Then on, across a narrow canal into the suburbs where the houses were detached: little cut-off houses with bright ornamental façades on past some hoardings into a more open countryside. Here they skirted suddenly a wood which, reaching away vaguely into the gathering blackness, seemed large and tenebrous, as a forest.
‘Forét de Sentiens,’ said Sister Joséphine. ‘We are nearly there’; and, withdrawing her hand from her cloak, she pointed towards the summit of a gentle elevation upon the left. Lucy’s eyes strained through the narrow window. Against the dull opacity of the darkening sky she saw dimly the darker outlines of a building which lay with outflung wings like a great bat cowering upon the hill. Her heart leaped and beat rapidly. She was no longer en route; she was there – at the end of her journey. As the cab crunched into the gravel drive she felt a trembling suffuse her like a thrill of mingled hope and joy. At last – at last she was there!
Chapter Five
The convent of Sentiens, mother house of the foundation, which in the distance seemed to cower like a bat, had actually the appropriate form of a cross. The head of the cross, which fronted closely the Rue de Camboix, from behind a high wrought-iron fence interwoven with clematis, was made up of the hall, ‘the parlours’ with, above, a few bedrooms designed for the occasional reception of guests – all cheerful and open, exposing a pleasant creeper-grown façade towards the quiet roadway. On either side of this entrance two arms reached out behind high walls: the left holding the refectory, the workroom, and the cells of the professed religious, together with a narrow detached strip, the Postulat, set aside, as its name implied, for the enclosure of postulants and – superimposed almost like an afterthought – a long, low attic for the housing of the lay sisters; the right arm, duplicate of the left in size, enclosing the cells, refectory, and workroom of the novices. Finally, receding at right angles to those wings – occupying the narrow body of the cross – and rearing its narrow spire far beyond the highest branches of an adjacent copper beach, stood the church.
Separating, yet in a fashion uniting, these four main divisions of the building, was a central stone-flagged courtyard with, in its middle, a statue of St Joseph, which directed a placid and perpetual gaze through the windows of the convent kitchen immediately in front. And, stretching down and backwards from the whole, surrounding the church but reaching far beyond it, was the garden – a large, exquisite garden laid out in alleys and avenues by an arrangement of its trees. Fruit-trees these were in the main, plum and cherry and peach, but there were others – lime and larch, privet and laurel, with trailing roses woven and shaped around the arbours which graced the dazzling white stone walks.
A great high wall ran round the entire territory, and, as if this were not enough, nature in all its redundance had heaped up a further barricade – the forest of Sentiens which, approaching actually to the wall, supported it with a gloomy and impassable barrier. Thus the whole community was girded like a citadel – a fortress with a solitary but somewhat complicated means of access. To enter the citadel it was necessary to pull the rope-bell, to wait, to be inspected through the sliding grille, to be admitted by the slow lay sister who kept the porch, to enter the hall, and then, by virtue of the special key which opened the intervening doors, to traverse the chain of parlours. Then only did one stand upon the threshold of the cloister.
And now it was in one of those front parlours that Lucy sat – waiting. She was alone – Sister Joséphine, with Mother Marie Emmanuel, had gone to inform the Superior of her arrival – and as she waited her eyes travelled slowly round the small room. It was bare – a table covered with oilcloth, some hard chairs ranged with meticulous exactitude, a yellow porcelain stove with an angled iron funnel, a single picture: Jesus walking on the waters; that made up the complement of furnishings. But the bareness of the chamber was as nothing before its terrific and arresting cleanliness: the wooden floor shone like a mirror; the old stove gleamed with a dull lustre and its funnel glistened like a new top-hat; the table, the chairs, the very handle of the door, all were furbished with amazing solicitude. There had been a time when Lucy prided herself upon the spotless condition of her home, but never – no, never – had it been so utterly immaculate as this.
She was still marvelling when the door opened and an elderly woman came impressively into the room, followed by Joséphine and Marie Emmanuel. She was tall, stoutish, and voluminous from the fullness of her habit. Her face was white and full, her head thrust forwards, her brown, myopic eyes, reduced by thick steel spectacles to the size of beads, had a peering intensity, and her lower teeth, projecting and very yellow, gave to her a curious carping look, as though perpetually she rebuked the universe. Still, she made a commanding figure; and now she advanced towards Lucy, stretching out both her hands.
‘Welcome!’ said she, with a peculiar gracious gravity.
Lucy rose; instinctively she knew herself to be in the presence of the Bonne Mère Générale, and, the focus of three frankly observant glances, she surrendered her hands. There was a pause.
‘You are not young,’ continued Bonne Mère Générale, now so close to Lucy that each word was clothed with a faint odour from her teeth, ‘but the ways of God are wonderful with a soul. The worker entering the vineyard at the eleventh hour. Do you comprehend? It is God’s blessing you have come.’ She was silent, then with a quick change of subject demanded:
‘Are you fatigued?’
‘No, mother.’ She knew this, instinctively, to be the form of her reply.
‘Have you need of refreshment?’
‘No, mother.’
The Superior drew back, well satisfied, and let her chin fall on to her bosom.
‘You have arrived at a good moment. Later tonight we could not have received you. You must have slept here – above the parlours. But now we are prepared. We shall receive you before prayers. You have not much time for recollection – still, it is favourable.’
As she turned away, her gaze fell upon the two sisters, who immediately lowered their eyes respectfully.
‘Sister Joséphine is your guardian now,’ she declared pleasantly, ‘for some weeks, perhaps – then after, in your novitiate, you must obey Bonne Mère Marie Emmanuel.’
She nodded slowly, and swept towards the door, with the firmness of absolute autocracy; as she went out of the room, she said finally, without turning her head:
‘Sister Joséphine has told me; I am pleased that your baggage has passed the douane without payment. It is for you a good omen.’
The door closed behind her. For a moment no one spoke – as if the agitated atmosphere must first be permitted to subside after the passage of that august presence – then Sister Joséphine said pleasantly, as though addressing a child:
‘Come – we will prepare you’; and, taking Lucy by the arm, she unlocked the door and led her into another smaller parlour. Sister Marie Emmanuel accompanied them in silence: it was a strict precept of the Rule that no religious remain alone with one not so professed – always there must be two: and again they stood waiting, until in a moment an old lay sister entered, bearing in her knotted hands some black net veils.
Whilst Lucy sat upright, with a heightened colour, there was quite a fuss over the choosing and the fitting of the veil. It was of a cheap stiff material – something of the fashion worn in the churches by peasant women of Italy – but its correct adjustment upon her hair was a matter of delicacy. She must wear it always in church, they told her, and she was given a little cardboard box in which, at all other times, she must keep it neatly folded.
Suddenly there came the loud pealing of a bell, and at this she was hurriedly approved. The lay sister took up the discarded veils, and at once disappeared.
‘Rise!’ said Sister Joséphine. Lucy got up. She felt suddenly perturbed.
‘What must I do?’ she enquired nervously.
‘It is nothing,’ returned the other indulgently. ‘So simple for the Postulat. – so different from the clothing. You will kneel at the
prie-dieu, and we will sing the Magnificat – quite beautiful. Yes, it is easy for you.’
She raised her finger encouragingly, then once more she took Lucy’s arm, and, again accompanied by Marie Emmanuel – she it was who this time used her key – they went out of the room. Along another polished corridor they walked, and outside a double door they paused.
‘It is the church,’ said Sister Joséphine impressively, conveying that stiff finger to her lips, which still smiled gently. She lowered her finger; they entered, at the back of the church. Lucy slowly raised her eyes, which, from her tiredness and a strange agitation, had been downcast at that moment. Then slowly those eyes became no longer perplexed, but filled instead with a light of tenderness. Her journey, the strangeness of the place, the formalities of ‘the parlours’ – all were instantly forgotten. The beauty of the church was extreme. The interior was long and lofty, the walls lined by a darkly mellowed wood, the vaulted ceiling – painted and spangled like a distant sky – now almost invisible. Lit only by the candles on the altar, and a candle on either side of a prie-dieu, which was placed before the altar rail, the church seemed filled by a brooding and mysterious tranquillity.
The small altar was of white marble. It stood in a semicircle made by five stained-glass windows, now lifeless in the darkness, and seemed, surmounted by a large crucifix, to stand much higher than the five shallow marble steps which raised it from the level of the floor. The candles flickered and shed a soft radiance on the brass doors of the tabernacle, and on the pale masses of flowers which drooped submissively on either side. Against the walls, the Stations of the Cross showed vaguely, and dim, too, were the black figures of the nuns, kneeling in that silence, which is felt nowhere so intensely as in a convent church, a stillness which now flooded Lucy’s heart with a delicious feeling of calm and joy.
At a sign she advanced, knelt upon the prie-dieu, striving to recollect herself and to say some prayer. But she could not. All her mind was filled by the rushing thought that at last she was here, amongst this community of holy women – she who had lived all her life in the world, and lived it so unworthily. Now she was offering herself, offering the remnant of that worthless existence, to her Creator. What peace was here in this exquisite house of God, pity and mercy and peace for her! Stinging tears flowed into her eyes.
Then, as she knelt, there came suddenly the low note of the organ, which swelled slowly into a glorious rhapsody of sound. Louder and louder! The choir of voices began to sing: ‘Veni Creator Spiritus.’ Dumbly she listened, her throat swelling. Then there came the Magnificat:
‘Magnificat anima mea Dominum:
Et exsultavit spiritus meus in Deo salutari meo.’
They were singing for her – to welcome her in all her unworthiness Something was choking her – her soul magnifying the Lord, her spirit rejoicing in God her Saviour – within her breast the tearing rush of emotion was unbearable; tears flowed silently down her cheeks. Why had she been so blind? There was one thing in life: the love of God. She struck her breast fiercely: ‘ God be merciful to me, a sinner. Sweet Jesus, let me love Thee more and more.’
They were singing the Te Deum –
‘Te Deum laudamus: te Dominum confitemur.’
And in her own heart there was now an answering hymn of thanksgiving. God had accepted her. Her mind, fixed upon the future, was filled with an intensity of resolution. Lifted higher and higher she was by her exaltation. How easy it would be here to forget all the world and its littleness, to give herself, surrender herself, to Jesus. Jesus was here for her to love for ever.
The singing ended and silence fell – the silence of meditation. Then in a moment she felt a touch upon her arm. She looked up, and rose. With her head again lowered, she walked out of the church into the cloister.
Now, by virtue of her acceptance, and this simple ceremony, she was within the enclosure. It was the first step. She stood passive, whilst the same lay sister removed her veil and tied on the black net bonnet which she now must wear.
‘You will not wait for prayers tonight,’ said Sister Joséphine authoritatively; ‘clearly you are too fatigued.’
She led the way to a varnished door, above which was painted the word ‘Postulat’, and, throwing it open, disclosed a scrubbed wooden staircase.
They ascended this staircase in silence, and turned along a narrow passage broken by a row of doors. Around them was a quietude and that curious convent odour: a closed, warm odour, unique, indescribable. Their footsteps echoed quietly on the bare boards. Then Sister Joséphine opened the second last door. Inside it was dark, but fumbling for matches, within the small black cavern she lit a candle and revealed the tiny, bare room which contained solely a mattress, a small armoire bearing an ewer, and upon the wall a large crucifix.
‘It is the cell,’ she said. ‘As postulante you are permitted a candle – one for the week. Not, however, when you are a novice. To be in bed by nine with candle extinguished – that is the rule. And the rule must be obeyed.’
The last phrase fell from her lips like a solemn, oft-repeated canticle; she looked at Lucy compliantly.
‘As I have explained, tonight you are fatigued. But tomorrow you will begin to learn.’ A shadow of a smile wavered over her flat features. She went to the door. ‘Blessed be God,’ she said. It was her good night. And Lucy answered, as she had been directed: ‘For ever.’
The door closed gently. She was alone. Alone within her cell. So quickly had her desire been achieved that scarcely could she realise the actuality of her position. Her head throbbed painfully with her fatigue and the violence of the emotion which had traversed her. Yes, she felt utterly worn out; and, from habit, for a swift, ridiculous second her mind flew to the consideration of the solace of a cup of tea; that would have restored her. But the thought lingered only for an instant. What absurdity! She smiled faintly, went to the small window, and opened it. Immediately the rush of the sweet night air blew gratefully into her hot face. Sweet with the scents of earth and forest it was, fresh with the cool dampness of the dew. She stood for a moment gazing out into the absolute darkness, whilst behind her the flame of the candle wavered and threw strange gigantic shapes against the wall. Then, suddenly, out of the blackness, from that unseen forest beyond, came a pure and exquisite sound: a note of beauty, so unexpected, so sublime and passionate, that it seemed to spring from some source not of this earth. Spellbound she listened, while the liquid notes rose and fell in a joyous rapture, a rapture filled with some quality which was wild and free.
Lovely, oh, how lovely it was, this sudden trilling ecstasy! It was the song of the nightingale. And it came to her like the final recognition of her happiness.
With a full heart she turned from the window, undressed quickly, and got into bed. Yes, there was shelter here and abundant peace! Before she blew out the candle, the last object upon which her eyes rested was the crucifix upon the opposite wall.
Chapter Six
At half-past four in the morning the bell of the convent rang loudly. Lucy awoke with a start. It was still dark; heavy with the darkness of night; and her head was heavy, too, filled by the troubled unrealities of her sleep and the clanging resonance of that bell. Where was she? Her mind fumbled. She could not understand. Then across the haze of her perplexity came a knocking upon the door, and the words uttered insistently: ‘ Blessed be God! Blessed be God!’ Instantly she made answer: ‘For ever!’ Then, listening, she heard the sound of footsteps go down the corridor, another knock, again the salutation: ‘Blessed be God’ and again the answer: ‘For ever!’
What was she thinking of? To rise immediately, without a moment of reflection, was the first act of self-denial the day contained. This much she knew. And here she was, at the commencement of her postulation, disobedient to the first mandate of the rule! Abruptly she sprang up from the mattress and lit her candle. To wash and clothe herself in her new dress and bonnet was the work of a few moments. No mirror was in the room, and it was, perhaps, as well, for s
he made a queer outlandish figure in that long black gown and cap. Then there was the bed to make, the dirty water to empty out, the basin to make dry and cleanse, the cell to be put in a state of the most perfect tidiness. This she accomplished diligently.
At quarter-past five the bell rang again – this she knew was for the Angelus – and immediately thereafter she heard the sound of opening doors and the tramp of feet along the corridor. Emerging from her cell and following instinctively the last dark form now disappearing down the dim passage, she descended the stair and entered the dim church, where already the community had assembled. A half-light vaguely filled the church, making the still, kneeling forms like rows of shadows, but she made out her place, which was in the front seat amongst the other postulants. Thither she advanced, and there at once knelt down.
Instinctively she held herself erect, and pressed her face into her palms. The silence of the meditation which followed the morning prayers was like the hush within a sepulchre. No one moved; the stillness was absolute. Then, into this crepuscular dimness, came slowly the first faint crayons of the dawn – thin streaks of colour traced downwards from the stained windows of the apse. The silence, too, was pierced by the sounds of the breaking day: the flutings of many birds from the trees, which encompassed the church.
Kneeling there, she had a sudden surge almost of giddiness in answer to the curious colours of the dawn: strangely buoyant, she felt her mind enlightened, her heart uplifted with a high expectancy. Fervently she prayed for the grace to become as those saintly souls around her.
At half-past six the bell rang again, and the Mass began, said by a small, bent priest, a very aged man, tremulous of hand and slow of foot, with a thin piping voice which creaked in its upper octaves. The Mass from necessity was unhurried, and it was followed by the thanksgiving; then, at eight, the community arose in silence, and passed out of the church for breakfast.