Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  “Nuns and monks of the Middle Ages, those who knew monasticism better than it ever could be known in these modern days, dreaded these larvæ more than anything else, and they had methods of destroying them and repelling the beguilements of evil spirits better than we have, for the contemplative orders were more kindred to those earlier times than to-day. Monasticism of today takes another turn. Love of God is eternal, but we must love God in the idiom and spirit of our time.” And Father Daly believed that there was no surer method of escaping from the danger than by active work, by teaching, which, he argued, was not incompatible with contemplation, not carried to excess; and there were also the poor people, and to work for them was always pleasing to God. Any drastic changes were, of course, out of the question, but he had been asked to speak on this subject, and it seemed to him that they should look to Nature for guidance, and in Nature they found not revolution but evolution; the law of Nature was progression. Why should any rule remain for ever the same? It must progress just as our ideas progress. He wandered on, words coming up in his mouth involuntarily, saying things which immediately after they were said he regretted having said, trying to bring his sermon to a close, unable to do so, obliged, at last, to say 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.

  As soon as Mass was over Mother Hilda went to the Prioress. “We’ll speak on this matter later.” And the Prioress went to her room, hurriedly. The nuns hung about the cloister, whispering in little groups, forgetful of the rule; the supporters of the Prioress indignant with the priest, who had dared to call into question the spiritual value of their Order, and to tell them it would be more pleasing to God for them to start a school. It was felt even by the supporters of the school that the priest had gone too far, not in advocating the school, but in what he had said regarding the liability of the contemplative orders to be attacked by demons, for really what he had said amounted to that.

  XXXIII

  WHEN THE NEWS arrived that Father Daly had been transferred suddenly by the Bishop to another parish, Sister Winifred walked about in terror, expecting every minute to bring her a summons to the Prioress’s room. A shiver went through her when she thought of the interview which probably awaited her; but as the morning wore away without any command reaching her, she began to take pleasure in the hope that she had escaped, and in the belief that the Prioress was afraid of an explanation. No doubt that was it; and Sister Winifred picked up courage and the threads of the broken intrigue, resolving this time to confine herself to laying stress on the necessitous condition of the convent, which was still in debt, and the impossibility of Sister Teresa’s singing redeeming it entirely.

  It would have been wiser if she had conducted her campaign as she intended to do, but the temptation was irresistible to point out, occasionally, that those who did not agree with her were the very nuns — Angela, Veronica, Rufina, and one or two others — who had confessed to the sin of praying for the visitations of counterparts during the hour of meditation and other hours. By doing this she prejudiced her cause. Her inuendoes reached the ears of the Bishop and Monsignor Mostyn, who came to the convent to settle the difficulty of an alteration in the rule; she was severely reprimanded, and it was decreed that the contemplative Orders were not out of date, and that nuns should be able to meditate on the Cross without considering too closely the joys that awaited the brides of Christ in heaven. St. Teresa’s writings were put under ban, only the older nuns, who would not accept the words of the saint too literally, being allowed to read them. “Added to which,” as Monsignor said, “the idle thoughts of the novices are occupying too much of our attention. This is a matter for the spiritual adviser of the novices, and Father Rawley is one who will keep a strict watch.”

  The Bishop concurred with Monsignor, and then applied his mind to the consideration of the proposed alteration of the rule, deciding that no alteration could receive his sanction, at all events during the life of the present Prioress. Sister Winifred was told that the matter must be dropped for the present. It so happened that Monsignor came upon her and Evelyn together before the Bishop left; and he tried to reconcile them, saying that when the Prioress was called to God — it was only a question of time for all of us, and it didn’t seem probable that she would live very long; of course, it was a very painful matter, one which they did not care to speak about — but after her death, if it should be decided that the Order might become a teaching Order, Sister Teresa would be the person who would be able to assist Sister Winifred better than any other.

  “But, Monsignor,” Evelyn said, “I do not feel sure I’ve a vocation for the religious life.”

  Out of a shrivelled face pale, deeply-set eyes looked at her, and it seemed that she could read therein the disappointment he felt that she was not remaining in the convent. She was sorry she had disappointed him, for he had helped her; and she left him talking to Sister Winifred and wandered down the passage, not quite certain whether he doubted her strength to lead a chaste life in the world, or could she attribute that change of expression in his eyes to wounded vanity at finding that the living clay put into his hands was escaping from them unmoulded… by him? Hard to say. There was a fear in her heart! Now was it that she might lack the force of character to leave the convent when the time came… after the Prioress’s death? Life is but a ceaseless uprooting of oneself. Sister Winifred might be elected….

  “Who will have the strength to turn the convent into an active Order when I am gone?” the Prioress often asked Evelyn, who could only answer her that she hoped she would be with them for many a day yet. “No, my dear, not for many months. I am a very old woman.” She questioned Evelyn regarding Mother Philippa’s administration; and Evelyn disguised from her the disorder that had come into the convent, not telling how the nuns spent a great deal of time visiting each other in their cells, how in the garden some walked on one side and some on the other, how the bitterest enmities had sprung up. But, though she was not told these things, the Prioress knew her convent had fallen into decadence, and sometimes she said:

  “Well, I haven’t the strength to restore dignity to this Order; so it had better disappear, become an active Order. But who among you will be able to reorganise it? Mother Philippa — what do you think, dear?”

  “Mother Philippa is an excellent woman,” Evelyn answered; “but as an administrator—”

  “You don’t believe in her?”

  “Only when she is guided by another, one superior to herself.”

  “One who will see that the rule is maintained?”

  Evelyn was thinking of Mother Hilda.

  “Mother Hilda,” she said, “seems to me too quiet, too subtle, too retiring.” And the Prioress agreed with her, saying under her breath:

  “She prefers to confine herself to the education of her novices. So what is to be done?”

  From Mother Hilda Evelyn’s thoughts went to Sister Mary John, and it seemed to her she never realised before the irreparable loss the convent had sustained. But what was the good in reminding the Prioress of Sister Mary John? No doubt, lying back there in her chair, the old mind was thinking of the nun she had lost, and who would have proved of such extraordinary service in the present circumstances. While looking at the Prioress, thinking with her (for it is true the Prioress was thinking of Sister Mary John), Evelyn understood suddenly, in a single second, that if Sister Mary John had not left Sister Winifred would not have come forward with the project of a school, nor would there have been any schism. But in spite of all her wisdom, the Prioress had not known, until this day, how dependent they were on Sister Mary John. A great mistake had been made, but there was no use going into that now.

  A bell rang, and Evelyn said:

  “Now, Mother, will you take my arm and we’ll go down to chapel together?”

  “And after Benediction I will take a turn in the garden with you,” the Prioress said.

  She was
so weary of singing Gounod’s “Ave Maria” that she accentuated the vulgarity of the melody, and wondered if the caricature would be noticed. “The more vulgarly it is sung the more money it draws.” And smiling at the theatrical phrase, which had arisen unexpectedly to her lips, she went into the garden to join the Prioress.

  “Come this way, dear; I want to talk to you.” And the Prioress and the novice wandered away from the other nuns towards the fish-pond, and stood listening to the gurgle of the stream and to the whisper of the woods. An inspiring calm seemed to fall out of the sky, filling the heart with sympathy, turning all things to one thing, drawing the earth and sky and thoughts of men and women together.

  “Teresa, dear, when you leave us what do you intend to do? You have never told me. Do you intend to return to the stage?”

  “Mother, I cannot bear to think of leaving you.” The old nun raised her eyes for a moment, and there was a great sadness in them, for she felt that without Evelyn her death would be lonely.

  “We came here for the same reason, or very nearly. I stayed, and you are going.”

  “And which do you think is the better part, Mother?”

  The nun did not answer for a long time, and Evelyn’s heart seemed to beat more quickly as she waited for the answer.

  “These are things we shall never know, whether it is better to go or to stay. All the wisdom of the ages has never solved this question — which ever course we take; it costs a great deal to come here.”

  “And it costs a great deal to remain in the world. Something terrible would have happened to me. I should have killed myself. But you know everything, Mother; there is no use going over that story again.”

  “No, there is none. Only one thing remains to be said, Teresa — to thank you for remaining with me. You are a gift from God, the best I have received for a long time, and if I reach heaven my prayers will always be with you.”

  “And, Mother, if you reach heaven, will you promise me one thing, that you will come to me and tell me the truth?”

  “That I promise, and I will keep my promise if I am allowed.”

  The ripple of the stream sounded loud in their ears, and the skies became more lovely as Evelyn and the Prioress thought of the promise that had been asked and been given.

  “I’ll ask you to do some things for me.” And she gave Evelyn instructions regarding her papers. “When you have done all these things you will leave the convent. You will not be able to remain. I have seen a great deal of you, more than I saw of any other novice, and I know you as if you were my own child…. I am very old, and you are still a young woman.”

  “Mother, I am nearly, forty, and my trials are at an end, or nearly.”

  “Truly, a great trial. I am old enough now, Teresa, to speak about it without shame. A great trial, yet one is sorry when it is over. And you still believe that a calamity would have befallen you?”

  “And a great calamity nearly did befall me.”

  They sat side by side, their eyes averted, knowing well that they had reached a point beyond which words could not carry them.

  “We are always anxious to be understood, every one wants to be understood. But why? Of what use?”

  “Mother, we must never speak on this subject again, for I love you very dearly, and it is a great pain to me to think that your death will set me free.”

  “It seems wrong, Teresa, but I wouldn’t have you remain in the convent after me; you are not suited to it. I knew it all the while, only I tried to keep you. One is never free from temptation. Now you know everything…. We have been here long enough.”

  “We have only been here a few minutes,” Evelyn answered; “at least it has only seemed a few minutes to me. The evening is so beautiful, the sky is so calm, the sound of the water so extraordinary in the stillness! Listen to those birds, the chaffinch shrieking in that aspen, and the thrush singing all his little songs somewhere at the end of the garden.”

  “And there is your bullfinch, dear. He will remain in the convent to remind them of you when you have left.”

  The bird whistled a stave of the Bird Music from “Siegfried,” and then came to their feet to pick. Evelyn threw him some bread, and they wandered back to the novices, who had forgotten their differences, and were sitting under their tree with Mother Hilda discussing a subject of great interest to them.

  “We haven’t seen them united before for a long time.”

  “That odious Sister Winifred waiting for your death, thinking only of her school.”

  “That is the way of the world, and we find the world everywhere, even in a convent. Her idea comes before everything else. Only you, Teresa, are good; you are sacrificing yourself to me; I hope it will not be for long.”

  “But we said, Mother, we wouldn’t talk of that any more. Now, what are the novices so eager about?”

  Sister Agatha ran forward to tell them that it had been suddenly remembered that the thirtieth of the month would be Sister Bridget’s fortieth anniversary of her vows.

  “Forty years she has been in the convent, and we are thinking that we might do something to commemorate the anniversary.”

  “I should like to see her on an elephant, riding round the garden. What a spree it would be!” said Sister Jerome.

  The words were hardly out of her mouth when she regretted them, foreseeing allusions to elephants till the end of her days, for Sister Jerome often said foolish things, and was greatly quizzed for them. But the absurdity of the proposal did not seem to strike any one; only the difficulty of procuring an elephant, with a man who would know how to manage the animal, was very great. Why not a donkey? They could easily get one from Wimbledon; the gardener would bring one. But a donkey ride seemed a strange come-down after an elephant ride, and an idea had suddenly struck Sister Agatha.

  “Sister Jerome doesn’t mean a real elephant, I suppose. We might easily make a very fine elephant indeed by piling the long table from the library with cushions, stuffing it as nearly as possible into the shape of an elephant.”

  “And the making of the elephant would be such a lark!” cried Sister Jerome.

  Mother Hilda raised no objection, and the Prioress and Evelyn walked aside, saying:

  “Well, it is better they should be making elephants than dreaming of counterparts.”

  XXXIV

  THE CREATION OF the beast was accomplished in the novitiate, no one being allowed to see it except the Prioress. The great difficulty was to find beads large enough for the eyes, and it threatened to frustrate the making of their beast. But the latest postulant suggested that perhaps the buttons off her jacket would do, they were just the thing,’ and the legs of the beast were most natural and life-like; it had even a tail.

  As no one out of the novitiate had seen this very fine beast, the convent was on tip-toe with excitement, and when, at the conclusion of dinner, the elephant was wheeled into the refectory, every one clapped her hands, and there were screams of delight. Then the saddle was brought in and attached by blue ribbons. Sister Bridget, who did not seem quite sure that the elephant was not alive, was lifted on it and held there; and was wheeled round the refectory in triumph, the novices screaming with delight, the professed, too. Only Evelyn stood silent and apart, sorry she could not mix with the others, sharing their pleasures. To stand watching them she felt to be unkind, so she went into the garden, and wandered to the sundial, whence she could see Richmond Park; and looking into the distance, hearing the childish gaiety of the nuns, she remembered Louise’s party at the Savoy Hotel years and years ago. The convent had ceased to have any meaning for her; so she must return, but not to the mummers, they, too, had faded out of her life. She did not know whither she was going, only that she must wander on… as soon as the Prioress died. The thought caused her to shudder, and, remembering that the old woman was alone in her room, she went up to ask her if she would care to come into the garden with her. The Prioress was too weak to leave her room, but she was glad to have Evelyn, and to listen to her telling o
f the great success of the elephant.

  “Of course, my dear, the recreations here must seem to you very childish. I wonder what your life will be when I’m gone?”

  “To-morrow you will be stronger, and will be able to come into the garden.”

  But the old nun never left her room again, and Evelyn’s last memory of her in the garden was when they had sat by the fish-pond, looking into the still water, reflecting sky and trees, with a great carp moving mysteriously through a dim world of water-weed and flower. There were many other memories of the Prioress which lingered through many years, memories of an old woman lying back in her chair, frail and white, slipping quite consciously out of life into death. Every day she seemed to grow a trifle smaller, till there was hardly anything left of her. It was terrible to be with her, so conscious was she that death was approaching, that she and death were drawing nearer and nearer, and to hear her say, “Four planks are the only habit I want now.” Another time, looking into Evelyn’s eyes, she said, “It is strange that I should be so old and you so young.”