Part 5

All this, I say, I made a shift to endure, since I heard nearly every week from Baptisto. I found that he had gained over my governess, which was a great solace to me, for I longed for some sympathising heart to whom I might unbosom myself and through her he sent his letters to me by divers emissaries. My father somewhat suspected our correspondence, and many straits were we put to to conceal it. Once, a boy bringing a letter, perceived some of my father’s servants coming up, and suspecting that they were going to search him, casting about to conceal it, hastily entered a blacksmith’s shop that was hard by, where he thrust the letter into the flames. The servants entered and searched him, but finding nothing, were obliged to let him go; and then seeing the smith fall to laughter, in answer to their questions he told them that if they sought for a paper they might find the ashes if they wanted them. An other time that an old serving-man in like case was bringing me a letter, seeing himself followed, he picked up a stone, and wrapping the letter round it, threw it far into the Arno. The servants took him, and carried him before my father, but to all his questions he would answer him nothing. My father threatened him that he should be whipped, but still he would not confess; until my father, struck by the faithfulness of the fellow, offered him high wages to take service with him. But the man only said that though his master was too poor to give him anything, yet would he serve him as long as he lived. At length, seeing that he could not stop this correspondence, and fearing that I should continue to refuse the prince’s hand if I had the comfort of the letters and sympathy of Baptisto, my father determined to send me to the convent of Santa Barbara, of which a sister of his was the Superior.

This convent had been founded by one of our ancestresses, mainly as a sort of refuge for the females of our family whom it might not be convenient to dower; and Tomasina di Capellini, being the least handsome of my father’s two sisters, was placed in the convent when she was only ten years old, and had been forced to take the veil when she was eighteen. Although she heard news of what was doing in our society and family, for my father sometimes visited her, she knew nothing of the world and its ways; she had been brought up without a mother’s love, amidst a set of women, all of noble families, indeed, but all outcasts. Some, like herself, had never seen the world; others had lived a family life, but on their husbands’ death had retired here; others, again, had sinned, and either by force or of their own will had taken the veil. It is not amazing, therefore, that my aunt took a jaundiced view of the world, and had little sympathy with the softer side of human nature. The holy Mother Ursula, for that was my aunt’s name in religion, received me with coldness; and the next day, sending for me, she held forth in a long discourse upon the sin of opposing the will of our parents, and finally said that it was my father’s desire that I should remain there until I had vanquished my obstinacy and had acquired a proper frame of mind. Should I not consent, she continued, to give my hand to Prince Mazzapiglio within a reasonable time, I was to take the veil and stay there for ever, for in that case my father would have nothing more to say to me. I was thunderstruck. I had hoped that if I had the strength to hold out against him in this my hour of trial, my father, who I knew loved me, would give way; but I knew not the force of that feeling which is derived from a long line of ancestors. I wrote him a passionate letter of entreaty, assuring him of my love, reminding him that I had never disobeyed him before, and begging him to have pity on me. I promised him that if he would not force me to marry where I could not give my heart, I would never marry without his consent; and finished a long epistle with these words:--‘If you deny me my prayer, if you still insist upon my marriage with the prince, it would be easier for me to take the veil and to end my days here, for I am persuaded that this prison will not hold me long, and I shall not have much more to suffer before I am relieved by death.’ In a short time my aunt Ursula sent for me again, and informed me that my father was much grieved at my stubbornness, and that he requested me to hold no further communication with him until I could say that I was ready to obey him. In deep despair I retired to my cell, thinking of Baptisto, for I doubted much whether he knew where I was, so suddenly and so secretly had I been sent away. But even if he did know, what, indeed, could he do? Could he unbolt these locks, or lull to sleep the vigilance of the nuns, when it was impossible even to communicate with me? I wept bitterly, and as day after day passed in the same unvarying monotony, all hope seemed to die away, I grew listless and subdued, I seemed to have no soul. What could it matter, I found myself thinking, what could it matter whom I married? I could never be happy any more, and at least I could please my parents if I consented to their choice.

Here she broke off, saying that it was now late, and she dared not stay any longer, lest she be noticed. But, she added, come to this spot to-morrow night and I will continue my sad story. I assured the lady of my devotion, and took leave of her; and the next evening was ready betimes, for her story interested me much, and moved me even, in parts.