by George Moore
“Perhaps I do. But why do you ask?”
“Because your singing seems to affect no one as it does me…. I thought it might affect you in the same way — what is it?”
“I wouldn’t worry, Veronica, you will get over it; it will pass.”
“I hope it will.” Evelyn felt that Veronica had not spoken all her mind, and that the incident was not closed. The novice’s eyes were full of reverie, and behind her the open press exhaled a fragrance of lavender. “You see,” she said, turning, “Father Ambrose is coming to-morrow. I wonder what he will think of you? He’ll know if you have a vocation.”
Father Ambrose, an old Carmelite monk and the spiritual adviser of the Prioress, was known to be a great friend of Veronica’s, and whenever he came to the convent Veronica’s excitement started many little pleasantries among the novices. Next day Evelyn waited for one of these to arise. She had not long to wait; all the novices and postulants with Mother Hilda were sitting under the great tree. The air was warm, and Mother Hilda guided the conversation occasionally. Every one was anxious to talk, but every one was anxious to think too, for every one knew she would be questioned by the aged monk, and that the chance of being accepted as a nun depended, in no small measure, on his opinion of her vocation.
“Have you noticed, Sister Teresa, how beaming Sister Veronica has looked for the last day or two? I can’t think what has come to her.”
“Can’t you, indeed? You must be very slow. Hasn’t she been put into the sacristy just before Father Ambrose’s visit; now she will be able to put out his vestments herself. You may be sure we shall have the best vestments out every day, and she will be able to have any amount of private interviews behind our backs.”
“Now, children, that will do,” said Mother Hilda, noticing Veronica’s crimson cheeks as she bent over her work.
Evelyn wondered, and that evening in the sacristy Veronica broke into expostulations with an excitement that took Evelyn by surprise.
“How could I not care for Father Ambrose! I have known him all my life. Once I was very ill with pleurisy. I nearly died, and Father Ambrose anointed me, and gave me the last Sacraments. I had not made my first Communion then. I was only eleven, but they gave me the Sacrament, for they thought I was dying, and I thought so too, and I promised our Lord I would be a nun if I got well. I never told any one except Father Ambrose, and he has helped me all through to keep my vow, so you see he has been everything to me; I have never loved any one as I love Father Ambrose. When he comes here I always ask him for some rule or direction, so that I may have the happiness of obeying him till his next visit; and it is so trying, is it not, Sister Teresa, when the novices make their silly little jokes about it? Of course, they don’t understand, they can’t; but to me Father Ambrose means everything I care for; besides, he is really a saint. I believe he would have been canonised if he had lived in the Middle Ages. He has promised to profess me. It is wrong, I know, but really I should hardly care to be professed if Father Ambrose could not be by. We must have these vestments for him.” Evelyn was about to take them out. “No, allow me.”
Veronica took the vestments out of her hand, a pretty colour coming into her cheeks as she did so. And Evelyn understood her jealousy, lest any other hands but hers should lay the vestments out that he was to wear, and she turned her head so that Veronica might not think she was being watched. And the little nun was happy in the corner of the sacristy laying out the vestments, putting the gold chalice for him to use, and the gold cruets, which Evelyn had never seen used before.”
“You see, being a monk, he has a larger amice than the ordinary priest.” And Veronica produced a strip of embroidery which she tacked on the edge of the amice, so that it might give the desired appearance when the monk drew it over his head on entering or leaving the sacristy.
A few days after Evelyn came upon this amice with the embroidery edge put away in a secret corner, so that it should not be used in the ordinary way; and, as she stood wondering at the child’s love for the aged monk, Sister Agnes came to tell her she was wanted to bid Sister Mary John goodbye.
“To bid Sister Mary John goodbye!”
“Yes, Sister Teresa, that is what the Prioress told me to tell you.”
Evelyn hurried to the library. Sister Mary John was standing near the window, and she wore a long black cloak over her habit, and had a bird-cage in her hand. Evelyn saw the sly jackdaw, with his head on one side, looking at her.
“What is the meaning of this, Sister? You don’t tell me you are going away? And for how long?”
“For ever, Sister; we shall never see each other again. I promised the Prioress not to tell you before. It was a great hardship, but I gave my promise, she allowing us to see each other for a few minutes before I left.”
“I can’t take in what you’re saying. Going away for ever? Oh, Sister, this cannot be true!” And Evelyn stood looking at the nun, her eyes dilated, her fingers crisped as if she would hold Sister Mary John back. “But what is taking you away?”
“That is a long story, too long for telling now; besides, you know it. You know I have been very fond of you, Teresa; too fond of you.”
“So that’s it. And how shall I live here without you?”
“You are going to enter the convent, and as a nun you will learn to live without me; you will learn to love God better than you do now.”
“One moment; tell me, it is only fair you should tell me, how our love of each other has altered your love of God?”
“I can never tell you, Teresa, I can only say that I never understood, perhaps, as I do now, that nothing must come between the soul and God, and that there is no room for any other love in our hearts. We must remember always we are the brides of Christ, you and I, Sister.”
“But I am not professed, and never shall be.”
“I hope you will, Sister, and that all your love will go to our crucified Lord.”
They stood holding each other’s hands.
“Won’t you let me kiss you before you go?”
“Please let me go; it will be better not. The carriage is waiting; I must go.”
“But never, never to see you again!”
“Never is a long while; too long. We shall meet in heaven, and it would be unwise to forfeit that meeting for a moment of time on this earth.”
“A moment of time on this earth,” Evelyn answered. She stood looking out of the window like one dazed; and taking advantage of her abstraction Sister Mary John left the room. The Prioress came into the library.
“Mother, what does this mean? Why did you let her go?”
The Prioress sat down slowly and looked at Evelyn without speaking.
“Mother, you might have let her stay, for my sake.”
“I allowed her to see you before she left, and that was the most I could do, under the circumstances.”
“The most you could do under the circumstances? I don’t understand. Mother, you might have asked her to wait. She acted on impulse.”
“No, Teresa, she came to me some weeks ago to tell me of her scruples.”
“Scruples! Her love of me, you mean?”
“I see she has told you. Yes.”
The Prioress was about to ask her about her vows; but the present was not the moment to do so, and she allowed Evelyn to go back to the sacristy.
XXIX
“VERONICA, SHE HAS gone away for good — gone away to France. All I could do — Now I am alone here, with nobody.”
“But, Teresa, I don’t understand. What are you speaking about?” Evelyn told her of Sister Miry John’s departure. “You cared for her a great deal, one could see that.”
“Well, she was the one whom I have seen most of since I have been here… except you, Veronica.” A look appeared in the girl’s face which suggested, very vaguely, of course, but still suggested, that Veronica was jealous of the nun who had gone. Evelyn looked into the girl’s face, trying to read the dream in it, until she forgot Veronica, and remembered the nun w
ho had gone; and when she awoke from her dream she saw Veronica still standing before her with a half-cleaned candlestick in her hand.
“She seemed so determined, and all I could say only made her more so; yet I told her I was very fond of her… and she always seemed to like me. Why should she be so determined?”
“I should have thought you would have guessed, Teresa.”
Evelyn begged Veronica to explain, but the girl hesitated, looking at her curiously all the time saying at last:
“It seems to me there can be only one reason for her leaving, and that was because she believed you to be her counterpart.”
“Her counterpart — what’s that?”
“Have you been so long in the convent without knowing what a counterpart is, Teresa? The convent is full of counterparts. Did you never see one in the garden, in a shady corner? You spent many hours in the garden. I am surprised. Are you telling the truth, Sister?”
Evelyn opened her eyes.
“Telling the truth! But do they come in the summer-time in the garden, while the sun is out?”
“Yes, they do; and very often they come to one in the evening… but more often at night.”
Evelyn stood looking into Veronica’s face without speaking, and at that moment the bell rang.
“We have only just got time,” Veronica said, “to get into chapel.”
“What can she mean? Counterparts visiting the nuns in the twilight… at night! Who are these counterparts?” Evelyn asked herself. “The idle fancies of young girls, of course.” But she was curious to hear what these were, and on the first favourable opportunity she introduced the subject, saying:
“What did you mean, Veronica, when you said that it was strange I had been in the convent so long without finding my counterpart?”
“I didn’t say that, Teresa. I said without a counterpart finding you out, or that is what I meant to say. It is the counterpart which seeks us, not we the counterpart. It would be wrong for us to seek one. You know what I said about your singing, how it disturbed me and prevented me from praying? Well, sometimes a memory of your singing precedes the arrival of my counterpart.”
“But did you not say that Sister Mary John was my counterpart?”
Veronica answered that Sister Mary John may have thought so.
“But she is a choir sister.” And to this Veronica did not know what answer to make. The silence was not broken for a long while, each continuing her work, wondering when the other would speak. “Have all the nuns counterparts?”
“I don’t know anything about the choir sisters, but Rufina and Jerome have. Cecilia is too stupid, and no counterpart ever seems to come to her. Sister Angela has the most beautiful counterpart in the world, except mine!” And the girl’s eyes lit up.
Evelyn was on the point of asking her to describe her visitor, but, fearing to be indiscreet, she asked Veronica to tell her who were the counterparts, and whence they came. Veronica could tell her nothing, and, untroubled by theory or scruple, she seemed to drift away — perhaps into the arms of her spiritual lover. On rousing her from her dream Evelyn learnt that Sister Angela, who was fond of reading the Bible, had discovered many texts anent counter-partial love. Which these could be Evelyn wondered, and Veronica quoted the words of the Creed, “Christ descended into hell.”
“But the counterpart doesn’t emanate out of hell?”
A look of pain came into the nun’s face, and she reminded Evelyn that Christ was away for three days between his death and his resurrection, and there were passages she remembered in Paul, in the Epistle to the Romans, which seemed to point to the belief that he descended into hell, at all events that he had gone underground; but of this Veronica had no knowledge, she could only repeat what Sister Angela had said — that when Christ descended into hell, the warders of the gates covered their faces, so frightened were they, not having had time to lock the gates against him, and all hell was harrowed. But Christ had walked on, preaching to those men and women who had been drowned in the Flood, and they had gone up to heaven with him.
“But, Veronica, those who are in hell never come out of it.”
“No, they never come out of it; only Christ can do all things, and He descended into hell, not to watch the tortures of the damned — you couldn’t think that, Sister Teresa? — but to save those who had died before His coming. Once we had a meditation on a subject given to us by Mother Hilda from one of the Gospels: Three men were seen coming from a tomb, two supporting a man standing between them, the shadow of the Cross came from behind; and the heads of two men touched the sky, but the head of the man they supported passed through the sky, and far beyond it, for the third man was our Lord coming out of hell.”
“But, Veronica, you were telling me about the counterparts.”
“Well, Sister Teresa, the counterparts are those whom Christ redeemed in those three days, and they come and visit every convent.”
“In what guise do they come?” Evelyn asked. And she heard that the arrival of the counterpart was always unexpected, but was preceded by an especially happy state of quiet exaltation.
“Have you never felt that feeling, Sister Teresa? As if one were detached from everything, and ready to take flight.”
“Yes, dear, I think I know what you mean. But the counterpart is a sort of marriage, and you know Christ says that there is neither marriage, nor giving in marriage, when the kingdom of God shall come to pass.”
“Not giving in marriage,” the girl answered, “as is understood in the world, but we shall all meet in heaven; and the meeting of our counterpart on earth is but a faint shadow of the joy we shall experience after death — an indwelling, spirit within spirit, and nothing external. That is how Mother Hilda teaches St. Teresa when we read her in the novitiate.”
“Sister Teresa is wonderful — her ravishments when God descended upon her and she seemed to be borne away. But I didn’t think that any one among you experienced anything like that. It doesn’t seem to me that a counterpart is quite the same; there is something earthly.”
“No, Sister, nothing earthly whatever.”
“But, Veronica, you said that Sister Mary John left the convent because she believed me to be her counterpart. I am in the world, am I not?”
A perplexed look came into Veronica’s face, and she said:
“There are counterparts and counterparts.”
“And you think I am a wicked counterpart? You wouldn’t like me to be yours?”
“I didn’t say that, Sister; only mine is in heaven.”
“And when did he come last to you?” Evelyn asked, as she folded up the vestments.
“Teresa, you are folding those vestments wrong. You’re not thinking of what you’re doing.” And the vestments turned the talk back to Father Ambrose.
“Surely the monk isn’t the counterpart you were speaking of just now?”
“No, indeed, my counterpart is quite different from Father Ambrose; he is young and beautiful. Father Ambrose has got a beautiful soul, and I love him very dearly; but my counterpart is, as I have said, in heaven, Sister.”
The conversation fell, and Evelyn did not dare to ask another question; indeed, she determined never to speak on the subject again to Veronica. But a few days afterwards she yielded to the temptation to speak, or Veronica — she could not tell which was to blame in this matter, but she found herself listening to Veronica telling how she had, for weeks before meeting with her counterpart, often felt a soft hand placed upon her, and the touch would seem so real that she would forget what she was doing, and look for the hand without being able to find it.
“One night it seemed, dear, as if I could not keep on much longer, and all the time I kept waking up. At last I awoke, feeling very cold all over; it was an awful feeling, and I was so frightened that I could hardly summon courage to take my habit from the peg and put it upon my bed. But I did this, for, if what was coming were a wicked thought, it would not be able to find me out under my habit. At last I fell asleep, lying
on my back with arms and feet folded, a position I always find myself in when I awake, no matter in what position I may go to sleep. Very soon I awoke, every fibre tingling, an exquisite sensation of glow, and I was lying on my left side (something I am never able to do), folded in the arms of my counterpart. I cannot give you any idea of the beauty of his flesh, and with what joy I beheld and felt it. Luminous flesh, and full of tints so beautiful that they cannot be imagined. You would have to see them. And he folded me so closely in his arms, telling me that it was his coming that had caused the coldness; and then telling of his love for me, and how he would watch over me and care for me. After saying that, he folded me so closely that we seemed to become one person; and then my flesh became beautiful, luminous, like his, and I seemed to have a feeling of love and tenderness for it. I saw his face, but it is too lovely to speak about. How could I think such a visitation sinful? for all my thoughts were of pure love, and he did not kiss me; but I fell asleep in his arms, and what a sleep I slept there! When I awoke he was no longer by me.”
“But why should you think it was sinful, dear?”
“Because our counterpart really is, or should be, Jesus Christ; we are His brides, and mine was only an angel.”
“But you’ve said, dear, that those who were drowned in the Flood come down to those living now upon earth to prepare them—” The sentence dropped away on Evelyn’s lips; she could not continue it, for it seemed to her disgraceful to draw out this girl into speaking of things which were sacred to her, and which had a meaning for her that was pure. Her love was for God, and she was trying to explain; and the terms open to her were terms of human love, which she, Evelyn, with a sinful imagination, misconstrued, involuntarily perhaps, but misconstrued nevertheless.
At that moment Sister Angela came into the sacristy, and, seeing Sister Veronica and Teresa looking at each other in silence, a look of surprise came into her face, and she said:
