Sister Teresa — Chapter 32

London: T. Fisher Unwin, 8 July 1901, pages 188-192, 1,509 words

XXXII

She was so weary of singing Gounod’s 'Ave Maria' that she had intentionally accentuated the vulgarity of the melody, and wondered if the caricature had been noticed. 'The more vulgarly it is sung, the more money it draws.' Smiling at the theatrical phrase that had arisen unexpectedly to her lips, she went into the garden. There she heard that she had never sung so well; all the nuns seemed to agree with Sister Elizabeth, and Evelyn looked from face to face, not finding the slightest perception of the truth in any one. Suddenly they seemed divided from her, and wondering what her father would have said if he had lived to hear her sing as she had sung that afternoon, she walked aside, pretending an interest in the flowers. It was then that the Prioress joined them in the garden, and she told Evelyn that a lady had been so moved by the beauty of her singing that she had promised to send them a cheque for fifty pounds.

'So you see, God has given you strength to accomplish what you intended to accomplish. Now we are free from debt.’

The sun was setting; the earth drew a calm deep breath under the lovely sky, and Evelyn’s soul dilated and was drawn into mysterious sympathy with the flowering earth. 'How beautifully the evening wears its sacramental air,' she said, and she lifted the cup of a lily as she would lift a sleeping child from its cradle, and wondered why a prayer should be more pleasing to God than simple attendance on this flower. And thinking of the flower she walked with the Prioress to the end of the garden. There were many visitors in the garden that day, and it seemed to these two nuns that they might leave their visitors to be entertained by Sister Jerome and Sister Winifred for a little while longer.They might do this without impropriety; and they wandered as far as the fish pond, and stood listening to the stream, loath to return to the ladies, who wished to compliment Evelyn on having freed the convent from debt.

'I’m afraid we must go back, Teresa.’

'Dear Mother Jerome is amusing them. I heard her telling them that St Joseph’s statue had to go up to town to get a new coat of paint, and that the Virgin had to go with him to be mended.’

The Prioress smiled, and at that moment Sister Jerome appeared on the pathway, and they had not walked many yards when they met the lady who had sent Sister Jerome to fetch them.

'I remember hearing you sing at Covent Garden,' said the effusive woman.

'You must not speak to me of my unregenerate days,' and then, becoming serious, she said, ‘All that is far away.’

'My favourite piece of music is that “Ave Maria,” and I did not know it was so beautiful till I heard it sung to-day. Are you not very proud, Sister Teresa, of being able to get so much money out of the public?’

'I take very little interest in my singing. I thought I had sung very badly this afternoon — in fact, I know I did, but it seemed to please.’

The Prioress continued the conversation, and Evelyn regretted she had been told that the last portion of the debt had been paid. Henceforth there was nothing to strive for, nothing to hope for, and every day would be the fellow of the same as the day before. The idea of the school seemed to have gone with Father Daly, and the schism which seemed too terrible at the time now seemed better than the noiseless monotony which was to be the future. Henceforth nothing would happen to break the peace of their lives, and she saw the days and nights folding and unfolding like heavy curtains. Her life would be like Sister Bridget’s, and she thought of what Sister Bridget’s life had been. She had been more than forty years in this convent; the thirtieth of this month would be the fortieth anniversary of her vows, and Evelyn remembered that she too might live till she was seventy. With the exception of Mother Lawrence, who was now completely bedridden, Bridget was the oldest member of the community. Yet she continued to scrub, and to sweep, and to carry up coals and water regularly as she had done these last forty years. Everyone loved Sister Bridget’s funny old face, and it was felt that something ought to be done to commemorate the anniversary of her vows.

‘I should like to see her on an elephant, riding round the garden; what a spree it would be,' said Sister Jerome.

The words were hardly out of her mouth when she regretted them, foreseeing allusions to elephants till the end of her days; for Sister Jerome often said foolish things, and was greatly quizzed for them. Of course she knew they could not get an elephant. She knew too that they would not be able to control an elephant if they did get one. But this time it seemed as if her foolish remark were going to escape ridicule. Sister Agatha said she did not see why they should not make an elephant, and in a moment everyone was listening. Sister Agatha’s notion was to take the long table from the library and pile it up with cushions, stuffing it, as nearly as possible, into the shape of an elephant.

‘That is exactly as I had intended,' said Sister Jerome.

And the creation of the beast was accomplished in the novitiate, no one being allowed to see it except the Reverend Mother. The great difficulty was to find beads large enough for the eyes, and it threatened to frustrate the making of their beast. The latest postulant suggested that perhaps the buttons off her jacket would do. They were just the thing, and the legs of the beast were most natural and life-like; it had even a tail.

As no one out of the novitiate had seen this very fine beast, the convent was on tiptoe with excitement, and when, at the conclusion of dinner, the elephant was wheeled into the refectory, everyone clapped her hands, and there were screams of delight. Then the saddle was brought in and attached by blue ribbons. Sister Bridget, who did not seem quite sure that the elephant was not alive, was lifted on to it, and held there, and wheeled in triumph round the refectory. The nuns clapped their hands, and rushed after the beast, pushing it a little way, beseeching Sister Bridget not to get off but to allow herself to be drawn once more round the room. Flowers were fetched and scattered. There was no reason why Evelyn should disapprove, nor did she disapprove. She tried to remember that she had often seen grown-up people acting quite as childishly, nevertheless she asked, —

'Am I going to spend the whole of my life with these women who are no better than little children?’

The novices rushed about screaming with delight, and the professed too — the older the nuns were the more eagerly did they enter into the sport, and in the midst of a dispute as to who was to ride it next Evelyn stole away into the garden.

The parched ground was cracking, and, filled with pity for the thirsting plants, she filled a can with water, and shed a refreshing sprinkle over them, not drowning them under a torrent as Sister Elizabeth did when she helped her in the garden. 'But they do not like this cold well water,' she said, and she looked at the cloudless sky for a cloud. A cloud had passed some minutes ago, but it was high up in the sky, and it had flown away. ‘The flowers would give a great deal for three hours of fine, small, dense rain. How they would enjoy it,' and standing with her eyes fixed on the dusty horizon, she began to sing some of Isolde’s music.

It was five years since she had sung it, and in five years she had forgotten nearly all of it. Other ideas had absorbed her. Yet it was in quest of this idea that she had gone to Ireland. She remembered Chapelizod, a few cottages, a miserable inn, and a dirty river. But Tristan and Isolde had walked together there. Afterward she had gone with Ulick to see some Druid altars, and sitting on the hill above the altars, they had talked of the primal mysteries, of gods, demi-gods and great heroes.

The childish gaiety of the nuns streamed through the windows into the garden.

'Can they be still dragging that elephant about?’

She got up abruptly like one moved by a sudden intention.

'Does another quest lie before me?' She tried to stifle the thought, but it cried across her life, like a curlew across waste lands.