The creation of the beast was accomplished in the novitiate, no one
being allowed to see it except the Prioress. The great difficulty was
to find beads large enough for the eyes, and it threatened to
frustrate the making of their beast. But the latest postulant
suggested that perhaps the buttons off her jacket would do, they were
just the thing,' and the legs of the beast were most natural and
life-like; it had even a tail.
As no one out of the novitiate had seen this very fine beast, the
convent was on tip-toe with excitement, and when, at the conclusion
of dinner, the elephant was wheeled into the refectory, every one
clapped her hands, and there were screams of delight. Then the saddle
was brought in and attached by blue ribbons. Sister Bridget, who did
not seem quite sure that the elephant was not alive, was lifted on it
and held there; and was wheeled round the refectory in triumph, the
novices screaming with delight, the professed, too. Only Evelyn stood
silent and apart, sorry she could not mix with the others, sharing
their pleasures. To stand watching them she felt to be unkind, so she
went into the garden, and wandered to the sundial, whence she could
see Richmond Park; and looking into the distance, hearing the
childish gaiety of the nuns, she remembered Louise's party at the
Savoy Hotel years and years ago. The convent had ceased to have any
meaning for her; so she must return, but not to the mummers, they,
too, had faded out of her life. She did not know whither she was
going, only that she must wander on... as soon as the Prioress died.
The thought caused her to shudder, and, remembering that the old
woman was alone in her room, she went up to ask her if she would care
to come into the garden with her. The Prioress was too weak to leave
her room, but she was glad to have Evelyn, and to listen to her
telling of the great success of the elephant.
"Of course, my dear, the recreations here must seem to you very
childish. I wonder what your life will be when I'm gone?"
"To-morrow you will be stronger, and will be able to come into the
garden."
But the old nun never left her room again, and Evelyn's last memory
of her in the garden was when they had sat by the fish-pond, looking
into the still water, reflecting sky and trees, with a great carp
moving mysteriously through a dim world of water-weed and flower.
There were many other memories of the Prioress which lingered through
many years, memories of an old woman lying back in her chair, frail
and white, slipping quite consciously out of life into death. Every
day she seemed to grow a trifle smaller, till there was hardly
anything left of her. It was terrible to be with her, so conscious
was she that death was approaching, that she and death were drawing
nearer and nearer, and to hear her say, "Four planks are the only
habit I want now." Another time, looking into Evelyn's eyes, she
said, "It is strange that I should be so old and you so young."
"But I don't feel young, Mother." And every day the old woman grew
more and more dependent upon Evelyn.
"You are very good to me. Why should you wait here till I am dead?
Only it won't be long, dear. Of what matter to me that the convent
will be changed when I am dead. If I am a celestial spirit, our
disputes--which is the better, prayer or good works--will raise a
smile upon my lips. But celestial spirits have no lips. Why should I
trouble myself? And yet--"
Evelyn could see that the old woman could not bear to think that her
life's work was to fall to pieces when she was gone.
"But, dear Mother, we all wish that what we have done shall remain;
and we all wish to be remembered, at least for a little while. There
is nothing more human. And your papers, dear Mother, will have to be
published; they will vindicate you, as nothing else could."
"But who is to publish them?" the Prioress asked. "They would require
to be gone over carefully, and I am too weak to do that, too weak
even to listen to you reading them."
Evelyn promised the Prioress again that she would collect all the
papers, and, as far as she could, select those which the Prioress
would herself select; and the promise she could see pleased the dying
woman. It was at the end of the week that the end came. Evelyn sat by
her, holding her hand, and hearing an ominous rattling sound in the
throat, she waited, waited, heard it again, saw the body tremble a
little, and then, getting up, she closed the eyes, said a little
prayer, and went out of the room to tell the nuns of the Prioress's
death, surprised at what seemed to her like indifference, without
tears in her eyes, or any manifestation of grief. There could be
none, for she was not feeling anything; she seemed to herself to be
mechanically performing certain duties, telling Mother Philippa, whom
she met in the passage, in a smooth, even voice, that the Prioress
had died five minutes ago, without any suffering, quite calmly. Her
lack of feeling seemed to her to give the words a strange ring, and
she wondered if Mother Philippa would be stirred very deeply.
"Dead, Sister, dead? How terrible! None of us there. And the prayers
for the dying not said. Surely, Teresa, you could have sent for us. I
must summon the community at once." And the sub-Prioress hurried
away, feeling already on her shoulders the full weight of the convent
affairs.
In a few moments the Sisters, with scared faces, were hurrying from
all parts of the house to the room where the Prioress lay dead.
Evelyn felt she could not go back, and she slipped away to look for
Veronica, whom she found in the sacristy.
"Veronica, dear, it is all over."
The girl turned towards her and clasped her hands.
"Auntie is dead," was all she said, and, dropping into a chair, her
tears began to flow.
"Dear Veronica, we both loved her very much."
"So we did, Sister; the convent will be very different without her.
Whom will they elect? Sister Winifred very possibly. It won't matter
to you, dear, you will go, and we shall have a school; everything
will be different."
"But many weeks will pass before I leave. Your aunt asked me to put
her papers in order; I shall be at work in the library for a long
while."
"Oh, I am so glad, Sister. I thought perhaps you would go at once."
And Veronica dried her tears. "But, dear, we can't talk now. I must
join the others in the prayers for the dead, and there will be so
much to do."
"We shall have to strip the altar, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes, the whole chapel--we shall want all our black hangings. But
I must go."
At that moment a Sister hurried in to say the bell was to be tolled
at once, and Evelyn went with Veronica to the corner of the cloister
where the ropes hung, and stood by listlessly while Veronica dragged
at the heavy rope, leaving a long interval between each clang.
"Oughtn't we to go up, Sister?" Veronica asked again.
"No, I can't go back yet," Evelyn answered. And she went into the
garden and followed the winding paths, wondering at the solemn
clanging, for it all seemed so useless.
The chaplain arrived half an hour afterwards, and next day several
priests came down from London, and there was a great assembly to
chant the Requiem Mass. But Evelyn, though she worked hard at
decorating the altar, was not moved by the black hangings, nor by the
doleful chant, nor by the flutter of the white surplice and the
official drone about the grave. All the convent had followed the
prelates down the garden paths; by the side of the grave Latin
prayers were recited and holy water was sprinkled. On the day the
Prioress was buried there were few clouds in the sky, sunshine was
pretty constant, and all the birds were singing in the trees; every
moment Evelyn expected one of her bullfinches to come out upon a
bough and sing its little stave. If it did, she would take his song
for an omen. But the bullfinches happened to be away, and she wished
that the priests' drone would cease to interrupt the melody of the
birds and boughs. The dear Prioress would prefer Nature's own music,
it was kinder; and the sound of the earth mixed with the stones
falling on the coffin-lid was the last sensation. After it the
prelates and nuns returned to the convent, everybody wondering what
was going to happen next, every nun asking herself who would be
elected Prioress.
"Dear Mother, it is all over now," Evelyn said to Mother Hilda in the
passage, and the last of the ecclesiastics disappeared through a
doorway, going to his lunch.
"Yes, dear Teresa, it is all over so far as this world is concerned.
We must think of her now in heaven."
"And to-morrow we shall begin to think for whom we shall vote--at
least, you will be thinking. I am not a choir sister, and am leaving
you."
"Is that decided, Teresa?"
"Yes, I think so. Perhaps now would be the time for me to take off
this habit; I only retained it at the Prioress's wish. But, Mother,
though I have not discovered a vocation, and feel that you have
wasted much time upon me, still, I wouldn't have you think I am
ungrateful."
"My dear, it never occurred to me to think so." And the two women
walked to the end of the cloister together, Evelyn telling Mother
Hilda about the Prioress and the Prioress's papers.
And from that day onward, for many weeks, Evelyn worked in the
library, collecting her papers, and writing the memoir of the late
Prioress, which, apparently, the nun had wished her to do, though why
she should have wished it Evelyn often wondered, for if she were a
soul in heaven it could matter to her very little what anybody
thought of her on earth. How a soul in heaven must smile at the
importance attached to this rule and to these exercises! How trivial
it all must seem to the soul!... And yet it could not seem trivial to
the soul, if it be true that by following certain rules we get to
heaven. If it be true! Evelyn's thoughts paused, for a doubt had
entered into her mind--the old familiar doubt, from which no one can
separate herself or himself, from which even the saints could not
escape. Are they not always telling of the suffering doubt caused
them? And following this doubt, which prayers can never wholly
stifle, the old original pain enters the heart. We are only here for
a little while, and the words lose nothing of their original
freshness by repetition; and, in order to drink the anguish to its
dregs, Evelyn elaborated the words, reminding herself that time is
growing shorter every year, even the years are growing shorter.
"The space is very little between me and the grave."
Some celebrated words from a celebrated poet, calling attention to
the brevity of life, came into her mind, and she repeated them again
and again, enjoying their bitterness. We like to meditate on death;
even the libertine derives satisfaction from such meditation, and
poets are remembered by their powers of expressing our great sorrow
in stinging terms. "Our lives are not more intense than our dreams,"
Evelyn thought; "and yet our only reason for believing life to be
reality is its intensity. Looked at from the outside, what is it but
a little vanishing dust? Millions have preceded that old woman into
the earth, millions shall follow her. I shall be in the earth too--in
how many years? In a few months perhaps, in a few weeks perhaps.
Possibly within the next few days I may hear how long I may expect to
live, for what is more common than to wake with a pain, and on
consulting a doctor to see a grave look come into his face, and to
hear him tell of some mortal disease beyond his knife's reach? Words
come reluctantly to one's tongue. "How long have I to live?" "About a
year, about six months; I cannot say for certain."
Doctors are answering men and women in these terms every day, and
Evelyn thought of some celebrated sayings that life's mutability has
inspired. She remembered some from the Bible, and some from
Shakespeare; and those she remembered from Fitzgerald, from his "Omar
Khayyam," took her back to the afternoon she spent with Owen by the
Serpentine, to the very day when he gave her the poem to read,
thinking to overcome her scruples with literature.
"There were no scruples in me then. My own business, 'The Ring,' is
full of the pagan story of life and death. We have babbled about it
ever since, trying to forget or explain it, without, however, doing
either; I tried to forget it on the stage, and did not succeed, but
it was not fear of death that brought me here. The nuns do not
succeed better than I; all screens are unavailing, for the wind is
about everywhere--a cold, searching wind, which prayers cannot keep
out; our doorways are not staunch--the wind comes under the door of
the actress's dressing-room and under the door of the nun's cell in
draughts chilling us to the bone, and then leaving us to pursue our
avocations for a time in peace. The Prioress thought that in coming
here she had discovered a way to heaven, yet she was anxious to
defend herself from her detractors upon earth. If she had believed in
her celestial inheritance she would have troubled very little, and I
should be free to go away now. Perhaps it is better as it is," she
reflected. And it seemed to her that no effort on her part was called
for or necessary. She was certain she was drifting, and that the
current would carry her to the opposite bank in good time; she was
content to wait, for had she not promised the Prioress to perform a
certain task? And it was part of her temperament to leave nothing
undone; she also liked a landmark, and the finishing of her book
would be a landmark.
She was even a little curious to see what turn the convent affairs
would take, and as she sat biting the end of her pen, thinking, the
sound of an axe awoke her from her reverie. Trees were being felled
in the garden; "and an ugly, red-brick building will be run up, in
which children of city merchants will be taught singing and the
piano." Was it contempt for the world's ignorance in matters of art
that filled her heart? or was she animated with a sublime pity for
those parents who would come to her (if she remained in the convent,
a thing she had no intention of doing) to ask her, Evelyn Innes, if
she thought that Julia would come to something if she were to
persevere, or if Kitty would succeed if she continued to practice
"The Moonlight Sonata," a work of the beauty of which no one in the
convent had any faintest comprehension? She herself had some gifts,
and, after much labour, had brought her gifts to fruition, not to any
splendid, but to some fruition. It was not probable that any one who
came to the convent would do more than she had done; far better to
learn knitting or cooking--anything in the world except music. Her
gift of singing had brought her to this convent. Was it really so?
Was her gift connected in some obscure way with the moral crisis
which had drawn her into this convent? There seemed to be a
connection, only she did not seem to be able to work it out. But
there must be one surely, otherwise her poor people, whom she loved
so dearly, would not have been abandoned. A very cruel abandonment it
was, and she pondered a long while on this subject without arriving
at any other conclusion except that for her to remain in the convent
to teach music to the children of rich merchants, who had villas in
Wimbledon, was out of the question. Her poor people were calling to
her, and the convent had no further concern in her life. Of that she
was sure. It was no longer the same convent. The original aspiration
had declined; the declension had been from the late Prioress to
Sister Winifred, who, knowing that her own election to Prioress was
impossible, had striven to get Mother Philippa elected Prioress and
herself sub-Prioress--a very clever move on her part, for with Mother
Philippa as Prioress the management of the school would be left to
her, and the school was what interested her. Of course, the money
they made would be devoted to building a chapel, or something of that
kind; but it was the making of money which would henceforth be the
pleasure of the convent. Evelyn took a certain pleasure in listening
negligently to Mother Winifred, who seemed unable to resist the
desire to talk to her about vocations whenever they met. From
whatever point they started, the conversation would soon turn upon a
vocation, and Evelyn found herself in the end listening to a story of
some novice who thought she had no vocation and had left the convent,
but had returned.
"And very often," Mother Winifred would say sententiously, "those who
think themselves most sure of their vocation find themselves without
one."
And Evelyn would answer, "Those who would take the last place are put
up first--isn't that it, Mother Winifred?"
Very often as they walked round the great, red-brick building, with
rows of windows on either side facing each other, so that the sky
could be seen through the building, Evelyn said:
"But do you not regret the trees?" She took pleasure in reminding
every nun that they sacrificed the beauty of the garden in the hope
of making a little money; and these remarks, though they annoyed
Mother Winifred, did not prevent her from speaking with pride of the
school, now rapidly advancing towards completion, nor did Evelyn's
criticism check her admiration of Evelyn herself. It seemed to Evelyn
that Mother Winifred was always paying her compliments, or if she
were not doing that, she would seek opportunities to take Evelyn into
her confidence, telling her of the many pupils they had been
promised, and of the conversions that would follow their teaching.
The girls would be impressed by the quiet beauty of the nun's life;
some of them would discover in themselves vocations for the religious
life, and a great many would certainly go away anxious for
conversion; and, even if their conversions did not happen at once,
though they might be delayed for years, sooner or later many
conversions would be the result of this school. And the result of all
this flummery was:
"Now, why should you not stay with us, dear, only a little while
longer? It would be such a sad thing if you were to go away, and find
that, after all, you had a vocation for the religious life, for if
you return to us you will have to go through the novitiate again."
"But, Mother Winifred, you always begin upon the supposition that I
have a vocation. Now, supposing you begin upon the other supposition
--that I have not one."
Mother Winifred hesitated, and looked sharply at Evelyn; but, unable
to take her advice, on the very next opportunity she spoke to Evelyn
of the vocation which she might discover in herself when it was too
late.
"You have forgotten what I said, Mother Winifred."
Mother Winifred laughed, but, undaunted, she soon returned with some
new argument, which had occurred to her in the interval, as she
prayed in church, or in her cell at night, and the temptation to try
the effect of the new argument on Evelyn was irresistible.
"Dear Sister Teresa--you see the familiar name comes to my tongue
though you have put off the habit--we shall be a long time in
straitened circumstances. A new mortgage has had, as you know, to be
placed on the property in order to get money to build the school; the
school will pay, but not at once."
Evelyn protested she was not responsible for this new debt. She had
advised the Prioress and Mother Winifred against it, warning them
that she did not intend to remain in the convent.
"But we always expected that you would remain."
And in this way Evelyn was made to feel her responsibility so much
that in the end she consented to give up part of her money to the
nuns. So long as she had just enough to live upon it did not matter,
and she owed these nuns a great deal. True that she had paid them ten
times over what she owed them, but still, it was difficult to measure
one's debts in pounds, shillings, and pence. However, that was the
way the nuns wanted her to measure them, and if she could leave them
fifteen hundred pounds--. And as soon as this sum was agreed upon,
Sister Winifred never lost an opportunity of regretting that the
convent was obliged to accept this magnificent donation, hinting that
the Prioress and herself would be willing (and there would be no
difficulty in obtaining the consent of the choir sisters) to accept
Evelyn's services for three years in the school instead of the money.
"Five hundred a year we shall be paying you, but the value of your
teaching will be very great; mothers will be especially anxious to
send their daughters to our school, so that they may get good singing
lessons from you."
"And when I leave?"
"Well, the school will have obtained a reputation by that time. Of
course, you will be a loss, but we must try to do without you."
"Three years in this convent!"
"But you are quite free here; you come and go as you please. After
all, your intention in leaving the convent is to teach music. Why not
teach music here?"
The argument was an ingenious one, but Evelyn did not feel that it
would appeal to her in the least, either to continue living in the
convent after she had finished her book, or to go back to the convent
to give singing lessons three or four times a week.
It would be preferable for her to give fifteen hundred pounds to the
convent, and so finish with the whole thing; and this she intended to
do, though she put Mother Winifred off with evasion, leaving her
thinking that perhaps after all she would teach for some little while
in the convent. It was necessary to do this, for Mother Winifred
could persuade Mother Philippa as she pleased; and it had occurred to
Evelyn that perhaps Mother Winfred might arrange for her expulsion.
Nothing could be easier than to tell her that somebody's friend was
going to stay with them in the convent, that the guest-room would be
wanted. To leave now would not suit Evelyn at all. The late
Prioress's papers belonged to the convent; and to deceive Mother
Winifred completely Evelyn agreed to give some singing lessons, for
they had already begun to receive pupils, though the school was not
yet finished.
This teaching proved very irksome to her, for it delayed the
completion of her book, and she often meditated an escape, thinking
how this might be accomplished while the nuns played at ball in the
autumn afternoon. Very often they were all in the garden, all except
Sister Agnes, the portress, and she often left her keys on the nail.
So it would be easy for Evelyn to run down the covered way and take
the keys from the nail and open the door. And the day came when she
could not resist the temptation of opening the door, not with a view
to escape; but just to know what the sensation of the open door was
like. And she stood for some time looking into the landscape,
remembering vaguely, somewhere at the back of her mind, that she
could not take the Prioress's papers with her, they did not belong to
her; the convent could institute an action for theft against her, the
Prioress not having made any formal will, only a memorandum saying
she would like Evelyn to collect her papers.
So it was necessary for her to lock the gate again, to restore the
keys to the nail, and return to the library. But in a few weeks more
her task would be done, and it would be pleasanter to go away when it
was done; and, as it has already been said, Evelyn liked landmarks.
"To pass out is easy, but the Evelyn that goes out will not be the
same as the Evelyn who came in." And a terror gathered in her mind,
remembering that she was forty, and to begin life again after forty,
and after such an experience as hers, might prove beyond her
strength. Doubts enter into every mind, doubt entered into hers;
perhaps the convent was the natural end of her life, not as a nun,
but as an oblate. The guest-room was a pleasant room, and she could
live more cheaply in the convent than elsewhere. There are cowardly
hours in every life, and there were hours when this compromise
appealed to Evelyn Innes. But if she remained she would have to
continue teaching under Mother Winifred's direction. A little revolt
awoke in her. She could not do that; and she began to think what
would happen to her when she left the convent. There would not be
money enough left her to sit down in a small flat and do nothing; she
would have to work. Well, she would have to do that in any case, for
idleness was not natural to her, and she would have to work for
somebody besides herself--for her poor people--and this she could do
by giving singing lessons. Where? In Dulwich? But to go back to the
house in which she lived her life, to the room which used to be hung
with the old instruments, and to revive her mother's singing classes?
No, she could not begin her life from exactly the same point at which
she left off. And gradually the project formed in her mind of a new
life, a life which would be at once new and old. And the project
seemed to take shape as she wrote the last pages of her memoir of the
late Prioress.
"It is done, and I have got a right to my own manuscript; they cannot
take that from me." And she went into the sacristy, her manuscript in
her hand.
The cool, sweet room seemed empty, and Veronica emerged from the
shadow, almost a shadow. There were two windows, lattice panes, and
these let the light fall upon the counter, along which the vestments
were laid for the priest. The oak press was open, and it exhaled an
odour of orris root and lavender, and Veronica, standing beside it, a
bunch of keys at her girdle, once more reminded Evelyn of the
mediæval virgin she had seen in the Rhenish churches.
"I have finished collecting your aunt's papers."
"And now you are going to leave us?"
There was a sob in the girl's voice, and all Evelyn's thoughts about
her seemed to converge and to concentrate. There was the girl before
her who passed through life without knowing it, interested in putting
out the vestments for an old priest, hiding his amice so that no
other hands but hers should touch it; this and the dream of an angel
who visited her in sleep and whose flesh was filled with luminous
tints constituted all she knew of life, all she would ever know.
There were tears in her eyes now, there was a sob in her voice; she
would regret her friend for a day, for a week, and then the convent
life would draw about her like great heavy curtains. Evelyn
remembered how she had told her of a certain restlessness which kept
her from her prayers; she remembered how she had said to her, "It
will pass, everything will pass away." She would become an old nun,
and would be carried to the graveyard just as her aunt had been. When
would that happen? Perhaps not for fifty years. Sooner or later it
would happen. And Evelyn listened to Veronica saying the convent
would never be the same without her, saying:
"Once you leave us you will never come back."
"Yes, I shall, Veronica; I shall come once or twice to see you."
"Perhaps it would be better for you not to come at all," the girl
cried, and turned away; and then going forward suddenly as Evelyn was
about to leave the sacristy, she said:
"But when are you leaving? When are you leaving?"
"To-morrow; there is no reason why I should wait any longer."
"We cannot part like this." And she put down the chalice, and the
women went into a chill wind; the pear-trees were tossing, and there
were crocuses in the bed and a few snowdrops.
"You had better remain until the weather gets warmer; to leave in
this bleak season! Oh, Sister, how we shall miss you! But you were
never like a nun."
They walked many times to and fro, forgetful of the bleak wind
blowing.
"It must be so, you were never like a nun. Of course we all knew, I
at least knew... only we are sorry to lose you."
The next day a carriage came for Evelyn. The nuns assembled to bid
her goodbye; they were as kind as their ideas allowed them to be,
but, of course, they disapproved of Evelyn going, and the fifteen
hundred pounds she left them did not seem to reconcile them to her
departure. It certainly did not reconcile Mother Winifred, who
refused to come down to wish her goodbye, saying that Evelyn had
deceived them by promising to remain, or at all events led them to
think she would stay with them until the school was firmly
established. Mother Philippa apologised for her, but Evelyn said it
was not necessary.
"After all, what Mother Winifred says is the truth, only I could not
do otherwise. Now, goodbye, I'll come to see you again, may I not?"
They did not seem very anxious on this point, and Evelyn thought it
quite possible she might never see the convent again, which had meant
so much to her and which was now behind her. Her thoughts were
already engaged in the world towards which she was going, and
thinking of the etiolated hands of the nuns she remembered the brown
hands of her poor people; it was these hands that had drawn her out
of the convent, so she liked to think; and it was nearly the truth,
not the whole truth, for that we may never know.