LET US REJOICE, BELOVED.
In the small but pretty church of the nuns of San Bernardo, in Nieva,
there was great bustling. The sacristan, aided by three acolytes, the
two serving women of the convent, and a female from the city, celebrated
for her skill in dressing the saints, were stirring up a more than
ordinary noise in brushing the ornaments of the altars with fox tails
and feather dusters. They had no hesitation in standing upon them, and
even climbing upon the saints themselves, whenever it was required by
the need of dusting some carved work or placing a taper in the proper
place. The Mother Abbess from the choir, with her forehead pressed
against the grating, shouted her orders like a general-in-chief, in a
sharp, piping voice.
"A candlestick there! Yonder a wreath of flowers! Lift up that lamp a
little more! Place the crown on that Virgin straight...."
In the interior of the convent likewise reigned considerable excitement.
A group of nuns was watching at the door of a cell, as one of their
companions was giving the last touches to the poor bed which she was
making. She had just put up above the pillow the crucifix demanded by
the rules. A great silver waiter stood on the table, which was pine,
likewise according to the rules. When the nun had made the bed ready,
she came out of the cell, addressing a word or two to the others as she
passed. Then she returned with a bundle of clothes in her hand, and all
hastened to relieve her of them, unfolding them, pulling them, and
giving them a hundred turns. It was the complete dress of a novice,--the
white flannel tunic, the linen hood, the shoes, the rosary, the bronze
crucifix, and other things. The nuns looked eagerly at each one of the
articles, as though it were something that they had never seen before,
uttering in low voices many different opinions.
"Ay! it seems to me that this rosary has very coarse beads."--"No,
sister, take yours and you will see that they are alike."--"I am going
to see, just for my own satisfaction.... It's true; they are alike....
What a goose!"--"The flannel is too harsh."--"It is because it wasn't
well washed."--"This hood is beautifully ironed!"--"Hesús mio! what
stitches!... that is not sewing, it is basting!... Who made this
tunic?"--"The Sister Isabel."--"Then it's splendid!"--"Don't say so,
sister, perhaps you wouldn't have done it so well!"--"I? do it worse ...
Come ... come ... never in my life did I make such a botch!"--"How many
have you ever done, sister?"--"Never did I, never!" repeated the nun, in
angry voice. "I could sew better when I was seven years old."
At this moment the Mother Superior appeared in the passage-way; the nun
who had chided her companion stepped aside from the group, and said to
her,--
"Mother, Sister Luísa has just boasted that she sews better than Sister
Isabel, and she lost her temper because I told her that she ought not to
do it."
"Is it true, daughter?" demanded the Mother Superior, in a severe tone.
Sister Luísa hung her head.
The Mother Superior meditated a moment or two; then she said:--
"Daughter, you know well that here no one ought to boast of doing
anything better than any one else.... You ought to believe yourself the
least of all, for perhaps you are.... For some time you have been very
far from humble, and it is necessary for us to begin to correct this
fault.... First thing, go and ask pardon of Sister Isabel for your
fault, and then shut yourself in your cell and pray a rosary to the
Virgin.... Afterwards when I am in the reception-room with the novice,
you must present yourself there and kneel, so that the people may see
that you are in disgrace."
Sister Luísa bent her head still lower and hurried away. A smile of
triumph hovered over the lips of the nun.
* * * * *
At the same time, the servants of the Elorza mansion were coming and
going, hither and thither, with various objects in their hands. Pedro,
the old coachman, was polishing the state carriage, while two
stable-boys were grooming the horses. Martin, the cook, was preparing a
splendid collation. The maid-servants were running up and down stairs,
from the principal floor to Maria's apartments, which were full of
people, though it was not yet ten o'clock in the morning. The fifteen or
twenty ladies who could scarcely find room to turn around, were all
talking at once, as is natural, turning that silent elegant retreat into
an insufferable hen-roost. Standing in the middle of it was Señor de
Elorza's eldest daughter, half-dressed, and around her were several
ladies, some of them on their knees, adorning her and adjusting her as
though she were a wooden virgin. Great emotion reigned everywhere. They
had already put on her a costly garment of white satin, decorated in
front, from the neck to the bottom of the skirt, with a fringe of orange
flowers. One lady was just putting on her feet a pair of diminutive and
most elegant boots of the same cloth, while another was hurriedly sewing
on a number of flowers, which had fallen off. Others were arranging a
garland of orange blossoms upon the top of her head; this proceeding
caused a great commotion. Amparito Ciudad claimed that the garland was
too large, and did not show enough of her friend's beautiful hair; the
rest believed that there was no need of making it smaller. After a
lively discussion, it was decided to adopt a middle course by taking a
number of flowers, though very few, from the wreath. Frequent
exclamations were heard from those who took no share in the
preparations.
"Ay! what an expense it takes, Dios mio!"
"Can it be her true vocation!... A girl so young and so lively!"
"There is nothing else talked about in town.... Everybody is excited
over this fortunate event!"
"Fortunate for her, my dear! I don't know as I shall have strength
enough to see the ceremony."
"But I am going to see it, though it should cost me a fit of sickness."
Some were already beginning to shed tears, putting their handkerchiefs
to their eyes; others were whispering about the preparations for the
festival, and the circumstances which had led the young woman to take
the veil. Much was said about a letter which she had written to the
Marqués de Peñalta, bidding him farewell, and exculpating herself. Some
pitied Ricardo, while others said in an undertone, that he would have no
trouble in finding somebody to marry him. "After all, if God called her
to Him by this path, had she any reason to turn from Him, because a
young lad was in love with her? If she had left him for another, that
would be different! but as it was for God, he had no right to complain."
This was the same argument that shone in the Señorita de Elorza'a
letter, written and sent to Ricardo a fortnight before the day of which
we are speaking. Thus it ran:--
* * * * *
"MY DEAR RICARDO,--
"Though it is now some time since the course of our love was
interrupted, tacitly, and by virtue of providential circumstances,
rather than by my desire, I feel it my duty to explain to thee something
about the resolution which I have made, and which, of course, is known
to thee, I cannot forget, and indeed I ought not to forget, that thou
hast been my betrothed, with the approbation of my parents, and the
sincere affection of my heart.
"Before renouncing the world forever, I must tell thee that I have
absolutely no reason to complain of thy behavior to me. Thou hast ever
been good, true, and affectionate, and hast estimated me higher than I
deserve. It is indeed true, that if I were to remain in the world I
would not give thee in exchange for any other man, and I should count
myself very happy in calling thee my husband, if I did not count myself
much more so in being the bride of Jesus Christ. The preference which I
make cannot offend or trouble a man who is as good and pious as thou
art. Henceforth no earthly love exists between us; there remains only a
pure and most sweet friendship, uniting us in the Sacred Heart of Jesus.
I shall not forget thee in my poor prayers. Forget me as far as
possible. Thou art good, thou art noble, handsome, and rich. Seek for a
woman who will deserve thee more than I deserve thee, and marry, and be
happy. I shall pray without ceasing for you.
"Adios,
"MARIA."
Could he have had a better gilded pill? No; no; Ricardo had no right to
complain.
While the most of the ladies added innumerable glosses to this document,
those who were robing the new bride-elect of Jesus were about finishing
their task and giving the last touches to her dress, with the same
complacency that an artist shows in laying the last shades on his
picture, stepping back and coming near a thousand times to realize the
effect produced. Here a pin; the throat a little more open to show the
beautiful alabaster neck; a few ringlets on her brow carelessly escaping
from among the orange flowers; a button that needed fastening. Maria
aided her maids of honor with quick motions. All admired her serenity.
And, in fact, the young bride could not have shown a face more joyous at
such moments. Nevertheless there was a certain agitation noticeable in
her joy. Her movements were too quick and eager, as though she were
trying to hide the slight trembling of her hands and the tremor that ran
over her whole body. Was it a tremor of delight?
Oh, yes, Maria felt an intense delight.
The brilliant rose bloom of her cheeks told the same story; the
unnatural glitter of her eyes likewise proclaimed it. Her lips were dry,
and her nostrils pink and more dilated than usual. Her white brow was
marked by a long, slight furrow, telling of the quick desire, the
restless, sensual eagerness hidden in her heart. It was the cheerful
eagerness of the epicure, who finds himself face to face with his
favorite food after a long fast. Over her excited brilliant face passed
a throng of warm flushes, in a vague, intricate confusion of dismay,
dread, and voluptuous desires. She was going to be the bride of Jesus
Christ and shut herself forever between four walls, passing her whole
life in a mysterious union, whose sweet delight she had not as yet
enjoyed in full. A great curiosity overwhelmed her, stirred her
unspeakably. The choir of the Convent of San Bernardo, where the half
light pouring in through the lofty windows slept in mystic calm upon the
gray oaken chairs, had always fascinated her. How many times she had
trembled, when she saw a silent white figure cross the floor and sit
down there in the body of the church. It was a sweet voluptuous
trembling, which made her eagerly long to enter that fantastic retreat.
The nuns, with their tall white figures, seemed to her like supernatural
beings,--angels come down to earth for a while, who would soon mount up
to heaven again. She was particularly attracted by one who was young and
beautiful; when she saw her enter the choir, she could not take her eyes
from her. The stern, classic beauty of that sister, and her clear,
steady gaze made an impression upon her, which she could not explain. In
her breast sprang up a certain extravagant attraction toward her, and a
quick, eager desire to be her friend, or rather her disciple; to kneel
before her and say: "Teach me, guide me." Oh, if she would permit me to
give her a kiss, even though it were the briefest! One evening a
tremendous temptation assailed her to ask her for it. The church was
empty; she looked back and saw that the beautiful nun had made her way
into the choir and was kneeling near the grating. And, without further
consideration as to what she was doing, she went to her and said in
trembling voice: "Señora, give me your hand, that I may kiss it." The
nun made a graceful sign that it could not be, but rising, she offered
her the crucifix of her rosary, with a smile so sweet and assuring, that
Maria, when she kissed it, felt deeply moved.
Always when she entered the church of the convent she felt the same
rapture, a species of voluptuous somnolence penetrating her whole being
like a caress. From that choir came languorous, sweet murmurs, calling
her, inviting her to leave the pleasures of the world for others more
sweet and mysterious, which she had already begun to enjoy without full
knowledge of them. Jesus had granted her already rich enjoyments in her
prayers, but He would not abandon himself completely,--certainly would
not lose consciousness of self in the arms of the bride; would not give
His all to her with the infinite, immortal love which she eagerly
desired, except within that silent poetic retreat where no sound could
disturb them.
At last the day had come for her to satisfy her desire; within an hour
she would be within that mysterious choir which had caused her so many
dreams, and would cross with floating tunic the warm sunlight falling
through the lofty windows. She felt impatient for the moment to arrive.
She was nervous, restless, but smiling. Never had she been so
self-satisfied. Her friends were not weary of exalting her virtue and
heroism; the town regarded her with surprise, and around her she heard
only praise and words of admiration. Maria really found herself upon a
pedestal. And like every one who is under the public gaze, our heroine
succeeded in hiding the emotions of her soul, and showed a serene and
joyous face. It was her day; it was the day of the great battle, and she
smoothed her brow and composed the expression of her face, like a
general when the hour of the attack has come.
Nevertheless, from time to time she gazed with anxiety at one of the
corners of her boudoir. In that corner sat her sister, with her face in
her hands, sobbing. At last, not being able to control herself longer,
she suddenly left her maids of honor and went to Marta, and bending down
her face so that it touched her, she said:--
"Do not weep, dear, do not weep more; ... there is no misfortune here to
make you so sorrowful. On the other hand, think of the great favor which
God has shown in calling me to be his bride.... You ought to rejoice, my
little pigeon;[70] come, don't weep any more, darling [_monina_]....
Consider that you are taking away my strength."
And as she said that, she kissed her pretty little sister's smooth rosy
cheek. The girl replied amid her sobs,--
"Ay! Maria, I lose you forever!"
"No, monina, no ... you will often see me ... and you will speak with
me...."
"What does that amount to?... I am going to lose you, my sister."
And Marta could not help saying this "I lose you; I lose you
forever"--she could not because it was the only thought that filled her
heart at that instant, her heart that never was untrue; she was
accustomed to speak freely her beliefs and opinions. Marta accepted
without resistance the idea that her sister was doing well to enter the
convent, but she was absolute mistress of her heart; there no one held
sway but herself, and her heart told her that she had no longer any
sister, that all Maria's love, all her tenderness was about to evaporate
like a divine essence in the depths of a mysterious, vague something,
totally incomprehensible to her.
Just as Maria's toilet was almost completed, a young man came rushing
into the room with the violence of a gust of wind. It was that youth
with the banged hair, who gradually had made himself indispensable in
all festivals, solemnities, ceremonies, and merry-makings of the town.
"Mariíta! the secretary of the señor bishop sends me to tell you that
his eminence is ready, and is at this moment starting for the church."
"Very well, I shall be right out."
"I have attended to the organ-loft. I notified Don Serapio and the
organist.... Preciosa, Mariíta preciosa.... Do notice the blue hangings
which I put on the picture of the Virgin...."
"Thanks, Ernesto, many thanks; I am deeply grateful to you."
At a sign from Maria all the ladies arose, and hastened behind her down
the stairs, but for all that there was no cessation of their impertinent
chatter. The young woman went straight to her father's room, and
remained shut in it for some time. No one knew what passed within. Those
who were waiting at the door heard the sound of sobs, confused sentences
spoken in angry tones, the movement of chairs. The ladies, waiting in
the anteroom, whispered to those who came in, "She is taking farewell,
farewell of her father.... Don Mariano will not attend the ceremony."
Shortly afterward, Maria re-appeared, smiling and serene as before,
saying, "Come, ladies, let us go!"
With the same serenity she passed through the great room of the mansion
without giving a glance at the furniture, and descended the broad, stone
stairway without showing the slightest trepidation, as she walked along
in her dainty white satin shoes.
And yet what recollections she left behind her! How many hours of light
and joy! The prattle of her childish lips, sweet as the trilling of a
bird; her father's somewhat gruff but, for that very reason, all the
sweeter singing, as he rocked her to sleep in his arms; the dreams, the
fresh laughter of her girlhood; the lovely sun of April mornings,
filling her room with light; the constant caresses of her mother, the
warmth of home; in short, that warmth which all the treasures of earth
cannot buy; all this remained behind her, imprinted on the walls,
ingrained in the furniture. And she left it all without a tear!
At the door stood waiting a magnificent barouche, drawn by four white
horses. Pedro had shown his taste by decorating them with great blue
plumes, and by donning a livery of the same color. On that day
everything must be blue, the color of purity and virginity. Even the
sky, for greater glory, had clad itself in blue, and shone clear and
beautiful. Maria climbed into the carriage with the Señora de Ciudad,
her godmother, and the others took leave of her for the nonce, and
hastened to the church.
Extraordinary agitation reigned in the town. The taking of the veil by
the Señorita de Elorza, though expected for some time, nevertheless did
not fail to make a profound impression. A young lady so rich, so
beautiful, so flattered by all that the world considered gay and
desirable! Interminable comments were made during these days, as people
met in the shops. "But didn't they say that she was to be married to the
marquesito?"--"No! not at all! there's no such thing. The marquesito was
greatly disappointed; the girl, after the strange experience of being
arrested, and her mother's death, returned with more zest than ever to
her pious occupations; it is decidedly her vocation: there is no
fickleness about her." Some looked upon it in one way, some in another;
but as a general thing, Maria's conduct aroused lively sympathy, and
over many, especially among the people, it exerted a certain fascination
like everything extraordinary, and up to a certain point, marvellous.
She had the reputation of being a saint: the quenching of all the
splendor of her beauty, wealth, and talent in the solitudes of the
cloister, was the unparalleled complement of her fame, the crowning
stroke in the process of her popular canonization. All those rough
women, who pitilessly elbowed each other in order to see her pass toward
the church, would have felt themselves defrauded, if she had wedded
prosaically, and had they seen her arm in arm with her husband, preceded
by a nurse-maid with a tender infant in arms.
The plaza was full of spectators. When the young lady entered the
carriage, and Pedro, cracking his tongue and his whip, started up his
horses, there was a great tumult among the throng, which reached Maria's
ears like a chorus of flatteries. The people separated precipitately,
making way for her to pass. In presence of that magnificence, which only
some old woman had ever seen before, the peaceful inhabitants found
themselves overwhelmed with respect, and equally excited by a great
curiosity. The carriage rolled away, at first slowly, breaking the close
ranks of the spectators; the horses pranced impatiently, shaking their
blue plumes as though they were anxious to carry the bride to the arms
of the mystic Bridegroom. It was a royal procession; and, in truth,
Maria, from her elegant appearance, splendidly adorned, with her deep
blue eyes, shining with emotion, and her cheeks of milk and roses, was
worthy of being a queen. She was a figure of remarkable beauty, and
offered many points of resemblance to the fair Virgin of Murillo, that
we see in the Museum at Madrid. The women of the town could not
restrain their enthusiasm, and they burst out in a thousand flattering
adjectives.
"Look at her! look at her! What a splendid creature,--a woman after my
very heart!"
"I should like to devour her with kisses!"
"And what a rich dress she wears!"
"They say that it came expressly from Paris. She did not want to dress
in _tisú_; the chasubles which it will make into will be given away
separately, and the gown will remain for the Virgin of Amor Hermoso."
"Oh, I never saw such a lovely creature!... She looks like an angel."
The carriage followed its majestic course, and the young woman smiled
sweetly on the multitude. From two or three houses a deluge of flowers
was showered upon her, and their variegated petals for a moment enameled
the white cloth of her dress; a few remained entangled in her hair. The
people applauded.
"Woman, this girl's vocation teaches us a lesson."
"How fortunate she is!... Who would be in her place?"
"It can't be said that she was obliged to.... I know that her father was
furious when he heard about it, and tried every way to dissuade her."
"Come now, she is wedded to Jesus Christ, and her family don't like it,"
declared a youth, who was listening to this conversation.
The women turned around ready to crush the scoffer, but he made off,
laughing.
And the carriage continued on its way under the radiant sun, which made
the panes of the balconied windows glitter, and reflected on the white
houses of the town with transports of delight. The sky opened up its
purest depths, smiling upon all the wishes for happiness, all the
joyful aspirations of mortals, even upon those of the beautiful maiden
who, of her own free will, was going to lose it from sight and shut
herself forever in the shadows of the cloister. The carriage passed by
the feudal palace of the Peñaltas, the ancient walls of which, spotted
here and there with moss, cast upon the street a mantle of gloom, making
still more vivid the blazing light of the sun.
What was Ricardo doing during this time?
Maria did not ask this; she passed by without casting even a furtive
look at the Gothic windows; on her lips still hovered the serene,
condescending smile. The shadow nevertheless caused in her a slight
tremor of chill.
At the church door all her girl friends, including Martita, were waiting
for her. The temple was overflowing with people; they made way for her
to pass. At the high altar the bishop of----, who had come purposely to
give her the veil, stood ready to receive her. He knelt and prayed for a
few instants. The confused murmur of the congregation ceased; an intense
silence reigned.
The prelate began to speak in a clear and solemn voice:--
"I know, beloved daughter, that you have formed the resolution to shut
yourself forever in this holy house, to the end that you may be all your
life long the servant of the Lord.... I know, likewise, that your will
is steadfast, and that you have been enabled to resist not only the vain
seductions of the world, but also those proper pleasures which the
goodness of God allows us to enjoy.... But life, my daughter, can be in
the midst of mortification and penance more broad than in the tumult of
pleasures; and while our spirit remains imprisoned in the flesh we are
the target of severe and constant temptations."
The venerable bishop spoke with extraordinary deliberation, making long
pauses at the end of his sentences, which lent great dignity to his
discourse. His voice was sweet and clear, and rang through the silent
nave of the church like sweet music. He went on to trace with terrible
accuracy the details of the religious life, spreading out before the
young woman's eyes all the apparatus of mortification which it involved;
the pleasures of the world entirely forgotten, the senses crucified,
earthly affections, even the purest, crushed; and this, not for a day,
not for a month, not for a year only, but for all days, all months, all
years, until the hour of death, always eagerly seeking for pain as
others seek for pleasure. But after he had painted the gloomy picture of
the mortification, he went on to express eloquently the pure, lively
pleasures to be found in it. "To trust one's self to the arms of God, as
a child goes to its mother, that he may do with us as he pleases. To
find God in the depths of bitterness and grief, to unite one's self to
Him.... To possess Him ... and to be the beloved child in whom His
infinite grandeur can take delight.... To live eternally united to
Him.... To be His bride!... Is not that a sufficient recompense for the
petty sorrows that we may experience in a life so brief?"
Began the profession of faith. The bishop asked, reading his questions
from a book, if she were ready to leave the life of the world and
intercourse with its creatures, to consecrate herself exclusively to the
service of God. Maria replied that she had heard the voice of the Lord
and hastened at the call. The prelate asked once more if she had
meditated well on her resolution, if she had made it from some mundane
consideration, wounded by some ephemeral disillusion. Maria replied that
she came of her own free will to give herself up to the Beloved of her
soul and rest in Him; all the armies of the earth could not make her
retrace her steps, for the Lord had made her steadfast and immovable as
Mount Zion.
Over the heads of the faithful appeared a great silver waiter, the same
which a few hours before was in one of the convent cells, and on it the
habit of the novice of San Bernardo. The prelate blessed it.
Then were heard the sharp, nasal tones of the organ, and the procession
took up the line of march: Maria in front, and at her side her godmother
and Marta; next came the bishop and behind him the clergy. Some of the
people followed and some stayed in the church. Near the door was the
entrance to the convent, through which they passed, penetrating into a
large, gloomy cloister, illuminated at intervals by a bright sunbeam
coming through the swell of the arches. At the end of one of the
galleries was an open door, and guarding it, silent, motionless, were
seen the white figures of two nuns with wax tapers in their hands. The
bride-elect again knelt, and instantly rising she convulsively pressed
her sister to her heart. It was the last embrace. When she wished to
extricate herself, Martita's arms were so tightly clasped about her neck
that it required the intervention of several ladies to accomplish it.
She also kissed all her girl friends, who wept bitterly, while she,
giving an example of sublime serenity, joyous and smiling, entered the
house of the Lord escorted by the two nuns.
The doors closed. Though it was the month of August, Marta and her
friends felt a sudden chill in the cloister, and hastened to take refuge
in the church, where Don Serapio, accompanied by the organ, was
annihilating Stradella's beautiful prayer.
All waited some time with impatient curiosity. No one paid any attention
to the cracked voice of the proprietor of the canning factory; the eyes
of the congregation were fixed, glued to the choir of the Bernardas,
gazing through the bars at the little door in the rear.
At last she appeared. She came, escorted still by the two nuns. The garb
of novice made her look a little older. Yet she was beautiful; very
beautiful; for she really was beautiful, that saintly and extraordinary
creature. The people devoured her with their eyes, and repeated in a
whisper, "She comes smiling, she comes smiling."
Ah, yes, the new bride of Jesus Christ was smiling, in her expectation
of the sweet reward for her sacrifice. But the venerable man who, at
that same instant, was walking alone through one of the state
departments of the Elorza mansion ... he did not smile! And the young
man who, at the same time, was sitting with folded arms, and head sunken
for his breast, face to face with a woman's portrait, was he perhaps
smiling?... No, no! neither did he smile.
The prelate came to the grating, and said to the novice,--
"Thou shalt not call thyself Maria Magdalena, but, Maria Juana de
Jesús."
The novice prostrated herself before the abbess, and respectfully kissed
the crucifix of her rosary. Then she embraced, one after another, her
new companions. While this scene was transpiring, many of the ladies in
the congregation shed tears. The bishop said the solemn mass, and
finally all the sisterhood, including Maria, took the Communion. The
organ shrilled, whistled, and snorted with more energy than ever,
spurred, perhaps, by competition. It seemed as though Don Serapio and
the organ had entered into a tremendous contest, a duel to the death,
and the obstreperous consequences fell upon the ears of the faithful.
But the organ mocked the manufacturer in most audacious fashion. When he
reached the highest point of ecstasy, emitting from this throat some
complicated _fioritura_, or _fermata_, a horrisonant bellowing broke in
upon him pitilessly, leaving him lost and inundated for a long time. Don
Serapio struck out again with a tender note, sure of the effect.... Zas!
the organ, like a blood-thirsty beast, fell upon it, and tore it in
pieces. Thus it wantoned for a long time, until, tired of amusing itself
and intoxicated with triumph, it suddenly broke in with all its voices
at once, clamoring in the silence of the church with a monstrous
insufferable shriek. The manufacturer remained choked in that diabolical
roar, and ceased to appear.
Silence reigned for a few moments, but it was disturbed by a peculiarly
melancholy tinkling. It was the curtain of the choir being drawn.
Nothing more was seen. They began to put out the lights, and the people
withdrew in all haste.
Maria's intimate friends went to the reception-room[71] to give her
their felicitations.
The reception-room was a square, and rather gloomy apartment, cut in two
by a double iron grating. The novice appeared, accompanied by the Mother
Superior.... Still smiling, perhaps?... Yes, smiling.
"What examples you have given us of courage and goodness, Maria," said
one to her.
The young woman shrugged her shoulders, with a gesture of throwing from
her the glory which was heaped upon her.
"Don't fail to pray for us!"
"Yes, I will pray for you, dear. We"--she added with a little
emphasis--"we are obliged to pray for those who remain in the world."
"If you knew how all the servants wept a moment since."
"Poor people!... I love them all so much!"
"Here is Marta, who wants to say good by."
"Come nearer, Marta ... Are you becoming reconciled yet?"
"What remedy have I, Maria," replied the girl, struggling to repress her
sobs.
"No, sister; you must resign yourself gladly, and be thankful to the
Lord for the favors which he has heaped upon me.... You will always be
good, will you not?... Console papa.... Don't forget those prayers which
I gave you, nor fail to read the books of which I told you.... Come to
hear mass every day.... Try to be always earnest and humble...."
Ah, no! Martita would not try, would not try. As she was born good and
humble there is no need of striving for it. In this regard the bride of
the Lord may be at rest.
The small room where the two nuns stood near the grating seemed like a
prison cell by its ugliness and gloom. Their tunics stood out like two
white spots against the black lattice.
The friends took turns in speaking, or all spoke at once to Maria, with
a strange mixture of admiration, of pity, of curiosity, and of
affection. They asked a thousand impertinent questions and many
ridiculous requests about prayers, medals, and other things. A few young
fellows who had belonged to the old tertulias at the Elorza mansion,
had slipped in with the crowd, and were gazing with wide-open eyes of
wonder at the new nun, but dared not speak to her. She showed herself
serene and lovely, and called them by name with a certain reassuring
condescension, giving them messages for their families. The boldest was
the ceremonious youth of the banged hair, who stepped up, and reaching
the grating, very much stifled, called the novice by her new name,
saying,--
"Sister Juana, I want to ask you a favor; please give me as a
remembrance a few orange blossoms from the crown which you wear...."
"If the mother is willing...." murmured Maria, turning her face to the
Mother Superior.
She bowed assent, and the gift of orange flowers was liberal and
gracefully granted.
At that instant the Sister Luisa, the nun who was to be punished for her
vanity, came in and fell upon her knees, but not the slightest trace of
a blush passed over her face. The habit of performing such deeds
deprived them of all worth.
The conversation wandered off upon festivals, novenas to come, the
journey of the vicar who was called to be canon of the cathedral, his
successor, and other subjects. Insensibly all were lowering the tone of
their voices until there was only a monotonous and melancholy
whispering. It seemed like a visit of condolence rather than of
congratulation. They continued to extol Maria's courage and virtue. "Ay,
Dios mio! to think that she is a prisoner forever and living a life of
so much labor...."
The Mother Superior looking at the novice, with a sort of half smile not
very encouraging, exclaimed, "Poor little one! poor little one! "But
she, turning around with one of those graceful gestures so
characteristic, replied, "Rich little one, rich little one,[72] say I,
mother!"
Gradually the young men had been getting near the girls, and without
respect to the holiness of the place, or heeding the stern crucifixes
fastened to the walls, they began to whisper more or less roguish
remarks.
"When are you going to follow her example, Fulanita? The truth is, that
if all of you did the same, what would become of us? But you would be
sure to look lovely in the habit! See here, Amparito! If you should
become a nun, I should wish to be vicar!"
"Now I wish you would be a little more serious, Suárez."
"How long should I have to be a priest to become vicar?... the worst
thing is the grating.... Can't the vicar get behind the grating?"
"Be silent, man alive! it is a sin to say such things in this place!"
Rosarito and her lover had taken possession of a corner, only from time
to time making some insignificant remark roused into the category of the
sublime by the inflection of the voice and the trembling of the lips.
Only the old women, and a few young girls who had not succeeded in
finding mates, still continued talking with the nuns. At last the Mother
Superior arose from her chair, and Maria followed her example.
* * * * *
A man, a venerable man, crossed the plaza of Nieva with rapid strides;
he followed the winding streets, he reached the convent of San
Bernardo, he entered the court, mounted the stairway, pushed open the
door of the reception-room, forced his way through the people, and laid
heavy hands on the grating. He intended to say something solemn,
something tremendous. It could be seen by the wrathful expression of his
face, by the pallor of his cheeks, by the disorder of his white locks.
But he let his head fall, and only murmured,--
"My daughter! my daughter!"
And a flood of tears burst from his eyes.