Nun (9781609459109) (18 page)

When the prince came to get Agata so she could be introduced to the English duke, she obediently followed her handsome cousin, who was tall and blond like an Austrian and very different from the Padellani. The guests made way for them and Michele nodded greetings to them as they passed, while telling her the story of how he had first made the acquaintance of their illustrious guest. Admiral Pietraperciata, who had attended boarding school with the cardinal and had remained on very close terms with him, had informally asked Michele whether he would have any objection to allowing the English royal to attend his young cousin's simple profession. Then the cardinal had forwarded the royal's formal request, adding that he himself had chosen Agata. “It's a great honor for us Padellanis, and it may have significant repercussions.” And her cousin whispered in her ear that the cardinal–of whom it was rumored that he was a future candidate to the throne of St. Peter–was hoping to establish ties with the Catholic clergy of England, just then experiencing a great revival in the wake of the passage of the Catholic Emancipation Act by the British Parliament, abolishing almost all civil restrictions. The cardinal was also a close acquaintance of the famous Anglican cleric John Newman, who had now converted to Roman Catholicism, and who had also come to Naples a few years before. By agreeing to be present at the reception, Agata had helped Michele to establish a direct contact with the English monarchy, and he was grateful to her for it. “I realize that this has been very unpleasant for you,” her cousin added, and he squeezed her arm.

 

His Royal Highness was corpulent. Agata made a reverence, bowing in her tight black gown. When she looked up, she realized that James Garson was standing next to the duke—he was part of his entourage. She blushed, in embarrassment. In the thank-you notes for the books that he sent her, at times she had ventured to talk about herself and to criticize the convent, confident that she would never run into him.

“Are you happy to become a nun?” the duke inquired.

“Yes,” Agata blushed.

“The love of Christ must be very powerful, to persuade one to abandon the world, don't you find?” he insisted.

Agata thought it over before answering: “Any love, if it is a true love, is equally powerful. I have read about English ladies who fell in love with foreign men in Arabia and India, and who abandoned their own world for the much poorer and more primitive world of their beloved.”

“Our guest is interested in knowing about the cloistered life,” the prince broke in.

“To live in a magnificent cloister full of trees and flowering plants, with a gurgling fountain, and adoring Jesus Christ is the height of happiness for someone who has the calling. What might appear to be a prison is transformed into a palace. Our abbess, who is also a Padellani, tells me that at the convent of San Giorgio Stilita she has been happy since the day she entered. I believe her. I would like to emulate her.”

The duke nodded with satisfaction. He thanked her and made a bow; then he turned to Ortensia who was standing nearby. Stunningly elegant in her green satin dress, resplendent in the famous parure of Padellani emeralds that highlighted the blonde curls cascading over her ears, she was inviting him to come tour the armory. The little crowd that had formed around them, all eyes and ears on the conversation between the foreign nobleman and the princess, immediately forgetful of Agata, trailed after them; after a moment's hesitation, the prince followed in their wake.

James Garson still had not moved. They were left alone, facing one another. He leaned toward Agata and whispered: “And do you have the calling?”

 

For the rest of the evening he never lost sight of her, but she was so overwhelmed that she never noticed. When it came time to say for the guests to say goodnight, Agata was placed next to the master and mistress of the house, heightening her discomfort with the sharp contrast between her own dark dress and the splendid outfits of her cousins. The first to leave, of course, was the guest of honor. As the prince and princess chatted with the duke, James spoke to Agata: “May I send you books, after your simple profession?”

Agata lit up: “Please do, by all means!” and then she turned serious again. “But I won't be able to write you and say how much I liked them, unless the abbess gives me permission.”

“All right.” And with a sparkle in his eye, he added: “We'll talk about it later. I'm sure that we'll meet again.”

 

It was wonderful to go back to Aunt Orsola's. Agata noticed that nothing had been changed in the room that had once been hers, and that the servants were the same as before—older now, just like the house. In her aunt's drawing room, the sunlight had faded the wallpaper to such a degree that the copper plate designs were almost invisible; the hems of the green damask curtains, brought upstairs from the
piano nobile
and never properly shortened, dragged on the majolica tiles and were tattered; the lacing of the central springs in the upholstery of the chairs had begun to loosen and each spring pressed against the red satin of the seats, creating the appearance of tiny craters in eruption. But the plants and bushes and trees had grown splendidly; the terrace looked more like a hanging garden than ever. The aunt and her niece drank hot chocolate together in the gazebo before leaving for the Aviellos. The footservant announced a visitor: Captain Garson. Agata felt herself blush, and she looked down at the tray of biscotti, pretending to look for one with pinoli.

 

“I've come to see how the camellias are doing, and I've brought you two new species; one comes from the Mile End Nursery, and is an early bloomer; the flowers are a most extraordinary color, bright red,” James explained, as the footmen walked slowly forward, two by two, carrying heavy vases in their arms. He looked at Agata and went on, “They contrast wonderfully with the fertile, golden yellow stamens. The other one is Belgian, the camellia Mont Blanc, just on the verge of blooming into double floors, peoniform and very rich in petals.” He looked straight into Agata's eyes. “Pure white.” She blushed again.

Her aunt and the captain began conversing about the hibiscus, exchanging information concerning the Syrian variety. Agata only knew about the plants in the garden of the simples—Angiola Maria was very jealous of “her” plants in the main cloister—and she asked what this hibiscus was that they were talking about. “They're over here, in the vases along the railing,” James explained, and offered to accompany her to see them; her aunt didn't want to stand and suggested that the two of them go look at the hibiscus.

James pointed out to Agata the delicate funnel-shaped petals. The pale pink hue turned darker at the base and formed a blood-red ring around the long pistils; he told her that the Romans ate them as salad–Cicero binged on them–and that it was also a medicinal plant. “The flower wilts the day after it blooms,” he said, “and perhaps that is why it is used by young people in the mute language of flowers. In Polynesia the girls wear one in their hair to announce that they are unattached, while the young man in search of a fiancée wears one behind his right ear . . . ” James was bending over, looking for something; then he picked a bud about to open in its ephemeral, fleeting glory. “This is the
Hibiscus syriacus
,” he said, as he handed it to her. Agata spun it between her fingers and looked at it: the leaves were folded one atop the other like the fabric of a parasol and like the pleats of a wimple folded in a drawer. James added, with determination: “In Syria, offering one to a woman is tantamount to telling her how beautiful she is.”

 

They were walking toward her aunt; suddenly, he asked her, in English: “Are you happy?”

She looked down and said nothing. “Are you happy?” he asked again, insistently.

A seagull overhead called. It sounded as if it were crying.

 

The next day, Agata was cheerful, almost giddy with everyone in a way that even she couldn't understand.

 

A
fter her cousin's reception, a hail of invitations arrived for Agata; her mother asked her at least to accept a few, but Agata dug her heels in: she wanted to stay in her bedroom at home. That increased the widespread belief in the strength of her vocation. In reality, Agata had other business to take care of: she wanted to read the books of ecclesiastical law and the legal codes concerning monastic seclusion that Tommaso had procured for her, with the page numbers of the significant sections concerning procedures on dismissal from a monastic order.

Carmela had confided to her that the Cavaliere d'Anna, who continued to consider himself engaged to Agata, had openly declared that after Agata's simple profession he would feel free to be engaged to another woman, and he was certainly willing to marry Carmela. Agata was forced into the realization that her baby sister was quite contented with that unholy marriage, in which—leaving aside the issue of the sheer distastefulness of the man himself—the age difference between groom and bride was more than fifty years. The marriage contract, originally drawn up for Agata, entailed the groom's donation to the bride of two landed estates of a thousand hectares each. “So I'll be a rich widow while I'm still young, and I can marry whoever I want,” her baby sister told her, gleefully. Moreover, she whispered to Agata that she had learned from the concierge that Tommaso, disappointed at Sandra's failure to give him an heir, had fathered an illegitimate son with a Tuscan woman and that every day, instead of going to court, he went to visit his other family; Tommaso made sure the mother and son had everything they needed, lavishing money on them while pinching the pennies he gave Sandra for household expenses. Carmela noticed it because the general and their mother had given Sandra money for groceries and even gave her a gift of fifty ducats. Not only was Agata heartbroken over the situation with the Aviellos, whom she had always considered to be an exemplary and modern couple, but she also felt responsible not only for her own misfortunes but for Carmela's fate. It was in this state of mind that she was preparing to enter nunhood.

 

The morning of Agata's simple profession a crowd of relatives and friends thronged into the Aviellos' apartment. When there was no more room in the apartment, the men conversed out on the staircase. The women chattered away loudly, waiting for Agata to emerge from her bedroom. A few young women were sitting down at the pianoforte and banging away at love songs.

The hairdresser left the bedroom with an air of satisfaction. Agata was wearing a white moire dress, gauzy and gathered at the waist, with bouquets of white flowers embroidered on the bodice and on the skirt; her hair had been combed out into loose cascading ringlets, covering her breast and shoulders, with jasmine flowers pinned here and there and everywhere. A garland of snowy white camellias, a gift from her Aunt Orsola, would secure the veil to her hair. Two of the four “godmothers” of the prospective nun—noblewomen chosen by her mother, practically strangers to Agata—helped her to place the white, floor-length tulle veil on her head.

The interior windows of the
palazzo
were crowded with damp eyes and smiling faces. Every voice called out best wishes and compliments for the young nun. Agata was beautiful to behold: her deep emotion and excitement had colored her cheeks with red and the tears she was choking back gave her eyes a glistening luminosity. Her two godmothers helped her into an open carriage and, when the coachman cracked his whip, the team of horses trotted out into the street through the
palazzo
's street door, flanked by two cheering lines of people, who burst into a deafening wave of applause.

Agata obeyed and did exactly as she was told. She felt detached from her own body and incapable of feeling any emotion. It was traditional for a prospective nun to pay visits to various other convents in order to allow other nuns to get to know and admire her. At the convent of Donnalbina, the last visit scheduled, Sister Maria Giulia, her father's sister, burst into tears at the sight of her; those tears alone were sufficient to shatter Agata's emotional armor. She swayed and staggered, and was on the verge of fainting. The nuns beat two egg yolks in a bowl with sugar and Marsala for her, and urged her to swallow the mixture in a single gulp.

The carriage was rattling through the neighborhood of San Lorenzo and was now drawing close to the convent. The populace—which had learned about the details by reading the local newspaper, the
Gazzetta del Seggio
, by word of mouth, and from the pealing church bells—filled streets and balconies. Some tried to touch the carriage, others called out to Agata to remember sick children and parents in her prayers. Ashen, she leaned back against the upholstery of her seat. Every so often, the bang of an exploding firecracker filled the air. Along the Via San Giorgio Stilita, a Swiss band was playing music to the crowd.

Her two other godmothers were waiting for her in the portico. At the portal of the church, she was greeted by a procession guided by a priest holding a cross high in the air; he was followed by twelve other priests with candles in their hands; they were all garbed in paraments embroidered with gold thread on a light blue background, just like the Padellani coat of arms. The church, divided down the middle by a white and red partition, was a jubilant spectacle of lights and colors. The ladies sat on the right side, where they were greeted and ushered in by Donna Gesuela, while the gentlemen sat on the left, welcomed by the prince of Opiri.

Led by the priest carrying the cross, with her godmothers walking on either side, and followed by the other priests, formed into two lines, Agata entered the church. The minute she set the toe of her slipper on the first white-and-blue majolica floor tile, the thronging congregation leapt to its feet; simultaneously, a wave of organ music swept over the crowd, followed by the voice of a mezzo-soprano.

The procession reached the middle of the church. The canon emerged from the presbytery and came to meet them. He gave Agata a silver cross to hold in her left hand, which she held against her breast, and a candle to hold in her right hand. The procession resumed.

Agata walked slowly past the pews where her closest relatives were seated. Carmela had an aisle seat. When she saw her sister go by, she burst into tears: “Don't do it!” Carmela sobbed, her shoulders quivering. Agata slowed her steps. She looked down at her sister and then looked up and straight ahead at the altar, which looked like a flaming sun. Then she went on walking.

 

She came to a halt at the foot of the main altar. The cardinal was waiting for her, seated on the left side of the altar, next to the Epistle. The priests that had accompanied her to the altar now moved off in another direction.

Agata and her four godmothers were kneeling. Swelling music filled the church. Then all five women walked forward to the cardinal. The godmothers remained standing, while Agata kneeled before him. At that moment, both music and song ceased. Silence. A priest wearing a magnificently embroidered surplice presented the cardinal with a silver basin containing a small pair of scissors, which the cardinal used to snip a lock of Agata's hair. At that, the choristers resumed singing a cappella—high, pure, sublime voices.

Agata stood up; at that moment, the voices of all the other chorists suddenly fell away and only the voice of Donna Maria Giovanna della Croce continued, accompanied by the organ. Then the voices of the choir burst in, for the last time, while Agata—together with her godmothers and preceded by the same procession that had greeted her at the front portal—left the church beneath the eyes of the guests and all the other eyes, furtive and glistening, behind the grate. When they reached the portico, the procession turned to the left while Agata, followed by the Swiss band and surrounded by the delirious crowd, walked down the street that led to the front door of the convent.

Flanked by her four godmothers, she climbed the steps of the monumental entrance to San Giorgio Stilita; the memory of her visit to the convent as a convent girl, brought a lump to her throat. The massive wooden portal swung open and she walked into the cloister, leaving her godmothers behind her in the vestibule. As soon as she saw the sister concierge, Agata burst into subdued weeping. The choristers were waiting for her, ready to accompany her to the hall of the
comunichino
. No one spoke.

 

Agata was standing. There was no music, no singing. Behind her, the hall was packed. All eighty choristers were there. Behind them were all the other nuns, novices, lay sisters, postulants, and educands.

Across from her in the church, standing before the brass gate, was the cardinal. Behind him was a throng of canons, priests, guests, and relatives—the English duke in the first row next to her cousin the prince. Agata kept her eyes locked on the cardinal's eyes.

The sister teacher of the novices took her by the hand and led her to a corner, where she and the prioress stripped her of her magnificent garments, beginning with the veil and the flowers in her hair and ending with her shoes and stockings, and as the two women undressed her, other women re-dressed her in the homespun woolens of the novitiate.

With her curls disheveled, barefoot and dressed in black, Agata returned to the
comunichino
. The cardinal blessed the scapular and passed it to her through the brass bars. It struck Agata that his fingers had sought contact with hers and she felt a wave of revulsion. She put on the scapular without stepping away from the
comunichino
. Then she turned and went straight to the far end of the room, where the abbess was waiting for her, seated on the throne of gilt wood, against the wall, beneath the canvas depicting Moses bringing water forth from the rock. On the left was the monumental blind staircase. On the right, the sister choristers, in order of seniority. The English duke had knelt down and, with the cardinal's permission, he was watching the intimate ceremony through the aperture of the
comunichino
.

Agata prostrated herself before the abbess, the soles of her bare feet projecting from her habit. The nuns gathered her long hair into a single tress. The abbess seized the large scissors and prepared to cut the hair.

The silence was absolute.

A powerful voice arose from the congregation: “Barbarians! Don't cut her hair at least!”

Everyone turned to look. There were loud whispers about a madman. The priests imposed silence. The cardinal remained impassive; he knew who had shouted.

 

The nuns were in turmoil. The abbess held the scissors in one hand, suspended in midair. Then came the confident voice of a deaconess: “Cut! He is a heretic!”

The tresses fell onto the stone flagstone. And Agata took the veil.