CHAPTER XI

That year there was a marvellous harvest, and by the end of July the sun had burned the wheat into the very quintessence of gold, and every evening for a few moments the reflection of its dying rays transfigured it into a vision, so glorious, so radiant, that Dick, looking up from his fish, would exclaim to the dinner-table, “Good God! Look at the wheat!”

Thus must the memory of the corn of Cana, sown with symbols, heavy with memories and legends, radiant with gleams caught from the Golden City in the skies, have appeared to St. John dying in the desert.

Teresa, having, during her walks in the view, noticed a field of wheat from which a segment had already been cut, so that, with the foil of the flat earth beside it, she was able to see the whole depth of the crop, carried away an impression of the greater thickness of wheat-fields as compared to those containing the other crops; and this impression—strengthened by the stronger colouring of the wheat, for to the memory quality is often indistinguishable from quantity—lingering with her after she had got back to Plasencia, whence the view always appearedpintado, a picture, gave her the delusion of appreciating the actualpaint, not merely as a medium of representation, but as a beautiful substance in itself; as one appreciates it in a Monet or a Monticelli.

And all the time, silently, imperceptibly, like the processes of nature, the work of harvest was transforming the picture, till by the end of the first week in August many of the planes of unbroken colour had been dotted into shocks or garnered into ricks. The only visible agent of this transformation was an occasional desultory wain with a green tarpaulin tilt, meandering through the silent fields. Its progress through, and its relation to, or, rather, its lack of relation to, the motionless view gave Teresa an almost eerie sense of incongruity, and made her think of a vase of crimson roses she had sat gazing at one night in the drawing-room. The light of the lamp behind it had changed the substance of the roses into something so translucent that they seemed to be made of a fluid or of light. A tiny insect was creeping in and out among their petals, and as she watched it she had a sense of being mentally out of gear in that she could see simultaneously phenomena belonging to such different planes of consciousness as these static phantom flames and that restless creature of the earth—they themselves, at any rate, could neither feel or see each other.

Then they all went away—the Doña and Dick to join Hugh Mallam at Harlech, Jollypot to a sister in Devonshire, and Teresa to Cambridge to stay with Harry Sinclair.

The year began to pay the penalty of its magnificence; for “violent fires soon burn out themselves”; and Teresa, walking down the Backs, or punting up to Byron’s pool, or bicycling among the lovely Cambridgeshire villages, saw everywhere signs of the approach of autumn in reddening leaves and reddening fruits, and there kept running in her head lines from a poem of Herrick’s onLovers How They Come and Part.

They tread on clouds, and though they sometimes fall,They fall like dew, and make no noise at all.So silently they one to th’other comeAs colours steale into the Pear or Plum.

They tread on clouds, and though they sometimes fall,

They fall like dew, and make no noise at all.

So silently they one to th’other come

As colours steale into the Pear or Plum.

While she was there she met Haines (the man who ran the pastoral players). He had heard of her play from Guy, and was so importunate in his requests to be allowed to read it that she finally gave it to him.

Guy had been right—the need to publish or produce was biological: useless to fight against.

Haines liked it, and wanted to set his company working at it at once.

As one hypnotised, she agreed to all of his suggestions: “Cust says you have a lawn with a view which would make an excellent natural background ... I believe it would be the very thing. It’s a piece that needs very few properties—some cardboard trees for the orchard, a few bottles and phials for Trotaconventos’s house, and an altar to give the effect of a chapel in the last scene ... yes, it should be very nice on your lawn, I think folk will like it.”

Did he sayfolk? But, of course, it would obviously be a favourite word of his.

So,Folkwere to take a hand—Folkwere to spring up like mushrooms on the lawn of Plasencia, and embody her dreams!

A little shiver went down her spine.

“I am a fool, I am a fool, I am a fool,” she muttered.

They all came back to Plasencia at the beginning of September.

The Doña received the plan of the play’s being acted on her lawn with indulgent indifference; ever since they had been quite little her children had periodically organised dramatic performances. “Mrs. Moore can bring her Women’s Institute to watch it, and that should leave me in peace for this year, at any rate. I suppose we’d better have the county too, though wedidgive them cakes and ices enough at Concha’s wedding to last them their lifetime. What is this play of yours about, Teresa?”

“Oh ... old Seville,” she answered nervously, “a nunnery ... and ... and ... there’s a knight ... and there’s an old sort of ... sort of witch.”

“Aha! an old gipsy. And does she give the girls love potions?” And the Doña, her head a little on one side, contemplated her, idly quizzical.

“Yes, I daresay she does,” and Teresa gave a nervous laugh, “it’s anauto sacramentál,” she added.

The Doña looked interested: “Anauto sacramentál? That’s what they used to play in the old days in the Seville streets at Corpus Christi. Your great-grandmother de La Torre saw one of the last they ever did,” then she began to chuckle, “anauto sacramentálon an English lawn! Poor Mrs. Moore and her Women’s Institute! Still, it will be very good for them, I’m sure.”

Would she guess? She was horribly intelligent; but not literary, so there was hope—and yet ... that affective sensitiveness that, having taken the place for centuries of education and intellection, has developedin the women of Spain into what is almost a sixth sense....

Well, if she did guess it would be only what she knew already, and if she chose to draw false conclusions—let her!

But would she recognise herself? The mere possibility of this made Teresa blush crimson. But it was not her fault; she had not meant to draw her like that—it had grown on her hands.

And then she thought no more about it, but wandered through the garden and ripening orchard, muttering absently:

So silently they one to th’other come,As colours steale into the Pear or Plum.

So silently they one to th’other come,

As colours steale into the Pear or Plum.

After what seemed an interminable correspondence with Haines, it was settled that he should bring his company to act the play at the end of September. Teresa had tried hard to make the date an earlier or a later one; but it was not to be ... and perhaps ... who could tell?

Mrs. Moore was delighted that her Institute was to see a play about old Spain, and was sure that it would be most educative.

The idea of its being played before Mrs. Moore and a Women’s Institute amused Teresa; after all it was none of her doing, and she liked watching life when it was left free to arrange its own humorous combinations.

Concha and Rory, Arnold, Harry Sinclair, and Guy, all came to stay at Plasencia to see it; and twodays before the performance a telegram came from David, asking if they could put him up for a few nights.

The Doña frowned as she read it, and Guy looked at Teresa; but Concha and Rory begged that room might be made for him, “It will be his last beano, poor creature,” they said.

Well, if it was to be, it was to be. Once one ceases to strain against the chain of events, the peace of numbness creeps over one’s weary limbs, and anyway ... perhaps....

The day of the performance arrived; it was to begin at two o’clock.

All morning Teresa was busy with preparations; she could not help being amused by the tremendous importance that everything concerning it had for Haines—it was like Parker, who seemed to think the world should stop moving during the fitting-on in the sewing-room of a new blouse.

No one had time to go in the car to meet David; and they had already begun luncheon when he arrived. All the actors were there, so it was a large party, and he sat down on the Doña’s left hand, far away from Teresa. She noticed that he ate practically nothing. He looked much stronger than in the spring, and his expression was almost buoyant.

Before the audience arrived, and when the actors were dressing in the two tents pitched on the lawn, they got a few words together.

“I’ve come,” he said, smiling.

“Yes ... you’ve come,” she answered.

“So you’ve been writing a play—‘a chiel amang us takin’ notes’!” and he smiled down on her.

Then Mrs. Moore came bustling across the lawn, shepherding her Institute, a score of working womenin their Sunday finery, many of them carrying babies.

“How do you do, Teresa, what a glorious day! I saw dear Concha in church on Sunday; looking so bonny. It must be delightful having her back again. Well, this is a great surprise; we didn’t know you were an author; did we, Mrs. Bolton? We didn’t know Miss Lane wrote; did we? Well, we’re all very much looking forward to it; aren’t we, Mrs. Hedges? I don’t expect you’ve seen many plays before.”

“I sawEast Lynnewhen I was in service in Bedford,” said one woman proudly.

“I’ve seen that on the pictures,” said another.

Then the “gentry” began to arrive: “Whata day for your play!” “Oh, what asightyour Michaelmas daisies are! It really is a perfect setting for a pastoral play,” “Are there to be any country dances?” “Ah!youhave that single rose too ... it certainly is very decorative, but I thought Mr. Lane said ... ah! there he is, in flannels, wise man!” “Ah, there’s Mistress Concha, looking about sixteen, dear thing!—” “I do think it’s a splendid idea having the Institute women—it’s so good for them, this sort of thing.”

Then fantastic figures began to dart in and out of the two tents: a knight in pasteboard armour, a red cross painted on his shield, a friar with glimpses of scarlet hose under his habit—all of them “holy people of God,” all of them dead hundreds of years ago ...Folk, unmistakablyFolk.

Soon the audience was seated; the chattering ceased, and the play began.

This was the play:

Scene: Seville. Time: The Reign of Pedro the Cruel.

The court of the Convent of San Miguel: its floor is diapered with brightly-coloured tiles; in its centre is a fountain, round which are set painted pots of sweet basil, myrtle, etc., its walls are decorated with arabesques and mottoes in Arabic characters; against one wall is a little shrine containing a wooden virgin.Sister Assumcionis reading aloud from “Amadis de Gaul” to four nuns who are sitting round on rugs embroidering. A Moorish slave is keeping the flies from them with a large fan.

Sister Assumcion(reads): The hand then drew her in, and she was as joyful as though the whole world had been given her, not so much for the prize of beauty, which had been won, as that she had thus proved herself the worthy mate of Amadis, having, like him, entered the forbidden chamber, and deprived all others of the hope of that glory.

(Lays down the book): Well, and so that is the end of the fair Lady Oriana.

First Nun(with a giggle): Has any one yet put this reading of Amadis into their confession?

Sister Assumcion: More fool they then if they have; we may confess it now that we have reached the colophon. Better absolution for a sheep than a lamb. (They laugh).

Second Nun: Ah, well, ’tis but a venial sin, and when one thinks....

Third Nun: Ay, praise be to heaven for the humours that swell old abbesses’ legs and make them keep a-bed!

First Nun: Truly, since she took to her bed, therehave been fine doings in this house—it was but yesterday that we were reckoning that it must be close on five months since the Prioress has kept frater.

Third Nun: And Zuleica there, sent all through Lent to theMorería[1]or the Jews’ butcher for red meat ... and she was swearing it was all for her ape Gerinaldo!

First Nun: Yes, and the other night I could have sworn I heard the strains of a Moorish zither coming from her room and the tapping heels of ajuglaresa.

Fourth Nun(with a sigh): This house has never been the same since the sad fall of Sister Isabel.

First Nun: Ay, that must have been a rare time! Two brats, I think?

Second Nun: And they say her lying in was in the house of Trotaconventos.

Third Nun: Ah, well, as the common folk, and (with rather a spiteful smile) our dear Sister Assumcion would say: Who sleeps with dogs rises with fleas—and if we sin venially, why, the only wonder is that ’tis not mortally.

Second Nun: Be that as it may, if rumours reach the ears of the Archbishop there’ll be a rare shower of penances at the next visitation. Why, the house will echo for weeks to the mournful strains ofPlaceboandDirige, and there will be few of us, I fear, who will not forfeit our black veils for a season.

Fourth Nun: There is one will keep her black veil for the honour of the house.

Sister Assumcion(scornfully): Aye, winds strong enough to level the Giralda could not blow off the black veil of Sister Pilar.

Third Nun: And yet ... she is a Guzman, and the streets are bloody from their swords; they are a wild crew.

Fourth Nun: Yes, but a holy one—St. Dominic was a Guzman.

Sister Assumcion(mockingly): St. Martin! To the rescue of your little bird!... as the common folk and (with an ironical bow to the third nun) Sister Assumcion would say.

First Nun: What’s that?

Sister Assumcion: Why, it is but a little story that I sometimes think of when I look at Sister Pilar.

Second Nun: Let’s hear the story.

Sister Assumcion: Well, they say that one hot day a little martin perched on the ground under a tree, and, spreading out his wings and ruffling his little feathers, as proud as any canon’s lady at a procession in Holy Week, he piped out: Were the sky to fall I could hold it up on my wings! And at that very moment a leaf from the tree dropped on to his head, and so scared the poor little bird that he was all of a tremble, and he spread his wings and away he flew, crying: St. Martin! To the rescue of your little bird! And that is what we say in the country when folks carry their heads higher than their neighbours. (They laugh.)

(Pause.)

Second Nun: And yet has she kindly motions. Do you remember when the little novice Ines was crying her eyes out because she had not the wherewithal to buy her habit, and thought to die with shame in that she would need have to make her profession by pittances? Well, and what must Sister Pilar do but go to the friend of Ines, little Maria Desquivel, whose father, they say, is one of the richest merchants in Seville, feigning that for the good of her soul she would fain consecrate a purse of money, and some sundries bequeathed her by an aunt, to the profession of twonovices, and said that she would take it very kind if Maria and Ines would be these two. And so little Ines was furnished out with habit, and feather-bed, and quilt all powdered with stags’ heads and roses, and a coffer of painted leather, and a dozen spoons, and a Dominican friar to preach the sermon at her profession, without expending one blush of shame; in that she shared the debt with her rich friend. And then, too, with children she is wonderfully tender.

Fourth Nun(with a little shiver): But that cold gray eye like glass! I verily believe her thoughts are all ... for the last things.

Sister Assumciongives a little snort. Silence.Sister Pilarcomes out of the convent behind the group of nuns, and approaches them unobserved.

Fourth Nun(musing): And yet, that book, by a monk long dead, about the miracles of Our Lady ... it shows her wondrous lenient to sin, let but the sinners be loud enough in her praise ... there was the thief she saved from the gallows because he had said so many Aves.

Sister Pilar: Buthewas not in religion.

(They all give starts of surprise.)

Second Nun: Jesus! How you startled me!

Third Nun: I verily believe you carry a heliotrope and walk invisible.

Sister Assumcion(a note of nervousness perceptible through the insolence of her voice): And are those in religion to have, forsooth, a smaller share in the spiritual treasure of the Church than thieves?

Sister Pilarsits down without answering.

Second Nun(smiling): Well?

Sister Pilar: They say there was once a giant, so strong that he could have lifted the Sierra Morena and placed them on the Pyrenees, but one day he happened on a little stone no bigger than my nail, but so firmly was it embedded in the ground that all his mighty strength availed him nothing to make it budge an inch.

Sister Assumcion: And that little stone is the sin of a religious?

Sister Pilar(with a shrug): Give it whatever meaning tallies with your humour. (She opens a book and begins to read it.)

Sister Assumcion(yawning): I’m hungry. Shall I send Zuleica to beg some marzipan from the Cellaress, or shall I possess my soul and belly in patience until dinner-time?

First Nun(jocosely): For shame! Gluttony is one of the deadly sins, is it not, Sister Pilar?

Sister Pilarkeeps her eyes fixed on her book without answering.Jaime Rodriguezenters by door to left. Flutter among nuns.

Jaime Rodriguez: Christ and His Mother be with you, my daughters. (Sits down and mops his brow.) ’Tis wondrous cool and pleasant in your court. (He gives a shy glance atSister Pilar, but she continues to keep her eyes on her book. Turns to fourth nun.) Well, daughter, and what of the cope you promised me?

Second Nun(holding up her embroidery): See! It wants but three more roses and one swan.

Jaime Rodriguez(with another glance in the direction ofSister Pilar): And do you know of what the swan is the figure? In that, flying from man, it makes itsdwelling in wild, solitary haunts, St. Gregory of Nazianus holds that it figures the anchorite, and truly....

Sister Pilar(suddenly looking up, and smiling a little): But what of its love of the lyre and all secular songs, by which it is wont to be lured to its destruction from its most secret glens? I have read that this same failing has led some learned doctors to look upon it as a figure of the soul of man, drawn hither and thither by the love of vain things.

Jaime Rodriguez(up to now he has spoken in a mincing, self-conscious voice, but from this point on his voice is shrill and excited): Yes, yes, but that can also be interpreted as the love of godly men for sermons and edification and grave seemly discourse on the beautitudes of eternal life, and the holy deeds of men and women long since departed....

Sister Assumcion: The love, in short, of such discourse as yours, father? (She tries in vain to catchSister Pilar’seye and wink at her.)

Jaime Rodriguez(pouting like a cross child, sotto voce): Honey is not for the mouth of the ass.

Sister Assumcion: Well, when you joined us, we were in the midst of just such a discourse. ’Twas touching the sin of a religious, which Sister Pilar was likening to a stone of small dimensions, but so heavy that a mighty giant could not move it.

Jaime Rodriguez(turning eagerly toSister Pilar): Where did you read thatexemplum, daughter? I have not come upon it.

Sister Pilar: Sister Assumcion has drawn her own meaning from a little foolish tale. She must surely be fresh from pondering the Fathers that she is so quick to find spiritual significations. Is that volume lying by you (pointing to “Amadis”) one of the works of the Fathers, sister?

Sister Assumcion(staring at her insolently): No, Sister, it is not.

The other nuns titter.

Jaime Rodriguez: Well, ’tis doubtless true that a little sin shows blacker on the soul of a religious than a great sin on a layman’s soul ... but when it comes to the weighing in the ghostly scales, a religious has very heavy things to throw into the balance—Aves and Paters, though made of nought but air, are heavy things. Then, there is the nourishment of Christ’s body every day, making our souls wax fat, and—and—(impatiently) oh, all the benefits of a religious weigh heavily. The religious, like a peasant, has a treasure hid ’neath his bed that will for ever keep the wolf from the door. (Looks round to see if his conceit is appreciated.) In Bestiaries, the wolf, you know, is a figure of the devil.

Enter from behindTrotaconventos, carrying a pedlar’s pack. Throughout the play she is dressed in scarlet.

Trotaconventos(in unctuous, mocking voice): Six hens to one cock! I verily believe that was the sight that made Adam weary in Eden. Holy hens and reverend cock, I bid you good morrow. (She catchesSister Assumcion’seye and gives a little nod.)

The Nuns in chorus: Why, ’tis our good friend Trotaconventos!

First Nun: For shame! You have sorely neglected San Miguel these last days. What news in the town?

Third Nun: I hear the Ponces gave a tournament and bull-fight to celebrate a daughter’s wedding, and that the bridegroom was gored by the bull and the leeches despair of his recovery—is’t true?

Second Nun: What is the latest Moorish song?

First Nun: Have you been of late to the Alcazar? You promised to note for me if Doña Maria wore her gown cut square or in a peak?

Trotaconventos(covering her ears with her hands): Good ladies, you’ll have me deaf. And do you not think shame to ask about such worldly matters before your confessor, there ... and before Sister Pilar? (turning toSister Pilar). Well, lady, and have the wings sprouted yet? But bear in mind the proverb that says, the ant grew wings to its hurt; and why? Because it took to flying and fell a prey to the birds.

The nuns exchange glances and giggle.Sister Pilarlooks at her with cold disgust.

Sister Pilar: Truly, you are as well stocked with proverbs and fables as our sister Assumcion.You, doubtless, collect them at fairs and peasants’ weddings, but ... (she breaks off suddenly, bites her lip, colours, and takes up her book).

Trotaconventos: Ah, well, wisdom can walk in a homespun jerkin as well as in the purple of King Solomon, eh, Don priest? And as to Sister Assumcion, what if her speech be freckled with a few wholesome, sun-ripened proverbs? They will not show on her pretty face when the nuns of Seville meet the nuns of Toledo in the contest of beauty, eh, my pretty? (Sister Assumcionlaughs and tosses her head.) But the reverend chaplain is looking sourly! It is rare for Trotaconventos to meet with sour looks from the cloth. Why, there is not a canon’s house inlos Abadesthat does not sweetly stink of my perfumes: storax, benjamin, gum, amber, civet, musk, mosqueta. For do they not say that holiness and sweet odours are the same? It was Don Miguel de Caceres—that stout, well-liking canon, God rest his soul, who lived in the house the choir-masterhas now—and I used to keep his old shaven face as soft for him as a ripe fig, and I saw to it that he could drink his pig-skin a day without souring his breath; well, he used to call me ‘the panther’ of Seville; for it seems the panther is as many-hued as the peacock, and the other beasts follow it to their destruction because of the sweet odours it exudes. And there were words from Holy Writ he would quote about me—in odorcuror words to that effect. Nor were the other branches....

Jaime Rodriguez(who had been fidgeting with impatience atTrotaconventos’sverbosity, as usual shrilly and excitedly): Doubtless the words quoted by the late canon were,in odore unguentorum tuorum curremus—in the track of thy perfumes shall we run. They come in the Song of Songs, the holyredondillawherewith Christ Jesus serenades Holy Church, and truly....

Trotaconventos(calmly ironical): Truly, Don Jaime, you are a learned clerk. But as I was saying, it is not only for my perfumes that they seek me inlos Abades. Don Canon is wont to have a large paunch, and Trotaconventos was not always as stout as she is now ... there were doors through which I could glide, while Don Canon’s bulk, for all his puffing and squeezing, must stand outside in the street. So in would go Trotaconventos, as easily as though it were your convent, ladies, her wallet stuffed withredondillasandcoplas, and all the other learned ballads wherein clerks are wont to rhyme their sighs and tears and winks and leers, and thrown in with these were toys of my own devising—tiring-pins of silver-gilt, barred belts, slashed shoes, kirtles laced with silk, lotions against freckles and warts and women’s colics....

The nuns, exceptSister Pilar, who is apparently absorbed in her reading, are drinking in every wordwith evident amusement and delight,Jaime Rodriguezgrows every moment more impatient and bored.

Jaime Rodriguez: Er—er—the Roman dame, Cleopatra, the leman of Mark Antony, was also learned in such matters; she wrote a book on freckles and their cure and....

Trotaconventos: I do not doubt it, Don Jaime. Well, in would go Trotaconventos, and round her would flock the pretty little uncoiffed maids, like the doves in the Cathedral garden when one has crumbs in one’s wallet. And I would feed them with marzipan and deck them out with my trinkets, and then they would sigh and say it was poor cheer going always with eyes cast on the ground and dressed as soberly as a nun (she winks at the Nuns) when they had chest upon chest packed as close as pears in a basket with scarlet clothes from Bruges and Malines, and gowns of Segovian cloth and Persian samite, and bandequins from Bagdad, all stiff with gold and pearls and broidered stories, rich as the shroud of St. Ferdinand or the banners of the King of Granada, lying there to fatten the moths till their parents should get them a husband. And I would say, ‘Well, when the dog put on velvet breeches he was as good as his master. There’s none to see but old Trotaconventos, andshewon’t blab. I’d like to see how this becomes you, and this ... and this.’ And I would have them decked out as gay and fine as a fairy, and they strutting before the mirror and laughing and blushing and taking heart of grace. Then my hand would go up their petticoats, and they would scream, ‘Ai! ai! Trotaconventos, you are tickling me!’ and laugh like a child of seven. And I would say, ‘Ah, my sweeting, there is one could tickle you better than me.’ And so I would begin Don Canon’s suit. Ay, and I would keep him posted in her doings,telling him at what procession she would be at, or in what church she would hear ‘cock’s mass.’ Or, if it was to a pretty widow his fancy roved, it was I that could tell him which days she was due at the church-yard to pray at her husband’s grave ... aye, as the proverb says, when the broom sprouts the ass is born to eat it.

Sister Assumcion(with a malicious glance atJaime Rodriguez): But another proverb says: Honey is not for the mouth of the ass.

Trotaconventos(with a wink): And yet another says: Honey lies hid in rocks; and it was not only to the houses of lords and merchants that I went on Don Canon’s business. How did I win my name of Trotaconventos? It was not given me by my gossips at the font. I was not taught in my catechism that on the seventh day God created man and woman, and on the eighth day He created monks and nuns ... were you so taught, Sister Pilar?

Jaime Rodriguez, with a petulant sigh, gets up and goes and examines the arabesques on one of the walls.

Sister Pilar(looking up from her book, her eye sparkling and her cheek flushing): As to that ... I have seen a painted Bible wherein the Serpent of Eden is depicted with a wicked old woman’s face.

Jaime Rodriguezturns round with a shrill cackle.

Trotaconventos(chuckling): A good, honest blow, Sister Pilar! But as the proverb says, the abbot dines off his singing, and of its own accord the pot does not fill itself with stew. Howbeit, Sister Pilar, who laughs last laughs on the right side of his mouth. Well, ladies, shall we to the parlour? A ship from Tunis has lately come in, and one from Alexandria, and onefrom Genoa, and they tell me I was born under Liber with the moon in the ascendant, and that draws me ever to the water’s edge, and sailors have merry kind hearts and bring me toys, and, it may be, there will be that among them that will take your fancy.

First Nun: We have been burning to know what was hid in your pack to-day.

Third and Second Nun: To the parlour! To the parlour!

All exceptSister PilarandJaime Rodriguezwalk towards the convent.Sister Pilargoes on reading.Jaime Rodriguezcomes up to her and timidly sits down beside her. Silence.

Jaime Rodriguez(in a constrained voice): I am to read mass to the pilgrims before they start for Guadalupe.

Sister Pilar(absently): I should like to go on pilgrimage.

Jaime Rodriguez: Perhaps ... if ... why do you never go then?

Sister Pilar(smiling a little sadly): Because I want to keep my own dream of a pilgrimage—nothing but mountains and rivers and seas and visions and hymns to Our Lady.

Jaime Rodriguez: I fear there are other things as well: fleas and dust, and tumblers and singers, and unseemly talk.

Sister Pilar: Hence I’d liefer go on pilgrimage by the road of my own dreams. (Passionately) Oh, these other things, small and pullulating and fertile, and all of them the spawn of sin! One cannot be rid of them. Why, even in the Books of Hours, round the grave Latin psalms the monks must needs draw garlands and butterflies and hawks and hounds; and we nuns powder our handiwork—the copes and vestments forthe mass—not with such meet signs as crosses and emmies, but with swans and true-love knots and birds and butterflies ... (she breaks off, half laughing). I would have things plain and grave.

Jaime Rodriguez(impatiently): Yes, yes, but you are forgetting that Nature is the mirror in which is reflected the thoughts of God; hence, to the discerning eye, there is nothing mean and trivial, but everything, everything, is a page in the great book of the Passion and the Redemption. For him who has learned to read that book, the Martyrs bleed in roses and in amethysts, the Confessors keep their council in violets, and in lilies the Virgins are spotless—not a spray of eglantine, not a little ant, but is a character in the book of Nature. Why, without first reading it, the holy fathers could not crack a little nut; it is the figure of Christ, said Adam of Saint-Victor—its green husk is His humanity, its shell the wood of the Cross, its kernel the heavenly nourishment of the Host. Nay, daughter, I tell you....

Sister Pilar: Yes, yes, but do you verily believe the nun with her needle, the clerk with his brush, wots anything of these hidden matters? Nay, it is nought but vanity. Oh! these multitudinous seeds of vanity that lie broadcast in every soul, in every mote of sunshine, in every acre of the earth! There is no soul built of a substance so closely knit but that it has crannies wherein these seeds find lodging; and, ere you can say a pater, lo! they are bourgeoning! ’Tis like some church that stands four-square to the winds and sun so long as folk flock there to pray; then comes a rumour that the Moors are near, and the folks leave their homes and fly; and then, some day, they may return, and they will find the stout walls of their church all starred with jessamine, intagliated with ivy, that eat and eat until it crumbles to the ground. So manylittlethings ... everywhere! And our thoughts ... say it be the Passion of Our Lord we choose for contemplation; at first, all is well, the tears flow, ’tis almost as if we smelled the sweat and dust of the road to Calvary ... and then, after a little space, we stare around bewildered, and know that our minds have broken into scores of little bright thoughts, like the margins of the Hours, and then ...

Jaime Rodriguez: Yes, daughter, but I tell you you should obtain the key to the Creation; read St. Ambrose’sHexæmeron, and thus school your mind by figures for the naked types of Heaven; there every house will be a church, its hearth an altar on which, no longer hid under the species of bread and wine, Jesus Christ will be for ever enthroned. And its roof will be supported not by pillars carved into the semblance of the Patriarchs and Apostles, but by the Patriarchs ... oh, yes, and the housewife’s store of linen will all be corporals, and her plate ... you are smiling!

Sister Pilar: How happy you must have been playing with your toys when you were a child! I can see you with an old wine-keg for an altar, a Moor’s skull for a chalice, and a mule’s discarded shoe for a pyx, chanting meaningless words, and rating the other children if their wits wandered ... but ... you are angry?

Jaime Rodriguez(rising in high dudgeon): Aye, ever mocking! Methinks ... I cannot call to mind ever reading that holy women of old mocked their confessors.

He walks across the court to the door at the side.Sister Pilarsits on for some minutes in a reverie, then rises, and goes and tends the plants round the fountain, so that she is not visible to any one entering the court from the convent. Enter from the conventTrotaconventosandSister Assumcion.

Trotaconventos: As to hell-fire, my dear, you’ll meet with many a procuress and bawd in Paradise, for we have a mighty advocate in St. Mary Magdalene, who was of our craft. And as to the holy life, why, when your hams begin to wither and your breasts to sag, then cast up your eyes and draw as long an upper lip as a prioress at a bishop’s visitation. A sinful youth and a holy old age—thus do we both enjoy the earth and win to Paradise hereafter. Well, my sweeting, all is in train—I’d eat some honey, it softens the voice; and repeat thein Temerateand theDe Profundis, for old wives say they are wonderful lucky prayers in all such business, and ... well, I think that is all. Be down at the orchard wall at nine o’clock to-night, and trust the rest to what the Moors call the ‘great procuress’—Night.

ExitTrotaconventos.Sister Pilarappears from behind the fountain. She andSister Assumcionstare at each other in silence for a few seconds,Sister Pilarcoldly,Sister Assumciondefiantly.

Scene the same. Time: Afternoon of the same day.Sister Pilaris hearingJuanito’sandPepita’slessons.

Pepita: Says St. John the Evangelist:

In Jesus Christ I do believe,In guise of bread we Him perceive,The Father’s side he ne’er does leave Son Eternal.

In Jesus Christ I do believe,

In guise of bread we Him perceive,

The Father’s side he ne’er does leave Son Eternal.

Juanito: Says St. Philip:

Down into Hell he did descendThe gates of which....

Down into Hell he did descend

The gates of which....

Sister Pilar: No, no, Juanito. That does not come for a long time.

Pepita: I remember; letmesay.

Says St. James:The Holy Ghost did Him conceive——

Says St. James:

The Holy Ghost did Him conceive——

Juanito: ’Tis my part she is saying—’tis my part.

Says St. James ... oh, I can’t remember!

May we go on to the Seven Deadly Sins? I like them much the best.

Beware of Lust—King David once....

Sister Pilar: Juanito, dear, you must not look upon this exercise as a game. It is the doctrine of Holy Mother Church. It is your pilgrim’s staff and not a light matter. Let us begin again.

Juanita: Oh, I am so weary! The sun’s so hot. My head seems as if to-day it could not hold Creeds and such matters. Prithee, Sister Pilar, will you not read to us?

Pepita: Yes! Yes! From the Chronicle of Saint Ferdinand.

Sister Pilar: Oh, children, you have been at your tasks scarce quarter of an hour.

Children: Prithee, dear Sister Pilar! We were both bled this morning.

Sister Pilar: I fear I am a fond and foolish master. Well, so be it. (She opens a large folio.) Let me see....

Pepita: ’Twas at the fall of Seville that you left off yesterday.

Juanito: Yes, and that old Moor had yielded up the keys.

Sister Pilar: This is the place. “Now one of the keys was of so pure a silver that it seemed to be white, and in places it was gilded, and it was of a very notable and exquisite workmanship. In length it was the third of a cubit. Its stem was hollow and delicately turned, and it ended in a ball inlaid with divers metals. Round its guards in curious characters was engraved: God will open, the King will enter. The circle of its ring contained an engraved plaque like to a medal, embossed with flowers and leaves. And in the centre of the hole was a little plaque threaded with a delicately twisted cord, and the ring was joined to the stem by a cube of gold on the four sides of which were embossed alternately lions and castles. And on the edge of its bulk, between delicately inlaid arabesques, there was written, in Hebrew words and Hebrew characters, the same motto as that on the guards, which is in Latin—‘Rex Regium aperiet: Rex universæ terræ introibit’—the King of Kings will open, the King of all the earth will enter. Some say the key and the whole incident is a symbol of the Host being lain in the custodia.”

Juanito: Oooh! It must have been a rare fine key. When I’m a man, may I have such a key?

Sister Pilar: I sadly fear, Juanito, that ’tis only to saints that such keys are given. Think you, you’ll be a saint some day?

Juanito: Not I! They live on lentils and dried peas. I’ll be a tumbler at the fairs. Already I can stand on my head ... (catching Pepita’s eye) nearly.

Pepita: Pooh! Any babe could stand on their head if some one held their legs.

Juanito(crestfallen and anxious to change the subject): Could St. Ferdinand stand on his head?

Pepita(much shocked): For shame, Juanito! Sister Pilar has told us he was a great saint!

Juanito: How great a one?

Sister Pilar: A very great one.

Juanito: What did he do?

Sister Pilar: Well, he had a great devotion for Our Lady and the Eucharist. He founded many convents and monasteries....

Pepita: Did he found ours?

Sister Pilar: It was founded during his reign.

Pepita: How long ago did he live?

Sister Pilar: More than a hundred years ... when your great-great-grandfather was living.

Pepita: There must have been many a nun lived here since then!

Juanito: How many? A hundred?

Sister Pilar: More.

Juanito: A thousand?

Sister Pilar: Maybe.

Juanito: A million?

Sister Pilar: Nay, not quite a million.

Juanito: Think you, they’d like to be alive again?

Sister Pilar: Ah! no.

Juanito: Why?

Sister Pilar: Because either they are in Paradise or will go there soon.

Juanito: Do all nuns go to Paradise?

Sister Pilar: I ... er ... I hope so.

Juanito: Will you go?

Sister Pilar: I hope so.

Juanito: Will Sister Assumcion go?

Sister Pilar: I hope so.

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