whichof my sins has merited this treatment. I have been trying to understand why God is allowing this to happen to me, and yet denies you and Giovanna the child you both yearn for.
Because God is either not as benevolent as we would like to believe, or not as powerful. Or maybe he has his own reasons.
I would have married Bartolomeo even though I do not love him, even though he would have made me miserable. I would have tolerated him and made do. (Laura covers her face.) I am on my own now.
Despair is also a sin.
If I bear this child and raise it as a bastard, we will be destitute. I have no income, nor the means to make one. We will be ostracized. I will never find a man who is prepared to marry me and take care of someone else’s child. Shall we live on alms from Santa Maria della Scala until we are found dead in the street? Shall I become a prostitute like my mother probably was? I know I am complicit and I could have avoided this if I had behaved better, but why must I alone be punished when two people have sinned? Is it because I am the vessel? I am remorseful, Signore, but I am also angry. You will not tell anyone . . . ?
No. But nature is going to give your secret away unless you take your destiny in your own hands, young Laura. Clearheadedness must prevail over desperation.
Laura rises to pace to and fro.
Simone Martini sits with his fingers linked across his belly. Would it be so terrible to entrust one more foundling to the care of the hospital that raised you? It would give both of you a chance.
A chance . . . it has not occurred to me before that my own mother might have been a daughter of Santa Maria della Scala, that I might be but a link in a chain. I always imagined I came from outside the walls, from somewhere else, was taken there out of misfortune. A chance? I might still go to a convent, then, perhaps notSanta Marta, but another may still take me. If not, I suppose I could marry, although it has never held much appeal. Eventually I may even be able to have the child back. (To Simone’s surprise there is amusement in Laura’s face.) We call that “the lie.”
What do you mean?
It is the sentimental promise made by women when they bring their babies to the hospital. They give the infants tokens and trinkets to identify them by later on: engraved coins, rings, pins, buttons, embroidery—you would be amazed at the variety. But it has never happened, not once. The objects are disposed of and the women never come back.
You could stay on at the hospital and watch your child grow.
They would not allow it. Only one of us would be permitted to stay. But then, in all likelihood, only one of us would survive.
My child, do not think such morbid thoughts.
You have not seen it, Signore. You have not seen how many women and babies are killed by childbirth. By sickness. So many horrible ways to die. When disease ravages the wards, the smallest and weakest are the first to succumb. It is accepted, which is the same as saying it is acceptable.
You have lived to adulthood. Why do you doubt your offspring would?
Maybe it will. Maybe it will be a beautiful youth. Maybe one of the hospital’s benefactors will take a fancy to it. You must have heard the rumors, Signore? I expect that you would recognize one or two men from your social circle who are regular donors. Quid pro quo—
A hooked hand springs to Simone’s mind; it repulses him momentarily, he forces it away.
I have been spared. If anyone’s eye fell upon me, the rector steered him away because it was assumed I would be a nun and should be kept chaste. But some are too pretty for their own good.And stubborn. They draw attention to themselves. But I can see perfectly well why women who bring the children they cannot keep to the hospital believe it is for the best, for the slim chance you speak of.
What is in your prayers, young Laura?
That God will take this thing away. I know it is awful, but I would count it a blessing.
It is a risky
Because God is either not as benevolent as we would like to believe, or not as powerful. Or maybe he has his own reasons.
I would have married Bartolomeo even though I do not love him, even though he would have made me miserable. I would have tolerated him and made do. (Laura covers her face.) I am on my own now.
Despair is also a sin.
If I bear this child and raise it as a bastard, we will be destitute. I have no income, nor the means to make one. We will be ostracized. I will never find a man who is prepared to marry me and take care of someone else’s child. Shall we live on alms from Santa Maria della Scala until we are found dead in the street? Shall I become a prostitute like my mother probably was? I know I am complicit and I could have avoided this if I had behaved better, but why must I alone be punished when two people have sinned? Is it because I am the vessel? I am remorseful, Signore, but I am also angry. You will not tell anyone . . . ?
No. But nature is going to give your secret away unless you take your destiny in your own hands, young Laura. Clearheadedness must prevail over desperation.
Laura rises to pace to and fro.
Simone Martini sits with his fingers linked across his belly. Would it be so terrible to entrust one more foundling to the care of the hospital that raised you? It would give both of you a chance.
A chance . . . it has not occurred to me before that my own mother might have been a daughter of Santa Maria della Scala, that I might be but a link in a chain. I always imagined I came from outside the walls, from somewhere else, was taken there out of misfortune. A chance? I might still go to a convent, then, perhaps notSanta Marta, but another may still take me. If not, I suppose I could marry, although it has never held much appeal. Eventually I may even be able to have the child back. (To Simone’s surprise there is amusement in Laura’s face.) We call that “the lie.”
What do you mean?
It is the sentimental promise made by women when they bring their babies to the hospital. They give the infants tokens and trinkets to identify them by later on: engraved coins, rings, pins, buttons, embroidery—you would be amazed at the variety. But it has never happened, not once. The objects are disposed of and the women never come back.
You could stay on at the hospital and watch your child grow.
They would not allow it. Only one of us would be permitted to stay. But then, in all likelihood, only one of us would survive.
My child, do not think such morbid thoughts.
You have not seen it, Signore. You have not seen how many women and babies are killed by childbirth. By sickness. So many horrible ways to die. When disease ravages the wards, the smallest and weakest are the first to succumb. It is accepted, which is the same as saying it is acceptable.
You have lived to adulthood. Why do you doubt your offspring would?
Maybe it will. Maybe it will be a beautiful youth. Maybe one of the hospital’s benefactors will take a fancy to it. You must have heard the rumors, Signore? I expect that you would recognize one or two men from your social circle who are regular donors. Quid pro quo—
A hooked hand springs to Simone’s mind; it repulses him momentarily, he forces it away.
I have been spared. If anyone’s eye fell upon me, the rector steered him away because it was assumed I would be a nun and should be kept chaste. But some are too pretty for their own good.And stubborn. They draw attention to themselves. But I can see perfectly well why women who bring the children they cannot keep to the hospital believe it is for the best, for the slim chance you speak of.
What is in your prayers, young Laura?
That God will take this thing away. I know it is awful, but I would count it a blessing.
It is a risky
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