bending forward to hide her face, as she slipped through the narrow gap.
7
On the road to Lucca, early July 1347
Looking back, I still marvel at how simple it was to deceive people — the young priest, the woman attendant, the multitudes in the street, and particularly the guards who are supposed to protect us against the likes of me or worse. Was I not a thief? Didn’t I steal a precious book from my father? And now I was carrying away a valuable crucifix, a bible, and a cassock, all belonging to a naive, young priest. I am convinced that I ruined his opinion of women for the rest of his life. If I, an unsophisticated girl from Elba, could fool them, how much more easy it must be for the real crooks and scoundrels? Oh, at that moment, as I hurried away from the city that almost delivered me a fourth time into the clutches of Sanguanero, I was glad that it was that way. What disturbed me, and still does, is that I did not feel any guilt, just an immense gratitude that I had not relinquished control over my life, and a smug sense of victory. Maybe I was born wicked. Had it not started with playing tricks on my brother, leading to disobedience of my father’s wishes and escalating into defying the authority of those who govern us?
I also wondered whether the Podestà had already dispatched the letter summoning my father to Pisa and hoped he had not. What would he think now of his "precious" daughter? He must despair over my behavior and blame himself for having failed in raising me to an obedient young woman who knew her proper place. My throat constricted and tears welled in my eyes. How I despaired that each day the gulf between us was widening because of my actions! Deep down I still longed to be his daughter, but I feared that I would be too ashamed to face him again.
Thinking of his little book reminded me of Niccolo Sanguanero’s reference to a ‘treasure’. What was this all about? It made no sense, and I was as puzzled as before.
But whenever I thought of that young girl whose confession I had heard, I could not help smiling. How fortunate that I had been her confessor rather than some old and embittered priest who would have chided her severely for an innocent act. I wished her good luck. Nor did it bother me in the least that I had usurped that sacred role. There definitely was a streak of wickedness blackening my soul, and I was making no effort to atone for it. For almost a full moon now I had not prayed a single time nor gone to confession.
These were some of the things that went through my mind as I walked into the gathering dark, hoping to find the players in San Giuliano, a leisurely half-day walk north of Pisa. Would they still welcome me after this? I fervently hoped so. They had become my life. Although I had always thought that my previous life on Elba had been free of compulsion, real freedom was life with the players.
After a brisk walk of two hours I reached San Giuliano, still wearing the priest’s black cassock which I figured hid me well in the darkness. I pulled its hood again firmly over my head and searched the houses for an inn. One of the last buildings along the street north had a small sign with the inscription ‘Taverna S. Giuliano’. I saw no lights. Like in the rest of the village, everything was dark. I had to knock twice before a middle-aged man in a night cap and holding a thick stick opened the door. My inquiry about Lorenzo’s troupe brought disappointment. They had already left early the day before, and he thought that they had gone north to Ponte al Serchio or even further to Vecchiano, on the other side of the river. Seeing my attire, he offered me a place for the night, warning that it was not safe to be out alone at night, but I declined and instead asked for direction to Lucca, figuring that the players might already be back on that road. I knew that Lorenzo planned to perform two or three weeks in that famous city, and I was eager to catch
7
On the road to Lucca, early July 1347
Looking back, I still marvel at how simple it was to deceive people — the young priest, the woman attendant, the multitudes in the street, and particularly the guards who are supposed to protect us against the likes of me or worse. Was I not a thief? Didn’t I steal a precious book from my father? And now I was carrying away a valuable crucifix, a bible, and a cassock, all belonging to a naive, young priest. I am convinced that I ruined his opinion of women for the rest of his life. If I, an unsophisticated girl from Elba, could fool them, how much more easy it must be for the real crooks and scoundrels? Oh, at that moment, as I hurried away from the city that almost delivered me a fourth time into the clutches of Sanguanero, I was glad that it was that way. What disturbed me, and still does, is that I did not feel any guilt, just an immense gratitude that I had not relinquished control over my life, and a smug sense of victory. Maybe I was born wicked. Had it not started with playing tricks on my brother, leading to disobedience of my father’s wishes and escalating into defying the authority of those who govern us?
I also wondered whether the Podestà had already dispatched the letter summoning my father to Pisa and hoped he had not. What would he think now of his "precious" daughter? He must despair over my behavior and blame himself for having failed in raising me to an obedient young woman who knew her proper place. My throat constricted and tears welled in my eyes. How I despaired that each day the gulf between us was widening because of my actions! Deep down I still longed to be his daughter, but I feared that I would be too ashamed to face him again.
Thinking of his little book reminded me of Niccolo Sanguanero’s reference to a ‘treasure’. What was this all about? It made no sense, and I was as puzzled as before.
But whenever I thought of that young girl whose confession I had heard, I could not help smiling. How fortunate that I had been her confessor rather than some old and embittered priest who would have chided her severely for an innocent act. I wished her good luck. Nor did it bother me in the least that I had usurped that sacred role. There definitely was a streak of wickedness blackening my soul, and I was making no effort to atone for it. For almost a full moon now I had not prayed a single time nor gone to confession.
These were some of the things that went through my mind as I walked into the gathering dark, hoping to find the players in San Giuliano, a leisurely half-day walk north of Pisa. Would they still welcome me after this? I fervently hoped so. They had become my life. Although I had always thought that my previous life on Elba had been free of compulsion, real freedom was life with the players.
After a brisk walk of two hours I reached San Giuliano, still wearing the priest’s black cassock which I figured hid me well in the darkness. I pulled its hood again firmly over my head and searched the houses for an inn. One of the last buildings along the street north had a small sign with the inscription ‘Taverna S. Giuliano’. I saw no lights. Like in the rest of the village, everything was dark. I had to knock twice before a middle-aged man in a night cap and holding a thick stick opened the door. My inquiry about Lorenzo’s troupe brought disappointment. They had already left early the day before, and he thought that they had gone north to Ponte al Serchio or even further to Vecchiano, on the other side of the river. Seeing my attire, he offered me a place for the night, warning that it was not safe to be out alone at night, but I declined and instead asked for direction to Lucca, figuring that the players might already be back on that road. I knew that Lorenzo planned to perform two or three weeks in that famous city, and I was eager to catch
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