Skylight

13

From Adriana’s diary:

Sunday, 3/23/52, half past ten at night. It’s been raining all day. You would never know it was spring. I remember lovely spring days when we were children and they started being lovely from March 21st onward. It’s the 23rd now and it’s done nothing but rain. Maybe it’s the weather, but I don’t feel at all well. I haven’t even been out. My mother and aunt went to visit some cousins in Campolide after lunch. They arrived home soaked to the skin. My aunt was in a bad mood because of something that was said, I’ve no idea what. They brought some cakes back for us, but I didn’t eat any. Isaura didn’t want them either. It’s been a really boring day. Isaura has barely put down the book she’s reading. She carries it around with her everywhere, as if she didn’t want anyone else to look at it. I’ve been embroidering a sheet for my trousseau. Sewing the lace onto the sheet takes ages, but there’s no hurry. I might never use it. I feel sad. If I’d known I was going to feel like this, I would have gone with them to Campolide. It would have been better than spending the day here. I feel like crying. It can’t be because of the rain. It rained yesterday too. It’s not because of him either. At first I found it hard to spend Sundays without seeing him. Not anymore. I’m pretty sure now that he doesn’t care for me. If he did, he wouldn’t make those phone calls in the office. Unless he wants to make me jealous. Oh, I’m so stupid. Why would he want to make me jealous when he doesn’t even know I like him? And why would he like me anyway, when I’m so ugly? Yes, I know I’m ugly, I don’t need anyone to tell me. When people look at me, I know what they’re thinking. I’m better than the other girls, though. Beethoven was ugly too, and no woman ever loved him, and he was Beethoven! He didn’t need to be loved in order to do what he did. He just needed to love and he did. If I’d been alive in his day, I would have kissed his feet, and I bet none of those pretty women would have done that. In my view, pretty women don’t want to love, they just want to be loved. Isaura says I don’t understand these things. Perhaps it’s because I don’t read novels. The fact is, though, she seems to understand about as much as I do, despite all the novels she’s read. I think she reads too much. Take today, for example. Her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying. And she was so edgy. I’ve never seen her like that before. At one point, I touched her on the arm, just to say something or other, and she almost screamed. It quite frightened me. Later on, I came in from the bedroom and there she was, reading. (I think she had finished the book and started again from the beginning.) She had such a strange look on her face, a look I’ve never seen before on anyone’s face. It was as if she were in pain, but happy too. No, not happy. How can I put it? It was as if the pain gave her pleasure, or as if the pleasure caused her pain. Oh, I’m not making any sense today. My brain isn’t working. Everyone else has gone to bed now. I’m going too. What a miserable day! Roll on tomorrow!

The extract from The Nun by Diderot that Isaura had read that night:

My Superior began to fall victim to nerves. She lost her gaiety, and her plumpness, and slept badly. The following night, when everybody was asleep and the House was silent, she got up. After having wandered for some time about the corridors, she came to my cell. I was sleeping lightly and thought I recognized her step. She stopped. Apparently she rested her head against the door, and in so doing made enough noise to wake me up if I were asleep. I remained quiet, and I thought I heard a voice which wailed, somebody who sighed. I shivered slightly and determined to say Ave. Instead of answering, whoever it was withdrew. But she came back some time afterward: the wails and sighs began again. I again said Ave, and the steps again withdrew. I reassured myself and fell asleep. While I slept, someone came in and sat down beside my bed. The curtains were partly withdrawn. She had a little candle, the light of which fell on my face, and she who carried it watched me sleeping: so I judged at least from her attitude when I opened my eyes. And this person was the Superior.

I sat up suddenly. She saw that I was frightened and said: “You need not be alarmed, Suzanne, it is I.” I put my head back on my pillow and said: “Mother, what are you doing here at this hour? What can have brought you? Why are you not asleep?”

“I cannot sleep,” she answered. “I shall not sleep for a long time yet. I am tortured by horrid dreams. No sooner are my eyes closed than I live in imagination through all the agonies you have experienced. When I picture you in the hands of those inhuman monsters I see your hair falling over your face, your feet bleeding, the torch in your hand, the rope round your neck: I feel they are going to take away your life: I shiver and tremble: my whole body breaks into a cold sweat: I want to run and help you: I wake up screaming and wait in vain for the return of sleep. This is what has happened to me tonight. I feared Heaven was announcing that some misfortune had come to my friend: I got up and came to your door and listened. You did not seem to be sleeping: you spoke and I withdrew: I came back, you spoke again, and I withdrew again. I came back a third time, and when I thought you were asleep, I came in. I have been at your side some time and have been afraid to wake you. I hesitated at first to draw aside your curtains. I wanted to go away for fear of disturbing you. But I could not resist the desire to see if my dear Suzanne was well. I looked at you. How lovely you are even when you are asleep…”

“How good you are, Mother.”

“I am quite cold. But now I know that I need not worry about my child. I think I shall get to sleep. Give me your hand.” I gave it to her.

“How calm your pulse is! How regular! Nothing disturbs it!”

“I sleep quietly.”

“How lucky you are!”

“You will get colder than ever.”

“You are quite right; goodbye, my darling, goodbye. I am going away.”

Still she did not go at all, but continued looking at me. Two tears rolled down her cheeks. “Mother,” I said, “what is the matter? What has happened? You are crying. I am so sorry I told you of my misfortunes.” At that moment, she shut the door, blew out the candle, threw herself upon me. She held me in her arms. She was lying on the coverlet beside me. Her face was pressed to mine, her tears damped my cheeks. She sighed and said to me in a disturbed, choking voice: “Pity me, my darling.”

“Mother,” I said, “what is the matter? Are you ill? What can I do?”

“I am shivering and trembling,” she said. “I have turned mortally cold.”

“Would you like me to get up and give you my bed?”

“No,” she said, “you need not get up. Just pull the coverlet aside a little that I may get near you. Then I shall get warm and be well.”

“But that is forbidden, Mother dear! What would people say if they knew? I have seen nuns given penance for much less serious things than that. At St. Mary’s a nun happened to pass the night in another’s cell; she was her particular friend, and I cannot tell how badly it was thought of. The Director asked me sometimes if nobody had ever suggested coming and sleeping by my side, and warned me gravely never to tolerate it. I even spoke to him of your caresses. I thought them quite innocent, but he did not think so at all. I do not know how I came to forget his advice. I had meant to speak to you of it.”

“Everything round us is asleep, darling,” she said. “Nobody will know anything about it. It is I who distribute rewards and penalties, and, whatever the Director may say, I cannot see what harm there can be in one friend taking in beside her another friend who has felt upset, woken up, and has come during the night, despite the rigor of the season, to see if her darling was in any danger. Suzanne, at your parents’ have you never shared a bed with your sisters?”

“No, never.”

“If the occasion had arisen you would not have scrupled to do so? If your sister had come frightened and stiff with cold to ask for a place by your side, would you have refused her?”

“I think not.”

“But am I not your Mother?”

“Yes, you are, but it is forbidden.”

“Darling, it is for me to forbid it to others, to allow it to you and to ask it of you. Let me warm myself a moment and I will go away. Give me your hand…”

I gave it to her.

“Come,” she said, “touch me and see. I am trembling, shivering, and like marble.”

It was quite true.

“My poor Mother will be ill,” I said. “See, I will go to the edge of the bed, and you can put yourself in the warm place.”

I went to the edge, lifted up the coverlet, and she got into my place. How ill she was! She was trembling in every limb. She wanted to talk to me and come nearer. She could not articulate or move. She said in a low voice: “Suzanne, dear, come a bit nearer…”

She stretched out her arms: I turned my back on her; she took me quietly and pulled me towards her. She passed her right arm under my body and the left over it, and said: “I am frozen; I am so cold that I am frightened to touch you, for fear of doing you some harm.”

“Don’t be afraid, Mother.”

She immediately put one of her hands on my breast and another round my waist. Her feet were under mine and I pressed them to warm them, and she said: “See how quickly my feet have got warm, darling, now that nothing separates them from yours.”

“But what prevents you warming yourself elsewhere in the same way?”

“Nothing, if you are willing…”

Suddenly there were two violent knocks on the door. In terror I immediately threw myself out of the bed on one side and the Superior threw herself out on the other. We listened and heard someone gaining the neighboring cell on tiptoe. “Oh,” I said, “it is Sister Theresa. She must have seen you passing in the corridor and coming in to me. She must have listened to us and overheard our conversation. What will she say?”

I was more dead than alive.

“Yes, it is she,” said the Superior in an exasperated voice. “It is she: I have no doubt of it. But I hope she will not easily forget her rashness.”

“Mother,” I said, “do not do her any harm.”

“Suzanne, goodbye, goodnight. Get into bed again and sleep well. I dispense you from prayers. I am now going to see this young fool. Give me your hand.”

I stretched it to her from one side of the bed to the other. She pulled back the sleeve which covered my arms, and with a sigh kissed it along from the end of my fingers to my shoulder; then she went out protesting that the rash girl who had dared disturb her should not forget it. Immediately, I went to the other end of my bed near the door and listened. She went into Sister Theresa’s cell. I was tempted to get up and go and interpose between them, supposing a violent scene occurred. But I was so upset, so ill at ease, that I preferred to remain in bed: I said nothing however. I thought that I should become the talk of the House, and that this adventure in which there was nothing that could not be easily explained would be recounted in all its most unfavorable aspects: that it would be worse here than at Longchamps, where I was accused of I know not what: that our fault would come to the knowledge of our superiors: that our Mother would be deposed and both of us severely punished. Meanwhile, I was all ears, and waited impatiently for the Mother to leave Sister Theresa’s cell.

Apparently the matter was difficult to arrange, as she remained there nearly all night.