When the Princess Chiaromonte was getting well, she asked some
questions of her doctor, to which he replied as truthfully as he
could. She inquired, for instance, whether she had been delirious at
the beginning, and whether she had talked much when her mind was
wandering, and his answers disturbed her a little. As sometimes
happens in such cases, she had disjointed recollections of what she
had said, and vague visions of herself that were not mere creations of
her imagination. It was like a dream that had not been quite a dream;
opium-eaters know what the sensation is better than other men. Under
the influence of laudanum, or the pipe, or the hypodermic, they have
talked brilliantly, but they cannot remember what the conversation was
about; or else they know that they have been furiously angry, but
cannot recall the cause of their wrath nor the person on whom it was
vented; or they have betrayed a secret, but for their lives they could
not say who it was to whom they told it. The middle-aged woman of the
world felt that her reputation was a coat of many colours, and her
past, when she looked back to it, was like a badly-constructed play in
which the stage is crowded with personages who have little connection
with each other. There was much which she herself did not care to
remember, but much more that no one else need ever know; and as she
had never before been delirious, nor even ill, the thought that she
had now perhaps revealed incidents of her past life was anything but
pleasant.
'It is so very disagreeable to think that I may have talked nonsense,'
she said to the doctor, examining one of her white hands thoughtfully.
'Do not disturb yourself about that,' he answered in a reassuring
tone, for he understood much better than she guessed. 'A good trained
nurse is as silent about such accidental confessions as a good priest
is about intentional ones.'
'Confession!' cried the Princess, annoyed. 'As if I were concealing a
crime! I only mean that I probably said very silly things. By the bye,
I had several nurses, had I not? You kept changing them. Do you happen
to know who that Sister Giovanna was, who looked so ill? You sent her
back after two days, I think, because you thought she might break
down. She reminded me of a niece of mine whom I have not seen for
years, but I did not like to ask her any questions, and besides, I was
much too ill.'
'I have no idea who she was before she entered the order,' the doctor
answered.
He was often asked such futile questions about nurses, and would not
have answered them if he had been able to do so. But in asking
information the Princess was unwittingly conveying it, for it flashed
upon him that Sister Giovanna was perhaps indeed that niece of whom
she spoke, and whom she was commonly said to have defrauded of her
fortune; the nun herself had told him of the sick woman's delirious
condition, and he remembered her looks and her admission that she was
in mental distress. All this tallied very well with the guess that her
aunt had made some sort of confession of her deed while her mind was
wandering, and that she now dimly recalled something of the sort. He
put the theory away for future consideration, and left the Princess in
ignorance that he had thought of it or had even attached any special
meaning to her words.
She was far from satisfied, however, and made up her mind to follow up
the truth at all costs. As a first step, she sent a generous donation
to the Convent of the White Sisters, as soon as she was quite
recovered; and as her illness had not been serious enough to explain
such an important thank-offering, she wrote a line to say that she had
never been ill before, and had been so much impressed by the care she
had received that she felt she must really do something to help such
an excellent institution. It would give her keen pleasure to visit the
hospital, she said in conclusion, but that was no doubt too great a
favour to ask.
In thanking her, the Mother Superior replied that it would be no
favour at all, and that the Princess would be welcome whenever she
chose to send word that she was coming. On the day following that, the
Mother told Sister Giovanna what had happened, and with characteristic
directness asked what she thought about her aunt's charity.
'It is very kind of her,' answered the young nun in that monotonous,
businesslike tone which all religious use when speaking of an
apparently charitable action for the motive of which they are not
ready to vouch, though they have no reasonable ground for criticism.
People of the world often speak in that voice when unexpectedly asked
to give an opinion about some person whom they dislike but do not dare
to abuse.
The little white volcano flared up energetically, however.
'I hate that sort of answer!' she cried, with a delicate snort.
Sister Giovanna looked at her in surprise, but said nothing.
'I cannot refuse the money,' said the Mother Superior, 'but I heartily
wish I could! She has given it in order to come here and to be well
received if she chooses to come again. I am sure of that, and she can
have no object in coming here except to make mischief for you. It may
be wicked of me, but I do not trust that lady in the least! Do you?'
She asked the question suddenly.
'She cannot harm me more than she did years ago,' Sister Giovanna
answered.
'I wish that were certain!' said the other. 'I wish I had gone to
nurse her myself that night instead of sending you!'
She was so evidently in earnest that the Sister was even more
surprised than before, and wondered what was the matter. But as it was
not her place to ask questions, and as the Mother Superior's doubt, or
presentiment of trouble, was evidently suggested by sincere affection
for herself, she said nothing, and went about her work without letting
her mind dwell too long on the conversation. Men and women who lead
the religious life in earnest acquire a much greater control of their
secret thoughts than ordinary people can easily believe it possible to
exercise.
Nevertheless, the Princess's voice came back to her ears when she was
alone and told the story over and over again; and somehow her aunt was
often mentioned in the Convent as a recent benefactress who was
showing a lively interest in the hospital, and would perhaps give
further large sums to it which could be expended for good. Sister
Giovanna never said anything when the subject came up, but she could
not help thinking of Judas's suggestion that the alabaster box of
precious ointment might have been sold and given to the poor, and a
disturbing spirit whispered that Princess Chiaromonte, whose past
might well be compared with the Magdalen's, had done what Iscariot
would have advised.
In due time, too, the great lady visited the Convent and hospital, and
was shown over it systematically by the Mother Superior herself,
followed by an approving little escort of nurses and novices, for it
was of course permissible to appreciate and admire the smart clothes
of a benefactress, whereas it would have been the height of levity to
bestow so much attention on a lady visitor who was merely fashionable
and had done nothing for the institution. This, at least, was the
novices' point of view. But the little white volcano seemed quietly
cross, and held her small head very high as she led the Princess from
one ward to another to the beautifully fitted operating-room; and when
she spoke her tone was strangely cold and mordant, as a woman's voice
sometimes sounds in the Alps, when she speaks across an ice-fall or a
frozen lake.
The Princess looked behind her repeatedly, and her eyes sought her
niece's face amongst those she saw, but she asked no questions about
her, and apparently gave all her attention to what was shown her.
Sister Giovanna was in her cell during all that time, and should no
doubt have been occupied; but instead, she was standing idly at her
window, looking through one of the diamond-shaped openings in the
lattice, in the direction of Monteverde. She was hardly aware of what
she saw, however, for in imagination she was following her aunt
through the halls and wards and long corridors, and a struggle was
going on in her heart which hurt her and made her despise herself.
The woman who had ruined her life was under the same roof with her
again, and she could not forgive her; and that seemed a very great
sin. What had she gained in the five years that had gone by since the
beginning of her noviciate, if she could not even forgive an injury?
That was the question. Since her life had led her to nothing better
than smouldering resentment and sharp regret, it had not been the holy
life she had meant it to be--the failure she must score against herself
was a total one, a general defeat--and all that she had believed she
had been doing for the dead man's sake must count for nothing, since
she had not once been really in a state of grace.
No doubt her self-accusation went too far, as a confessor would have
told her, or even the Mother Superior, if that good and impulsive
woman had known what was in her mind. But Sister Giovanna did not
believe she could go far enough in finding fault with herself for such
great sins as her regret for a married life that might have been, and
her lasting anger against a person who had robbed her; and it was
while she was standing at her latticed window that morning that she
first thought of making an even more complete sacrifice by joining the
Sisters who intended to go out to the Rangoon leper hospital in the
spring.
It was not with the hope of dying young that she wished to go and face
death daily, but in the earnest desire to escape from what she called
her temptation, and to regain that peace of mind which had been hers
for a long time and now was gone. She had made for herself a little
treasure-house of grace laid up, to be offered for Giovanni's soul,
and the gold of her affliction and the jewels of her unselfish labours
had been gathered there to help him. That had been her simple and
innocent belief, but it had broken down suddenly as soon as she
discovered that she was only a human, resentful, regretful woman after
all, as far below the mystic detachment from the outward world as she
had been in those first days of her grief, at Madame Bernard's, when
she had sat listless all the day long, a broken-hearted girl. What she
had taken for gold and had stored up for Giovanni's welfare was only
the basest metal, her jewels were but chips of gaudy glass, her
sacrifice was a failure after all. Worse than that, her dead man came
back alive from his grave and haunted her in dreams, threatening
righteous judgment on the woman who had cheated her and him of earthly
happiness.
I shall not dwell on what she felt. Men and women who have honestly
tried to lead the good life for years and have suddenly realised that
they are as human as ever before, will understand what I have written.
The rest must either believe that it is true or, not believing, read
on for the sake of knowing Sister Giovanna's strange story, or else
throw my book aside for a dull novel not worth reading. We cannot
always be amusing, and real life is not always gay.
The young nun waited in her cell till the Mother Superior herself
opened the door and entered. For the Princess was gone, after seeing
everything, praising everything with the flattering indiscrimination
of total ignorance, and, finally, after asking permission to make
another visit. She had spent ten minutes in the Mother's own rooms
before leaving, and had asked the names of the three Sisters who had
taken care of her in succession, writing them down on the back of a
visiting-card. She wished to remember them in her prayers, she said;
but the little white volcano almost laughed in her face, and the black
diamond eyes twinkled furiously as they turned away to hide their
scornful amusement--so strong was the nun's conviction that the new
benefactress was a humbug. The Princess looked at the names quite
calmly after she had written them--Sister Saint Paul, Sister Giovanna,
and Sister Marius--and asked whether she had seen any of them during
her visit. But the Mother Superior answered that they were all three
either nursing private cases or not on duty, which might mean that
they were resting in their cells.
Sister Giovanna started slightly as the door of her cell opened, for
she had scarcely realised that she had not moved from the window for a
long time. The elder woman had not taken the trouble to knock, and,
strange to say, a faint blush rose in the Sister's face as if she had
been surprised and were a little ashamed of being caught in idleness
instead of reading her breviary for the day or doing something useful
with her hands. The black eyes looked at her searchingly, for nothing
escaped them.
'What have you been thinking of?' asked the impulsive woman.
There was a moment's silence.
'The Rangoon lepers,' answered the Sister in a quiet voice.
The Mother Superior's white face hardened strangely.
'The Princess Chiaromonte is gone,' she said rather sharply, 'and you
are wanted in the surgical ward at once.'
She turned without another word and went quickly away, leaving the
door open. It was clear that she was not pleased with the answer she
had received.
Six weeks later Sister Giovanna went to her rooms on the other side of
the cloistered court after first chapel and knocked at the door. It
was a Monday morning in March, and she was to be Supervising Nurse for
the week, but the custom was to go on duty at eight o'clock and it was
not yet seven.
'Well?' asked the Mother Superior, looking up from her papers, while
the young nun remained standing respectfully at the corner of the big
desk.
The tone did not invite confidence; for some reason as yet unexplained
the Mother had avoided speaking with her best nurse since that morning
in the cell.
'I have made up my mind to go to the lepers with the others, Mother,
if you will give me your permission.'
The alabaster face suddenly glowed like white fire in the early light,
the dark eyebrows knitted themselves angrily, and the lips parted to
speak a hasty word, but immediately closed again. A long silence
followed Sister Giovanna's speech, and the elder nun looked down at
her papers and moved some of them about mechanically, from one place
to another on the table.
'Are you angry with me, Mother?' asked Sister Giovanna, not
understanding.
'With you, child?' The Mother looked up, and her face had softened a
little. 'No, I am not angry with you--at least, I hope I am not.'
It was rather an ambiguous answer, to say the least, and the young nun
waited meekly for an explanation. None came, but instead, advice,
delivered in a direct and businesslike tone.
'You had better put the idea out of your mind for a month or so,
honestly and with all the intention of which you are capable. If this
is a mere impulse, felt under some mental distress, it will subside
and you will think no more about it. If it is a true call, it will
come back and you will obey it in due time. More than that, I cannot
tell you. If you are not satisfied that I am advising you well, go to
Monsignor Saracinesca the next time he is here. It is my place to
warn, not to hinder; to help you if I can, not to stand in your way.
That is all, my daughter. Go to your duties.'
Sister Giovanna bent her head obediently and left the room at once.
When she was gone, the Mother Superior rose from her desk and went
into her cell, locking the door after her. An hour later she was still
on her knees and her face was buried in her hands. She was weeping
bitterly.
In all that numerous community which she governed and guided so well
there was not one person who would have believed that she could shed
tears, scalding and passionate, even rebellious, perhaps, if the whole
truth were known; for no Sister or novice of them all could have
imagined that such irresistible grief could take possession of a woman
who, as they all said among themselves, was made of steel and ice,
merely because one more of them wished to go to the Far East where so
many had gone already.
But they did not know anything about the Mother Superior. Indeed, when
all was said, they knew next to nothing of her past, and as it was
against all rules to discuss such matters, it was not likely that they
should ever hear more, even if a new Sister joined them who chanced to
have some information. They were aware, of course, that her name, in
religion, was Mother Veronica, though they did not speak of her except
as the Mother Superior. It was true that they had never heard of a nun
of their order taking the name of Veronica, but that was not a matter
to criticise either. She spoke exceedingly pure Italian, with the
accent and intonation of a Roman lady, but it was no secret that when
she had come to take the place of her predecessor, who had died
suddenly, she had arrived from Austria; and she also spoke German
fluently, which argued that she had been in that country some time.
There was certainly nothing in these few facts to account for what she
suffered when Sister Giovanna spoke of going to Rangoon, and it would
have been hard to believe that her burning tears overflowed in spite
of her, not only that first time but often afterwards, at the mere
thought of parting with the best nurse in the hospital, even if she
felt some special sympathy for her.
Whatever the cause of her trouble was, no one knew of it; and that she
found no cause for self-accusation in what she felt is clear, since
she made no mention of it in her next confession. Indeed, she more
often found fault with herself for being harsh in her judgments and
too peremptory and tyrannical in the government of her community, than
for giving way easily to the impulses of human sympathy. She was not
nervous either, in the sense of her nerves being unsteady or
overwrought in consequence of a long-continued strain; there was
nothing in her weeping that could have suggested a neurotic breakdown
even to the most sceptical of physicians. It was genuine,
irresistible, overwhelming grief, and she knew that its cause was not
even in part imaginary, but was altogether real, and terrible beyond
any expression.
Nevertheless, she found strength to speak to Monsignor Saracinesca of
Sister Giovanna's intention, one day when he came to see her early in
the morning on a matter of business; for he managed the finances of
the Convent hospital and was also its representative in any questions
in which the institution, as distinguished from the order had secular
dealings with the world.
The prelate and the Mother met as usual in the cloistered garden, and
when Convent affairs had been disposed of, they continued their walk
in silence for a few moments.
'I want your unprejudiced opinion about the future of one of the
Sisters,' said the Mother Superior at last, in her usual tone.
'I will try to give it,' answered Monsignor Saracinesca.
'Sister Giovanna wishes to go to Rangoon with the other three.'
The churchman betrayed no surprise, and answered without hesitation:
'You know what I always say in such cases, when I am consulted.'
'Yes. I have given her that advice--to wait a month to try to put the
idea out of her mind, to make sure that it is not a passing impulse.'
'You cannot do more,' said Monsignor Saracinesca, 'nor can I.'
The Mother Superior turned up her white face and looked at him so
steadily that he gazed at her in surprise.
'It ought to be stopped,' she said, with sudden energy. 'It may be
wrong to call it suicide and to interfere on that ground, but there is
another, and a good one. I am responsible for the hospital here, for
the nursing in it, and for the Sisters who are sent out to private
cases. Year after year, one, two, and sometimes three of my best young
nurses go away to these leper asylums in Rangoon and other places in
the Far East. It is not the stupid ones that go, the dull, devoted
creatures who could do that one thing well, because it is perfectly
mechanical and a mere question of prophylaxis, precaution, and
routine--and charity. Those that go always seem to be the best, the
very nurses who are invaluable in all sorts of difficult cases from an
operation to a typhoid fever; the most experienced, the cleverest, the
most gifted! How can I be expected to keep up our standard if this
goes on year after year? It is outrageous! And the worst of it is that
the "vocation" is catching! The clever ones catch it because they are
the most sensitively organised, but not the good, simple, humdrum
little women who would be far better at nursing lepers than at a case
of appendicitis--and better in heaven than in a leper asylum, for that
matter!'
Monsignor Saracinesca listened in silence to this energetic tirade;
but when the little white volcano was quiescent for a moment, he shook
his head. It was less an expression of disapproval than of doubt.
'It is manifestly impossible to send the least intelligent of the
Sisters, if they do not offer to go,' he answered. 'Besides, how would
you pick out the dull ones? By examination?'
He was not without a sense of humour, and his sharply-chiselled lips
twitched a little but were almost instantly grave again. The Mother
Superior's profile was as still as a marble medallion.
'It ought to be stopped altogether,' she said presently, with
conviction. 'Meanwhile, though I have told Sister Giovanna that it is
not my place to hinder her, much less my right, I tell you plainly
that I will prevent her from going, if I can!'
This frank statement did not surprise the prelate, who was used to her
direct speech and energetic temper, and liked both. But he said little
in answer.
'That is your affair, Reverend Mother. You will do what your
conscience dictates.'
'Conscience?' repeated the nun with a resentful question in her tone.
'If the word really means anything, which I often doubt, it is an
instinctive discernment of right and wrong in one's own particular
case, to be applied to the salvation of one's own soul. Is it not?'
'Undoubtedly.'
'What have I to do with my own particular case?' The volcano flared up
indignantly. 'It is my duty to do what is best for the souls and
bodies of forty women and girls, more or less, and of a great number
of sick persons here and in their own homes, without considering
myself at all, my instincts, or my little individual discernment of my
own feelings, or my human likes and dislikes of people. If my duty
leads me into temptation, I have got to face temptation intentionally,
instead of avoiding it, as we are taught to do, and if I break down
under it, so much the worse for me--the good of the others will have
been accomplished nevertheless! That is one side of my life. Another
is that if my duty demands that I should tear out my heart and trample
on it, I ought not to hesitate, though I knew I was to die of the
pain!'
The clear low voice vibrated strangely.
'But I will not do it, unless it is to bring about some real good to
others,' she added.
Monsignor Saracinesca glanced at her face again before he answered.
'Your words are clear enough, but I do not understand you,' he said.
'If I can possibly help you, tell me what it is that distresses you.
If not, let us talk of other things.'
'You cannot help me.' Her thin lips closed upon each other in an even
line.
'I am sorry,' answered the churchman gravely. 'As for Sister
Giovanna's intention, I share your opinion, for I think she can do
more good here than by sacrificing herself in Burmah. If she consults
me, I shall tell her so.'
'Thank you.'
They parted, and the Mother Superior went back to her room and her
work with a steady step and holding her head high. But she did not
even see a lay sister who was scrubbing her small private staircase,
and who rose to let her pass, saluting her as she went by.
Monsignor Saracinesca left the garden by the glass door that opened
into the large hall, already described, and he went out past the
portress's little lodge. She was just opening the outer door when he
came up with her, and the next moment he found himself face to face
with Madame Bernard. He stepped back politely to let her pass, and
lifted his hat with a smile of recognition; but instead of advancing
she uttered a little cry of surprise and satisfaction, and retreated
to let him come out. He noticed that her face betrayed great
excitement, and she seemed hardly able to speak.
'What is the matter?' he asked kindly, as he emerged from the deep
doorway.
The portress was waiting for Madame Bernard to enter, but the
Frenchwoman had changed her mind and held up her hand, shaking one
forefinger.
'Not to-day, Anna!' she cried. 'Or later--I will come back, perhaps--I
cannot tell. May I walk a few steps with you, Monseigneur?'
'By all means,' answered the prelate.
The door of the Convent closed behind them, but Madame Bernard was
evidently anxious to get well out of hearing before she spoke. At the
corner of the quiet street she suddenly stood still and looked up to
her companion's face, evidently in great perturbation.
'Well?' he asked. 'What is it?'
'Giovanni Severi is alive.'
Monsignor Saracinesca thought the good woman was dreaming.
'It is impossible,' he said emphatically.
'On the contrary,' returned Madame Bernard, 'it is perfectly true. If
you do not believe me, look at this!'
She opened her governess's reticule and fumbled amongst the little
school-books and papers it contained. In a moment she brought out a
letter, sealed, stamped, and postmarked, and held it up before the
tall prelate's eyes.
It was addressed to 'Donna Angela Chiaromonte,' to the care of Madame
Bernard at the latter's lodgings in Trastevere, the stamp was an
Italian one, and the postmark was that of the military post-office in
Massowah. Monsignor Saracinesca looked at the envelope curiously, took
it from Madame Bernard and examined the stamped date. Then he asked
her if she was quite sure of the handwriting, and she assured him that
she was; Giovanni had written before he started into the interior with
the expedition, and she herself had received the letter from the
postman and had given it to Angela. What was more, after Angela had
gone to live at the Convent, Madame Bernard had found the old envelope
of the letter in a drawer and had kept it, and she had just looked at
it before leaving her house.
'He is alive,' she said with conviction; 'he has written this letter
to her, and he does not know that she is a nun. He is coming home, I
am sure!'
Monsignor Saracinesca was a man of great heart and wide experience,
but such a case as this had never come to his knowledge. He stood
still in deep thought, bending a little as he rested both his hands on
the battered silver knob of his old stick.
'He is coming home!' repeated Madame Bernard in great distress. 'What
are we to do?'
'What were you going to do just now, when I met you at the door?'
asked the prelate.
'I do not know! I was going to see her! Perhaps I would have broken
the news to her gently, perhaps I would have said nothing and kept the
letter to give it to her at another time! How can I tell what I would
have done? It would have depended so much on the way she took the
first suggestion! People have died of joy, Monseigneur! A little
weakness of the heart, a sudden joyful surprise, it stops beating--that
has happened before now!'
'Yes. It has happened before now. I knew of such a case myself.'
'And I adore the child!' cried the impulsive Frenchwoman, ready to
burst into tears. 'Oh, what shall we do? What ought we to do?'
'Do you know the Mother Superior?'
'Oh yes! Quite well. Are you going to tell me that I should take the
letter to her? She is a cold, hard woman, Monseigneur! A splendid
woman to manage a hospital, perhaps, but she has no more heart than a
steel machine! She will burn the letter, and never tell any one!'
'I think you are mistaken about her,' answered the churchman gravely.
'She has more heart than most of us, and I believe that even you
yourself are not more devoted to Sister Giovanna than she is.'
'Really, Monseigneur? Is it possible? Are you sure? What makes you
think so?'
'To the best of my knowledge and belief, what I have told you is the
truth, though I might find it hard to explain my reasons for saying
so. But before you go to the Mother Superior, or speak of the matter
to Sister Giovanna, there is something else to be done. This letter,
by some strange accident of the post, may have been written before
Giovanni Severi died. There is a bare possibility that it may have
been mislaid in the post-office, or that he may have given it to a
comrade to post, who forgot it--many things may happen to a letter.'
'Well? What must I do?'
'If he is alive, the fact is surely known already at headquarters, and
you should make inquiries. To give Sister Giovanna a letter from the
dead man would be wrong, in my opinion, for it would cause her
needless and harmful pain. If he is dead, it should be burned, I
think. But if he is really alive, after all, you have no right to burn
it, and sooner or later she must have it and know the truth, with as
little danger to her health and peace of mind as possible.'
'You are right, Monseigneur,' answered Madame Bernard. 'What you say
is full of wisdom. I have three lessons to give this morning, and as
soon as I am free I will go myself to the house of a superior officer
whose daughter I used to teach, and he will find out the truth by the
telephone in a few minutes.'
'I think that is the best course,' said the churchman.
So they parted, for he was going to Saint Peter's, and she turned in
the direction of the nearest tramway, hastening to her pupils. And
meanwhile the inevitable advanced on its unchanging course.
For Giovanni Severi was alive and well, and was on his way to Rome.