Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  “We were talking just now of what Evelyn would sing for us at Benediction; perhaps you had better go away and discuss the matter between you.”

  “Will you sing Stradella’s ‘Chanson d’Eglise’ or will you sing Schubert’s ‘Ave Maria’? Nothing is more beautiful than that.”

  “I will sing the ‘Ave Maria.’”

  The nun sat down to play it, but she had not played many bars when Evelyn interrupted her. “The intention of the single note, dear Sister, the octave you are striking now, has always seemed to me like a distant bell heard in the evening. Will you play it so.”

  XXIII

  AND THE IDEA of a bell sounding across the evening landscape was in the mind of the congregation when Sister Mary John played the octave; and the broken chords she played with her right hand awoke a sensation of lights dying behind distant hills.

  It is almost night, and amid a lonely landscape a harsh rock appears, and by it a forlorn woman stands — a woman who is without friend or any mortal hope — and she commends herself to the care of the Virgin. She begins to sing softly, tremulous, like one in pain and doubt, “Ave Maria, hearken to the Virgin’s cry.” The melody she sings is rich, even ornate, but the richness of the phrase, with its two little grace notes, does not mitigate the sorrow at the core; the rich garb in which the idea is clothed does not rob the song of its humanity.

  Evelyn’s voice filled with the beauty of the melody, and she sang the phrase which closes the stanza — a phrase which dances like a puff of wind in an evening bough — so tenderly, so lovingly, that acute tears trembled under the eyelids. And all her soul was in her voice when she sang the phrase of passionate faith which the lonely, disheartened woman sings, looking up from the desert rock. Then her voice sank into the calm beauty of the “Ave Maria,” now given with confidence in the Virgin’s intercession, and the broken chords passed down the keyboard, uniting with the last note of the solemn octaves, which had sounded through the song like bells heard across an evening landscape.

  “How beautifully she sings it!” a man said out loud, and his neighbour looked and wondered, for the man’s eyes were full of tears.

  “You have a beautiful voice, child,” said the Prioress when they came out of church, “and it is a real pleasure to me to hear you sing, and it will be a greater pleasure when I know that for the future your great gift will be devoted to the service of God. Shall we go into the garden for a little walk before supper? We shall have it to ourselves, and the air will do you good.”

  It was the month of June, and the convent garden was in all the colour of its summer — crimson and pink; and all the scents of the month, stocks and sweetbriar, were blown up from St. Peter’s Walk. In the long mixed borders the blue larkspurs stood erect between Canterbury bells and the bush peonies, crimson and pink, and here and there amid furred leaves, at the end of a long furred stalk, flared the foolish poppy, roses like pale porcelain clustered along the low terraced walk and up the house itself, over the stucco walls; but more beautiful than the roses were the delicate petals of the clematis, stretched out like fingers upon the walls.

  An old nun was being wheeled up and down the terrace in a bath-chair by one of the lay sisters, that she might enjoy the sweet air.

  “I must say a word to Sister Lawrence,” the Prioress said, “she will never forgive me if I don’t. She is the eldest member of our community; if she lives another two years, she will complete half a century of convent life.”

  As they drew near Evelyn saw two black eyes in a white, almost fleshless face. The eyes alone seemed to live, and the shrunken figure, huddled in many shawls, gave an impression of patriarchal age. Evelyn saw by her veil that Sister Lawrence was a lay sister, and the old nun tried to draw herself up in her chair as they approached, and kissed the hand of the Prioress.

  “Well, Sister, how are you feeling? I have brought you our new musical postulant to look at. I want to know what you think of her. You must know, Evelyn,” said the Prioress, “that Sister Lawrence is a great judge of people’s vocations; I always consult her about my new postulants.”

  Sister Lawrence took Evelyn’s hands between hers and gazed into her face so earnestly that Evelyn feared her innermost thoughts were being read. Then, with a little touch of wilfulness, that came oddly from one so old and venerable, the Sister said:

  “Well, Reverend Mother, she is pretty anyhow, and it is a long time since we had a pretty postulant.”

  “Really, Sister Lawrence, I am ashamed of you,” said the Prioress with playful severity; “Sister Evelyn will be quite disedified.”

  “Mother, if I like them to be pretty it is only because they have one more gift to bring to the feet of our dear Lord. I see in Sister Evelyn’s face that she has a vocation. I believe she is the providence that God has sent to help us through our difficulties.”

  “We are all praying,” said the Prioress, “that it may be so.”

  “Well, Hilda, you’ll agree with me now, I think, that we have every reason to hope.”

  “Hope for what, dear Mother?”

  “That we shall discover a vocation in Evelyn. You heard what Sister Lawrence said, and she has had great experience.”

  “It is possible to God, of course, that an opera singer may find a vocation for the religious life, and live happily in a community of nuns devoted to Perpetual Adoration.”

  “But you don’t believe God desires that such a thing should come to pass?”

  “I shouldn’t like to say that, it would be too presumptuous; but it would be entirely out of the ordinary course.”

  The Prioress began to wonder if Mother Hilda suspected that some great sin committed while she was in Rome was the cause of Evelyn’s nervous breakdown; and the Mistress of the Novices, as she walked by the side of the Prioress, began to wonder why the Prioress wished that Evelyn should become a nun. It might be that the Prioress, who was a widow, was interested in the miracle of the great shock which had caused Evelyn to relinquish her career and to turn to the Church! That might be her motive, she reflected. Those who have lived in the world are attracted and are interested in each other, and are to some extent alien to the real nun, to her who never doubts her vocation from the first and resolves from the first to bring her virginity to God — it being what is most pleasing to him. It might be that the Prioress was influenced, unconsciously, of course, by some such motive; yet it was strange that she should be able to close her eyes to Evelyn’s state of mind. The poor woman was still distracted and perplexed by a great shock which had happened before she came to the convent and which had been aggravated by another when she went to Rome; she had returned to them as to a refuge from herself. Such mental crises often happened to women of the world, to naturally pious women; but natural piety did not in the least mean a vocation, and Mother Hilda had to admit to herself that she could discover no sign of a vocation in Evelyn. How were it possible to discover one? She was not herself, and would not be for a long while, if she ever recovered herself. Mother Prioress had chosen to admit her as a postulant…. Even that concession Mother Hilda did not look upon with favour. Why not go one step farther and make Miss Dingle a postulant? It seemed to her that if Mother Prioress insisted that Evelyn should take the white veil at present, a very serious step would be taken. It was the Mistress of the Novices who would be responsible for Evelyn’s instruction, and Evelyn was hardly ever in the novitiate; she was always singing, or working in the garden.

  XXIV

  “I AM AFRAID, dear Mother, her progress towards recovery is slow.”

  “I don’t agree with you. A great nervous breakdown! That journey to Rome, only to see her father die before her eyes, was a great shock — such a one as it would take anybody a long time to recover from. Evelyn is very highly-strung, there can be no doubt of that. I wonder how it is that you don’t understand?”

  “But I do understand, dear Mother, only I find it hard to believe that the time has come for her to take the white veil.”

  “Or t
hat it will ever come?”

  “The other day she said in the novitiate she was sure she would go to hell, and that she wouldn’t be able to bear the uncertainty much longer….”

  “What ever did she mean? You must have misunderstood her, Mother Hilda.” And the Prioress determined to talk to Evelyn “on the first occasion” — the first occasion with the Prioress meant the very next minute. So she went in search of her, and finding her by the fishpond, quite unaware that any one was watching her, the thought crossed the Prioress’s mind that Hilda might be right after all: Evelyn might be sitting there thinking how, after a short struggle, the water would end the misery that was consuming her.

  “Evelyn, dear, of what are you thinking?”

  “Only of the fish, dear Mother. You know they are quite deaf; fish haven’t ears. There is a legend, however, of a boy playing the flute and the fish leaping to listen.”

  “If her health doesn’t improve,” the Prioress said to herself, “we shall not be able to keep her.

  “Evelyn, dear, you are not looking very well; I am afraid you haven’t been sleeping lately.”

  “Last night I hardly closed my eyes, dear Mother, and to-day there is no reality anywhere. One begins to hate everything — the shapes of the trees, the colour of the sky.”

  “It is just what I suspected,” the Prioress said to herself, “she was thinking of suicide. Suicide in a convent — such a thing has never happened. Yet why shouldn’t such a thing happen? Everything happens in this world.”

  But, notwithstanding some alarming relapses, Evelyn’s health continued to improve, slowly, but it continued to improve; and after a long day’s work in the garden she would talk quite cheerfully, saying that that night for sure she would get some hours of sleep. The Prioress listened, saying to herself, “There is no doubt that manual work is the real remedy, the only remedy.” Sister Mary John was of the same opinion, and the Prioress relied on Sister Mary John to keep Evelyn hoeing and digging when it was fine, and making nets in the work-shop when it was wet. She was encouraged to look after the different pets; and there were a good many to look after; her three cats occupied a good deal of her time, for the cats were always anxious to kill her tame birds. One cat had killed several, so the question had arisen whether he should be drowned in the fishpond or trained to respect caged birds. The way to do this, Evelyn had been told, was to put a caged bird on the ground in front of the cat, and, standing over him with a cane, strike swiftly and severely the moment the cat crouched to spring. A cat above all other animals hates to be beaten, for a cat is probably one of the most sagacious animals, more even than a dog, though he does not care to show it. The beating of the cat was repellent to Evelyn, but Sister Mary John had no such scruples, and the beatings proved so efficient that the cat would run away the moment he was shown a bird in a cage. In turn each of the cats received its lesson, and henceforth Evelyn’s last presents — blackbirds, thrushes, linnets, and bull-finches — lived in safety.

  The feeding of these birds and the cleaning of the aviary occupied two hours a day during the winter. She had also her greenhouse to attend to; herself and Sister Mary John, with some help from the outside, had built one, and hot-water pipes had been put in; and her love of flowers was so great that she would run down the garden even when the ground was covered with snow to stoke up the fire, if she thought she had forgotten to do so, saying that they would have no tulips, or lily of the valley, or azaleas for the altar, if the temperature were allowed to drop. Her talk was all about her garden, and when the spring returned she was working there constantly with Sister Mary John in the morning till the Angelus rang at twelve; then they went into dinner, and as soon as dinner was over Evelyn returned with Sister Mary John to the garden and worked till it was time to go into church for Benediction. Or sometimes they left the garden when the other nuns went there for recreation, having music to try over, for now, since she had recovered her health, Evelyn sang every day at Benediction.

  “There is no reason why she should remain any longer with us,” the Prioress often said, “unless there is some hope of her staying altogether. You will admit, Hilda, that her health is much improved, and that she is capable now of arriving at some decision.”

  “There is no doubt her health is improving.”

  “And her piety — have you noticed it? She almost sets us an example.”

  Mother Hilda did not answer, and the Prioress understood her silence to mean that she would hardly look upon Evelyn as an example for the convent to follow.

  “Well, something will have to be decided.” And one evening the Prioress asked Mother Philippa and Mother Hilda to her room after evening prayers.

  “We were talking of Evelyn the other day in the garden, Hilda, and you admitted that she was in a state now to decide whether she should go or stay.”

  “You mean, dear Mother, that Evelyn must either leave us or join the community?”

  “Or show some signs that she wishes to join it. Her postulancy has been unduly prolonged; it is nearly a year since she returned from Rome, and she was a postulant for six months before that.”

  “You think that if she hadn’t a vocation she would have left us before? But are you not forgetting that she was suffering from a nervous breakdown, and came here with the intention of seeking rest rather than becoming one of us?”

  “Her health has been mending this long while. Really, Hilda—”

  “I am sorry, Mother, if I seem stubborn.”

  “Not stubborn, but I should like to hear you explain your reasons for thinking Evelyn has not a vocation. And Mother Philippa is most anxious to hear them, too.”

  Mother Philippa listened, thinking of her bed, wondering why Mother Mary Hilda kept them up by refusing to agree with the Prioress.

  “I am afraid I shall not be able to say anything that will convince you. I have had some experience—”

  “We know that you are very experienced, otherwise you would not be the Mistress of the Novices. You don’t believe in Evelyn’s vocation?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t, and—”

  “And what, Mother Hilda? We are here for the purpose of listening to you. We shall be influenced by everything you say, so pray speak your mind fully.”

  “About Evelyn? But that is just my point; there is nothing for me to say about her. I hardly know her; she has hardly been in the novitiate since she returned from Rome.” “You think before taking the veil she should receive more religious instruction from you?”

  “She certainly should. I grant you Evelyn is a naturally pious woman, and that counts for a great deal; but what I attach importance to is that she is still alien to the convent, knowing hardly anything of our rule, of our observances. A novice spends six months in the novitiate with me learning obedience, how to forget herself, how she is merely an instrument, and how the greatest purpose of her life is to obey.”

  “It is impossible to overestimate the value of obedience, but there are some — I will not say who can dispense with obedience, of course not, but who cannot put off their individualities, who cannot become the merely typical novice — that one who would tell you, if she were asked to describe the first six months of her life in the convent, that all she remembered was a great deal of running up and down stairs. There are some who may not be moulded, but who mould themselves; and they are not the worst, sometimes they are the best nuns. For instance, Sister Mary John — who will doubt her vocation? And yet there is not a more headstrong nun in our community. I don’t wish to say one word against Sister Mary John, who is an example to us all; it is only to answer your objection that I mentioned her.”

  “Sister Mary John is quite different,” Mother Hilda answered. And, after waiting some moments for Mother Hilda to continue, the Prioress said:

  “You would wish her, then, to spend some time longer with you in the novitiate?”

  “I am not sure it would be of any use. There is another matter about which I hardly like to speak; still, I must remind
you that the convent has never been the same since she came here. She has not been herself since she came back from Rome, but now she is regaining herself, and you cannot have failed to notice that both Sister Mary John and Veronica are drawn towards her. I am sure they are not aware of it, and would resent my criticism as unjust. Not only Sister Mary John and Veronica, but all of us; it seems to me that we all talk too much about her… I am sometimes almost glad that she is so little in the novitiate. Her influence on such simple-minded young women as Sister Jerome and Sister Barbara must be harmful — how could it be otherwise, coming out of another world? and her voice, too — you don’t agree with me?” And Mother Hilda turned to Mother Philippa. Mother Philippa shook her head, and confessed she had not the slightest notion of what Mother Hilda meant.

  “But you have, dear Mother?”

  “Yes, I know very well what you mean, only I don’t agree with you. Her singing, of course, gives her an exceptional position in the convent, but I don’t think she avails herself of it; indeed, her humility has often seemed to me most striking.”

  “In that I agree with you,” Mother Hilda answered; “so I feel that perhaps, after all, I may be misjudging her.”

  At this concession the Prioress’s manner softened at once towards the Mistress of the Novices.

  “Well, Hilda, come, tell me, have you said everything you have to say? Have you given us your full reasons for not wishing Evelyn to take the veil if she should decide to do so? I see you hesitate. I asked you here to-night so that you might speak your mind. Let everything be said. There is no use telling me afterwards that you didn’t say things because you thought I wouldn’t like to hear them. Say everything.”