My dear Marianna,
I promised to write to you, and, you see, I’m keeping my promise! In the three weeks I’ve spent here, running about the countryside – alone! all alone, mind you! – from dawn till dusk, sitting on the grass beneath these huge chestnut trees, listening to the birds singing with happiness, as they hop about, like me, giving thanks to the good Lord, I haven’t found a moment, not a single moment, to tell you that I love you a hundred times more, now that I’m far away from you, and don’t have you beside me every hour of the day, as I used to, there, in the convent. How happy I should be if you were here with me, gathering wild flowers, chasing butterflies, daydreaming in the shade of these trees when the sun beats down, and strolling arm in arm on these lovely evenings, by moonlight, with no other sound but the droning of insects – a melodious sound to me, because it means that I’m in the countryside, out in the open air – and the song of that melancholy bird I don’t know the name of, but which brings the sweetest tears to my eyes when I stand at my window at night, listening to it. How beautiful the countryside is, Marianna! If only you were here with me! If only you could see these mountains, in the moonshine or at sunrise, and the ample shade of the woods, and the azure-blue of the sky, and the green of the vines hidden in the valleys, all around the little houses, and the deep-blue of the sea glistening far away in the distance, and all these villages climbing up the sides of the mountains – big mountains that seem tiny beside our majestic old Etna! If only you could see how beautiful our Mount Etna is at close quarters! From the belvedere at the convent, it appeared to be a huge, isolated peak, always snowcapped. Now I can count the tops of all the little mountains around it. I can see its deep valleys and wooded slopes, its proud summit on which the snow, reaching down into the gullies, marks out great brown patches.
Everything here is beautiful – the air, the light, the sky, the trees, mountains and valleys, and the sea! When I thank the Lord for all these beautiful things, I do so with a word, a tear, a look, alone in the middle of the countryside, kneeling on the moss in the woods, or sitting on the grass. I think that the good Lord must be more pleased, because I thank him with my whole heart, and my thoughts are not imprisoned beneath the dark vault of the chancel, but reach up into the lofty shade of these trees, and out into all the vastness of this sky and these horizons. They call us God’s chosen, because we’re destined to be wedded to the Lord, but did not the good Lord create all these beautiful things for everybody? And why should his brides be deprived of them?
Oh goodness! How happy I am! Do you remember Rosalia, who tried to convince us that the world outside the convent had greater charms? We couldn’t imagine it, do you recall? And we laughed at her! If I hadn’t been out of the convent, I’d never have believed it possible that Rosalia was right. Our world was so restricted: the little altar, those poor flowers, deprived of fresh air, languishing in their vases, the belvedere from which we could see a mass of rooftops, and then away in the distance, as though in a magic lantern, the countryside, the sea, and all the beautiful things that God created. And there was our little garden, a hundred paces from end to end, and purposely arranged, it seemed, so that the walls of the convent could be seen above the trees, where we were allowed to stroll for an hour under the supervision of the novice mistress, but without being able to run about and enjoy ourselves. And that was all!
And, you know … I’m not sure that we were right not to give a little more thought to our families. It’s true, I’ve had the greatest misfortune of all the postulants, because I lost my mother. But I feel now that I love my papa much more than I love Mother Superior, my sisters and my confessor. I feel that I love my dear papa with more trust and greater fondness, even though I can’t claim to have had close contact with him for more than three weeks. You know that I was put inside the convent before I had even turned seven, when I was left on my own by my poor mama. They said they were giving me another family, and other mamas who would love me … Yes, that’s true … But the love I feel for my father makes me realize how very different my poor mother’s affection would have been.
You can’t imagine the feeling inside me when my dear papa wishes me good morning and gives me a hug. As you know, Marianna, no one there ever used to hug us. It’s against the rule … Yet I can’t see what’s wrong with feeling so loved.
My stepmother is an excellent woman, because she’s only concerned about Giuditta and Gigi, and lets me run about the vineyards as I please. My God! If she forbade me, as she forbids her children, to go skipping across the fields, in case they should fall, or catch sunstroke – I’d be very unhappy, wouldn’t I? But she’s probably kinder and more lenient with me because she knows that I won’t be able to enjoy these pleasures for long, and that I’ll be going back to being shut up inside again …
But don’t let’s think of such horrible things. Now I’m cheerful and happy, and I’m amazed at how everyone’s afraid of the cholera and curses it … Thank goodness for the cholera that brought me here, into the countryside! If only it would go on all year!
No, that’s wrong! Forgive me, Marianna. Who knows how many poor people are in tears while I laugh and have fun? My God! I must be really perverse if I can’t be happy except when everyone else is suffering. Don’t tell me that I’m wicked. I only want to be like everyone else, nothing more, and to enjoy these blessings that the Lord has given to us all – fresh air, light, freedom!
See how sad my letter’s become, without my noticing. Don’t pay any attention, Marianna. Skip right over that bit, which I shall put a big cross through, like so … Now, to make up for that, I’ll show you round our lovely little house.
You’ve never been to Monte Ilice, poor thing! What ever were your parents thinking of, taking you off to Mascalucia? A village, with houses backing on to other houses, streets, and churches – we’ve seen far too much of that! You should have come here, to the country, in the mountains, where to get to the nearest house you have to run through vineyards, jump across ditches, climb over walls, where there’s no sound of carriages, or of bells ringing, nor voices of strangers, of any outsiders. Such is the countryside! We live in a pretty little house on the hillside, among vineyards, on the edge of the chestnut grove. It’s a tiny little house, but so airy, and bright, and gay. From every door and window you can see the countryside, mountains, trees, and sky, and not just walls, those grim, blackened walls! In front there’s a little lawn and a group of chestnut trees that cover the roof with an umbrella of branches and leaves, in which little birds twitter all the blessed day, without ever tiring. I have a sweet little room, that my bed only just fits into, with a wonderful window looking out over the chestnut grove. My sister Giuditta sleeps in a lovely big room next to mine, but I wouldn’t swop my little box, as papa jokingly calls it, for that lovely room of hers. Anyway, she needs plenty of space for all her dresses and hats, while I have only to fold my tunic on a stool at the foot of my bed, and I’m done. But at night, when I listen at the window to all those leaves rustling, and amid the shadows that take on fantastic shapes I glimpse a moonbeam slipping through the branches like a white ghost, and when I listen to that nightingale trilling away in the distance, my head is filled with such imaginings, with such dreams and enchantments, that if I weren’t afraid, I’d gladly stay at the window until daybreak.
On the far side of the lawn there’s a pretty cottage with a roof of straw and rushes, where the steward’s little family lives. If only you could see it – you’d see how tiny it is, and yet so clean, and how neat and tidy everything is there! The baby’s cradle, the straw mattress, the work-table! I’d swop my little room for that cottage. I think that family, living together on those few square feet of land, must love each other all the more and be much happier; that in that limited space all their feelings must be deeper, and more absolute; that to a heart overwhelmed and almost bewildered by the daily spectacle of that vast horizon, it must be a joy and a comfort to withdraw into itself, to take refuge in its affections, within the confines of a small space, among the few objects that form the most intimate part of its identity, and that it must feel more complete in being near to them.
What is all this? What ever am I writing, Marianna? You’ll be laughing at me and calling me a female Saint Augustine. My dear friend, forgive me. My heart’s so full that I succumb, without realizing it, to the need to impart to you all the new emotions that I’m experiencing. During the first few days after I left the convent and came here, I was overawed, dazed, in a dream, as though transplanted to another world. I was disturbed and confused by everything. Imagine someone born blind, and who by a miracle starts to see! Now I’ve grown familiar with all these new impressions. Now my heart feels lighter, and my soul purer. I talk to myself, and I examine my conscience – not the timid, fearful way we used to in the convent, full of repentance and remorse; I examine it with contentment and happiness, praising the Lord for these blessings, and with the sense of being raised up to Him by the shedding of a tear, or by simply gazing at the moon and the starry firmament.
My God! Could this joyfulness be a sin? Could the Lord possibly be offended to see that rather than the convent, rather than silence, solitude and contemplation, I prefer the countryside, fresh air, and my family! If our kind-hearted old confessor were here, perhaps he could resolve my perplexity and dispel my confusion, perhaps he could advise and comfort me … Whenever these doubts assail me, whenever I’m tormented by these uncertainties, I pray to the Lord for His enlightenment, help and guidance. Will you also pray for me, Marianna?
Meanwhile, I give Him praise and thanks and glory, I entreat Him to let me die here, or, if I must take my solemn vows and renounce these blessings for ever, to give me the strength and willingness and resignation to shut myself away in the convent and dedicate myself utterly to Him alone. I’ll not be worthy of such grace; I’ll be a sinner … but when, at nightfall, I see the steward’s wife reciting the rosary, seated by the hearth on which her husband’s soup is cooking, with her eldest boy on her lap and her baby asleep in the cradle that she rocks with her foot, I think the prayers of that woman – calm, serene and full of gratitude for the good Lord’s bounty – must rise up to Him much purer than mine, which are full of misgivings, anxieties and yearnings that ill become me as a postulant, and that I can’t completely defend myself against.
Look what a long letter I’ve written to you! Now, don’t be cross with me any more, and send me back an even longer letter than mine. Tell me about yourself and your parents, your pleasures and your little troubles, as we used to every day in the convent, in recreation time, with our arms around each other. You see, I feel as though I’ve had a long chat with you, holding hands, just as before, and that you’ve been listening with that cheerful and mischievous little smile on your lips, as usual. So chat to me, send a good four pages (I shan’t settle for any less, mind!) telling me everything you would have said to me. Give me all your news. Tell me what you see, what you think, how you spend the time, whether you’re bored, or enjoying yourself, whether you’re contented, and as happy as I am – whether you ever think of your friend Maria. Tell me the colour of your dress, because I know that you have one, now that you’re a real young lady! Tell me whether you have lovely flowers in your garden, whether Mascalucia has chestnut trees, as we do here, and whether you took part in the grape harvest. You talk, and I’ll listen. Don’t keep me waiting on tenterhooks for too long.
Farewell, farewell, my dear Marianna, my beloved sister. I send you a hundred kisses, on condition that you return them.
Yours,
Maria