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THROUGH ME THE WAY INTO THE SUFFERING CITY,
— Dante, Inferno Canto III [[Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy, trans. Mandelbaum, Inferno, Canto III, 1-9, p. 68.]]
THROUGH ME THE WAY TO THE ETERNAL PAIN,
THROUGH ME THE WAY THAT RUNS AMONG THE LOST…
BEFORE ME NOTHING BUT ETERNAL THINGS
WERE MADE, AND I ENDURE ETERNALLY.
ABANDON EVERY HOPE, WHO ENTER HERE
Y FATHER AND THE COUNTESS were betrothed before the year was out. She and Tea spent the six months after in Bobbio with her brother-in-law who had inherited her late husband’s estate. They visited often and found lodgings first in Borgo San Donnino, then later in the sumptuous palace of my distant relations, the Pallavicino of Tabiano. Truth be told, I was overjoyed that entire year, having begged my father to propose and thereby give me a mother. During that time the world seemed right. Every planet was in its proper house.
Tea and I were stuck together like pieces of pastry, for we were to be sisters, and sisters—I was certain, being an only daughter—must be the best of friends.
We played games in the parlor room, usually of her choosing, for I soon learned her superior tastes extended to that domain as well.
— “No, no, not chess. Leave such things to men. Besides, it is a positively gothic game. Backgammon, however, is civilized enough.”
— “A lady does not chase. It is she who must be pursued, even in sport. Play must imitate life.”
— “Oh no, let’s not use those brutal tarots of yours. They look like they were drawn by Moors! We must use my deck from Milan—look at these exquisitely modern block prints.”
“But printed cards are much cheaper, I thought.”
She snorted with contempt. “Shows what you know. The Lombard-style deck is all the rage in the north.”
I looked glumly at my own hand-painted deck with its gold-leafed trumps. The Moon card on top was very finely done, depicting the goddess Diana. “I think the cards are nice,” I tried. “They were especially commissioned by my grandmother and painted by the school of Master Pomponio Allegri.”
“I’ve never heard of this Pomponio. He must not have been especially noteworthy.”
To avoid further embarrassment, I followed her lead from then on.
“What a fine pair they make, our daughters,” said Ottavia to my father one evening while we took a turn around the yard. “They shall win for our house fine husbands, and breed kingly stock. Isn’t Teodolinda fair, my lord?”
“Yes, fair,” agreed Rolando. “And my own Angelica is the spitting image of her mother.”
Something in the way he said this must have displeased her, for she rejoined that though I was hearty enough in a rustic sort of way, my hair must have been dulled by grieving.
“It is not her looks that displease me,” he said, “but the quality of her character. There is something wanton in her nature.”
No doubt they thought I could not hear, but I always listen. Then again, it is within the bounds of their character that they would speak such things to my face—for my correction, of course.
But I forgot to tell of the wedding! It was held at San Giovanni Battista, and the Countess wore a red dress with a red veil and white gloves. She was beautiful and everyone smiled. Tea carried the bouquet, and I picked up the bride’s train. At this time I was fifteen years old.
My father made a wedding gift to the Countess, the same given to my late mother, though it came to nothing. My family owns two castles which sit opposite to each other across the waters of the Brugnola. Since childhood I was raised in the fairer of the two, Castle Contignaco to the northeast below Mt. Pianazzo. On the southwest bank sits the dreary Castle Gallinella, alike to Contignaco in many respects, but blemished by poor repairs and punished by neglect.
The common folk have a legend about our castles, one which my father swears to be true. A long time ago there was a Count named Ignazio, the founder of the fief of Corticelle. The Count lived in Contignaco, which bears his name. He had a wife whom he loved very much, and as a token of his affection he built a second manor just across from the first. He named it after his pet name for her, gallinella or ‘little hen’, and thus she is memorialized to this day, her true name being lost.
Since then it has been a tradition in my family for the husband to hold the main keys to Contignaco, and the wife those to Gallinella. In my mother’s case the gift carried a double meaning, one not lost on her family. There was no mistaking why my Aldighieri grandparents sold their daughter off to the Marquis of Corticelle: Castle Contignaco had belonged to the Aldighieri since before Dante’s time, and by marrying my father they restored their bloodline to the old manor. By gifting Gallinella to my mother, my father denied her Contignaco. The gesture was not lost on my grandmother Lavinia, but my father need only shrug and say “it is the family tradition.” No noble can argue with tradition.
Nevertheless my mother, who was as in love with the stones of Contignaco as Dante was with Beatrice, lived most of her days therein. Only rarely did she stay in Gallinella, at those times when she could justify putting some distance between herself and my father. Castle Gallinella was ruled by a podestà∗The chief civic magistrate of a town or municipality, often a judicial and administrative officer appointed by the Duke of Parma; however, in the case of Gallinella it refers to a manager of the estate appointed by the Marquis Rolando. in her stead, though when she died my father’s foul temper drove him away along with the servants.
The Countess Ottavia, now Marquise Ottavia and key-holder to Gallinella, chose to follow in my mother’s footsteps:
“Gallinella is absolutely unsuitable,” she said after only a night there. “It is excessively humid, and drafty, and musty. I’m certain it must be haunted. And why that Count Ignazio should build it for that wife he claims to love so much escapes me. It seems if you love someone, you’d not let them out of your sight. Instead the count practically banished her to a hovel.”
I gathered from her words that it was she who would not let my father out of her sight. Yet Gallinella is not far at all from Contignaco, only an arrow’s flight or so; and Contignaco was truly the haunted of the two, proving Count Ignazio really did love his gallinella, even according to my stepmother’s standards:
You see, Castle Contignaco has exactly one tower over its southern gate; it is a bare turret with four plain sides broken by nothing but arrow slits and a plain window at the summit. In the years after the Count’s death, a cold light was seen to glow from inside the tower, and it caused no little wonder among the common folk.
“It’s Count Ignazio’s ghost,” they said, “always looking out the window towards his beloved gallinella.”
He could not flee this mortal coil, you see, for he was bound to the twin castles and the memory of his wife; so even though death had taken his flesh, leaving his spirit unencumbered like the angels, he remained there and dwindled. His spirit entered into the stones of the tower, just as celestial influences fall upon a sorcerer’s amulet. Even in death he desired his wife, and was so intent upon the neighboring manor that his ghostly face pressed out through the rock to stare ever across the Brugnola. He’s frozen there to this day, and from below you can see his worn gargoylesque face stretching out through the stone.
The day after my stepfamily moved into Contignaco, I was evicted from my canopy bed to a smaller bedroom near my father’s study. This was so Tea could take my old room, as she was used to a certain standard of living, and my chambers were considered more suitable for her. In my new room I was not far removed from my brother and Celia, who slept near his bed in a hard chair. That way I could wake and tend to him if Celia was not quick enough to stop her snores and quiet him. I don’t know why my father kept us so close to his study when my brother’s crying upset him so. I think he must secretly enjoy being upset.
I hated every moment in that room. If the south tower was haunted by Count Ignazio’s love-sick shade, mine was stalked by a demon. Do not take this as a flight of fancy or a poetic metaphor. You, as a religious person, know the reality of such things. This hideous demon would come at least once a week, sometimes more. He would stand by my bed and scared me so much I could neither move nor speak. I will let your imagination to fill out his features, but know that he was more frightening in person than anything you imagine.
The Sunday after the wedding was the first time we all broke our fast together: my father, my stepmother the Countess, Tea, and myself. I was very uncertain how to conduct myself, so I came to the table as shy as a field mouse and sat at my usual place beside my father. My face was so downcast I was near to dipping my hair in the cream.
“Not there,” barked my father, who was already seated at the head. He had last night’s venison on his plate next to the Sunday cakes. “You have an elder sister now,” he said, and he gestured with his knife to the next seat down. “Show respect to your new relations.”
I looked up from my lap to meet my stepmother’s blue stare across the tablecloth. She was in my mother’s old seat, which had been left empty for many years now. I was very happy to have a new mother—I knew I must be—but the sight shocked me terribly. I shifted to the next seat.
“My youngest daughter must have slept very poorly last night,” said the Countess. “Otherwise I can’t imagine how she could be so rude. She sits right down for the meal, and does not cast so much as a glance at her new mother.”
New mother. It sounded so much nicer in my head than it did out loud.
“Come,” she said, and she waved me over to her. I paused long enough to earn a glare from my father, but I went. She fussed over me and placed me in position next to her, with shoulders back, feet together, and my hands folded modestly in front of me.
“Every morning,” she instructed, “you must stand as such, greet your mother, and kiss her on the cheek just so.”
She proffered herself with the slightest tilt of her head, and leaned me in so my lips just touched her cheek.
“That’s much better, little doll,” she said. “You are happy to see me, aren’t you?”
I slunk back to my chair—that is, my new chair one place down—and would have taken a small bite of cake when my father scowled at me in his unmistakable way. He has thick eyebrows and dark sunken eyes, and his black beard frames his tense lips in such a fearsome way that sometimes when he frowns I think I’ll melt into pudding. I set the cake down.
“Is your sister at the table?” he demanded.
I shook my head and scooted the cake to the far side of my plate.
Tea took another half hour to make her way downstairs, by which time my stomach had begun to scold me more fiercely than my parents. I was feeling ill treated from every quarter, but I smiled at the sound of her heavy feet and resolved to be cheerful for my new best friend.
She came to table a small thunderstorm, her hair like golden wool tangled in a hedge. As I would learn, Tea was as messy in the morning as she was prim at any other time.
“Madonna in heaven,” she groaned, slumping into her seat. “That mattress was hardly comfortable. And the wind really howls through the courtyard, doesn’t it? I won’t dress myself until I have a servant on hand. This place hardly has staff appropriate to it, does it, mother?”
“Well don’t wait on the servants too long, dear,” said my stepmother. “Today we shall tour the estate and see all the marvelous things owned by our family. That does sound fun, doesn’t it?”
After breakfast we donned our overskirts and heels while the groom prepared our horses. My sister wore a red velvet coat with rabbit fur and white gloves; the Countess wore a sober black merino cape in the Spanish style with black leather gloves to match, and I wore a dark green overskirt and brown leather gloves with a faded blue cape and hood. I’m glad I was permitted to ride my own horse, Persémola (‘Parsley’ in our dialect). I do not think she would permit another rider anyhow.
We first headed south down our drive to the village of Contignaco, where the little brown-tiled homes were gathered around San Giovanni Battista parish like nurselings. The church was our first stopping point. My father pointed out the rock wall barely knee high wrapping the church, rectory, and cemetery, and said it was the last remnant of an old fort wall, no doubt from gothic or even roman times. The bell tower certainly might have belonged to a fortress once upon a time: it resembled the turret of our manor in nearly every respect, including the arrow slits near the base. The uninviting Spartan walls provided a perfect bulwark for Don Lamberti and Bonifacio’s war against Satan.
Our Contignaco estate sits at the head of a series of hills and slopes which might be called a valley if only because they are lower than the surrounding peaks. If we were to ride southwards between the misty slopes and forests, we would roll our way across shallow furrows and snake around crumbling terraces as far as the parish and hamlet of San Vittore. That rustic little bundle of houses sits idly just downhill of old Castelvetro, now a ruin devoured by brambles.
Nearby, also tucked in the trees, is another ruin, less unkempt: the old church of Santa Brigida, built by the Hibernian monks of Bobbio, and rebuilt into a modest hermitage by my godmother Iolanda. The folk here call her Iolanda of Santa Brigida, or else the Fata Iolanda and Beata Iolanda, since she is a wonder to them and a holy woman,∗A fata is a fairy or Fate, a spiritual being who sometimes interferes with the fortunes of mortals; though when said of a person, it indicates a wonder worker. Iolanda is called beata or “blessed” because she is considered a pious woman by the locals: the title was given not only to individuals on the path to canonical sainthood, but also independent religious and women devoted to good deeds. though she calls herself simply ‘from Borgo Valditaro.’ She has lived in the woods of my father’s estate since before I was born.
From San Vittorio if you look northwest you will see cropland and vineyards in modest strips as far as my home, and turning southeast, as long as you are atop one of the gentle hills, you would see you are in the widest part of the valley with Mount Argento guarding the wooded road to Varano, the fief of my Uncle Belisario. He is not actually my uncle, but a neighboring cousin close enough in blood to merit my father’s fraternal affection.
“The Pallavicino name is dwindling,” they tell each other far too often. “My family is your family. Blood is blood.”
We will head back north though, up the Via Francigena to the threshold of Contignaco. My family had not mounted our horses that day to inspect our vineyards. No, the Countess’ fascination was for alchemical fixed earth, the true wealth of Corticelle.
You spent much of your childhood away in the north, so you may not know that the entire area of Salso, including my father’s fief, is especially known for its salt. Your grandfather made sure that when he gobbled up choice lands from the local lords, he gained significant estates there so he could control the salt trade. My father has several salt wells on our own property along the Via di Corticelle, and three more in Salso proper where most of the salt is extracted. He ships it down the Brugnola to his own storehouse and carts it off to Genoa at his own expense. He used to ship it to the Port of Salt in Parma, but your family has demanded such hefty tariffs from him that he would rather go by land.
My family rode the two and a half miles through the narrow Brugnola vale. Men in dusty overcoats paddled skiffs of salt and sulfur to our right. Above the Brugnola, Castle Gallinella squatted in her nest, as ornery as a mother hen over hatching eggs; and imitating her below, a jaundiced tower-house—really no more than a stone booth—watched the road.
I half-started when I saw the man my father employed to collect the toll. He had a pistol, a long dagger, a patched cloak, and a dirty turkish hat like a ruffian. I half expected him to give a corsair’s war cry and challenge my father to a duel. But no, he only chewed cud and let his eyes wander over my stepsister.
When he saw my father he snapped into formality and gave a curt bow and click of the heel. There is a way certain men seem to behave in my father’s presence, less like servants and more like soldiers. These bravoes, as they are known, call themselves the pallavincitori, to distinguish themselves from the Farnese henchmen the farinelli. All of them make me nervous.
My stepmother, on the other hand, always gives such men a few denari∗A very small denomination, valued at approximately 1/12th of the Parman soldo or 1/240th of the Parman lira. when she can, a generosity never afforded to the regular serving folk. I did not see the coin pass from hand to hand, but after my father rode to take the lead again, the bravo kissed Ottavia’s ring, and returned to his post with something shiny in his palm.
I should tell you, before I shock all your delicate sensibilities, that Salso is unlike any place this side of the grave. Dante himself visited once, and what he saw was fit for Hell. The antechamber in Canto III of The Inferno is nothing but his description of it:
Here sighs and lamentations and loud cries
were echoing across the starless air,
so that, as soon as I set out, I wept.
Strange utterances, horrible pronouncements,
accents of anger, words of suffering,
and voices shrill and faint, and beating hands—
all went to make a tumult that will whirl
forever through that turbid, timeless air,
like sand that eddies when a whirlwind swirls.∗Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy, trans. Mandelbaum, Inferno, Canto III, 22-30, p. 68-9.
Once the pass opened up, we saw a sprawling, sunken plain eviscerated by turgid streams. Chalky roads snaked to a blister of a town where chains of indolent smoke suspended in the air like devils’ fingers. We were still half a kilometer away when Tea pulled out her handkerchief to fend off the noxious odors.
We came then to the Devil’s Antechamber. My father led us down rude streets where miserable men shambled up and down, some with bare feet, some in rags, nearly all grimy from head to toe. They hollered and hauled and sifted and ran about as frantic as a swarm of wasps. Here squatted a cavernous well garroted by spindly cranes of cracked wood; there gaped the mouth of a shop where fuming tubs boiled the salt water until it ran over like Vesuvius; everywhere ungodly miasmas, bilious steam, biting flies, chalky air, and hissing, slurping, grinding, dripping, buzzing and cursing filled the air. My horse could hardly step for the heaps of salt, the mounds of sulfur and niter, and the racks of toothy instruments. Vats of bituminous oil more combustible than Greek Fire and chutes of putrid ox blood for purifying the minerals added a rancid odor to this cacophony of sensation.
“Mother, I’d like to go home,” said Tea. She looked like a frightened pup.
“Nonsense, my little sweet,” said the Countess. “It is good to know whence one’s coffers are filled.” Flaming pitch burned in her eyes, and her smile echoed my father’s pronouncement which ignored Tea’s distress:
“Magnificent, isn’t it!?”
Tea turned to me, still searching for sympathy:
“Angelica, are you a savage? How can you bear this?”
In truth I was entirely lost in the effluvia of this terrestrial Antinferno. I had never been allowed north of the toll station before, and all my windswept mind could muster in the moment was the pride that my distant cousin Dante, whom not a few people remember, had so accurately described the place, and with such poetic verbiage. This rallying banner gathered my mindless thoughts together enough that I could meet her gaze. She looked pale and genuinely terrified.
“Father, I think we should get Tea home,” I said. I grabbed her hand by instinct.
“Nonsense,” he grunted, and he waved us over to a large stone well emblazoned with the Pallavicino crest. Wiry men as uncouth as the tollbooth bravo stood guard, and parted respectfully when my father strode past.
“This,” he said, “is wealth. Salt of the earth. Real industry.”
In the shop to our right scalding water jumped over the rim of a boiler, and an emaciated worker nearby did not move away fast enough. Crying in pain, he leaped from under the vessel and tumbled into a man bearing a bucket of oil for the fires. The oil spilled and crept nearly to the flames.
Immediately the armed bravos pinned both men to the ground and clubbed them, while workers raked the oily gravel away from the fire. My father turned to us, and shrugged:
“My apologies. This is no sight for ladies.”
He turned back to his men and encouraged them to not let the cretins off easy. I was frozen there, helpless to turn away from the poor men as the thugs landed their blows. Tea also looked on with horror, and suddenly letting out a wordless stammer, turned her horse and galloped toward home.
I turned on the inattentive adults:
“You’ve upset her,” I scolded, holding back a stammer of my own.
I turned Persèmola around and followed.
The foot traffic was thick, and I found myself starting and stopping to no end while Tea escaped me. Just as she disappeared around a street corner, I looked down and saw my godmother Iolanda in a veil and apron, tying off a bandage on the ankle of a sooty laborer. I called her by name and she spotted me.
“My Angelina!” She ran to my horse and put a dirty hand on my bridle. “Dear one, what are you doing here without a chaperon?”
“I’m trying to catch my sister, before one of these ruffians gets her. She scared and ran off. But what are you doing here?”
“The Lord’s work, God-willing,” she said absently. Her brow was furrowed and she looked like she was trying to form a plan. “Alright, dear one, I’ll get you out of here. We’ll find your sister, I promise.”
She grabbed the harness of my horse and began leading us through. She did the shouting for me as she found a path through the tumult. Once we came clear of the crowd, I gave her my hand and she got on the saddle behind me.
We didn’t catch up to Tea until we were well outside the settlement. Her porcelain face was puffy and streaked with tears.
“Tea…”
I clambered down from my horse and handed the reigns to Iolanda so I could run to her. I tried to put my hand on her arm, but she flinched away.
“Don’t touch me,” she snapped. She looked away a moment, then turned to me with her face comported as calmly as possible. Tilting her chin up, she leveled the most imperious look she could muster:
“I tell you this, Angelica: I never want to see another poor person again. They are filthy, disgusting, mindless beasts. No one would choose to work in such conditions unless they were morally deficient. I’m sure the Marquis is right to beat them as much as he pleases. It’s all affairs for men, and I want nothing to do with it.”
“I’m not sure those poor souls have much of a choice, my lady” said my godmother as soothingly as possible. “It is good that you feel compassion for them.”
Tea took in Iolanda with a suspicious flick of the eye. “Who is this common woman? Is she some kind of nun?”
I tried to make introductions, but Tea turned away as if Iolanda had simply disappeared from her world.
“It is true I’m excessively compassionate,” she said to herself. “I have a delicate nature which must be maintained. One does not keep a lily among weeds, else it would get choked. I will not go back among the weeds, Angelica. I simply won’t. Our parents may find me waiting for them in my chambers where I belong.”
She began to trot off again, but not so fast that she might lose me. I became anxious. What will our parents say? I would probably get the lion’s share of the blame. It’s not Tea’s fault that she has such a refined nature.
“It’s okay, Angelina.” My godmother placed her hand on my back and nodded her head toward Salso. “I’ll find your father and tell him you bravely accompanied your sister to make sure she got home safe. Ride straight home, and look for your father’s men. If anyone should give you trouble, state your family name and threaten the wrath of the Marquis. Lucky for you, he has quite the reputation in these parts.”
She helped me climb back on Persèmola, and began her descent back into hell. For my part, I saw my sister home. She avoided me the entire way, and shut herself in her room for the rest of the day, not even coming out to her mother’s indulgent pleas. Still, I like to think an unspoken sympathy formed between us that day. At least, her teasing was not so fierce at the breakfast table.
The Countess, however, seemed intent on tearing us apart. It was not just that she favored her own daughter over me—that much I might expect from the stories I’ve read about stepmothers—but the manner in which she made it a problem between us.
As she said on more than one occasion: “What is sisterhood without a little rivalry?” I have since learned that she never speaks to her own sister, not even if they are under the same roof. This philosophy ruled our affairs at home.
As an example, at breakfast, when clearly neither mother nor daughter had put on their masks for the day, Tea would be stuffed with sweets so she might “put on the right curves,” whereas I, who was much flatter and skinner than her, was teased until I could hardly swallow a morsel.
Once this had become the way of things, Lady Ottavia bought each of us fine gowns from Piacenza, but neither in our preferred colors nor style. In fact, the gift seemed designed to cause envy between us: mine was the perfect dress for her, a silky marigold gown with a pointed bodice, high bunched collar and funnel sleeves; and hers was as perfect for me, a less fashionable but absolutely romantic emerald kirtle with ample sleeves and brown ribbon worked in silver thread. The tailoring also seemed engineered for cruelty: Tea’s enviable kirtle tore at the back as she tried to squeeze into it, and my own gown was so sumptuous and flouncy that it was as if I had draped myself in a pavilion. I’m certain the dresses were swapped.
“Well, no matter,” smiled my stepmother. “We’ll go back into town and have them properly fitted.
That night Tea came to my chamber and demanded a trade. “You could never pull off that color anyway, not with your southern complexion.”
I thought the same of her dress with her ruby countenance, though I didn’t say it. Of course I agreed and swapped with her straightaway. But when I unfolded my velvet bundle, I found there were even more tears in it than before.
“Well it’s not my fault,” she pouted. “Clearly it was meant for you, and my body is far too womanly for it, though I’m sure it will fit your boyish silhouette much easier. Besides, it’s nothing a tailor can’t fix tomorrow.”
Tomorrow arrived and my stepfamily was dressed and saddled with a bandoliered escort before I had eaten breakfast.
“I’m afraid you’ll be staying behind,” said the Countess when I ran into the courtyard. “Celia is not well and someone must watch your brother.”
I had seen Celia that morning and she seemed in perfect health. I said as much, apparently with a good deal of impudence. Celia was up in her years and made all sorts of sounds day in and day out.
“I’m certain I heard her cough this morning,” was the rejoinder. “I’ll not risk the health of your father’s heir. We’ll be back by tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”
I stomped my foot and swore as they rode away. My stepmother turned to stare me down as they rode out the gate through the cypress lane. I hated her in that moment, and I hated my stepsister for being so favored.
I ran to Celia and asked very forcefully after her health.
“The Lord gave some brains,” she said, “and some beauty, and to me he gave two bad knees. Still, nothing to do but eat, drink, and let live.”
I really tried my best to be civil, though I was smoldering, and I took every opportunity to improve myself. For instance, that night while I watched my brother I took to mending the torn frock myself. It’s good practice, I told myself. I made a misthread in the back so to this day the linen is slightly bunched up, and my repairs on the bodice were not exactly invisible, but there’s no way to improve without practice. I resolved to mask the imperfections with embroidery—which looking back was my general approach to life.
It all would have been easier to bear if the demon were not still visiting my chambers at night. He became more bold as time went on. No longer did he stand ominously at the end of my bed. He began to say and do wicked things, by which I understood him to be not an ordinary nightmare, but an incubus. He only came at night, so I started staying up as late as I could to avoid being alone after nightfall. I had heard stories of incubi, and I knew they were in many ways like the goat-legged satyrs from Greek myths, only even more lustful and three times as wicked.
My greatest weapon in that holy war was a lantern I kept lit until dawn. I knew Psyche scared off her divine lover Cupid by lighting such a lamp, and I felt if it was enough to scare away a god, light-fearing demons should scatter as far as the infernal city, or at least as far as Salso.
At least one good thing came out of our new arrangement. My stepmother was much better at keeping servants, and soon our estates were repopulated with various serving folk. Since my abbey schooling was discontinued, a governess was selected to oversee my “refinement.” Her name was Bonetta Bonetti, a woman born in Legnago, refined in Verona, and educated by Benedictines. She came with good recommendations from the Aldighieri cousins, had no spouse or children, and was eager to be attached to a noble household. A lawyer’s daughter, she had the good breeding of a wealthy house, but no pretensions to elevate herself except in service to a noble family. If all this was not enough to recommend her, her honest round face, impeccable posture, pious speech, aquiline nose, and shrewd Germanic eyes would have signaled to any parent that here was a tamer of wild children, and she would not suffer foolishness.
And so I was tamed. I missed my woodland romps, which became far more infrequent, but the sacrifice was worthwhile in my mind, for I was happy to be studying again and not tending to the manor. Besides, I was at that age when thoughts of marriage start to enter a young girl’s head, at least if they be foolish like I was, and I wished to make myself half so desirable to the other sex as Tea. Good breeding, it seemed to me, would catch a husband as much as it might please my stepmother, soften my father, and grant me for once some sense of self-control.
In retrospect it was this need to re-establish control in my life that eclipsed all other purpose, though I was not aware of it. When everything in life is outside your sway, a little self-control is everything.