the strictest rules of Holy Church were adhered to. Here, you think, we eat meat on Fridays; our services are beautiful; our church full of colour; we do not wear coarse linen; you think we are not so forgetful of the vanities of the world as our sisters of Santa Lucia.’
‘Oh no, Reverend Mother.’
But the Reverend Mother continued: ‘We wash our bodies, and that the nuns of Santa Lucia would tell you is a sin.’ Caterina was silent.
‘And yet,’ said the Reverend Mother, ‘it is the Santa Lucia that has been visited with the plague, and the Murate is the only unpolluted spot in Florence.
That is a miracle, my little one. Let us pray now. Let us give our thanks to the saints for showing us that our way of life is the one which has given them most pleasure.’
The Reverend Mother watched the grave little face while Caterina
murmured her prayers. The child was learning the first of the lessons the Murate had to teach her.
Caterina loved to sit stitching at the tapestry with those who were her
friends. There were hardly any in the convent who were not her friends; but those nuns whose families supported the Government felt it their duty to treat the little Medici with some reserve.
As they stitched at the altar cloth which they were making, they talked.
Caterina loved to speak of Ippolito, to tell the nuns of his charm and his gaiety and his chivalry; she even confided in one or two of them the hope that she would one day marry him. She knew that he was alive. She could not say how she knew, but she was certain of it. ‘It is something inside me that tells me this is so,’ she tried to explain.
She was happy in the Murate― as happy as she could be without Ippolito.
And with that peaceful feeling within which told her she would see Ippolito again one day she felt that she might enjoy these pleasant hours. There was one summer’s day as she sat at work with the others on this altar cloth that a conversation took place which she was to remember all her life.
Lucia, a garrulous young nun, was talking of miracles which had been
performed in the convent.
‘Once,’ said Lucia, ‘the Murate was very poor indeed, and there was great trouble throughout Florence. The city was poor as the Murate, and the citizens thought to beg relief from the Impruneta Virgin. So they brought the statue into the city and every convent was expected to make some offering to the Virgin.
Now, here in the Murate, we had nothing at all, and we did not know what to do.’
‘Ah!’ said Sister Margaretta. ‘You are going to tell the story of the Black Virgin’s Cloak. I have heard it many times.’
‘Doubtless you have, and doubtless our Duchessina has never heard it.’
‘I have not,’ said Caterina. ‘Nor has little Maria.’
Little Maria was the novice whose ceremonial entrance Caterina recently
witnessed. ‘We should like to hear, should we not, Maria?’
Maria said she would like to hear the story of the Black Virgin’s Cloak.
‘Well,’ went on Lucia, ‘the Reverend Mother summoned all the sisterhood
to her and she said, “Do not despair. We will give the Impruneta Virgin a cloak.
It will be a cloak such as has never been seen before in Florence, a cloak of rich brocade, lined with ermine and embroidered with gold.” The nuns were aghast, for how could they in their poverty give such a mantle? But there was about the Reverend Mother a look of such holiness that there were some, as they declared afterwards, who knew a miracle was about to be performed.
‘Listen to me,” said the Reverend Mother. “This mantle shall be made
through prayer. For six yards of brocade three Psalters in honour of the Holy Trinity shall be sung; fifty psalms for each yard with Gloria tibi Domine , and meditations on the great favours Mary received from the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. For the ermine skins seven thousand times the Ave Maria; for the embroidered crowns sixty-three times the Rosary; for a golden clasp seven
‘Oh no, Reverend Mother.’
But the Reverend Mother continued: ‘We wash our bodies, and that the nuns of Santa Lucia would tell you is a sin.’ Caterina was silent.
‘And yet,’ said the Reverend Mother, ‘it is the Santa Lucia that has been visited with the plague, and the Murate is the only unpolluted spot in Florence.
That is a miracle, my little one. Let us pray now. Let us give our thanks to the saints for showing us that our way of life is the one which has given them most pleasure.’
The Reverend Mother watched the grave little face while Caterina
murmured her prayers. The child was learning the first of the lessons the Murate had to teach her.
Caterina loved to sit stitching at the tapestry with those who were her
friends. There were hardly any in the convent who were not her friends; but those nuns whose families supported the Government felt it their duty to treat the little Medici with some reserve.
As they stitched at the altar cloth which they were making, they talked.
Caterina loved to speak of Ippolito, to tell the nuns of his charm and his gaiety and his chivalry; she even confided in one or two of them the hope that she would one day marry him. She knew that he was alive. She could not say how she knew, but she was certain of it. ‘It is something inside me that tells me this is so,’ she tried to explain.
She was happy in the Murate― as happy as she could be without Ippolito.
And with that peaceful feeling within which told her she would see Ippolito again one day she felt that she might enjoy these pleasant hours. There was one summer’s day as she sat at work with the others on this altar cloth that a conversation took place which she was to remember all her life.
Lucia, a garrulous young nun, was talking of miracles which had been
performed in the convent.
‘Once,’ said Lucia, ‘the Murate was very poor indeed, and there was great trouble throughout Florence. The city was poor as the Murate, and the citizens thought to beg relief from the Impruneta Virgin. So they brought the statue into the city and every convent was expected to make some offering to the Virgin.
Now, here in the Murate, we had nothing at all, and we did not know what to do.’
‘Ah!’ said Sister Margaretta. ‘You are going to tell the story of the Black Virgin’s Cloak. I have heard it many times.’
‘Doubtless you have, and doubtless our Duchessina has never heard it.’
‘I have not,’ said Caterina. ‘Nor has little Maria.’
Little Maria was the novice whose ceremonial entrance Caterina recently
witnessed. ‘We should like to hear, should we not, Maria?’
Maria said she would like to hear the story of the Black Virgin’s Cloak.
‘Well,’ went on Lucia, ‘the Reverend Mother summoned all the sisterhood
to her and she said, “Do not despair. We will give the Impruneta Virgin a cloak.
It will be a cloak such as has never been seen before in Florence, a cloak of rich brocade, lined with ermine and embroidered with gold.” The nuns were aghast, for how could they in their poverty give such a mantle? But there was about the Reverend Mother a look of such holiness that there were some, as they declared afterwards, who knew a miracle was about to be performed.
‘Listen to me,” said the Reverend Mother. “This mantle shall be made
through prayer. For six yards of brocade three Psalters in honour of the Holy Trinity shall be sung; fifty psalms for each yard with Gloria tibi Domine , and meditations on the great favours Mary received from the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. For the ermine skins seven thousand times the Ave Maria; for the embroidered crowns sixty-three times the Rosary; for a golden clasp seven
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