A Canterbury Pilgrimage / An Italian Pilgrimage

Author:Elizabeth Robins Pennell [Elizabeth Robins Pennell & Joseph Pennell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781772120929
Publisher: The University of Alberta Press

Monte Oliveto.

The cypress grove, after several windings, brought us face to face with the building at which we had already so often looked from the distance. Even in the semi-darkness we could see the outline distinctly enough to know we were standing in front of the church, and that the detached building a little to our left was a barn or stable. But not a light shone in a window, not a doorway was in sight. I recalled my convent experience of bygone years,[61] and remembered that after eight o’clock in the evening no one was admitted within its walls. Was there a rule like this at Monte Oliveto, and was six the hour when its bolts and bars were fastened against the stranger? As we hesitated where to go or what to do next, three or four work-men came from the stable. J— spoke to them, and one offered to show him the entrance to the monastery while I waited by the tricycle. It was strange to stand in the late evening and in the wilderness alone with men whose speech I barely understood and whose faces I could not see. For fully five minutes I waited thus while they talked together in low voices. But at last I heard one cry. Ecco! here was the padrone; and they all took off their hats. A dog ran up and examined me, and then a man, who I could just make out in the gloom wore a cassock and the broad-brimmed priestly hat, joined the group. “Buona sera,” he said to me. “Could I speak to him in French?” I asked. “Yes,” he assented. “What was it I wanted?” When I told him we wished to stay in the monastery, he said he had not expected us. We had not written.

“But,” I exclaimed, “we thought strangers were allowed to stay here.”

“Yes,” he answered; “there is a pension in the monastery; but it is for artists.”

“And my husband is an artist,” I interrupted eagerly, for from his manner I feared he would refuse us admission. After all, what did he know about us, except that, vagrant-like, we were wandering in the mountains at a most unseasonable hour? Indeed, when later I reflected on the situation, I realised that we must have seemed suspicious characters. At this critical moment J— returned. His guide had led him to a small side door beyond the church. There he had rung and rung again. The bell was loud and clear and roused many echoes within, but nothing else. The guide, perplexed, then led him back. I told him with whom I was speaking, and he continued the conversation with the padrone. Had they talked in Italian only or in French, they might have understood each other; but instead they used a strange mixture of the two, to their mutual bewilderment. If this kept on much longer we should undoubtedly spend the night in the open air. In despair I broke in, in French, “But, father, cannot we stay this one night?”

“Certainly,” he said, fortunately dropping all Italian.

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