advantage of a pause in the conversation he mentioned that the writing of the last portion of his book had been delayed, but he hoped to find time to finish it this winter. Then he asked her, somewhat abruptly, if certain scruples regarding the Holy Communion had passed. She answered that they had passed, and the conversation came to an awkward pause.
“You have come here,” she said, “to talk to me about myself, whereas I want to talk to you about you; it will interest me so much more. You want to find out if I have a vocation, but the more I tell you about myself the less you will believe in my vocation.”
The prelate persisted, and after some hesitation she said, —
“My duty was to go to Rome with my father, but I could not bring myself to accept that duty, so great was the temptation to separate myself from the world. For this wrongdoing I was punished; my father died, perhaps through my fault. His death however wrought a great change in me, a change which had been preparing a long while back. I felt clearly, what I had always felt indistinctly, that there is no value in human life at all except in so much as it enables us to develop our spiritual life. You remember that I wrote to you about a man not being given a soul, but a germ which might become a soul if he cultivated it. It now seems to me that that belief in the mortality and the immortality of the soul is what is most natural and inherent in me. It is the original seed of my nature, but it was buried very deep, and it took a long time to grow out of the ground. Now I have told you all I know of myself, Monsignor, all that I have learned in the long year of my novitiate. I have told you the whole truth so far as I have gone.”
“And you have determined to take the veil? Tell me, you do not find this rule difficult and arduous?”
“So long as we live with those whose ideas correspond with ours, the rest matters very little.”
“Remember that the step is extremely grave. Nothing could be more unfortunate than that you should take vows merely because you are friends with these nuns and wish to relieve them from their pecuniary embarrassments.”
“You are very sceptical, Monsignor. What can I say to convince you? That I do not like the rule, that I find it very difficult?”
She laughed and pressed him to admit that that was what he was minded to say. And he admitted if she had said she found the rule difficult he would have found it easier to believe in her vocation.
“Ah, my past life — you cannot forget it; you are like the others,” and she reminded him that the Prioress herself had not refused the world, like Veronica, but had renounced the world, like herself.
“Yet she is our Reverend Mother. Who knows, Monsignor — I succeeded on the stage, why should not I succeed equally well in the convent? Promise me this, that if the nuns vote for me, you will profess me, and if one day I should be Prioress you will write and advise me on doctrine and on the daily life of my convent.”
He could not refuse to promise what she had asked, and they laughed and stood looking at each other until a bell rang.
“Now I must go to the sacristy.”
As she went there she met Sister Mary John, and she said, —
“I think I have convinced Monsignor, and he has promised to profess me.”
“Then it is settled?”
“Yes; but why do you look so strange? Do you think the nuns will not vote for me?”
The nun stood looking at Evelyn, conscious that the entanglement was even more intricate than she had imagined. If Evelyn were not elected she might leave the convent and return to the stage. She was one who would travel a certain distance with admirable perseverance, surmounting every obstacle, until one, very likely a smaller obstacle than those she had already passed, opposed her, then without any very clear reason she might quickly return the way she had come. “Should Evelyn leave,” Sister Mary John thought, “I may stay. Nothing is decided, except that we are to be separated.” The nun asked herself if she were deceiving Evelyn by withholding her intention to leave the convent as soon after Evelyn’s profession as possible, and the question whether she should vote for her, or abstain from voting, or vote against her, perplexed her. What matter, she thought, since in any case we are to be separated.
“But what is the matter, Sister? Why do you stand looking at me like this?”
The nun could not answer, and Evelyn was about to hold out her arms to her, thinking she was going to fall. At that moment the Prioress called. The Prioress was on her way to the parlour, and divining the difficulty that had arisen, she sent Sister Mary John with a message to Mother Philippa. Her hand was on the door handle, and she entered the parlour as soon as the nun was out of sight.
“I hope you are pleased, Monsignor, with the excellent condition of mind in which you have found our dear Sister Teresa? She told me she intended to ask you to profess her. I am sure it would be of great assistance to her if you would.”
“Sister Teresa and I have had a long talk, and I find her very earnest. I think I may say that I found her very much improved. She seems to have read and thought a great deal since I last saw her.”
“Yes, Sister Teresa reads a great deal; theological questions present a great attraction to her mind.”
Monsignor did not answer, and he left the Reverend Mother to continue the conversation. She did this with alacrity, and they talked round the subject. At last there seemed to be nothing more to say, and the Prioress found herself obliged to ask him if he thought Sister Teresa had a vocation.
“I find her, as I have said, my dear Reverend Mother, extremely earnest; she has evidently thought a great deal on spiritual matters. But she has only just fulfilled the required time in the novitiate; are you sure she has acquired that solid piety so necessary for a religious life? She is very emotional. What I mean is, should you say that her attitude towards the life was normal?”
“Sister Teresa,” the old nun replied, “will never be normal, but her genius has enabled her to assimilate our rule.”
In reply to further questions, he said that he had only seen Sister Teresa once in the last six months. Besides, no one was so capable of deciding on a nun’s vocation as the Prioress herself, and begged her not to be influenced by anything that he had said.
“When the question is decided, let me know, for I have promised Sister Teresa I will profess her myself.”
The Prioress looked at him sharply, and as she went to her room she thought of what might have happened if she had been refused election, and she thought of the grave responsibility which she and the other Mothers would incur by refusing to vote for Evelyn.
CHAP. XXVIII.
IT WAS WITH this argument that she sought to overcome Mother Mary Hilda when the Mothers met in council. Their council was held in the Mother’s own room after evening prayers, when no light burned anywhere, and the nuns and the canaries were asleep in their cells and cages. The Prioress began by saying that she had consulted Monsignor, and that he had said nothing would give him greater pleasure than t
o see Sister Teresa professed, but he left the ultimate decision entirely to them.
Mother Mary Hilda held the opinion of Monsignor in high esteem, but she did not withdraw her opposition, and she questioned the Prioress closely as to Monsignor’s precise words, and was manifestly relieved to hear that he thought on the subject of a nun’s vocation the nuns were the best judges. So she gained an advantage over the Prioress, but it was only momentary, for when she spoke of the shortness of Evelyn’s postulancy, laying stress on the fact that it had been broken by her journey to Rome, the Prioress said, —
“But all that has been decided by the Bishop; we need not go into that again. No one has so much right to form an opinion of Evelyn’s vocation as you have, but I cannot forget that from the first your instinct was against her, and when that is so we are never convinced, I am afraid.”
“But, Mother, I am sorry if I seem to you stubborn.”
“Not stubborn, but I would hear you explain your reasons for thinking Sister Teresa has not a vocation, and Mother Philippa is most anxious to hear them too.”
Mother Philippa listened, thinking of her bed, and wondering why Mother Mary Hilda kept them up by refusing to agree with the Prioress.
Mother Hilda, with quiet obstinacy and determination, reminded them that they could hardly point to a case in which a novice had been elected who had been with them for so short a time as Sister Teresa.
“But we have known Teresa for a long time — for more than three years. Her thoughts have been inclining towards a religious life ever since we have known her. You do not deny her piety. Her religious fervor gives promise of the highest sanctity in the future; she is animated with the sincerest love of God.”
“I have no doubt whatever on that point, nevertheless I find it difficult to believe that she will prove a satisfactory member of the community. She is quite different from any of us.”
“I have heard that phrase very often, and confess it conveys no idea to my mind. We are all different from one another. Peter was not like Paul, nor was Catherine of Siena like St. Teresa. We are anxious to know. Mother Hilda, what is your precise reason for thinking that Sister Teresa has not a vocation.”
“You have set me a difficult task, Mother. It seems to me that her piety, although very genuine, does not penetrate much below the surface. A good deal of it seems to me incidental, and to be brought about by the great grief which she experienced at her father’s death. I have noticed this too, that her piety does not stimulate others to piety but rather the reverse. Since she has been in the convent you will not deny that she has been a source of distraction to us all. We are always thinking of her, and talking of her when we can. Inquiries are always on foot concerning her. She is the one that all the visitors want to see. Our visitors are excellent people, no doubt; but they spend a great deal of time in the parlour, and they have to be waited on there, and the teas do not end till nearly six o’clock. Now comes another matter on which I would not speak if speech could be avoided. It is a matter so delicate that I fear, whatever words I use, my words will misinterpret my meaning — what I want to say is that Teresa influences us all. I would remind you that Sister Mary John and Veronica are absorbed in her influence, though I am sure they are not aware of it. But it would seem to me impossible not to notice it. Have you ever noticed it? “Mother Hilda said, appealing directly to the Prioress and Mother Philippa. Mother Philippa shook her head, and then confessed she had not the slightest notion of what Mother Mary Hilda meant.
The Prioress asked if she thought Sister Teresa had shown any undue vanity in the attentions which were paid to her.
“No, indeed; her humility is so striking that very often I feel that I may after all be misjudging her.”
“I confess I completely fail,” said Mother Philippa, “to understand your objections to our visitors; without them we cannot live. They are our means of subsistence, and it was in the hope of attracting visitors...
“I know, I know.”
And Mother Hilda said she was quite willing to refrain from voting; but this was not what the Prioress wished. Every nun must accept the responsibility. “And it would seem,” she said, “though I do not feel it myself, that very great responsibility attaches to Sister Teresa’s election.”
“Dear Reverend Mother, I can only repeat that I think we should wait. Another year in the novitiate, perhaps six months, will prove whether her desire is a passing desire or a true vocation.”
“But our necessities!”
“Ah, Reverend Mother, our necessities should not influence us surely.”
“Our necessities should not influence us either way. But they seem to influence you against her. Don’t they?”
“Yes, I admit that they do.”
“Then, if you feel like that,” said Mother Philippa, waking from a light dose which had not prevented her from hearing the conversation, “I think that you should abstain from voting.”
Instead of answering, Mother Hilda asked the Prioress for her reason for objecting to a slight delay.
“If we accept Evelyn her salvation will be secured, and if we yield to your scruples we make ourselves responsible for all that may happen to her. I ask if you are prepared to see this house and garden confiscated. Although our order is very poor, some of us may find refuge in another convent. But many of us, the younger ones, would have to return to their homes, and there are our poor lay Sisters; what will become of them?”
“Our circumstances are very trying, I know, but I do not think we should allow them to influence us.”
“But you have said,” rejoined the Prioress, “that they do influence you against Teresa, whereas Mother Philippa and I can truthfully say that they do not influence us in her favour.”
On that the Prioress rose to her feet, and the other two nuns understood that the interview was at an end.
“Dear Reverend Mother, I know how great your difficulties are,” said Mother Hilda, “and I am loath to oppose your wishes in anything. I know how wise you are — how much wiser than we — but however foolishly I may appear to be acting, you will understand that I cannot act differently, feeling as I do.”
“I understand that, Mother Hilda. We must act according to our lights. And now we must go to bed; we are breaking all the rules of the house.”
CHAP. XXIX.
THE PRIORESS HAD wished Sister Mary John to leave Evelyn in doubt that any change had come into their friendship, but no one can act a part when their deepest feelings are engaged, and Sister Mary John had hurried past Evelyn when they met, and during the week Evelyn noticed that Sister Mary John had not spoken to her once except to ask her what she was going to sing. At any other time Evelyn would have been seriously troubled by this break in their friendship, but she was thinking now of her vows and of her election, and she dismissed all other matters from her thoughts, only allowing herself to hope that this estrangement was temporary, that when she was elected a choir Sister she and Sister Mary John would be friends as they had always been.
And when Sister Mary John looked across the chapel and saw Evelyn absorbed in prayer, she was certain that her love had not been a temptation to Evelyn, and it was a bitter gladness to see that separation from her caused Evelyn no pain.
And listening to the beautiful voice she thought of the Prioress’s great age, and of how friendless Evelyn would be when she was dead. She remembered that the nuns were jealous of Evelyn’s voice, and that they resented the attention that always hummed round Evelyn in the parlour. She foresaw nothing but unhappiness for Evelyn; she had begun to doubt whether she had any true vocation, and she could not help feeling that the best thing that could happen would be for Mother Hilda’s opposition to succeed.
But Mother Hilda’s opposition was overruled, Evelyn was elected almost unanimously, and Monsignor was coming to put the ring on her finger. In a week she would be plighted to Christ, a most desirable and beautiful bride, Sister Mary John thought. It seemed as if her heart were about to break, and she longed
to run away to her cell, for it seemed impossible to restrain her tears. What account could she give of herself to the other nuns, and the Prioress would know why she was weeping. It seemed impossible to stifle her weary heart any longer; nothing would relieve her except to tell the entire community of her miserable condition, but she had promised the Prioress not to speak to Evelyn of her decision to leave the convent until Evelyn had made her vows. Now this promise seemed to her most horrible and wicked; and to break it seemed to be her duty. There is a vocation which admits of no doubt whatever, and there is a vocation which is dependent on certain circumstances; and how did she know that Evelyn’s vocation was not dependent upon the rapport of her friendship in this convent? how did she know that Evelyn would take the final vows if she knew how friendless she would be when her friend was away in France, and when the Prioress was dead?
She knew none of these things, but she had made a terrible promise, and all the week she lived in the terrors of nightmare. And on the day of Evelyn’s profession, when she saw her walk between the Prioress and Mother Hilda in her habit and white veil, it seemed to the broken-hearted nun that she could contain herself no longer, and that she must get up from her place and make a public declaration. Even in this last moment it were better to make it than to keep silence; yet she remained kneeling, watching this ceremony. But there is a limit to suffering. She seemed to forget everything, and awaking from a melancholy trance she listened to Monsignor, who was asking Evelyn what she had come to ask from the Church. She heard her reply that she sought to enter the religious life.
Then Monsignor began his address, and Sister Teresa stood listening to the exhortation, confident in herself while she heard the priest speak of the difficulties and the crosses of the religious life. She was asked again if she were prepared to embrace it, and to all questions she answered “Yes,” and she looked so joyful that Sister Mary John felt that Evelyn was following her true vocation. She said to herself, “When one is certain of one’s self nothing matters; Evelyn will be happy in the convent even when the Prioress was dead.” Then she saw the tall figure cross to the gospel side of the altar with the two nuns; she saw her sign her name to the vows she had made, and when she came back Sister Mary John saw Monsignor put the ring on her finger. Evelyn knelt at the feet of the Prioress, who gave her the black veil, and all the nuns sang the “Veni spousa Christi.”
