"L'orgueil n'est jamais mieux deguise, et plus capable de tromper, que
lorsqu'il se cache sous la figure de l'humilite."
Rochefoucauld.
"Oh, you have no idea how happy we are here!" said Sister Ada to Joan.
"I often pity the people who live in the world. Their time is filled
with such poor, mean things, and their thoughts must be so frivolous.
Now our time is all taken up with holy duties, and we have no room for
frivolous thoughts. The world is shut out: it cannot creep in here. We
are the happiest of women."
I happened to look at Sister Gaillarde, and I saw the beginning of one
of her grim smiles: but she did not speak.
"Some of you do seem happy and peaceful," said Joan (she says I am to
call her Joan). "But is it so with all?"
Sister Gaillarde gave her little Amen nod.
"Oh dear, yes!" answered Sister Ada. "Of course, where the will is not
perfectly mortified, there is not such unbroken bliss as where it is.
But when the rule of holy obedience is fully followed out, so that we
have no will whatever except that of our superiors, you cannot imagine
what sweet peace flows into the soul. Now, if Father Benedict were to
command me any thing, I should be positively delighted to do it, because
it was a command from my superior. It would not in the least matter
what it was. Nay, the more repugnant it was to my natural inclinations,
the more it would delight me."
Joan's eyes wandered to two or three other faces, with a look which
said, "Do you agree to this?"
"Don't look at me!" said Sister Gaillarde. "I'm no seraph. It wouldn't
please me a bit better to have dirty work to do because Father Benedict
ordered it. I can't reach those heights of perfection--never understood
them. If Sister Ada do, I'm glad to hear it. She must have learned it
lately."
"I do not understand it, as Sister Ada puts it," said I, as Joan's eyes
came to me. "I understand what it is to give up one's will in any thing
when it seems to be contrary to the will of God, and to have more real
pleasure in trying to please Him than in pleasing one's self. I
understand, too, that there may be more true peace in bearing a sorrow
wherein God helps and comforts you, than in having no sorrow and no
comfort. But Sister Ada seems to mean something different--as if one
were to be absolutely without any will about any thing, and yet to
delight in the crossing of one's will. Now, if I have not any wall, I
do not see how it is to be crossed. And to have none whatever would
surely make me something different from a woman and a sinner. I should
be like a harp that could be played on--not like a living creature at
all."
Two or three little nods came from Sister Gaillarde.
"People who have no wills are very trying to deal with," said Margaret.
"People who have wills are," said Sister Philippa.
"Nay," said Margaret, "if I am to be governed, let it be by one that has
a will. `Do this,' and `Go there,' may be vexatious at times: but far
worse is it to ask for direction, and hear only, `As you like,' `I don't
know,' `Don't ask me.'"
"Now that is just what I should like," said Sister Philippa. "I never
get it, worse luck!"
"Did you mean me, Sister Margaret?" said Sister Ada, stiffly.
"I cry you mercy, Mother; I was not thinking of you at all," answered
Margaret.
"It sounded very much as if you were," said Sister Ada, in her iciest
fashion. "I think, if you had been anxious for perfection, you would
not have answered me in that proud manner, but would have come here and
entreated my pardon in a proper way. But I am too humble-minded to
insist on it, seeing I am myself the person affronted. Had it been any
one else, I should have required it at once."
"I said--" Margaret got so far, then her brow flushed, and I could see
there was an inward struggle. Then she rose from the form, and laying
down her work, knelt and kissed the ground at Mother Ada's feet. I
could hear Sister Roberga whisper to Sister Philippa, "That
mean-spirited fool!"
Sister Gaillarde said in a softer tone than is her wont,--"_Beati
pauperes spiritu: quoniam ipsorum est regnum caelorum_." [Matthew 5,
verse 3.]
"Thank you, Sister Gaillarde," said Sister Ada, quickly. "I scarcely
expected recognition from _you_."
"You got as much as you expected, then," said Sister Gaillarde, drily,
with a look across at me which almost made me laugh.
"I told you, I got more than I expected," was Sister Ada's answer.
"Did you mean it for her?" asked Joan, in so low a voice that only those
on each side of her could hear.
"I meant it for whoever deserved it," was Sister Gaillarde's reply.
Just then Mother Joan came in and sat down.
"Sister Ada," she said, "Sister Marian tells me, that my Lady has given
orders for that rough black rug that nobody likes to be put on your bed
this week."
"No, has she?" cried Sister Ada, in tones which, if she were delighted,
very much belied her feelings. "How exceedingly annoying! What could
my Lady be thinking of? She knows how I detest that rug. I shall not
be able to sleep a wink. Well! I suppose I must submit; it is my duty.
But I do feel it hard that _all_ the disagreeable things should come to
me. Surely one of the novices might have had that; it would have been
good for somebody whose will was not properly mortified. Really, I _do_
think--Oh, well, I had better not say any more."
Nor did she: but that night, as I was going round the children's
dormitory, little Damia looked up at me.
"Mother, dear, what's the matter with Mother Ada?"
"What did she say, my child?"
"Oh, she didn't say any thing; but she has looked all day long as if she
would like to hit somebody."
"Somebody vexed her a little, perhaps," said I. "Very likely she will
be all right to-morrow."
"I don't know--she takes a long while to come right when any body has
put her wrong--ever so much longer than you or Sister Margaret. The
lightning comes into Sister Margaret's eyes, and then away it runs, and
she looks so sorry that she let it come; and you only look sorry without
any lightning. But Mother Ada looks I don't know how--as if she'd like
to pull all the hair off your head, and all your teeth out of your
mouth, and wouldn't feel any better till she'd done it."
I laughed, and told the child to go to sleep, and not trouble her little
head about Mother Ada. But when I came into my cell, I began to wonder
if Sister Ada's will is perfectly mortified. It does not look exactly
like it.
Before I had done more than think of undressing, Sister Gaillarde rapped
at my door.
"Sister Annora, may I have a little chat with you?"
"Do come in, Sister, and sit down," said I.
"This world's a very queer place!" said Sister Gaillarde, sitting down
on my bed. "It would not be a bad place, but for the folks in it: and
they are as queer as can be. I thought I'd just give you a hint,
Sister, that you might feel less taken by surprise--I expect you'll have
a lecture given you to-morrow."
"What have I done?" I asked, rather blankly.
Sister Gaillarde laughed till the tears came into her eyes.
"Oh dear, the comicality of folks in this world!" saith she. "Sister
Annora, do you know that you are a very carnal person?"
"Indeed, I have always feared so," said I, sorrowfully.
"Rubbish!" said Sister Gaillarde in her most emphatic style. "Don't,
for mercy's sake, be taken in by such nonsense. It is a wonder what
folks can get into their heads when they have nothing else in them!
Sister Ada is very much concerned about the low tone of spirituality
which she sees in you--stupid baggage! She is miserably afraid you are
a long way off perfection. I'm more concerned a deal about her."
"But, Sister Gaillarde, it is true!" said I. "I am very, very far from
being perfect, and I fear I never shall be."
"Well!" saith she, "if I had to go into the next world holding on to
somebody's skirts, I'd a sight rather they were yours than Sister Ada's.
I do think some folks were born just to be means of grace and nothing
else. Maybe it is as well some of them should get into nunneries."
"Some are rather trying, I must admit," said I. "Sister Roberga--"
"Oh, Sister Roberga! she's just a butterfly and no better. Brush her
off--she's good for no more. But she isn't one that tries me like some
other folks. You did not hear what happened yesterday between Sisters
Ada and Margaret?"
"No. What was it?"
"Some of the Sisters were talking about hymns in recreation. Sister
Margaret said she admired the _Dies Irae_. Sister Ada wanted to know
what she admired; she could not see any thing to admire; it was just a
jingle of words, and nothing else. The rhymes might be good to remember
by--that was all. I saw the look on Sister Margaret's face: of course
she did not answer the Mother. But I did. I told her that I believed
if any one showed her a beautiful rose, she would call it a red
vegetable. `Well,' quoth she, `and what is it else? I never smell a
rose or any other flower. We were put here to mortify our senses.'
`Sister Ada,' said I, `the Lord took a deal of pains for nothing, so far
as you were concerned.' Well, she said that was profane: but I don't
believe it. The truth is, she's just one of those dull souls that
cannot see beauty, nor smell fragrance, nor hear music; and so she
assumes her dulness as virtue, and tries to make it out that those who
have their senses are carnal and worldly. But just touch her pride, and
doesn't it fly up in arms! Depend upon it, Sister Annora, men are quite
as often taken for fools because they can see what other folks can't, as
because they can't see what other folks can."
"I dare say that is true," said I. "But--forgive me, Sister Gaillarde--
ought we to be talking over our Sisters?"
"Sister Annora, you are too good for this world!" she answered, rather
impatiently. "If one may not let out a bit, just now and then, what is
one to do?"
"But," said I, "we were put here to mortify ourselves."
"We were put here to mortify our sins," said she: "and wala wa! some of
us don't do it. I dare say old Gaillarde's as bad as any body. But I
cannot stand Sister Ada's talk, when she wants to make every creature of
us into stones and stocks. She just inveighs against loving one another
because she loves nobody but Ada Mansell, and never did. Oh! I knew
her well enough when we were young maids in the world. She was an only
child, and desperately spoiled: and her father joined in the Lancaster
insurrection long ago, and it ruined his fortunes, so she came into a
convent. That's her story. Ada Mansell is the pivot of her thoughts
and actions--always will be."
"Nay," said I; "let us hope God will give her grace to change, if it be
as you say."
"It'll take a precious deal of grace to change some folks!" said Sister
Gaillarde, satirically. "Hope many of them won't want it at once, or
there'll be such a run upon the treasury there'll be none left for you
and me. Well! that's foolish talk. My tongue runs away with me now and
then. Don't get quite out of patience with your silly old Sister
Gaillarde. Ah! perhaps I should have been a wiser woman, and a better
too, if something had not happened to me that curdled the milk of my
human kindness, and sent me in here, just because I could not bear
outside any longer--could not bear to see what had been mine given to
another--well, well! We are all poor old sinners, we Sisters. And as
to perfection--my belief is that any woman may be perfect in any life,
so far as that means having a true heart towards God, and an honest wish
to do His will rather than our own--and I don't believe in perfection of
any other sort. As to all that rubbish men talk about having no will at
all, and being delighted to mortify your will, and so forth--my service
to the lot of it. Why, what you like to have crossed isn't your will;
what you delight in can't be mortification. It is just like playing at
being good. Eh, dear me, there are some simpletons in this world!
Well, good-night, Sister: _pax tibi_!"
Sister Gaillarde's hand was on the latch when she looked back.
"There, now I'm forgetting half of what I had to tell you. Father
Hamon's going away."
"Is he?--whither?"
"Can't say. I hope our next confessor will be a bit more alive."
"Father Benedict is alive, I am sure."
"Father Benedict's a draught of vinegar, and Father Hamon's been a bowl
of curds. I should like somebody betwixt."
And Sister Gaillarde left me.
She guessed not ill, for I had my lecture in due course. Sister Ada
came into my cell--had she bidden me to hers, I should have had a chance
to leave, but of course I could not turn her forth--and told me she had
been for long time deeply concerned at my want of spiritual discernment.
"Truly, Sister, no more than I am," said I. "Now, Sister, you reckon
me unkindly, I cast no doubt," saith she: "but verily I must be faithful
with you. You take too much upon you,--you who are but just promoted to
your office--and are not ready enough to learn of those who have had
more experience. In short, Sister Annora, you are very much wanting in
true humility."
"Indeed, Sister Ada, it is too true," said I. "I beseech you, Sister,
to pray that you may have your eyes opened to the discerning of your
faults," saith she. "You are much too partial and prejudiced in your
governance of the Sisters, and likewise with the children. Some you
keep not under as you should; and to others you grant too little
freedom."
"Indeed, Sister, I am afraid it may be so, though I have tried hard to
avoid it."
"Well, Sister, I hope you will think of these things, and that our Lord
may give you more of the grace of humility. You lack it very much, I
can assure you. I would you would try to copy such of us as are really
humble and meek."
"That I earnestly desire, Sister," said I: "but is it not better to copy
our Lord Himself than any earthly example? I thank you for your
reproof, and I will try harder to be humble."
"You know, Sister," said she, as she was going forth, "I have no wish
but to be faithful. I cannot bear telling others of their faults.
Only, I _must_ be faithful."
"I thank you, Sister Ada," said I.
So away she went. Sister Gaillarde said when she saw me, with one of
her grim smiles--
"Well! is the lecture over? Did she bite very hard?"
"She saith I am greatly lacking in meekness and humility, and take too
much on myself," said I: "and I dare say it is true."
"Humph!" said Sister Gaillarde. "It would be a mercy if some folks
weren't. And if one or two of us had a trifle more self-assertion,
perhaps some others would have less."
"Have I too much self-assertion, Sister?" I said, feeling sorry it
should be thus plain to all my Sisters. "I will really--"
Sister Gaillarde patted me on the shoulder with her grimmest smile.
"You will really spoil every body you come near!" said she. "Go your
ways, Sister Annora, and leave the wasps in the garden a-be."
"Why, I do," said I, "without they sting me."
"Exactly!" said Sister Gaillarde, laughing, and away. I know not what
she meant.
Mother Joan is something troubled with her eyes, and the leech thinks it
best she should no longer be over the illumination-room, but be set to
some manner of work that will try the sight less. So I am appointed
thereto in her stead. I cannot say I am sorry, for I shall see more of
Joan, since in this chamber she passes three mornings of a week. I mean
my child Joan, for verily she is the child of mine heart. And my very
soul yearns over her, for Sister though I be, I cannot help the thought
that had it not been for Queen Isabel's unjust dealing, I should have
been her mother. May the good Lord forgive me, if it be sin! I know
now, that those deep grey eyes of hers, with the long black lashes,
which stirred mine heart so strangely when she first came hither, are
the eyes of my lost love. I knew in myself that I had known such eyes
aforetime, but it seemed to be long, long ago, as though in another
world. Much hath Joan told me of him; and all I hear sets him before me
as man worthy of the best love of a good woman's heart, and whom mine
heart did no wrong to in its enduring love. And I am coming to think--
seeing, as it were, dimly, through a mist--that such love is not sin,
neither disgrace, even in the heart of a maid devoted unto God. For He
knoweth that I put Him first: and take His ordering of my life, as being
His, not only as just and holy, but as the best lot for me, and that
which shall be most to His glory and mine own true welfare. I say not
this openly, nor unto such as should be likely to misconceive me. There
are some to whose pure and devoted souls all things indifferent are
pure; and they are they that shall see God. And man saith that in the
world there are some also, unto whose vile and corrupt hearts all things
indifferent are impure; and maybe not in the world only, but by times
even in the cloister. So I feel that some might misread my meaning, and
take ill advantage thereof; and I keep my thoughts to myself, and to
God. I never ask Joan one question touching him of whom I treasure
every bye-note that she uttereth. Yet I know not how it is, but she
seems to love to tell me of him. Is it by reason she hath loved, that
her heart hath eyes to see into mine?
Not much doth Joan say of her mother to me: I think she names her more
to others. Methinks I see what she was--a good woman as women go (and
some of them go ill), with a little surface cleverness, that she
reckoned to run deeper than it did, and inclined to despise her lord by
reason his wit lay further down, and came not up in glittering bubbles
to the top. I dare reckon she looked well to his bodily comforts and
such, and was a better wife than he might have had: very likely, a
better than poor Alianora La Despenser would have made, had God ordered
it thus. Methinks, from all I hear, that he hath passed behind the
jasper walls: and I pray God I may meet him there. They wed not, nor be
given in marriage, being equal unto the angels: but surely the angels
love.
Strange talk it was that Joan held with me yesterday. I marvel what it
may portend. She says, of late years many priests have put forth
writings, wherein they say that the Church is greatly fallen away from
the verity of Scripture, and that all through the ages good men have
said the same (as was the case with the blessed Robert de Grosteste,
Bishop of Lincoln, over two hundred years gone, and with the holy Thomas
de Bradwardine, Archbishop of Canterbury, and with Richard Rolle, the
hermit of Hampole, whose holy meditations on the Psalter are in our
library, and I have oft read therein): but now is there further stir, as
though some reforming of the Church should arise, such as Bishop
Grosteste did earnestly desire. Joan says her lord is earnest for these
new opinions, and eager to promote them: and that he saith that both in
the Church and in matters politic, men sleep and nap for a season,
during which slow decay goes on apace, and then all at once do they wake
up, and set to work to mend matters. During the reign of this present
King, saith he, the world and the Church have had a long nap; and now
are they just awake, and looking round to see how matters are all over
dust and ivy, which lack cleansing away. Divers, both clerks and
laymen, are thus bestirring themselves: the foremost of whom is my Lord
of Lancaster, the King's son [John of Gaunt], among the lay folk, and
among the clergy, one Father Wycliffe [Note 1], that was head of a
College at Oxenford, and is now Rector of Lutterworth in Leicestershire.
He saith (that is, Father Wycliffe) that all things are thus gone to
corruption by reason of lack of the salt preservative to be found in
Holy Scripture. Many years back, did King Alfred our forefather set
forth much of the said Scriptures in the English tongue; as much,
indeed, as he had time, for his death hindered it, else had all the holy
hooks been rendered into our English tongue. But now, by reason of
years, the English that was in his day is gone clean out of mind, and
man cannot understand the same: so there is great need for another
rendering that man may understand now. And this Father Wycliffe hopes
to effect, if God grant him grace. But truly, some marvellous strange
notions hath he. Joan says he would fain do away with all endowing of
the Church, saying that our Lord and the Apostles had no such provision:
but was that by reason it was right, or because of the hardness of men's
hearts? Surely the holy women that ministered to Him of their substance
did well, not ill. Moreover, he would have all monkery done away, yea,
clean out of the realm, and he hath mighty hard names for monks,
especially the Mendicant Friars: yet of nuns was he never heard to speak
an unkindly word. Strange matter, in good sooth! it nearly takes away
my breath but to hear tell of it. But when he saith that the Pope
should have no right nor power in this realm of England, that is but
what the Church of England hath alway held: Bishop Grosteste did as
fervently abhor the Pope's power--"Egyptian bondage" was his word for
it. Much has this Father also to say against simony: and he would have
no private confession to a priest (verily, this would I gladly see
abolished), nor indulgences, nor letters of fraternity, nor pilgrimages,
nor guilds: and he sets his face against the new fashion of singing mass
[intoning, then a new invention], and the use of incense in the
churches. But strangest of all is it to hear of his inveighing against
the doctrine of the Church that the sacred host is God's Body. It is
so, saith he, in figure, and Christ's Body is not eaten of men save
ghostly and morally. And to eat Christ ghostly is to have mind of Him,
how kindly He suffered for man, which is ghostly meat to the soul.
[Arnold's English Works of Wycliffe, Volume 2, pages 93, 112.]
Here is new doctrine! Yet Father Wycliffe, I hear, saith this is the
old doctrine of the Apostles themselves, and that the contrary is the
new, having never (saith he) been heard of before the time of one
Radbert, who did first set it forth five hundred years ago [in 787]: and
after that it slumbered--being then condemned of the holy doctors--till
the year of our Lord God 1215, when the Pope that then was forced it on
the Church. Strange matter this! I know not what to think.
Joan says some of these new doctrine priests go further than Father
Wycliffe himself, and even cast doubt on Purgatory and the worship [this
word then merely meant "honour"] of our Lady. Ah me! if they can prove
from God's Word that Purgatory is not, I would chant many thanksgivings
thereon! All these years, when I knew not if my lost love were dead or
alive, have I thought with dread of that awful land of darkness and
sorrow: yet not knowing, I could have no masses sung for him; and had I
been so able, I could never have told for whom they were, but only have
asked for them for my father and mother and all Christian souls, and
have offered mine own communion with intention thereto. Ay, and many a
time--dare I confess it?--I have offered the same with that intent, if
he should be to God commanded [dead]--knowing that God knew, and humbly
trusting in His mercy if I did ill. But for the worship of our Lady,
that is passing strange, specially to me that am religious woman. For
we were always taught what a blessing it was that we had a woman to whom
we might carry our griefs and sorrows, seeing God is a man, and not so
like to enter into a woman's feelings. But these priests say--I am
almost afraid to write it--this is dishonouring Christ who died for us,
and who therefore must needs be full of tenderness for them for whom He
died, and cannot need man nor woman--not even His own mother--to stand
betwixt them and Him. O my Lord, have I been all these years
dishonouring Thee, and setting up another, even though it be Thy blessed
mother, between Thee and me? Yet surely He regardeth her honour full
diligently! Said He not to Saint John, "Behold thy mother?"--and doth
not that Apostle represent the whole Church, who are thereby commanded
to regard her, each righteous man, as his own very mother? [This is the
teaching of the Church of Rome.] I remember the blessed Hermit of
Hampole scarcely makes mention of her: it is all Christ in his book.
And if it be so--of which Joan ensures me--in the Word of God, whereof
she hath read books that I have missed--verily, I know not what to
think.
Lord, Thou wist what is error! Save me therefrom. Thou wist what is
truth: guide me therein!
It would seem that I have erred in offering my communions at all. For
if to eat Christ's Body be only to have mind of Him--and this is
according to His own word, "_Hoc facite in meam commemorationem_"--how
then can there be at all any offering of sacrifice in the holy mass?
Joan says that Saint Paul's Epistle to the Hebrews saith that we be
hallowed by the oblation of the body of Jesus Christ once, and that
where remission is, there is no more oblation for sin. Truly we have
need to pray, Lord, guide us into Thy truth! and yet more, Lord, keep us
therein! I must think hereon. In sooth, this I do, and then up rises
some great barrier to the new doctrine, which I lay before Joan: and as
quickly as the sun can break forth and melt a spoonful of snow, does she
clear all away with some word of Saint Paul. She has his Epistles right
at her tongue's end. For instance, quoth I,--"Christ said He should
bestow the Holy Spirit, to lead the Church into all truth. How then can
the Church err?"
"What Church?" said she, boldly. "The Church is all righteous men that
hold Christ's words: not the Pope and Cardinals and such like. These
last have no right to hold the first in bondage."
"But," said I, "Father Benedict told me Saint Paul bade the religious to
obey their superiors: how much more all men to obey the Church?"
"I marvel," saith she, "where Father Benedict found that. Never a word
says Paul touching religious persons: there were none in his day."
"No religious in Paul's day!" cried I.
"Never so much as one," saith she: "not a monk, not a nun! Friar
Pareshull himself told me so much; he is a great man among us. Saint
Peter bids the clergy not to dominate over inferiors; Saint Paul says to
the Ephesians that out of themselves (he was speaking to the clergy)
should arise heretics speaking perversely; and Saint John says, `Believe
not every spirit, but prove the spirits if they be of God.' Dear Mother
Annora, we are nowhere bidden in Scripture to obey the Church save only
once, and that concerns the settling of a dispute betwixt two members of
it. Obey the Church! why, we are ourselves the Church. Has not Father
Rolle taught you so much? `Holy Kirk,' quoth he--`that is, ilk
righteous man's soul.' Verily, all Churches be empowered of Christ to
make laws for their own people: but why then must the Church of England
obey laws made by the Bishop of Rome?"
"Therein," said I, "can I fully hold with thee."
"And for all things," she said earnestly, "let us hold to God's law, and
take our interpretation of it not from men, but straight from God
Himself. Lo! here is the promise of the Holy Ghost assured unto the
Church--to you, to me, to each one that followeth Christ. They that
keep His words and are indwelt of His Spirit--these, dear Mother, are
the Church of God, and to them is the truth promised."