REPPLIER, Agnes
Marianus
I
DO not know how Marianus ever came to leave his native land, nor
what turn of fate brought him to flutter the dovecotes of a
convent school. At eleven, one does not often ask why things
happen, because nothing seems strange enough to provoke the
question. It was enough for me--it was enough for all of us--that
one Sunday morning he appeared in little Peter's place, lit the
candles on the altar, and served Mass with decent and devout
propriety. Our customary torpor of cold and sleepiness--Mass was
at seven, and the chapel unheated--yielded to a warm glow of
excitement. I craned my white-veiled head (we wore black veils
throughout the week and white on Sundays) to see how Elizabeth
was taking this delightful novelty. She was busy passing her
prayer-book, with something evidently written on the fly-leaf, to
Emily Goring on the bench ahead. Emily, oblivious of
consequences, was making telegraphic signals to Marie. Lilly and
Viola Milton knelt staring open-mouthed at the altar. Tony was
giggling softly. Only Annie Churchill, her eyes fixed on her
Ursuline Manual, was thumping her breast remorsefully, in unison
with the priest's "mea maxima culpa."There was
something about Annie's attitude of devotion which always gave
one a distaste for piety.
Breakfast afforded no
opportunity for discussion. At that Spartan meal, French
conversation alone was permitted; and even had we been able or
willing to employ the hated medium, there was practically no one
to talk to. By a triumph of monastic discipline, we were placed
at table, at our desks, and at church, next to girls to whom we
had nothing to say;--good girls, with medals around their necks,
and blue or green ribbons over their shoulders, who served as
insulating mediums, as non-conductors, separating us from
cheerful currents of speech, and securing, on the whole, a
reasonable degree of decorum. I could not open my bursting heart
to my neighbours, who sat stolidly consuming bread and butter as
though no wild light had dawned upon our horizon. When one of
them (she is a nun now) observed painstakingly, "J'espère
que nous irons aux bois après midi;" I said "Oui,"
which was the easiest thing to
say, and conversation closed at that point. We always did go to
the woods on Sunday afternoons, unless it rained. During the
week, the big girls--the arrogant and unapproachable First
Cours--assumed possession of them as an exclusive right, and left
us only Mulberry Avenue in which to play prisoner's base, and
Saracens and Crusaders; but on Sundays the situation was
reversed, and the Second Cours was led joyously out to those
sweet shades which in our childish eyes were vast as Epping
Forest, and as full of mystery as the Schwarzwald. No one could
have valued this weekly privilege more than I did; but the day
was clear, and we were sure to go. I felt the vapid nature of
Mary Rawdon's remark to be due solely to the language in which it
was uttered. All our inanities were spoken in French; and those
nuns who understood no other tongue must have conceived a curious
impression of our intelligence.
There was a brief recreation of fifteen minutes at ten o clock, which
sufficed for a rapturous exchange of confidences and speculations. Only
those who have been at a convent school can understand how the total
absence of man enriches him with a halo of illusion. Here we were, seven
absurdly romantic little girls, living in an atmosphere of devout and
rarified femininity; and here was a tall Italian youth, at least eighteen,
sent by a beneficent Providence to thrill us with emotions. Was he going
to stay? we asked with bated breath. Was he going to serve Mass every
morning instead of Peter? We could not excite ourselves over Peter,
who was a small, freckle-faced country boy, awkwardly shy, and--I should
judge--of a saturnine disposition. We had met him once in the avenue,
and had asked him if he had any brothers or sisters. "Naw,"
was the reply. "I had a brother wanst, but he died;--got out of
it when he was a baby. He was a cute one, he was."A speech which
I can only hope was not so Schopenhauerish as it sounds.
And now, in Peter's place, came this mysterious, dark-eyed, and altogether
adorable stranger from beyond the seas. Annie Churchill, who, for all
her prayerfulness, had been fully alive to the situation, opined that
he was an "exile," and the phrase smote us to the heart.
We had read "Elizabeth; or the Exile of Siberia,"--it was
in the school library,--and here was a male Elizabeth under our ravished
eyes. "That's why he came to a convent," continued Annie,
following up her advantage; "to be hidden from all pursuit."
"No doubt he did," said Tony breathlessly, "and we'll have to be very careful not to say anything about him
to visitors. We might be the occasion of his being discovered and
sent back."
This thought was almost too painful to
be borne. Upon our discretion depended perhaps the safety of a
heroic youth who had fled from tyranny and cruel injustice. I was
about to propose that we should bind ourselves by a solemn vow
never to mention his presence, save secretly to one another, when
Elizabeth not the Siberian, but our own unexiled Elizabeth
observed with that biting dryness which was the real secret of
her ascendency: "We'd better not say much about him, anyway.
On our own account, I mean." Which pregnant remark--the bell
for "Christian Instruction" ringing at that
moment--sent us silent and meditative to our desks.
So it
was that Marianus came to the convent, and we gave him our seven
young hearts with unresisting enthusiasm. Viola's heart, indeed,
was held of small account, she being only ten years old; but
Elizabeth was twelve, and Marie and Annie were thirteen,--ages
ripe for passion, and remote from the taunt of immaturity. It was
understood from the beginning that we all loved Marianus with
equal right and fervour. We shared the emotion fairly and
squarely, just as we shared an occasional box of candy, or any
other benefaction. It was our common secret,--our fatal secret,
we would have said,--and must be guarded with infinite precaution
from a cold and possibly disapproving world; but no one of us
dreamed of setting up a private romance of her own, of extracting
from the situation more than one sixth--leaving Viola--out of its
excitement and ecstasy.
We discovered in the course of
time our exile's name and nationality,--it was the chaplain who
told us,--and also that he was studying for the priest hood; this
last information coming from the mistress of recreation, and
being plainly designed to dull our interest from the start. She
added that he neither spoke nor understood anything but Italian,
a statement which we determined to put to the proof as soon as
fortune should favour us with the opportunity. The possession of
an Italian dictionary became meanwhile imperative, and we had no
way of getting such a thing. We couldn't write home for one,
because our letters were all read before they were sent out, and
any girl would be asked why she had made this singular request.
We couldn't beg our mothers, even when we saw them, for
dictionaries of a language they knew we were not studying. Lilly
said she thought she might ask her father for one, the next time
he came to the school. There is a lack of intelligence, or at
least of alertness, about fathers, which makes them invaluable in
certain emergencies; but which, on the other hand, is apt to
precipitate them into blunders. Mr. Milton promised the
dictionary, without putting any inconvenient questions, though he
must have been a little surprised at the scholarly nature of the
request; but just as he was going away, he said loudly and
cheerfully:--
"Now what is it I am to bring you
next time, children? Mint candy, and handkerchiefs,--your Aunt
Helen says you must live on handkerchiefs,--and gloves for Viola,
and a dictionary?"
He was actually shaking hands
with Madame Bouron, the Mistress General, as he spoke, and she
turned to Lilly, and said:--
"Lilly, have you lost
your French dictionary, as well as all your handkerchiefs?"
"No, madame," said poor Lilly.
"It's
an Italian dictionary she wants this time," corrected Mr.
Milton, evidently not understanding why Viola was poking him
viciously in the back.
"Lilly is not studying
Italian. None of the children are," said Madame Bouron. And
then, very slowly, and with an emphasis which made two of her
hearers quake: "Lilly has no need of an Italian dictionary,
Mr. Milton. She had better devote more time and attention to her
French."
"I nearly fainted on the spot,"
said Lilly, describing the scene to us after wards; "and
father looked scared, and got away as fast as he could; and Viola
was red as a beet; and I thought surely Madame Bouron was going
to say something to me; but, thank Heaven! Eloise Didier brought
up her aunt to say good-by, and we slipped off. Do you think,
girls, she'll ask me what I wanted with an Italian dictionary?"
"Say you re going to translate Dante in the
holidays," suggested Tony, with unfeeling vivacity.
"Say you re going to Rome, to see the Pope," said Marie.
"Say you're such an accomplished French scholar,
it's time you turned your attention to something else," said
Emily.
"Say you re making a collection of
dictionaries," said the imp, Viola.
Lilly looked
distressed. The humours of the situation were, perhaps, less
manifest to her perturbed mind. But Elizabeth, who had been
thinking the matter over, observed gloomily: "Oh, Boots"
(our opprobrious epithet for the Mistress General) "won t
bother to ask questions. She knows all she wants to know. She'll
just watch us, and see that we never get a chance to speak to
Marianus. It was bad enough before, but it will be worse than
ever now. He might almost as well be in Italy."
Things
did seem to progress slowly, considering the passionate nature of
our devotion. Never was there such an utter absence of
opportunity. From the ringing of the first bell at quarter past
six in the morning to the lowering of the dormitory lights at
nine o'clock at night, we were never alone for a moment, but
moved in orderly squadrons through the various duties of the day.
Marianus served Mass every morning, and on Sundays assisted at
Vespers and Benediction. Outside the chapel, we never saw him. He
lived in "Germany,"--a name given, Heaven knows why, to
a farmhouse on the convent grounds, which was used as quarters
for the chaplain and for visitors; but though we cast many a
longing look in its direction, no dark Italian head was ever
visible at window or at door. I believe my own share of affection
was beginning to wither under this persistent blight, when
something happened which not only renewed its fervour, but which
thrilled my heart with a grateful sentiment, not wholly dead
to-day.
It was May,--a month dedicated to the Blessed
Virgin, and fuller than usual of church-going, processions, and
hymns. We were supposed to be, or at least expected to be,
particularly obedient and studious during these four weeks; and,
by way of incentive, each class had its candle, tied with the
class colour, and standing amid a lovely profusion of spring
flowers on the Madonna's altar. There were six of them: white for
the graduates, purple for the first class, blue for the second,
red for the third, green for the fourth, and pink for the
fifth,--the very little girls, for whom the discipline of school
life was mercifully relaxed. All the candles were lighted every
morning during Mass, unless some erring member of a class had, by
misconduct the day before, forfeited the honour, not only for
herself, but for her classmates. These tapers were my especial
abhorrence. The laudable determination of the third class to keep
the red-ribboned candle burning all month maddened me, both by
the difficulties it presented, and by the meagre nature of the
consequences involved. I could not bring myself to understand why
they should care whether it were lit or not. To be sent
downstairs to a deserted music-room, there to spend the noon
recreation hour in studying Roman history or a French
fable;--that was a penalty, hard to avoid, but easy to
understand. Common sense and a love of enjoyment made it clear
that no one should lightly run such risks. But I had not
imagination enough to grasp the importance of a candle more or
less upon the altar. It was useless to appeal to my love for the
Blessed Virgin. I loved her so well and so confidently, I had
placed my childish faith in her so long, that no doubt of her
sympathy ever crossed my mind. My own mother might side with
authority. Indeed, she represented the supreme, infallible
authority, from which there was no appeal. But in every trouble
of my poor little gusty life, the Blessed Mother sided with me.
Of that, thank Heaven! I felt sure.
This month my path
was darkened by a sudden decision on Elizabeth's part that our
candle should not be once extinguished. Elizabeth, to do her
justice, did not often incline to virtue; but when she did, there
was a scant allowance of cakes and ale for any of us. She never
deviated from her chosen course, and she never fully understood
the sincere but fallible nature of our unkept resolutions. I made
my usual frantic, futile effort to follow her lead, with the
usual melancholy failure. Before the first week was over, I had
come into collision with authority (it was a matter of
arithmetic, which always soured my temper to the snapping point); and the sixth of May saw five candles only burning at the
veiled Madonna's feet. I sat, angry and miserable, while Madame
Duncan, who had charge of the altar, lit the faithful five, and
retired with a Rhadamanthine expression to her stall. Elizabeth,
at the end of the bench, looked straight ahead, with an
expression, or rather an en forced absence of expression, which I
perfectly understood. She would not say anything, but none the
less would her displeasure be made chillingly manifest. Mass had
begun. The priest was reading the Introit, when Marianus lifted a
roving eye upon the Blessed Virgin's altar. It was not within his
province; he had nothing to do with its flowers or its tapers;
but when did generous mind pause for such considerations? He saw
that one candle, a candle with a drooping scar let ribbon, was
unlit; and, promptly rising from his knees, he plunged into the
sacristy, reappeared with a burning wax-end, and repaired the
error, while we held our breaths with agitation and delight.
Madame Duncan's head was lowered in seemly prayer; but the ripple
of excitement communicated itself mysteriously to her, and she
looked up, just as Marianus had deftly accomplished his task. For
an instant she half rose to her feet; and then the absurdity of
re-attacking the poor little red candle seemed to dawn on her
(she was an Irish nun, not destitute of humour), and with a
fleeting smile at me,--a smile in which there was as much
kindness as amusement,--she resumed her interrupted devotions.
But I tucked my crimson face into my hands, and my soul
shouted with joy. Marianus, our idol, our exile, the one true
love of our six hearts, had done this deed for me. Not only was I
lifted from disgrace, but raised to a preeminence of distinction;
for had I not been saved by him?
Oh, true knight! Oh, chivalrous champion of the unhappy and
oppressed! When I recall that moment of triumph, it is even now
with a stir of pride, and of something more than pride, for I am
grateful still.
That night, that very night, I was just
sinking into sleep when a hand was laid cautiously upon my
shoulder. I started up. It was too dark to see anything clearly,
but I knew that the shadow by my side was Elizabeth. "Come
out into the hall," she whispered softly. "You had
better creep back of the beds. Don t make any noise!"--and
without a sound she was gone.
I slipped on my
wrapper,--night gowns gleam so perilously white,--and with
infinite precaution stole be hind my sleeping companions, each
one curtained safely into her little muslin alcove. At the end of
the dormitory I was joined by another silent figure,--it was
Marie,--and very gently we pushed open the big doors. The hall
outside was flooded with moonlight, and by the open window
crouched a bunch of girls, pressed close together, so close it
was hard to disentangle them. A soft gurgle of delight bubbled up
from one little throat, and was instantly hushed down by more
prudent neighbours. Eliza beth hovered on the outskirts of the
group, and, without a word, she pushed me to the sill. Beneath,
leaning against a tree, not thirty feet away, stood Marianus. His
back was turned to us, and he was smoking. We could see the easy
grace of his attitude,--was he not an Italian?--we could smell
the intoxicating fragrance of his cigar. Happily unaware of his
audience, he smoked, and contemplated the friendly moon, and
wondered, perhaps, why the Fates had cast him on this desert
island, as remote from human companionship as Crusoe's. Had he
known of the six young hearts that had been given him unbidden,
it would probably have cheered him less than we imagined.
But
to us it seemed as though our shadowy romance had taken form and
substance. The graceless daring of Marianus in stationing himself
beneath our windows,--or at least beneath a window to which we
had possible access; the unholy lateness of the hour,--verging
fast upon half-past nine; the seductive moonlight; the ripe
profligacy of the cigar; --what was wanting to this night's
exquisite adventure! As I knelt breathless in the shadow, my head
bobbing against Viola's and Marie's, I thought of Italy, of
Venice, of Childe Harold, of every thing that was remote, and
beautiful, and unconnected with the trammels of arithmetic. I
heard Annie Churchill murmur that it was like a serenade; I heard
Tony's whispered conjecture as to whether the silent serenader
really knew where we slept;--than which nothing seemed less
likely;--I heard Elizabeth's warning "Hush!" whenever
the muffled voices rose too high above the stillness of the
sleeping convent; but nothing woke me from my dreams until
Marianus slowly withdrew his shoulder from the supporting tree,
and sauntered away, without turning his head once in our
direction. We watched him disappear in the darkness; then,
closing the window, moved noiselessly back to bed. "Who saw
him first?" I asked at the dormitory door.
"I
did," whispered Elizabeth; "and I called them all. I
didn't intend letting Viola know; but, of course, sleeping next
to Lilly, she heard me. She ought to be up in the Holy Child
dormitory with the other little girls. It's ridiculous having her
following us about everywhere."
And, indeed, Viola's
precocious pertinacity made her a difficult problem to solve.
There are younger sisters who can be snubbed into impotence.
Viola was no such weakling.
But now the story which we
thought just begun was drawing swiftly to its close. Perhaps
matters had reached a point when something had to happen; yet it
did seem strange--it seems strange even now--that the crisis
should have been precipitated by a poetic outburst on the part of
Elizabeth. Of all the six, she was the least addicted to poetry.
She seldom read it, and never spent long hours in copying it in a
blank-book, as was our foolish and laborious custom. She hated
compositions, and sternly refused the faintest touch of sentiment
when compelled to express her thoughts upon "The First Snow
drop," or "My Guardian Angel," or the "Execution
of Mary, Queen of Scots." Tony wrote occasional verses of a
personal and satiric character, which we held to sparkle with a
biting wit. Annie Churchill had once rashly shown to Lilly and to
me some feeble lines upon "The Evening Star." Deep
hidden in my desk, unseen by mortal eye save mine, lay an
impassioned "Soliloquy of Jane Eyre," in blank verse,
which was almost volcanic in its fervour, and which perished the
following year, unmourned, because unknown to the world. But
Elizabeth had never shown the faintest disposition to write
anything that could be left unwritten, until Marianus stirred the
waters of her soul. That night, that moonlit night, and the dark
figure smoking in the shadows, cast their sweet spell upon her.
With characteristic promptness, she devoted her French study hour
the following afternoon to the composition of a poem, which was
completed when we went to class, and which she showed me secretly
while we were scribbling our dictée.
There were five verses, headed "To Marianus," and
beginning,--
"Gracefully
up the long aisle he glides,"
which was a poetic license, as the
chapel aisle was short, and Marianus had never glided up it since
he came. He always--in virtue of his office--entered by the
sacristy door.
But realism was then as little known in
literature as in art, and poetry was not expected to savour of
statement rather than emotion. Elizabeth's masterpiece expressed
in glowing numbers the wave of sentiment by which we were
submerged. Before night it had passed swiftly from hand to hand,
and before night the thunderbolt had fallen. Whose rashness was
to blame I do not now remember; but, thank Heaven! it was not
mine. Someone's giggle was too unsuppressed. Someone thrust the
paper too hurriedly into her desk, or dropped it on the floor, or
handed it to someone else in a manner too obviously mysterious
not to arouse suspicion. I only know that it fell into the hands
of little Madame Davide, who had the eyes of a ferret and the
heart of a mouse, and who, being unable to read a word of
English, sent it forthwith to Madame Bouron. I only know that,
after that brief and unsatisfactory glimpse in French class, I
never saw it again; which is why I can now recall but one line
out of twenty,--a circumstance I devoutly regret.
It was
a significant proof of Madame Bouron's astuteness that, without
asking any questions, or seeking any further information, she
summoned six girls to her study that evening after prayers. She
had only the confiscated poem in Elizabeth's writing as a clue to
the conspiracy, but she needed nothing more. There we were, all
duly indicted, save Viola, whose youth, while it failed to
protect us from the unsought privilege of her society, saved her,
as a rule, from any retributive measures. Her absence on this
occasion was truly a comfort, as her presence would have involved
the added and most unmerited reproach of leading a younger child
into mischief. Viola was small for her age, and had appealing
brown eyes. There was not a nun in the convent who knew her for
the imp she was. Lilly, gay, sweet, simple, generous, and
unselfish, seemed as wax in her little sister's hands.
There
were six of us, then, to bear the burden of blame; and Madame
Bouron, sitting erect in the lamplight, apportioned it with an
unsparing hand. Her fine face (she was coldly handsome, but we
did not like her well enough to know it) expressed contemptuous
displeasure; her words conveyed a somewhat exaggerated confidence
in our guilt. Of Elizabeth's verses she spoke with icy
scorn;--she had not been aware that so gifted a writer graced the
school; but the general impropriety of our behaviour was
unprecedented in the annals of the convent. That we, members of
the Society of St. Aloysius, should have shown ourselves so
unworthy of our privileges, and so forgetful of our patron, was a
surprise even to her; though (she was frankness itself) she had
never entertained a good opinion either of our dispositions or of
our intelligence. The result of such misconduct was that the
chaplain's assistant must leave at once and forever. Not that he
had ever wasted a thought upon any girl in the school. His heart
was set upon the priesthood. Young though he was, he had already
suffered for the Church. His father had fought and died in
defence of the Holy See. His home had been lost. He was a
stranger in a far land. And now he must be driven from the asylum
he had sought, because we could not be trusted to behave with
that modesty and discretion which had always been the fairest
adornment of children reared within the convent's holy walls. She
hoped that we would understand how grievous was the wrong we had
done, and that even our callous hearts would bleed when we went
to our comfortable beds, and reflected that, because of our
wickedness and folly, a friendless and pious young student was
once more alone in the world.
It was over! We trailed
slowly up to the dormitory, too bewildered to understand the
exact nature of our misdoing. The most convincing proof of our
mental confusion is that our own immaculate innocence never
occurred to any of us. We had looked one night out of the window
at Marianus, and Elizabeth had written the five amorous verses.
That was all. Not one of us had spoken a word to the object of
our affections. Not one of us could boast a single glance, given
or received. We had done nothing; yet so engrossing had been the
sentiment, so complete the absorption of the past two months,
that we, living in a children's world of illusions,--"passionate
after dreams, and unconcerned about realities,"--had deemed
ourselves players of parts, actors in an unsubstantial drama,
intruders into the realms of the forbidden. We accepted this
conviction with meekness, untempered by regret; but we permitted
ourselves a doubt as to whether our iniquity were wholly
responsible for the banishment of Marianus. The too strenuous
pointing of a moral breeds skepticism in the youthful soul. When
Squire Martin (of our grandfathers reading-books) assured Billy
Freeman that dogs and turkey-cocks were always affable to
children who studied their lessons and obeyed their parents, that
innocent little boy must have soon discovered for himself that
virtue is but a weak bulwark in the barnyard. We, too, had lost
implicit confidence in the fine adjustments of life; and, upon
this occasion, we found comfort in incredulity. On the stairs
Elizabeth remarked to me in a gloomy undertone that Marianus
could never have intended to stay at the convent, anyhow, and
that he probably had been "sent for." She did not say
whence, or by whom; but the mere suggestion was salve to my
suffering soul. It enabled me, at least, to bear the sight of
Annie Churchill's tears, when, ten minutes later, that
weak-minded girl slid into my alcove (as if we were not in
trouble enough already), and, sitting forlornly on my bed, asked
me in a stifled whisper, "did I think that Marianus was
really homeless, and couldn't we make up a sum of money, and send
it to him?"
"How much have you got?" I
asked her curtly. The complicated emotions through which I had
passed had left me in a savage humour; and the peculiar
infelicity of this proposal might have irritated St. Aloysius him
self. We were not allowed the possession of our own money, though
in view of the fact that there was ordinarily nothing to buy with
it, extravagance would have been impossible. Every Thursday
afternoon the "Bazaar" was opened; our purses,
carefully marked with name and number, were handed to. us, and we
were at liberty to purchase such uninteresting necessities as
writing-paper, stamps, blank-books, pencils, and sewing
materials. The sole concession to prodigality was a little pile
of pious pictures,--small French prints, ornamented with lace
paper, which it was our custom to give one another upon birthdays
and other festive occasions. They were a great resource in
church, where prayer-books, copiously interleaved with these
works of art, were passed to and fro for mutual solace and
refreshment.
All these things were as well known to Annie
as to me, but she was too absorbed in her grief to remember them.
She mopped her eyes, and said vacantly that she thought she had a
dollar and a half.
"I have seventy-five cents,"
I said; "and Elizabeth hasn't anything. She spent all her
money last Thursday. We might be able to raise five dollars
amongst us. If you think that much would be of any use to
Marianus, all you have to do is to ask Madame Bouron for our
purses, and for his address, and see if she would mind our
writing and sending it to him."
Annie, impervious at
all times to sarcasm, looked dazed for a moment, her wet blue
eyes raised piteously to mine. "Then you think we couldn't
manage it?" she asked falteringly.
But I plunged my
face into my wash-basin, as a hint that the conversation was at
an end. I, too, needed the relief of tears, and was waiting
impatiently to be alone.
For Marianus had gone. Of that,
at least, there was no shadow of doubt. We should never see him
again; and life seemed to stretch before me in endless grey
reaches of grammar, and arithmetic, and French conversation; of
getting up early in the morning, uncheered by the thought of
seeing Marianus serve Mass; of going to bed at night, with never
another glance at that dark shadow in the moonlight. I felt that
for me the page of love was turned forever, the one romance of my
life was past. I cried softly and miserably into my pillow; and
resolved, as I did so, that the next morning I would write on the
fly-leaves of my new French prayer-book and my "Thomas à
Kempis" the lines:--
"Tis
better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at
all."
Repplier, Agnes. In
Our Convent Days. Boston: Houghton,
1905.
|