The Love Letters Read online

  “We must neither encourage nor discourage,” Father Pessanha said nervously.

  “Leave her alone,” Father Duarte warned. “Do not interfere with God.”

  “O God,” the abbess alone on her knees on her prie-dieu petitioned heaven, “can not the superior of a convent in this day and age expect moderation in anything? I am not looking for saints with their ecstasies—and what an odd ectasy this is—but only temperate and disciplined nuns who wish to dedicate well-ordered lives to you. And certainly in my niece I looked not for a mystic but for the next abbess. But it was you who sent me this child, and if you have sent this, too, then you will have to help me. Meanwhile I shall keep her busy.”

  So Mariana moved happily through the years and it was her very happiness that was most baffling to the abbess. She was as happy as a professed sister, and in very much the same unthinking way, as she had been when she was a child. Everything seemed to be a source of joy. She seldom noticed the weather, the dank cold in winter or the stifling heat in summer, except to delight in it. Therefore the day after the victorious parade, the day after she had seen the two young men on the black and white chargers ride by, it was completely puzzling to her that in chapel her habit seemed for the first time to be unbearably heavy. The stiffness of coif and wimple for the first time choked her. She opened her mouth and gasped unexpectedly like a beached fish, so that both Joaquina and Beatriz turned to look at her in surprise. This wandering of attention was not unusual for Joaquina, who was more aware of what went on outside her than within her, but Beatriz’s beautiful and rather stern concentration was seldom broken.

  Mariana closed her mouth and started to pray silently, but her mind would not rest on any of the familiar words.—It’s the battle, she told herself,—and the excitement of seeing the soldiers. It’s seeing Baltazar so close and not being able to speak to him. It’s—Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus …”

  Slowly the old peace began to settle about her, as tangible as the long golden rays of the early morning filtering dustily through the chapel windows, and she slipped, almost without realizing it, from formal prayers into her practice, unbroken since childhood, of talking to God in much the same unthinking way that she had prattled as a child to the sisters, for God was less strange to her than they.

  —Dearest my Lord, they were so beautiful. They kept riding through my dreams, the horses pranced, and the black horse neighed and sometimes his nostrils breathed flames. It is all right, isn’t it, to have dreamed about it? For isn’t it you who send me my dreams? Does it have to be all difficult, the way it is for Joaquina, for it to be worth anything? The soldiers riding by—I loved them in my dreams—I love them now—

  From her stall the abbess rang her tiny silver bell in signal that the Divine Office was to begin, and Sister Isabella, old as Mother Escolastica, and almost blind with cataracts, rang the brilliant brass bell for the Office.

  “O Lord, make speed to save us,” the abbess sang.

  “O God, make haste to help us,” the sisters returned, making the sign of the cross. The Divine Office began.

  Mariana sang. Peace was over her again like a mantle. Beatriz participated with the usual cool concentration that bordered on detachment from God as much as from man. Joaquina’s eyes flickered to Mariana on her right, to little Michaela on her left. The abbess’s eyes never left her diurnal, but nevertheless every sister in the chapel felt naked under her pale blue scrutiny.

  “Mine eyes long sore for thy word, saying, O when wilt thou comfort me?” sang the nuns across the choir from Mariana.

  “For I am become like a bottle in the smoke …” came the response.

  She was, indeed, not seeing or thinking clearly. In the middle of teaching French to the older girls she broke off halfway through a phrase and raised her head, listening, as a clatter of horses’ hooves was heard out in the street. She stood up, at least remembering to bow to the children, to say, “Excuse me for a moment, girls, I will be right back. Sofia, go on with the translation—” She left the room and hurried down the vaulted corridor, her swift stride accelerating. She ran, ran, up the stairs, out onto the balcony. It was an hour when everybody was, or ought to have been, busy, and the balcony was empty.

  She hurried over to the balustrade and looked down into the street as the horse clopped over the cobblestones, a black horse ridden by a French soldier.

  The French soldier who had ridden beside Baltazar.

  As the rider reached the convent he slowed the horse down and looked up to the balcony. When he saw that a nun was standing there he reined in so abruptly that the beast reared and seemed, for a moment, to go out of control. Then the soldier mastered him. The horse stood there, panting, pawing, while the Frenchman looked towards the balcony. He did not stand in his stirrups or wave, but he looked at Mariana deliberately, steadily. The sun struck against a fresh scar that slashed across his cheek. Then he spurred his horse and galloped off.

  Late that afternoon the abbess sent for Mariana.

  “Would you like to go to your father’s house and bring Peregrina back?”

  Mariana looked startled. “Of course. If you wish me to.”

  “It will be your first visit in some time, and you can thank your father for it. I asked to have Peregrina returned this morning, and he has as usual disregarded my instructions. How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”

  “A long time, your Reverence. At least six months.”

  “I cannot presume to be judgmental about him, particularly since I understand him with my blood as well as my mind. Do you know why your visits to his house have been so few and far between?”

  “Yes, your Grace. I think so.”

  “How do you feel about going home now? Secure enough?”

  Mariana did not answer directly. Instead she said, “I want to see Baltazar.”

  “You love him very much?”

  “You know I do. He’s never hurt me or upset me. Neither Baltazar nor you.”

  The abbess started to dismiss her, then stopped. “I should have spoken to you about this before, and I’m sorry to bring it up now, but it has come to my attention that you and Sister Joaquina are sometimes irritable with each other. What is it all about? You know that I cannot allow anything like this.”

  “I know, your Reverence. It’s my fault. I seem to Sister Joaquina to—not to take things seriously enough.”

  “Is she justified?”

  “I don’t think so. Not really. It’s because I take things so very seriously that perhaps I appear to be too lighthearted about them.”

  “Yes. I understand that.” The abbess leaned back in her carved chair. She looked tired. The bruised lids dropped heavily over the pale blue of the eyes. The lines between the beaked nose and the warm mouth were drawn tight. “You must try to help her, child.”

  “I’m the last one to help her, your Reverence.”

  “And should be the first.”

  Mariana said, with some hesitancy, “She feels that because I’m your niece, and therefore almost your daughter in blood as well as in spirit, that—”

  The abbess cut her off, eyes sparking, voice sharp. “That is not true! I have never let this influence me.”

  “I know you haven’t, your Reverence, and the other sisters know it, too, especially the ones who’ve known me since I first came here.”

  The young nun looked slowly around the quiet room. Nothing had changed since the days when she had run toddling in, unmindful of position and authority, to scramble with unhesitating assurance into her aunt’s lap.

  “But Sister Joaquina is so—so unsure of herself that it helps her to think that when you are gentle with me and a little harsh with her it is because I am of your blood and she is not.”

  “Yes. Poor Sister Joaquina.” The abbess sighed and smiled, her head still leaning back against the dark wood of the chair. It was unusual for her to reveal weariness. “I have
been aware of this for some time now. It’s a strange thing: Sister Joaquina feels that because of the generosity of her father’s dowry, which, I’m afraid, was to get her off his hands, she is entitled to special privilege. She is entitled to no more than any other choir sister.”

  Mariana was seated on her usual low stool near her aunt. Without looking up she asked, “Shouldn’t our dowry be the gift of ourselves, rather than money?”

  The abbess answered briskly, “It should, and I’m sure that to our Lord it is. Nevertheless we have to eat. The tuition of the students doesn’t begin to meet our needs. We are dependent on the dowries of the choir sisters and the gifts of their families. Dom Alipio is generous in his gifts. Conscience money? Perhaps. In any case, I cannot afford to refuse him. I see that this shocks you. Good.”

  “I hadn’t realized—”

  “No. You have been overprotected. It is time for your real training to begin, now. I hope I haven’t put it off for too long. In many ways it is a pity that because you are an Alcoforado it is taken for granted that you will be abbess after me. I do not think, fortunately, that Dom Alipio has any ambitions for poor Sister Joaquina here. Certainly the thought is an impossible one. No. It is Sister Beatriz, with her man’s way of thinking and making decisions, her lack of illusion, who would probably make a better politician than you. But there is no money or blood, no family backing behind her. This is the world we live in, and you must face this. You know, child, an abbess must be a politician as well as a Bride of Christ.”

  “But this is wrong!” Mariana cried.

  “Oh, no, and you’ll come to realize this as you grow older.”

  “How?”

  The abbess drummed her fingers lightly on the arm of her chair. “You’re very young for your age, child. You’re quite right when you compare yourself to the children you love so dearly. Without a strong abbess a religious community will fall apart. You know that, don’t you?”

  Mariana looked at the abbess imploringly, but said, “Yes, your Reverence.”

  The abbess’s hooded lids almost covered the icy blue and she did not see her niece’s gaze. “There is nothing easy in a life dedicated to Christ, and doing many things that seem to take me far from the business of the spirit and into the business of the world is part of my way of serving him. Do you see?”

  Now she looked directly at Mariana, who flinched. “I’m trying.”

  “It is particularly difficult at this moment in time, when it would seem that to serve Christ one must deal with more than one master. Our bishop is not recognized by Rome, nor should he be. It is a trying position.”

  “You haven’t told me this before,” Mariana said wonderingly. “Why?”

  “I’ve been waiting for the right moment. Now that the Spaniards are finally being pushed out of the Alentejo the time has come. I need not say that you are not to talk of this.”

  “Of course not, your Reverence.”

  “Are you disturbed by what I have said?” As the girl did not answer, the abbess continued, “If I must confuse and upset you, I must. But there is no need for any other of the young sisters to be worried by the problems you will have to handle singly one day. I must begin to teach you. I can see that it is going to be even more difficult than I had thought. You know, my child, it is sometimes easier for me to understand Sister Joaquina’s struggles than your simple acceptance of your vocation.”

  Catching her breath, Mariana said, “You have only yourself to blame for that.”

  “I?”

  “I’ve been with you since I was a small child. All my real life has been under your influence. Whereas Sister Joaquina left her father’s world only a short time ago.”

  “No, child, it’s not that easy.”

  Mariana forced a smile. “No?”

  “The world has always been at our doorstep, and it has been neither desirable nor possible to keep it out. We are a teaching order, and we have always maintained close contact with the world. It is our one hope of changing it.”

  Mariana murmured, “Sometimes I wish it weren’t quite so close.” The abbess looked at her sharply, but Mariana raised her head and continued, “I’ll try to be more patient with Sister Joaquina.”

  “You must love her.”

  Mariana looked across the room at the crucifix. “I know that I should have learned more about love. Sometimes I think that I don’t understand it at all.”

  “Then learn with Sister Joaquina. There is no virtue in loving the lovable.”

  “I know …”

  “Remember that in choosing his disciples, our Lord showed us that he could love even where it was most difficult. Remind yourself that one of the disciples was a tax collector for the Romans, and about as popular with his countrymen as a Spanish agent with us. Nevertheless our blessed Saviour gave him love. Remind yourself that he could love and give the keys of his kingdom to a man who was to deny him thrice in one night, and that he could love even the man he knew would be his betrayer.” She paused, looking thoughtfully at Mariana, at the pattern surrounding the girl on the tesselated floor. Mariana’s hand fell lightly to her side, her fingers touching the floor, her index finger moving gently in the small hole in the pattern where one of the tesserae was missing.

  The girl stirred under the probing gaze, but did not speak until the abbess asked, “Sister Mariana, is something troubling you?”

  Mariana looked away, raising her fingers from the floor and locking her hands about her knees. “Why, your Reverence?”

  “You seem not quite yourself.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Is it anything you would like to talk about?”

  “No. I don’t think so. Not yet, at any rate.”

  “You are seeing Father Duarte tomorrow?”

  “Yes, your Reverence.”

  “You will discuss whatever it is with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I need not worry.” But a questioning ran through the statement.

  Perhaps the unanswered question was what caused the abbess herself to see Mariana off that evening, to stand, keeping the young nun at the gates, while the carriage waited.

  “You do not question my sending you home tonight?”

  “No, your Reverence. Of course not.”

  “Of course. You say it so easily. I put your obedience to the test more often than that of any other of the younger sisters, and yet it has never really been tested, has it?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Nor do I,” the abbess said. “What I mean is that it has never been difficult, has it, for you to obey?”

  “No, your Reverence, but—”

  “Yes?”

  “It is no virtue in me.”

  The abbess’s voice was as cold as her eyes. “I never said it was.” She took Mariana’s arm and herself helped the girl up the high step and into the carriage, then stood by the open door as calmly and unhurriedly as though they were in the quiet of her study. The coachman stood aside, respectfully, though undoubtedly his ears were cocked. The abbess spoke almost as though to herself. “It will not become a virtue until it is put to the test. It is too simple for you. Sister Michaela obeys because it is safe for her to obey and she longs for safety. Sister Beatriz obeys her own will to obey. She will have to watch for spiritual pride. But she is aware of this. For Sister Joaquina all obedience, even over the most trivial things, is a hurdle.”

  She looked once again at Mariana in the shadows of the carriage, leaning forward so that she could listen. “All right, child. Go. And God be with you. I will see you in the morning.”

  She shut the carriage door and gave an imperious gesture to the coachman, who mounted his box and cracked his whip. The carriage jolted out of the convent gates and through the streets of Beja.

  The gates to the Alcoforado villa were, like the gates of the convent, elaborately wrought iron swung between two heavy white pillars, one pillar attached to a small gatehouse. The convent coachman climbed down from the carriage a
nd rang the bell, and Serafino, the old gatekeeper, shuffled out to let them in. He had known Mariana all her life and had to come to the carriage window to greet her, to be blessed by her, to exclaim over her, his old voice cracking with age and pleasurable emotion.

  Mariana, nervous, impatient, tried to be gentle with him. At last he let her go and the carriage moved on up the long straight drive, sandy, rutty, and bordered on either side by tall poplars. Almost all the windows of the villa spilled out light, and Mariana could hear music and voices. Evidently a party was in progress; a solitary evening, she knew, was anathema to her father, and Ana Maria, Mariana’s sister, and Ana’s husband, Rui de Melo Lobo Freire, entertained for the old man constantly.

  Rui was at the door to meet Mariana. He was always courteous with her, overformal. To Mariana’s knowledge he had never been to visit Nossa Senhora da Conceição or any other convent, and she had a feeling that he was not sure how he ought to treat a nun. Now he kissed her hand as though he were courting her and drew her into the large front hall. The double doors to the ballroom on the right were open, and a couple, the man in Portuguese officer’s uniform, whirled by in a dance, broke apart, and the officer ran to Mariana, flung his arms around her and kissed her, first on one cheek, then the other.

  “Baltazar!” Mariana cried joyfully.

  “My darling girl,” Baltazar said, gently disengaging her and gesturing to Rui to take care of his partner. “I’d made plans to come see you tomorrow.”