Transcript

Chapter X · The White Sister

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Chapter ten 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 libravox dot org. The White Sister by F. Marion Crawford, Chapter
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ten. When the Princess chier Romante was getting well, she asked some questions
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of her doctor, to which he replied as truthfully as he could. She
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inquired, for instance, whether she had been delirious at the beginning, and
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whether she had talked much when her mind was wandering, and his answers disturbed
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her a little, as sometimes happens in such cases, She had disjointed recollections
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of what she had said, and vague visions of herself that were not mere
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creations of her imagination. It was like a dream that had not been quite
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a dream. Opiummeters know what the sensation is better than other men. Under
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the influence of laudanum or the pipe or the hypodermic, they have talked brilliantly,
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but they cannot remember what the conversation was about or else. They know
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that they have been furiously angry, but cannot recall the cause of their wrath,
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nor the person on whom it was vented, or they have betrayed a
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secret, but for their lives they could not say who it was to whom
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they told it. The middle aged woman of the world felt that her reputation
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was a coat of many colors, and her past, when she looked back
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to it, was like a badly constructed play in which the stage is crowded
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with personages who have little connection with each other. There was much which she
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herself did not care to remember, but much more that no one else need
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ever know. And as she had never before been delirious, nor even in
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the thought that she had now perhaps revealed incidences of her past, life was
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anything but pleasant. It is so very disagreeable to think that I may have
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talked nonsense, she said to the doctor examining one of her white hands.
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Thoughtfully, do not disturb yourself about that, he answered in a reassuring tone,
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for he understood much better than she guessed. A good trained nurse is
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as silent about such accidental confessions as a good priest is about intentional ones.
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Confession, cried the princess, annoyed, as if I were concealing a crime.
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I only mean that I probably said very silly things. By the bye,
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I had several nurses, had I not, you kept changing them.
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Do you happen to know who that sister Giovanna was who looked so ill you
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sent her back after two days? I think because you thought she might break
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down. She reminded me of a niece of mine whom I have not seen
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for years. But I did not like to ask her any questions, and
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besides, I was much too ill. I have no idea who she was
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before she entered the order. The doctor answered he was often asked such futile
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questions about nurses, and would not have answered them if he had been able
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to do so. But in asking information, the princess was unwittingly conveying it,
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for it flashed upon him that sister Giovanna was, perhaps indeed that niece
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of whom she spoke and whom she was commonly said to have defrauded of her
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fortune, though none herself had told him of the sick woman's delirious condition,
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and he remembered her looks and her admission that she was in mental distress.
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All this tallied very well with the guess that her aunt had made some sort
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of confession of her deed while her mind was wandering, and that she now
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dimly recalled something of the sort. He put the theory away for future consideration
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and left the Princess in ignorance that he had thought of it or had even
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attached any special meaning to her words. She was far from satisfied, however,
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and made up her mind to follow up the truth at all costs.
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As a first step, she sent a generous donation to the Convent of the
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White Sisters. As soon as she was quite recovered, and as her illness
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had not been serious enough to explain such an important thank offering, she wrote
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a line to say that she had never been ill before, and had been
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so much impressed by the care she had received that she felt she must really
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do something to help such an excellent institution. It would give her keen pleasure
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to visit at the hospital, she said in conclusion, but that was no
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doubt too great a favor to ask in thanking her. The Mother Superior replied
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that it would be no favor at all, and that the Princess would be
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welcome whenever she chose to send word that she was coming. On the day
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following that, the mother told Sister Giovanna what had happened, and with characteristic
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directness, asked what she thought about her aunt's charity. It is very kind
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of her, answered the young nun, in that monotonous, business like tone
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which all religious use when speaking of an apparently charitable action, for the motive
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of which they are not ready to vouch though they have no reasonable ground for
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criticism. People of the world often speak in that voice when unexpectedly asked to
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give an opinion about some person whom they dislike but do not dare to abuse.
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The little white volcano, you know, flared up energetically. However,
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I hate that sort of answer, she cried, with a delicate snort.
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Sister Giovanna looked at her in surprise, but said nothing. I cannot refuse
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the money, said the mother Superior, But I heartily wish I could.
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She has given it in order to come here and to be well received if
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she chooses to come again, I am sure of that, and she can
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have no object in coming here except to make mischief for you. It may
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be wicked of me, but I do not trust that lady in the least
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do you? She asked the question Suddenly, she cannot harm me? More
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than she did years ago. Sister Giovanna answered, I wish that were certain,
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said the other, I wish I had gone to nurse her myself that
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night night instead of sending you. She was so evidently in earnest that the
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sister was even more surprised than before, and wondered what was the matter.
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But as it was not her place to ask questions, and as Mother Superior's
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doubt or presentiment of trouble was evidently suggested by sincere affection for herself, she
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said nothing and went about her work without letting her mind dwell too long on
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the conversation. Men and women who lead the religious life in earnest acquire a
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much greater control of their secret thoughts than ordinary people can easily believe it possible
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to exercise. Nevertheless, the princess's voice came back to her ears when she
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was alone, and told the story over and over again, and somehow her
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aunt was often mentioned in the convent as a recent benefactress who was showing a
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lively interest in the hospital and would perhaps give further large sums to it which
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could be expended for good. Sister Giovanna never said anything when the subject came
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up, but she could not help thinking of Judas's suggestion that the alabaster box
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of precious ointment might have been sold and given to the poor, and a
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disturbing spirit whispered that Princess Karamonte, whose past might well be compared with the
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Magdalens, had done what Iscaryote would have advised. In due time too,
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the great Lady visited the convent and hospital and was shown over it systematically by
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the mother Superior herself, followed by an approving little escort of nurses and novices.
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For it was, of course permissible to appreciate and admire the smart clothes
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of a benefactress, whereas it would have been the height of levity to bestow
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so much attention on a lady visitor who was merely fashionable and had nothing for
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the institution. This, at least was the novices point of view. But
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the little white Volcano seemed quietly cross and held her small head very high as
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she led the princess from one ward to another to the beautifully fitted operating room.
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And when she spoke, her tone was strangely cold and mordant, as
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a woman's voice sometimes sounds in the Alps when she speaks across an ice fall
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or a frozen lake. The princess looked behind her repeatedly, and her eyes
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sought her niece's face amongst those she saw. But she asked no questions about
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her, and apparently gave all her attention to what was shown. Her sister
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Giovanna was in her cell during all that time, and should no doubt have
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been occupied, but instead she was standing idly at her window, looking through
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one of the diamond shaped openings in the lattice in the direction of Monteverde.
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She was hardly aware of what she saw, however, for in imagination she
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was following her aunt through the halls and wards and long corridors, and a
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struggle was going on in her heart, which hurt her and made her despise
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herself. The woman who had ruined her life was under the same roof with
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her again, and she could not forgive her, and that seemed a very
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great sin. What had she gained in the five years that had gone by
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since the beginning of her novitiate if she could not even forgive an injury?
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That was the question, Since her life had led her to nothing better than
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smoldering resentment and sharp regret. It had not been the holy life she had
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meant it to be. The failure she must score against herself was a total
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one, a general defeat, and all that she had believed she had been
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doing for the dead man's sake must count for nothing, since she had not
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once been really in a state of grace. No doubt, her self accusation
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went too far, as a confessor would have told her, or even the
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Mother Superior, if that good and impulsive woman had known what was in her
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mind. But Sister Giovanna did not believe she could go far enough in finding
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fault with herself for such great sins as her regret for a married life that
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might have been, and her lasting anger against a person who had robbed her.
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And it was while she was standing at her latticed window that morning that
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she first thought of making an even more complete sacrifice by joining the sisters who
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intended to go out to the rangoon Leper hospital in the spring. It was
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not with the hope of dying young that she wished to go and face death
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daily, but in the earnest desire to escape from what she called her temptation
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and to regain that peace of mind which had been hers for a long time
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and now was gone. She had made herself a little treasure house of grace,
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laid up to be offered for Giovanni's soul, and the gold of her
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affliction and the jewels of her un selfish labors had been gathered there to help
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him. That had been her simple and innocent belief. But it had broken
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down suddenly as soon as she discovered that she was only a human, resentful,
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regretful woman after all, as far below the mystic detachment from the outward
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world as she had been in those first days of her grief at Madame Bernard's,
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when she had sat listless all the day long, a broken hearted girl.
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What she had taken for gold and had stored up for Giovanni's welfare was
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only the basest metal. Her jewels were but chips of gaudy glass. Her
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sacrifice was a failure after all. Worse than that her dead man came back
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alive from his grave and haunted her in dreams, threatening righteous judgment on the
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woman who had cheated her and him of earthly happiness. I shall not dwell
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on what she felt. Men and women who have honestly tried to the good
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life for years and have suddenly realized that they are as human as ever before.
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Will understand what I have written. The rest must either believe what it
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is true, or not believing, read on for the sake of knowing Sister
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Giovanna's strange story, or else throw my book aside for a dull novel not
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worth reading. We cannot always be amusing, and real life is not always
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gay. The young nun waited in her cell till the mother superior herself opened
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the door and entered. For the princess was gone after seeing everything, praising
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everything with the flattering indiscrimination of total ignorance, and finally after asking permission to
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make another visit. She had spent ten minutes in the mother's own rooms before
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leaving, and had asked the names of the three sisters who had taken care
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of her in succession, writing them down on the back of a visiting card.
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She wished to remember them in her prayers, she said. But the
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little white volcano almost laughed in her face, and the black diamond eyes twinkled
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furiously as they turned away to hide their scornful amusement. So strong was the
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nun's conviction that the new benefactress was a humbug. The princess looked at the
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names quite calmly after she had written them, Sister Saint Paul, Sister Giovanna,
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and Sister Marius, and asked whether she had seen any of them during
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her visit. But the Mother Superior answered that they were all three either nursing
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private cases or not on duty, which might mean that they were resting in
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their cells. Sister Giovanna started slightly as the door of her cell opened,
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for she had scarcely realized that she had not moved from the window for a
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long time. The elder woman had not taken the trouble to knock, and
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strange to say of faint blood bush rose in the sister's face, as if
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she had been surprised and were a little ashamed of being caught in idleness instead
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of reading her brevery for the day or doing something useful with her hands.
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The black eyes looked at her searchingly, for nothing escaped them. What have
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you been thinking of, asked the impulsive woman. There was a moment's silence.
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The rangoon lepers answered the sister in a quiet voice. The Mother Superior's
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white face hardened strangely, the Princess Caramante is gone, she said, rather
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sharply, and you are wanted in the surgical ward. At once she turned
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without another word and went quickly away, leaving the door open. It was
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clear that she was not pleased with the answer she had received. Six weeks
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later, Sister Giovanna went to her rooms on the other side of the cloistered
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court after first chapel, and knocked at the door. It was a Monday
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morning in March, and she was to be supervising nurse for the week.
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But the custom was to go on duty at eight o'clock and it was not
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yet seven. Well, asked the Mother Superior, looking up from her papers,
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while the young nun remained standing respectfully at the corner of the big desk.
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The tone did not invite confidence. For some reason as yet unexplained,
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the mother had avoided speaking with her best nurse since that morning in the cell.
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I have made up my mind to go to the lepers with the others,
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Mother, if you will give me your permission. The alabaster face suddenly
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glowed like white fire in the early light. The dark eyebrows knitted themselves angrily,
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and the lips parted to speak a hasty word, but immediately closed again.
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A long silence followed Sister Giovanna's speech, and the elder nun looked down
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at her papers and moved some of them about mechanically from one place to another
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on the table. Are you angry with me, mother, asked Sister Giovanna,
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Not understanding with you, child. The mother looked up and her face
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had softened a little. No, I am not angry with you, at
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least, I hope I am not. It was rather an ambiguous answer,
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to say the least, and the young nun waited meekly for an explanation.
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None came, but instead advice delivered in a direct and businesslike tone. You
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had better put the idea out of your mind for a month or so,
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honestly and with all the intention of which you are capable. If this is
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a mere impulse felt under some mental distress, it will subside and you will
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think no more about it. If it is a true call, it will
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come back and you will obey it in due time. More than that,
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I cannot tell you. If you are not satisfied that I am advising you,
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well go to monsieur Saraseneska. The next time he is here. It
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is my place to warn, not to hinder, to help you. If
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I can not to stand in your way, that is all, my daughter,
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Go to your duties. Sister Giovanna bent her head obediently and left the
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room at once. When she was gone, the Mother Superior rose from her
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desk and went into her cell, locking the door after her. An hour
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later, she was still on her knees, and her face was buried in
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her hands. She was weeping bitterly. In all that numerous commune which she
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governed and guided so well, there was not one person who would have believed
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that she could shed tears scalding and passionate, even rebellious, perhaps if the
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whole truth were known, For no sister or novice of them all could have
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imagined that such irresistible grief could take possession of a woman, who, as
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they all said among themselves, was made of steel and ice. Merely because
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one more of them wished to go to the far East, where so many
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had gone already. But they did not know anything about the Mother's Superior.
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Indeed, when all was said, they knew next to nothing of her past,
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and as it was against all rules to discuss such matters. It was
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not likely that they should ever hear more, even if a new sister joined
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them who chanced to have some information. They were aware, of course,
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that her name in religion was Mother Veronica, though they did not speak of
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her except as the Mother Superior. It was true that they had never heard
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of a nun of their order taking the name of Veronica, but that was
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not a matter to criticize either. She spoke exceedingly pure Italian, with the
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accent and intonation of a Roman lady. But it was no secret that when
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she had come to take the place of her predecessor, who had died suddenly,
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she had arrived from Austria, and she also spoke German fluently, which
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argued that she had been in that country some time. There was certainly nothing
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in these few facts to account for what she suffered when Sister Giovanna spoke of
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going to Rangoon, and it would have been hard to believe that her burning
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tears overflowed in spite of her not only that first time, but often afterwards,
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at the mere thought of parting with the best nurse in the hospital.
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And even if she felt some special sympathy for her. Whatever the cause of
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her trouble was, no one knew of it, and that she found no
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cause for self accusation in what she felt as clear, since she made no
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mention of it in her next confession. Indeed, she more often found fault
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with herself for being harsh in her judgments and too peremptory and tyrannical in the
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government of her community, than for giving way easily to the impulses of human
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sympathy. She was not nervous, either in the sense of her nerves being
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unsteady or overwrought in consequence of a long continued strain. There was nothing in
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her weeping that could have suggested a neurotic breakdown, even to the most skeptical
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of physicians. It was genuine, irresistible, overwhelming grief, and she knew
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that its cause was not even in part imaginary, but was altogether real and
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terrible beyond any expression. Nevertheless, she found strength to speak to Monsieur Saraseneska
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of Sister Giovanna's intention one day when he came to see her early in the
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morning on a matter of business, for he managed the finances of the convent
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hospital and was also its representative in any questions in which the institution, as
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distinguished from the orderer, had secular dealings with the world. The Prelate and
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the Mother met as usual in the cloistered garden, and when convent affairs had
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been disposed of, they continued their walk in silence for a few moments.
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I want your unprejudiced opinion about the future of one of the sisters, said
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the Mother Superior at last, in her usual tone. I will try to
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give it, answered Monsieur Saraseneska. Sister Giovanna wishes to go to Rangoon with
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the other three. The churchman betrayed no surprise and answered without hesitation, you
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know what I always say in such cases when I am consulted. Yes,
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I have given her that advice to wait a month, to try to put
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the idea out of her mind, to make sure that it is not a
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passing impulse. You cannot do more, said Monsieur Saraseneska, nor can I.
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The Mother Superior turned up her white face and looked at him so steadily
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that he gazed at her in surprise. It ought to be stopped. She
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said, with sudden energy. It may be wrong to call it suicide and
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to interfere on that ground. But there is another, and a good one.
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I am responsible for the hospital here, for the nursing in it,
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and for the sisters who are sent out to private cases. Year after year,
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One, two, and sometimes three of my best young nurses go away
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to these leper asylums in Rangoon and other places in the Far East. It
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is not the stupid ones that go, the dull, devoted creatures who could
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do that one thing well, because it is perfectly mechanical and a mere question
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of prophylaxis, precaution and routine and charity. Those that go always seem to
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be the best, the very nurses who are invaluable in all sorts of difficult
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cases, from an operation to a typhoid fever, The most experienced, the
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cleverest, the most gifted. How can I be expected to keep up our
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standard if this goes on year after year. It is outrageous. And the
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worst of it is that the vocation is catching. The clever ones catch it
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because they are the most sensitively organized. But not the good, simple,
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humdrum little women who would be far better at nursing lepers than a case of
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appendicitis and better in heaven than in a leper asylum. For that matter.
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Monsieur Saraseneska listened in silence to this energetic tirade. But when the little white
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volcano was quiescent for a moment, he shook his head. It was less
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an expression of disapproval than of doubt. It is manifestly impossible to send the
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least intelligent of the sisters if they do not offer to go, he answered,
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Besides, how would you pick out the dull ones by examination? He
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was not without a sense of humor, and his sharply chiseled lips twitched a
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little, but were almost instantly grave. Again, the Mother Superior's profile was
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as still as a marble medallion. It ought to be stopped altogether, she
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said, presently, with conviction. Meanwhile, though I have told Sister Giovanna
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that it is not my place to hinder her, much less my right,
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I tell you plainly that I will prevent her from going if I can.
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This frank statement did not surprise the prelate, who was used to her direct
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speech and energetic temper and liked both. But he said little in answer,
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that is your affair, Reverend Mother. You will do what your conscience dictates
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conscious, repeated the nun, with a resentful question in her tone. If
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the word really means anything, which I often doubt, It is an instinctive
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discernment of right and wrong in one's own particular case, to be applied to
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the salvation of one's own soul. Is it not, undoubtedly, what have
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I to do with my own particular case? The volcano flared up indignantly.
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It is my duty to do what is best for the souls and bodies of
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forty women and girls more or less, and of a great number of sick
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persons here and in their own homes, without considering myself at all, my
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instincts, or my little individual discernment of my own feelings, or my human
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likes and dislikes of people. If my duty leads me into temptation, I
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have got to face temptation intentionally, instead of avoiding it as we are taught
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to do. And if I break down under it, so much the worse
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for me, the good of the others will have been accomplished. Nevertheless,
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that is one side of my life. Another is that if my duty demands
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that I should tear out my heart and trample on it, I ought not
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to hesitate, though I knew I was to die of the pain. The
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clear, low voice vibrated strangely. But I will not do it unless it
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is to bring about some real good to others, she added. Monsieur Sarcineska
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glanced at her face again before he answered. Your words are clear enough,
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but I do not understand you, he said. If I can possibly help
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you, tell me what it is that distresses you. If not, let
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us talk of other things, you cannot help me. Her thin lips closed
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upon each other in an even line. I am sorry, answered the churchman
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gravely. As for Sister Giovanna's intention, I share your opinion, for I
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think she can do more good here than by sacrificing herself in Burma. If
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she consults me, I shall tell her so. Thank you. They parted,
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and the Mother Superior went back to her room and her work, with
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a steady step and holding her head high. But she did not even see
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a lay sister who was scrubbing her small private staircase, and who rose to
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let her pass, saluting her as she went by. Monsieur Sarazeneska left the
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garden by the glass door that opened into the large hall already described, and
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he went out past the portress's little lodge. She was just opening the outer
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door when he came up with her, and the next moment he found himself
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face to face with Madame Bernard. He stepped back politely to let her pass
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and lifted his hat with a smile of recognition. But instead of advancing,
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she uttered a little cry of surprise and satisfaction, and retreated to let him
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come out. He noticed that her face betrayed great excitement, and she seemed
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hardly able to speak. What is the matter, he asked kindly. As
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he emerged from the deep doorway. The Portress was waiting for Madame Bernard to
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enter, but the frenchwoman had changed her mind and held up her hand,
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shaking one forefinger. Not to day Anna, she cried, or later I
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will come back. Perhaps I cannot tell. May I walk a few steps
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with you, monseigneur, by all means, answered the prelate. The door
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of the convent closed behind them, but Madame Bernard was evidently anxious to get
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well out of hearing before she spoke. At the corner of the quiet street,
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she suddenly stood still and looked up to her companion's face, evidently in
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great perturbation. Well, he asked, what is it, Giovanni severe is
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alive. Monsieur Saracenesca thought the good woman was dreaming. It is impossible,
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he said emphatically. On the contrary, returned Madame Bernard, it is perfectly
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true. If you do not believe me, look at this. She opened
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her governess's reticule and fumbled amongst the little school books and papers it contained.
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In a moment, she brought out a letter, sealed, stamped and postmarked,
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and held it up before the tall prelate's eyes. It was addressed to
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Donna Angela Chierramonte, to the care of Madame Bernard at the latter's lodgings in
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Trasteveri. The stamp was an Italian one, and the postmark was that of
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the military post office in Massua. Monsieur Saraseneska looked at the envelope curiously,
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took it from Madame Bernard and examined the stamped date. Then he asked her
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if she was quite sure of the handwriting, and she assured him that she
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was. Giovanni had written before, for he had started into the interior with
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the expedition, and she herself had received the letter from the postman and had
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given it to Angela. What was more, after Angela had gone to live
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at the convent, Madame Bernard had found the old envelope of the letter in
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a drawer and had kept it, and she had just looked at it before
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leaving her house. He is alive, she said, with conviction. He
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has written this letter to her, and he does not know that she is
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a nun. He is coming home, I am sure. Monseigneur Sara Seneska
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was a man of great heart and wide experience, but such a case as
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this had never come to his knowledge. He stood still in deep thought,
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bending a little as he rested both his hands on the battered silver knob of
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his old stick. He is coming home, repeated Madame Bernard, in great
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distress. What are we to do? What were you going to do just
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now? When I met you at the door, asked the prelate. I
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do not know I was going to see her. Perhaps I would have broken
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the news to her gently. Perhaps I would have said nothing and kept the
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letter to give it to her at another time. How can I tell what
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I would have done? It would have depended so much on the way she
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took the first suggestion. People have died of joy, monseigneur. A little
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weakness of the heart, a sudden joyful surprise, it stops beating. That
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has happened before. Now, Yes, it has happened before. Now I
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knew of such a case myself, and I adore the child, cried the
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impulsive frenchwoman, ready to burst into tears. Oh what shall we do?
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What ought we to do? Do you know the mother superior? Oh?
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Yes, quite well? Are you going to tell me that I should take
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the letter to her? She is a cold, hard woman, monsigneur.
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A splendid woman to manage a hospital, perhaps, but she has no more
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heart than a steel machine. She will burn the letter and never tell any
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one. I think you are mistaken about her, answered the churchman gravely.
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She has more heart than most of us, and I believe that even you
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yourself, are not more devoted to Sister Giovanna than she is really, monseigneur.
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Is it possible? Are you sure? What makes you think so?
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To the best of my knowledge and belief, what I have told you is
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the truth. Though I might find it hard to explain my reasons for saying
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so. But before you go to the Mother Superior or speak of the matter
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to Sister Giovanna, there is something else to be done. This letter,
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by some strange accident of the post, may have been written before Giovanni Severi
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died. There is a bare possibility that it may have been mislaid in the
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post office, or that he may have given it to a comrade to post
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who forgot it. Many things may happen to a letter. Well, what
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must I do if he is alive? The fact is surely known already at
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headquarters, and you should make inquiries. To give Sister Giovanna a letter from
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the dead man would be wrong in my opinion, for it would cause her
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needless and harmful pain. If he is dead, it should be burned,
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I think. But if he is really alive, after all, you have
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no right to burn it, and sooner or later she must have it and
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know the truth with as little danger to her health and peace of mind as
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possible. You are right, Monseigneur, answered Madame Bernard. What you say
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is full of wisdom. I have three lessons to give this morning, and
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as soon as I am free, I will go myself to the House of
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a superior officer whose daughter I used to teach, and he will find out
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the truth by the telephone in a few minutes. I think that is the
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best course, said the churchman. So they parted, for he was going
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to Saint Peter's, and she turned in the direction of the nearest tramway,
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hastening to her pupils. And meanwhile the Inevitable advanced on its unchanging course.
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For Giovanni Severi was alive and well, and was on his way to Rome.
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End of chapter ten, read by Gila Lavenger, Freeburg, NAPA,
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July thirty first, twenty twenty three.