Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 56
CHAPTER X.
"She shrank away from earth and solitude
To the sole refuge for the heart's worst pain:
Life had no ties—she turned her unto Heaven.
"Raised where the pine and hill o'erlook the sea,
Stands thy lone convent, fair St. Valerie:
It has an air of sadness, as just meet
For the wrung heart to find its best retreat."
L. E. L.
You know I always told you how it would be.
Common-place of Domestic Conversation.
It was a small room, lined with wainscoting of the black oak, richly carved with that imagery—half fantastic, half religious—which marked the works of our industrious and imaginative forefathers. The height was quite disproportioned to the size; for the eye could with difficulty trace the rich colouring and fine outline of a group of angels, painted by some artist who had left a work, though not a name, behind. The window was large; but what with the branch of a huge cork-tree that passed across, and the heavy folds of the purple curtains—a purple almost black—the light was nearly excluded.
On one side of the room was a large coffer, whose carving was worn smooth and shining with time; and on the other was a cumbrous book-case, filled with large and silver-clasped tomes. The only other articles of furniture were a small table, and a heavy, high-backed chair, covered with black serge. On the table lay an illuminated missal and a silver crucifix. The Abbess herself was seated in the chair—pale, abstracted, and with features whose expression, in repose at least, was severe.
The door opened; a bright gleam of sunshine shot into the room, but darkened instantly as the porteress admitted the visitor. The Abbess rose not from her seat, but motioned with her hand to the stool beside her.
"A stranger and a foreigner," said she, turning a gaze rather earnest than curious on her evidently embarrassed guest. "What dost thou seek from the servant of the Madonna?"
A moment's silence intervened, which was broken by the stranger's kneeling beside her.
"I come for refuge." The voice, though broken, was sweet; and the Italian correct, though with the accent of a foreign land.
"Our Lady never yet denied her protection to the unhappy," replied the Abbess, who saw at once that the rank of her suppliant placed her among those to whom assistance is most readily accorded; at the same time, caution might be requisite. "Your voice is sad, but sincere. Let me look upon your face."
Another moment of hesitation, when a tremulous hand removed the bonnet and veil from a countenance whose momentary blush subsided into marble paleness. With the ready recollection of one who sees but few objects for remembrance, the Abbess recognised the young Englishwoman who had so lately visited her convent.
"I told you of the vanity of hope—have my words so soon proved their truth? What does a stranger—whose home is afar—whose faith is not as our faith—want of Our Lady degli Dolori?"
Emily clasped her hands passionately. "Peace—calm—a refuge from a wide and weary world, in which my portion is but sorrow. Home, I have none;—kindred, mine are in the grave;—no living creature will care for my solitude. I ask but a brief sojourn, to turn my thoughts to Heaven, and to die."
"We have here rest for the weary—peace for the bruised and broken heart; but your belief is that of your heretical island: you must have friends who will oppose your intent."
"Friends! I have no friends; at least, none whose care extends beyond courtesy. I cannot argue on points of faith; but our God is the same. Bind me by what vow you please. I am rich—I am independent. Will you shelter me? save me from a troubled and evil world?"
"It were a sin against Our Lady, did I not seek to save the soul she sends me. Come, daughter; henceforth we have but one shrine and one home."
Every individual has some peculiar taste. That of the superior of the Convent of la Madre degli Dolori was for authority. An only child, her sway in the parental house had been absolute,—that over the Count Cimarozzo, her husband, even more so. His death—some ten years before, in embarrassed circumstances, leaving her very much at the mercy of a distant relative, who inherited title and estate, and had, moreover, a lady-ruler of his own—turned the haughty Countess's views to a cloister. Her own resolute desire of advancement, aided by the family interest, soon placed her at the head of her convent. Without rival or opposition, it may be doubted whether the Sister Cassilda was not a much happier person than the Countess Cimarozzo.
To increase the wealth and power of her convent was the great object of her existence. The rich English convert was indeed a prize. To give her agitation a religious impulse—impress her imagination with some solemn ritual—were the first steps to be taken. That day Emily was kept in a state of powerful excitement. The Abbess asked her no questions; but spoke beautifully and touchingly on the calm of a soul devoted to Heaven, and on the many perils and sorrows of life. She bade her kneel at her side during the service of the day. The deep, solemn tones of the organ, mingled with sweet young voices, filled the chapel.
Emily was now in that mood to which aught of sacrifice is relief; and when—her head almost dizzy with previous agitation, a frame tremulous with exertion, her senses overpowered with music and the faint perfume—the Abbess bade her kneel, and record, with a vow and a sign, her resolve at the altar, the feverish and excited girl was a machine in her hands. She knelt, though supported by the arm of the Abbess, which she yet grasped; a black robe was thrown over her form—a black veil over her head; the nuns crowded round to greet their sister; and Emily, as the Abbess herself hung the rosary and crucifix round her neck, heard her clear, melodious, but determined tones, bless her by the new name of Sister Agatha.
Pale, faint, they led her to a cell appointed to her use. That night it was within the convent that Emily heard the vesper hymn.
On Lady Mandeville's return, her first inquiry was after Miss Arundel; and great was her surprise on hearing that she was absent, and had been absent all day.
"But there's a note, my lady," said one of the servants.
It contained these few words:—
"I have turned from a world which has for me no attractions, and many sorrows. The calm of a religious life is surely fittest for her who has no tie, and no home. Forgive me, my dear kind friend; but what am I to you?—you have a husband, children, friends—you are happy. I entreat you, as a last favour, make no effort to disturb my retreat. I could not— indeed I could not—go to England with you. I pine for quiet. Farewell—God bless you!"
The paper dropped from Lady Mandeville's hand.
"Good God!—what can be done? We cannot suffer her to stay in the convent!"
Lord Mandeville took up the note, and read it through twice, with an expression of as much grief, but less surprise than his wife.
"To-night nothing can be done—you must see her to-morrow. Ellen, she is too sweet, too good, too kind, to be allowed to sacrifice herself thus."
Early next morning was Lady Mandeville at the gate of the convent of Our Lady degli Dolori. Admittance to the Abbess was easily obtained—that to Emily was matter of more difficulty. The rules of the Order—her own desire of seclusion, were alike urged. But Lady Mandeville was not to be denied. The marble paleness of her face more visible from the straight piece of black serge across the forehead; her figure entirely concealed by the loose dark robe—she scarcely knew Emily on her entrance. Prayers, remonstrances, nay, reproaches, were alike in vain. The Abbess had not miscalculated the effect of the yesterday's ceremony— she knew it was not binding, but its influence as a religious obligation was enthralling to a degree. Weak in body, suffering under the reaction of excitement, with a vague but strong sense of a solemn vow, the desire of rest, the shame of retracting—all conspired to keep firm Emily's resolve. Angry at length—though angry in the very spirit of affection—Lady Mandeville rose to depart; then, and not till then, did Emily seem to rouse from her stupor. A thousand acts of kindness rushed at once upon her mind—she threw herself on her friend's neck, and in a scarcely audible voice called down every blessing from Heaven upon her and hers. Still she said farewell; and when Lady Mandeville returned to her carriage, she shed the bitterest tears she had ever known.
Gentle, affectionate, full of those small courtesies so endearing in daily life, generally silent, but such an appreciating listener, so unworldly, so young, and so lovely—Emily attached those with whom she lived, more than themselves suspected. You passed her over among many—you loved her among few. The interest she excited was that of protection. Accustomed always to see her yield her opinion or her inclination, Lady Mandeville never suspected Miss Arundel of taking any decided step. But she forgot that when the very gentle do nerve themselves for action, it is under some strong and sudden impulse, and they then act usually in opposition to the whole of their previous bearing. Opposition is too new not to be carried into obstinacy. It has cost them so much to form a resolution, that they adhere to it with all the pertinacity felt for an uncommon and valuable acquisition.
A thousand times did Lady Mandeville reproach herself for feeding Emily's attachment. It is a dangerous amusement, getting up a little romance in real life—playing private theatricals with the feelings of others. "But who could foresee his going to Spain, and having his head turned by the black eyes of a pretty conspirator? I shall detest the name of patriot as long as I live. What business have they with daughters?" One of the most disagreeable parts of what was disagreeable altogether, was having to tell her husband of the non-success of her morning's expostulation. Not a shadow of blame could be thrown upon him, thereby cutting off one great source of consolation. Fortunately, it was equal matter of regret to both.
After listening patiently to divers plans for forcing the fair recluse from her retirement,
"Time will be our best aid; we can do nothing now; leave her," said Lord Mandeville, "to get tired of her monotonous seclusion—to feel how much she has sacrificed. She cannot take the veil for a year—next Spring we will visit Naples again, and I trust our foolish little Emily will have grown happier and wiser."
Where there is no choice, there must be submission. They had been very intimate with the English Ambassador's family, and to their care and interest they committed Miss Arundel for the present. Lady Mandeville's last act was to write a long, kind, and earnest letter to Emily, and the next day they sailed for England.
The letter never reached the address; and again Emily's heart died within her with the feeling of neglect and friendlessness. Circumstances close around us with a chain. The Ambassador was suddenly recalled; and she was left without a creature in Naples to feel interest in her fate. The Abbess was not one to neglect such an opportunity. She saw that Emily was only acting under the influence of strong, but temporary feeling. Old habits, old feelings, would be violent in their reaction—the present was every thing.
Three weeks after the departure of the Mandevilles, all Naples flocked to witness the profession of a young Englishwoman, a dispensation having been obtained for the novitiate. The love of sight-seeing is the characteristic of humanity—and a sight that involves aught of human sorrow or human suffering, is a thousand times more popular than any display of human ingenuity or human genius. Fireworks that sweep the skies, with a rope-dancer that descends through them like a spirit, to boot, bear no comparison as a spectacle to that of a man hanged! And the most eloquent preacher that ever made the truth of religion come home to the heart, would see his congregation turn aside to witness the immolation of youth, hope, and happiness, in the living sacrifice of the cloister.
It was a cloudless day—one of those when sunshine wraps the earth as with a garment, and the clear air brings out every object in the bright and defined outline; every near wave in the bay was a cut and sparkling diamond, while those in the distance formed one broad sweep of unbroken light. The inhabitants most accustomed to the city looked back on its fairy beauty with delight. The green of the country—grass and tree—was of that soft fresh verdure so short-lived in a warm climate; but as yet not a hue was tarnished, not a leaf fallen. The sunny atmosphere was like wine—the spirits rose buoyantly beneath its influence. It was curious to mark the change as the visitors passed through the little wood of gloomy pines, in which the convent stood. The laughter ceased with the sunshine; the conversation gradually died away before the melancholy and monotonous sound peculiar to the harsh branches of the pines. As they approached the nunnery, many voices joining in the sacred chorus floated from the chapel: all crowded in; and more imaginative impressions were lost in the effort to obtain places.
The chapel was splendidly lighted, though day was carefully excluded. This passing from day to candle-light has a singularly exciting effect. A thousand wax tapers burned in honour of the Madonna. Four beautiful children swung the silver censers before her picture, till a cloud of incense arose and floated in broken masses to the fretted roof, and the whole air was heavy with perfume. On one side, motionless and veiled, stood a dark-robed group, the nuns themselves—so still, and each individual figure so shrouded in black drapery, that it seemed more like a painting of life than life itself. Yet from them arose a strain of the most perfect music: that most exquisite of instruments—the human voice—exerted to its utmost power, and tuned to its utmost sweetness.
The fathers of the Italian church well knew the people they ruled; they knew the Italian susceptibility to sight and sound; and they made music and painting the spells of their sway. All was hushed in the most profound silence when the Abbess led her proselyte to the feet of the bishop. For the last time, she was robed in all that taste could devise, or wealth procure. As if to give every possible effect to the scene, the costume of the bride of heaven always slightly differs from the reigning fashion of the day. She was now dressed in white satin, the border worked by the nuns in roses with leaves of gold; the stomacher was covered with precious stones; and a girdle like a rainbow encircled her waist: a scarf, richly embroidered with many-coloured flowers and gold, fell from her shoulders in well-arranged drapery. If the Sisters had given up dress, whatever became of the practice, the theory was perfect. Her hair was simply parted on the forehead, supported by a single comb, and confined by a bandeau of diamonds. Her face only was suffused with a slight delicate crimson; and once or twice, as some necessity for movement occurred, the glowing colour gushed over neck, arms, throat, to her very forehead. Emily, in truth, was not at all prepared for this theatrical display, or for the crowd it would draw. The first glance round made her shrink into herself with true English sensitiveness of public exhibition: the thought that she was there the mark of gaze for hundreds of stranger eyes stupified her; her cheek burned with blushes; and, trembling and confused, she obeyed the Abbess almost unconscious of her actions.
They unbound the diamond circlet from her brow, and let down her luxuriant hair—it swept the floor as she knelt, and the air grew sweet with the fall of its perfumed lengths. Again an overpowering sensation of shame sent the blood to her cheek, and the tears to her eyes. They flung a dark robe over her, and she felt thankful—it was something of concealment. They shred the auburn tresses from her head; and the next moment her face was hidden in the black veil which was to cover it for ever. The chorus raised the glorious music of its triumphal hymn; the incense filled the chapel—its silvery cloud dispersed—but the new-made nun was already lost amid the group of her veiled sisters. The crowd soon separated—acquaintances formed into little knots to discuss the ceremonial and the topics of the day. That evening the young nun lay exhausted between life and death in a brain fever, while all Naples was ringing with the faith, beauty, and fervour of the English proselyte.