The Confessions of Frances Godwin Read Online Free PDF Page B

if they were happening to someone else. Someone I’d been long ago. Well, not that long ago. About six weeks ago.
    It was good to be with Sister Teresa, good to walk in the circle of her happiness, her gusto, her goodness, which was not the kind of goodness that makes you uncomfortable, that makes you want to spoil something.
    I liked the way she stood up to Father Adrian. She was the only one who was not afraid of him. I thought he was a good person too, but his was a different kind of goodness. You did things his way. You pronounced Latin with a soft “g”, as in Italian, and “c” as “ch.” Ecclesiastical pronunciation. But Sister Teresa pronounced it her own way, the classical pronunciation, and after a while Father Adrian pretended not to notice. I liked the way she sang Gaudeamus Igitur in the convent basement. Her soprano voice was sweet, high, and loud at the same time.
    I wanted to touch Paul, to comfort him. He had not wanted to accept the end of the affair, but now it was over. We inhabited two different worlds. We were not Romeo and Juliet but Dido and Aeneas. I was Aeneas—destined to move on—and he was Dido, destined to remain behind.
    I took Sister Teresa by the hand, which made it difficult to finish my little cup of gelato, but it didn’t matter. I’d been putting a lot of effort into my new life. I no longer wanted all the beautiful outfits I saw in the shop windows. I was imagining a future devoted to good works. But I was very vague about this. I was letting one thing happen at a time. I was letting myself be led.
    My own intention, which I kept secret, even from Sister Teresa, was to fast regularly, and to help some of the other students who were having difficulty in the class, and not to speak to Paul unless he spoke first. He was there the next day, and the next, feeding sparrows, eating more oranges.
    But it annoyed me to think of him sitting there every day, so smug. What was he trying to prove? I finally asked Sister Teresa to wait by the ice cream truck while I spoke to someone who, I said, might be an old teacher. “If you see me raise my hand,” I said, “please join us right away. Statim ? Okay?”
    And so I sat down next to Paul. “How long are you going to keep this up?”
    “As long as it takes.”
    “I thought we decided . . .” I said, not sure exactly what we had decided, if anything, and then I asked: “How did you get here?”
    “With love’s light wings,” he said, “did I o’er-perch these walls; For stony limits cannot hold love out.”
    “Paul,” I said, “stop right now. We’re not going to play Romeo and Juliet again. Once was enough. Besides, everything has changed.”
    “I had to see you, that’s all. I’ll go if you want me to.”
    “You know that’s not what I want . Not like that.”
    “What do you want?”
    Paul was wearing his Italian suit. I never was impressed by men’s suits, but this one was beautiful, light brown, linen, striped, and I knew that he wore it only on special occasions.
    “I’m not going to apologize,” he said, “if that’s what you want. For being here, I mean.” He paused. I didn’t say anything. “You loved me once.”
    I didn’t recognize the quotation, but I pretended I did. “Paul, I’m not going to talk to you if you talk in quotations.”
    “It’s not a quotation. It’s just something I said.”
    “You’re the one,” I reminded him, “who warned me not to fall in love.”
    “Ah, Frances,” he said. “that love, so gentle in his view, Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof.”
    I answered him with a quotation of my own: “God’s will is our peace,” I said, and I was immediately sorry I’d said it. What was I talking about?
    “ La sua voluntade è nostra pace ,” Paul said. His will is our peace.
    I raised my arm, and Sister Teresa joined us immediately.
    “ Piacere ,” she said to Paul, a pleasure. And without even being introduced they began to speak in Italian. I knew that Paul