25.
Agata spends the last two weeks with her family
before beginning her cloistered life
and she encounters James
 

It had been decided well in advance that Agata would leave the convent to go to the Aviello home on exactly June 3, 1845.

Ever since it had become clear to the people closest to Donna Maria Crocifissa that the abbess did not have long to live, Angiola Maria had paid closer attention to the gossip of the cloister and, through trusted servingwomen, had maintained contacts and exchanges with the outside world. Among the novices, a wide array of rumors were circulating—that Agata’s mother had been given a sharp discount on her dowry as well as favorable terms on the payment of the installments, that her simple profession had been moved up for the convenience of a very important visitor, that a foreign power was interested in her, and even that the cardinal had paid the monastic dowry for his young relative in full. Angiola Maria warned Agata of what she was hearing, and encouraged her not to let the backbiters and gossips embitter her; she stayed especially close to Agata, when she could, and she had made Agata promise to report to her anything odd that might happen.

The evening before she was scheduled to leave the convent, Agata worked late in the pharmacy to make sure that she left everything in order. Angiola Maria had urged her to go, assuring her that she would make sure everything was taken care of and that she would bring her an infusion of herbal tea to help her sleep.

Agata said goodbye to the abbess and the nuns she loved the best. She still had to fill her trunks with all her possessions: she was afraid that someone might rummage through her things if she left them in her cell. Suddenly, she remembered that she had forgotten to say goodbye to Donna Maria Brigida, her now demented aunt. She found her curled up in the arms of her favorite servingwoman, Nina, a small pile of bones in a nightshirt, like a little naked baby bird, slumbering as she sucked her thumb. When Agata went back to her cell, she noticed on the night table, next to little boxes of herbal teas, packets of officinal herbs, and jars of tinctures to take as gifts for her sisters, a glass with a warm amber beverage. She felt sure that this was a kind thought on the part of Angiola Maria; deeply moved, she decided to write her a thank you note immediately. It was a time-consuming task, and it absorbed her attention—she had to use very clear handwriting and simple words for the functionally illiterate lay sister: she didn’t hear the knock on the door, nor did she hear the door being opened.

 

Agata was trying to come up with just the right word. Perhaps the best thing to do would be to take a break and sip some of that herbal tea. She reached out and picked up the glass. Like a vise grip, a powerful hand grabbed her arm and another hand yanked the glass out of her fingers; she resisted the unseen aggressor and the glass slipped out of her grip, shattering on the floor. Now Angiola Maria, down on all fours, was gathering up the shards of glass and crying. Agata was completely bewildered. Then she noticed a tray on the bed, a tray that Angiola Maria had been carrying: on it was another glass of herbal tea, almost the same color as the one she’d been about to drink, and then she understood. There was someone who wanted to hurt her. Angiola Maria tasted a bit of the liquid that had spilled on the ground. “That’s poison. I have more than just an idea of who it might have been.” She assured Agata that nothing like this would ever happen again, she would put a stop to it. She stayed to help Agata close and fasten her trunks and she watched as she drank the herbal tea. It had a wonderful effect. Agata fell asleep immediately.

 

Agata and Sandra were heading for the Aviello home, riding in the enclosed carriage that Aunt Orsola had once again put at their service. Agata looked out the window without pushing the curtain aside; the world appeared opaque. She was curious, but she was anxious, too. Naples had changed, and it was prettier now. The gaslights along the streets, a system that the French had put in, had been inaugurated six years earlier; now all the main streets had their own handsome lamp posts. People were dressed in a fashion she’d never seen; everyone looked a little better off. Gleaming and sumptuous new carriages rolled through the streets, there were more shops, fewer beggars; many of the façades of the palazzi had been rebuilt and new buildings were under construction. Sandra gripped her hand tightly; she told her that her mother and Carmela were waiting for her at home, while General Cecconi would arrive next week from Palermo, aboard the steamboat Rubattino. Then she fell silent. Agata turned to look at her; her sister’s eyes looked dead.

The concierge of the palazzo in which the Aviellos lived opened the carriage door with a sweeping bow. Dazzled by the light glancing off the white stone façade, and intimidated by the sight of men loitering on the sidewalk and inside in the courtyard, Agata hesitated. Then Sandra took her by the arm and they started upstairs. Her mother gave her a hug as if she’d just left an hour ago; her only comment was on how tall Agata had become–and she really had grown–with no reference to the past or the future. Carmela, now quite the young woman, latched onto her sister and followed her around like her shadow all day. Agata saw the signs of the passage of time on the faces of all three women: her mother’s lovely body had filled out almost to stoutness; sumptuously dressed, the Generalessa–as she was now called–still cut a very fine figure, but every so often a shadow passed over her eyes, and she clutched her bejeweled fingers together as if she were trying to hurt herself. Sandra had lost weight. Sloppily dressed and tense, she seemed pensive; but when the two sisters’ eyes met, Sandra still had a ready smile. Carmela had become a blooming thirteen-year-old girl with distinctively provincial manners, distinctly similar to her mother’s.

Those two weeks were supposed to be the final test of a postulant’s rejection of the worldly life, but actually for the first week Agata lived a semi-cloistered existence. She wasn’t allowed to go out into the city, or take walks or carriage rides. She received a few visits from relatives curious about her dowry—she was thought of as Messinese and therefore different—but no one was really interested in her.

When no visitors were scheduled to come, her mother and sisters went out, leaving Agata alone in the apartment. She was glad of it, because she already missed her solitude. She hesitantly approached the piano, and played somewhat gingerly; little by little she gained confidence and familiarity, but she was still far from the fluency she had once possessed. She read everything that came within reach and, when they were alone, she talked with her brother-in-law. At the age of forty, Tommaso Aviello was a handsome man with salt-and-pepper hair. Agata remembered him as someone who believed passionately in the pillars of Carboneria—the equality and dignity of all Italians, united in a state governed by a constitutional monarchy—and who was proud that in 1820 the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies was the first nation on earth to hold an election with universal suffrage, even for illiterates. She considered him a dreamer with his feet on the ground who managed to keep his sense of humor as well as a perceptive lawyer who was able to analyze and solve even the most complicated situations.

But now, Tommaso was discouraged. He had hoped that the king might understand that he had a chance to unify the peninsula by expanding his kingdom northward. But instead the king had retreated behind a wall of surly isolationism and, unsure of the loyalty of the royal armies, he had humiliated his soldiers and officers by hiring mercenaries and running up debts with the Rothschild banking house. He had gradually undermined the liberties that had been won by his people, while his police and secret services increased their ranks and their power with their successes: Mazzini’s popularity was plummeting, the Giovine Italia, the movement that he had founded, had been unsuccessful in not one but three attempted insurrectional coups, and Naples was no longer the headquarters of the Carboneria. Tommaso was afraid that the movement to which he had dedicated his life was about to be stamped out throughout Italy.

 

Then Tommaso screwed up his courage and began talking about Gioberti’s Primato degli italiani, the possibility of a customs union and federation between the Italian states with the Papal State at its head—but the pope was a reactionary. “Something is going to have to happen, the people are suffering and nationalism can no longer be suffocated. Naples is still teeming with secret societies. The king, humiliated by the English who rule the seas and control all commerce, behaves like their underling—he must shake off their rule; he will do it!” Tommaso seemed hopeful. After a while, though, he plunged back into his dark pessimism. “The internal situation is precarious. Like so many others, I’m going to have to consider exile. I may go to Tuscany. I’ve lost nearly all my clients, and I have a family to feed.” More than once he told Agata that he mistrusted General Cecconi, who had once been a reactionary, and was now making gestures of interest in the Carboneria. He was certainly a police spy.

 

Despite his bitter outbursts, Tommaso often went out alone, and when he did there was a bounce to his step; when he returned he was always in a good mood. Agata thought that it would be hard to rely on a man who went from depressed to exalted like that; she was worried about Sandra.

 

The arrival of General Cecconi, an older man with a handsome appearance, a snowy white beard and whiskers and bushy black eyebrows, brought about a change in her mother—Gesuela was wreathed in smiles, her voice was contented, and she hurried to satisfy all her husband’s slightest whims. She stayed at home and received visits from relatives and friends, where Agata was expected to look on. The general was utterly indifferent to Agata and Carmela, while he never missed an opportunity to talk to Tommaso and express gallant compliments to Sandra.

Agata happened to catch Sandra sobbing. She was sitting in an armchair, almost indifferent to Agata’s presence. Sandra seemed to be seeking some form of liberation. Agata didn’t ask, but Carmela later confided that Sandra was unhappy because her husband no longer loved her—she had heard her mother say it.

Agata found social conversations intolerable, along with affected manners and even the company of her family. She even began to miss the quiet of the cloister. And she began to yearn for it, desperately, when, during a visit to her Aunt Orsola, her mother informed her of the plans that her cousin the prince had made.

“Michele and Ortensia are going to hold a grand reception for an English duke of royal blood, who has come expressly to attend the ceremony for your simple profession,” her mother told her as they were eating ice cream.

“And just how did this Englishman find out about my simple profession?” Agata asked, suspiciously.

“Come, come, don’t put on such a face! The princes of Opiri have many connections with foreign royals, lots of them come to Naples. Michele must have spoken to them about you.” Gesuela looked to her sister-in-law for assistance, but none was forthcoming. Then, seeing that her daughter was anxious, she added: “It’s an honor, for all of us. I expect you to make me very proud of you.” Now General Cecconi weighed in; with his massive voice he explained to Agata that the recent resumption of diplomatic contacts with England and other European nations had increased the number and quality of foreign travelers to Naples and even to Palermo—royal yachts were frequent guests in the ports of the kingdom and many prestigious visitors came to winter in the new grand hotels or were invited to stay as guests in the palazzi of the nobility or else of wealthy businessmen and entrepreneurs. The general looked around haughtily and pretended not to notice Tommaso’s behavior: the minute he had begun speaking, Tommaso had turned his head to look out the window and seemed to be staring at the roof of the palazzo across the way.

Aunt Orsola, who until then had been off to one side, broke the silence: she offered to give Agata a chaste evening dress for the reception, and also said that she’d like to lend her a parure of amethyst and gold filigree. She asked if her niece could sleep at her house, the night of the reception.

Agata was not allowed to wear jewelry, and she was required to wear the dark outfit of the postulant, a short veil on her hair and on her feet the black leather monastic shoes, Gesuela replied, in a resentful tone of voice. Her husband intervened again, and persuaded her to grant at least her sister-in-law’s last request. That night, Agata could sleep at her aunt’s house.

 

The reception held by the princes of Opiri was magnificent. The enfilade of drawing rooms on the piano nobile of Palazzo Padellani, all opened for the occasion, reiterated infinitely in the large plate glass mirrors at the two extremities of the rooms, increased the luminosity of the bronze and crystal chandeliers in the style of the Emperor Napoleon—a gift from Murat to the prince of Opiri. Agata walked through the throng of guests flanked by the master and mistress of the house; after her, they were only waiting for the arrival of His Britannic Royal Highness. Dazzled by everything and deafened by the music of the quartet that was playing in the main ballroom, by the buzz of distant conversations, by the voices and the laughter of the groups near her, Agata could sense that she was about to swoon; but then she resolved to be strong and continued on. She moved mechanically and obeyed anyone who was near her—her cousins, her aunt Orsola, or anyone else. The sumptuousness of the palazzo decorated for gala festivities and the elegance of the guests made no particular impression on her, nor did the abundance of food. She exchanged kisses and hugs with strange women bedecked with jewels; she greeted with a grimace that was meant as a smile men who came close to look at her, and then in embarrassment extended their hands. Like a trained monkey, she bestowed a buona sera here, another buona sera there, a grazie, prego, and an arrivederci, and she responded to the compliments and best wishes of people she’d never seen in her life.

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.