Free Duchessina - A Novel of Catherine de' Medici by Carolyn Meyer Page B

that. But we’re also much stronger, and that’s why it’s up to us to keep men’s passions under control. They can’t resist us, you know.”
    I
didn’t
know, but I found the subject interesting.
    I thought of Suor Immacolata, the hateful nun at Santa Lucia, who claimed that my father had taken her virtue and left her with child. If she had been trained in the virtues, as we were being trained by Suor Paolina, surely nothing bad would have happened to her. Even if she had been a servant, she would have walked sedately, kept her hands still and her mouth closed, and—this was most important—she would have lowered her eyes and not inflamed my father’s helpless lust. So it was not my poor father’s fault that he had fallen into sin. It was the fault of the brazen servant who had led him there—or so I believed then.

    W HILE I LIVED at Palazzo Medici and Fra Matteo was my tutor, he had abruptly stopped giving me instruction in reading.
    â€œBut why?” I’d asked, deeply disappointed.
    â€œCardinal Passerini’s orders,” he’d replied.
    â€œBut
why?
”
    â€œI don’t know, Duchessina. But I do know that you ask too many questions.”
    I’d taken my questions to Aunt Clarissa. The next time she’d gone with me for one of the cardinal’s monthly inspections, she offered him her opinion.
    â€œSurely, Reverend Father,” she said, “you agree that it is entirely desirable that Caterina continue to develop the skill of reading. Undoubtedly it would stand her in good stead as she prepares for her future.”
    Passerini had shaken his head sternly. “Surely you understand, Signora Strozzi,” he’d said in his arrogant manner, “that reading presents real dangers for women and girls?”
    Wide-eyed, I’d looked from one to the other during this debate.
    â€œI know of none,” my aunt insisted stubbornly. “And for every danger, there is doubtless a positive good.”
    â€œYou know nothing of the world, that much is clear,” the cardinal had continued loftily. I thought he must be wrong about that; it seemed to me that my aunt knew a lot more than he thought she did. “A woman who can read is very likely to read the wrong things. I cannot allow such a corrupting influence.”
    â€œBut surely, someone wise may guide her choices,” my aunt had dared to argue.
    â€œReading is not wholesome for the pure minds of girls,” the cardinal lectured her sternly. “Young women must heed only God and the will of their husbands! This ends our discussion. Good day, Signora Strozzi.”
    Aunt Clarissa had lost the argument, but it didn’t really matter. Thanks to Fra Matteo, I could already read well, both Latin and the everyday Italian of Dante Alighieri, whose
Divine Comedy
I had studied before Cardinal Passerini had imposed the ban. Now, at Le Murate, I was pleased to learn that the nuns believed one must be able to read Latin in order to perform the Opus Dei—the work of God—at each of the devotional hours. Prayers and psalms were the heart of convent life. Reading, therefore, was essential.
    Girls who’d had no previous tutoring—as most of them had not—were to receive their first reading lessons from the old priest who came to the convent church each day to say Mass. Not wanting to be left out, I went with them to stand at the iron grille. We listened as the priest on the other side mumbled each letter or combination of letters, and then tried to repeat after him, following along in a crude book. The lessons were very dull. It was a wonder anyone could learn that way, but somehow they did.

    F AR MORE INTERESTING were the lessons I learned from Niccolà, Tomassa, and Giulietta. I listened as the girls chattered about their families, discussing the plans their fathers were making to marry them into this noble family or that one and the problems that