Anna (50 page)

“In later life when you come to look back on this,” he said. “you will see it differently. You will find that it has been your salvation. God has given you the opportunity of a new life, a good one. And your child—she will be saved too. She will be among people who love her; she will have the company of other children, she will grow up in the Spirit.”

Father Ignatius paused: he realised suddenly that he had been preaching when he had meant only to advise. It was his old weakness, this vanity: it was constantly betraying him. And as he looked at Anna sitting huddled in her chair, a new kind of pity came over him. He saw how young she was: she seemed with her head uncovered and in the heavy cloak which she had thrown around her to be scarcely more than a girl—and he wondered if he had not judged her too harshly.

“She is helpless,” he began telling himself; “I should have tried to do more for her. I should not have been so stern.”

He went over to her.

“At first you will be very lonely in the convent—very lonely,” he said. “You will be unhappy. You may even find yourself wishing your life away. But if you are too wretched, if you feel that you can bear it no longer, send for me and I will come to you. Think of me as you would think of your own father. Do not even for a single moment imagine that there is no one who cares for you, who minds what happens.”

His voice faltered a little as he was speaking, and he paused. He was an awkward sort of man at such moments. He was too much shut away within himself to share in another's emotion in this fashion.

“You must go back home now,” he said. “Go back and pray. Ask to be made humble; and remember the mercies that God has shown to you. In the morning I will come for you.”

As he spoke, he drew from his pocket a small rosary of gilt and enamel. He stood there for a moment dangling it in his hand, his eyes following the little crucifix as it swung pendulum-like.

Then he held it out towards her.

“Take this,” he said. “You will remember this evening by it. It can be the foundation of your new life.”

When Anna had gone he went through to his own private sitting-room that was as bleak almost as the parlour in which they had been talking. But somehow he could not drink the thick soup that the housekeeper had set before him. Instead, he drank a little of the cheap red wine and prepared himself for what he was to say to the Reverend Mother on the morrow.

It was the last day. When Anna's maid heard that she really had to go, that she was seeing Annette for the last time she wept bitterly. She was overcome and took hold of Anna's hand and kissed it. For the future, she declared, she would always be miserable. Anna took out a brooch that she had bought—it was too poor a thing for Carlos to have collected—and gave it to her. The girl declared that she would wear it for ever.

But time was passing: Anna looked at her watch and saw that it was nearly noon.

“Father Ignatius said that he would come for me in the morning,” she began saying to herself.

She could sit still no longer and, taking Annette by the hand, she began walking her about the garden. She started telling her the names of flowers to distract them both. It was while she was bending over one of the beds that she heard the sound of voices and wheels grating into the gravel. She turned hurriedly. But it was only a handcart with two large wicker baskets that a porter from the station was pushing. One of the kitchen maids was walking beside it.

She went back towards the house and, as she did so, she saw the shutters of another of the rooms—it was the nursery this time —being drawn together. She looked away and found tears smarting in her eyes again.

Then around the curve of the approach there came into view a low two-wheeled cart. An arched tarpaulin, grey like the bodywork, was stretched across it, and a tired solitary horse was between the shafts. In front was sitting an old nun in the grey habit of her order and riding beside her was the black figure of Father Ignatius.

As Anna watched, her heart faltered. But bending down she took hold of Annette's hand, and fondled it.

“Come, Annette,” she said. “Father Ignatius is here. He is taking us somewhere.”

The cart had stopped, and together they went towards it.

The road in front of them dropped away sharply. They were over the crest of the hill now and the horse spread his feet carefully as he descended. They had come a long way—some five or six miles at least—and Annette was now asleep in Anna's arms. She lay there placid and at rest, and the lurching of the cart seemed only to rock her into deeper and still deeper sleep.

It was hot, stiflingly hot, under the tarpaulin and Anna brushed the child's hair back from her forehead. But she was too deep in sleep even to stir.

Father Ignatius turned in his seat.

“It's not far now,” he said. “It's there, round the bend.”

The horse had stopped at last and, as it stopped, Annette woke up. She was stiff and uncomfortable, and she began to cry. In front of them was a pair of high gates set blankly in the face of a long wall. The gates were of a dull grey like the cart that had brought her to them.

And, as Anna watched, they began to open from within.

Inside the convent it was quiet, always quiet; the waters of the world came swirling up to those stone walls and broke there. With the closing of the gate, the convent became an island again, something remote and out of the track of life.

The old nun who had brought them there had been stupid and slow-moving, a peasant woman. But the nun who came down into the hall to greet them was bright-eyed and friendly. She took Annette in her arms and told her that she would have a lot of other little girls to play with now, that she would be one of a big family. And, when the time came for them to be separated, the nun understood. She withdrew and left them alone together, only whispering something to Anna about not saying anything that might upset the child. And, after Anna had kissed Annette—first lightly, undemon stratively as she had promised; then passionately, so passionately that Annette had resisted—the nun returned. She was very kindly. She told Annette that there was a farm on the convent, and said that she would show her the animals if she came now. It was late, she explained: very soon they would all be in bed. And Annette went eagerly, without a further thought for her mother it seemed. It was obvious that she liked the nun, trusted her. And Anna stood at the door of the reception room watching them go down the long corridor, the nun's arm about the child; the bright dress against the stiff grey one.

She was crying now, she could not help it. She went back and closed the door. It was a heavy, massive door that grated a little on its hinges. It was like a prison-door, only she had closed it upon herself. She sat there, listening, straining her ears to catch something. But there was only silence. It closed in, wrapping and enveloping her. She was all alone now.

She had been sitting there for ten, twenty, thirty minutes—she had lost the exact track of time—when she heard footsteps. One of the convent maids entered. She was a simple, untrained girl and she stood there awkwardly. The Mother Superior was ready now to see Anna, she said; and she stood back for her to pass, holding the door open with her foot. She could not take her eyes off the fine dress that Anna was wearing and kept turning her head to stare at it.

The Reverend Mother's room was on the far side of the building. To reach it they had to walk through other long corridors of scrubbed wood and un-coloured plaster like the first one. And, as she walked, Anna herself became a small child again, walking the corridors of the convent in which she had been brought up. The colour, the atmosphere, even the smell, were all the same. Then they reached the room, and the maid knocked. Anna's heart was pounding a little as she entered.

As she stood in the doorway, she was aware of two things: the coldness of the room—the peculiar, physical chill of stone—and the face of the woman sitting opposite to her. It was a remote, mask like face, so pale that the blood seemed to have been drawn away from it, leaving behind only the outline and the shadows as a black and white artist might have drawn it. The eyes, too, were pale and almost colourless like the cheeks.

Anna stood there, waiting.

Then from the wall by the fireplace a dark figure came forward. It was Father Ignatius. And, as Anna turned towards him, she noticed again how green and shabby his habit was, how unkempt he looked. But he reached out his hand and beckoned her forward.

“Reverend Mother,” he said. “This is our sister. This is Anna Karlin.”

The woman at the table did not speak immediately. Anna looked towards her and noticed how the pale eyes were studying her. They did not move or flicker, and the mind behind them seemed very far away.

“Sit down,”she said.

Her voice was soft and hollow-sounding; even the least inflexion seemed to have been removed from it. It was simply a gentle, understanding voice as colourless and unperturbed as the eyes, the face.

“So you are coming to join us here,” she said.

“If you will have me, Reverend Mother,” Anna answered.

As she spoke, she was surprised at her own meekness, her humility. But the woman in front of her did not seem surprised; she evidently did not question her own authority for a single moment.

“I have told Father Ignatius that we are happy that you have come to us,” she answered. “You and your child are both welcome so long as you will stop with us.”

She paused.

“You understand that we are a very poor order,” she added.

Anna glanced for a moment towards Father Ignatius.

“Did the Father not tell you that I have no money now?” she asked.

But the Mother Superior was continuing, almost as though she were unaware that Anna had spoken.

“We work to support ourselves. And we spend the charity we collect on others. We cannot afford to have any idle sisters here.”

“I am ready to work,” Anna told her.

The Mother Superior paused and placed the tips of her long fingers together.

“There is the garden,” she said. “We grow our own vegetables. And helpers are always needed in the infirmary. Then there is the laundry—but the work there would probably be too heavy for you at present. The sewing would be easier; and there is so much of it to be done. We will find plenty to keep your hands occupied.”

The voice had not been raised once while she was speaking. There was neither emphasis nor inflexion in it. It was apparent that she had said these things a thousand times before.

Anna moved a little in her chair.

“I am very grateful, Mother,” she said.

“Then we shall be happy together,” the Reverend Mother answered.

Anna leaned forward anxiously.

“And Annette?” she said. “When shall I be able to see Annette?”

The Mother Superior continued to regard her.

“Your child will be well looked after,” she said. “She will be with other children, and we must not disturb her too much. At first it will all seem very strange to her: she is too young to understand. If you were to see her now, it would only upset her. And the good of the child must be our first thought always.”

She paused.

“We have told her that you have gone away for a little while,” she said. “Then in a week or two's time, perhaps three weeks, it may be possible to see her without harm. We must be guided by the Sister who is in charge there. She will tell us when you can see Annette.”

“But I must see Annette,” Anna began. “I can't live without her.”

The Mother Superior bowed her head a little.

“We do not admit personal desires here,” she said. “Not when they so often interfere with the happiness of others. But you shall see her as soon as it is right. And when the time comes you will find that three weeks has not been long. To the child it will be as nothing at all. It will seem only yesterday that she last saw you.”

She rose from the table and came forward.

“You must be tired,” she said. “You had better rest: we rise
early in the morning here. Your bedroom is all ready for you. One of our sisters will show you there. Your boxes have been left in the store-room, but that will not matter as you will not be wanting them: we have no possessions of our own. We will provide you with everything that you require.”

She went over towards the door.

“I will leave you now with Father Ignatius,” she said. “He may wish to give you some advice before he leaves. It is a long journey. You must try not to detain him.”

Father Ignatius remained with his eyes fixed upon the door that had just been closed upon them. Then he came over to Anna and placed his hand upon her arm again.

“You must not misjudge the Reverend Mother,” he said. “She is the very soul of gentleness. It is only in her manner that she is so cold. At this very moment, she has gone over to the children's wing to satisfy herself that your little Annette is well looked after. She told me that she had arranged for her to be given a rag-doll that one of the bigger girls has made.”

The bedroom to which the nun led her was the smallest that Anna had ever seen, smaller even than the prison cell in Paris. A bed, the width of two planks, ran along one wall; and in the corner beneath the window a triangular shelf had been fixed with a basin and ewer on it. That shelf was both wash-stand and dressing-table—a dressing table without a mirror. The window itself was too high to be looked out of: it was simply a small square of sky set almost flush with the ceiling. There were bars across it.

Beside the bed was a space just large enough for anyone to approach the wash basin; and behind the door there was a curtain drawn for intimacies. Apart from this, there was nothing; there was not even a chair. The flooring was of bare boards; and the walls were naked except for a hook for clothes and a large metal crucifix.