thoughts, and all my freshly perceived truths. So when Tom Moore long
ago sang “There’s nothing half so sweet in life as love’s young dream,”
he merely expressed my present opinion. But one only fully realises the
inestimable beauty and value of youth when one’s hair is getting thin
on the top, one’s ruddy-brown beard is beginning to melt into grey,
and one’s limbs do not move as actively as of yore. It is middle-age,
not old-age, that really laments over lost youth. Old age has almost
forgotten its charm, and only wants peace, quiet, and comfort; but
middle age is still active enough to want to be younger. It is a
beautiful thing to be young, and have all our responsibilities in
embryo, with all the world before us, fair and full of hope, promise,
and possibility. I think there is no more engaging sight than a pretty
girl at her first ball, or a gallant youth in uniform for the first
time. They are ready to conquer the world, and perhaps after all they
only make a conquest of each other, but they are just as happy.
When I get into one of those melancholy moods to which lonely bachelors
are occasionally liable, nothing so effectually restores me to my
usual equanimity as a verbal rally with Mabel Flirtington. She is of
that essentially British type of young lady that may be classified
as the “awfully jolly” girl. I do not believe you would find a Mabel
Flirtington of any other country in the world. She is indigenous to the
British Isles, and the British Isles can boast no richer product than
the “awfully jolly” girl.
Mabel Flirtington is an _ingénue_ of the most _fin-de-siècle_ order,
one with a will of her own and a brain that is wide awake. Indeed, she
is a natural product of the time that makes for individualism in both
sexes. She is bored or amused with equal discrimination, and selects
her own entertainment and occupation accordingly, just as she selects
her own friends. She has a keen sense of humour and a power of sarcasm,
and, as she is always on the alert for any fun, and ever ready to
dare anything requiring pluck and strength, she is the admired of
all youthful admirers. There is not an honest-hearted, clean-minded
young man of Mabel’s acquaintance, or a girl that is worthy of a man’s
respect, who will not without hesitation describe her as an “awfully
jolly” girl, by which is meant all that is frank, and brave, and
comradelike. She is a girl to command instant respect and admiration
from all those capable of understanding her; but to the meaner-minded
she will present no favourable view, for she will tread on their mental
corns, so to speak. Her self-reliance will to them appear mere conceit,
her ready repartee will sound like impertinence, and her fearlessness
seem only swagger.
[Illustration]
For myself, I love to see Mabel among a number of young folk, to hear
her asserting the profound opinions of eighteen, and to watch how
her very attitude of independence lends persuasion to her illogical
utterances. I enjoy her ingenuous way of playing the despot, and it is
delightful to see how thoroughly she recognises her power, and how she
revels in its exercise. Last year was her initial “season,” and yet,
to see her at her first ball, to witness the experienced skill with
which she played off her partners against each other, amusing herself
by lighting little sparks of jealousy, and then discreetly fanning
them into tiny flames sufficient to leave burning embers for the next
occasion, one might have imagined she had been going to balls for years
past, and had served a long apprenticeship in flirtation. Mabel adores
dancing with all the enthusiasm of eighteen, but she is nothing if not
candid, and she told one partner bluntly that she would rather sit down
as he could not dance, and then she signalled to me, as an old friend,
to go and rescue her. Mabel was certainly the most self-possessed
_débutante_ I ever saw—the end-of-the-century _ingénue_ is never shy,
mark you—and she made more harmless heart-havoc in a single evening
than her good Aunt Gertrude had made in a lifetime.
The position of father confessor to an erratic young lady like Mabel
is not a very difficult one, for her confessions are very innocent,
although she sometimes thinks she is making terrible avowals, but they
are at least exceedingly amusing. She flirts for pure fun and sport,
there is no question of heart in it. Her heart she keeps for something
more serious, though she does not know that—she is not yet awake to it,
and I doubt if she thinks at all seriously of the possibilities of love
and marriage. Certainly at the present time she has no desire to be
married, although I know one or two goodly youths who entertain hopes
of her. Not that she gives them any encouragement; on the contrary,
she delights to tantalise them, and which of them, if any, will be the
successful rival I scarcely think she quite knows herself, though one
may guess. However, at present she only regards the tender passion
from the point of view of entertainment, and as accessory to the more
serious pursuits of riding, boating, tennis or dancing. These are the
business of her life, and she will tire herself utterly in pursuing
them. Flirting is merely a relaxation.
To see Mabel at her best, you must be with her up the river. You
must see the dexterous manner in which she handles her canoe, or the
graceful skill with which she propels her punt. An artist who should
make his happy sketching-ground that particular part of the Thames
where Mabel spends the summer months, and should persuade her to submit
to being frequently sketched, might bring away a veritable wealth of
pictorial material. He would have to be up very early in the morning
to see her, in her dainty red bathing costume, take her matutinal dive
from the landing stage opposite the cottage where she stays—though he
had better not let her know he is within sight, for her swimming is the
admiration of only very privileged connoisseurs.
Then he should see her paddling her canoe up stream, her red shirt and
the crimson cushions making a brilliant note of colour against the dark
green of the foliage on the banks. If he watch till she turns round
the bend near the lock, he will see some canoeing of no amateurish
kind, for those rapids make heavy demands on the pluck and skill of the
fair canoeist. That is the place to sketch her, for it is a ready-made
picture. Then let him see her, later in the morning, mounting her horse
for a canter across country, with so sure a seat and such a command
of the animal, one would not be surprised to see her flying over any
five-barred gate. What a look of pride is on the face of the young
cavalry officer who rides by her side; for not another fellow in the
regiment ever rode out with a finer horsewoman, or a prettier girl to
boot.
Then, again, what a picture she makes, as, flushed with her ride,
she leaps from her saddle, and holding her habit with one hand, she
strides up the garden walk, with her dogs bounding by her side and
jumping for her caresses, for she loves animals as they love her. Could
any painter wish for a more perfect type of pure, healthy girlhood?
Perhaps, though, he will see more opportunities for his pencil when,
clad in a loose-fitting silk shirt of old rose colour, and a white
alpaca skirt, she is displaying all the supple grace of her figure on
the tennis lawn. How active she is, how skilful and confident her play,
how her face glows with pleasure and excitement, and with what cheery
banter she keeps up the spirit of the game. While she is playing her
personality dominates the lawn, for every bit of her vitality goes into
what she is doing at the moment; while she works physically at the
play, her merry little mind is finding vent in a quip to this player, a
bit of playful sarcasm to another, or a repartee to some comment from
the onlookers. No wonder that after tennis she may be seen lolling in a
hammock, under shady trees, fast asleep. And how lovely she looks! Our
friend the artist should come upon her there, and make a study for a
Sleeping Beauty, for painter’s fancy has never yet done justice to the
subject, and never will, until he paints the beautiful princess as a
fair English girl, asleep in a hammock in a shady garden by the silver
Thames.
But he must make haste with his sketch, for the sun is going down,
and, as the sweet, grey evening comes on apace, Mabel awakes refreshed
from her half-hour’s nap, makes her way down to the water, and
springs into her punt. The young soldier lounges on the cushions,
and she, pricking the bed of the river with the long bamboo, sends
the flat-bottomed craft through the water with splendid speed, while
her grace and strength suggest some Greek athlete of old rather than
a modern English girl. Her figure, with the long pole in her hands,
stands out clear against the sky, which is brightest in that hour
“between the moondawn and the sundown,” when the spirit of romance is
beginning to flit about, whispering its secrets to those hearts that
are willing to hear. And who knows whether Mabel’s heart hears or not?
She is dreamily silent, and the idle youth in the punt has been bluntly
told not to talk, for he could not interpret for her the beautiful
mysteries of this hour, “when the twilight hangs half starless.” She
is not sentimental, and the romance of her life is as yet the romance
of comedy; but there are moments, even for an “awfully jolly girl” like
Mabel, when the simple eloquence of Nature is all-sufficient, and any
ordinary talk is an intrusion.
Now Mabel takes her punt up a picturesque bit of backwater, where the
trees stretch their branches across from bank to bank and clasp each
other, and the water-rats are boldly sportive, and here she stops and
listens to the many-voiced silence, forgetful of her companion. But
the spell of the hour and the river is upon him, and in his boyish
blundering way he blurts out his love and asks Mabel to marry him—which
is just the last thing he should have done under the circumstances,
if he wanted to remain “chums” with her. As it is, he puts her out of
humour, and she makes for home as speedily as possible. Then these two
do not speak all the evening; she devotes herself to somebody else,
and he is very wretched. Next day she does not ride with him, nor does
she take him out in her punt. At last he has to beg her forgiveness,
which she grants on condition that he never talks “nonsense” again. But
they have not been quite on the same frank terms since, and I hardly
think they ever will be again unless he remains constant for a little
while—say two or three years, perhaps—and bides his time to ask her
again.
There is a sweet and tender strain of womanliness in Mabel’s nature,
and when, as her amateur father confessor, I questioned her about her
obvious difference with the young soldier, and she told me the facts,
I fancied I recognised a tone of pity not unmixed with pleasure,
which augured well for the boy’s chances. She is a wilful, erratic,
delightful girl now; and I feel sure she will make a splendid woman.
Cares and sorrows will overtake her soon enough, and force upon her
the serious side of life, and her womanhood will not fail to rise to
the occasion. In the meanwhile, let her continue to regard the world
as a playground, where all is sweetness and light and pleasure. Let
her retain her illusions as long as possible, and enjoy the delights
of girlhood. Let her, in fact, extract all possible pleasure from any
sport, any amusement. It will all react beneficially on her nature,
and, when she awakens to the responsibilities of life, she will
bear them all the more cheerfully that her youth has been happy and
uncrossed and “awfully jolly.”
_THE NUN_
[Illustration]
Strange as it may sound, some of the happiest hours I have ever
known have been spent within the precincts of a convent, while of
the friendships which have been a joy in my life, none has made me
prouder than that of Sister Annunciata. It may appear curious for a
man-of-the-world to count a nun among his friends, but no one who has
not been privileged to enjoy it, can understand the pure solace of
conversing familiarly with a woman who, having renounced the world for
what she deems a higher purpose of life, lives entirely apart from
our every-day existence, and has no intercourse with it save through
the ingenuous medium of young girls’ gossip. For Sister Annunciata
belongs to one of the educational orders of sisterhood, and, though
she has taken solemn vows for life, and may never go beyond the
boundaries of the convent grounds, or again come in contact with the
passions and ambitions inseparable from the struggle for life, she
yet has a fruitful field of affection among the convent pupils, and
thus she keeps her human sympathies in constant activity. Moreover,
Sister Annunciata is the favourite of the convent, the beloved of all
the girls, and though this naturally leads to certain jealousies,
this very human trait of human nature makes an effective contrast
with the general placidity of the place. The perfect faith in Divine
grace, which is the ruling spirit of the convent, appears beautifully
wonderful to one who moves amid the scepticism of the age, but how much
more beautiful is it in conjunction with the humanity of these girls,
their jealous love for their favourite nun, her impossible efforts not
to show preference, and the striving of the other nuns to be equally
loved? Though they have given up the large world, they have still
their own little one. The beautiful natural craving for affection will
not be renounced.
It was Sister Annunciata’s supremacy in the regard of her pupils that
procured me her friendship, for, being on a visit with some friends in
the neighbourhood of the convent, the young daughters of the house were
eager to take me to see their “dear Sister Annunciata.” They were never
tired of talking of her, and of the many virtues which endeared her to
them, and they would not rest until I knew her too.
The idea of visiting a convent, and talking to a real live nun, was
peculiarly fascinating to me, for my notions of convent life were vague
and mysterious, and I regarded all nuns as uncanny creatures, living
dismal lives in chilly cloisters. That they had renounced the world was
sufficient, in my eyes, to invest them with a kind of unearthliness.
Therefore, I approached the convent with a weird curiosity which I
cannot describe.
The convent stands amid beautiful spacious grounds, composed of lovely
gardens, groves, and grottoes, all picturesque and peaceful, with
splendid views of sea and mountain around. As we entered the gates,
and walked up the broad path leading to the grey stone building, the
calm influence of the place began to work its spell upon me, and, as
I saw here and there among the trees the black figures of the nuns,
walking singly or in couples, suggestions of mediæval romance flitted
across my mind. It was vacation time, all the pupils, save one or two,
who were orphans, had gone to their homes, and the nuns were enjoying
their hours of relaxation in the sunshine. There seemed to be a quiet
happiness about the place, which quite upset my preconceived notions
about nunneries.
The parlour in which we awaited the coming of Sister Annunciata,
was severely simple in its furniture and adornment. But as soon as
the Sister entered, I forgot the plainness of the room. I might
have been sitting on the most luxurious couch, instead of a stiff
horsehair chair, for all it mattered. She seemed to exhale a sweet
cheerfulness, and the room was filled with a personality and a life
that were entirely new to me. She greeted my girl-companions with warm
affection, and joined in their girlish jokes, while she talked to me
with an absolute frankness and simplicity I had never met before. She
led us out into the grounds, and her merry laughter sounded strangely
incongruous with her sombre garb, but as we walked along, I noticed
that all the other nuns seemed anxious to show that they were quite
happy. And, verily, they seemed so, as they walked among the flowers,
or plucked the fruit, or read their books in shady spots, or basked in
the sunshine, and talked or meditated. One of them, a good-natured,
roundfaced nun, who had been gossiping gaily with my young friends, but
had for a long time kept shyly aloof from me, suddenly came up to me
and told me that they were all as happy as the days were long.
And it was a place to be happy in, I thought, as I stood in a beautiful
grove, where the sunlight peeped through the trees and patched the
grass with silver, near to a little sloping eminence whereon rested
the chapel, in which the dead Sisters sleep eternally, while beyond
some yellow cornfields reached away to the grey walls that marked the
convent boundaries, and the further hazy blue sea appeared to carry the
picture away into dreamland.
And here, I reflected, these women live away from the world we
know, and they find happiness without a struggle, without—but Sister
Annunciata is standing by me, and perhaps at this moment she is
thinking of the old days before she gave up her life to religion. Yes,
I have been talking to her of the outer world, and have named one that
she knew long ago as a youth, and I tell her he is now a famous man.
And the mention of her boy-playmate awakens old memories, and she tells
me of her girlhood.
We are always apt—we worldly folk—to think that no woman becomes a nun,
unless she has had some bitter disappointment in love, or seeks to do
penance for wordly error, or to escape from sorrow or suffering. Sister
Annunciata sought the religious life for none of these reasons. She
had enjoyed a happy, careless girlhood, the world had offered her no
trials; the pleasures of youth were open to her, as were the joys of
happy womanhood. But her sensibilities were not yet awakened, she had
never known what love meant, though she had been sought in marriage. So
the ordinary social gaieties took but slight hold upon her, and life
meant nothing to her but home affections and a passion for the arts.
But one day she saw a strong man suddenly smitten with paralysis, and
she realised all at once the littleness of life, and how it should
be used, such as it is, as a preparation for a greater. Then all her
religious tendencies developed, and she bethought her how to make her
life most useful while she was striving for Divine grace. To devote
herself entirely to prayer, as many sisterhoods do, seemed to her
selfish, and so, while she elected to renounce the world for the sake
of her own soul, she felt that she could use such gifts and knowledge
as she possessed for the instruction of the youth of her own sex, who
sought the educational influence of the convent. Therefore, with the
enthusiasm of a lofty purpose she entered upon her novitiate, and then,
after two years, as no one questioned her vocation for the religious
life, she took the final irrevocable vows that severed her from home
and from the world. Her life as a novice had been made smooth for her,
and all had endeavoured to show her the alluring side of the religious
life, and strengthen her in the sense of duty that impelled her to
adopt it. But no one warned her of the arduous life of self-suppression
that was before her: no one told her that she was actually more fitted
for the world than the cloister; that the sensibilities still dormant
in her might some day awaken, when too late to be warmed with the human
sympathy that they needed, and then be frozen in her heart, after much
pain. So when I knew Sister Annunciata she had lived “unspotted from
the world” some ten years or so, and had brought herself seemingly into
a spirit of sublime submissiveness.
But had she not suffered terrible affliction of the soul during those
years? For her spirit was proud and sensitive, and in small and narrow
communities there are small and narrow jealousies, and authority is
sometimes tyrannical. But Sister Annunciata is a woman of iron will
and indomitable self-command, while she makes the light of faith the
only beacon of her life. Therefore she has schooled herself to accept
every cross with equanimity, while the natural cheerfulness of her
disposition enables her to seem content and happy, as well as to
inspire happiness in others.
Many were the talks I had with Sister Annunciata as we wandered over
the grassy slopes and through the groves and gardens of the convent;
and though the unusual circumstances may have appealed strongly to my
imagination, certainly converse with woman never filled me with deeper
and keener interest. Her vivacious and sympathetic personality and her
renunciation of the world seemed so utterly at variance. She would
evince the liveliest interest in worldly affairs, and encourage me to
tell her of the men and women who are doing the work of the world, of
my own personal friends, of my own feelings, of my mundane interests,
and she would discuss all these with me, on sufferance as it were, and
then remind herself every now and then, by religious allusions, that
her life was utterly apart from mine.
She would love me to talk of poetry and romance, and, somehow or
other, we would generally drift thence to religious mysticisms and the
problems of life and death, which she would always solve with the logic
of faith, and beg me not to try and prove her wrong. Talking to her was
not like talking to other women; she could draw my soul out as by some
enchantment, and the poetry of the place and its surroundings seemed
to weave a spell about me. In her presence my ordinary life seemed so
far away, and I suppose she was quite a woman, but to me she appeared
always a kind of dream-woman. I never could quite associate her with
her surroundings, and yet I could never imagine her anywhere else. It
was so incongruous to think of her bright mind being shut away from
society, yet she seemed to belong to that grey stone building and the
wooded slopes with the sea beyond.
But Sister Annunciata is so different from all the other nuns. Her
mental capacity is so much greater that she is not bound by the narrow
prejudices of the others, which accounts for her greater sway over the
minds and affections of her pupils. But then, perhaps, her Sisters are
happier than she is, for all her cheerfulness and her laughter; not
that she would ever own that she was not happy, though perhaps she
would allow you to use the term “content” in preference. Content she is
by reason of her will, and peace she has by reason of her faith and the
place; but happiness is not the result of volition, it is an expression
of the soul acted upon from without. But Sister Annunciata cannot
be happy so easily as the other Sisters, for her soul, being larger
and more active, requires more to make it happy; while the Reverend
Mother, who has been half a century “in religion,” is as happy as she
can imagine it possible to be, so long as she can pray to her heart’s
content, and tell her beads in the sunshine. She can conceive no one
reading any poetry but that which piously sings the praises of the
Saints, and would probably cast up her eyes in horror did she know that
Sister Annunciata had ever read Shelley.
“I don’t care to know what they do in the world,” said the old nun to
me, when I marvelled that she knew nothing of the worldly events of the
day, “we are much happier as we are.” And, after all, it is only habit
that makes us crave for news. If I lived far away from the busy hum of
men, amid such peace and beauty, I think I should soon grow accustomed
to eat my breakfast without the accompaniment of a morning paper. It is
possible to school oneself to anything, at least, so I have learnt from
my visits to that convent and my friendship with Sister Annunciata,
though doubtless a great deal of purposeless self-sacrifice is endured
for mistaken enthusiasm.