The Diary of Katherina Minola

February 26th, 1593

My new husband, Petruchio, has once again found our dinner “unfit” for consumption. This maddening behavior has persisted for several days now. As I write, I feel quite faint, and I fear I may not stay awake long enough to finish this entry. He vexes me so; with his foul odor, rough manners, and appalling sensibilities, I feel most days that I share my marriage bed with a filthy, flea-riddled cur! We have yet to consummate our marriage, simply because I cannot bear the thought of him defiling me so. It makes my skin crawl even to think of it!

On the other hand, marriage to such a brute is not without its advantages. He is quite a wealthy and well-respected man, even though the majority of his wealth is technically mine as it is part of my dowry. Yet another thing that vexes me. Semantics notwithstanding, I am aware I shall be well looked after by my odious husband as long as I can learn to bear his presence. Lord, I beg you grant me strength in this matter!

March 1st, 1593

Today Petruchio has offered me a gift: a new handmaiden named Portia. At least now, I shan’t be forced to live here alone in the presence of my husband and his bawdy band of manservants. Perhaps having another woman about will give me someone to talk to… and if I dislike her, I can always have her demoted to a scullery maid. It would be a great shame though, I think; for such a simple girl, she does have quite a lovely face. She reminds me a bit of a servant I had as a child, Maria. Maria and I became rather close back then, closer even than sisters ever could be. My father feared the strength of our bond greatly, however, and had her sent away to a nunnery in Venice. I never forgave him for that, and I never shall.

March 9th, 1593

Portia suggested we have a picnic today. The weather was fair and my husband is away on business, so I accepted. 'Tis better than sitting around here all day with nothing to do. For once, I had quite a nice time here at my new home. Portia is surprisingly intelligent for a servant, and a talented cook as well. She is demure, but is not afraid to speak her mind in my presence. It is most refreshing to have someone I can be so candid with, as the majority of the menservants fear me, and my husband – as I’ve said – is a volatile, pigheaded beast who would sooner horsewhip me than engage in pleasant, intelligent conversation. I hope his business affairs in Rome do not conclude any time soon.

May 18th, 1593

Petruchio has informed me that my sister is to be wed. I am happy for her, I suppose. The only problem is I haven’t a thing to wear… quite literally. I came here with not but the clothes on my back the day we were married, which were all but ruined on the journey to my husband’s abode. Since he has refused to provide me anything else to wear, I have been forced to walk around in naught but rags. Thank God that this place is so far removed from civilization, else other nobles may be party to my shame. Portia has done her best to help me repair my rags as they become damaged. She is not much of a seamstress, but I am very glad that she tries.

Perhaps the wedding will provide some hope. Surely, my husband will not force me to appear in front of my friends and family dressed like this, and will provide me something appropriate to wear. Portia told me this morning that she heard him sending for a tailor last night. Let us hope her ears are as keen as they appear, and that my oaf of a husband has some form of decency buried within him.

May 20th, 1593

My husband is a worm. A filthy, wretched disgusting worm! He sent for a tailor, just as Portia said. The tailor had made for me the most beautiful gown I had ever seen, with a lovely silken bonnet to match. Petruchio declared that both were not good enough to be worn, and as soon as I argued that they were, he destroyed both right before of my eyes. I shall never forget the sight of it, seeing all those layers of gold brocade and gossamer falling to the floor in shreds.

It took Portia hours to settle me afterwards. She is the only one who truly understands; the only one who truly cares. She is the first person I have met that does not cower or protest at my bluntness and contrariety, and in fact shares in many of my opinions toward men. She and I agree that men are without use, except for procreation. If only it were deemed fit in the eyes of God, it would seem most logical to me that a woman should take a wife for herself and not a husband. For only a woman truly understands another woman. I think, if it were allowed, that Portia would make a very fine wife.

June 30th, 1593

I think I finally understand. If I am contrary with my husband, he flies into a rage and sees fit to punish me. On the other hand, if I am agreeable and obedient to his every whim, he dotes on me with care and kindness, or the closest equivalent he can muster to them. We are to leave for Padua in the morning – Petruchio, Portia and I – to attend my sister Bianca’s wedding. At the wedding, I plan to publicly declare my devotion to him. It shall be the most demeaning and humiliating display I shall ever make, but if it grants me a life of luxury in the long term, then it is a blow worth taking.

In other news, Portia and I have officially become lovers. I do not believe that God would mind, because our love is so strong and pure. My husband cannot know, and shall never know. As long as I can keep up the guise of a dutiful, obedient wife, then mine and Portia’s happiness and comfort will forever be assured. I have come to terms with Petruchio’s rougher behaviors now, and I think I shall be able to perform my role believably, for the short term at least.

Should Portia and I be discovered, or should Petruchio suspect that my love and devotion are nothing more than a ruse, I have also come to terms with the idea of living the remainder of my days as a pauper. In some regards, I look forward to it, so long as Portia is still by my side. She is more valuable to me than all the gold, jewels, and fine silks that line my despicable husband's coffers. That, however, is a bridge I shall cross if I ever come to it.