"But of all sad words by tongue or pen,
The saddest are these--
`It might have been!'"
Whittier.
"I marvel if the sun is never weary!"
Thus spoke my sister Margaret [Note 1], as she stood gazing from the
window of the recreation-room, and Sister Roberga looked up and laughed.
"Nay, what next?" saith she. "Heard I ever such strange fancies as
thine? Thou wilt be marvelling next if the stars be never athirst."
"And if rain be the moon weeping," quoth Sister Philippa, who seemed as
much amused as Roberga.
"No, the moon weepeth not," said Margaret. "She is too cold to weep.
She is like Mother Ada."
"Eh dear, what fancies hast thou!" saith Sister Roberga. "Who but thou
would ever have thought of putting the moon and Mother Ada into one
stall!"
"What didst thou mean, Sister Margaret?" saith the quiet voice of Mother
Alianora, as she sat by the chimney corner.
Mother Alianora is our father's sister--Margaret's and mine; but I ought
not to think of it, since a recluse should have no kindred out of her
Order and the blessed saints. And there are three Sisters in the Priory
named Alianora: wherefore, to make diversity, the eldest professed is
called Alianora, and the second (that is myself) Annora, and the
youngest, only last year professed, Nora. We had likewise in this
convent an Aunt Joan, but she deceased over twenty years gone. Margaret
was professed in the Order when I was, but not at this house; and she
hath been transferred hither but a few weeks [Note 2], so that her mind
and heart are untravelled ground to me. She was a Sister at Watton: and
since I can but just remember her before our profession, it seems
marvellous strange that we should now come to know one another, after
nearly fifty years' cloistered life. There is yet another Sister named
Margaret, but being younger in profession we call her Sister Magota.
When Mother Alianora spoke, Margaret turned back from the window, as she
ought when addressed by a superior.
"I mean, Mother, that he never hath any change of work," she said.
"Every morrow he has to rise, and every night must he set: and always
the one in east and the other in west. I think he must be sore, sore
weary, for he hath been at it over five thousand years."
Sister Roberga and Sister Philippa laughed. Mother Alianora did not
laugh. A soft, rather sorrowful, sort of smile came on her aged face.
"Art thou so weary, my daughter, that the thought grew therefore?" saith
she.
Something came into Margaret's eyes for a moment, but it was out again,
almost before I could see it. I knew not what it was; Margaret's eyes
are yet a puzzle to me. They are very dark eyes, but they are different
in their look from all the other dark eyes in the house. Sister Olive
has eyes quite as dark; but they say nothing. Margaret's eyes talk so
much that she might do very well without her tongue. Not that I always
understand what they say; the language in which they speak is generally
a foreign one to me. I fancy Mother Alianora can read it better. I
listened for Margaret's reply.
"Dear Mother, is not weariness the lot of all humanity, and more
especially of women?"
"Mary love us!" cries Philippa. "What gibberish you talk, Sister
Margaret!"
"Sister Philippa will come here and ask Sister Margaret's forgiveness at
once," saith Mother Gaillarde, the sub-Prioress.
Sister Philippa banged down her battledore on the table, and marching
up, knelt before Margaret and asked forgiveness, making a face behind
her back as soon as she had turned.
"Sister Philippa will take no cheese at supper," added the sub-Prioress.
Sister Philippa pulled another face--a very ugly one; it reminded me
somewhat too much of the carved figure of the Devil with his mouth
gaping on the Prior's stall in our Abbey Church. That and Sister
Philippa's faces are the ugliest things I ever saw, except the Cellarer,
and he looks so good-tempered that one forgets his ugliness.
"Sister Philippa is not weary, as it should seem," saith Mother
Alianora, again with her quiet smile. "Otherwise, to speak thereof
should scarcely seem gibberish to her."
I spoke not, but I thought it was in no wise gibberish to me. For I
never had that vocation which alone should make nuns. Not God, but man,
forced this veil upon me; for, ah me! I was meant for another life.
And that other life, that should have been mine, I never cease to long
for and to mourn over.
Only six years old was I--for though my seventh birthday was near, it
was not past--when I was thrust into this house of religion. My
vocation and my will were never asked. We--Margaret and I--were in
Queen Isabel's way; and she plucked us and flung us over the hedge like
weeds that cumbered her garden. It was all by reason she hated our
father: but what he had done to make her thus hate him, that I never
knew. And I was an affianced bride when I was torn away from all that
should have made life glad, and prisoned here for ever more. How my
heart keeps whispering to me, "It might have been!" There is a woman
who comes for doles to the convent gate, and at times she hath with her
the loveliest little child I ever saw; and they smile on each other,
mother and child, and look so happy when they smile. Why was I cut off
thus from all that makes other women happy? Nobody belongs to me;
nobody loves me. The very thought of being loved, the very wish to be
so, is sin in _me_, who am a veiled nun. But why was it made sin? It
was not sin aforetime. _He_ might have loved me, he whom I never saw
after I was flung over the convent wall--he who was mine and not hers to
whom I suppose they will have wedded him. But I know nothing: I shall
never know. And they say it is sin to think of him. Every thing seems
to be sin; and loving people more especially. Mother Ada told me one
day that she saw in me an inclination to be too much drawn to Mother
Alianora, and warned me to mortify it, because she was my father's
sister, and therefore there was cause to fear it might be an indulgence
of the flesh. And now, these weeks past, my poor, dry, withered heart
seems to have a little faint pulsation in it, and goes out to Margaret--
my sister Margaret with the strange dark eyes, my own sister who is an
utter stranger to me. Must I crush the poor dry thing back, and hurt
all that is left to hurt of it? Oh, will no saint in Heaven tell me why
it is, that God, who loveth men, will not have monks and nuns to love
each other? The Lord Prior saith He is a jealous God, and demands that
we give all our love to Him. Yet I may love the blessed saints without
any derogation to Him--but I must not love mine own sister. It is very
perplexing. Do earthly fathers forbid their children to love one
another, lest they should not be loved themselves sufficiently? I
should have thought that love, like other things, increased by exercise,
and that loving my sister would rather help me to love God. But they
say not. I suppose they know.
Ah me, if I should find out at last that they mistook God's meaning!--
that I might have had His love and Margaret's too!--nay, even that I
might have had His love and that other, of which it is so wicked in me
to think, and yet something is in me that will keep ever thinking! O
holy and immaculate Virgin, O Saint Margaret, Saint Agnes, and all ye
blessed maidens that dwell in Heaven, have mercy on me, miserable
sinner! My soul is earth-bound, and I cannot rise. I am the bride of
Christ, and I cannot cease lamenting my lost earthly bridal.
But hath Christ a thousand brides? They say holy Church is His Bride,
and she is one. Then how can all the vestals in all the convents be
each of them His bride? I suppose I cannot understand as I ought to do.
Perhaps I should have understood better if that _might have been_ had
been--if I had not stood withering all these years, taught to crush down
this poor dried heart of mine. They will not let me have any thing to
love. When Mother Ada thought I was growing too fond of little
Erneburg, she took her away from me and gave her to Sister Roberga to
teach. Yet the child seemed to soften my heart and do it good.
"Are the holy Mother and the blessed saints not enough for thee?" she
said.
But the blessed saints do not look at me and smile, as Erneburg did.
She doth it even now, across the schoolroom--though I have never been
permitted to speak word to her since Mother Ada took her from me. And I
must smile back again,--ay, however many times I have to lick a cross on
the oratory floor for doing it. Why ought I not? Did not our Lord
Himself take the little children into His arms? I am sure He must have
smiled on them--they would have been frightened if He had not done so.
They say I have but a poor wit, and am fit to teach only babes.
"And not fit to teach them," saith Mother Ada--in a tone which I am sure
people would call cross and snappish if she were an extern--"for her
fancy all runs to playing with them, rather than teaching them any thing
worth knowing."
Ah, Mother Ada, but is not love worth knowing? or must they have that
only from their happy mothers, who not being holy women are permitted to
love, and not from a poor, crushed, hopeless heart like mine?
There is nothing in our life to look forward to. "Till death" is the
vow of the Sisterhood. And death seems a poor hope.
I know, of course, what Mother Ada would say: that I have no vocation,
and my heart is in the world and of the world. But God sent me to the
world: and man--or rather woman--thrust me against my will into this
Sisterhood.
"Not a bit better than Lot's wife!" says Mother Ada. "She was struck to
a pillar of salt for looking back, and so shalt thou be, Sister Annora,
with thy worldly fancies and carnal longings."
Well, if I were, I am not sure I should feel much different. Sometimes
I seem to myself to be hardening into stone, body and soul. Soul! ah,
that is the worst of it.
Now and then, in the dead of night, when I lie awake--and for an hour or
more after lauds, I can seldom sleep--one awful thought harrieth and
weareth me, at times almost to madness. I never knew till a year ago,
when I heard the Lord Prior speaking to Mother Gaillarde thereanent,
that holy Church held the contract of marriage for the true canonical
tie. And if it be thus, and we were never divorced--and I never heard
word thereof--what then? Am I his true wife--I, not she? Is he happy
with her? Who is she, and what is she? Doth she care for him, and make
him her first thought, and give all her heart to him, as I would have
done, if--
How the convent bell startled me! Miserable me! I am vowed to God, and
I am His for ever. But the vow that came first, if it were never
undone--_Mater purissima, Sancta Virgo virginum, ora pro me_!
Is there some tale, some sad, strange story, lying behind those dark
eyes, in that shut-up heart of my sister Margaret? Not like mine; she
was never betrothed. But her eyes seem to me to tell a story.
Margaret never speaks to me, unless I do it first: and I dare not,
except about some work, when Mother Gaillarde or Mother Ada is present.
Yet once or twice I have caught those dark eyes scanning my face, with a
wistful look. Maybe she too is trying to crush down her heart, as I
have done. But I cannot help thinking that the heart behind those eyes
will take a great deal of crushing.
Mother Alianora is so different from the two I named just now, I am sure
there is not a better nor holier woman in all the Order. But she is
always gentle and tender; never cold like Mother Ada, nor hard and
sarcastic like Mother Gaillarde. I am glad my Lady Prioress rules with
an easy hand--("sadly too slack!" saith Mother Gaillarde)--so that dear
Mother Alianora doth not get chidden for what is the best part of her.
I should not be afraid of speaking to Margaret if only she were present
of our superiors.
At recreation-time, this afternoon, Sister Amphyllis asked Mother
Alianora how long she had been professed.
"Forty-nine years," saith she, with her gentle smile.
I was surprised to hear it. She hath then been in the Order only five
years longer than I have.
"And how old were you, Mother?" saith Sister Amphyllis.
"Nineteen years," saith she.
"There must many an one have died since you came here, Mother?"
"Ay," quoth Mother Alianora, with a far-away look at the trees without.
"The oldest nun in all the Abbey, Sister Margery de Burgh, died the
month after I came hither. She remembered a Sister that was nearly an
hundred years old, and that had received the holy veil from the hand of
Saint Gilbert himself."
Sister Amphyllis crossed herself.
"Annora," saith Mother Alianora, "canst thou remember Mother Guendolen?"
What did I know about Mother Guendolen? Some faint, vague, misty
memories seemed to awake within me--an odd, incongruous mixture like a
dream--dark eyes like Margaret's, which told a tale, but this seemed a
tale of terror; and an enamelled cross, which had somewhat to do with a
battle and a queen.
"I scarcely know, Mother," said I. "Somewhat do I recall, yet what it
is I hardly know. Were her eyes dark, with an affrighted look in them?"
"They were dark," said Mother Alianora, "but the very peace of God was
in them. Ah, thou art mixing up two persons--herself and her cousin,
Mother Gladys. They were near of an age, and Mother Guendolen only
outlived Mother Gladys by one year: but they were full diverse manner of
women. Thou shouldst remember her, Annora. Thou wert a maiden of
fifteen when she died."
All at once she seemed to flash up before me.
"I do remember her, Mother, if it please you. She was tall, and had
very black hair, and dark flashing eyes, and she moved like a queen."
"I think of her," saith Mother Alianora, "rather as she was in her last
days, when those flashing eyes flashed no longer, and the queen was lost
in the saint."
"If it please you, Mother," I said, "had she not an enamelled cross that
she wore? I recollect something about it."
Mother Alianora smiled, somewhat amusedly.
"She had; and perchance thy memory runneth back to a battle over that
cross betwixt her and Sister Sayena, who laid plaint afore my Lady
Prioress that Mother Guendolen kept to herself an article of private
property, which should have gone into the treasury. It had been her
mother's, a marriage-gift from the Queen that then was. Well I remember
Mother Guendolen's words--`I sware to part from this cross alone with
life, and the Master granted me to keep it when I entered the Order.'
Then the fire died out of her eyes, and her voice fell low, and she
added--`ah, my sister! dost thou envy me Christ's cross?' Ay, she had
carried more of that cross than most. She came here about the age thou
didst, Annora--a little child of six years."
"Who was she in the world, Mother?" quoth Sister Nora.
I was surprised to see Mother Alianora glance round the room, as if to
see who was there, afore she answered. Nor did she answer for a moment.
"She was Sister Guendolen of Sempringham: let that satisfy thee. Maybe,
in the world above, she is that which she should have been in this
world, and was not."
And I could not but wonder if Mother Guendolen's life had held a _might
have been_ like mine.
I want to know what `carnal' and `worldly' mean. They are words which I
hear very often, and always with condemnation: but they seem to mean
quite different things, in the lips of different speakers. When Mother
Ada uses them, they mean having affection in one's heart for any thing,
or any person, that is not part of holy Church. When Mother Gaillarde
speaks them, they mean caring for any thing that she does not care for--
and that includes everything except power, and grandeur, and the Order
of Saint Gilbert. And when Mother Alianora says them, they fall softly
on the ear, as if they meant not love, nor happiness, nor any thing good
and innocent, but simply all that could grieve our Lord and hurt a soul
that loved Him. They are, with her, just the opposite of Jesus Christ.
Oh, if only our blessed Lord had been on earth now, and I might have
gone on pilgrimage to the place where He was! If I could have asked Him
all the questions that perplex me, and laid at His feet all the sorrows
that trouble me! For I do not think He would have commanded the saints
to chase me away because I maybe have poorer wits than other women,--He
who let the mothers bring the babes to Him: I fancy He would have been
patient and gentle, even with me. I scarce think He would have treated
sorrow--even wrong or mistaken sorrow, if only it were real--as some do,
with cold looks, and hard words, and gibes that take so much bearing. I
suppose He would have told me wherein I sinned, but I think He would
have done it gently, so as not to hurt more than could be helped--not
like some, who seem to think that nothing they say or do can possibly
hurt any one.
But it is no use saying such things to people. Once, I did say about a
tenth part of what I felt, when Mother Ada was present, and she turned
on me almost angrily.
"Sister Annora, you are scarce better than an idiot! Know you not that
confession to the priest is the same thing as to our Lord Himself?"
Well, it may be so, though it never feels like it: but I am sure the
priest is not the same thing. If I were a young mother with little
babes, I could never bring them to any priest I have known save one, and
that was a stranger who confessed us but for a week, some five years
gone, when the Lord Prior was ill. He was quite different from the
others: there was a soul behind his eyes--something human, not merely a
sort of metallic box which sounded when you rang it with another bit of
metal.
I never know why Margaret's eyes make me think of that man, but I
suppose it may be that there was the same sort of look in his. I am not
sure that I can put it into words. It makes me think, not of a dry
bough like my heart feels to be, but rather of a walled recluse--
something alive, very much alive, inside thick, hard, impenetrable walls
which you cannot enter, and it can never leave, but itself soft and
tender and sweet. And I fancy that people who look like that must have
had histories.
Another person troubles me beside that man and Margaret, and that is
Saint Peter's wife's mother. Because, if the holy Apostle had a wife's
mother, he must have had a wife; and what could a holy Apostle be doing
with a wife? I ventured once to ask Mother Ada how it was to be
explained, and she said that of course Saint Peter must have been
married before his conversion and calling by our Lord.
"And I dare be bound," added Mother Gaillarde, "that she was a shocking
vixen, or something bad, so as to serve for a thorn in the flesh to the
holy Apostle. He'd a deal better have been an unwedded man."
Well, some folks' relations are thorns in the flesh, I can quite
suppose. I should think Mother Gaillarde was, and that her being a nun
was a mercy to some man, so that she was told off to prick us and not
him. But is every body so? and are we all called to be thorns in the
flesh to somebody? I should not fancy being looked on by my relations
(if I were in the world) as nothing but a means of grace. It might be
good for them, but I doubt if it would for me.
I wonder if Margaret ever knew that priest whose eyes looked like hers.
I should like to ask her. But Mother Ada always forbids us to ask each
other questions about our past lives. She says curiosity is a sin; it
was curiosity which led Eve to listen to the serpent. But I do not
think Mother Ada's soul has any wings, and I always feel as if mine
had--something that, if only I were at liberty, would spread itself and
carry me away, far, far from here, right up into the very stars, for
aught I know. Poor caged bird as I am! how can my wings unfold
themselves? I fancy Margaret has wings--very likely, stronger than
mine. She seems to have altogether a stronger nature.
Mother Alianora will let us ask questions: she sometimes asks them
herself. Well, so does Mother Gaillarde, more than any body; but in
such a different way! Mother Alianora asks as if she were comforting
and helping you: Mother Gaillarde as though you were a piece of
embroidery that had been done wrong, and she were looking to see where
the stitches had begun to go crooked. If I were a piece of lawn, I
should not at all like Mother Gaillarde to pull the crooked stitches out
of me. She pounces on them so eagerly, and pulls so savagely at them.