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Chapter XVIII · The White Sister

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Chapter eighteen of The White Sister. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox
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recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please
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visit LibriVox dot org. Read by Marie Christian The White Sister by F.
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Marion Crawford, Chapter eighteen. Giovanni opened his eyes at last, looked at
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the ceiling for a few moments, and then closed them again. Plain white
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ceilings are very much alike and for all he could see as he looked up.
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He was at home, in his own bed at dawn, and there
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was plenty of time for another nap. He felt unaccountably heavy too, though
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not exactly sleepy, and it would be pleasant to feel himself going off into
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unconsciousness again for a while, knowing that there was no hurry. But his
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eyes had not been shut long before he became aware that he was in a
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strange place. He could not sleep again because an unfamiliar odor of iodaform irritated
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his nostrils. He missed something too, either some noise outside to which he
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was used or some step near him. In the little house at Monteverde,
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he could always hear his orderly cleaning the stable early in the morning. He
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grew suddenly uneasy and tried to turn in his bed, and instead of the
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noise of broom and bucket and sousing, he heard the indescribably soft sound of
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felt shoes on tiles as the Mother Superior came to his side. Then,
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in a flash, he remembered everything up to the time when he had been
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hurt, and after the moment when he had first come to himself in the
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room where he now was. His eyes opened again, and he saw and
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recognized the Mother Superior, whom he had often seen and spoken with during his
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brother's stay in the hospital. Suddenly he was quite himself, for his hurt
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was all together local, and he had lost little blood. He only felt
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half paralyzed on that side. Were there many killed, he asked quietly,
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We do not know. The mother answered, when it is a little later,
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I will telephone for news. It is barely five o'clock yet, thank
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you, mother. He shut his eyes again and said no more. The
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Mother Superior opened the window and let in the fresh morning air, full of
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the glow of the rising sun. For the room looked to the eastward,
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across the broadbind of the Tiber, and towards the palatine. She turned out
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the electric light in the corner, then went to the window again and refreshed
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herself by drawing long breaths at regular intervals, as she had been taught to
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do when she was a beginner at nursing. Presently, the injured man called
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her, and she went to the bedside again. It would be very kind
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of you to take on a few words which I should like to dictate.
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He said, no, he continued quickly, as he saw a grave look
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in the nun's face. It is not my will. It will be a
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short report of what happened before the explosion. They will want it at headquarters,
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and my head is quite clear. Now will you write it for me?
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Mother? Of course, there is always a pencil with a memorandum pad
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in every private room of a hospital for the use of the nurse and the
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doctor. The mother Superior took both from the table and sat down close to
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the bed, and Giovanni dictated what he had to say in a clear and
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businesslike way that surprised her great as her experience had been. When he had
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finished, he asked her to read it over to him, and pointed out
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one small correction to be made. I think I can sign it with my
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left hand, if you will hold it up for me, he said.
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His fingers traced his name with the pencil, though very unsteadily, and he
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begged her to send it to headquarters at once. There was always some one
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on duty there, he explained. If it was only the sobaltern commanding the
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guard, she need not be afraid of leaving him alone for a few moments,
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he added, for he was in no pain and did not feel at
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all faint. Besides, she would now send him another nurse. He had
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not thanked her for taking care of him herself during the night. He hoped
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she would forgive his omission. He was still, and thereupon, while in
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the very act of speaking, he fell asleep again, exhausted by the effort
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he had made, and still under the influence of the strong drug. The
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mother understood, glanced at him, and slipped away, closing the door very
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softly. She knew that stage of awakening from the influence of opium, with
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its alternating zones of sleep and waking. It was half past five now,
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and a spring morning, and all was astir downstairs. Lay sisters were gathering
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the broken glass into baskets. The Portress was clearing away the wreck of broken
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panes from the outer hall, and the nun who had charge of the chapel,
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was preparing the altar for Mattens. No one was surprised to see the
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Mother Superior in the cloister so early, for she was often the first to
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rise and almost always the last to go to rest. The novices said that
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the little white Volcano never slept at all, but was only quiescent. During
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a part of the night, she found one of the orderlies scrubbing the outer
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doorstep and despatched him at once with Giovanni's report, which she had put into
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an envelope, and directed he was to bring back an answer if there was
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any, And when he was gone, as he had not finished his job,
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she took the scrubbing brioin in her small hands and finished it herself,
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with more energy, perhaps than had been expended upon the stones. For some
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time before she had quite done, the portress caught sight of her and was
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filled with horror. For the love of Heaven, she cried, trying to
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take the broom herself. The nun would not let it go, however,
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and pushed her aside gently with a smile. If any one should see your
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reverence, protested the Portress. My dear Anna, answered the Mother Superior,
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giving the finishing strokes. They would see an old woman washing a doorstep,
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and no harm would be done. But the example remained impressed on the good
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lay Sister's mind forever, and to her last days, she will never tire
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of telling the novices how the Mother Superior washed the doorstep of the hospital herself
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on the morning after the explosion of Monte Verde. The delivery of the report
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produced a more immediate result than either Giovanni or the mother had expected. The
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accident had happened near sunset, and the story of Giovanni's heroic behavior had been
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repeated everywhere before midnight. The men who had found him had, of course
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reported the fact after the first confusion was over, but it was some time
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before the news got up to any superior officer. Though the King's aide de
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camp had left instructions that any information about Giovanni was to be telephoned to the
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Curinal at once. When it had been understood at last that he was in
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the private hospital of the White Sisters, badly injured but alive, it was
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too late to think of sending an officer to make inquiries in person. On
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the other hand, six o'clock in the morning is not too early for most
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modern sovereigns, general officers, and members of the really hard working professions,
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among which literature is sometimes included. In half an hour, Giovanni's little report
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had been read, copied, telephoned, and telegraphed, and in less than
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half an hour more, a magnificent personage in uniform of a colonel of cavalry
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on the General Staff, accompanied by a less gorgeous but extremely smart subaltern,
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stopped at the door of the convent hospital in a court carriage. He came
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to ask after Captain Severi, on behalf of the sovereign, and to ascertain
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whether he could perhaps be seen during the morning. He was told that this
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must depend on the surgeon's decision. He expressed his thanks to the portress with
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extreme civility, and drove away again. Before long, other officers came to
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make similar inquiries, in various uniforms and in slightly varying degrees of smartness,
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from the representative of the War Office and the Commander in chief's aide de camp
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to unpretending subaltern's in dress uniform, who were on more or less friendly toime
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terms with Giovanni and were suddenly very proud of it since he had become a
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hero. Then came the reporters and besieged the door for news. An untidy
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lot of men at that hour, unshaven, hastily dressed, and very sorry
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for themselves because they had been beaten up by their respective papers so early in
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the morning. They were also extremely disappointed because the portress had no story to
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tell and would not hear of letting them in, and they variously described her
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afterwards as Cerberus, Argus and the angel of the flaming Sword, which things
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agree not well together. The portress had a busy morning, even after doctor
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Perry had come and had written out a bulletin which she could show to all
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comers as an official statement of the injured man's condition. The Great Surgeon and
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the Mother Superior sat on opposite sides of his bed, and now that the
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sun had risen high, the blinds were half drawn toge together and hooked in
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the old fashioned Roman way to keep out some of the light. While the
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glass was left open, a broad stripe of sunshine fell across the counterpane below
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Giovanni's knees, and a sharp twittering and a rushing of wings broke the stillness
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every few seconds as the circling swallows flew past the half open window. So
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you refuse to undergo the operation, Pierre said, after a long pause,
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is that your last word? Shall I go away and leave you to die?
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How long will that take? Asked Giovanni, calmly. Probably from four
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to ten days, according to circumstances, replied the surgeon, say a week
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more or less. Will it hurt much? Not unless you have lockjaw,
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which is possible. If you do, you will suffer horribly, said the
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Mother Superior, unconsciously covering her eyes with one hand. For a moment she
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had seen men die of tetanus. You will give me anesthetics, Giovanni answered,
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philosophically. Besides, I would rather bear pain for a day or two
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than go through life a cripple with an empty sleeve. It is deliberate suicide,
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said the Mother Superior. Sadly, I incline to think so, too,
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echoed the surgeon. Though I believe the priest do not exactly consider it.
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So. Though he was half paralyzed by his injury. Giovanni Severi smiled
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grimly. It would be very amusing if I died with the priest on my
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side, after all, he said, and against our good mother superior too.
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You don't know how kind she is, doctor, She has sat up
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all night with me herself. Pierre was surprised and looked quietly at the nun
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who immediately rose and went to the window, pretending to arrange the blinds better.
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But there are moments when the truth seems to reveal itself to directly to
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more than one person at the same time. The surgeon, whose intuitions were
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almost feminine in their swift directness, guessed at once why the mother did not
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answer. Not only had she not sat up with Giovanni herself, but she
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had allowed sister Giovanna to do so. And as the patient had not wakened
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and recognized his nurse, it was not desirable that he should now know the
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truth. As for Giovanni himself, the certainty that came over him was more
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like thought reading, for neither he himself nor any one else could have explained
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the steps of reasoning by which he reached his conclusion. It was probably a
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mere guess which happened to be right, and was founded on a little anxious
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shrinking of the Mother's Superior's head and shoulders when she crossed the room and went
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to the window, as if she had something to hide. Giovanni saw it,
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and then his eyes met Pieri's for a moment, and each was sure
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that the other knew. I need not ask you, Giovanni said, whether
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you are absolutely sure that I must die if you do not take off my
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arm at the shoulder humanly speaking, replied the other, gravely, I am
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quite sure that gangrene will set in before tomorrow morning, and that is certain
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death in your case. Why do you say in my case, because Piery
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answered with a little impatience. If it began in your foot, for instance,
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or in your hand, it would take some little time to reach the
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vital parts, and the arm or leg could still be amputated. But in
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your case it will set in so near the heart that no operation will be
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of any use after it begins. Do you understand perfectly? I shall take
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less time to die for the same reason. Severe was very quiet about it,
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but the Mother Superior turned on him suddenly from the window, her small
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face very white. It is suicide. She said, deliberate, intentional suicide,
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and no right thinking man, priest or layman would call it by any
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other name. Let doctor Peery say what he will. You are in full
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possession of your senses and even of your health and strength at this moment,
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and you are assured that you run no risk if you submit to the doctors,
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but that if you will not, you must die. You are choosing
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death where you can choose life, and that is suicide, if anything is.
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Doctor Peery knows well enough what a good priest would say, and so
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do I, who have been a nurse for a quarter of a century.
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If the injury were internal, if there were a real risk to your life
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in operating, you would have the right, the moral right, to choose
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between the danger of dying under ether and the comparative certainty of dying of the
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injury. But this is a specific case. You are young, strong,
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absolutely healthy, and the chance of your dying from the anesthetic is not in
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thousands, whereas if nothing is done, death is certain. I ask you,
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before God and Man, and on your honor, whether you do not
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know that you are committing suicide, nothing less than cowardly, dastardly self murder.
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If I am, it is my affair, answered Giovanni coldly. But
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you need not leave out the rest. You believe that if I choose to
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die, I shall go straight to everlasting punishment. I believe that if there
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is a God, and I do not deny that there may be, I
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shall not be damned, because I would rather not live at all than go
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on living as half a man. And now, if you will let me
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have a cup of coffee and a roll, I shall be very grateful,
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for I have had nothing to eat since yesterday at one o'clock. He probably
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knew well enough what such a request meant, just then, the putting off
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of a possible operation for hours, owing to the impossible of giving ether to
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a man who has lately eaten anything. The mother Superior and the surgeon looked
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at each other rather blankly. Shall I die any sooner if I am starved,
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asked Giovanni, almost roughly. Piery began to explain the danger, but
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severe at once grew more impatient. I know all that he said, and
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I have told you my decision. I refuse to undergo an operation if you
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choose to make me suffer from starvation. I suppose it is in your power.
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Though I am not sure. I fancy I can still stand and walk,
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and even my one hand may be of some use. If you do
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not give me something to eat, I shall get out of bed and fight
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my way to the larder. He smiled as he uttered the threat, as
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if he were not jesting about his own death. Piery did not like it
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and turned to the door. Since you talk of fighting, he said,
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I would give you ether by force if I could, and let the law
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do what it would after I have saved your life in spite of you.
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If you choose to blow your brains out afterwards, that would not concern me.
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Thereupon he disappeared, shutting the door more sharply than doctors usually do when
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they leave a sick room. The Mother Superior went to the bedside and leaned
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over Giovanni, looking into his eyes with an expression of profoundest entreaty. I
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implore you to change your mind, she said, in a low and beseeching
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voice, for the sake of the mother who bore you. She is dead,
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Giovanni answered, quietly, for the sake of them that live and love
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you. Then there is only one mother, and you know it. But
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for that only one's love. I would live not merely with one arm,
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but if every bone in my body were broken and twisted out of shape beyond
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remedy. Mother, go and tell her so, and bring me her answer,
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will you. The nun straightened herself, and her face showed what she
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suffered. But Giovanni did not understand. You are afraid, he said,
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with rising contempt in his tone. You are afraid to take my message.
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It would move her, It might tempt her from the right way. It
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might put it into her head to beg for a dispensation after all, and
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the sin would be on your soul. I understand, I did not really
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mean that you should ask her. You let her watch here last night when
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you knew I could not waken, but you were careful that she should be
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gone before I opened my eyes. You see, I have guessed the truth.
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I only wonder why you let her stay at all. He moved his
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head impatiently on the pillow. The Mother Superior had drawn herself up rather proudly,
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folding her hands under her scapular and looking down at him coldly, her
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face like a marble mask. Again, you are quite mistaken, she said,
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I will deliver your message, and sister Giovanna shall give you her answer
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herself. She went towards the door, gliding across the floor noiselessly in her
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felt shoes. But just before she went out, she turned to Giovanni again,
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and suddenly her eyes were blazing like live coals. And if you have
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the heart to kill yourself when you have talked with her, she said,
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you are a coward who never deserved to live and be called a man.
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She was gone before Giovanni could have answered, and the man who had risked
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life and limb to save others twelve hours earlier smiled faintly at the Good mother's
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womanly wrath and feminine invective. He still lay on his back, staring at
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the ceiling, and he began to wonder what day of the week it would
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be when he would not be able to see it any more, and whether
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the end would come at night, or when the sunlight was streaming in,
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or on a rainy afternoon. He did not believe that Angela would be with
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him in a few minutes, and if she came, she would say the
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strength of the morphia was not yet quite spent, and he fell asleep in
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the middle of his train of thought, as had happened while he was speaking
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to the mother in the early morning. When he awoke, the broad stripe
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of sunshine no longer fell across the counterpane, but lay on the gleaming tiles
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beyond the foot of the bed. And it fell too, on sister Giovanna's
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white frock and veil, for she was standing there, motionless, waiting for
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him to waken. His head felt queer for a moment, and he wondered
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whether she would be standing on the same spot with the same look when he
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would be dying a few days. Hence, there were deep purplish brown rings
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under her eyes, which seemed to have sunk deeper in their sockets. There
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was no color in her lips, or scarcely more than a shade. Her
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young cheeks had grown suddenly hollow for the mother. Her mother had told her
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everything, and it was almost more than she could bear. He looked at
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her two or three times, fixing his eyes on the ceiling in the intervals
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to make sure that it was she and that he was awake, for there
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was something in his head that disturbed him now, a sort of beating on
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one side of the brain, with a dull feeling at the back, as
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if there were a quantity of warm lead there that kept his skull on the
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pillow. It was the beginning of fever, but he did not know it.
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It was the forewarner of the death he was choosing. The experienced nurse
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saw it in his face. Giovanni, do you know me, she asked,
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softly, coming a step nearer. Instantly he had all his faculties again.
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Yes, come to me, he answered. She came nearer and stood
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beside him. Sit down, he said, this is the side, the
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side of my good arm. Sit down and let me take your hand,
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dear, She wondered at his quiet tone and gentle manner. They almost frightened
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her, for she remembered taking care of impatient, short tempered people who had
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suddenly softened like this, just at the end. But there was no reason
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in the world why he should die now, and she dismissed the thought as
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she took the hand he put out and held it. It was icy cold,
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as strong men's hands generally are when a fever is just beginning. She
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tried to warm it between hers, covering it up between her palms as much
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as she could, but She herself was not warm either, for she had
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been in her cell where there was no sun in the morning, and the
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air was chilly and damp because it had rained in all night. Giovanni spoke
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again before she could find words. My life is in your hands. With
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my hand, Angela, he said, do what you will with it.
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He felt that she shook from head to foot like a young tree that is
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rudely struck. He went on, as if he had prepared his words,
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though he had not even thought of them. With your love and companionship,
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I shall not miss a limb. I shall not regret my profession. I
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shall be perfectly happy alone. I will not be forced artificially to live out
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my life a wretched cripple. It was brutal, and perhaps he knew it,
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but he was desperate, and fate had given him a weapon to move
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any woman. In plain truth, it was as cruel as if he had
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put a pistol to his head and threatened to pull the trigger if she would
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not marry him. He had not done that yet, even when she had
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been in his room at Monteverde and the loaded revolver had been between them,
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Sister Giovanna kept his hand bravely in hers, and sat still. Though it
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was hard. The question, which must be answered, and which she alone
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could answer, had been asked with frightful directness, and though she had known
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only too well that it was coming, its tremendous import paralyzed her, and
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she could not speak. It was plainly this. Should she kill him of
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her own free will, for the sake of the solemn vow she had taken,
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or should she save his life by breaking, even under permission, what
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she looked on as an absolutely inviolable promise. What made her position most terrible
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was the absolute certainty of the fatal result, and its close eminence in his
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condition. To put off the operation for another day in order to consider her
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answer would be to condemn him to death according to all probability of human science,
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since a few hours longer than that would put probability out of the question
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and make it a positive certainty. She could not speak, her tongue would
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not move when she tried to form words, and her breath made no sound
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in her throat. For some time, Giovanni said nothing more and lay quite
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still. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle, dear, since
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it must be I should like it to come like this, if you will,
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with my hand between yours. It was too much, and she cried
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aloud and bowed herself, but the mortal pain freed her tongue, and a
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moment later she broke out in a fervent appeal. Live Giovanni, Live for
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Christ's good's sake, who died for you, for my sake too, for
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your own. Live the life that is still before you, and you can
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make it great if you love me, make it a noble life for that,
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if for nothing else. Do you know all Rome is ringing with the
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story of what you did, like last night. The King, the court,
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the ministers are sending for news of you every half hour. The world
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is calling you a hero. Will you let them think that you are afraid
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of an operation? Or will you let my enemy tell the world that you
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have let yourself die for my sake? That is what it comes to,
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one or the other of those things. Severi smiled faintly and shook his head
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without lifting it from the pillow. No man will call me coward, he
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answered, And no one would believe Princess Chiaramante, not if she took oath
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on her deathbed. Will nothing move, you, cried the unhappy woman in
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utter despair. Nothing that I can say, not the thought of what life
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will mean to me when you are gone, not my solemn assurance that I
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can do nothing. Nothing you can, Giovanni cried, with a sudden and
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angry energy. You are willing to let me die I, rather than risk
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the salvation of your own soul. That is the naked truth of all this.
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Her hands left his, as if they had lost their strength, and
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she rose at the same instant and tottered backwards against the near wall, speechless
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and transfixed with horror at the mere thought that what he said might be true.
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But Giovanni's eyes did not follow her. The door had opened quietly,
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and Monseigneur Sara Sineska was there and had heard the last words. The Prelate's
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face expressed neither displeasure nor reproach. It was only very thoughtful. Giovanni was
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in no humor to receive a visit from a priest just then, even though
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the latter was an old acquaintance and had once been a friend. Moreover,
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the last time they had been together, they had parted on anything but good
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terms. Giovanni spoke first, have you come, like the others, to
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accuse me of committing suicide God, he asked. The answer was unexpected and
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uncompromising. No. Sister Giovanna, still half stunned and steadying herself against the
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wall, turned wondering eyes to the speaker. The angry look in Severi's face
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changed to one of inquiry. He strongly suspected that the churchman had come to
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convert him, as the phrase goes, and he was curious to see what
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line of argument a man of such intelligence and integrity would take. No,
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repeated, Monseigneur Sara Sineska, I have come for quite another purpose, which
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I hope to accomplish, if you will listen to reason. The nun stood
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erect now, though still leaning back against the wall, and she had hidden
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her hands under her scapular. I do not think I am unreasonable, Giovanni
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answered quietly. My position is this, Do not tire yourself by going over
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it all. The prelate answered, I understand your position perfectly, for I
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have been with the Mother Superior nearly half an hour. I am going to
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take something upon myself as a man which some of my profession may condemn.
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I am going to do it because I believe it is the right course,
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and I trust that God will forgive me if it is not. There was
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a tremor in the good Man's voice, and he ceased speaking, as if
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to repeat inwardly the solemn words he had just spoken. What are you going
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to do, asked Giovanni Severi. On the question, the nun came forward
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and rested one hand on the chair in which she had sat, leaning towards
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the prelate at the same time with parted lips and eyes full of a strange
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anticipation. You know, I dare say that I am secretary to the Cardinal
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Vicar, and that such cases as yours are to a great extent within my
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province. Giovanni did not know this, but nodded. The nun, who
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knew it, bent her head, wondering more and more what was coming,
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and not daring to guess, neither spoke. I am going to lay the
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whole matter before the Cardinal Vicar at once. Monseigneur Sara Sneska continued, calmly,
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I can be with him in twenty minutes, and I am going to
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tell him the plain truth. I do not think that any nun was ever
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more true to her vows than Sister Giovanna has been since your return. But
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there is a limit beyond which fidelity to an obligation may bring ruin and even
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death on some one whom the promise did not at first concern. When the
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limit is reached, it is the plain duty of those who have received that
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promise to relieve the maker of it from its observance, even though not asked
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to do so. That is what I am going to say to the Cardinal
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Vicar in half an hour. Are you satisfied? Sister Giovanna sank sideways upon
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the chair, with her arm resting on the back of it, and she
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hid her face in her sleeve. Will the Cardinal listen to you? Asked
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Giovanni, his voice unsteady with emotion. What I recommend is usually done,
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answered the Prelate, without a shade of arrogance, but with the quiet certainty
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of a man in power. What I ask of you is to submit at
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once to the operation that alone can save you. On the strength of my
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assurance that I am going to do my utmost to obtain what you desire.
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It is hard to believe, Giovanni exclaimed, almost to himself. The nun
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moved her head silently from side to side, without lifting her face from her
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arm. You can believe me, Monseigneur Saracen Zoneska answered, I give you
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my solemn promise before God and my word of honor before men, that I
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will do the utmost in my power to succeed. Do you believe me?
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Giovanni held out his sound hand. The churchman came nearer and took it.
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Will you risk the operation on that? He asked. The light of a
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profound gratitude illuminated the young soldier's tired face, and his fingers pressed Monseigneur Sara
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Sineska's spasmodically, but his voice was quiet when he spoke, Sister Giovanna,
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Yes. The nun looked up suddenly and drew a sharp breath, for her
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joy was almost agonizing. Will you kindly go and tell doctor Peery that I
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am ready. The nun rose with a spring and was at the door in
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an instant, and in her heart rang such a chorus of glory and rejoicing
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as not even the angels have heard since the morning stars sang together of her.
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I think the most rigid cannot say that she had not endured to the
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end for her vow's sake. Whether the churchman was too human in his sympathies
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or not may be an open question. If he was, he had the
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courage to make himself alone responsible for, as he had foretold, what he
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recommended was done. If he was wrong, he has at least the consolation
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of having brought unspeakable happiness to three human beings. For the mother whose heart
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had so nearly broken for her child had her share of joy too, and
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it was no small one. End of Chapter eighteen, End of The White
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Sister by F. Marion Crawford