After coffee, the ladies carried us to see a nunnery, of which there are no less than fourteen in Sardinia. I have ever thought these institutions a defect in policy, and have reprobated the idea of the Almighty being pleased at our depriving ourselves of the power of doing any one good and moral action: but, in justice to the Superintendants in this island, it must be observed, that no girl is permitted to become a Novice until she is fifteen, and must then serve a year longer before she can be allowed to take the veil; but this ceremony once performed, she must bid an eternal farewell to the world.
We saw none of the Nuns but the Superiors and Novices. They stood within the inner door, which, as a particular distinction, they opened while they conversed with us across the threshold. My attention was soon arrested by the youngest of the Superiors.
She appears scarcely thirty. Confinement has only softened the colour of her cheek, and composed the lustre of her eye. Her features are perfectly regular, and her countenance is animated by the cheerful glow of benevolence and virtue. With the gentleness of a saint, she possesses all the accomplishments of a woman of the world, and speaks a variety of languages, with a voice harmoniously sweet.
Her name is Lucilla. She is aunt to the beautiful Villarias, and, like her, in her youth, was the pride of Sardinia. Early in life, she engaged herself to Fernando, a young nobleman, in every respect her equal. Their hearts were already united, and the day was fixed for their nuptials; but, before this happy hour could be celebrated, the sudden death of the best of parents obliged Fernando to pass over to the Continent, to perform the last offices to his deceased, and affectionate father. Before his departure, he repeated those endearing vows of eternal constancy; which both he and Lucilla had often given and received; and each promised to write by every opportunity.
Lucilla kept her word; and when the time she expected an answer had expired, her mind was filled with anxious fears for her lover's safety. At length she heard of his arrival at Turin from his friends, most of whom had received letters from him; but Lucilla, who expected to have had the first, got none. She was too generous to be suspicious, and, instead of complaining, continued writing to Fernando in the most affectionate terms, making every excuse for not hearing from him, but entreating him, as he valued her affection, to write to her by every channel.
The amiable Lucilla had still the mortification of seeing post after post arrive, without a line from her lover. At length she heard, accidentally, that he was soon to set out for Spain, from whence he was to embark for South America. A thousand painful emotions now seized her breast, and her grief for her lover's unworthiness was not the least. Her fate was drawing to a crisis; and, as her last resource, she wrote him the following letter:
This letter having only increased her disappointment, Lucilla took the irrevokable vow, and exerted all her resolution to subdue her passion. Two years after she had taken the veil, her guardian died; and, in his last moments, the wretch confessed, that he had never forwarded any of the letters intrusted to him, and that he had kept Fernando's. He pointed to a box, where they were deposited; but death prevented his discovering his motive for such enormous treachery.
Fernando's letters were exactly in the same strain with Lucilla's. He frequently mentions, that his friends in Spain had solicited him to accept one of the chief appointments in South America; but that he should think the whole world itself no recompense for being absent from his Lucilla. In his last, he reminds her of her vows, with the utmost delicacy and affection. He assures her that, without her, all situations will be equally miserable to him, and conjures her, in the most passionate terms, no longer to trifle with his happiness; for, that he should be obliged to yield to the importunity of his Spanish relations, unless me would again make Sardinia a Paradise, by alluring him of her constancy.
Lucilla was soon informed how cruelly she had been deceived; but, far from complaining, she was almost overcome with joy at the proof of her lover's affection. From that time, she reassumed her former cheerfulness; and, with injuries sufficient to distract any thing less than an angel, I really believe she is the happiest person in the convent. Such are the comforts of religion, and so true is the adage--"Virtue is happiness," that Lucilla's thoughts now rise superior to the world; and, without offending the Deity by heat or impatience, she looks, with tranquil joy, for that moment which will be the commencement of endless bliss, when she and Fernando will be united in Heaven.
I leave you to conceive, my dear Madam, how much her history increased the veneration I before felt for her. Villarias is my author. Her words, enforced by her expressive countenance, are engraven on my heart; but it is impossible to translate them. The youthful Marchioness is no enthusiast in favor of nunneries; but she has made me allow, that, to dispositions and misfortunes like Lucilla's, they afford a comfortable asylum.