Sister Saint Sulpice
Sister Sulpice (Gloria, by her mundane name), a novice about to quit the convent for the world, against her mother, Doña Tula’s, wish.
Sister Maria de la Luz, cousin to Sister Sulpice, and also a novice.
The Mother Superior Florentina.
Paca, Glori foster-sister.
Don Ceferino, native of Galicia.
Don Paco, landlord of the Fonda Continental.
I. AT THE MARMOLEYO SPA.
Along a gentle slope, over which was intended to be a high-road, we descended to the spring which gushes out in the very middle of the river Guadalquivir, which comes circling around the brow of the sierra. There is a gallery or bridge which leads from the shore to the spring. Across it were gravely walking two or three persons, who, by their wandering and vacant looks, showed that they were perhaps paying more attention to the contents of their stomachs than to the discourse and steps of their companions. From time to time they hastened to the spring, descended the steps, asked for a glass of water, and drank it eagerly, shutting their eyes with a kind of pleasurable emotion, suggesting the hope of health.
“Have you been taking much of the water, Mother?” asked my landlord, leaning over the railing of the well.
A short, plump nun, who appeared to be dropsical, and had a small red nose, raised her head just as she was about to put the glass to her lips.
“Good morning, Señor Paco.... I have had only four glasses so far. Would you like a little to increase your appetite?”
That greatly delighted my landlord.
“Increase my appetite, eh? Give me something to reduce it, rather! that’s what I should prefer.... And the Sisters?”
Two young nuns, not at all ill-favoured, who were standing beside the other with their heads raised towards us, smiled politely.
“The same as always; two little sips,” rejoined one of them, who had lively black eyes, and spoke with a downright Andalusian accent, and displayed an elegant set of teeth.
“How little!”
“Why, surely you would not wish to make our stomachs ponds for anchovies, would you, like the Mother’s?”
“Anchovies?”
“Yes, Cadiz anchovies. You have only to cast the net.”
The Mother’s dropsical form was shaken violently by a laughing fit. The anchovies swimming in her stomach, according to the young nun, must have thought that they were exposed to an earthquake.
We all laughed and went down to the spring. As we came near the Mother, she greeted me with an affectionate smile. I bent low, took the crucifix which hung from her girdle, and kissed it. The nun smiled still more tenderly, and looked at me with an expression of generous sympathy.
Let us be explicit: if this book is to be an honest history or confession of my life, it is my duty to declare that by the act of bending over to kiss the metal crucifix, I do not think that I was actuated by any mystic impulse, rather, I suspect, that the pretty Sister’s black eyes shrewdly fixed upon me had a very active part in it. Perhaps, without being aware of it, I desired to ingratiate myself with those eyes. And the truth is that I failed in my attempt; because, instead of showing that she was flattered by such an act of devotion, it seemed to me that they assumed a slight expression of mockery. I was a bit confused.
“Has the gentleman come to take the waters?” asked the Mother half directly, half indirectly.
“Yes, señora, I have just arrived from Madrid.”
“They are wonderful! The Lord our God has given them a virtue which is almost beyond belief. You will see how they develop the appetite. You will eat as much as you possibly can, and it will not hurt you.... You see, I can say I am a different woman, and it is only a week since we came.... Just imagine! yesterday I ate pig’s liver, and it did not hurt me at all.... Then this young girl,” she added, pointing to the black-eyed Sister: “I can’t tell you what a colour she had! She was as pale as ashes. To be sure she hasn’t much colour yet, but,... there now,... that is another thing.”
I looked at her closely, and noticed that she was blushing, though she instantly turned her back to get another glass of water.
She was a young woman of nineteen or twenty, of average height, with an oval face of a pale brunette, her nose slightly “tip-tilted,” her teeth white and close, and her eyes, as I have already said, of an intense and velvety black, shaded by long lashes, and bordered by a slight pink circle. Her hair was entirely covered from sight by the hood that bound her forehead. She was dressed in black serge, with a girdle around her waist, from which hung a large bronze crucifix. On her head, beside the hood, she wore a great white papalina, or “coronet,” with stiffly starched flaps. Her shoes were large and coarse, but could not wholly disguise the grace of her dainty Southern foot.
The other Sister was likewise young, perhaps even younger than the first, as well as shorter in stature, and with a lily-white face, showing under the transparent skin an exceedingly lymphatic temperament; her eyes were clear blue, her teeth somewhat faulty. By the purity and correctness of her features, and likewise by her quiet manners, she looked like a Virgin of painted wood. She kept her eyes constantly fixed upon the ground, and did not open her lips during the short moments that we were together there.
“Come, drink, señor, prove the Divine grace,” said the Mother.
I took the glass which the Sister with the white teeth had just laid down, and proceeded to fill it with water, since the attendant had disappeared through a trap-door; but in doing so I had to lean on the rock, and when I bent over to dip the glass into the pool I slipped, and my foot went in above my ankle.
“Be careful!” simultaneously cried my landlord and the Mother, as is always said after one has met with any accident.
I drew out my foot with the water spurting from my shoe, and could not refrain from a rather energetic exclamation.
The Mother was disturbed, and hastened to ask me with a grave face—
“Did it hurt you?”
The little Sister of the transparent skin blushed up to her ears. The other began to laugh so heartily, that I gave her a quick and not very affectionate look. But she paid no heed to it; she continued to laugh, although, in order not to meet my eyes, she turned her face the other way.
“Sister San Sulpicio, remember that it is a sin to laugh at another’s misfortunes,” said the Mother. “Why do you not imitate Sister Maria de la Luz?”
The latter was blushing like a poppy.
“I can’t help it, Mother, I cannot; excuse me,” she replied, endeavouring, but without success, to contain herself.
“Let her laugh; the truth is, the thing is more ludicrous than serious,” said I, affecting good-humour though angry at heart.
These words, instead of inciting the Sister, had the opposite effect, and she quickly grew calm. I looked at her now and then, with a curiosity mingled with annoyance. She returned my look with a frank and smiling eye, in which still lurked a trace of mockery.
“You must change your shoes and stockings as quick as you can; getting the feet wet is very bad,” said the Mother with interest.
“Pshaw! I shall not change them till night. I am accustomed to go all day with my feet soaking,” said I, in a scornful tone of voice, putting on a show of robustness, which, unfortunately, I am very far from being blessed with. But it pleased me to affect bravado before the smiling nun.
“By all means... go, go home and take off your stocking. We are going to walk across the gallery to see if the water is going down. May the Lord our God bless you!”
I once more made a low bow and kissed the Mother’s crucifix. I did the same with Sister Maria’s, who, of course, blushed again. As to Sister San Sulpicio’s I refrained from touching it. I merely bowed low with a grave face. Thus should she learn not to laugh at people when they get wet.
II. IN SEVILLE.
... When I returned to my boarding-house to dinner, I found Paca waiting at the door to give me a letter. I did not care to open it before the messenger, and tried to dismiss her as soon as possible. But the worthy woman was too happy over her señorita’s escape from the convent, not to chatter for a while. Both interested and impatient, I was treated to all the particulars; how Doña Tula had gone to get Gloria in her carriage; how abominably they had behaved towards her at the convent, no one except the chaplain coming to bid her good-bye; how happy her señorita felt to take off her nun’s dress; how glad every one was to see her “so bright and chipper!” and all the insignificant words which they had exchanged in their talk.
At last she went away, and I hastened to my room, nervously lighted my candle, and opened the note.
“I am out of the convent,” it read. “If you wish to receive the promised scolding, pass in front of my house at eleven o’clock. I will be at the grating, and we will have a talk.”
The keen joy produced in me by that letter may be imagined. All my dreams were coming true at once. Gloria loved me, and was giving me a rendezvous, and this rendezvous was singularly attractive to a poet and a man of the North by being at the grating!
The grating—la reja!15 Does not this word exert a strange fascination? does it not awake in fancy a swarm of vague, sweet thoughts, as though it were the symbol and centre of love and poesy? Who is there with so little imagination as never to have dreamed of a talk with a loved one through the grating on a moonlight night? These talks and these nights have, moreover, the incalculable advantage that they can be described without an actual experience of them. There is not a lyrical mosquito among all those that hum and buzz in the central or septentrional provinces of Spain who has not given expression to his feelings concerning them, and framed a more or less harmonious structure with the sweet notes of the guitar, the scents of tube-roses, the moonlight scattering its delicate filaments of silver over the windows, the heavens bespangled with stars, the orange flowers, the maiden’s fascinating eyes, her warm perfumed breath, &c.
I myself, as a descriptive poet and colourist, have on more than one occasion, to the applause of my friends, jumbled together these commonplaces of Andalusian æsthetics.
But now the reality far exceeded and differed from this poetic conventionalism. For the time being, as I entered the Calle de Argote de Molina, at eleven o’clock, I failed to notice whether moon and stars were shining in the sky or not. It is quite possible that they were, for such things are natural; but I did not notice. What could be seen with perfect distinctness was the watchman with pike and lantern leaning up against a door not very far from Gloria’s.
“Shall I have to wait till this fellow goes off?” I asked myself with a sudden pang of fear.
Fortunately, after a little while I saw him start away from that place and move up the street.
Moreover, I went to the trysting-place without guitar or cloak, merely with a jonquil in my hand, and wearing a plain and inoffensive jacket. Neither did I go mounted on a fiery steed, black, dappled, or sorrel; but on my own wretched legs, which certainly trembled all too violently as I approached the windows of the house. In one of them I saw the gleam of a white object, and I hastened to tap on the grating.
“Gloria!” I said in a very low voice.
“Here I am,” replied the girl’s voice.
At the same instant her graceful bare head bent over toward the grating, and I saw the gleam of her little white teeth with that same bewitching and mocking smile which was so delineated on my heart. I saw her dark velvety eyes shining. As though I were in the presence of a supernatural apparition, I stood motionless with both hands clenching the grating. I found nothing more to say than—
“Còmo sigue V.” “How do you do?”
That ordinary formula of every-day courtesy did not seem to arouse any sad ideas in her, for I saw her put her hand to her mouth to hide a laugh. After a brief silence, she replied—
“Well; and you?”
“How I have longed for this moment to arrive!” I exclaimed, realising that I was not “in situation,” as they say in the theatres. “Can you not imagine the eagerness with which I have been waiting for it, Gloria?...”
“And why should you have been anxious for it?”
“Because my heart was tormented with the desire to tell you how I worship you.”
“That indeed is news! Why, my son, you have repeated it in the nine letters you have written me, forty-one times.... I counted them!”
“Then it was so as to tell you so the forty-second time. What is taking place between us, Gloria, seems to me just like a novel. It is not three months that I have known you, and yet it seems to me as if I had lived three years since then. What a change! How it has altered our lives! You were a nun, and now I see you transformed into a perfect young lady of the world.”
“So you really find that I am perfect?”
“Exquisite!”
“A thousand thanks. What would it be if you were to see me!”
“I do see you... not very well, but sufficient to make me realise what a favourable change.”
Up to a certain point that was true. Although the darkness that prevailed in that corner did not allow me to make out her features, I could see the outline of her graceful head, adorned with waving hair, and when she bent it over a little toward the grating, the dim light of the street shone into her face, which seemed to me paler than when she was at Marmolejo, though not less lovely.
A moment of silence ensued, and, embarrassed by it, I said at last—
“Is this your chamber?”
“This is not a chamber, it is the reception-room.”
“Ah!”
And again silence fell.
I noticed that her eyes were fastened upon me, and, if the truth be told, I could not deceive myself into thinking that they were overflowing with love, but rather that they displayed a mischievous curiosity.
“O Gloria, if you only knew how sadly those days passed for me when I got no word from you! I believed that you had forgotten me.”
“I never forget my good friends. Besides, I had promised you one thing, and I should certainly not wish to fail of fulfilling my promise.”
“What was it?”
“Do you remember?—the scolding....”
“Oh, yes,” I exclaimed, laughing.
And, encouraged by these words, I felt that I ought to have my love affairs put upon a definite basis, and I said—
“Well, then, Gloria, I have come for nothing else than to have you undeceive me if I am under a false impression, or else confirm my hopes of being loved if they have any foundation. Since I have already repeated forty-one times that I adore you, as you say, I need not say it again. Ever since I have seen you and talked with you at Marmolejo, you have kept me a willing prisoner of love and admiration. My fate is in your hands, and I wait with the greatest anxiety to hear my sentence.”
Gloria paused a few moments before she answered; then she coughed a little, and finally said—
“The fatal moment has arrived. Prepare for the worst.... Señor Don Ceferino, I should not tell the truth if I gave you to understand that from the first day I talked with you at Marmolejo, I did not perceive that you were courting me. Further, I believe that the kiss which you gave Mother Florentina’s crucifix, the first time we saw each other, you gave me in my honour.... You laugh? Well, it shows that I was not deceived. Those gallantries of yours have caused me some annoyances, but I cherish no hard feelings against you. Sooner or later I had to let the thunder burst, for I had made up my mind not to stay in the convent, even though I had to go out to service. Then you greatly aided me in accomplishing my wishes, and for this I am very grateful.... But gratitude is one thing and love is another. So far I have not been able to reciprocate your love. I esteem you... I like you, and I shall never forget how kind you have been to me; but I speak frankly, I cannot have you live longer labouring under a mistake. I will be your sincere and affectionate friend.... Your betrothed I cannot be.”
It is absolutely impossible for me to give any idea of my state of mind on hearing those words. They were spoken in an ironical tone, which might have left one open to think that they were in jest, but the reasoning was so natural and logical that they put an end to any such supposition. Nevertheless, by a supreme act of self-control, I burst into a laugh, exclaiming—
“Well, that is a well-fabricated refusal! I might think that you really meant it!”
“What! don’t you believe what I say?... Child, have you not a very lofty opinion of your little self?”
“It is not a question of whether I have a high opinion of myself, Gloria,” I replied, becoming grave; “it is that it is hard to believe that you would have waited so long to refuse me.”
“But you have not given me a chance till now!”
“Are you speaking seriously, Gloria?”
“Why not? Come, now, you have imagined because I accepted your aid in getting out of the convent, that I was in so far bound to worship you, did you not?”
A wave of hot blood surged into my cheeks; my ears hummed. I suddenly realised the fact that I had been making a fool of myself in a most lamentable fashion, that this girl had most shamefully turned me into ridicule. Indignation and anger took complete possession of me; I poured out all my bile in a perfect torrent of words. I stood for some little time clutching the grating, gazing at her in silence with flaming eyes. Finally, in a voice hoarse with anger, I said,—
“The truth is, you are the veriest flirt,16 unworthy of receiving the attentions of any decent man. I do not regret the time that I have wasted in loving you, but I do regret having wasted my love on you! I believed that under your apparent frivolity you had a good heart, but I see that it was nothing but vanity and giddiness. I rejoice that I have found it out in good time, for I will at one blow tear it out of my heart and my thoughts, where you ought never to have found a place. Good-bye! and for ever!”
As I withdrew my contracted hands from the iron bars I felt the pressure of hers, and I heard a compressed laugh, which entirely confused me.
“Bravo, bravo? I like you so, my dear! I was becoming weary of so much sweetness!”
“What does this mean, Gloria?”
“It means that you must not be so honey-like, for one gets tired of syrup, and incense is sickening. See here! You have advanced your cause more in one moment by saying impudent things to me, than in three months of flatteries. You will say that I like to have my knuckles rapped with the fire-shovel. It may be so. But I tell you that a little touch of genius never hurts a man!”
“Yes? Then wait a bit, and I will insult you some more,” said I, laughing.
“No, no,” she exclaimed, also laughing, “enough for to-day.”
During that sweet and memorable interview, which was prolonged till one o’clock, our love was mutually confessed and agreed upon. Without any difficulty we began to address each other with the familiar “thee” and “thou,” and we swore fidelity till death, no matter what might happen.
Not a soul passed through the street. The watchman, when he saw me glued to the grating, did not come near. I was afraid that Doña Tula might come into the room, but Gloria re-assured me by declaring that in Seville no one ever acted traitorously towards two lovers, and the watchmen still less interfered with these colloquies at the gratings, which they saw every night. She also had great confidence in the servants. Therefore the prospect of a series of delightful interviews was spread before us, filling my soul with joy.
“They will know about it sooner or later,” said she. “But suppose they do. I will take it upon me to make them mind their own business if they attempt to interfere.”
And in her handsome eyes I saw a flash of audacious mischief, which made it plain enough that it would not be an easy matter to lead her in paths where she did not wish to go.
“Now it is getting late. Mamma gets up very early for mass, and will wish me to go with her. Now you must go.”
“A little while longer, sweetheart! It is not midnight yet.”
“Yes, the clock in the Giralda17 struck one.”
“No, it is only a quarter-past twelve....”
The slow, solemn stroke of the bell in the Giralda just then struck a quarter-past one.
“Do you hear? It is a quarter-past one. Adios! adios!”
“And are you going to send me off so, without giving me your hand?”
She reached it out to me, and I, naturally, was about to kiss it, but she snatched it away.
“No, no; wait a little, I will give you the crucifix, as in Marmolejo,” she cried with a laugh.
“I prefer your hand.”
“You heretic, begone!”
“God is everywhere. But still if you wish to give me the crucifix I will guard it carefully as a keepsake.”
“Wait just a second. I have my dress here.”
She withdrew from the window for a moment and came back with the bronze crucifix, which she handed out to me through the iron grating. In taking it from her I got possession of her brown, firm hand, and kissed it a number of times voraciously, gluttonously!
“That will do, little boy. Do you expect to keep it up till morning?”
I went away from that window grating intoxicated with love and bliss. So far gone was I that when I met the watchman a little distance away I gave him two pesetas. Afterwards I regretted it, for there was no need of doing so, according to what Gloria had said. This time, also, I noticed as little as before whether the stars were glittering on high with sweet brilliancy, or whether the moonlight filtered down into the dark labyrinthine streets, spotting them here and there with patines of bright silver. I carried in my own heart a radiant sun, which dazzled me and prevented me from seeing such petty details!
III. A VISIT TO THE CONVENT.
... During all this time neither the Mother Superior nor the sisters had asked who I was, or how and why Gloria happened to be in that place. They looked at me with quick glances of curiosity, showing that my presence embarrassed them. I had not opened my lips.
My wife, doubtless piqued by this neglect, suddenly said, “Did you not know that I was married?”
The sisters burst into a laugh.
“Ay! what a Sister!—always so full of spirit,” exclaimed the Mother Superior.
“Yes, Mother, I have been married for a month and three days to this fine young man whom you see. He has only one defect,” she added, growing grave, “and that is that he is a Gallegan!... But you would not think it, would you?”
“What a Sister!” again exclaimed some of the nuns. “How witty she is!—who would have said that she was married! Something has happened to her!”
“What! Don’t you believe me?”
The Sisters still laughed, giving me keen and mysterious glances.
“Well, then, this very instant I will prove it to you!” exclaimed my wife with a sudden impulse. And at the same time she threw her arms around my neck and began to give me some ringing kisses on the cheek, saying,—
“Rico mio! Isn’t it true that you are my husband? Isn’t it true that I am your little wife? Isn’t it true that we are married? Tell me, sweetheart! Tell me, my own life!”
While I, quite abashed, was trying to escape from her caresses, I heard exclamations of reproof, and saw that the nuns were flying in fright towards the portal. One of them, more intrepid, seized the cord of the curtain and pulled it with all her force. The curtain, as it shut together, likewise sent up a squeak of scandalised amazement.
I heard hurried steps and a sound of voices. Then nothing; it had grown silent.
My wife, laughing merrily and blushing at the same time, seized my hand and drew me out. We passed through the melancholy corridors in this way, ran down the stairs, passed through the great passageway, and when we found ourselves in the street I said to her, half vexed, “Child, how crazy you were! What got into you, to....”
“Forgive me, my dear,” she replied, still laughing and crimson. “They made me nervous. They might as well know that we were married as the priest who gave us his benediction.”
A. Palacio Valdés (Nineteenth Century).
Trans. Nathan Haskell Dole.