By the time the watch sisters in the gatehouse have counted out the last male visitor and closed and secured the doors against possible intruders (a procedure most rigidly observed today of all days), and the abbess has accompanied the noblewomen, sashaying across the courtyard like a fleet of well-rigged galleons, into the refectory, the twilight is advanced enough for the candles to light up the stage, leaving just enough remaining natural light for the actors to move behind the curtains.
The novice mistress’s attention is now divided between those of her charges who will perform and the others who will be spectators, and everyone is vying for the best seats behind the benefactors. Such are the bustle and chatter that Serafina finds it easy to slip away from the throng and select a place for herself at the far end of a row at the back.
There are still a few empty places elsewhere when Zuana takes a seat to the right, almost directly in front of her. She turns a little to survey the room and as she does she catches Serafina’s eye.
“Your voice was heavenly in the concert,” she says lightly, before the girl can drop her gaze. “The parlatorio was ringing with your praises.”
Far from taking pleasure in being complimented, the novice looks confused, almost anxious. “Thank you,” she says, with a half smile. Zuana glances back toward the stage across a sea of elaborate veils and tall headdresses. “I fear you will not see much from here. You should find a place closer to the front.”
“Oh, no, no …I am happy here.” The girl shakes her head. Zuana notices how her hands are clasped tightly in her lap, one on top of the other as if to stop them from trying to escape. “I am …well, but I am very tired now.”
Her voice trails away as the noise level in the room rises. With the men gone, the women are more animated, rowdy even. She would not be the first young novice to yearn for company after solitude only to find it hard to be amid so many people and so much clamor.
There comes a sudden hushing and shushing as Suora Scholastica emerges from behind the curtain and stands waiting patiently, her full-moon face beaming with nervous excitement. Someone claps her hands to signal silence. She clears her throat.
“Welcome, dear friends and benefactors of the convent of Santa Caterina, to this, our humble entertainment.” Behind her the curtain rolls and twitches as someone moves along against it.
“In the same way that the body needs food and sleep to thrive, so the spirit also needs recreation and rest.”
She pauses, smiling broadly, and around the room people smile back, for it is impossible not to be affected by her enthusiasm.
“For this reason those wise men who established convents saw fit to allow the sisters to put on sacred plays and comedies by which to aid learning and to enjoy a little spiritual fun.”
Someone in the audience lets out a little cheer, and a ripple of laughter moves through the rows. A few of the noblewomen of Ferrara will no doubt have heard stories of convents where such entertainments are banned or curtailed, following the new rules from Trento, and are concerned lest the same thing should befall their own sisters and daughters here.
“The first scene—” Scholastica raises her voice to make it heard. These words have taken her many months to compose, and she is determined that people are going to listen to them. “The first scene of our presentation of the martyrdom of Santa Caterina takes place in the emperor’s palace in Alexandria.”
The curtain parts, pulling slowly back from either side to reveal a wooden cutout of an entrance with two painted pillars on either side. To the left stand a few noble courtiers and scribes, draped in fabrics and hats, and opposite them the emperor, tall and imperious, though still recognizable as Suora Obedienza, in a velvet cloak and a gold diadem, with a fuzzy black beard clinging precariously by two straps to her chin. A spirited interchange takes place between them about the pleasures of pagan living and the power of the gods, and then the music starts, with the courtiers giving a short dance, the steps of which most of the ladies in the audience could execute with their eyes shut.
Everyone now is craning her neck to see. Even Umiliana, who of course must disapprove in principle, cannot help but be a little curious in practice. Zuana glances back toward Serafina, who sits upright, eyes to the stage with an almost fierce attention. This time next year she could be behind the curtain herself, for there are ample opportunities for good voices during the musical interludes. Next year. How many Matins and Vespers and prayer hours will have come and gone before then? There was a time when Zuana knew the answer to that—could compute the number of offices, even the number of psalms sung, between each and every feast day. Everything becomes easier when you stop counting. Has the girl reached that stage already?
