Part 3—- Chapter 4.
Mortifying the Will.
“L’orgueil n’est jamais mieux déguisé, et plus capable de tromper, que lorsqu’il se cache sous la figure de l’humilité.”
Rochefoucauld.
“Oh, you have no idea how happy we are here!” said Sister Ada to Joan. “I often pity the people who live in the world. Their time is filled with such poor, mean things, and their thoughts must be so frivolous. Now our time is all taken up with holy duties, and we have no room for frivolous thoughts. The world is shut out: it cannot creep in here. We are the happiest of women.”
I happened to look at Sister Gaillarde, and I saw the beginning of one of her grim smiles: but she did not speak.
“Some of you do seem happy and peaceful,” said Joan (she says I am to call her Joan). “But is it so with all?”
Sister Gaillarde gave her little Amen nod.
“Oh dear, yes!” answered Sister Ada. “Of course, where the will is not perfectly mortified, there is not such unbroken bliss as where it is. But when the rule of holy obedience is fully followed out, so that we have no will whatever except that of our superiors, you cannot imagine what sweet peace flows into the soul. Now, if Father Benedict were to command me any thing, I should be positively delighted to do it, because it was a command from my superior. It would not in the least matter what it was. Nay, the more repugnant it was to my natural inclinations, the more it would delight me.”
Joan’s eyes wandered to two or three other faces, with a look which said, “Do you agree to this?”
“Don’t look at me!” said Sister Gaillarde. “I’m no seraph. It wouldn’t please me a bit better to have dirty work to do because Father Benedict ordered it. I can’t reach those heights of perfection—never understood them. If Sister Ada do, I’m glad to hear it. She must have learned it lately.”
“I do not understand it, as Sister Ada puts it,” said I, as Joan’s eyes came to me. “I understand what it is to give up one’s will in any thing when it seems to be contrary to the will of God, and to have more real pleasure in trying to please Him than in pleasing one’s self. I understand, too, that there may be more true peace in bearing a sorrow wherein God helps and comforts you, than in having no sorrow and no comfort. But Sister Ada seems to mean something different—as if one were to be absolutely without any will about any thing, and yet to delight in the crossing of one’s will. Now, if I have not any wall, I do not see how it is to be crossed. And to have none whatever would surely make me something different from a woman and a sinner. I should be like a harp that could be played on—not like a living creature at all.”
Two or three little nods came from Sister Gaillarde.
“People who have no wills are very trying to deal with,” said Margaret.
“People who have wills are,” said Sister Philippa.
“Nay,” said Margaret, “if I am to be governed, let it be by one that has a will. ‘Do this,’ and ‘Go there,’ may be vexatious at times: but far worse is it to ask for direction, and hear only, ‘As you like,’ ‘I don’t know,’ ‘Don’t ask me.’”
“Now that is just what I should like,” said Sister Philippa. “I never get it, worse luck!”
“Did you mean me, Sister Margaret?” said Sister Ada, stiffly.
“I cry you mercy, Mother; I was not thinking of you at all,” answered Margaret.
“It sounded very much as if you were,” said Sister Ada, in her iciest fashion. “I think, if you had been anxious for perfection, you would not have answered me in that proud manner, but would have come here and entreated my pardon in a proper way. But I am too humble-minded to insist on it, seeing I am myself the person affronted. Had it been any one else, I should have required it at once.”
“I said—” Margaret got so far, then her brow flushed, and I could see there was an inward struggle. Then she rose from the form, and laying down her work, knelt and kissed the ground at Mother Ada’s feet. I could hear Sister Roberga whisper to Sister Philippa, “That mean-spirited fool!”
Sister Gaillarde said in a softer tone than is her wont,—“Beati pauperes spiritu: quoniam ipsorum est regnum caelorum.” (Matthew 5, verse 3.)
“Thank you, Sister Gaillarde,” said Sister Ada, quickly. “I scarcely expected recognition from you.”
“You got as much as you expected, then,” said Sister Gaillarde, drily, with a look across at me which almost made me laugh.
“I told you, I got more than I expected,” was Sister Ada’s answer.
“Did you mean it for her?” asked Joan, in so low a voice that only those on each side of her could hear.
“I meant it for whoever deserved it,” was Sister Gaillarde’s reply.
Just then Mother Joan came in and sat down.
“Sister Ada,” she said, “Sister Marian tells me, that my Lady has given orders for that rough black rug that nobody likes to be put on your bed this week.”
“No, has she?” cried Sister Ada, in tones which, if she were delighted, very much belied her feelings. “How exceedingly annoying! What could my Lady be thinking of? She knows how I detest that rug. I shall not be able to sleep a wink. Well! I suppose I must submit; it is my duty. But I do feel it hard that all the disagreeable things should come to me. Surely one of the novices might have had that; it would have been good for somebody whose will was not properly mortified. Really, I do think—Oh, well, I had better not say any more.”
Nor did she: but that night, as I was going round the children’s dormitory, little Damia looked up at me.
“Mother, dear, what’s the matter with Mother Ada?”
“What did she say, my child?”
“Oh, she didn’t say any thing; but she has looked all day long as if she would like to hit somebody.”
“Somebody vexed her a little, perhaps,” said I. “Very likely she will be all right to-morrow.”
“I don’t know—she takes a long while to come right when any body has put her wrong—ever so much longer than you or Sister Margaret. The lightning comes into Sister Margaret’s eyes, and then away it runs, and she looks so sorry that she let it come; and you only look sorry without any lightning. But Mother Ada looks I don’t know how—as if she’d like to pull all the hair off your head, and all your teeth out of your mouth, and wouldn’t feel any better till she’d done it.”
I laughed, and told the child to go to sleep, and not trouble her little head about Mother Ada. But when I came into my cell, I began to wonder if Sister Ada’s will is perfectly mortified. It does not look exactly like it.
Before I had done more than think of undressing, Sister Gaillarde rapped at my door.
“Sister Annora, may I have a little chat with you?”
“Do come in, Sister, and sit down,” said I.
“This world’s a very queer place!” said Sister Gaillarde, sitting down on my bed. “It would not be a bad place, but for the folks in it: and they are as queer as can be. I thought I’d just give you a hint, Sister, that you might feel less taken by surprise—I expect you’ll have a lecture given you to-morrow.”
“What have I done?” I asked, rather blankly.
Sister Gaillarde laughed till the tears came into her eyes.
“Oh dear, the comicality of folks in this world!” saith she. “Sister Annora, do you know that you are a very carnal person?”
“Indeed, I have always feared so,” said I, sorrowfully.
“Rubbish!” said Sister Gaillarde in her most emphatic style. “Don’t, for mercy’s sake, be taken in by such nonsense. It is a wonder what folks can get into their heads when they have nothing else in them! Sister Ada is very much concerned about the low tone of spirituality which she sees in you—stupid baggage! She is miserably afraid you are a long way off perfection. I’m more concerned a deal about her.”
“But, Sister Gaillarde, it is true!” said I. “I am very, very far from being perfect, and I fear I never shall be.”
“Well!” saith she, “if I had to go into the next world holding on to somebody’s skirts, I’d a sight rather they were yours than Sister Ada’s. I do think some folks were born just to be means of grace and nothing else. Maybe it is as well some of them should get into nunneries.”
“Some are rather trying, I must admit,” said I. “Sister Roberga—”
“Oh, Sister Roberga! she’s just a butterfly and no better. Brush her off—she’s good for no more. But she isn’t one that tries me like some other folks. You did not hear what happened yesterday between Sisters Ada and Margaret?”
“No. What was it?”
“Some of the Sisters were talking about hymns in recreation. Sister Margaret said she admired the Dies Irae. Sister Ada wanted to know what she admired; she could not see any thing to admire; it was just a jingle of words, and nothing else. The rhymes might be good to remember by—that was all. I saw the look on Sister Margaret’s face: of course she did not answer the Mother. But I did. I told her that I believed if any one showed her a beautiful rose, she would call it a red vegetable. ‘Well,’ quoth she, ‘and what is it else? I never smell a rose or any other flower. We were put here to mortify our senses.’ ‘Sister Ada,’ said I, ‘the Lord took a deal of pains for nothing, so far as you were concerned.’ Well, she said that was profane: but I don’t believe it. The truth is, she’s just one of those dull souls that cannot see beauty, nor smell fragrance, nor hear music; and so she assumes her dulness as virtue, and tries to make it out that those who have their senses are carnal and worldly. But just touch her pride, and doesn’t it fly up in arms! Depend upon it, Sister Annora, men are quite as often taken for fools because they can see what other folks can’t, as because they can’t see what other folks can.”
“I dare say that is true,” said I. “But—forgive me, Sister Gaillarde—ought we to be talking over our Sisters?”
“Sister Annora, you are too good for this world!” she answered, rather impatiently. “If one may not let out a bit, just now and then, what is one to do?”
“But,” said I, “we were put here to mortify ourselves.”
“We were put here to mortify our sins,” said she: “and wala wa! some of us don’t do it. I dare say old Gaillarde’s as bad as any body. But I cannot stand Sister Ada’s talk, when she wants to make every creature of us into stones and stocks. She just inveighs against loving one another because she loves nobody but Ada Mansell, and never did. Oh! I knew her well enough when we were young maids in the world. She was an only child, and desperately spoiled: and her father joined in the Lancaster insurrection long ago, and it ruined his fortunes, so she came into a convent. That’s her story. Ada Mansell is the pivot of her thoughts and actions—always will be.”
“Nay,” said I; “let us hope God will give her grace to change, if it be as you say.”
“It’ll take a precious deal of grace to change some folks!” said Sister Gaillarde, satirically. “Hope many of them won’t want it at once, or there’ll be such a run upon the treasury there’ll be none left for you and me. Well! that’s foolish talk. My tongue runs away with me now and then. Don’t get quite out of patience with your silly old Sister Gaillarde. Ah! perhaps I should have been a wiser woman, and a better too, if something had not happened to me that curdled the milk of my human kindness, and sent me in here, just because I could not bear outside any longer—could not bear to see what had been mine given to another—well, well! We are all poor old sinners, we Sisters. And as to perfection—my belief is that any woman may be perfect in any life, so far as that means having a true heart towards God, and an honest wish to do His will rather than our own—and I don’t believe in perfection of any other sort. As to all that rubbish men talk about having no will at all, and being delighted to mortify your will, and so forth—my service to the lot of it. Why, what you like to have crossed isn’t your will; what you delight in can’t be mortification. It is just like playing at being good. Eh, dear me, there are some simpletons in this world! Well, good-night, Sister: pax tibi!”
Sister Gaillarde’s hand was on the latch when she looked back.
“There, now I’m forgetting half of what I had to tell you. Father Hamon’s going away.”
“Is he?—whither?”
“Can’t say. I hope our next confessor will be a bit more alive.”
“Father Benedict is alive, I am sure.”
“Father Benedict’s a draught of vinegar, and Father Hamon’s been a bowl of curds. I should like somebody betwixt.”
And Sister Gaillarde left me.
She guessed not ill, for I had my lecture in due course. Sister Ada came into my cell—had she bidden me to hers, I should have had a chance to leave, but of course I could not turn her forth—and told me she had been for long time deeply concerned at my want of spiritual discernment. “Truly, Sister, no more than I am,” said I. “Now, Sister, you reckon me unkindly, I cast no doubt,” saith she: “but verily I must be faithful with you. You take too much upon you,—you who are but just promoted to your office—and are not ready enough to learn of those who have had more experience. In short, Sister Annora, you are very much wanting in true humility.”
“Indeed, Sister Ada, it is too true,” said I. “I beseech you, Sister, to pray that you may have your eyes opened to the discerning of your faults,” saith she. “You are much too partial and prejudiced in your governance of the Sisters, and likewise with the children. Some you keep not under as you should; and to others you grant too little freedom.”
“Indeed, Sister, I am afraid it may be so, though I have tried hard to avoid it.”
“Well, Sister, I hope you will think of these things, and that our Lord may give you more of the grace of humility. You lack it very much, I can assure you. I would you would try to copy such of us as are really humble and meek.”
“That I earnestly desire, Sister,” said I: “but is it not better to copy our Lord Himself than any earthly example? I thank you for your reproof, and I will try harder to be humble.”
“You know, Sister,” said she, as she was going forth, “I have no wish but to be faithful. I cannot bear telling others of their faults. Only, I must be faithful.”
“I thank you, Sister Ada,” said I.
So away she went. Sister Gaillarde said when she saw me, with one of her grim smiles—
“Well! is the lecture over? Did she bite very hard?”
“She saith I am greatly lacking in meekness and humility, and take too much on myself,” said I: “and I dare say it is true.”
“Humph!” said Sister Gaillarde. “It would be a mercy if some folks weren’t. And if one or two of us had a trifle more self-assertion, perhaps some others would have less.”
“Have I too much self-assertion, Sister?” I said, feeling sorry it should be thus plain to all my Sisters. “I will really—”
Sister Gaillarde patted me on the shoulder with her grimmest smile.
“You will really spoil every body you come near!” said she. “Go your ways, Sister Annora, and leave the wasps in the garden a-be.”
“Why, I do,” said I, “without they sting me.”
“Exactly!” said Sister Gaillarde, laughing, and away. I know not what she meant.
Mother Joan is something troubled with her eyes, and the leech thinks it best she should no longer be over the illumination-room, but be set to some manner of work that will try the sight less. So I am appointed thereto in her stead. I cannot say I am sorry, for I shall see more of Joan, since in this chamber she passes three mornings of a week. I mean my child Joan, for verily she is the child of mine heart. And my very soul yearns over her, for Sister though I be, I cannot help the thought that had it not been for Queen Isabel’s unjust dealing, I should have been her mother. May the good Lord forgive me, if it be sin! I know now, that those deep grey eyes of hers, with the long black lashes, which stirred mine heart so strangely when she first came hither, are the eyes of my lost love. I knew in myself that I had known such eyes aforetime, but it seemed to be long, long ago, as though in another world. Much hath Joan told me of him; and all I hear sets him before me as man worthy of the best love of a good woman’s heart, and whom mine heart did no wrong to in its enduring love. And I am coming to think—seeing, as it were, dimly, through a mist—that such love is not sin, neither disgrace, even in the heart of a maid devoted unto God. For He knoweth that I put Him first: and take His ordering of my life, as being His, not only as just and holy, but as the best lot for me, and that which shall be most to His glory and mine own true welfare. I say not this openly, nor unto such as should be likely to misconceive me. There are some to whose pure and devoted souls all things indifferent are pure; and they are they that shall see God. And man saith that in the world there are some also, unto whose vile and corrupt hearts all things indifferent are impure; and maybe not in the world only, but by times even in the cloister. So I feel that some might misread my meaning, and take ill advantage thereof; and I keep my thoughts to myself, and to God. I never ask Joan one question touching him of whom I treasure every bye-note that she uttereth. Yet I know not how it is, but she seems to love to tell me of him. Is it by reason she hath loved, that her heart hath eyes to see into mine?
Not much doth Joan say of her mother to me: I think she names her more to others. Methinks I see what she was—a good woman as women go (and some of them go ill), with a little surface cleverness, that she reckoned to run deeper than it did, and inclined to despise her lord by reason his wit lay further down, and came not up in glittering bubbles to the top. I dare reckon she looked well to his bodily comforts and such, and was a better wife than he might have had: very likely, a better than poor Alianora La Despenser would have made, had God ordered it thus. Methinks, from all I hear, that he hath passed behind the jasper walls: and I pray God I may meet him there. They wed not, nor be given in marriage, being equal unto the angels: but surely the angels love.
Strange talk it was that Joan held with me yesterday. I marvel what it may portend. She says, of late years many priests have put forth writings, wherein they say that the Church is greatly fallen away from the verity of Scripture, and that all through the ages good men have said the same (as was the case with the blessed Robert de Grosteste, Bishop of Lincoln, over two hundred years gone, and with the holy Thomas de Bradwardine, Archbishop of Canterbury, and with Richard Rolle, the hermit of Hampole, whose holy meditations on the Psalter are in our library, and I have oft read therein): but now is there further stir, as though some reforming of the Church should arise, such as Bishop Grosteste did earnestly desire. Joan says her lord is earnest for these new opinions, and eager to promote them: and that he saith that both in the Church and in matters politic, men sleep and nap for a season, during which slow decay goes on apace, and then all at once do they wake up, and set to work to mend matters. During the reign of this present King, saith he, the world and the Church have had a long nap; and now are they just awake, and looking round to see how matters are all over dust and ivy, which lack cleansing away. Divers, both clerks and laymen, are thus bestirring themselves: the foremost of whom is my Lord of Lancaster, the King’s son (John of Gaunt), among the lay folk, and among the clergy, one Father Wycliffe (Note 1), that was head of a College at Oxenford, and is now Rector of Lutterworth in Leicestershire. He saith (that is, Father Wycliffe) that all things are thus gone to corruption by reason of lack of the salt preservative to be found in Holy Scripture. Many years back, did King Alfred our forefather set forth much of the said Scriptures in the English tongue; as much, indeed, as he had time, for his death hindered it, else had all the holy hooks been rendered into our English tongue. But now, by reason of years, the English that was in his day is gone clean out of mind, and man cannot understand the same: so there is great need for another rendering that man may understand now. And this Father Wycliffe hopes to effect, if God grant him grace. But truly, some marvellous strange notions hath he. Joan says he would fain do away with all endowing of the Church, saying that our Lord and the Apostles had no such provision: but was that by reason it was right, or because of the hardness of men’s hearts? Surely the holy women that ministered to Him of their substance did well, not ill. Moreover, he would have all monkery done away, yea, clean out of the realm, and he hath mighty hard names for monks, especially the Mendicant Friars: yet of nuns was he never heard to speak an unkindly word. Strange matter, in good sooth! it nearly takes away my breath but to hear tell of it. But when he saith that the Pope should have no right nor power in this realm of England, that is but what the Church of England hath alway held: Bishop Grosteste did as fervently abhor the Pope’s power—“Egyptian bondage” was his word for it. Much has this Father also to say against simony: and he would have no private confession to a priest (verily, this would I gladly see abolished), nor indulgences, nor letters of fraternity, nor pilgrimages, nor guilds: and he sets his face against the new fashion of singing mass (intoning, then a new invention), and the use of incense in the churches. But strangest of all is it to hear of his inveighing against the doctrine of the Church that the sacred host is God’s Body. It is so, saith he, in figure, and Christ’s Body is not eaten of men save ghostly and morally. And to eat Christ ghostly is to have mind of Him, how kindly He suffered for man, which is ghostly meat to the soul. (Arnold’s English Works of Wycliffe, Volume 2, pages 93, 112.)
Here is new doctrine! Yet Father Wycliffe, I hear, saith this is the old doctrine of the Apostles themselves, and that the contrary is the new, having never (saith he) been heard of before the time of one Radbert, who did first set it forth five hundred years ago (in 787): and after that it slumbered—being then condemned of the holy doctors—till the year of our Lord God 1215, when the Pope that then was forced it on the Church. Strange matter this! I know not what to think.
Joan says some of these new doctrine priests go further than Father Wycliffe himself, and even cast doubt on Purgatory and the worship (this word then merely meant “honour”) of our Lady. Ah me! if they can prove from God’s Word that Purgatory is not, I would chant many thanksgivings thereon! All these years, when I knew not if my lost love were dead or alive, have I thought with dread of that awful land of darkness and sorrow: yet not knowing, I could have no masses sung for him; and had I been so able, I could never have told for whom they were, but only have asked for them for my father and mother and all Christian souls, and have offered mine own communion with intention thereto. Ay, and many a time—dare I confess it?—I have offered the same with that intent, if he should be to God commanded (dead)—knowing that God knew, and humbly trusting in His mercy if I did ill. But for the worship of our Lady, that is passing strange, specially to me that am religious woman. For we were always taught what a blessing it was that we had a woman to whom we might carry our griefs and sorrows, seeing God is a man, and not so like to enter into a woman’s feelings. But these priests say—I am almost afraid to write it—this is dishonouring Christ who died for us, and who therefore must needs be full of tenderness for them for whom He died, and cannot need man nor woman—not even His own mother—to stand betwixt them and Him. O my Lord, have I been all these years dishonouring Thee, and setting up another, even though it be Thy blessed mother, between Thee and me? Yet surely He regardeth her honour full diligently! Said He not to Saint John, “Behold thy mother?”—and doth not that Apostle represent the whole Church, who are thereby commanded to regard her, each righteous man, as his own very mother? (This is the teaching of the Church of Rome.) I remember the blessed Hermit of Hampole scarcely makes mention of her: it is all Christ in his book. And if it be so—of which Joan ensures me—in the Word of God, whereof she hath read books that I have missed—verily, I know not what to think.
Lord, Thou wist what is error! Save me therefrom. Thou wist what is truth: guide me therein!
It would seem that I have erred in offering my communions at all. For if to eat Christ’s Body be only to have mind of Him—and this is according to His own word, “Hoc facite in meam commemorationem”—how then can there be at all any offering of sacrifice in the holy mass? Joan says that Saint Paul’s Epistle to the Hebrews saith that we be hallowed by the oblation of the body of Jesus Christ once, and that where remission is, there is no more oblation for sin. Truly we have need to pray, Lord, guide us into Thy truth! and yet more, Lord, keep us therein! I must think hereon. In sooth, this I do, and then up rises some great barrier to the new doctrine, which I lay before Joan: and as quickly as the sun can break forth and melt a spoonful of snow, does she clear all away with some word of Saint Paul. She has his Epistles right at her tongue’s end. For instance, quoth I,—“Christ said He should bestow the Holy Spirit, to lead the Church into all truth. How then can the Church err?”
“What Church?” said she, boldly. “The Church is all righteous men that hold Christ’s words: not the Pope and Cardinals and such like. These last have no right to hold the first in bondage.”
“But,” said I, “Father Benedict told me Saint Paul bade the religious to obey their superiors: how much more all men to obey the Church?”
“I marvel,” saith she, “where Father Benedict found that. Never a word says Paul touching religious persons: there were none in his day.”
“No religious in Paul’s day!” cried I.
“Never so much as one,” saith she: “not a monk, not a nun! Friar Pareshull himself told me so much; he is a great man among us. Saint Peter bids the clergy not to dominate over inferiors; Saint Paul says to the Ephesians that out of themselves (he was speaking to the clergy) should arise heretics speaking perversely; and Saint John says, ‘Believe not every spirit, but prove the spirits if they be of God.’ Dear Mother Annora, we are nowhere bidden in Scripture to obey the Church save only once, and that concerns the settling of a dispute betwixt two members of it. Obey the Church! why, we are ourselves the Church. Has not Father Rolle taught you so much? ‘Holy Kirk,’ quoth he—‘that is, ilk righteous man’s soul.’ Verily, all Churches be empowered of Christ to make laws for their own people: but why then must the Church of England obey laws made by the Bishop of Rome?”
“Therein,” said I, “can I fully hold with thee.”
“And for all things,” she said earnestly, “let us hold to God’s law, and take our interpretation of it not from men, but straight from God Himself. Lo! here is the promise of the Holy Ghost assured unto the Church—to you, to me, to each one that followeth Christ. They that keep His words and are indwelt of His Spirit—these, dear Mother, are the Church of God, and to them is the truth promised.”
I said nought, for I knew not what to answer.
“There is yet another thing,” saith Joan, dropping her voice low. “Can that be God’s Church which contradicts God’s Word? David saith ‘Over all things Thou hast magnified Thy Name’ (Note 2): but I have heard of a most wise man, that could read ancient volumes and dead tongues, that Saint Hierome set not down the true words, namely, ‘Over all Thy Name Thou hast magnified Thy Word.’ Now, if this be so—if God hath set up His Word over all His Name—the very highest part of Himself—how dare any assemblage of men to gainsay it? What then of these indulgences and licences to sin, which the Popes set forth? what of their suffering them to wed whom God has forbidden, and forbidding it to priests to whom God has suffered it? Surely this is the very thing which God points at, ‘teaching for doctrines the commandments of men.’”
“But, Joan,” said I, “my dear heart, did not our Lord say, ‘Whatsoever ye shall bind on earth shall be bound in Heaven?’ Surely that authorises the Church to do as she will.”
“Contrary unto God’s Word? It may give her leave to do her will within the limits of the Word: I trow not contrary thereto. When the King giveth plenipotentiary powers to his Keeper of the Great Seal, his own deposing and superseding, I reckon, are not among them. ‘All things are subject unto Christ,’ saith Paul; ‘doubtless excepting Him which did subject all things unto Him.’ So, if God give power of loosing and binding to His Church, it cannot be meant that she shall bind Himself who thus endowed her, contrary to His own will and law.”
I answered nought, again, for a little while. At last I said, “Joan, there is a word that troubles me, and religious folks are always quoting it. ‘If a man hate not his father and his mother’—and so forth—he cannot be our Lord’s disciple. I think I have heard it from one or another every week since I came here. What say these new doctrine folks that it means?”
“Ours are old doctrines, Mother dear,” saith she; “as old as the Apostles of Christ. What means it? Why, go forth to the end, and you will see what it means: he is to hate his own soul also. Is he then to kill himself, or to go wilfully into perdition? Nay, what can it mean, but only that even these dearest and worthiest loves are to be set below the worthier than them all, the love of the glory of God? That our Lord never meant a religious person should neglect his father and mother, is plainly to be seen by another word of His, wherein he rebukes the priests of His day, because they taught that a man might bestow in oblation to God what his father’s or his mother’s need demanded of him. Here again, he reproves them, because they rejected the command of God in order to keep their own tradition. You see, therefore, that when the Church doth this, it is not ratified in Heaven.”
“Then,” said I, after a minute’s thought, “I am not bidden to hate myself, any more than my relations?”
“Why should we hate one whom God loveth?” she answered. “To hate our selfishness is not to hate ourselves.”
I sat a while silent, setting red eyes and golden claws to my green wyvern, and Joan ran the white dots along her griffin’s tail. When she came to the fork of the tail, she laid down her brush.
“Mother,” she saith—the dear grey eyes looking up into my face—“shall we read together the holy Scripture, and beseech God to lead us into all truth?”
“Dear child, we will do so,” said I. “Joan, didst thou ever read in holy Scripture that it was wicked to kiss folks?”
She smiled. “I have read there of one,” saith she, “who stole up behind the holiest of all men that ever breathed, and kissed His feet: and the rebuke she won from Him was no more than this: ‘Her many sins are forgiven her, and she loved much.’ So, if a full sinful woman might kiss Christ without rebuke, methinks, if it please you, Mother dear, you might kiss me.”
Well, I knew all my life of that woman, but I never thought of it that way before, and it is marvellous comforting unto me.
My Lady sent this morning for all the Mothers together. Mine heart went pitter-patter, as it always doth when I am summoned to her chamber. It is only because of her office: for if she were no more than a common Sister, I am sorely afraid I should reckon her a selfish, lazy woman: but being Lady Prioress, I cannot presume to sit in judgment on my superiors thus far. We found that she had sent for us to introduce us to the new confessor, whose name is Father Mortimer, he is tall, and good-looking (so far as I, a Sister, can understand what is thought to be so in the world), and has dark, flashing eyes, which remind me of Margaret’s, and I should say also of that priest that once confessed us, did I not feel certain that this is the same priest himself. He will begin his duties this evening at compline.
Sister Gaillarde said to me as we came forth from my Lady,—“Had I been a heathen Greek, and lived at the right time, methinks I should have wed Democritus.”
“Democritus! who was he?” said I.
“He was named the Laughing Philosopher,” said she, “because he was ever laughing at men and things. And methinks he did well.”
“What is there to laugh at, Sister Gaillarde?”
“Nothing you saw, Saint Annora.”
“Now you are laughing at me,” said I, with a smile.
“My laugh will never hurt you,” answered she. “But truly, betwixt Sister Ada and the peacock—They both spread their plumes to be looked at. I wonder which Father Mortimer will admire most.”
“You surely never mean,” said I, much shocked, “that Sister Ada expects Father Mortimer to admire her!”
“Oh, she means nothing ill,” said Sister Gaillarde. “She only admires Ada Mansell so thoroughly herself, that she cannot conceive it possible that any one can do otherwise. Let her spread her feathers—it won’t hurt. Any way, it will not hurt him. He isn’t that sort of animal.”
Indeed, I hope he is not.
When my Lady dismissed us, I went to my work in the illumination-room, where Joan, with Sister Annot and Sister Josia, awaited my coming. I bade Sister Josia finish the Holy Family she was painting yesterday for a missal which we are preparing for my Lord’s Grace of York; I told Sister Annot to lay the gold leaf on the Book of Hours writing for my Lady of Suffolk; and as Margaret, who commonly works with her, was not yet come, I began myself to show Joan how to coil up the tail of a griffin—she said, to put a yard of tail into an inch of parchment. It appeared to amuse her very much to see how I twisted and interlaced the tracery, so as to fill up every little corner of the parallelogram. When the outline was drawn, and she began to fill it with cobalt, as I sat by, she said suddenly yet softly—
“Mother Annora, I have been considering whether I should tell you something.”
“Tell me what, dear child?” quoth I.
“I am afraid,” said she, “I shocked you yesterday, making you think I was scarcely sound in the faith. Yet where can lie the verity of the faith, if not in Holy Writ? And I marvelled if it should aggrieve you less, if you knew one thing—yet that might give you pain.”
“Let me hear it, Joan.”
“Did you know,” said she, dropping her voice low, “that it was in part for heresy that your own father suffered death?”
“My father!” cried I. “Joan, I know nothing of my father, save only that he angered Queen Isabel, and for what cause wis I not.”
“For two causes: first, because the King her husband loved him, and she was of that fashion that looked on all love borne by him as so much robbed from herself. But the other was that very thing—that she was orthodox, and he was—what the priests called an heretic. There might be other causes: some men say he was proud, and covetous, and unpitiful. I know not if it be true or no. But that they writ him down an heretic, as also they did his father, and Archdeacon Baldok—so much I know.”
I felt afraid to ask more, and yet I had great longing to hear it.
“And my mother?” said I. I think I was like one that passes round and round a matter, each time a little nearer than before—wishing, and yet fearing, to come to the kernel of it.
“I have heard somewhat of her,” said Joan, “from the Lady Julian my grandmother. She was a Leybourne born, and she wedded my grandfather, Sir John de Hastings, whose stepmother was the Lady Isabel La Despenser, your father’s sister. I think, from what she told me, your mother was a little like—Sister Roberga.”
I am sorely afraid I ought not to have answered as I did, for it was—“The blessed saints forfend!”
“Not altogether,” said Joan, with a little laugh. “I never heard that she was ill-tempered. On the contrary, I imagine, she was somewhat too easy; but I meant, a little like what Mother Gaillarde calls a butterfly—with no concern for realities—frivolous, and lacking in due thought.”
“Was your grandmother, the Lady Julian, an admirer of these new doctrines?” said I.
“They were scarcely known in her day as they have been since,” said Joan; “only the first leaves, so to speak, were above the soil: but so far as I can judge from what I know, I should say, not so. She was a great stickler for old ways and the authority of the Church.”
“And your mother?” I was coming near delicate ground, I felt, now.
“Oh! she, I should say, would have liked our doctrines better. Mother Annora, is there blue enough here, or shall I put on another coat?”
Joan looked up at me as she spoke. I said I thought it was deep enough, and she might now begin the shading. Her head went down again to her work.
“My mother,” said she, “was no bigot, nor did she much love priests; I dare venture to say, had Father Wycliffe written then as he has now, she would somewhat have supported him so far as lay in her power. But my father, I think, would have loved these doctrines best of all. I have heard say he spoke against the ill lives of the clergy, and the idle doings of the Mendicant Friars: and little as I was when he departed to God, I can myself remember that he used to tell me stories of our Lord and the ancient saints and patriarchs, which I know, now that I can read it, to have come out of God’s Word. Ay, methinks, had he lived, he would have helped forward this new reformation of doctrine and manners.”
“Reformation!” cries Mother Ada, entering the chamber. “I would we could have a reformation in this house. What my Lady would be at, passeth me to conceive. She must think I have two pairs of eyes and six pairs of hands, if no more. Do but guess, Sister Annora, what she wants to have done.”
“Nay, that I cannot,” said I. I foresaw some hard work, for my Lady is one who leaves things to go as they list for ever so long, and then, suddenly waking up, would fain turn the house out o’ windows ere one can shut one’s eyes.
“Why, if she did not send for me an hour after we came out, and said the condition of the chapel was shameful; how could we have let it get into such a state? Father Mortimer was completely scandalised at the sight of it. All the holy images were all o’er cobwebs, and all—”
“And all of a baker’s dozen of blessed times,” said Sister Gaillarde, entering behind, “have I been at her for new pails and brushes, never speak of soap. I told her a spider as big as a silver penny had spun a line from Saint Peter’s key to Saint Katherine’s nose; and as to the dust—why, you could make soup of it. I’ve dusted Saint Katherine many a time with my hands, for I had them, if I’d nought else: and trust me, the poor Saint looked so forlorn, I fairly wondered she did not speak. Had I been the image of a saint, somebody would have heard of it, I warrant you, when that spider began scuttering up and down my nose.”
“And now she bids us drop every thing, and go and clean out the chapel, this very morning—to have done by vesper time! Did you ever hear such a thing?” said Sister Ada, from the bench whereon she had sunk.
“Mother Ada,” said Sister Josia, “would you show me—”
“Mercy on us, child, harry not me!” cried Sister Ada.
“But I do not know whether a lily should be in this corner by the blessed Mary,” said Sister Josia, “or if the ass should stand here.”
“The lily, by all means,” said Sister Gaillarde. “Prithee paint not an ass: there’s too many in this world already.”
“I do wish Father Mortimer would attend to his own business!” cried Sister Ada, “or that we had old Father Hamon back again. I do hate these new officers: they always find fault with every thing.”
“Ay, new brooms be apt to sweep a bit too clean,” replied Sister Gaillarde. “Mary love us, but I would we had a new broom! I don’t believe there are twenty bristles left of the old one.”
Joan looked up from her griffin’s tail to laugh.
“Well, what is to be done?”
“Oh, I suppose we must do as we are bid,” saith Sister Ada in a mournful voice. “But, dear heart, to think of it!”
“How many pails have you, Sister Ada?”
“There’s the large bouget, and the little one. The middle-sized one is broken, but it will hold some water.”
“Two and a half, then,” answered Sister Gaillarde. “Well, fetch them, Sister, and I will go and see to the mops. I think we have a mop left. Perhaps, now, if we din our needs well into my Lady’s ears, we may get one or two more. But, sweet Saint Felicitas! is there any soap?”
“Half a firkin came in last week,” responded Sister Ada. “You forget, Sister Gaillarde, the rule forbids us to ask more than once for anything.”
“The rule should forbid Prioresses to have short memories, then. Come, Sister Annot, leave that minikin fiddle-faddle, and come and help with the real work. If it is to be done by vespers, we want all the hands we can get. I will fetch Sister Margaret to it; she always puts her heart into what she has to do. Well, you look sorely disappointed, child: I am sorry for it, but I cannot help it. I have no fancy for such vanities, but I dare say you like better sticking bits of gold leaf upon vellum than scrubbing and sweeping.”
“Sister Annot, I am ashamed of you!” said Sister Ada. “Your perfection must be very incomplete, if you can look disappointed on receiving an order from your superior. You ought to rejoice at such an opportunity of mortifying your will.”
“That’s more than I’ve done,” said Sister Gaillarde. “Well, Sister Ada, as you don’t offer to move, I suppose we had better leave you here till you have finished rejoicing over the opportunity. I hope you’ll get done in time to take advantage of it. Come, Sister Annot.”
I thought I had better follow. So, having given Joan a few directions to enable her to go on for a time without superintendence, I went to see after the water-bougets, which should have been Sister Ada’s work. She called after me—“Sister Annora, I’ll follow you in a moment. I have not quite finished my rosary.”
I left her there, telling her last few beads, and went to fetch the bougets, which I carried to the chapel, just as Sister Gaillarde came in with her arms full, followed by Margaret and Annot.
“I’ve found two mops!” she cried. “Mine was all right, but where Sister Ada keeps hers I cannot tell. Howbeit, Sister Joan has one. Now, Sister Annora, if you will bring yours—And see here, these brushes have a few bristles left—this is a poor set-out, though. It’ll do to knock off spiders. Now, Sister Margaret, fetch that long ladder by the garden door. Sister Annot, you had better go up,—you are the lightest of us, and I am not altogether clear about that ladder, but it is the only one we have. Well-a-day! if I were Pr— Catch hold of Saint James by the head, Sister Annot, to steady yourself. Puff! faugh! what a dust!”
We were all over dust in a few minutes. I should think it was months since it had been disturbed, for my Lady never would order the chapel to be cleaned. We worked away with a will, and got things in order for vespers. Sister Annot just escaped a bad fall, for a rung of the ladder gave way, and if she had not clutched Saint Peter by the arm, down she would have come. Howbeit, Saint Peter held, happily, and she escaped with a bruise.
Just as things were getting into order, and we had finished all the dirty work, Sister Ada sauntered in.
“Well, really,” said Sister Gaillarde, “I did not believe you could truly rejoice in the mortification of your will till I saw how long it took you! Thank you, the mortification is done; you will have to wait till next time: I only hope you will let this rejoicing count. There’s nothing left for you, but to empty the slops and wipe out the pails.”
Joan told me afterwards, in a tone of great amusement, that “Mother Ada finished her beads very slowly, and then said she would go after you. But she stopped to look at Sister Annot’s work, and at once discovered that if left in that state it would suffer damage before she came back. So she sat down and wrought at that for above an hour. Then she was just going again, but she found that an end of the fringe was coming off my robe, and she fetched needle and thread of silk, and sewed it on. The third time she was just going, when she saw the fire wanted wood. So she kept just going all day till about half an hour before vespers, and then at last she contrived to go.”
Note 1. I may here ask pardon for an anachronism in having brought Wycliffe forward as a Reformer some years before he really began to be so. The state of men’s minds in general was as I have described it; the uneasy stir of coming reformation was in the air; the pamphlet which is so often (but wrongly) attributed to Wycliffe, The Last Age of the Church, had been written some fifteen years before this time: but Wycliffe himself, though then a political reformer, did not come forward as a religious reformer until about six years later.
Note 2. Psalm 138 verse 2, Vulgate. The Authorised Version correctly follows the Hebrew—“Thou hast magnified Thy Word above all Thy Name.”