“There are many orders of nuns2 in Rome,” answered the Father, reflectively, “each with a particular aim and purpose. There are sisters who nurse the sick, and others who educate children. It seems to me that the order most suited in your case is that of the S?urs Mauves. They lead very secluded3 lives, pray a great deal, and keep watch, night and day, over the Holy Sacrament. You can see them every day at Vespers in their Church of Santa Petronilla in the Via Gallia.”
Trembling with emotion, Irene turned her steps towards this convent, half afraid of her[72] own first impression. When she entered, the church was almost empty. A few stray old men and old women were dreaming on chairs, waiting for the service. Like most modern Roman churches, Santa Petronilla was ablaze4 with gilding5 and profusely6 decorated with pictures. On either side, up above, were galleries of quite theatrical7 appearance, painted mauve and white, the colours of the convent. A transparent8, high, carved partition divided the church into two parts: the one nearest the entrance for the public, the other, nearest the altar, for the nuns. At present, all was dark and empty, only one feeble taper9 was burning on the altar.
Irene took a seat in the first row, quite close to the partition, and prepared to contemplate10 her future surroundings. It was a long time before the silence was broken by the slow, dull sound of the church bells. The altar was suddenly brightly illuminated11, and a procession of nuns appeared through the door. They entered in couples, knelt for a moment, one couple at a time, before the altar, and then slowly, gracefully13,[73] with soundless footsteps, made their way to their places. They were dressed in white robes with long trains, and wide mauve borders. White veils hid their faces, and fell at the back in graceful12 folds over their trains. These veils were so thick, that it was impossible to distinguish the ages of their wearers. With soft white hands, the nuns clasped the golden crosses on their breasts, as they slowly sank into their places, threw back their veils, and, directing their gaze to the altar, remained immovable in the most graceful of poses. Somewhere in the distance an organ began to play, and an invisible choir14 sang a prayer, or, rather, a beautiful Italian operatic air.
Something long forgotten stirred restlessly in Irene’s heart. “But these are my vestal virgins15!” she thought, with a thrill of emotion—those beloved vestal virgins that had always so deeply appealed to her imagination, and whose disappearance16 she had so often regretted. It seemed to her that no reforms and no amount of progress could ever give back to women the high position occupied in ancient Rome by the handmaidens of the[74] goddess Vesta. Everyone had bowed before them; with a movement of the hand they had the power to pardon prisoners condemned17 to death; they were present at all ceremonies, games, and performances, and formed the principal ornament18 of the Courts of the Roman Emperors. And here, suddenly, Irene had found them again, less mighty19 and less dazzling, perhaps, but more mysterious instead, and more poetical20.
The service continued, and the church gradually filled with people: elegant ladies, dirty workmen, little old men and little old women, even small children brought there by religious nurses. They all joined in the hymns21, and sang with the nuns. There was something strange and touching22 in the mingling23 of all those hoarse24, old, untrained voices with the soft music of the choir, descending25, like the song of angels, from the mauve gallery. Many of the worshippers were weeping bitterly, on their knees. From time to time the singing stopped, and one of the nuns, opening a prayer-book, read a prayer, in a soft, melodious26 voice. Irene watched her[75] future companions with great emotion. They seemed so dignified27, so refined, so completely comme il faut; life among them, indeed, promised to be charming. Nothing in their habits and manners could ever jar on her or shock her. She remembered, with a shudder28, the Russian nuns who wander from village to village, collecting money for the building of churches, lifting their dirty dresses high, and showing their equally dirty, red, rough, thick peasant legs.
The service came to an end. Slowly, gracefully, the white dignified figures of the S?urs Mauves floated away and disappeared. In their places appeared several fat, active little nuns, in short black robes, with enormous mauve bows and little white veils. They extinguished the candles, running from one candlestick to another, never forgetting their reverend genuflexion when passing the altar.
“Serving-women,” thought Irene, and the thought pleased her that she would not, even in the convent, cease to be a lady accustomed to the services of a maid. For a[76] moment she was ashamed of the thought, but immediately justified29 herself: “Of course all idea of dirty work is impossible in those long snowy robes, those white slippers30, and floating, shimmering31 veils!”
It was a still, warm evening, and the stars were beginning to show themselves in the dark blue sky when Irene left the church. There was peace in her soul as she breathed in the balmy Southern air. “Thank God!” she said to herself. “At last I have found my vocation32. What matter if I do not sufficiently33 believe? The principal thing is to sing, to read prayers, and to touch the hearts of all those unhappy, suffering people, who come to pray with the nuns, believing in their purity and saintliness.”
Almost all unmarried women of a certain age suffer secret torments34 from the fact that they have actually no place in society. Irene was no exception to this rule, and she was happy at the thought that now, at last, she might be of some use in the service of humanity. To have a special uniform—an idea always dear to the Russian heart—was[77] also a great attraction. In imagination she tried on the picturesque35 dress of those modern vestal virgins, making up her mind to be graceful, to float about like a white spirit, to sing, and to read prayers melodiously36.
From that day, Irene never missed a single evening service in the Via Gallia. The nuns were inaccessible37 to outsiders, and no stranger was ever admitted to the convent—an additional fact to play upon Irene’s fancy. The convent stood on a hill. Luxurious38 palms and fragrant39 Roman pines leaned over its high garden walls, and Irene saw, in imagination, the small, interior courtyard, with its covered verandah, its slim, carved columns, its murmuring fountain, its Southern foliage40 and flowers. She pictured to herself the early morning; she heard the measured tones of the melodious convent bells calling the sisters to prayer; then she thought of the evening, of a golden Roman sunset, a purple sky, faint, glistening41 stars, and the Ave Maria.…
How beautiful, how poetical, seemed her future life, with its prayers, its meditations,[78] its rapturous exaltation, its Gospel-readings, its soft singing, its incense42! An enchanted43 existence in a Southern clime, a sweet, mystical dream, and then—death, followed by a probable awakening44 to some new and glorious life!
The news of Irene’s decision created a great sensation in her pension. Although nothing was definitely settled between herself and Père Etienne, everyone else knew which order she had chosen, and on which day she was to be received. Some even went so far as to name the dressmaker who was making her convent robes. They all constantly stared at Irene, and pointed45 her out to their visitors.
One afternoon, she happened to accompany Père Etienne to the hall-door, at the hour when the complicated business of afternoon tea was in progress. Small bamboo tables were scattered46 about between Chinese screens and immense palms, and at one of these tables, some distance away from the door, sat a good-natured, pleasant little Russian old lady, giving tea to a fellow-countryman,[79] a tall, handsome, energetic, young-looking Russian of about forty, with an occasional grey thread in his thick, dark hair. The old lady, with a whispered remark, pointed Irene out to her visitor. He looked round with some curiosity, and then muttered, with a frown:
“What is this stupid, new fashion? Our women seem unable to look at a Roman priest without renouncing47 Orthodoxy!”
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1
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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melodiously
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inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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38
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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40
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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41
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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42
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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43
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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44
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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45
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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46
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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47
renouncing
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的现在分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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