(_A Variation_)
“The dancer, my Mother, is very sad. She sits with her head on her
hands. She looks into the emptiness. It is frightful to watch. I have
tried to make her pray, my Mother, but the poor girl does not know
how; she has no belief. She refuses even to confess herself. She is
pagan--but quite pagan. What could one do for her, my Mother--to cheer
her a little during these hours? I have tried to make her tell me of
her life. She does not answer. She sits and looks always into the
emptiness. It does me harm in the heart to see her. Is there nothing
one can do to comfort her a little before she dies? To die so young--so
full of life; for her who has no faith! To be shot--so young, so
beautiful; but it is frightful, my Mother!”
The little elderly Sister raised her hands and crossed them on her
grey-clothed breast. Her eyes, brown and mild, looked up, questioning
the face before her, wax-pale under its coif and smooth grey hair.
Straight, thin, as it were bodiless, beneath her grey and white garb,
the Mother Superior stood pondering. The spy-woman in her charge, a
dancer with gipsy blood they said--or was it Moorish?--who had wormed
secrets from her French naval lover and sold them to the Germans in
Spain. At the trial they said there was no doubt. And they had brought
her to the convent saying: “Keep her for us till the fifteenth. She
will be better with you than in prison.” To be shot--a woman! It made
one shiver! And yet--it was war! It was for France!
And, looking down at the little elderly Sister, the Mother Superior
answered:
“One must see, my daughter. Take me to her cell.”
They went in gently. The dancer was sitting on her bed. There was no
colour in her skin save the saffron sprinkled into it by eastern blood.
The face was oval, the eyebrows slanted a little up; black hair formed
on her forehead a V reversed; her lips, sensuous but fine, showed a
gleam of teeth. Her arms were crossed as though compressing the fire
within her supple body. Her eyes, colour of Malaga wine, looked through
and beyond the whitened walls, through and beyond her visitors, like
the eyes of a caged leopard.
The Mother Superior spoke:
“What can we do for you, my daughter?”
The dancer shrugged.
“You suffer, my daughter. They tell me you do not pray. It is a pity.”
The dancer’s passing smile had the sweetness of something tasted, of a
rich tune, a long kiss; she shook her head.
“One would not say anything to trouble you, my daughter; one feels pity
for your suffering. One comprehends. Is there a book you would read;
some wine you would like; in a word, anything which could distract you
a little?”
The dancer clasped her hands behind her neck. The movement was
beautiful, sinuous--all her body beautiful. A faint colour came into
the Mother Superior’s waxen cheeks.
“Would you wish to dance for us, my daughter?”
On the dancer’s face the smile came again and did not pass.
“Willingly. It will give me pleasure, madame!”
“That is well! Your dresses shall be brought. This evening in the
refectory after the meal. If you wish music--one can place a piano.
Sister Mathilde is a good musician.”
“Music--some simple dances. Madame, could I smoke?”
“Certainly, my daughter. I will have cigarettes brought to you.”
The dancer stretched out her hand. Between her own thin hands the
Mother Superior felt its supple warmth. To-morrow it would be cold and
stiff!
“_Au revoir_! then, my daughter....”
“The dancer will dance for us!” This was the word. One waited,
expectant, as for a miracle. One placed the piano; procured music;
sat eating the evening meal--whispering. The strangeness of it! The
intrusion! The little gay ghosts of memories! Ah! the dramatic, the
marvellous event! Soon the meal was finished; the tables cleared,
removed; against the wall on the long benches sixty grey white-coifed
figures waited--in the centre the Mother Superior, at the piano Sister
Mathilde.
The little elderly Sister came first; then, down the long whitened
refectory, the dancer swaying slowly over the dark-oak floor. Every
head was turned--alone the Mother Superior sat motionless. If only it
did not put notions into some light heads!
The dancer wore a full skirt of black silk, she had silvery shoes and
stockings, round her waist was a broad tight network of gold, over
her bust tight silvery tissue, with black lace draped; her arms were
bare; a red flower was set to one side of her black hair; she held a
black and ivory fan. Her lips were just touched with red, her eyes just
touched with black; her powdered face was like a mask. She stood in
the very centre, with eyes cast down. Sister Mathilde began to play.
The dancer lifted her fan. In that dance of Spain she hardly moved
from where she stood, swaying, shivering, spinning, poised; but her
eyes darted from this face to that of the long row of faces, where so
many feelings were expressed--curiosity and doubt, pleasure, timidity,
horror, sympathy. Sister Mathilde ceased playing. A little murmur broke
along the line of nuns, and the dancer smiled. Sister Mathilde began
again to play. For a moment the dancer listened as if to catch the
rhythm of music strange to her; then her feet moved, her lips parted,
sweet and gay she was, like a butterfly, without a care; and on the
lips of the watching faces smiles came, and little murmurs of pleasure
escaped.
The Mother Superior sat without moving, her lips pressed together,
her fingers interlaced. Images from the past kept starting out, and
falling back, like figures from some curious old musical box. She was
remembering her lover killed in the Franco-Prussian war, her entrance
into religion all that time ago. This figure from the heathen world,
with the red flower in her black hair, the whitened face, the sweetened
eyes, stirred a yearning for her own gay pulses, before they had seemed
to die, and she brought them to the church to bury them.
The music ceased; began again. Now it was a Habañera, awakening
remembrance of those pulses after they were buried--secret, throbbing,
dark. The Mother Superior turned her face to left and right. Had she
been wise? So many light heads, so many young hearts! And yet how
not soothe the last dark hours of this poor heathen girl--the hours
so few! She was happy dancing. Yes, she was happy! What power! And
what abandonment! It was frightening. She was holding every eye--the
eyes even of Sister Louise--holding them as a snake holds a rabbit’s
eyes. The Mother Superior nearly smiled. That poor Sister Louise! And
then, just beyond that face of fascinated horror, she saw young Sister
Marie. How the child stared--what eyes, what lips! Sister Marie--so
young--just twenty--her lover killed in the war--but one year dead!
Sister Marie--prettiest in all the convent! Her hands--how tightly they
seemed pressed together on her lap! And--but, yes--it was at Sister
Marie that the dancer looked; at Sister Marie she was twirling and
writhing those supple limbs! For Sister Marie the strange sweet smile
came and went on those enticing lips. In dance after dance--like a bee
on a favourite flower--to Sister Marie the dancer seemed to cling. And
the Mother Superior thought: ‘Have I done a work of mercy, or--the
Devil’s?’
Close along the line of nuns the dancer swept; her eyes were glowing,
her face proud. On Sister Marie a look alighted, a touch with the fan,
a blown kiss, “_Gracias, Señoras! Adios!_”
And swaying, as she had come, she glided away over the dark floor; and
the little old Sister followed.
A sighing sound rose from the long row of nuns; and--yes--one sob!
“Go to your rooms, my daughters! Sister Marie!”
The young nun came forward; tears were in her eyes.
“Sister Marie, pray that the sins of that poor soul be forgiven. But,
yes, my child, it is sad. Go to your room, and pray!”
With what grace the child walked! She, too, had the limbs of beauty,
and the Mother Superior sighed....
Morning, cold and grey, a sprinkle of snow on the ground. They came for
the dancer during Mass. Later a sound of firing! With trembling lips
the Mother Superior prayed for the soul dancing before her God....
That evening they searched for Sister Marie, and could not find her.
After two days a letter came.
“Forgive me, my Mother. I have gone back to life.
“MARIE.”
Life out of death! The Mother Superior sat quite still. Figures from
the past were stealing out again; and the dancer’s face with the red
flower in her hair, the dark sweetened eyes, the lips, touched with a
flying finger, parted in a kiss!
1922.