“I took the veil at sixteen,” said the Madre Teresa, with a simpering smile, which demonstrated that she, too, was not invulnerable on all women's weak point.
“How strange,” I said, “to think that since then you have never stirred beyond these walls!”
“Never, signora. But we have a large vineyard and orchard from which there is a fine view of the sea and the high-road, and we can see the diligence passing at some distance. It is the finest situation in all Ventimiglia,” she added proudly.
“You do not even go out to attend the sick?”
“No, signora; that is not one of the duties of our order: we are cloistered religiose. We pray and meditate, embroider and make the confectionery you have heard so much praised—I fear beyond our poor deserts.”
“Do you take pupils?”
“In former years, signora, before these unfortunate changes, this decline of religion in the State, we had many educande; at this moment we have but one young lady under our care.” And then, with great volubility, she went on lamenting the degeneracy of the present day, and telling us how changed times were since her youth, when every cell in the convent had its occupant. “We were upwards of seventy then,” she said with a suppressed sigh, “now we only number eighteen.”
“Out of which I have heard that several are infirm and bedridden,” remarked Signor Bonaventura, with an affected air of commiseration.
It made one shudder to think how ghostly the long corridors and fifty-two empty chambers must look, and how dreary in their hearts the poor nuns must feel, dwindling away, till four or five withered, shadowy forms would soon be all that remained to talk over the glories of the days gone by.
The poor nun seemed quite sorry when we broke up the conference, and gazed at us wistfully through the bars, taking in all the peculiarities of our appearance for the benefit of the whole sisterhood, when repeating the details of what would constitute a memorable incident in her life. After quitting the parlatojo, we went into the convent chapel, rather a pretty structure, with some indifferent paintings, and a good deal of gilding. Over the altar there was a latticed gallery, in which the nuns could assist unseen at the celebration of mass, and another behind the organ, for those who formed the choir. Though the sun was shining so brightly outside, an unaccountable chillness and gloom pervaded the building, which Signor Bonaventura contended was like a living tomb, fit to be the receptacle of decrepit nuns. At this remark his daughter, who stood in great awe of her father, and had not opened her lips the whole time, ventured a word in defence of the convent in which she had been educated; but being told that women knew nothing of such matters, relapsed into the silent study of my bonnet and mantle, wherein she had hitherto been happily engrossed. As for the general, he took Signor Bonaventura's pleasantries in such good part, that it was well the comtesse was not present; what with these, and the allusions to the abbess, the poor lady would have been grievously discomposed.