Sister Teresa — Chapter 30

London: T. Fisher Unwin, 8 July 1901, pages 171-181, 4,005 words

XXX

All sorts of reasons were given for Sister Mary John's departure; the nuns chattered like moon-awakened birds, and then the convent fell back into silence.

As the year closed, the old Prioress began to think that the incident was dead and that no consequences would be begotten. But the friendship of the two nuns remained unconsciously associated in everyone’s mind with the sudden departure of one of them from the convent; and behind these ideas there lay a half-reticulated background of suspicion regarding Evelyn. Without knowing why, the convent had begun to resent its dependency upon her singing. In the beginning of the following year Sister Winifred, who had done a set of caricatures of the lay Sisters cooking under difficulties, when the pipes were frozen and there was no water in the kitchen, conceived the idea that she might contribute to the general purse by selling her sketches in the parlour. They had amused the visitors, and encouraged by the sale of a copy of the convent Murillo, she had applied herself to a set of altar pieces. One of these had been bought by the lady who had given her the paints. Sister Winifred had been given a painting room; it had become the fashion to visit it, and the departure of the visitors, whom it was already difficult to induce to leave the convent after Benediction, was still further delayed. Sister Winifred had become a considerable person in the convent, and the fact that the Prioress did not admire her painting did not discourage Sister Winifred. She had answered, 'Dear Mother, you can only admire Evelyn’s singing.’

A few months later Sister Agatha discovered an unsuspected talent in herself. She did not make it known to the Prioress until she had accumulated a large heap of manuscript on the life of her favourite saint, and her proposal was that the proceeds of the work should be devoted to paying off the convent debts. Another nun knew French, and a second remembered that she knew German. Then someone spoke of a school, and the idea seemed to them the very happiest; a school would give them all an opportunity of doing something for the convent, and the conversion of Wimbledon to Rome became a subject of conversation. Sister Winifred’s pictures and Sister Agatha’s manuscripts had never been taken very seriously; they had merely served as a pretext for the Sisters to discuss what was in their minds. But the idea of a school seemed to formulate many aspirations; it seemed like the solution of all their difficulties, and at every recreation groups of nuns collected to discuss the financial possibilities of the project, and to tell each other of the visitors who offered to send their daughters to them.

'They all seem to forget,' the Prioress said to Mother Hilda, as she passed down St Peter’s Walk, ‘that to start a school would mean to alter the rule of our order.’

‘You know that I do not approve, dear Mother, but what they say is that since the contemplative side of our house has been so largely infringed upon it might be well to go a little further and undertake a school.’

The Prioress winced a little; she knew Mother Hilda held her to be personally responsible for the change. For, according to Mother Hilda, the change was inherent in Evelyn’s election, which the Prioress had directly forced upon the convent. Mother Hilda would go further back still. The Prioress knew she would trace the origin of the disaster to the admission of Evelyn into the convent.

Nothing more was said at the time, but a few days later the matter came up for general discussion in chapter, and the Prioress pointed out that the teaching of music and painting, and French and German, was contrary to the rule, and could never be lawfully undertaken, that if teaching were undertaken without the express permission of the Mother General it would mean cutting themselves off from the Mother House in France. It would mean practically the establishment of a new foundation, which would be classed among the active rather than the contemplative orders.

The dissidents had Mother Philippa on their side, and the Prioress’s argument regarding the new foundation did not frighten them. They admitted that the Passionist Sisters had never kept a school before, but they said there was nothing in their rule to prevent them from doing so. Sister Winifred held that the Prioress’s faith in their work as contemplative nuns amounted to fanaticism, and that she clung to the letter of the rule with mistaken rigidity — the rule was made for them, and not they for the rule, etc. During the next recreation fresh arguments were discovered in favour of the relaxation of the rule. It was pointed out that many of the enclosed orders had schools and lived by teaching, that to refuse the advantages which a rich suburb like Wimbledon held out to them was narrow-minded; and the Prioress was held up as the type of a mediaeval Catholic. It was said that an appeal to the Bishop must end by a decision in their favour, for the whole tendency of modern Catholicism was to look more favourably on the active than on the contemplative orders. The prospect of Wimbledon’s conversion would win the Bishop to their side, and Sister Winifred spoke of the high place their community would take in the annals of the Church. She obtained the unqualified approval of some, but there were two Sisters who inclined towards a poultry farm. The little orchard at the end of the garden could be turned into an excellent chicken run, and they had calculated that three hundred hens would pay the convent debts in less than three years. After some discussion it was discovered that the poultry farm and the school did not conflict, so the poultry farmers and the educationalists made common cause against the contemplatives, and at the end of the month the two factions sat on different sides of the garden, congratulating themselves on their admirable self-control in refraining from speech.

Schism provokes schism, and the patient lay Sisters grew discontented with their lot. One day Sister Agnes was heard saying that her idea of an order was 'the Little Sisters of the Poor’; and a few days after she told a group of choir Sisters, as she passed up the garden, that they were merely fashionable ladies, mostly converts. In extenuation of Sister Agnes’s rudeness a nun mentioned that she was merely a lay Sister, and another mentioned that the chaplain held very strong views about the active order. He was a favourite with the lay Sisters — he was of their class and shared their ideas.

Evelyn felt that she could not take sides, and these dissensions filled her with misgivings, for was she not the cause of them? There had been none till she came, and she wondered if she would always be a discord and what change would have to happen in her to bring her into the common order. She had been the cause of confusion before, and apparently worse confusion was about to follow. She had come to the convent because the world was lonely, and in this convent they had lived enfolded in an exquisite spiritual atmosphere. Each one knew the other, though the other spoke very little; the convent was a spiritual camp; and the prayers of each one were a contribution to the common weal. It was from this intimacy of thought and endeavour that they derived their happiness. But they had fallen from their high estate, they had grasped at the things of this world, they had conspired like the angels.

It had seemed to the sub-Prioress that she could manage a school. Her capacity for business had attracted all the business of the convent to her, but it had not been enough to satisfy her energy, and Sister Winifred tempted her alternately with a school and a laundry, and whenever she came to her cell to consult her regarding some business detail, they indulged in a little chaff; the temptation to talk about the Prioress was irresistible.

‘We all admire the Prioress,' said Sister Winifred; ‘no one understands her merits better than I; it is indeed a pity she should be so narrow-minded upon one point. Don’t you think you could influence her?’

'I have known her these many years, she is an admirable woman in many ways. I doubt, however, we shall never induce her to agree to any relaxation of the rule.’

Then Sister Winifred spoke of the Prioress’s influence with Father Ambrose and the bishop, but she did not tell her hopes of throwing Father Daly into the opposite scale. She took no one into her confidence and waited her opportunity; and thinking over the arguments she would use, she remembered with a little thrill of delight how bitterly he resented the usurping Prioress, who had reduced his spiritual administration to the mere act of absolution. This was clearly the point of attack, and seeing him a few days after, pacing the garden alley reading his breviary, she went tripping down the pathway, asking in a little insidious tone, which at once caught his attention, if she could consult him on a matter of importance.

She was a tall, thin woman, with a narrow forehead, a long, thin nose and prominent teeth, extremely plain at first sight, but at second sight her quick brown eyes revealed an eager and alert mind. And she began by telling him that she had chosen this opportunity to speak to him because she did not dare to do so in the confessional.

'It would take too much time.' And there was a little kindly malice in her brown eyes as she said, 'You know how strict the Prioress is that we should not exceed our regulation three minutes.’

‘I know that quite well,' the little man answered abruptly, 'a most improper rule; but, however, we will not discuss the Prioress, dear Sister Winifred; what have you come to tell me?’

‘Well, in a way, it is about the Prioress. You know all about our financial difficulties, and you know that they are not settled yet.’

‘I thought that Sister Teresa’s singing — ’

‘Of course Sister Teresa’s singing has done us a great deal of good, but the collections have fallen off considerably, and as for the rich Catholics who were to pay off our debts, they are like the ships coming from the East, but whose masts have not yet appeared above the horizon.’

‘But does the Prioress still believe that these rich Catholics will come to her aid? ’

'Oh, yes, she still believes; she tells us that we must pray, and that if we pray they will come. Well, Father, prayer is very well, but we must try to help ourselves, and we have been thinking it over, and in thinking it over some of us have come to very practical conclusions — ’

‘You have come to the conclusion that perhaps a good deal of time is wasted in this garden which might be devoted to good works.’

‘Yes, that has struck us, and we think the best way out of our difficulties would be a school — a school! Something must be done,' she said, ‘and we are thinking of starting a school. We have received a great deal of encouragement. I believe I could get twenty pupils to-morrow, but Mother Prioress won’t hear of it. She tells us that we are to pray and that all will come right. But even she does not depend entirely upon prayer; she depends upon Sister Teresa's singing.

'A most unsatisfactory source of income, I should say.’

'So we all think.’

They walked some paces in silence until they were within a few yards of the end of the walk, and just as they were about to turn the priest said, —

‘I was talking at the Bishop’s to a priest who has been put in charge of a parish in one of the poorest parts of south London. There is no school, and the people are disheartened, and he has gone to live among them in a wretched house in one of the worst slums of the district. He lives in one of the upper rooms, and has turned the ground floor, which used to be a greengrocer’s shop, into a temporary chapel and school, and now he is looking for some nuns to help him in the work. He asked me if I could recommend any; and I thought of you all here, Sister Winifred, with your beautiful church and garden, doing what I call elegant piety. The more I see of it the less I like it. It has come to seem to me unbearably sad that you and I and those few here who could do such good work should be kept back from doing it.’

‘I am afraid our habit, Father, makes that sort of work out of the question for us,' and Sister Winifred dropped her habit for a moment, and let it trail gracefully.

'Long grey habits that a speck of dirt will stain are very suitable to trail over green swards, but not fit to bring into the houses of the poor, for fear they should be spoiled. Oh,' he cried, 'I have no patience with such rules, such petty observances. I have often asked myself why the Bishop chose to put me here where I am entirely out of sympathy, where I am useless, where there is nothing for me to do really except for me to try to keep my temper. I have spoken of this matter to no one before, but since you have come to speak to me, Sister Winifred, I too must speak. Ever since I have been here I have been longing to do some work which I could feel to be the work I was intended to do, which I could feel was my work. It is terrible to continue all one’s life doing work that is not one’s work.’

'It is the fate of many of us here, Father Daly.’

‘If we could make a new foundation — if some three or four of you — if the Bishop would send me there.’

‘Of course we might go and do good work in the district you speak of, but I doubt whether the Bishop would recognise us as a new foundation.’

'You were telling me of your project for a school, Sister Winifred.’

Sister Winifred entered into the details of her plan, jerking out little sentences and watching Father Daly with her quick brown eyes. But she had unduly excited Father Daly; he could not listen to her. ‘My position here,' he said, interrupting her, 'is an impossible one. The only ones here who consider my advice are the lay Sisters, the admirable lay Sisters who work from morning till evening, and forego their prayers lest you should want for anything. I am treated very nearly with contempt by nearly all the choir Sisters. Do you think I do not know that I am spoken of as a mere secular priest? Every suggestion of mine meets with some rude answer. You have witnessed a good deal of this, Sister Winifred. I daresay you have forgotten, but I remember it all. You have come to speak to me here because the Prioress will not allow you to spend more than three minutes in the confessional, arrogating to herself the position of your spiritual adviser, allowing to me nothing more than what is to her the mere mechanical act of absolution. I am a mere secular priest, incapable of advising those who live in an order! Have I not noticed her deference to the very slightest word that Father Ambrose deigns to speak to her? with what deference she waits for his words! Now, as to her rule regarding my confessional, I can only say that I have always regarded it as extremely unorthodox, and I’m sure that the amateur confessional which she carries on upstairs would be suppressed were it brought under the notice of Rome. I have long been determined to resist it, and I beg you, Sister Winifred, when you come to me to confession, that you will stay as long as you think proper. On this matter I now see that the Prioress and I must come to an understanding.’

'But not a word, Father Daly, must we breathe to her of what I have come to tell you about. The relaxation of our order must be referred to the Bishop, and with your support — There is the bell, now I must fly. I will tell you more when I come to confession.’

There was enough, even in the very subdued account which Sister Winifred gave of her conversation with the priest, to frighten Mother Philippa. She thought Sister Winifred had gone too far, and that Father Daly was too venturesome. But Sister Winifred quieted her by saying that her proposal did not go any further than to submit the entire matter to the Bishop, and Mother Philippa said, ‘I will agree to anything that the Bishop says.’

Sister Winifred’s alert eyes were always smiling; she was always thinking, and her thoughts could very nearly be read in her eyes. She was thinking now of her confession; she was determined to stay ten minutes in the confessional; for if she were to stay ten minutes, the length of her confession could not fail to reach the ears of the Prioress, and this would bring matters to a crisis. By remaining ten minutes in the confessional she would challenge the Prioress’s spiritual authority, and in return for this Father Daly would use his influence with the Bishop to induce the Prioress to relax the rule of the community.

So before slipping into the confessional she purposely loitered a moment, and that in itself struck the Prioress, who had just entered the chapel, as peculiar. For the moment she did not think of it further, having her prayers to say; but at the end of five minutes she began to grow impatient, and at the end of ten minutes she felt that her authority had been set aside. Fifteen minutes passed, and then the Prioress resisted with difficulty the temptation to go into the confessional and order Sister Winifred out of it.

The next penitent was the Prioress herself, and Father Daly heard her confession in alarm, wondering if she had been in the chapel all the while.

‘It is hard indeed, dear Mother, if one is not even allowed to confess in peace,' Sister Winifred answered, and she tossed her head somewhat defiantly.

‘All the hopes of my life are at an end,' the Prioress said to Mother Hilda. 'Everyone is in rebellion against me, and this branch of our order itself is about to disappear. I feel sure that the Bishop will decide against us, he will go with the majority — I think there is a majority against us, and what can we do with this school? Sister Winifred will have to manage it herself; I will resign. It is hard, indeed, that this should happen after so many years of struggle, and after redeeming the convent from its debts — to be divided in the end.’

Mother Hilda did not answer. It seemed to her that the Reverend Mother had read the future aright. But accident, or what seems to us accident, overthrows the best imagined theories.

Next Sunday Father Daly had taken for his text, why he never knew — accident had apparently guided him to do it — the apostolic injunction to work good to all men, and especially to all those of the household of faith, that prayer does not fulfil the whole duty of man towards God, that work holds an especial place in the course laid down for man’s redemption. Father Daly usually spoke with difficulty; his ideas were generally confused, and his sentences involved and very often imperfect. On this day he spoke like one who is inspired. He had foreseen the danger that lay before him in the amplification of the text he had chosen, but it seemed as if he could not stay his words; even the sight of the wax-like face of the Prioress could not stay his ideas on the subject of work. The words sprang to his lips, and he said that he often thought that in their convent they were apt to overlook the necessity of work. Theirs was a life of prayer; but was that incompatible with some measure of active charity? The terrible words forced their way, and he felt himself like a leaf in the current of inspiration. He heard himself say that they did not visit the sick and poor. He heard himself say that he often wondered how they could fill their days. To say this implied that the community lived in the sin of idleness, and the cool chapel seemed suddenly to grow hot, a dryness came into his throat, and he heard the nuns coughing in the silence. The sunlight seemed to fade, and he began to see the bowed heads as through a mist. He began to observe them, and it seemed to him that every nun instinctively drew herself up, and he waited, thinking that one of them, the Prioress — no, she was too proud, Mother Hilda, perhaps — would get up from her stall and leave the chapel, but no one moved, and he mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and went on. He spoke of the monetary difficulties of the convent, and he mentioned that he knew these very well, though he had not been honoured with their confidences in this matter. He said he might have been tempted, if they had honoured him with their confidence on this matter, to suggest they should start a school for young ladies, for which the convent offered exceptional advantages. A school seemed to him a more Christian remedy than the unliturgical musical experiments they had been indulging in. He said he had no belief in attracting people to church by turning the service into a concert, and then paused, frightened at his own indiscretion. It was a terrible moment, and he added hurriedly that he hoped they would reflect on this matter, and try to remember he was always at their service and prepared to give them the best advice.

When Mass was over, the nuns hung about the cloister, whispering in little groups, forgetful of the rule. The supporters of the Prioress could not hide their indignation at the impertinence of the priest daring to insult the community, and the most ardent supporters of the school felt that he had gone too far.

Sister Winifred walked about aimlessly, in terror lest she should be sent for by the Prioress. Mother Philippa avoided her. The greatest anxiety was shown for the health of the Prioress; the nuns remembered her weak heart and the strain that had been put upon her. Might not the Prioress be in need of help? Was it not their duty to go to her? The infirmarian fetched some sal volatile from her cupboard, but no one, not even Mother Hilda, had courage to knock at the Prioress’s door. The tension of the morning was drawn out to an extreme, and when the bell rang summoning them in to dinner, the nuns scarcely knew whether they ought to eat their meal or not. Suddenly the door opened, and the Prioress appeared in all her usual calmness. She took no one into her confidence; she told no one what she had done, not even Mother Hilda. But that night a firmly-worded letter went to the Bishop, and before a month was over Father Daly was transferred to another parish.