But time was passing: Anna looked at her watch and saw that it was nearly noon.
“Father Ignatius said that he would come for me in the morning,” she began saying to herself.
She could sit still no longer and, taking Annette by the hand, she began walking her about the garden. She started telling her the names of flowers to distract them both. It was while she was bending over one of the beds that she heard the sound of voices and wheels grating into the gravel. She turned hurriedly. But it was only a handcart with two large wicker baskets that a porter from the station was pushing. One of the kitchen maids was walking beside it.
She went back towards the house and, as she did so, she saw the shutters of another of the rooms—it was the nursery this time —being drawn together. She looked away and found tears smarting in her eyes again.
Then around the curve of the approach there came into view a low two-wheeled cart. An arched tarpaulin, grey like the bodywork, was stretched across it, and a tired solitary horse was between the shafts. In front was sitting an old nun in the grey habit of her order and riding beside her was the black figure of Father Ignatius.
As Anna watched, her heart faltered. But bending down she took hold of Annette’s hand, and fondled it.
“Come, Annette,” she said. “Father Ignatius is here. He is taking us somewhere.”
The cart had stopped, and together they went towards it.
The road in front of them dropped away sharply. They were over the crest of the hill now and the horse spread his feet carefully as he descended. They had come a long way—some five or six miles at least—and Annette was now asleep in Anna’s arms. She lay there placid and at rest, and the lurching of the cart seemed only to rock her into deeper and still deeper sleep.
It was hot, stiflingly hot, under the tarpaulin and Anna brushed the child’s hair back from her forehead. But she was too deep in sleep even to stir.
Father Ignatius turned in his seat.
“It’s not far now,” he said. “It’s there, round the bend.”
The horse had stopped at last and, as it stopped, Annette woke up. She was stiff and uncomfortable, and she began to cry. In front of them was a pair of high gates set blankly in the face of a long wall. The gates were of a dull grey like the cart that had brought her to them.
And, as Anna watched, they began to open from within.
Book VII. The Convent
Chapter XXXVI
I
Inside the convent it was quiet, always quiet; the waters of the world came swirling up to those stone walls and broke there. With the closing of the gate, the convent became an island again, something remote and out of the track of life.
The old nun who had brought them there had been stupid and slow-moving, a peasant woman. But the nun who came down into the hall to greet them was bright-eyed and friendly. She took Annette in her arms and told her that she would have a lot of other little girls to play with now, that she would be one of a big family. And, when the time came for them to be separated, the nun understood. She withdrew and left them alone together, only whispering something to Anna about not saying anything that might upset the child. And, after Anna had kissed Annette—first lightly, undemon stratively as she had promised; then passionately, so passionately that Annette had resisted—the nun returned. She was very kindly. She told Annette that there was a farm on the convent, and said that she would show her the animals if she came now. It was late, she explained: very soon they would all be in bed. And Annette went eagerly, without a further thought for her mother it seemed. It was obvious that she liked the nun, trusted her. And Anna stood at the door of the reception room watching them go down the long corridor, the nun’s arm about the child; the bright dress against the stiff grey one.
She was crying now, she could not help it. She went back and closed the door. It was a heavy, massive door that grated a little on its hinges. It was like a prison-door, only she had closed it upon herself. She sat there, listening, straining her ears to catch something. But there was only silence. It closed in, wrapping and enveloping her. She was all alone now.
She had been sitting there for ten, twenty, thirty minutes—she had lost the exact track of time—when she heard footsteps. One of the convent maids entered. She was a simple, untrained girl and she stood there awkwardly. The Mother Superior was ready now to see Anna, she said; and she stood back for her to pass, holding the door open with her foot. She could not take her eyes off the fine dress that Anna was wearing and kept turning her head to stare at it.
The Reverend Mother’s room was on the far side of the building. To reach it they had to walk through other long corridors of scrubbed wood and un-coloured plaster like the first one. And, as she walked, Anna herself became a small child again, walking the corridors of the convent in which she had been brought up. The colour, the atmosphere, even the smell, were all the same. Then they reached the room, and the maid knocked. Anna’s heart was pounding a little as she entered.
As she stood in the doorway, she was aware of two things: the coldness of the room—the peculiar, physical chill of stone—and the face of the woman sitting opposite to her. It was a remote, mask like face, so pale that the blood seemed to have been drawn away from it, leaving behind only the outline and the shadows as a black and white artist might have drawn it. The eyes, too, were pale and almost colourless like the cheeks.
Anna stood there, waiting.
Then from the wall by the fireplace a dark figure came forward. It was Father Ignatius. And, as Anna turned towards him, she noticed again how green and shabby his habit was, how unkempt he looked. But he reached out his hand and beckoned her forward.
“Reverend Mother,” he said. “This is our sister. This is Anna Karlin.”
The woman at the table did not speak immediately. Anna looked towards her and noticed how the pale eyes were studying her. They did not move or flicker, and the mind behind them seemed very far away.
“Sit down,”she said.
Her voice was soft and hollow-sounding; even the least inflexion seemed to have been removed from it. It was simply a gentle, understanding voice as colourless and unperturbed as the eyes, the face.
“So you are coming to join us here,” she said.
“If you will have me, Reverend Mother,” Anna answered.
As she spoke, she was surprised at her own meekness, her humility. But the woman in front of her did not seem surprised; she evidently did not question her own authority for a single moment.
“I have told Father Ignatius that we are happy that you have come to us,” she answered. “You and your child are both welcome so long as you will stop with us.”
She paused.
“You understand that we are a very poor order,” she added.
Anna glanced for a moment towards Father Ignatius.
“Did the Father not tell you that I have no money now?” she asked.
But the Mother Superior was continuing, almost as though she were unaware that Anna had spoken.
“We work to support ourselves. And we spend the charity we collect on others. We cannot afford to have any idle sisters here.”
“I am ready to work,” Anna told her.
The Mother Superior paused and placed the tips of her long fingers together.
“There is the garden,” she said. “We grow our own vegetables. And helpers are always needed in the infirmary. Then there is the laundry—but the work there would probably be too heavy for you at present. The sewing would be easier; and there is so much of it to be done. We will find plenty to keep your hands occupied.”
The voice had not been raised once while she was speaking. There was neither emphasis nor inflexion in it. It was apparent that she had said these things a thousand times before.
Anna moved a little in her chair.
“I am very grateful, Mother,” she said.
“Then we shall be happy together,” the Reverend Mother answered.
Anna leaned forward anxiously.
The Mother Superior continued to regard her.
“Your child will be well looked after,” she said. “She will be with other children, and we must not disturb her too much. At first it will all seem very strange to her: she is too young to understand. If you were to see her now, it would only upset her. And the good of the child must be our first thought always.”
She paused.
“We have told her that you have gone away for a little while,” she said. “Then in a week or two’s time, perhaps three weeks, it may be possible to see her without harm. We must be guided by the Sister who is in charge there. She will tell us when you can see Annette.”
“But I must see Annette,” Anna began. “I can’t live without her.”
The Mother Superior bowed her head a little.
“We do not admit personal desires here,” she said. “Not when they so often interfere with the happiness of others. But you shall see her as soon as it is right. And when the time comes you will find that three weeks has not been long. To the child it will be as nothing at all. It will seem only yesterday that she last saw you.”
She rose from the table and came forward.
“You must be tired,” she said. “You had better rest: we rise early in the morning here. Your bedroom is all ready for you. One of our sisters will show you there. Your boxes have been left in the store-room, but that will not matter as you will not be wanting them: we have no possessions of our own. We will provide you with everything that you require.”
She went over towards the door.
“I will leave you now with Father Ignatius,” she said. “He may wish to give you some advice before he leaves. It is a long journey. You must try not to detain him.”
Father Ignatius remained with his eyes fixed upon the door that had just been closed upon them. Then he came over to Anna and placed his hand upon her arm again.
“You must not misjudge the Reverend Mother,” he said. “She is the very soul of gentleness. It is only in her manner that she is so cold. At this very moment, she has gone over to the children’s wing to satisfy herself that your little Annette is well looked after. She told me that she had arranged for her to be given a rag-doll that one of the bigger girls has made.”
The bedroom to which the nun led her was the smallest that Anna had ever seen, smaller even than the prison cell in Paris. A bed, the width of two planks, ran along one wall; and in the corner beneath the window a triangular shelf had been fixed with a basin and ewer on it. That shelf was both wash-stand and dressing-table—a dressing table without a mirror. The window itself was too high to be looked out of: it was simply a small square of sky set almost flush with the ceiling. There were bars across it.
Beside the bed was a space just large enough for anyone to approach the wash basin; and behind the door there was a curtain drawn for intimacies. Apart from this, there was nothing; there was not even a chair. The flooring was of bare boards; and the walls were naked except for a hook for clothes and a large metal crucifix.
It was one of fourteen such rooms on that side of the narrow passage; and, on the other side, there were fourteen more. At the far end of the passage was a further room of the same size but with stone flooring. There was a large hip bath in it. The jugs of water had to be carried up the staircase from the floor below; and the slops carried down again.
The nun who had brought Anna there had gone away again. And, with the dwindling sound of her footsteps down the long corridor, the silence of the convent began gathering in again. There was nothing now but the emptiness that lay between these four close walls, the cold silent emptiness. Anna stood there and looked towards the bed. There was a bundle of grey clothes on it: they were old but freshly washed. The nun had told her that she was to change into them.
It was as she stripped off the clothes that she thought of Annette.
“They’ll be taking her pretty clothes off,” she told herself. “They won’t let her wear anything pretty here. She’ll be so sad, so miserable. She needs me. She’s not like other children. They won’t understand her. They’ll be cruel to her without knowing it.”
She began crying and threw herself upon the bed. The bolster was a hard, narrow ridge on which her head half rested. Her legs slid from the hard palliasse and her knees reached the floor. She stayed like that, still crying.
Then the nun who had brought her there returned. She waited for a moment outside the door. Through the thin panel she could hear a faint sound that she recognised as sobbing. She paused. But she had gained a lifetime’s experience in these matters, and knew that the kindest thing at such moments was to be businesslike and unconcerned. She opened the door and entered.
“It is time to come down now,” she said. “You had better bathe your eyes in that basin and comb back your hair.
She stood over Anna as she rose, and her hands went out to straighten the coverlet that was now crumpled and disordered. But she stopped herself: her duty was not to help, it was to instruct.
“And you must put the bed to rights,” she said. “The beds are not meant to be lain on except at night. To-morrow morning I will come round to see if you have made it properly. The mattresses have to be turned every day.
II
The sewing school to which Anna was attached was under the charge of Sister Ursula. She was a small, robust woman of fifty without manners, without education, without dignity, but with reserves of fractious energy that no work could exhaust. Her energy, indeed, seemed to ricochet between the four walls of the convent, so that she was forever to be found in unexpected places, grumbling at the old gardener for not having pulled a ripe peach, scolding one of the maids for having left a hidden pool of dust in a dark corner, complaining that the piano that accompanied the children’s singing needed re-tuning.
In her own sphere she was ruthless and efficient; a terror. She sat on a little platform at the end of a long room, with the ranks of sewing women stretched out beneath her. And she had each garment brought up to her before she would let it go. It was on this little platform that she ripped bad seams from top to bottom with a pair of scissors that she carried at her waist, thrust her thumb through the fresh darns on old socks; sent back buttonholes for re-making. If she found herself without a garment actually in her hands she would begin running up and down the aisles, reproving here, speeding up there, interfering everywhere. And through the whole of the sessions she kept up a constant chatter of remarks and comments and observations and clickings of the tongue. She was like a single magpie in a silent forest.
She bent over Anna’s shoulder and peered at the work that she was doing. For a moment she could think of nothing to say.
“Don’t make the stitches too small,” she said at last. “It all takes time and it’s only an old gardening skirt that you’re mending.”
When she had gone the nun next to Anna—she was in the full habit of the Order—bent over to her.
“Take no notice of her,” she said in a low pleasant voice. “Sew those beautiful little stitches that you were sewing and please God someone may be grateful for them. She’ll kill herself with all her running about. She finds no peace in this world.”
But even this had not gone unobserved. There was a moment’s silence and then the little trigger bell on Sister Ursula’s desk was struck sharply.
“This is not the time for talking,” she said. “We have our work to do. You can talk your heads off during conversation time outside.”
The nun beside Anna smiled and resumed her task: she was stitching a new seat into the trousers of a pair of old blue overalls.
Conversation time had come round. The nuns had gathered together in the closed inner courtyard and were walking up and down in pairs. Only the old ones were seated. There were one or two of the very ancient, mere husks who had been wheeled out of the infirmary to get a little sun. They had been so long out of the world, these old ones, that they had somehow
lost all resemblance to it; they were like idols. And as Anna watched this slowly moving crowd of grey, coifed figures that grew every minute as others emerged from the surrounding cloisters she began to realise the dimensions of this strange sexless kingdom over which the Mother Superior reigned undisputed. The convent where Anna had been brought up as a girl was small: there had been not more than fifty of them there. But this was different: this was a barracks. You could live here for a month and meet fresh faces every day.
On the far side of the courtyard a nun was standing alone. When she saw Anna she came forward. It was the nun who had spoken to her in the sewing-room.
“I thought we might walk together,” she said. “My name’s Sister Veronica.”
There was a friendliness about her that was warming: it was like coming suddenly upon a human being in a desert. She took her place beside her; and, as they walked, their shoulders touched for a moment.
“Are you entering the Order?” the nun asked.
Anna shook her head. “I am only a helper,” she said. “I am not in the Order at all. My child is in the school over there.”
She pointed vaguely towards the building that stood alone on the far side of the kitchen garden. It was enclosed within its own high walls; a convent inside a convent.
The nun gave a little sigh.
“It must be terrible,” she said. “But be patient.” She dropped her voice. “To-morrow if you like,” she said. “I’ll show you where you can watch the children playing. Then you won’t feel so much cut off.”
The bell rang—it was Sister Ursula who was ringing it—and the time for afternoon talking was over. The crowd broke up and began to move off to their various stations.
Inside the Chapel there was a small group of nuns who had not emerged at all. The Reverend Mother was among them. To-day was the anniversary of their saint and they were praying.
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