Sister Teresa by George Moore

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SISTER TERESA

BY GEORGE MOORE

LONDON T. FISHER UNWIN ADELPHI TERRACE

_First Edition, 1901_

_Second Edition (entirely rewritten), 1909_

PREFACE

A weaver goes to the mart with a divided tapestry, and with half in
either hand he walks about telling that whoever possesses one must,
perforce, possess the other for the sake of the story. But
allegories are out of place in popular editions; they require linen
paper, large margins, uncut edges; even these would be insufficient;
only illuminated vellum can justify that which is never read. So
perhaps it will be better if I abandon the allegory and tell what
happened: how one day after writing the history of "Evelyn Innes"
for two years I found myself short of paper, and sought vainly for a
sheet in every drawer of the writing-table; every one had been
turned into manuscript, and "Evelyn Innes" stood nearly two feet
high.

"Five hundred pages at least," I said, "and only half of my story
finished.... This is a matter, on which I need the publisher's
opinion."

Ten minutes after I was rolling away in a hansom towards Paternoster
Square, very anxious to persuade him that the way out of my
difficulty would be to end the chapter I was then writing on a full
close.

"That or a novel of a thousand pages," I said.

"A novel of a thousand pages!" he answered. "Impossible! We must
divide the book." It may have been to assuage the disappointment he
read on my face that he added, "You'll double your money."

My publisher had given way too easily, and my artistic conscience
forthwith began to trouble me, and has never ceased troubling me
since that fatal day. The book the publisher puts asunder the author
may not bring together, and I shall write to no purpose in one
preface that "Evelyn Innes" is not a prelude to "Sister Teresa" and
in another that "Sister Teresa" is not a sequel to "Evelyn Innes."
Nor will any statement of mine made here or elsewhere convince the
editors of newspapers and reviews to whom this book will be sent for
criticism that it is not a revised edition of a book written ten
years ago, but an entirely new book written within the last eighteen
months; the title will deceive them, and my new book will be thrown
aside or given to a critic with instructions that he may notice it
in ten or a dozen lines. Nor will the fact that "Evelyn Innes"
occupies a unique place in English literature cause them to order
that the book shall be reread and reconsidered--a unique place I
hasten to add which it may easily lose to-morrow, for the claim made
for it is not one of merit, but of kind.

"Evelyn Innes" is a love story, the first written in English for
three hundred years, and the only one we have in prose narrative.
For this assertion not to seem ridiculous it must be remembered that
a love story is not one in which love is used as an ingredient; if
that were so nearly all novels would be love stories; even Scott's
historical novels could not be excluded. In the true love story love
is the exclusive theme; and perhaps the reason why love stories are
so rare in literature is because the difficulty of maintaining the
interest is so great; probably those in existence were written
without intention to write love stories. Mine certainly was. The
manuscript of this book was among the printers before it broke on me
one evening as I hung over the fire that what I had written was a
true love story about a man and a woman who meet to love each other,
who are separated for material or spiritual reasons, and who at the
end of the story are united in death or affection, no matter which,
the essential is that they should be united. My story only varies
from the classical formula in this, that the passion of "the lovely
twain" is differentiated.

It would be interesting to pursue this subject, and there are other
points which it would be interesting to touch upon; there must be a
good deal for criticism in a book which has been dreamed and
re-dreamed for ten years. But, again, of what avail? The book I now
offer to the public will not be read till I am dead. I have written
for posterity if I have written for anybody except myself. The
reflection is not altogether a pleasant one. But there it is; we
follow our instinct for good or evil, but we follow it; and while the
instinct of one man is to regard the most casual thing that comes
from his hand as "good enough," the instinct of another man compels
him to accept all risks, seeking perfection always, although his work
may be lost in the pursuit.

My readers, who are all Balzacians, are already thinking of Porbus
and Poussin standing before _le chef d'oeuvre Inconnu_ in the studio
of Mabuse's famous pupil--Frenhofer. Nobody has seen this picture
for ten years; Frenhofer has been working on it in some distant
studio, and it is now all but finished. But the old man thinks that
some Eastern woman might furnish him with some further hint, and is
about to start on his quest when his pupil Porbus persuades him that
the model he is seeking is Poussin's mistress. Frenhofer agrees to
reveal his mistress (_i.e._, his picture) on condition that Poussin
persuades his mistress to sit to him for an hour, for he would
compare her loveliness with his art. These conditions having been
complied with, he draws aside the curtain; but the two painters see
only confused colour and incoherent form, and in one corner "a
delicious foot, a living foot escaped by a miracle from a slow and
progressive destruction."

In the first edition of "Evelyn Innes" (I think the passage has been
dropped out of the second) Ulick Dean says that one should be
careful what one writes, for what one writes will happen. Well,
perhaps what Balzac wrote has happened, and I may have done no more
than to realise one of his most famous characters.

G.M.

SISTER TERESA

I

As soon as Mother Philippa came into the parlour Evelyn guessed there
must be serious trouble in the convent.

"But what is the matter, Mother Philippa?"

"Well, my dear, to tell you the truth, we have no money at all."

"None at all! You must have some money."

"As a matter of fact we have none, and Mother Prioress won't let us
order anything from the tradespeople."

"Why not?"

"She will not run into debt; and she's quite right; so we have to
manage with what we've got in the convent. Of course there are some
vegetables and some flour in the house; but we can't go on like this
for long. We don't mind so much for ourselves, but we are so anxious
about Mother Prioress; you know how weak her heart is, and all this
anxiety may kill her. Then there are the invalid sisters, who ought
to have fresh meat."

"I suppose so," and Evelyn thought of driving to the Wimbledon
butcher and bringing back some joints.

"But, Mother, why didn't you let me know before? Of course I'll help
you."

"The worst of it is, Evelyn, we want a great deal of help."

"Well, never mind; I'm ready to give you a great deal of help... as
much as I can. And here is the Prioress."

The Prioress stood resting, leaning on the door-handle, and Evelyn
was by her side in an instant.

"Thank you, my child, thank you," and she took Evelyn's arm.

"I've heard of your trouble, dear Mother, and am determined to help
you; so you must sit down and tell me about it."

"Reverend Mother ought not to be about," said Mother Philippa. "On
Monday night she was so ill we had to get up to pray for her."

"I'm better to-day. If it hadn't been for this new trouble--" As the
Prioress was about to explain she paused for breath, and Evelyn
said:

"Another time. What does it matter to whom you owe the money? You owe
it to somebody, and he is pressing you for it--isn't that so? Of
course it is, dear Mother. Well, I've come to bring you good news.
You remember my promise to arrange a concert tour as soon as I was
free? Everything has been arranged; we start next Thursday, and with
fair hope of success."

"How good of you!"

"You will succeed, Evelyn; and as Mother Philippa says, it is very
good of you."

The Prioress spoke with hesitation, and Evelyn guessed that the nuns
were thinking of their present necessities.

"I can let you have a hundred pounds easily, and I could let you have
more if it were not--" The pause was sufficiently dramatic to cause
the nuns to press her to go on speaking, saying that they must know
they were not taking money which she needed for herself. "I wasn't
thinking of myself, but of my poor people; they're so dependent upon
me, and I am so dependent upon them, even more than they are upon
me, for without them there would be no interest in my life, and
nothing for me to do except to sit in my drawing-room and look at the
wall paper and play the piano."

"We couldn't think of taking money which belongs to others. We shall
put our confidence in God. No, Evelyn, pray don't say any more."

But Evelyn insisted, saying she would manage in such a way that her
poor people should lack nothing. "Of course they lack a great deal,
but what I mean is, they'll lack nothing they've been in the habit
of receiving from me," and, speaking of their unfailing patience in
adversity, she said: "and their lives are always adversity."

"Your poor people are your occupations since you left the stage?"

"You think me frivolous, or at least changeable, Reverend Mother?"

"No, indeed; no, indeed," both nuns cried together, and Evelyn
thought of what her life had been, how the new occupations which had
come into it contrasted with the old--singing practice in the
morning, rehearsals, performances in the evening, intrigues,
jealousies; and the change seemed so wonderful that she would like
to have spoken of it to the nuns, only that could not be done without
speaking of Owen Asher. But there was no reason for not speaking of
her stage life, the life that had drifted by. "You see, my old
friends are no longer interested in me." A look of surprise came
into the nuns' faces. "Why should they be? They are only interested
in me so long as I am available to fill an engagement. And the
singers who were my friends--what should I speak to them about? Not
of my poor people; though, indeed, many of my friends are very good:
they are very kind to each other."

"But we mustn't think of taking the money from you that should go to
your poor people."

"No, no; that is out of the question, dear Mother. As I have told
you, I can easily let you have a hundred pounds; and as for paying
off the debts of the convent--that I look upon as an obligation, as
a _bonne bouche_, I might say. My heart is set on it." "We can
never thank you enough."

"I don't want to be thanked; it is all pleasure to me to do this for
you. Now goodbye; I'll write to you about the success of the
concerts. You will pray that I may be a great success, won't you?
Much more depends upon your prayers than on my voice."

Mother Philippa murmured that everything was in God's hands.

The Prioress raised her eyes and looked at Evelyn questioningly.
"Mother Philippa is quite right. Our prayers will be entirely
pleasing to God; He sent you to us. Without you our convent would be
broken up. We shall pray for you, Evelyn."

II

The larger part of the stalls was taken up by Lady Ascott's party;
she had a house-party at Thornton Grange, and had brought all her
friends to Edinburgh to hear Evelyn. Added to which, she had written
to all the people she knew living in Edinburgh, and within reach of
Edinburgh, asking them to come to the concert, pressing tickets upon
them.

"But, my dear, is it really true that you have left the stage? One
never heard of such a thing before. Now, why did you do this? You
will tell me about it? You will come to Thornton Grange, won't you,
and spend a few days with us?"

But in Thornton Grange Evelyn would meet many of her old friends, and
a slight doubt came into her eyes.

"No, I won't hear of a refusal. You are going to Glasgow; Thornton
Grange is on your way there; you can easily spend three days with
us. No, no, no, Evelyn, you must come; I want to hear all about your
religious scruples."

"That is the last thing I should like to speak about. Besides,
religious scruples, dear Lady Ascott--"

"Well, then, you shan't speak about them at all; nobody will ask you
about them. To tell you the truth, my dear, I don't think my friends
would understand you if you did. But you will come; that is the
principal thing. Now, not another word; you mustn't tire your voice;
you have to sing again." And Lady Ascott returned to the
concert-hall for the second part of the programme.

After the concert Evelyn was handed a letter, saying that she would
be expected to-morrow at Thornton Grange; the trains were as
follows: if she came by this train she would be in time for tea, and
if she came by the other she would be just in time for dinner.

"She's a kind soul, and after all she has done it is difficult to
refuse her." So Evelyn sent a wire accepting the invitation....
Besides, there was no reason for refusing unless--A knock! Her
manager! and he had come to tell her they had taken more money that
night than on any previous night. "Perhaps Lady Ascott may have some
more friends in Glasgow and will write to them," he added as he bade
her good-night.

"Three hundred pounds! Only a few of the star singers would have
gathered as much money into a hall," and to the dull sound of gold
pieces she fell asleep. But the sound of gold is the sweetest
tribute to the actress's vanity, and this tribute Evelyn had missed
to some extent in the preceding concerts; the others were artistic
successes, but money had not flowed in, and a half-empty
concert-room puts an emptiness into the heart of the concert singer
that nothing else can. But the Edinburgh concert had been different;
people had been more appreciative, her singing had excited more
enthusiasm. Lady Ascott had brought musical people to hear her, and
Evelyn awoke, thinking that she would not miss seeing Lady Ascott
for anything; and while looking forward to seeing her at Thornton
Grange, she thought of the money she had made for the poor nuns, and
then of the money awaiting her in Glasgow.... It would be nice if by
any chance Lady Ascott were persuaded to come to Glasgow for the
concert, bringing her party with her. Anything was possible with
Lady Ascott; she would go anywhere to hear music.

"But what an evening!" and she watched the wet country. A high wind
had been blowing all day, but the storm had begun in the dusk, and
when she arrived at the station the coachman could hardly get his
horses to face the wind and rain. In answer to her question the
footman told her Thornton Grange was about a mile from the station;
and when the carriage turned into the park she peered through the
wet panes, trying to see the trees which Owen had often said were the
finest in Scotland; but she could only distinguish blurred masses,
and the yellow panes of a parapeted house.

"How are you, my dear Evelyn? I'm glad to see you. You'll find some
friends here." And Lady Ascott led her through shadowy drawing-rooms
curtained with red silk hangings, filled with rich pictures, china
vases, books, marble consol tables on which stood lamps and tall
candles. Owen came forward to meet her.

"I am so glad to meet you, Miss Innes! You didn't expect to see me? I
hope you're not sorry."

"No, Sir Owen, I'm not sorry; but this is a surprise, for Lady Ascott
didn't tell me. Were you at the concert?"

"No, I couldn't go; I was too ill. It was a privation to remain at
home thinking--What did you sing?"

Evelyn looked at him shrewdly, believing only a little in his
illness, and nearly convinced he had not gone to the concert because
he wished to keep his presence a secret from her... fearing she
would not come to Thornton Grange if she knew he were there.

"He missed a great deal; I told him so when I returned," said Lady
Ascott.

"But what can one do, Miss Innes, when one is ill? The best music in
the world--even your voice when one is ill--. Tell me what you
sang."

"Evelyn is going to sing at Glasgow; you will be able to go there
with her."

The servant announced another guest and Lady Ascott went forward to
meet him. Guest after guest, and all were greeted with little cries
of fictitious intimacy; and each in turn related his or her journey,
and the narratives were chequered with the names of other friends
who had been staying in the houses they had just come from. Evelyn
listened, thinking of her poor people, contrasting their
simplicities with the artificialities of the gang--that is how she
put it to herself--which ran about from one house to another,
visiting, calling itself Society, talking always, changing the
conversation rapidly, never interested in any subject sufficiently
to endure it for more than a minute and a half. The life of these
people seemed to Evelyn artificial as that of white mice, coming in
by certain doors, going out by others, climbing poles, engaged in
all kinds of little tricks; yet she was delighted to find herself
among them all again, for her life had been dull and tedious since
she left the convent; and this sudden change, taking her back to art
and to her old friends, was very welcome; and the babble of all
these people about her inveigled her out of her new self; and she
liked to hear about so many people, their adventures, their ideas,
misfortunes, precocious caprices.

The company had broken up into groups, and one little group, of which
Evelyn was part, had withdrawn into a corner to discuss its own
circle of friends; and all the while Evelyn's face smiled, her eyes
and her lips and her thoughts were atingle. Nonsense! Yes, it was
nonsense! But what delicious nonsense! and she waited for somebody
to speak of Canary--the "love machine," as he was called. No sooner
had the thought come into her mind than somebody mentioned his name,
telling how Beatrice, after sending him away in the luggage-cart, had
yielded and taken him back again. "He is her interest," Evelyn said
to herself, and she heard that Canary still continued to cause
Beatrice great unhappiness; and some interesting stories were told
of her quarrels--all her quarrels were connected with Canary. One of
the most serious was with Miss ----, who had gone for a walk with him
in the morning; and the guests at Thornton Grange were divided
regarding Miss ----'s right to ask Canary to go for a walk with her,
for, of course, she had come down early for the purpose, knowing
well that Beatrice never came downstairs before lunch.

"Quite so." The young man was listened to, and he continued to argue
for a long while that it was not reasonable for a woman to expect a
man to spend the whole morning reading the _Times_, and that
apparently was what Beatrice wished poor Canary to do until she
chose to come down. Nevertheless, the general opinion was in favour
of Beatrice and against the girl.

"Beatrice has been so kind to her," and everybody had something to
say on this point.

"But what happened?" Evelyn asked, and the leader of this
conversation, a merry little face with eyes like wild flowers and a
great deal of shining hair, told of Beatrice's desperate condition
when the news of Miss ----'s betrayal reached her.

"I went up and found her in tears, her hair hanging down her back,
saying that nobody cared for her. Although she spends three thousand
a year on clothes, she sits up in that bedroom in a dressing-gown
that we have known for the last five years. "Well, Beatrice," I
said, "if you'll only put on a pair of stays and dress yourself and
come downstairs, perhaps somebody will care for you."

A writer upon economic subjects who trailed a black lock of hair over
a bald skull declared he could see the scene in Beatrice's bedroom
quite clearly, and he spoke of her woolly poodle looking on, trying
to understand what it was all about, and his allusion to the poodle
made everybody laugh, for some reason not very apparent, and Evelyn
wondered at the difference between the people she was now among and
those she had left--the nuns in their convent at the edge of
Wimbledon Common, and her thoughts passing back, she remembered the
afternoon in the Savoy Hotel spent among her fellow-artists.

Her reverie endured, she did not know how long; only that she was
awakened from it by Lady Ascott, come to tell her it was time to go
upstairs to dress for dinner. Now with whom would she go down? With
Owen, of course, such was the etiquette in houses like Thornton
Grange. It was possible Lady Ascott might look upon them as married
people and send her down with somebody else--one of those young men!
No! The young men would be reserved for the girls. As she suspected,
she went down with Owen. He did not tell her where he had been since
she last saw him; intimate conversation was impossible amid a
glitter of silver dishes and anecdotes of people they knew; but
after dinner in a quiet corner she would hear his story. And as soon
as the men came up from the dining-room Owen went straight towards
her, and she followed him out of hearing of the card-players.

"At last we are alone. My gracious! how I've looked forward to this
little talk with you, all through that long dinner, and the formal
talk with the men afterwards, listening to infernal politics and
still more infernal hunting. You didn't expect to meet me, did you?"

"No; Lady Ascott said nothing about your being here when she came to
the concert."

"And perhaps you wouldn't have come if you had known I was here?"

"Is that why you didn't come to the concert?"

"Well, Evelyn, I suppose it was. You'll forgive me the trickery,
won't you?" She took his hand and held it for a moment. "That touch
of your hand means more to me than anything in the world." A cloud
came into her face which he saw and it pained him to see it. "Lady
Ascott wrote saying she intended to ask you to Thornton Grange, so I
wrote at once asking her if she could put me up; she guessed an
estrangement, and being a kind woman, was anxious to put it right."

"An estrangement, Owen? But there is no estrangement between us?"

"No estrangement?"

"Well, no, Owen, not what I should call an estrangement."

"But you sent me away, saying I shouldn't see you for three months.
Now three months have passed--haven't I been obedient?"

"Have three months passed?"

"Yes; It was in August you sent me away and now we are in November."

"Three months all but a fortnight."

"The last time I saw you was the day you went to Wimbledon to sing
for the nuns. They have captured you; you are still singing for
them."

"You mustn't say a word against the nuns," and she told anecdotes
about the convent which interested her, but which provoked him even
to saying under his breath, "Miserable folk!"

"I won't allow you to speak like that against my friends."

Owen apologised, saying they had taken her from him. "And you can't
expect me to sympathise with people or with an idea that has done
this? It wouldn't be human, and I don't think you would like me any
better if I did--now would you, Evelyn? Can you say that you would,
honestly, hand upon your heart?--if a heart is beating there still."

"A heart is beating--"

"I mean if a human heart is beating."

"It seems to me, Owen, I am just as human, more human than ever, only
it is a different kind of humanity."

"Pedantry doesn't suit women, nor does cruelty; cruelty suits no one
and you were very cruel when we parted."

"Yes, I suppose I was, and it is always wrong to be cruel. But I had
to send you away; if I hadn't I should have been late for the
concert. You don't realise, Owen, you can't realise--" And as she
said those words her face seemed to freeze, and Owen thought of the
idea within her turning her to ice.

"The wind! Isn't it uncanny? You don't know the glen? One of the most
beautiful in Scotland." And he spoke of the tall pines at the end of
it, the finest he had ever seen, and hoped that not many would be
blown down during the night. "Such a storm as this only happens once
in ten years. Good God, listen!" Like a savage beast the wind seemed
to skulk, and to crouch.... It sprang forward and seized the house
and shook it. Then it died away, and there was stillness for a few
minutes.

"But it is only preparing for another attack," Evelyn said, and they
listened, hearing the wind far away gathering itself like a robber
band, determined this time to take the castle by assault. Every
moment it grew louder, till it fell at last with a crash upon the
roof.

"But what a fool I am to talk to you about the wind, not having seen
you for three months! Surely there is something else for us to talk
about?"

"I would sooner you spoke about the wind, Owen."

"It is cruel of you to say so, for there is only one subject worth
talking about--yourself. How can I think of any other? When I am
alone in Berkeley Square I can only think of the idea which came
into your head and made a different woman of you." Evelyn refrained
from saying "And a much better woman," and Owen went on to tell how
the idea had seized her in Pisa. "Remember, Evelyn, it played you a
very ugly trick then. I'm not sure if I ought to remind you."

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