She was in the music-room, looking through the first act of "Grania,"
and thinking that perhaps after all she might remain on the stage and
create the part. Her father had gone to St. Joseph's for choir practice,
Ulick had gone to London for strings for her viola da gamba; and all the
morning she had been uneasy and expectant. The feeling never quite left
her that something was about to happen, that she was to meet
someone--someone for whom she had been waiting a long while. So she
started on hearing the front door bell ring. She could think of no one
whom it might be unless Owen. If it were, what would she say? And she
waited, eager for the servant to announce the visitor. It was Monsignor
Mostyn.
She was dressed in a muslin tea-gown over shot green silk, and was
conscious of her triviality as she stood before the tall, spare
ecclesiastic. She admired the calm, refined beauty of his face, the
bright, dark eyes and the thin features, steadfast and aloof as some
saints she had seen in pictures.
"I called to see your father, Miss Innes, but he is not in, and hearing
that you were, I asked to see you. For my business is really with you,
that is, if you can spare the time?"
"Won't you sit down, Monsignor?"
"I have come, Miss Innes, to remind you of a promise that you once made
me."
The colour returned to her cheeks, and a smile to her lips. But she did
not remember, and was slightly embarrassed.
"Did I make you a promise?"
"Have you forgotten my speaking to you about some poor sisters who might
be driven from their convent if they failed to pay the interest on a
mortgage?"
"Ah, yes, on the night of the concert."
"They have paid the interest and kept a roof over their heads, but in
doing so they have exhausted their resources; and not to put too fine a
point upon it, I am afraid they often have not enough to eat. Something
must be done for them. I thought that a concert would be the quickest
way of getting them some money."
"You want me to sing?"
"It really would be a charitable action."
"I shall be delighted to sing for them. Where is this convent?"
"At Wimbledon."
"My old convent! The Passionist Sisters!"
"Your old convent?"
"Yes," Evelyn replied, the colour rising slightly to her cheeks. "I made
a retreat there, long ago, before I went on the stage."
She was grieved to hear that the Reverend Mother she had known was dead;
she had died two years ago, and Mother Margaret was dead too. Monsignor
could tell her nothing about Sister Bonaventure. Mother Philippa was the
sub-prioress; and in the midst of her questions he explained how the
financial difficulties had arisen. They were, he said, the result of the
imprudences of the late Reverend Mother, one of the best and holiest of
women, but unfortunately not endowed with sufficient business foresight.
He was quite prepared to admit that the little wooden chapel which had
preceded the present chapel was inadequate, and that she was justified
in building another, but not in expending nearly one thousand pounds in
stained glass. The new chapel had cost ten thousand pounds, and the
interest of this money had to be paid. There were other debts--
"But there is no reason why I should weary you with an exact statement."
"But you do not weary me, Monsignor; I am, on the contrary, deeply
interested."
"The convent owes a great deal to the late Reverend Mother, and the last
thing I wish to express is disapproval. We do not know the
circumstances, and must not judge her; we know that she acted for the
best. No doubt she is now praying to God to secure the safety of her
convent."
Evelyn sat watching him, fascinated by the clear, peremptory,
ecclesiastical dignity which he represented. If he had a singing voice,
she said to herself, it would be a tenor. He had allowed the
conversation to wander from the convent to the concert; and they were
soon talking of their musical preferences. There was an impersonal
tenderness, a spiritual solicitude in his voice which enchained her; no
single idea held her, but wave after wave of sensation passed,
transforming and dissolving, changeable as a cloud. Human life demands
hope, and the priest is a symbol of hope; there is always a moment when
the religionist doubts, and there is also a moment when the atheist
says, "Who knows, perhaps." And this man had done what she had not been
able to do: he had put aside the paltry pleasures of the world, he
placed his faith in things beyond the world, pleasures which perchance
were not paltry. An entirely sensual life was a terrible oppression;
hers often weighed upon her like a nightmare; to be happy one must have
an ideal and strive to live up to it. Her mind flickered and sank,
changing rapidly as an evening sky, never coming to anything distinct
enough to be called a thought. She desired to hear him speak, she felt
that she must speak to him about religion; she wanted to know if he were
sure, and how he had arrived at his certitudes.... She wanted to talk to
him about life, death and immortality. She had tried to lead the
conversation into a religious discussion, but he seemed to avoid it, and
just as she was about to put a definite question, Ulick came into the
room. He stood crushing his grey felt hat between his hands, a somewhat
curious figure, and she watched him talking to Monsignor, thinking of
the difference of vision. As Ulick said, everything was in that. Men
were divided by the difference of their visions. She was curious to know
how the dogmatic and ritualistic vision of Monsignor affected Ulick, and
when the prelate left she asked him.
He was as ingenuous and unexpected on this subject as he was on all
subjects. If the antique priest, he said, clothed himself in purple, it
was to produce an exaltation in himself which would bring him closer to
the idea, which would render him, as it were, accessible to it. But the
vestments of the modern priest had lost their original meaning, they
were mere parade. This explanation was very like Ulick; she smiled, and
was interested, but her interest was passing and superficial. The advent
of the priest had moved her in the depths of her being, and her mind was
thick with lees of ancient sentiment, and wrecks of belief had floated
up and hung in mid memory. She knew that the beauty of the ritual, the
eternal psalms, the divine sacrifice, the very ring of the bell, the
antiquity of the language, lifted her out of herself, and into a higher,
a more intense ecstasy than the low medium of this world's desires. And
if she did not believe that the bread and wine were the true body and
blood of God, she still believed in the real Presence. She was aware of
it as she might be of the presence of someone in the room, though he
might be hidden from her eyes. Though the bread and wine might not be
the body and blood of Christ, still the act of consecration did seem to
her to call down the spirit of God, and it had seemed to her to inhabit
the church at the moment of consecration. It might not be true to Owen,
nor yet to Ulick, but it was true to her--it was a difference of
vision.... She sat buried in herself. Then she walked to the window
confused and absorbed, with something of the dread of a woman who finds
herself suddenly with child. When Ulick came to her she did not notice
him, and when he asked her to do some music with him she refused, and
when he put his arms about her she drew away sullenly, almost
resentfully.
A few days after she was in Park Lane. She had gone there to pay some
bills, and she was going through them when she was startled by the front
door bell. It was a visitor without doubt. Her thoughts leaped to
Monsignor, and her face lighted up. But he did not know she was at Park
Lane; he would not go there.... It was Owen come up from Bath. What
should she say to him? Good heavens! It was too late to say she was not
at home. He was already on the stairs. And when he entered he divined
that he was not welcome. They sat opposite each other, trying to talk.
Suddenly he besought her not to throw him over.... She had to refuse to
kiss him, and that was convincing, he said. Once a woman was not greedy
for kisses, the end was near. And his questions were to the point, and
irritatingly categorical. Had she ever been unfaithful to him? Did she
love Ulick Dean? Not content with a simple denial, he took her by both
hands, and looking her straight in the face, asked her to give him her
word of honour that Ulick Dean was not her lover, that she had never
kissed him, that she had never even desired to kiss him, that no idea of
love making had ever arisen between them. She pledged her word on every
point, and this was the second time that her _liaison_ with Ulick had
obliged her to lie, deliberately in so many words. Nor did the lying
even end there. He wanted her to stay, to dine with him; she had to
invent excuses--more lies.
She was returning to Dulwich in her carriage, and until she arrived home
her thoughts hankered and gnawed, pestered and terrified her. Never had
she felt so ashamed, so disgusted with herself, and the after taste of
the falsehoods she had told came back into her mouth, and her face grew
dark in the beautiful summer evening. Her brows were knit, and she
resolved that if the occasion happened again, she would tell Owen the
truth. This was no mock determination; on this point she was quite sure
of herself. Looking round she saw the mean streets of Camberwell. She
saw them for a moment, and then she sank back into her reverie.
She was deceiving Owen, she was deceiving her father, she was deceiving
Ulick, she was deceiving Monsignor--he would not have thought of asking
her to sing at the concert if he knew what a life was hers. Nor would
those good women at the convent accept her aid if they knew what kind of
woman she was. And the strange thing was that she did not believe
herself to be a bad woman; at the bottom of her heart she loved truth
and sincerity. She wished to have an ideal and to live up to it, yet she
was doing the very opposite. That was what was so strange, that was what
she did not understand, that was what made her incomprehensible to
herself. She sighed, and at the bottom of her heart there lay an immense
weariness, a weariness of life, of the life she was leading, and she
longed for a life that would coincide with her principles, and she felt
that if she did not change her life, she would do something desperate.
She might kill herself.
It is true that man is a moral animal, but it is not true that there is
but one morality; there are a thousand, the morality of each race is
different, the morality of every individual differs. The origin of each
sect is the desire to affirm certain moral ideas which particularly
appeal to it; every change of faith is determined by the moral
temperament of the individual; we prefer this religion to that religion
because our moral ideas are more implicit in these affirmations than in
those.
The restriction of sexual intercourse is the moral ideal of Western
Europe; it is the one point on which all Christians are agreed; it is
the one point on which they all feel alike. So inherent is the idea of
sexual continence in the Western hemisphere that even those whose
practice does not coincide with their theory rarely impugn the wisdom of
the law which they break; they prefer to plead the weakness of the flesh
as their excuse, and it is with reluctance that they admit that without
an appeal to conscience it would be impossible to prove that it is wrong
for two unmarried people to live together. It is not perceived that the
fact that no material proof can be produced strengthens rather than
weakens the position of the moralist. To do unto others as you would be
done unto, to love your neighbour as yourself, are practical moralities
which may be derived from social necessities, but the abstract
moralities, that sexual intercourse is wrong except between married
people, and that it is wrong to tell a lie, even if the lie be a
perfectly harmless one, exist of themselves. That we cannot bring
abstract moralities into the focus of our understanding is no argument.
As well deny the stars because we cannot understand them. That abstract
moralities impose on us should be a sufficient argument that they cannot
be the futilities that Owen would argue them to be--not them, he only
protested against one.... (She had not thought of that before--Owen was
no more rational than she.) That the idea of chastity should persist in
spite of reason is proof of its truth. For what more valid argument in
favour of a chaste life than that the instinct of chastity abides in us?
After all, what we feel to be true is for us the greatest truth, if not
the only real truth. Ulick was nearer the truth than Owen. He had said,
"A sense which eludes all the other senses and which is not
apprehensible to reason governs the world, all the rest is
circumstantial, ephemeral. Were man stripped one by one of all his
attributes, his intelligence, his knowledge, his industry, as each of
these shunks was broken up and thrown aside, the kernel about which they
had gathered would be a moral sense."
Evelyn remembered that when she had sent Owen away before, he had said,
"Sexual continence at best is not the whole of morality; from your use
of the word one would think that it was." But for her the sexual
conscience was the entire conscience--she had no temptation to steal.
There was lying, but she was never tempted to tell lies except for one
reason; she could not think of herself telling a lie for any other. To
her the sexual sin included all the others. She turned her head aside,
for the bitterness of her conscience was unendurable, and she vowed
that, whatever happened, she would speak the truth if Owen questioned
her again. She could never bring herself to tell such horrible
falsehoods again.
These revulsions of feeling alternated with remembrances of Owen's
tenderness; fugitive sensations of him tingled in her veins, and
ill-disposed her to Ulick. She spoke little, and sat with averted eyes.
When he asked her if he should come to her room, she answered him
peremptorily; and he heard her lock her door with a determined hand.
As she lay in bed, conscious of the inextricable tangle of her life, it
was knotting so closely and rapidly that her present double life could
not endure much longer, the odious taste of the lies she had told that
afternoon rose again to her lips, and, as if to quench the bitterness,
she vowed that she would tell Owen the truth ... if he asked her. If he
did not ask her she would have to bear the burden of her lies. She tried
not to wish that he might ask her. Then questions sallied from every
side. She could not marry Owen without telling him about Ulick. She
could not marry Ulick without telling him that she had been unfaithful
to him with Owen. Should she send away Owen and marry Ulick, or would it
be better to send away Ulick and marry Owen--if he would marry her after
he had heard her confession? It was unendurable to have to tell lies all
day long--yes, all day long--of one sort or another. She ought to send
them both away.... But could she remain on the stage without a lover?
Could she go to Bayreuth by herself? Could she give up the stage? And
then?
She awoke in a different mood--at least, it seemed to her that her mood
was different. She was not thinking of Owen, of the lies she had told
him; and she could talk gaily with Ulick about the concert she had
promised to sing at. She seemed inclined to take the whole
responsibility of this concert upon her own shoulders. As Ulick said, it
was impossible for her to take a small part in any concert.
They were driving in Richmond Park, not far from the convent. The
autumn-tinted landscape, the vicissitudes of the woods, and the
plaintive air brought a tender yearning into her mood, and she
contrasted the lives of those poor, holy women with her own life. Ulick
did not intrude himself; he sat silent by her, and she thought of
Monsignor. Sometimes he was no more than a little shadow in the
background of her mind; but he was never wholly absent, and that day all
matters were unconsciously referred to him. She was curious to know what
his opinions were of the stage; and as they returned home in the short,
luminous autumn evening, she seemed to discover suddenly the fact that
she was no longer as much interested in the stage as she used to be. She
even thought that she would not greatly care if she never sang on the
stage again. Last night she had put the thought aside as if it were
madness, to-day it seemed almost natural. Thinking of the poor sisters
who lived in prayer and poverty on the edge of the common, she
remembered that her life was given up to the portrayal of sensual
emotion on the stage. She remembered the fierce egotism of the stage--an
egotism which pursued her into every corner of her life. Compared with
the lives of the poor sisters who had renounced all that was base in
them, her life was very base indeed. In her stage life she was an agent
of the sensual passion, not only with her voice, but with her arms, her
neck and hair, and every expression of her face, and it was the craving
of the music that had thrown her into Ulick's arms. If it had subjugated
her, how much more would it subjugate and hold within its sensual
persuasion the ignorant listener--the listener who would perceive in the
music nothing but its sensuality. Why had the Church not placed stage
life under the ban of mortal sin? It would have done so if it knew what
stage life was, and must always be. She then wondered what Monsignor
thought of the stage, and from the moment her curiosity was engaged on
this point it did not cease to trouble her till it brought her to the
door of the presbytery. The ostensible object of her visit was to make
certain proposals to Monsignor regarding the music she was to sing at
the concert.
She was shown into a small room; its one window was so high up on the
wall that the light was dim in the room, though outside there was
brilliant sunshine. The sadness of the little room struck cold upon her,
and she noticed the little space of floor covered with cocoa-nut
matting, and how it grated under the feet. The furniture was a polished
oak table, with six chairs to match. A pious print hung on each wall.
One was St. Monica and St. Augustine, and the rapt expression of their
faces reminded her that she might be bartering a divine inheritance for
a coarse pleasure that left but regret in the heart. And it was in such
heartsick humour that Monsignor found her. He seemed to assume that she
needed his help, and the tender solicitude with which he wished to come
to her aid was in itself a consolation. She was already an incipient
penitent as she told him of her project to bring an orchestra at her own
expense to Wimbledon, and give the forest murmurs with the Bird Song
from "Siegfried." Monsignor left everything to her; he placed himself
unreservedly in her hands. After a long silence she pushed a cheque for
fifty pounds across the table, begging him not to mention the name of
the giver. She was singing for them, that was sufficient obligation. He
approved of her delicacy of feeling, thanked her for her generosity,
and the business of the interview seemed ended.
"I'm so much obliged to you, Monsignor Mostyn, for having come to me,
for having given me an opportunity of doing some good with my money.
Hitherto, I'm ashamed to say, I've spent it all on myself. It has often
seemed to me intolerably selfish, and I often felt that I must do
something, only I did not know what to do."
Then, feeling that she must take him into her confidence, she asked him
what proportion of our income we should devote to charity. He said it
was impossible to fix a precise sum, but he knew many deserving cases,
and offered to advise her in the distribution of whatever money she
might decide to spend in charity. Suddenly his manner changed; he even
seemed to wish her to stay, and the conversation turned back to music.
The conversation was mundane as possible, and it was only now and then,
by some slight allusion to the Church, that he reminded Evelyn, and
perchance himself, that the essential must be distinguished from the
circumstantial.
Again and again the temptation rose up, it seemed to look out from her
very eyes, and she was so conscious of this irresistible desire to speak
to him of herself that she no longer heard him, and hardly saw the blank
wall with the pious print upon it.
"I have not told you, Monsignor," she said at last, "that I am leaving
the stage."
She knew that he must ask her what had induced her to think of taking so
important a step, and then she would have an opportunity of asking his
opinion of the stage. Of course neither Ulick's nor Owen's name would be
mentioned.
"As at present constituted, the stage is a dangerous influence. Some
women no doubt are capable of resisting evil even when surrounded by
evil. Even so they set a bad example, for the very knowledge of their
virtue tempts others less sure of themselves to engage in the same life,
and these weak ones fall. The virtuous actress is like a false light,
which instead of warning vessels from the rocks entices them to their
ruin."
He did not indite the Oberammergau Passion Play, but he could not accept
"Parsifal." He had heard Catholics aver, while approving of the
performance of "Parsifal," that they would not wish to see the piece
performed out of Bayreuth. But he failed to understand this point of
view altogether. It seemed to assume that a parody of the Mass was
unobjectionable at Bayreuth, though not elsewhere. If there was no
parody of the Mass, why should they say that they would not like to see
the piece performed elsewhere? He had read the book and knew the music,
and could not understand how a great work of art could contain scenes
from real life. Whether these be religious ceremonies or social
functions, the artistic sin is the same. He asked Evelyn why she was
smiling, and she told him that it was because the only two whom she had
heard disapprove of "Parsifal" were Monsignor Mostyn and Ulick Dean. It
seemed strange that two such extremes should agree regarding the
profligacy of "Parsifal." Monsignor was interested for a moment in Ulick
Dean's views, and then he said--
"But was it with the intention of consulting me, Miss Innes, that you
introduced the subject? I hear that you are going to play the principal
part next year--Kundry."
"Nothing is settled. As I told you just now, Monsignor, I am thinking of
leaving the stage, and your opinions concerning it do not encourage me
to remain an actress."
"My dear child, you have had the good fortune to be brought up in holy
Church. You have, I hope, constant recourse to the sacraments. You have
confided the difficulties of your stage life to your confessor. How does
he advise you?"