“So it was not her own decision. She was imprisoned.”
“No …” The abbess hesitates. “She was confined to her cell. And everyone—herself included—accepted it, because for the good of the convent it was better that way.” She pauses. “It is …noticeable that since then, without an audience, she has again remained without stigmata or any regular ecstasies.”
“You are saying she is a fraud?”
“No.” She shakes her head impatiently, as if this whole conversation is unsatisfactory in its use of language. “Though when she was younger it is true she was accused of that. No, I am simply saying how it has been. Only God knows what is taking place within her.”
But while that is sound enough, Zuana also knows what she saw. And a bird-boned old woman with skin like over-rolled pastry should not have the strength to manacle a strong young woman with her grasp, let alone be so transported that she allows flies to walk over her eyeballs.
“The story I have told you was only fully explained to me four years ago when I was elected abbess, and my duty to the convent with regard to Suora Magdalena was also made clear.”
Your duty to the convent, Zuana thinks, but also to your family. For what the abbess does not say—because they both know it anyway, as does every other choir sister with half a brain—is that those same tumultuous years of the early 1540s were also ones of shifting allegiances within Santa Caterina, and the appointment of Madonna Leonora to the position of abbess had seen the power return to Madonna Chiara’s family—where, despite gradations of opposition, it has remained ever since.
“I see.”
“So if she is indeed dying, as infirmary mistress you can perhaps find other ways of caring for her within these rules.”
“And what if …” Zuana hesitates.
“What if?”
“What if God really is talking through her?”
“Then He would do well to find other means,” the abbess says quietly. “Zuana, though you are not the most holy sister in Santa Caterina, you are certainly one of the more astute. This is not gossip I am sharing with you. Nor even old history. I am telling you these things now because once again we are voyaging in stormy waters.”
“But …but I thought the worst was passed. Duchess Renata is long returned to France, we have a new duke, a new pope, and the inquisition has moved on. Surely the city is out of danger now?”
“The reprieve is temporary. Our new Holy Father still has his eye on Ferrara. Without a legitimate heir, the city will return to the Papal States at the duke’s death, though God willing that will not happen. But there is a more immediate threat. You will know that among the final decrees passed by the council at Trento was one directed at convents, to purge them of any impurities or scandals by enclosing all nuns, regardless of their order or status.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t affect us. As Benedictines we are an enclosed order already.”
“That is true. However, it seems that there are meanings and meanings of the word enclosed. And what is becoming clear is that the decree was passed so quickly—some might say deliberately— that it is a blunt sword, which, if wielded equally bluntly, could change all our lives.”
Zuana is silent. For most nuns the inner workings of church politics hold more twists than a knotted intestine and there is always another piece of gossip sliding in over the walls, each more scandalous than the last. Which is where a brother in the church proves more reliable—and more useful—than any mystic in a cell.
“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“I mean that within the idea of enclosure the decree empowers bishops—should they see fit—to limit or close down almost all contacts between convents and the outside world. It means they can, if they so choose, stop plays or concerts, cut down the number of visits or visitors, and sever trade connections with the outside so that we become dependent on charity rather than our business endeavors. The implications are severe. There is even talk that letter writing should be restricted, ‘as not conducive to the tranquillity of our state.’ ” She pauses. “It does not take much to imagine the impact of such a decree upon us here.”
Except she is wrong—to imagine Santa Caterina so changed, so shrunken, so constricted, is surely impossible. “But …but how can they do that? It is against the understanding on which the women entered.”
“I think that, when faced with the fear of heresy, such understanding was of little interest to the good cardinals and bishops who worked at Trento,” the abbess says tartly. “However, a decree is only words on a piece of paper until it is implemented, and not all church officials are so stoked with the fire. For now, at least, Ferrara’s own bishop is open to the entreaties of the city’s great families and is more liable to execute the reforms in the spirit than in the letter. But to make sure of that, we in turn must be seen to be above reproach, avoiding the scrutiny of those who would destroy in order to purify.”
Now, of course, Zuana understands it better: all the subtle changes in atmosphere in the convent over these last months; the abbess’s work to secure even bigger dowries to push the balance books into credit; the insistence on getting the novice settled and singing as fast as possible; the damping down of the more liberal faction in chapter, while holding Umiliana’s fierce fire in equal check. And now the blanket suppression of gossip concerning an ecstatic Magdalena.
It has always been impressive to Zuana, this sharpness of Chiara’s when it comes to the balance between the work of God and the work of man, especially when as an unwilling novice she had found it hard to disentangle the holiness from the hypocrisy of convent life. If she herself is in some ways the product of her father’s teaching, then surely the abbess’s talents, too, were bred in the bone. The names of Chiara’s ancestors run through the history of Santa Caterina like a rich seam of gold in the earth: women of shrewdness and distinction, perpetuating the family influence through a convent rather than children. The only question is—and it is one that Zuana has asked herself before without ever putting it into words—were such a woman to find herself having to choose between God and the power of family, which one would call louder?
“It will, I am sure, be clear to you now how wonderful it is for us to be offering the city a young virgin songbird. The reemergence of a living saint, however, having ecstasies with no proper confessor to control her, would be another thing entirely.” She pauses before picking up her glass from the table. “I hope that lays to rest any worries you might have in this matter.”
God versus family. It seems Zuana has the answer to her question. Perhaps it is not surprising that the realization makes her feel a little feverish.
BY THE TIME she arrives back in the infirmary, the morning work hour is almost finished. The mist seems to have found its way inside today as the room is gloomier than usual. She glances toward Imbersaga’s empty bed, and for a moment she is back in the still center of that night, the young woman’s face smooth as wax now that the pain has left, with Suora Umiliana’s vibrant devotion all around her, spinning sorrow into joy. Suora Umiliana. How would she feel if the convent was purged according to the letter of the decree? More at home than most of them, no doubt. And what then of Suora Magdalena? If Umiliana were abbess now, would she be so acquiescent in her imprisonment? Ah, these are not questions you are called upon to answer, Zuana, she says to herself firmly. As dispensary sister your calling is to care for the sick, and that is what you will do.