Sister Teresa — Chapter 34

London: T. Fisher Unwin, 8 July 1901, pages 198-204, 2,323 words

XXXIV

One night in her convent bed she saw flames about her, and she began to remember the scene — how it begins with Siegfried’s own motive, and underneath it the ripple of the Rhinegold.

The day has begun; the last rosy clouds vanish in light melodies, cool as the wind blowing out of the dawn, and the hero stands on the mountain-top. Below him the warrior woman sleeps in her war gear, surrounded by flames, and at once is heard the mysterious 'Question to Fate.’ Evelyn s eyes closed, and she dreamed 'The Love spell,’ as it emerges from the orchestra; and the young hero, whose mother she had rescued, descended the rocks to her,side, and amid enchanting melodies — 'Love’s Confusion,’ ‘Love’s Rapture,' and 'Love’s Delight’ — he took her buckler and her helmet from her, and looking upon her breasts, dreamed she might unclasp her girdle for him in the pine wood close by.

The nun strove against the dream, but God seemed to have abandoned her; and she could not resist the temptation of mortal lips; the music overtook her as a net overtakes the escaping fish, she heard her vows die as Siegfried’s lips pressed hers apart. The music rose out of the depths of the orchestra; it ascended to the heights on the violins, and she heard the exultant chords expressive of her rapture when she awakens to the beauty of the world. Sitting up on the rock where she has lain for so many years, she asks, ‘Who is the hero who has awakened me?’ and they both sing the rapture of the meeting.

Siegfried watches her as the sun watches the marvel of the spring. He sings his wonder at her beauty, and a pang of reciprocal longing awakens, and her delight is like earth's answer to the sun. What accents of courage and triumph, and amid them her own ‘justification,' for had she not been compassionate to the unhappy parents? The impetuous boy implores her, but in the midst of her desire she remembers she is a goddess, and again amid the temptation to yield to the delight of the senses, she hears the theme of ‘Renunciation.' To surrender to love is to surrender her immortal life; and her elemental nature rises up like the wind; and she hears her sisters fly by her. But in spite of her endeavour to resist she turns her eyes to Siegfried, and she sees him leading her into the fir wood, and her senses sicken a little as she thinks how she may unclasp her girdle for his pleasure and for hers. And amid the flutter and rapture of such melodious phrases as 'Love’s Confusion' and 'Love’s Rapture' the gods strive vainly for her virginity. She turns to the fir wood, her hands fall to her girdle, but she hears the theme of Valhalla.

The nun’s face grew pale in her dream, and she tossed on her bed, for she was striving to remember. The next part of the scene seemed to elude her, and she seems to wander through long woods, following some distant and evasive music sung by a bird. At last, coming to a rocky desert place, ‘The Curse' is suddenly thundered in her ears, and she remembers that death follows all delight. But immediately peaceful memories breathe in her ears. Siegfried is beside her, she is enfolded in her desire of him, though she hears in the quivering air some faint echo of tremulous annihilation. She listens, and the alluring dimness of the Valhalla motive overcomes her, and breaking away she foregoes the fatal gift of love. But Siegfried sings his irresistible phrase, his triumphal 'Come what May,' and the joy of life is accepted amid the tempestuous beat of the flying hoofs of ‘The Ride,' the mysterious call of the bird; and the love themes are repeated, and after them 'The Heritage of the World' is heard. 'Siegfried’s own Motive' rises out of the depths, and the boy and the maid exult in a final trill.

The nun’s eyes opened, and she lay with wide open eyes in a state between sleeping and waking, her thoughts so completely detached from her will that she seemed to be listening rather than thinking. She lay quiescent, and her whole life seemed to be read out to her, and at the end of the long reading she answered, ‘No Siegfried will come to release me from this prison of invisible bars. And if Siegfried came to release me from these flames — for every will is a flame — of what use should I be to him?' 'Of what use' repeated like an antiphone, and at the end of each verse she repeated, 'What use should I be to him?' and this was sometimes followed by the addition, ‘or to anyone? God has cast me off,' she cried, ‘and men have cast me off, and my present singing would appeal to them as little as my body. No man can love me again.’

In the silence of the dawn, the evening she had found Owen waiting for her in her drawing-room at Park Lane returned. She had been near to yielding to him, but he had refrained, though he loved her as much as ever. She had not understood at the time, only long afterwards, and by degrees, that the prayers of the nuns had withheld him from her. The prayers of the nuns had withheld her from him in Thornton Grange. Ah, how dim a spectre she would seem to him now, and to Ulick too, who in his pagan mysticism hated Christianity even more than Owen.

She suddenly became aware that the convent had moulded her to its ideas more completely than Owen Asher had done; her insomnia was like a glass in which she saw herself clearly; the very ends of her soul were revealed to her. It seemed to her that she must die, so great was her fear. She shrank from the convent, the chapel, the refectory, and the passages were reflected upon her brain. The nuns passed by her, and she knew their faces in every minute inflection of line, in every slight difference of colour, and she heard them tell her that this was the end, that no further change would come into her life. As they passed her she asked them if her life would be prolonged, but they passed without answering her question, and she thought how friendless the convent would be when the Prioress died. Sister Mary John was the only one to whom she could tell her trouble of soul, the only one who could help her to bear the trial of her unfaith. It seemed to her that she had been strangely indifferent to her friend’s departure. She had forgotten her quickly, and it seemed to her that during the term of their friendship she had always been curiously unresponsive. Evelyn saw her friend far away in France. She might be dead, she would never hear of her again, and she cried out, ‘Come back!’ hoping the cry might reach her.

It was Sister Mary John’s faith that had inspired her; it was Sister Mary John’s example that had helped her to believe that the Real Presence was the one true reality. Now she remembered that she had said to Sister Mary John, 'Nothing seems to me so real as the sacrament, not even you, whom I can see and touch with my hands….’ What sin had been theirs? What shadow of sin had Sister Mary John seen in their friendship? Something less than a shadow, and lest this shadow of a shadow should define itself, she had left her alone in the convent.

She had been in bed three hours, and she was weary of thinking, and for three weeks she had hardly slept; and in the lucidity of these white nights she had read her life. At first she had allowed herself to read it for a few moments, just to see if she remembered it, but gradually she had yielded more and more to the temptation of remembrance. Her stage lovers, and her other lovers, even her admirers, men whose names she did not even remember, returned to her. One of these was a young Russian. She remembered the evening they had stood on a hill-top overlooking the city; from where they stood they could see the harbour and the ships; and she remembered the blown trees and the faded grass, and the young man, who was a prince, had pressed her to marry him. If she had done so she would now be a Russian princess living among the Steppes, whereas she was now a nun living in the Wimbledon convent. She never would see him again. Had he discovered someone to marry him, and did he ever think of her? she wondered. Yes, far away in the Steppes he thought of her sometimes.

She remembered the names of actors she had acted with, she remembered when they had sung well and when they had sung badly. Perhaps the pleasantest days to remember were the days when she went to her singing lessons every morning, and when Owen had come from England to visit them. They had given dinner-parties and dances in that house, in the Rue Balzac, and she remembered that Owen had to leave her to escape from the torment of desire. She remembered that it was difficult for them to sit in the same room when others were present.

But this life of sin had been forgiven her, and to save herself from memories of Owen she had to think of Ulick’s gentleness, and the different delight she had taken by his side. She thought of the days they had spent in Ireland, and fell asleep, dreaming of a long beautiful day in the lonely country.

But before the first bird began to sing her sleep had become broken, and when the first bird chirped a cry escaped from her, and she moaned and seemed to resist someone. ‘No, oh, no, Owen, I cannot.' Then her voice sank to a murmur and she waved her arms. 'It is sacrilege,' she cried, and she sank back. ‘Stay here with me, no one will know you are here, but in the chapel you may be seen. I cannot do that, I cannot commit sacrilege; God would never forgive that.’

She lay stark and white beneath the obscene oppression, unable to resist Owen, who led her from her cell to the chapel where the nuns were assembled at Mass. All the way down the stairs she besought him, asking him why he wished this one thing. There was a strange leer in his eyes, and his lips were strangely curled when he said she dared not go for she knew Monsignor was the celebrant. He grasped her by the wrist and dragged her, and though she resisted with the other arm, placing it against the doorpost, she was hurled along, her strength giving way each time. The chapel door was open, and all the nuns were in choir. She could see her empty place, but the nuns did not seem to see it was empty; they were deep in prayer. She was not certain who was the celebrant. It might be Monsignor as Owen had said. She could not see the celebrant very distinctly, but the server she saw quite distinctly. The server was Veronica, and she wore a surplice. She had disguised herself, but her naked feet showed beneath the surplice, and when she changed the book from the right to the left Evelyn feared she would be discovered.

All this while Owen and Evelyn were hiding behind a pillar, and they watched Veronica, who, regardless of the danger of discovery, stood by the celebrant, helping him to find the place in the book. Evelyn besought Owen to come back to her cell with her, but they remained in hiding, and at the Elevation it seemed to her it was not Monsignor who was saying Mass, but a satyr — a satyr whom she had once seen in a picture in the Munich Gallery, and she watched the vestments, catching sight every now and then of the hoofs. Then, forgetting the celebrant, she watched the nuns, thinking every moment one of them would look towards where she and Owen were hiding, and one did look, but to Evelyn's surprise she did not seem to see them.

On the altar a statue lay at length, and Evelyn was puzzled to explain its presence along the altar. The priest continued to say Mass as if he were not aware of the statue, or even inconvenienced by it, and then it seemed to Evelyn not to be a statue but a woman. She noticed that the face was like one of the nuns — she could not tell which, and as the priest bowed his head the woman looked round and watched Monsignor came from the sacred table to give them communion, and as he was about to return to the altar he caught sight of her and Owen, though Owen had shrunk into the shadow of the pillar. He asked him what he had come for, and Owen answered ‘to communicate.' She besought Owen to say that he had not come to commit sacrilege; but Owen begged the priest to give him the sacred Host. He put it into his handkerchief, and as they were about to leave the church a sharp rap at the door awoke her.

It was the Sister who had come to tell her to watch before the sacrament.

'I cannot, I cannot get up.’

'Are you ill, Sister?’

Yes, I am very ill indeed. I cannot watch to-day, I cannot; someone else must take my place.’