The general said facetiously, that in his visits to the abbess he had adopted the English fashion, and used to shake her heartily by the hand; “and it must be confessed, poor soul,” he added with a sigh, “she did press mine cordially in return.”
And now a rustling of robes was heard, as a door, invisible from where we stood, opened, and La Madre Teresa came forward, having evidently made some slight changes in her toilet, and not a little fluttered by this unexpected summons. She was a small, spare woman, with that waxen complexion which a sedentary, unvarying routine of existence generally produces, peering, light-grey eyes, sharp features, but a kindly expression about the mouth and chin. As she stood behind the grating, courtesying first to one and then to the other, she would have made a very picturesque study in her white woollen robes and black mantle, the light from the window in the corridor falling upon her figure, and detaching it from the gloomy background. Still, the effect was nothing—the general found an opportunity of whispering—nothing to be compared to that produced by his lamented abbess, who used to come sweeping in with the dignity of a queen, every fold and plait of her drapery exquisitely adjusted. But to return to La Madre Teresa. After a few complimentary phrases, she inquired to what she might attribute the honour of this visit, of which the real motive was simply the gratification of my prying curiosity: the ostensible one, I grieve to acknowledge, was of an ignoble nature, although, when communicated by Signor Bonaventura, previously instructed in his part, it did not appear as such to strike the old nun. It regarded the purchase of cakes! With as much good grace as he could assume while talking to a nun—for Signor Bonaventura was of the new school, and violently, intolerantly opposed to all monastic institutions, notwithstanding which, to please his wife, and for the sake of peace, his own daughters had been brought up in a convent—he began to relate “how an English lady of distinction,” pointing to me—La Madre courtesied more deeply than before—“having heard in her own country of the famous cakes made by the nuns of Ventimiglia, was now come in person to test their excellence. Did the sisterhood chance to have any upon sale?”
The old lady was evidently pleased; and begging to be excused for an instant, retired to give her directions to the slatternly out-door attendant apparently; for when the conference broke up, we found her in waiting with some neatly-papered packets of these celebrated comestibles—which, by the by, were really excellent, masterly compounds of almonds, olive-oil, and honey. Returning herself speedily to the grating, she engaged in an animated conversation in the Genoese dialect, which, or something very nearly approaching to it, is spoken at Ventimiglia—the general being evidently her favourite, and the one to whom most of her remarks were addressed. Her local memory was wonderful: she spoke about people he had utterly lost sight of; knew all their histories for thirty years past; their children's ages, marriages, and so forth; combined with a minuteness of detail that nothing but the prolonged concentration of her faculties within a most circumscribed sphere could have enabled her to attain.
“Does Vou Scia”—a corruption of the French Votre seigneurie—“Does Vou Scia remember the Conte L——, who lived in the street just opposite the barber's and had an only daughter, whom he married to the son of the Marchese of A——, who went away with the French to fight, and died of cold in England when the great Napoleon burnt that town?—Ah, dear, I forget the name—stop—yes, yes, it was London. Well, as I was saying, his daughter, grand-daughter to the conte, was placed with us for her education, and then married at sixteen, the day after she left these walls: the spouse was rather gobbo—that is, humpbacked—and fifty years old, but very rich; so it was a good match. Vou Scia has surely not forgotten her: you were a young man then.”
“Oh, I recollect perfectly, perfectly,” groaned the general.
“Well, she was not happy—as indeed who is in marriage?—and her youngest daughter being externally like her father in person, the Madonna gave her grace to see the vanity of the world; so that nearly a year ago her solemn admission amongst us took place. In another month or so she will take the final vows. Oh, it is a peaceful, blessed life to those who are called to enter it! Does Vou Scia imagine that the wicked Government intends shortly to suppress all the religious communities?”
“The question they always ask,” observed Signor Bonaventura in an under-tone.
“Ah! we must hope,” said the general, gravely. “It would be terrible, you have been here so many years.”
“Thirty-seven completed on the Festival of the Assumption.”
“Impossible! You must have entered a mere child.”