SCENE III
_The Convent chapel. The nuns seated in their stalls are singing Vespers._
Praise the Lord, O Jerusalem; praise thy God, O Zion.
For He hath strengthened the bars of thy gates; he hath blessed thy children within thee.
Who hath made peace in thy borders: and filled thee with the fat of corn.
Who sendeth forth His speech upon the earth: His word runneth very swiftly.
_SISTER PILAR, as white as death, and SISTER ASSUMCION, still sobbing, enter and take their places._
Who giveth snow like wool: He scattereth mist like ashes.
He sendeth His crystal like morsels: who shall stand before the face of His cold?
He shall send out His word and shall melt them: His wind shall blow, and the waters shall run.
Who declareth His word unto Jacob: His Justice and judgments unto Israel.
He hath not done in like manner to every nation: and His judgement He hath not made manifest to them.
The Lord, who putteth peace on the borders of the Church, filleth us with the fat of wheat.
Brethren: For I have received of the Lord that which also I delivered unto you, that the Lord Jesus, the same night in which He was betrayed, took bread, and giving thanks, broke, and said: “Take ye and eat: this is my body, which shall be delivered for you: this do for the commemoration of me.”
_They sing_:
Pange, lingua, gloriósi, Córporis mystérium, Sangúinisque pretiósi, Quem in mundi prétium Fructus ventris generósi Rex effudit géntium.
_During the singing of this hymn, SISTER PILAR leaves her place in the choir and prostrates herself before the altar._
Nobis datus, nobis natus Ex intacta virgine, Et in mundo conversátus, Sparso verbi sémine, Sui moras incolátus Miro clausit órdine.
In suprémæ nocte coenæ Recúmbens cum frátribus.
_The curtain, when there is one, should at this point begin slowly to fall._
Observáta lege plene Cibis in legalibus Cibum turbæ duodénæ Se dat suis manibus.
For a few seconds there was silence; and Teresa saw several ladies exchanging amused, embarrassed glances.
Then Harry could be heard saying, “Er ... er ... er ... a piece ... er ... AMAZINGLY well adapted to its audience ... er ... er....” All turned round in the direction of his voice, and some smiled. Then again there was a little silence, till a gallant lady, evidently finding the situation unbearable, came up to Teresa and said, “Thrilling, my dear, thrilling! But I’m afraid in places it’s rather too deep for me.”
Then others followed her example. “What _is_ an auto-sacramentál, exactly?” “Oh, really! A knight of the time of Pedro the Cruel? I always connected Don Juan ... or how is it one ought to pronounce it? Don Huan, is it? I always connected him with the time of Byron, but I suppose that was absurd.” “I liked the troubadour’s jolly red boots; are they what are called Cossack boots? Oh, no, of course, that’s Russian.”
But it was clear they were all horribly embarrassed.
The babies and children had, for some time, been getting fretful; and now the babies were giving their nerve-rending catcalls, the children their heart-rending keening.
In one of her moments of insight, Jollypot had said that there is nothing that brings home to one so forcibly the suffering involved in merely being alive as the change that takes place in the cry of a child between its first and its fourth year.
But the children were soon being comforted with buns; the babies with great, veined, brown-nippled breasts, while Mrs. Moore, markedly avoiding any member of the Lane family, moved about among her women with pursed mouth.
Then the actors appeared, still in their costumes, and mingled with the other guests, drinking tea and chatting. The Doña, eyebrows quizzically arched, came up to Teresa.
“My dear child, what _were_ you thinking of? Just look at Mrs. Moore’s face! That, of course, makes up for a lot ... but, still! And I do hope they won’t think Spanish convents are like that nowadays.”
Thank goodness! The Doña, at least, had not smelt a rat.
Then she saw Guy coming towards her; for some reason or other, he looked relieved.
“I wish to God Haines would make his people stylisize their acting more—make them talk in more artificial voices in that sort of play. They ought to speak like the Shades in Homer; that would preserve the sense of the Past. There’s nothing that can be so modern as a voice.” He looked at her. “It’s funny ... you know, it’s not the sort of thing one would have expected you to write. It has a certain gush and exuberance, but it’s disgustingly pretty ... it really is, Teresa! Of course, one does get thrills every now and then, but I’m not sure if they’re legitimate ones—for instance, in the last scene but one, when Don Manuel becomes identified with the Year-Spirit.”
So _that_ was it! He had feared that, according to his own canons, it would be much better than it was; hence his look of relief. She had a sudden vision of what he had feared a thing written by her would be like—something black and white, and slightly mathematical; dominoes, perhaps, which, given that the simple rule is observed that like numbers must be placed beside like, can follow as eccentric a course as the players choose, now in a straight line, now zigzagging, now going off at right angles, now again in a straight line; a sort of visible music. And, indeed, that line of ivory deeply indentured with the strong, black dots would be like the design, only stronger and clearer, made by an actual page of music; like that in a portrait she had once seen by Degas of a lady standing by a piano.
But she felt genuinely glad that her play should have achieved this, at least, that one person should feel happier because of it; and she was quite sincere when she said, “Well, Guy, it’s an ill wind, you know.”
He grew very red. “I haven’t the least idea what you mean,” he said angrily.
After that, Concha came up, and was very warm in her congratulations. Did she guess? If she did, she would rather die than show that she did. Teresa began to blush, and it struck her how amused Concha must be feeling, if she _had_ guessed, at the collapse of Sister Assumcion’s love affairs, and at the final scene between Pilar and Assumcion—Pilar’s noble self-abasement, Assumcion’s confession of her own inferiority.
And David? He kept away from her, and she noticed that he was very white, and that his expression was no longer buoyant.