During the first days of her visit she said nothing about painful
things--never mentioning my marriage, or what had happened since she saw
me last.
Her talk was generally about our old school and my old schoolfellows,
many of whom came to the convent for her "retreats," which were under
the spiritual direction of one of the Pope's domestic prelates.
Sometimes she would laugh about our Mother of the Novices who had
"become old and naggledy"; sometimes about the little fat Maestro of the
Pope's choir who had cried when I first sang the hymn to the Virgin,
("Go on, little angel,"); and sometimes about the two old lay sisters
(now quite toothless) who still said I might have been a "wonderful
washerwoman" if I had "put my mind to it."
I hate to think that my dear Reverend Mother was doing this consciously
in order to break down my defences, but the effect was the same. Little
by little, during the few days she was with me, she bridged the space
back to my happy girlhood, for insensibly I found myself stirred by the
emotions of the convent, and breathing again the air of my beloved Rome.
Pages:
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053