Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  It had seemed to the sub-Prioress that she could manage a school. Her capacity for business had attracted all the business of the convent to her, but it had not been enough to satisfy her energy, and Sister Winifred tempted her alternately with a school and a laundry, and whenever she came to her cell to consult her regarding some business detail, they indulged in a little chaff; the temptation to talk about the Prioress was irresistible.

  “We all admire the Prioress,” said Sister Winifred; “no one understands her merits better than I; it is indeed a pity she should be so narrow-minded upon one point. Don’t you think you could influence her?”

  “I have known her these many years, she is an admirable woman in many ways. I doubt, however, we shall ever induce her to agree to any relaxation of the rule.”

  Then Sister Winifred spoke of the Prioress’s influence with Father Ambrose and the Bishop, but she did not tell her hopes of throwing Father Daly into the opposite scale. She took no one into her confidence and waited her opportunity; and thinking over the arguments she would use, she remembered with a little thrill of delight how bitterly he resented the usurping Prioress, who had reduced his spiritual administration to the mere act of absolution. This was clearly the point of attack, and seeing him a few days after, pacing the garden alley reading his breviary, she went tripping down the pathway, asking in a little insidious tone, which at once caught his attention, if she could consult him on a matter of importance.

  She was a tall, thin woman, with a narrow forehead, a long, thin nose, and prominent teeth, extremely plain at first sight, but at second sight her quick brown eyes revealed an eager and alert mind. And she began by telling him that she had chosen this opportunity to speak to him because she did not dare to do so in the confessional.

  “It would take too much time.” And there was a little kindly malice in her brown eyes as she said, “You know how strict the Prioress is that we should not exceed our regulation three minutes.”

  “I know that quite well,” the little man answered abruptly, “a most improper rule; but, however, we will not discuss the Prioress, dear Sister Winifred; what have you come to tell me?”

  “Well, in a way, it is about the Prioress. You know all about our financial difficulties, and you know that they are not settled yet.”

  “I thought that Sister Teresa’s singing—”

  “Of course Sister Teresa’s singing has done us a great deal of good, but the collections have fallen off considerably, and as for the rich Catholics who were to pay off our debts, they are like the ships coming from the East, but whose masts have not yet appeared above the horizon.”

  “But does the Prioress still believe that these rich Catholics will come to her aid?”

  “Oh, yes, she still believes; she tells ns that we must pray, and that if we pray they will come. Well, Father, prayer is very well, but we must try to help ourselves, and we have been thinking it over, and in thinking it over some of us have come to very practical conclusions—”

  “You have come to the conclusion that perhaps a good deal of time is wasted in this garden which might be devoted to good works.”

  “Yes, that has struck us, and we think the best way out of our difficulties would be a school — a school! Something must be done,” she said, “and we are thinking of starting a school. We have received a great deal of encouragement. I believe I could get twenty pupils tomorrow, but Mother Prioress won’t hear of it. She tells us that we are to pray and that all will come right. But even she does not depend entirely upon prayer; she depends upon Sister Teresa’s singing.”

  “A most unsatisfactory source of income, I should say.”

  “So we all think.”

  They walked some paces in silence until they were within a few yards of the end of the walk, and just as they were about to turn the priest said, —

  “I was talking at the Bishop’s to a priest who has been put in charge of a parish in one of the poorest parts of south London. There is no school, and the people are disheartened, and he has gone to live among them in a wretched house in one of the worst slums of the district. He lives in one of the upper rooms, and has turned the ground floor, which used to be a greengrocer’s shop, into a temporary chapel and school, and now he is looking for some nuns to help him in the work. He asked me if I could recommend any; and I thought of you all here, Sister Winifred, with your beautiful church and garden, doing what I call elegant piety. The more I see of it the less I like it. It has come to seem to me unbearably sad that you and I and those few here who could do such good work should be kept back from doing it.”

  “I am afraid our habit, Father, makes that sort of work out of the question for us,” and Sister Winifred dropped her habit for a moment, and let it trail gracefully.

  “Long grey habits that a speck of dirt will stain are very suitable to trail over green swards, but not fit to bring into the houses of the poor, for fear they should be spoiled. Oh,” he cried, “I have no patience with such rules, such petty observances. I have often asked myself why the Bishop chose to put me here where I am entirely out of sympathy, where I am useless, where there is nothing for me to do really except for me to try to keep my temper. I have spoken of this matter to no one before, but since you have come to speak to me, Sister Winifred, I too must speak. Ever since I have been here I have been longing to do some work which I could feel to be the work I was intended to do, which I could feel was my work. It is terrible to continue all one’s life doing work that is not one’s work.”

  “It is the fate of many of us here, Father Daly.”

  “If we could make a new foundation — if some three or four of you — if the Bishop would send me there.”

  “Of course we might go and do good work in the district you speak of, but I doubt whether the Bishop would recognise us as a new foundation.”

  “You were telling me of your project for a school, Sister Winifred.”

  Sister Winifred entered into the details of her plan, jerking out little sentences and watching Father Daly with her quick brown eyes. But she had unduly excited Father Daly; he could not listen to her. “My position here,” he said, interrupting her, “is an impossible one. The only ones here who consider my advice are the lay Sisters, the admirable lay Sisters who work from morning till evening, and forego their prayers lest you should want for anything. I am treated very nearly with contempt by nearly all the choir Sisters. Do you think I do not know that I am spoken of as a mere secular priest? Every suggestion of mine meets with some rude answer. You have witnessed a good deal of this, Sister Winifred. I daresay you have forgotten, but I remember it all. You have come to speak to me here because the Prioress will not allow you to spend more than three minutes in the confessional, arrogating to herself the position of your spiritual adviser, allowing to me nothing more than what is to her the mere mechanical act of absolution. I am a mere secular priest, incapable of advising those who live in an order! Have I not noticed her deference to the very slightest word that Father Ambrose deigns to speak to her? with what deference she waits for his words! Now, as to her rule regarding my confessional, I can only say that I have always regarded it as extremely unorthodox, and I’m sure that the amateur confessional which she carries on upstairs would be suppressed were it brought under the notice of Rome. I have long been determined to resist it, and I beg you, Sister Winifred, when you come to me to confession, that you will stay as long as you think proper. On this matter I now see that the Prioress and I must come to an understanding.”

  “But not a word, Father Daly, must we breathe to her of what I have come to tell you about. The relaxation of our order must be referred to the Bishop, and with your support — There is the bell, now I must fly.

  I will tell you more when I come to confession.”

  There was enough, even in the very subdued account which Sister Winifred gave of her conversation with the priest, to frighten Mother Philippa. She thought Sister Winifred had gone too far, and that Father Daly was too venturesome
. But Sister Winifred quieted her by saying that her proposal did not go any further than to submit the entire matter to the Bishop, and Mother Philippa said, “I will agree to anything that the Bishop says.”

  Sister Winifred’s alert eyes were always smiling; she was always thinking, and her thoughts could very nearly be read in her eyes. She was thinking now of her confession; she was determined to stay ten minutes in the confessional; for if she were to stay ten minutes, the length of her confession could not fail to reach the ears of the Prioress, and this would bring matters to a crisis. By remaining ten minutes in the confessional she would challenge the Prioress’s spiritual authority, and in return for this Father Daly would use his influence with the Bishop to induce the Prioress to relax the rule of the community.

  So before slipping into the confessional she purposely loitered a moment, and that in itself struck the Prioress, who had just entered the chapel, as peculiar. For the moment she did not think of it further, having her prayers to say; but at the end of five minutes she began to grow impatient, and at the end of ten minutes she felt that her authority had been set aside. Fifteen minutes passed, and then the Prioress resisted with difficulty the temptation to go into the confessional and order Sister Winifred out of it.

  The next penitent was the Prioress herself, and Father Daly heard her confession in alarm, wondering if she had been in the chapel all the while.

  “It is hard indeed, dear Mother, if one is not even allowed to confess in peace,” Sister Winifred answered, and she tossed her head somewhat defiantly.

  “All the hopes of my life are at an end,” the Prioress said to Mother Hilda. “Everyone is in rebellion against me, and this branch of our order itself is about to disappear. I feel sure that the Bishop will decide against ns, he will go with the majority — I think there is a majority against ns, and what can we do with this school? Sister Winifred will have to manage it herself; I will resign. It is hard, indeed, that this should happen after so many years of struggle, and after redeeming the convent from its debts — to be divided in the end.”

  Mother Hilda did not answer. It seemed to her that the Reverend Mother had read the future aright. But accident, or what seems to us accident, overthrows the best imagined theories.

  Next Sunday Father Daly had taken for his text, why he never knew — accident had apparently guided him to do it — the apostolic injunction to work good to all men, and especially to all those of the household of faith, that prayer does not fulfil the whole duty of man towards God, that work holds an especial place in the course laid down for man’s redemption. Father Daly usually spoke with difficulty; his ideas were generally confused, and his sentences involved and very often imperfect. On this day he spoke like one who is inspired. He had foreseen the danger that lay before him in the amplification of the text he had chosen, but it seemed as if he could not stay his words; even the sight of the wax-like face of the Prioress could not stay his ideas on the subject of work. The words sprang to his lips, and he said that he often thought that in their convent they were apt to overlook the necessity of work. Theirs was a life of prayer; but was that incompatible with some measure of active charity? The terrible words foreed their way, and he felt himself like a leaf in the current of inspiration. He heard himself say that they did not visit the sick and poor. He heard himself say that he often wondered how they could fill their days. To say this implied that the community lived in the sin of idleness, and the cool chapel seemed suddenly to grow hot, a dryness came into his throat, and he heard the nuns coughing in the silence. The sunlight seemed to fade, and he began to see the bowed heads as through a mist. He began to observe them, and it seemed to him that every nun instinctively drew herself up, and he waited, thinking that one of them, the Prioress — no, she was too proud, Mother Hilda, perhaps — would get up from her stall and leave the chapel, but no one moved, and he mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and went on. He spoke of the monetary difficulties of the convent, and he mentioned that he knew these very well, though he had not been honoured with their confidences in this matter. He said he might have been tempted, if they had honoured him with their confidence in this matter, to suggest they should start a school for young ladies, for which the convent offered exceptional advantages. A school seemed to him a more Christian remedy than the unliturgical musical experiments they had been indulging in. He said he had no belief in attracting people to church by turning the service into a concert, and then paused, frightened at his very own indiscretion. It was a terrible moment, and he added hurriedly that he hoped they would reflect on this matter, and try to remember he was always at their service and prepared to give them the best advice.

  When Mass was over, the nuns hung about the cloister whispering in little groups, forgetful of the rule. The supporters of the Prioress could not hide their indignation at the impertinence of the priest daring to insult the community, and the most ardent supporters of the school felt that he had gone too far.

  Sister Winifred walked about aimlessly, in terror lest she should be sent for by the Prioress. Mother Philippa avoided her. The greatest anxiety was shown for the health of the Prioress; the nuns remembered her weak heart and the strain that had been put upon her. Might not the Prioress be in need of help? Was it not their duty to go to her? The infirmarian fetched some sal volatile from her cupboard, but no one, not even Mother Hilda, had courage to knock at the Prioress’s door. The tension of the morning was drawn out to an extreme, and when the bell rang summoning them in to dinner, the nuns scarcely knew whether they ought to eat their meal or not. Suddenly the door opened, and the Prioress appeared in all her usual calmness. She took no one into her confidence; she told no one what she had done, not even Mother Hilda. But that night a firmly worded letter went to the Bishop, and before a month was over Father Daly was transferred to another parish.

  CHAP. XXXI.

  IT WAS THE hour of evening meditation, and the nuns were in choir, all a-row, aslant in their stalls, and so still were they all, and so rigid their attitudes, that they would seem to a spectator like a piece of medieval wood-carving. One by one the books had been laid aside. Each nun held her book on her knee, the first finger of the right hand between the leaves to keep the place, so that she could turn in her need to the passage which had inspired her meditation.

  In a convent where circumstance is unchanging and no interest is allowed in external things, the government of thought becomes a science, and Evelyn had seen that she must acquire this science. If the subject of the meditation were the cross she must learn to think of the cross and of things immediately related to the cross for half an hour without allowing her thoughts to wander. But this was impossible to her. She could not control her thoughts for more than a few minutes, if for that; and a few minutes’ meditation exhausted her more than an hour’s dusting or sweeping. Yet there were nuns who could, it was said, meditate for an hour. Evelyn had determined to excel. She had addressed herself to Mother Hilda, who had put the exercises of St. Ignatius into her hands, and she had in company of the novices received instruction in his method. But Evelyn could do nothing by method. Her piety, like her acting, was the impulse of the moment, and she had told Mother Hilda that she would never be able to compose time and space, nor would she ever be able to gather up the spiritual bouquet at the dose with any satisfaction to herself.

  “My dear child,” Mother Hilda had answered, “no sooner do you find that you can toddle a little way than you want to run. It requires years of practice.”

  But Evelyn desired a greater proficiency than she had admitted to Mother Hilda, and after a moment’s hesitation she had answered, —

  “But surely, dear Mother, it would be better to place one’s self in the presence of God and stay there. Why not dispense with active thought altogether? active thought only interferes with the ecstasy of contemplation.”

  Mother Hilda had told her of Madame Guyon, and the quietist heresy which had been denounced by Bossuet and condemned at Rome. Evelyn feare
d heresy very little; and Madame Guyon became one of her heroines. But this sublime heresy she found difficult in practice, and the practice of it was so beset with perils, that she understood why Rome had denounced it. On ordinary days she had failed to keep her thoughts fixed, and on those special days when she forced herself into the Divine Presence and stayed there till the close of the meditation, her ecstasy was followed by lassitude and a contempt for ordinary prayer. Then, again, she was an inveterate castle-builder; in her, dreaming was a vice like dramdrinking, and on her knees she could pass into an enchanted land where all things were according to her desire. The dream face was as potent as the real face, her dreams were invaded by memories. Now that the convent had become a habit, the past drew nearer. The past had come to watch for her at the hour of meditations. Just now she had waked up from a dream of a day when she and Owen were alone in a German town. It was a Gothic town through which a sluggish river flowed, and its cathedral walls were full of saints. She remembered two virgin saints, but these were in the museum, on either side of a doorway. Their thin, spiritual faces were raised, and about their limbs their draperies fell in straight, thick folds. Her thoughts had not stayed with these saints; they had wandered on with Owen. They were harmless thoughts, and on awaking she had murmured a Hail Mary, for her rule was to say a prayer whenever Owen’s or Ulick’s face rose up in her mind. And her prayer finished, she returned to the subject of meditation. But the folds of the habits distracted her attention; she noticed Veronica’s eyes; they were wondering eyes, and she wondered which of the nuns were thinking most intimately of God. One cannot always be exalted, she thought; it is only by working at piety just as one works at art, that one prepares one’s self for the great moments of inspiration. God is scattering the seed always, but it is only in those hearts which are prepared to receive it that it flowers. The poet must write verses every day, the singer must sing every day, and the nun must pray every day, so that they may be inspired one day in the seven. But was this true of everyone? She remembered that Madame Savelli had said she was an exception to this rule, that she was one of the fortunate ones from whom the burden of work had been almost lifted, and she felt that what was true of her art was true of her religion. Just as there were times when she could hardly sing at all, there were times when she could hardly pray at all, and she had entered upon one of these barren periods. For the last few days she had been depressed and restless, and all the little external pieties of the convent had jarred. The convent was the same as it had always been — they had always talked about vestments and prelates during recreation, and there had always been little wranglings about who was to have the candles for her saint and who was not. But these things had not jarred so much as they had done in the last three days, except, perhaps, during the last month or so of her postulancy, before she had been summoned to Rome to see her father die. Since then she had noticed the external convent hardly at all. She had lived in an idea, and all the little discomforts of conventual life and its trivialities had hardly been perceived. Long, long ago Veronica had said to her that she could think of no fate more terrible than to live in a convent without a vocation. She had forgotten that Veronica had ever said this, but now it had been flashed back upon her out of a long past — out of four years, and yet these years had seemed like a single minute. She could think of nothing so like as these convent days; she thought of eggs and of leaves and of sheep, and of all things that are supposed to be alike, but none seemed to her so alike as these convent days.