by George Moore
Did she believe? Yes, she believed, and that seemed the worst part of her misfortune. She did not wish to defile the sacrament; but she was persecuted by thoughts of how it might be defiled. In her dream Owen had put the Host into his handkerchief, and they were going to take it to her cell to defile it. She awoke as they were leaving the chapel, but the memory of this dream was unendurable, and she felt she could not rid herself of it without leaving the convent. To avoid blasphemy she must get away from the sacrament. To think of God she must go to some beautiful hollow in some delightful land.... As long as she stayed in the convent sin would be with her for a daily and nightly companion. Old sins would revisit her, and her calamity was the unexpectedness of these thoughts. She was weary of putting them back, and in sleep she was powerless against them. Her nights were poisoned by dreams, out of which she awoke — hollow eyed — in the blue dusk of dawn.
She had heard that our dreams are only the continuance of our thoughts at the moment of falling asleep. And though from the moment she got into bed she had prayed without ceasing, it was impossible for her to say that some thought of Owen had not come into her mind, and that her dream was not the sequence of her waking thoughts, and for these she was responsible, and she asked why she should stay in the convent. The convent was a cause of sin, and she could no longer approach God in prayer, so she abstained from prayer, and her state grew more unhappy every day. Every day discovered new misgivings, finer subtleties, and despair settled gradually down on her. She lost control over her nerves, and all the old symptoms manifested themselves... sleepless nights and excessive consciousness of external things. She could see her life from end to end, distinct like an insect under a glass, and at night she noted the quiver of the antennae as she lay staring into the darkness, or as she walked up and down her cell, afraid to go to sleep. Every argument she had heard against God floated through her brain, leaving her no rest. At half-past six, before she had closed her eyes, or slept at all, she would have to get up for meditation, and, worse than meditation, there was Mass, and worse than Mass was her watch before the sacrament. She had reached the point of denial, and she feared God while she denied God. Her eyes grew hollow, her skin pale, and her health deteriorated rapidly, and before the month of consideration which the Prioress had demanded from her had expired, she was unable to leave her cell. The Prioress came to see her there, but Evelyn could not answer her.
The Prioress said, “You are certainly very ill, and we cannot accept the responsibility any longer.”
And the next day was appointed for Evelyn to declare that she wished to leave. One of the witnesses would be the chaplain; and Mother Philippa and Mother Mary Hilda, they would be witnesses too if necessary. But feeling that someone from outside, someone more important than the convent chaplain was required, the Reverend Mother wrote, —
“DEAR MONSIGNOR, — Your help is needed very sorely, and no one can help us in our extremity except you — if you can help us. I beg you to come here to-morrow, in the afternoon, about three o’clock, and I will explain the whole matter to you. I am sure I have said enough for you to understand that no other engagement should prevent your coming here. Trusting in God that some way will be found out of our difficulty. — I remain.”
The prelate’s face assumed a grave expression as he read the letter. He looked at and turned it over, and he said to himself, “So it has come at last;” for he had no doubt the matter concerned Sister Teresa. “It cannot be anything else,” he thought, “except that she wishes to leave the convent.” He wrote several letters, adjourning some appointments he had made, and when he arrived at the convent he found the Prioress waiting to receive him in the parlour, and her face was so grave and sad that she need not have spoken. Then the chaplain entered the room, and the Prioress said, —
“I will tell Monsignor what has happened.”
He remembered of course the advice that he had given to the Prioress, when it was agitated whether Evelyn should be received into the convent, and he thought for a second of the Prioress’s obstinacy, so he did not dare to say, “Who could have foreseen this?” lest she might suspect his thoughts. And for the same reason he did not dare to say, “We might have expected this.” So nothing was left for him to say except that it was very sad, and that he hoped that the mood would pass away. The Prioress shook her head.
“I make no complaint; we all acted for the best, and apparently we have been mistaken.”
She rang a bell, and when the lay Sister appeared she told her to tell Sister Teresa to come to the parlour. “Tell Sister Teresa nothing more than that I am waiting to see her in the parlour.”
“Do you think,” Monsignor said, “that my presence will influence her to remain here?”
“I don’t know. I put my trust in God.”
The painful silence was broken by the opening of the door and Sister Teresa entered.
She had expected to see the Prioress and the chaplain; but when she saw Monsignor a personal look came into her face, a mist collected in her eyes. She tottered a few steps, and she fell forwards, falling on the floor.
CHAP. XXXVII.
WHEN SHE OPENED her eyes she was in the infirmary, and Veronica was sitting by her bedside, and when she asked where she was Veronica told her, and she said, “Yes, I remember, I wanted to leave the convent life because I cannot believe in the sacrament.” Then, seeing Veronica’s face change, she said, “I should not tell you these things. What will the Reverend Mother say?” She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again she said, “It is not that I do not believe in the sacrament, but because I do not believe as I wish to believe. Think of the sacrilege — I dread the sacrament because I am not sure; that is it, because I am not sure.”
“Sister Teresa, you must lie quite still and not talk. You have been very ill, and we thought you would die, but now you are a little better.”
“Veronica, you are one of the lucky ones; you came to the convent knowing nothing of the world.”
“Sister Teresa, you must not speak; you will only make yourself worse.”
“But I cannot help speaking, for I cannot help thinking.... If I get worse I shall have to receive the sacrament or refuse it. Oh, what am I saying? What must you think of me?”
“Sister Teresa, you have been very ill, and if you will keep quiet you will get well.”
“I was an actress before I came here, and it was Monsignor who converted me. But why am I telling you these things?”
“I must not listen to you, Sister, I have my rosary to say.”
And while Veronica told her beads Evelyn babbled a little from time to time. She spoke of Ulick, who had taught her the music of Isolde; she had not wished to learn it, but he had persuaded her to; and Evelyn continued, half in delirium, to talk about the Irish Princess and King Mark.
“How badly the nuns are singing and how ugly that hymn is. Close the window. If you do not, I shall not remember what Isolde answers.” And so that she might not hear her Veronica joined in the hymn under her breath. “Ah, you will not listen, you are afraid to listen to my music. Listen to it. It is much more beautiful than that hymn.”
She did not speak again for nearly half an hour. Looking towards Veronica, who was telling her beads, she said, —
“I have not been a success as a nun, but I cannot go back to the stage. You’ve drained all that out of me. I should be a failure if I went back— ‘among shadows a shadow.’ Shadows, shadows everywhere; but what is failure? It cannot be said that I have not striven, and perhaps it is the striving that counts. In the way of the world I am not a success, and in the way of the convent I am not a success. But I know one who saw God everywhere — in every flower, in every star, in all the interspaces — and maybe there is a judgment of which we know nothing, quite different from the judgment in the narrow hearts of men and of creeds.”
Then suddenly Evelyn cried out that God had forsaken her, and she began to sing some of the music from Isolde. She was singing it when the Prioress came
in, and she continued singing and babbling, only half-conscious of what was passing around her. The Prioress asked Mother Philippa if the doctor should be sent for, but before the sub-Prioress could answer Evelyn declared that she must see him.
So there was no choice but to send for him, and when he had sat by her bedside and watched her he held out very little hope to the Prioress of her recovery.
Evelyn was at first anxious to know what he had said, then she did not seem to care, and it was difficult to get her to take her food or medicine. She asked them not to trouble her with medicines. She seemed to desire death. Hour after hour she wasted away in intermittent delirium, and the convent for which she had given up so much seemed hardly to concern her at all. Sometimes she listened, hearing imaginary music, and she beat the time. Then the orchestra would be changed in her ears to a piano, and she would cry to her accompanist, “Ah, there you have given me a wrong chord — begin again;” and she would sing fragments from “Tristan” and “Lohengrin.”
“I beseech you, Sister Teresa, listen to me, and cease to sing. You are making yourself very much worse, and I am responsible,” Veronica said.
The doctor’s orders were that she should be kept perfectly quiet; but as he seemed to regard her life as practically lost, the Prioress took advantage of a sudden abatement in the delirium to ask her if she would like to see the chaplain. She spoke about confession, and communion, and besought her to make her peace with God.
“But, Mother, I am at peace with Him; so long as I do not communicate, I am at peace with Him. I am very weak, but I have no fear now.”
“But, my child, think of it, if you should die unreconciled to our holy Church. Will you see our chaplain?”
“Mother, I dare not. He will bring the sacrament with him. Oh, I’m so frightened. Do not ask me.”
“He will not bring the sacrament if you do not wish it,”
“He will talk to me about it. There is nothing to say.”
And the Prioress left her without having obtained her consent to see Father Matthews; but in the course of the morning she called Veronica and said she would like to see him.
“You have doubts, my dear child, I know, in the Real Presence of God in the sacrament.”
“I believe that God is everywhere.”
“Do you believe that God is more immediately in the sacrament than elsewhere?”
“Yes, since we have chosen the Eucharist as the symbol of our belief in the omnipresence of God.”
“But, my dear child, when life hovers, as it were, on the edge of death?”
“But, Father, I have no fear. I ought to have, perhaps, but I feel no fear. I feel that I have done my best.” The priest could elicit no more definite declaration of adherence to Catholic dogma, and he left the infirmary perplexed. It seemed to him that he would not be able to administer the sacrament to her unless she was more intimately possessed by the dogma than her words would seem to indicate, and this point was discussed with Monsignor, who called that afternoon. But Monsignor was inclined to a more liberal comprehension of belief. Belief, he pointed out, was not a definite nor ponderable quality. It was impossible for anyone to assign limitations to their belief in God, and he seemed even to insinuate that there was no criterion of belief. The Church only required that the sinner should declare her submission to the teaching of the Church; but the quality of her belief in God and in the sacrament could only be assessed by God Himself.
“If Monsignor thinks so, there can be no further doubt. On a theological question I should be sorry to put forward my poor opinion against his. Perhaps then Monsignor will accept the responsibility.”
“But, my dear Father Matthews, I should be sorry..”
“No, no, I think it will be better so. You have influence with our dear Sister Teresa, which I have not; it was you who brought about her conversion, so it is then for you, Monsignor, to administer the sacrament, if she will accept it.”
This seemed to decide the matter, and Monsignor went to the infirmary with the Prioress; and Veronica, after bowing to Monsignor, gave him her chair by the bedside.
The eyes of the sick woman lighted up a little, and she said, —
“Monsignor, it is very good of you to come to see me. I am very ill, I feel it; it is better that I should die. I have given you all a great deal of trouble. I have never known myself; it is so difficult. I envy those who do; their lot is happier than mine.”
“But, my dear child, I would not have you speak of not knowing your own mind; I do not think anyone has ever known better than you. Very few have made the sacrifice that you have made. But they tell me you do not believe in the sacrament as much as they wish you to. I have confidence that your belief is sufficient.”
“It is not that I do not believe — they never quite understood me, but you will; it is that I am not sure, as I used to feel sure — you can have no idea how sure I once was, and the happiness my belief brought me was more than any other happiness. I believed once so intensely that everything else seemed like nothing.... The whole world was a shadow, and my belief was the one real thing in it. But that belief has passed from me. If I live I may regain it again; maybe I may regain it before I die, even without getting well.”
“My dear child, I see you have been troubled and am sorry for you, but you must not think any more. I feel sure you will feel happier after having received the sacrament. We’re all so anxious on the subject, the Reverend Mother, and the whole of the community.”
“Oh, Monsignor, I’m not happy enough, I’m not filled with the love of God, and if some wicked thought should cross my mind as you gave me the Host, I should die of fear. I might die with a dreadful thought in my mind, and next moment find myself face to face with God. Monsignor, I dare not, do not ask me.... The doctor said I was to be kept quiet.”
He did not answer her, and presently he thought it prudent to withdraw, and when the doctor called a little later he inquired from Veronica if she had been talking much, and if anything had happened to disturb her. Veronica told him that Monsignor had asked her if she would receive Holy Communion.
“And did she communicate?”
“No.”
The doctor’s face darkened, and he murmured something about his orders being disobeyed, and afterwards in the parlour he told the Prioress that after the great mental strain Evelyn had been subjected to that afternoon he could not answer for her recovery. But the Prioress was not in the least intimidated, and she answered that the sacrament was more important than any medicine, and that it brought greater quiet. The doctor answered that it was not his province to discuss such questions, and he told her he did not think Sister Teresa would outlast the day.
“In that case,” the Prioress said, “I had better send for Monsignor, as she will have to receive Extreme Unction.”
The doctor shrugged his shoulders, feeling more sure than ever that his patient would not recover, and a message was sent to Veronica.
She drew forward a small table and covered it with a white cloth. She put the crucifix and holy water on the table, and a plate with some cotton wool in it, and then she turned back the bedclothes, leaving the feet bare. She had hardly finished when many footsteps were heard on the stairs and a little procession of nuns preceded the priest, and they all knelt about the bedside. Veronica, who was in charge of the ceremony; handed the priest what he needed swiftly and silently. The Prioress knelt close to Evelyn; and she recited the Confiteor while Monsignor took the holy oil from a silver cruet and anointed the eyes; ears, and nostrils. He wiped the anointed places with the cotton wool. The feet; long and very white, were then anointed and wiped, and their beauty was remarked, though everyone was in tears. The nuns wept silently, remembering that the dying woman had paid their debts. All jealousies and ingratitudes were regretted, and Evelyn heard the murmur of Latin prayers. As the nuns rose from their knees and were about to leave the cell, Evelyn opened her eyes, and after looking from one to the other, she turned her eyes on Monsignor and said, —
“Monsignor, will you hear my confession and give me communion?”
All withdrew, leaving Evelyn alone with the priest.
“Fearful thoughts about the sacrament have passed through my mind — not now; I am at peace now. I used to put them aside, but they returned almost immediately, and I could not pray, and it came to this, that I dared not sleep, so dreadful were my dreams. It seemed once that I was losing my soul by remaining here.... I think I have said everything.”
Monsignor gave her absolution, and a moment after the chaplain arrived with the sacrament. Monsignor was handed the ciborium, and Veronica lifted Evelyn a little. There was little eagerness in her eye, but she received the Host reverentially, and Veronica laid her back on the pillow. Her eyes closed and it seemed to her that she was very tired, and that her sleep would be very long and dark and peaceful.
She heard the procession pass away, but she did not hear any more.
“Of course we must not wish her to die,” said Mother Hilda, “but it would have been a terrible disgrace, and we must thank God for having saved us from it.”
The Prioress said, —
“She is not dead yet, and if she lives the struggle will begin again.”
