By Agnes Repplier
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HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
BOSTON AND NEW YORK.
IN OUR CONVENT DAYS
IN OUR
CONVENT DAYS
BY
AGNES REPPLIER, LITT.D.
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1905
COPYRIGHT 1905 BY AGNES REPPLIER
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published October 1905_
To "Elizabeth" Robins Pennell
"Thou know'st that we two went to school
together."
JULIUS CÆSAR
Introduction
It has been many years since I went to school. Everything has changed
in the Convent that I loved, and I am asked to believe that every
change is for the better. I do not believe this at all. I am unmoved by
the sight of steam registers and electric lights. I look with disfavour
upon luxuries which would have seemed to us like the opulence of
Aladdin's palace. I cannot wax enthusiastic over the intrusion of Mr.
Matthew Arnold and Mr. Pater upon the library shelves, where Chambers'
Miscellany used to be _our_ nearest approach to the intellectual. The
old order changes, and that unlovely word, modernity, is heard within
the tranquil convent walls. Even the iron hand of discipline has been
relaxed; for the long line of girls whom I now watch filing sedately
in and out of the chapel have been taught to rule themselves, to use
their wider liberty with discretion. I wonder how they like it. I
wonder if liberty, coupled with discretion, is worth having when one is
eleven years old. I wonder if it be the part of wisdom to be wise so
soon.
The friends whom I loved are scattered far and wide. When Tony died,
she took with her the sound of laughter into the silent land, and all
things have seemed more sober since she left. To those who live, these
pages will, I hope, bring back the sentiment of our early days. We made
one another's world then,--a world full of adventures, and imaginings,
and sweet absurdities that no one of us would now wish less absurd.
Our successors to-day know more than we knew (they could not well
know less), they have lectures, and enamelled bathtubs, and "Essays
in Criticism;" but do they live their lives as vehemently as we lived
ours; do they hold the secrets of childhood inviolate in their hearts
as we held them in ours; are they as untainted by the commonplace, as
remote from the obvious, as we always were; and will they have as vivid
a picture of their convent days to look back upon, as the one we look
at now?
A. R.
Contents
Marianus 1
The Convent Stage 36
In Retreat 72
Un Congé sans Cloche 107
Marriage Vows 148
Reverend Mother's Feast 183
The Game of Love 220
Marianus
I do not know how Marianus ever came to leave his native land, nor
what turn of fate brought him to flutter the dovecotes of a convent
school. At eleven, one does not often ask why things happen, because
nothing seems strange enough to provoke the question. It was enough for
me--it was enough for all of us--that one Sunday morning he appeared
in little Peter's place, lit the candles on the altar, and served
Mass with decent and devout propriety. Our customary torpor of cold
and sleepiness--Mass was at seven, and the chapel unheated--yielded
to a warm glow of excitement. I craned my white-veiled head (we wore
black veils throughout the week and white on Sundays) to see how
Elizabeth was taking this delightful novelty. _She_ was busy passing
her prayer-book, with something evidently written on the fly-leaf, to
Emily Goring on the bench ahead. Emily, oblivious of consequences,
was making telegraphic signals to Marie. Lilly and Viola Milton knelt
staring open-mouthed at the altar. Tony was giggling softly. Only Annie
Churchill, her eyes fixed on her Ursuline Manual, was thumping her
breast remorsefully, in unison with the priest's "mea maxima culpa."
There was something about Annie's attitude of devotion which always
gave one a distaste for piety.
Breakfast afforded no opportunity for discussion. At that Spartan
meal, French conversation alone was permitted; and even had we been
able or willing to employ the hated medium, there was practically no
one to talk to. By a triumph of monastic discipline, we were placed
at table, at our desks, and at church, next to girls to whom we had
nothing to say;--good girls, with medals around their necks, and
blue or green ribbons over their shoulders, who served as insulating
mediums, as non-conductors, separating us from cheerful currents of
speech, and securing, on the whole, a reasonable degree of decorum. I
could not open my bursting heart to my neighbours, who sat stolidly
consuming bread and butter as though no wild light had dawned upon our
horizon. When one of them (she is a nun now) observed painstakingly,
"J'espère que nous irons aux bois après midi;" I said "Oui," which was
the easiest thing _to_ say, and conversation closed at that point. We
always did go to the woods on Sunday afternoons, unless it rained.
During the week, the big girls--the arrogant and unapproachable First
Cours--assumed possession of them as an exclusive right, and left us
only Mulberry Avenue in which to play prisoner's base, and Saracens
and Crusaders; but on Sundays the situation was reversed, and the
Second Cours was led joyously out to those sweet shades which in our
childish eyes were vast as Epping Forest, and as full of mystery as
the Schwarzwald. No one could have valued this weekly privilege more
than I did; but the day was clear, and we were sure to go. I felt the
vapid nature of Mary Rawdon's remark to be due solely to the language
in which it was uttered. All our inanities were spoken in French; and
those nuns who understood no other tongue must have conceived a curious
impression of our intelligence.
There was a brief recreation of fifteen minutes at ten o'clock, which
sufficed for a rapturous exchange of confidences and speculations.
Only those who have been at a convent school can understand how the
total absence of man enriches him with a halo of illusion. Here we
were, seven absurdly romantic little girls, living in an atmosphere
of devout and rarified femininity; and here was a tall Italian youth,
at least eighteen, sent by a beneficent Providence to thrill us with
emotions. Was he going to stay? we asked with bated breath. Was he
going to serve Mass every morning instead of Peter? We could not excite
ourselves over Peter, who was a small, freckle-faced country boy,
awkwardly shy, and--I should judge--of a saturnine disposition. We had
met him once in the avenue, and had asked him if he had any brothers
or sisters. "Naw," was the reply. "I had a brother wanst, but he
died;--got out of it when he was a baby. He was a cute one, he was." A
speech which I can only hope was not so Schopenhauerish as it sounds.
And now, in Peter's place, came this mysterious, dark-eyed, and
altogether adorable stranger from beyond the seas. Annie Churchill,
who, for all her prayerfulness, had been fully alive to the situation,
opined that he was an "exile," and the phrase smote us to the heart. We
had read "Elizabeth; or the Exile of Siberia,"--it was in the school
library,--and here was a male Elizabeth under our ravished eyes.
"That's why he came to a convent," continued Annie, following up her
advantage; "to be hidden from all pursuit."
"No doubt he did," said Tony breathlessly, "and we'll have to be very
careful not to say anything about him to visitors. We might be the
occasion of his being discovered and sent back."
This thought was almost too painful to be borne. Upon our discretion
depended perhaps the safety of a heroic youth who had fled from tyranny
and cruel injustice. I was about to propose that we should bind
ourselves by a solemn vow never to mention his presence, save secretly
to one another, when Elizabeth--not the Siberian, but our own unexiled
Elizabeth--observed with that biting dryness which was the real secret
of her ascendency: "We'd better not say much about him, anyway. On our
own account, I mean." Which pregnant remark--the bell for "Christian
Instruction" ringing at that moment--sent us silent and meditative to
our desks.
So it was that Marianus came to the convent, and we gave him our seven
young hearts with unresisting enthusiasm. Viola's heart, indeed, was
held of small account, she being only ten years old; but Elizabeth was
twelve, and Marie and Annie were thirteen,--ages ripe for passion,
and remote from the taunt of immaturity. It was understood from the
beginning that we all loved Marianus with equal right and fervour. We
shared the emotion fairly and squarely, just as we shared an occasional
box of candy, or any other benefaction. It was our common secret,--our
fatal secret, we would have said,--and must be guarded with infinite
precaution from a cold and possibly disapproving world; but no one of
us dreamed of setting up a private romance of her own, of extracting
from the situation more than one sixth--leaving Viola out--of its
excitement and ecstasy.
We discovered in the course of time our exile's name and
nationality,--it was the chaplain who told us,--and also that he
was studying for the priesthood; this last information coming from
the mistress of recreation, and being plainly designed to dull our
interest from the start. She added that he neither spoke nor understood
anything but Italian, a statement which we determined to put to the
proof as soon as fortune should favour us with the opportunity. The
possession of an Italian dictionary became meanwhile imperative, and
we had no way of getting such a thing. We couldn't write home for one,
because our letters were all read before they were sent out, and any
girl would be asked why she had made this singular request. We couldn't
beg our mothers, even when we saw them, for dictionaries of a language
they knew we were not studying. Lilly said she thought she might ask
her father for one, the next time he came to the school. There is a
lack of intelligence, or at least of alertness, about fathers, which
makes them invaluable in certain emergencies; but which, on the other
hand, is apt to precipitate them into blunders. Mr. Milton promised
the dictionary, without putting any inconvenient questions, though
he must have been a little surprised at the scholarly nature of the
request; but just as he was going away, he said loudly and cheerfully:--
"Now what is it I am to bring you next time, children? Mint
candy, and handkerchiefs,--your Aunt Helen says you must live on
handkerchiefs,--and gloves for Viola, and a dictionary?"
He was actually shaking hands with Madame Bouron, the Mistress General,
as he spoke, and she turned to Lilly, and said:--
"Lilly, have you lost your French dictionary, as well as all your
handkerchiefs?"
"No, madame," said poor Lilly.
"It's an Italian dictionary she wants this time," corrected Mr. Milton,
evidently not understanding why Viola was poking him viciously in the
back.
"Lilly is not studying Italian. None of the children are," said Madame
Bouron. And then, very slowly, and with an emphasis which made two of
her hearers quake: "Lilly has no need of an Italian dictionary, Mr.
Milton. She had better devote more time and attention to her French."
"I nearly fainted on the spot," said Lilly, describing the scene to
us afterwards; "and father looked scared, and got away as fast as he
could; and Viola was red as a beet; and I thought surely Madame Bouron
was going to say something to me; but, thank Heaven! Eloise Didier
brought up her aunt to say good-by, and we slipped off. Do you think,
girls, she'll ask me what I wanted with an Italian dictionary?"
"Say you're going to translate Dante in the holidays," suggested Tony,
with unfeeling vivacity.
"Say you're going to Rome, to see the Pope," said Marie.
"Say you're such an accomplished French scholar, it's time you turned
your attention to something else," said Emily.
"Say you're making a collection of dictionaries," said the imp, Viola.
Lilly looked distressed. The humours of the situation were, perhaps,
less manifest to her perturbed mind. But Elizabeth, who had been
thinking the matter over, observed gloomily: "Oh, Boots" (our
opprobrious epithet for the Mistress General) "won't bother to ask
questions. She knows all she wants to know. She'll just watch us, and
see that we never get a chance to speak to Marianus. It was bad enough
before, but it will be worse than ever now. He might almost as well be
in Italy."
Things did seem to progress slowly, considering the passionate nature
of our devotion. Never was there such an utter absence of opportunity.
From the ringing of the first bell at quarter past six in the morning
to the lowering of the dormitory lights at nine o'clock at night, we
were never alone for a moment, but moved in orderly squadrons through
the various duties of the day. Marianus served Mass every morning, and
on Sundays assisted at Vespers and Benediction. Outside the chapel, we
never saw him. He lived in "Germany,"--a name given, Heaven knows why,
to a farm-house on the convent grounds, which was used as quarters for
the chaplain and for visitors; but though we cast many a longing look
in its direction, no dark Italian head was ever visible at window or at
door. I believe my own share of affection was beginning to wither under
this persistent blight, when something happened which not only renewed
its fervour, but which thrilled my heart with a grateful sentiment,
not wholly dead to-day.
It was May,--a month dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, and fuller than
usual of church-going, processions, and hymns. We were supposed to be,
or at least expected to be, particularly obedient and studious during
these four weeks; and, by way of incentive, each class had its candle,
tied with the class colour, and standing amid a lovely profusion of
spring flowers on the Madonna's altar. There were six of them: white
for the graduates, purple for the first class, blue for the second, red
for the third, green for the fourth, and pink for the fifth,--the very
little girls, for whom the discipline of school life was mercifully
relaxed. All the candles were lighted every morning during Mass, unless
some erring member of a class had, by misconduct the day before,
forfeited the honour, not only for herself, but for her classmates.
These tapers were my especial abhorrence. The laudable determination
of the third class to keep the red-ribboned candle burning all month
maddened me, both by the difficulties it presented, and by the meagre
nature of the consequences involved. I could not bring myself to
understand why they should care whether it were lit or not. To be sent
downstairs to a deserted music-room, there to spend the noon recreation
hour in studying Roman history or a French fable;--that was a penalty,
hard to avoid, but easy to understand. Common sense and a love of
enjoyment made it clear that no one should lightly run such risks. But
I had not imagination enough to grasp the importance of a candle more
or less upon the altar. It was useless to appeal to my love for the
Blessed Virgin. I loved her so well and so confidently, I had placed
my childish faith in her so long, that no doubt of her sympathy ever
crossed my mind. My own mother might side with authority. Indeed, she
represented the supreme, infallible authority, from which there was no
appeal. But in every trouble of my poor little gusty life, the Blessed
Mother sided with me. Of that, thank Heaven! I felt sure.
This month my path was darkened by a sudden decision on Elizabeth's
part that our candle should not be once extinguished. Elizabeth, to
do her justice, did not often incline to virtue; but when she did,
there was a scant allowance of cakes and ale for any of us. She never
deviated from her chosen course, and she never fully understood the
sincere but fallible nature of our unkept resolutions. I made my usual
frantic, futile effort to follow her lead, with the usual melancholy
failure. Before the first week was over, I had come into collision
with authority (it was a matter of arithmetic, which always soured
my temper to the snapping point); and the sixth of May saw five
candles only burning at the veiled Madonna's feet. I sat, angry and
miserable, while Madame Duncan, who had charge of the altar, lit the
faithful five, and retired with a Rhadamanthine expression to her
stall. Elizabeth, at the end of the bench, looked straight ahead, with
an expression, or rather an enforced absence of expression, which I
perfectly understood. She would not say anything, but none the less
would her displeasure be made chillingly manifest. Mass had begun.
The priest was reading the Introit, when Marianus lifted a roving
eye upon the Blessed Virgin's altar. It was not within his province;
he had nothing to do with its flowers or its tapers; but when did
generous mind pause for such considerations? He saw that one candle,
a candle with a drooping scarlet ribbon, was unlit; and, promptly
rising from his knees, he plunged into the sacristy, reappeared with
a burning wax-end, and repaired the error, while we held our breaths
with agitation and delight. Madame Duncan's head was lowered in seemly
prayer; but the ripple of excitement communicated itself mysteriously
to her, and she looked up, just as Marianus had deftly accomplished his
task. For an instant she half rose to her feet; and then the absurdity
of re-attacking the poor little red candle seemed to dawn on her (she
was an Irish nun, not destitute of humour), and with a fleeting smile
at me,--a smile in which there was as much kindness as amusement,--she
resumed her interrupted devotions.
But I tucked my crimson face into my hands, and my soul shouted with
joy. Marianus, our idol, our exile, the one true love of our six
hearts, had done this deed for me. Not only was I lifted from disgrace,
but raised to a preëminence of distinction; for had I not been saved
by _him_? Oh, true knight! Oh, chivalrous champion of the unhappy and
oppressed! When I recall that moment of triumph, it is even now with
a stir of pride, and of something more than pride, for I am grateful
still.
That night, that very night, I was just sinking into sleep when a hand
was laid cautiously upon my shoulder. I started up. It was too dark
to see anything clearly, but I knew that the shadow by my side was
Elizabeth. "Come out into the hall," she whispered softly. "You had
better creep back of the beds. Don't make any noise!"--and without a
sound she was gone.
I slipped on my wrapper,--night-gowns gleam so perilously white,--and
with infinite precaution stole behind my sleeping companions, each
one curtained safely into her little muslin alcove. At the end of the
dormitory I was joined by another silent figure,--it was Marie,--and
very gently we pushed open the big doors. The hall outside was flooded
with moonlight, and by the open window crouched a bunch of girls,
pressed close together,--so close it was hard to disentangle them.
A soft gurgle of delight bubbled up from one little throat, and was
instantly hushed down by more prudent neighbours. Elizabeth hovered
on the outskirts of the group, and, without a word, she pushed me to
the sill. Beneath, leaning against a tree, not thirty feet away, stood
Marianus. His back was turned to us, and he was smoking. We could see
the easy grace of his attitude,--was he not an Italian?--we could
smell the intoxicating fragrance of his cigar. Happily unaware of his
audience, he smoked, and contemplated the friendly moon, and wondered,
perhaps, why the Fates had cast him on this desert island, as remote
from human companionship as Crusoe's. Had he known of the six young
hearts that had been given him unbidden, it would probably have cheered
him less than we imagined.
But to us it seemed as though our shadowy romance had taken form and
substance. The graceless daring of Marianus in stationing himself
beneath our windows,--or at least beneath a window to which we had
possible access; the unholy lateness of the hour,--verging fast upon
half-past nine; the seductive moonlight; the ripe profligacy of the
cigar;--what was wanting to this night's exquisite adventure! As
I knelt breathless in the shadow, my head bobbing against Viola's
and Marie's, I thought of Italy, of Venice, of Childe Harold, of
everything that was remote, and beautiful, and unconnected with the
trammels of arithmetic. I heard Annie Churchill murmur that it was
like a serenade; I heard Tony's whispered conjecture as to whether the
silent serenader really knew where we slept;--than which nothing seemed
less likely;--I heard Elizabeth's warning "Hush!" whenever the muffled
voices rose too high above the stillness of the sleeping convent;
but nothing woke me from my dreams until Marianus slowly withdrew
his shoulder from the supporting tree, and sauntered away, without
turning his head once in our direction. We watched him disappear in the
darkness; then, closing the window, moved noiselessly back to bed. "Who
saw him first?" I asked at the dormitory door.
"I did," whispered Elizabeth; "and I called them all. I didn't intend
letting Viola know; but, of course, sleeping next to Lilly, she heard
me. She ought to be up in the 'Holy Child' dormitory with the other
little girls. It's ridiculous having her following us about everywhere."
And, indeed, Viola's precocious pertinacity made her a difficult
problem to solve. There are younger sisters who can be snubbed into
impotence. Viola was no such weakling.
But now the story which we thought just begun was drawing swiftly to
its close. Perhaps matters had reached a point when something had
to happen; yet it did seem strange--it seems strange even now--that
the crisis should have been precipitated by a poetic outburst on the
part of Elizabeth. Of all the six, she was the least addicted to
poetry. She seldom read it, and never spent long hours in copying it
in a blank-book, as was our foolish and laborious custom. She hated
compositions, and sternly refused the faintest touch of sentiment when
compelled to express her thoughts upon "The First Snow-drop," or "My
Guardian Angel," or the "Execution of Mary, Queen of Scots." Tony wrote
occasional verses of a personal and satiric character, which we held
to sparkle with a biting wit. Annie Churchill had once rashly shown
to Lilly and to me some feeble lines upon "The Evening Star." Deep
hidden in my desk, unseen by mortal eye save mine, lay an impassioned
"Soliloquy of Jane Eyre," in blank verse, which was almost volcanic in
its fervour, and which perished the following year, unmourned, because
unknown to the world. But Elizabeth had never shown the faintest
disposition to write anything that could be left unwritten, until
Marianus stirred the waters of her soul. That night, that moonlit
night, and the dark figure smoking in the shadows, cast their sweet
spell upon her. With characteristic promptness, she devoted her French
study hour the following afternoon to the composition of a poem, which
was completed when we went to class, and which she showed me secretly
while we were scribbling our _dictée_. There were five verses, headed
"To Marianus," and beginning,--
"Gracefully up the long aisle he glides,"
which was a poetic license, as the chapel aisle was short, and Marianus
had never glided up it since he came. He always--in virtue of his
office--entered by the sacristy door.
But realism was then as little known in literature as in art, and
poetry was not expected to savour of statement rather than emotion.
Elizabeth's masterpiece expressed in glowing numbers the wave of
sentiment by which we were submerged. Before night it had passed
swiftly from hand to hand, and before night the thunderbolt had
fallen. Whose rashness was to blame I do not now remember; but, thank
Heaven! it was not mine. Some one's giggle was too unsuppressed. Some
one thrust the paper too hurriedly into her desk, or dropped it on
the floor, or handed it to some one else in a manner too obviously
mysterious not to arouse suspicion. I only know that it fell into the
hands of little Madame Davide, who had the eyes of a ferret and the
heart of a mouse, and who, being unable to read a word of English, sent
it forthwith to Madame Bouron. I only know that, after that brief and
unsatisfactory glimpse in French class, I never saw it again; which
is why I can now recall but one line out of twenty,--a circumstance I
devoutly regret.
It was a significant proof of Madame Bouron's astuteness that, without
asking any questions, or seeking any further information, she summoned
six girls to her study that evening after prayers. She had only the
confiscated poem in Elizabeth's writing as a clue to the conspiracy,
but she needed nothing more. There we were, all duly indicted, save
Viola, whose youth, while it failed to protect us from the unsought
privilege of her society, saved her, as a rule, from any retributive
measures. Her absence on this occasion was truly a comfort, as her
presence would have involved the added and most unmerited reproach of
leading a younger child into mischief. Viola was small for her age,
and had appealing brown eyes. There was not a nun in the convent who
knew her for the imp she was. Lilly, gay, sweet, simple, generous, and
unselfish, seemed as wax in her little sister's hands.
There were six of us, then, to bear the burden of blame; and Madame
Bouron, sitting erect in the lamplight, apportioned it with an
unsparing hand. Her fine face (she was coldly handsome, but we did not
like her well enough to know it) expressed contemptuous displeasure;
her words conveyed a somewhat exaggerated confidence in our guilt. Of
Elizabeth's verses she spoke with icy scorn;--she had not been aware
that so gifted a writer graced the school; but the general impropriety
of our behaviour was unprecedented in the annals of the convent. That
we, members of the Society of St. Aloysius, should have shown ourselves
so unworthy of our privileges, and so forgetful of our patron, was
a surprise even to her; though (she was frankness itself) she had
never entertained a good opinion either of our dispositions or of our
intelligence. The result of such misconduct was that the chaplain's
assistant must leave at once and forever. Not that _he_ had ever
wasted a thought upon any girl in the school. His heart was set upon
the priesthood. Young though he was, he had already suffered for the
Church. His father had fought and died in defence of the Holy See. His
home had been lost. He was a stranger in a far land. And now he must be
driven from the asylum he had sought, because we could not be trusted
to behave with that modesty and discretion which had always been the
fairest adornment of children reared within the convent's holy walls.
She hoped that we would understand how grievous was the wrong we had
done, and that even our callous hearts would bleed when we went to our
comfortable beds, and reflected that, because of our wickedness and
folly, a friendless and pious young student was once more alone in the
world.
It was over! We trailed slowly up to the dormitory, too bewildered to
understand the exact nature of our misdoing. The most convincing proof
of our mental confusion is that our own immaculate innocence never
occurred to any of us. We had looked one night out of the window at
Marianus, and Elizabeth had written the five amorous verses. That was
all. Not one of us had spoken a word to the object of our affections.
Not one of us could boast a single glance, given or received. We had
done nothing; yet so engrossing had been the sentiment, so complete
the absorption of the past two months, that we, living in a children's
world of illusions,--"passionate after dreams, and unconcerned about
realities,"--had deemed ourselves players of parts, actors in an
unsubstantial drama, intruders into the realms of the forbidden. We
accepted this conviction with meekness, untempered by regret; but we
permitted ourselves a doubt as to whether our iniquity were wholly
responsible for the banishment of Marianus. The too strenuous pointing
of a moral breeds skepticism in the youthful soul. When Squire Martin
(of our grandfathers' reading-books) assured Billy Freeman that dogs
and turkey-cocks were always affable to children who studied their
lessons and obeyed their parents, that innocent little boy must have
soon discovered for himself that virtue is but a weak bulwark in the
barnyard. We, too, had lost implicit confidence in the fine adjustments
of life; and, upon this occasion, we found comfort in incredulity. On
the stairs Elizabeth remarked to me in a gloomy undertone that Marianus
could never have intended to stay at the convent, anyhow, and that he
probably had been "sent for." She did not say whence, or by whom; but
the mere suggestion was salve to my suffering soul. It enabled me, at
least, to bear the sight of Annie Churchill's tears, when, ten minutes
later, that weak-minded girl slid into my alcove (as if we were not in
trouble enough already), and, sitting forlornly on my bed, asked me in
a stifled whisper, "did I think that Marianus was really homeless, and
couldn't we make up a sum of money, and send it to him?"
"How much have you got?" I asked her curtly. The complicated emotions
through which I had passed had left me in a savage humour; and the
peculiar infelicity of this proposal might have irritated St. Aloysius
himself. We were not allowed the possession of our own money, though
in view of the fact that there was ordinarily nothing to buy with it,
extravagance would have been impossible. Every Thursday afternoon
the "Bazaar" was opened; our purses, carefully marked with name and
number, were handed to us, and we were at liberty to purchase such
uninteresting necessities as writing-paper, stamps, blank-books,
pencils, and sewing materials. The sole concession to prodigality was
a little pile of pious pictures,--small French prints, ornamented with
lace paper, which it was our custom to give one another upon birthdays
and other festive occasions. They were a great resource in church,
where prayer-books, copiously interleaved with these works of art, were
passed to and fro for mutual solace and refreshment.
All these things were as well known to Annie as to me, but she was too
absorbed in her grief to remember them. She mopped her eyes, and said
vacantly that she thought she had a dollar and a half.
"I have seventy-five cents," I said; "and Elizabeth hasn't anything.
She spent all her money last Thursday. We might be able to raise five
dollars amongst us. If you think that much would be of any use to
Marianus, all you have to do is to ask Madame Bouron for our purses,
and for his address, and see if she would mind our writing and sending
it to him."
Annie, impervious at all times to sarcasm, looked dazed for a moment,
her wet blue eyes raised piteously to mine. "Then you think we couldn't
manage it?" she asked falteringly.
But I plunged my face into my wash-basin, as a hint that the
conversation was at an end. I, too, needed the relief of tears, and was
waiting impatiently to be alone.
For Marianus had gone. Of that, at least, there was no shadow of doubt.
We should never see him again; and life seemed to stretch before
me in endless grey reaches of grammar, and arithmetic, and French
conversation; of getting up early in the morning, uncheered by the
thought of seeing Marianus serve Mass; of going to bed at night, with
never another glance at that dark shadow in the moonlight. I felt that
for me the page of love was turned forever, the one romance of my life
was past. I cried softly and miserably into my pillow; and resolved, as
I did so, that the next morning I would write on the fly-leaves of my
new French prayer-book and my "Thomas à Kempis" the lines:--
"'Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all."
The Convent Stage
"From this hour I do renounce the creed whose fatal worship of bad
passions has led thee on, step by step, to this blood-guiltiness!"
Elizabeth was studying her part. We were all studying our parts; but we
stopped to listen to this glowing bit of declamation, which Elizabeth
delivered with unbroken calm. "I drop down on my knees when I say
that," she observed gloomily.
We looked at her with admiring, envious eyes. Our own rôles offered
no such golden opportunities. Lilly's, indeed, was almost as easily
learned as Snug's, being limited to three words, "The Christian slave?"
which were supposed to be spoken interrogatively; but which she
invariably pronounced as an abstract statement, bearing on nothing in
particular. It was seldom, however, that we insignificant little girls
of the Second Cours were permitted to take part in any play, and we
felt to the full the honour and glory of our positions. "I come on in
three scenes, and speak eleven times," I said, with a pride which I
think now strongly resembled Mr. Rushworth's. "What are you, Tony?"
"A beggar child," said Tony. "I cry 'Bread! bread!' in piercing
accents" (she was reading from the stage directions), "and afterwards
say to Zara,--that's Mary Orr,--'Our thanks are due to thee, noble
lady, who from thy abundance feeds us once. Our love and blessings
follow her who gave us daily of her slender store.'"
"Is that all?"
"The other beggar child says nothing but 'Bread! bread!'" replied Tony
stiffly.
"What a lot of costumes to get up for so many little parts!" commented
Elizabeth, ever prone to consider the practical aspect of things.
"I am dressed in rags," said Tony. "They oughtn't to give much trouble."
"Lilly and I are to be dressed alike," I said. "'Slaves of the royal
household.' Madame Rayburn said we were to wear Turkish trousers of
yellow muslin, with blue tunics, and red sashes tied at the side. Won't
we look like guys?"
I spoke with affected disdain and real complacency, gloating--like Mr.
Rushworth--over the finery I pretended to despise. Elizabeth stared at
us dispassionately. "Lilly will look well in anything," she remarked
with disconcerting candour, at which Lilly blushed a lovely rose pink.
She knew how pretty she was, but she had that exquisite sweetness of
temper which is so natural an accompaniment of beauty. Perhaps we
should all be sweet-tempered if we could feel sure that people looked
at us with pleasure.
"You will have to wear Turkish trousers, too," said Tony maliciously to
Elizabeth; "and get down on your knees in them."
"No, I won't," returned Elizabeth scornfully. "I'm not a Turk. I'm a
Moorish princess,--Zara's niece."
"Moors and Turks are the same," said Tony with conviction.
"Moors and Turks are not the same," said Elizabeth. "Turks live in
Turkey, and Moors live--Whereabouts is this play, anyway, Marie?"
"Granada," said Marie. "The Spanish army, under Ferdinand and Isabella,
is besieging Granada. I wish I were a Moor instead of a pious Spanish
lady. It would be a great deal more fun. I've always got pious parts."
This was true, but then most of the parts in our convent plays
_were_ pious, and if they were given to Marie, it was because she
was so good an actress,--the only one our Second Cours could boast.
Elizabeth, indeed, had her merits. She never forgot her lines, never
was frightened, never blundered. But her absolutely unemotional
rendering of the most heroic sentiments chilled her hearers' hearts.
Marie was fervid and impassioned. Her _r-r_'s had the true Gallic
roll. Her voice vibrated feelingly. She was tall for thirteen, without
being hopelessly overgrown as Emily and I were. Strangest of all, she
did not seem to mind the foolish and embarrassing things which she
was obliged to do upon the stage. She would fling her arms around an
aged parent, and embrace her fondly. She would expound the truths of
Christianity, as St. Philomena. She would weep, and pray, and forgive
her enemies, as the luckless Madame Elisabeth. What is more, she would
do these things at rehearsals, in her short school frock, with unabated
fervour, and without a shade of embarrassment. We recognized her as a
Heaven-sent genius, second only to Julia Reynolds and Antoinette Mayo
(who I still think _must_ have been the greatest of living actresses),
yet in our secret souls we despised a little such absolute lack of
self-consciousness. We were so awkward and abashed when brought face
to face with any emotion, so incapable of giving it even a strangled
utterance, that Marie's absorption in her parts seemed to us a trifle
indecent. It was on a par with her rapid French, her lively gestures,
her openly expressed affection for the nuns she liked, and the
unconcern with which she would walk up the long classroom, between
two rows of motionless girls, to have a medal hung around her neck
on Sunday night at Primes. This hideous ordeal, which clouded our
young lives, was no more to Marie than walking upstairs,--no more than
unctuously repeating every day for a fortnight the edifying remarks of
the pious Spanish lady.
Plays were the great diversions of our school life. We had two or
three of them every winter, presented, it seemed to me, with dazzling
splendour, and acted with passionate fire. I looked forward to these
performances with joyful excitement, I listened, steeped in delight,
I dreamed of them afterwards for weeks. The big girls who played in
them, and of whom I knew little but their names, were to me beings of
a remote and exalted nature. The dramas themselves were composed with
a view to our especial needs, or rather to our especial limitations.
Their salient feature was the absence of courtship and of love. It
was part of the convent system to ignore the master passion, to assume
that it did not exist, to banish from our work and from our play any
reference to the power that moves the world. The histories we studied
skipped chastely on from reign to reign, keeping always at bay this
riotous intruder. The books we read were as free as possible from any
taint of infection. The poems we recited were as serene and cold as
Teneriffe. "Love in the drama," says an acrimonious critic, "plays
rather a heavy part." It played no part at all in ours, and I am
disposed to look back now upon its enforced absence as an agreeable
elimination. The students of St. Omer--so I have been told--presented
a French version of "Romeo and Juliet," with all the love scenes
left out. This _tour de force_ was beyond our scope; but "She Stoops
to Conquer," shorn of its double courtship, made a vivacious bit of
comedy, and a translation of "Le Malade Imaginaire"--expurgated to
attenuation--was the most successful farce of the season.
Of course the expurgation was not done by us. We knew Goldsmith and
Molière only in their convent setting, where, it is safe to say, they
would never have known themselves. Most of our plays, however, were
original productions, written by some one of the nuns whose talents
chanced to be of a dramatic order. They were, as a rule, tragic in
character, and devout in sentiment,--sometimes so exceedingly devout
as to resemble religious homilies rather than the legitimate drama. A
conversation held in Purgatory, which gave to three imprisoned souls
an opportunity to tell one another at great length, and with shameless
egotism, the faults and failings of their lives, was not--to our way
of thinking--a play. We listened unmoved to the disclosures of these
garrulous spirits, who had not sinned deeply enough to make their
revelations interesting. It was like going to confession on a large
and liberal scale. The martyrdom of St. Philomena was nearly as dull,
though the saint's defiance of the tyrant Symphronius--"persecutor of
the innocent, slayer of the righteous, despot whose knell has even
this hour rung"--lent a transient gleam of emotion; and the angel who
visited her in prison--and who had great difficulty getting his wings
through the narrow prison door--was, to my eyes at least, a vision of
celestial beauty.
What we really loved were historical dramas, full of great names and
affecting incidents. Our crowning triumph (several times repeated)
was "Zuma," a Peruvian play in which an Indian girl is accused of
poisoning the wife of the Spanish general, when she is really trying
to cure her of a fever by giving her quinine, a drug known only to
the Peruvians, and the secret of which the young captive has sworn
never to divulge. "Zuma" was a glorious play. Its first production
marked an epoch in our lives. Gladly would we have given it a season's
run, had such indulgence been a possibility. There was one scene
between the heroine and her free and unregenerate sister, Italca,
which left an indelible impression upon my mind. It took place in a
subterranean cavern. The stage was darkened, and far-off music--the
sound of Spanish revelry--floated on the air. Italca brings Zuma a
portion of bark, sufficient only for her own needs,--for she too is
fever-stricken,--but, before giving it, asks with piercing scorn: "Are
you still an Inca's daughter, or a Castilian slave?"--a question at
which poor Zuma can only weep piteously, but which sent thrills of
rapture down my youthful spine. I have had my moments of emotion since
then. When Madame Bernhardt as La Tosca put the lighted candles on
either side of the murdered Scarpia, and laid the crucifix upon his
breast. When Madame Duse as Magda turned suddenly upon the sleek Von
Keller, and for one awful moment loosened the floodgates of her passion
and her scorn: "You have asked after Emma and after Katie. You have not
asked for your child." But never again has my soul gone out in such a
tumult of ecstasy as when Zuma and Italca, Christian and Pagan sisters,
the captive and the unconquered, faced each other upon our convent
stage.
And now for the first time I--I, eleven years old, and with no shadowy
claim to distinction--was going to take part in a play, was going to
tread the boards in yellow Turkish trousers, and speak eleven times for
all the school to hear. No fear of failure, no reasonable misgivings
fretted my heart's content. Marie might scorn the Spanish lady's rôle;
but then Marie had played "Zuma,"--had reached at a bound the highest
pinnacle of fame. Elizabeth might grumble at giving up our recreation
hours to rehearsals; but then Elizabeth had been one of the souls in
Purgatory, the sinfullest soul, and the most voluble of all. Besides,
nothing ever elated Elizabeth. She had been selected once to make an
address to the Archbishop, and to offer him a basket of flowers; he had
inquired her name, and had said he knew her father; yet all this public
notice begot in her no arrogance of soul. Her only recorded observation
was to the effect that, if she were an archbishop, she wouldn't listen
to addresses; a suggestion which might have moved the weary and patient
prelate more than did the ornate assurances of our regard.
With this shining example of insensibility before my eyes, I tried
hard to conceal my own inordinate pride. Rehearsals began before we
knew our parts, and the all-important matter of costumes came at once
under consideration. The "play-closet," that mysterious receptacle
of odds and ends, of frayed satins, pasteboard swords, and tarnished
tinsel jewelry, was soon exhausted of its treasures. Some of the bigger
girls, who were to be Spanish ladies in attendance upon Queen Isabella,
persuaded their mothers to lend them old evening gowns. The rest of
the clothes we manufactured ourselves, "by the pure light of reason,"
having no models of any kind to assist or to disturb us.
Happily, there were no Spanish men in the play. Men always gave a good
deal of trouble, because they might not, under any circumstances, be
clad in male attire. A short skirt, reaching to the knee, and generally
made of a balmoral petticoat, was the nearest compromise permitted.
Marlow, that consummate dandy, wore, I remember, a red and black
striped skirt, rubber boots, a black jacket, a high white collar, and
a red cravat. The cravat was given to Julia Reynolds, who played the
part, by her brother. It indicated Marlow's sex, and was considered
a little indecorous in its extreme mannishness. "They'll hardly know
what she" (Mrs. Potts) "is meant for, will they?" asks Mr. Snodgrass
anxiously, when that estimable lady proposes going to Mrs. Leo Hunter's
fancy ball as Apollo, in a white satin gown with spangles. To which
Mr. Winkle makes indignant answer: "Of course they will. They'll see
her lyre." With the same admirable acumen, we who saw Marlow's cravat
recognized him immediately as a man.
Moors, and Peruvians, and ancient Romans were more easily attired.
They wore skirts as a matter of course, looked a good deal alike,
and resembled in the main the "Two Gentlemen of Verona," as costumed
by Mr. Abbey. It is with much pleasure I observe how closely--if how
unconsciously--Mr. Abbey has followed our convent models. His Valentine
might be Manco or Cléante strutting upon our school stage. His Titania
is a white-veiled first communicant.
The Turkish trousers worn by Lilly and by me--also by Elizabeth, to
her unutterable disgust--were allowed because they were portions of
feminine attire. Made of rattling paper muslin, stiff, baggy, and
with a hideous tendency to slip down at every step, they evoked the
ribald mirth of all the other actors. Mary Orr, especially, having
firmly declined a pair as part of Zara's costume, was moved to such
unfeeling laughter at the first dress rehearsal that I could hardly
summon courage to stand by Lilly's side. "The more you show people you
mind a thing, the more they'll do it;" Elizabeth had once observed
out of the profundity of her school experience,--an experience which
dated from her seventh year. Her own armour of assumed unconcern was
provocation-proof. She had mistrusted the trousers from the beginning,
while I, thinking of Lalla Rookh and Nourmahal (ladies unknown to the
convent library), had exulted in their opulent Orientalism. She had
expressed dark doubts as to their fit and shape; and had put them on
with visible reluctance, and only because no choice had been allowed
her. The big girls arranged--within limits--their own costumes, but
the little girls wore what was given them. Yet the impenetrable calm
with which she presented herself dulled the shafts of schoolgirl
sarcasm. You might as well have tried to cauterize a wooden leg--to use
Mirabeau's famous simile--as to have tried to provoke Elizabeth.