The people of Rocca Sorrentina gather in the midst of an outbreak of yellow fever for prayer. That nun, Sister, Blissful, made me very uncomfortable. Perhaps she dislikes English women in general or maybe it is only me.
My dear Fanny, she is a nun . . . . . and it has been my experience that nuns most often look with some longing at the gowns of fashionably dressed women such as yourself. Consigned to wear somber black as brides of Christ, they are denied the plumage we take for granted.
You may be right, my friend, but I swear there was more to it than that. It's not just that she reminded me of Sister Grace Bartholomew who once caught me hiding behind the rood screen in St. George's, because I'd eaten too much candy and did not want my father Dr. Burney to know I was sick (heaven knows what awful medicine he might have forced upon me!) or that I had pocketed the candy from Teesdale's on Becker Street. No, it was not just that, it was that she seemed to read my thoughts and I assure you the thoughts running through my mind at last night's prayer service were not all prayer-like in nature. My mind wonders, flits from topic to topic. The heat, Msr. D'Arblay (that handsome french soldier I mentioned when last we spoke), the horrible heat, the poor babe we are so concerned for, the unending heat, my father's disapproval, the miserable heat, my publisher's disapproval, the scorching heat, the fever outbreak, the overbearing heat, and, of course, the spiteful summer heat. That nun made me feel as though all my thoughts were known to her. Is that protected by the confidentiality of the confessional? I do hope so.
A publisher's disapproval is easily turned aside . . . offer to read for him in private. Cool baths and a determination to avoid the burden of panniers, petticoats and corsets offers relief from the heat. If the sweets contained the product of the cacao bean, they are vital to a woman's well-being andsatiety. And it is our thoughts of handsome soldiers that give us both relief and that sense of anticipation that brings a flush to our cheeks that only enhances our appeal.
All these things can be dealt with: we are resourceful women. But there is no immunity from the disapproval of an implacable nun and no confidence she will not betray you for her own advantage.
My dear Fanny, she is a nun . . . . . and it has been my experience that nuns most often look with some longing at the gowns of fashionably dressed women such as yourself. Consigned to wear somber black as brides of Christ, they are denied the plumage we take for granted.
You may be right, my friend, but I swear there was more to it than that. It's not just that she reminded me of Sister Grace Bartholomew who once caught me hiding behind the rood screen in St. George's, because I'd eaten too much candy and did not want my father Dr. Burney to know I was sick (heaven knows what awful medicine he might have forced upon me!) or that I had pocketed the candy from Teesdale's on Becker Street. No, it was not just that, it was that she seemed to read my thoughts and I assure you the thoughts running through my mind at last night's prayer service were not all prayer-like in nature. My mind wonders, flits from topic to topic. The heat, Msr. D'Arblay (that handsome french soldier I mentioned when last we spoke), the horrible heat, the poor babe we are so concerned for, the unending heat, my father's disapproval, the miserable heat, my publisher's disapproval, the scorching heat, the fever outbreak, the overbearing heat, and, of course, the spiteful summer heat. That nun made me feel as though all my thoughts were known to her. Is that protected by the confidentiality of the confessional? I do hope so.
A publisher's disapproval is easily turned aside . . . offer to read for him in private. Cool baths and a determination to avoid the burden of panniers, petticoats and corsets offers relief from the heat. If the sweets contained the product of the cacao bean, they are vital to a woman's well-being andsatiety. And it is our thoughts of handsome soldiers that give us both relief and that sense of anticipation that brings a flush to our cheeks that only enhances our appeal.
All these things can be dealt with: we are resourceful women. But there is no immunity from the disapproval of an implacable nun and no confidence she will not betray you for her own advantage.