A mood of profound morbidity clung to me for weeks after my grandfather told me I would inherit his books. Every time a servant brought me a message, I feared it would contain news of his passing, even though he had never suffered from ill-health. Eventually, reminding myself that we have no control over death, I managed to push aside my gloomy preoccupation and, soon thereafter, accompanied him to the villa of one of his friends, outside Florence. The owner, Giovanni Tornabuoni, a banker, was hosting a hunt on his grounds. I had no interest in sport, but Nonno wanted me to come regardless, insisting I would find much to enjoy from the company of the other guests.
“You haven’t hunted for years,” I said.
“I’m too old for it. I will sit with the other ancient men and argue about life while you have your fun.”
“Fun is not the word I would choose.”
“Try to have a more positive outlook, Mina,” he said. “You might find you like la caccia. Even if it’s not to your taste, it’s an opportunity to make a few friends. You can’t spend all your time with old men.”
“I don’t spend all my time with old men. I do have Bia, too, you know.”
“Children and octogenarians ought not be your primary sources of companionship.”
When we arrived at the villa, the guests were already gathering outside the house. Introductions were made, and I had to admit it was a lively group, everyone well educated and urbane, but I would have little chance to get to know any of them until after we’d returned from the hunt. I was, at best, an adequate horsewoman, so there was no way I would be able to simultaneously converse and keep up with the others. Not wanting to disappoint my grandfather, I tried to look cheerful as one of our host’s grooms helped me onto my mount. A pack of tan and white pointers—Bracci, a fine hunting breed—gathered in the front of the assembled riders and we set off into the woods. I lagged behind almost at once, and before the group had downed their first boar, I’d fallen off my horse when he jumped over the trunk of a fallen tree. The steed, better trained than I, noticed the absence of my weight and stopped. Even if I could manage to get back on top of him without assistance, I had no chance of finding, let alone catching up to, the other hunters. If he had an inclination to return to his barn, I might be able to make my way back to the villa.
I was trying to remember any stories of horses making their way home on their own when I heard the sound of snapping branches and snorting, followed by a squeal of some sort, all of which presumably came from a boar. As a hunting novice, I had been given a small cudgel to carry, rather than a spear or anything likely to be of use against a wild beast. No one had expected I would face any creature on my own, and, to be fair, no weapon of any sort would have made much of a difference. I knew how to wield none of them.
My heart was racing as a boar came into sight. His head was enormous as were the tusks jutting from the sides of his jaw, which he was popping, making his saliva foam. I was half a step from the trunk of a tree. Without stopping to think, I reached for its lowest branch and started to climb. The boar lunged forward, reaching the tree before I’d made it very high. My limbs were shaking and I wasn’t sure I could keep myself from falling. If I did fall, one of two things would happen: Either I would land directly on his head and somehow that would incapacitate him, or I would come crashing down and incapacitate myself, which would make it all the easier for the beast to eat me.
Do boars eat ladies? I wasn’t sure. If they did, it couldn’t be pleasant. Lucretius was right when he said we had nothing to fear from death. It would come as a relief, particularly if one met it at the hands—tusks?—of a wild boar. I started to laugh. What else could I do in such a ridiculous situation?
Then, all at once, the boar dropped, a spear piercing its side. A man stepped forward, dagger in hand, checked that the beast was dead—he was—and then looked up at me.
“Were you laughing?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m sorry, I was,” I said. “Absurd, I know.”
He held his arms up and told me to let myself fall into them. I did as ordered, and he caught me with no apparent effort. “I noticed you were having trouble keeping up with the group and then realized you’d disappeared, so I thought I ought to backtrack and try to find you. Are you hurt?”
“I fell off my horse but injured nothing aside from the overly lofty opinion I hold of myself.”
“Climbing the tree was clever,” he said, carrying me away from the boar’s corpse and setting me down.
“I didn’t think the cudgel would prove an adequate weapon. At least not in my hands.”
“Most likely not in anyone’s.” He whistled and my horse came to him. He tied the reins around a tree. “We’ll leave him here while we get mine, which is nearby. We’ll walk to get him. You might want another moment or two to settle before you ride.” He held out his gloved hand. I took it. It was warm and made me feel safe.
We’d soon collected his horse and returned to the small clearing where mine stood patiently waiting. Once my rescuer was persuaded I was suffering from no meaningful injury, he strung a rope through the boar’s rear legs, just above his hooves, flung one end over a sturdy tree branch, and pulled until the animal was hanging above the ground. Then, he made an incision with his dagger and removed the gory mass of the beast’s innards from his body.
“It’s not pretty, I know, but I hate to waste the meat.” When the blood had finished draining, he brought my horse over to the tree, lowered the carcass, and draped it over the steed’s back, using more rope to secure it. He tied another length around his horse’s neck and then knotted the other end around my horse’s tail. That done, he helped me onto his horse and finally, in a swift, fluid motion, leapt onto it behind me, and we set off for the villa.
He kept one arm around my waist to steady me. I needed the assistance, but the gesture felt oddly intimate. “I’m mortified, sir, but after all you’ve done for me, I owe you the truth. I can’t remember your name.”
He laughed. “Cristofano Corsini. Do not feel bad. In your state, after nearly being attacked by a vicious boar, I would not be able to recall my own name, let alone that of someone I’ve only just met. You are Mina Portinari. I have long admired your grandfather.”
“You know him?” I asked.
“Only from a distance. I see him at the occasional dinner but am not fortunate enough to count myself among his friends. Tell me something. Why were you laughing when I found you?”
“I was in a tree trying to escape unwelcome attention from a boar. The situation was so inane, what else was there to do? Nil igitur mors est ad nos neque pertinet hilum, / quandoquidem natura animi mortalis habetur.”
“Therefore death to us / Is nothing, nor concerns us in the least, / Since nature of mind is mortal evermore. That must be Lucretius.”
“You’re an educated man.”
“I’m a Florentine. Would a badly educated man be tolerated in our city?” I couldn’t see his face, but it felt as if he were smiling. “Did your grandfather teach you Latin?”
“He did, but I also studied with my brothers and their tutors.”
“I believe il Magnifico’s mother did the same with her daughters. A wise decision, I always thought. Who wants a dolt for a wife?”
My whole body tensed. Much as I was enjoying our conversation, I was not looking for a husband. Then I realized I had no idea whether Signore Corsini was already married. “So you chose an educated wife?”
“I will, eventually,” he said, “but see no need to rush, so if you want me to propose, I’m afraid you’re destined for disappointment.”
“Signore Corsini, a proposal is the last thing I would ever want, from you or anyone else.”
“I’m most relieved. It’s a dangerous business, rescuing ladies and them expecting you to marry them.”
“You’ve nothing to fear from me on that count,” I said. “But I am curious. How many ladies have you rescued?”
We had reached the villa. He stopped the horses, dismounted, and helped me down. “You’re my first, but I’ve heard stories.”
I hadn’t taken much notice of his appearance until then. He wasn’t all that handsome. His nose was a bit long and his mouth a bit thin. His eyes, hazel, were unremarkable, but something about them drew me to him. They danced. He called for a groom to tend to the horses and see to the boar and then led me inside. The maid who greeted us looked shocked and bustled me off for a bath. I hadn’t realized just how filthy I was.
My dress, streaked with mud and ripped in several places, was deemed unwearable. A substitute was produced, borrowed from our hostess. The others had not yet returned when I made my way back downstairs, where I found Signore Corsini with my grandfather and his friends in the loggia. Their conversation fell silent as I approached, and I was quiet, too, struck dumb by a fresco on the wall behind the table around which they sat. It was obviously painted by Botticelli and depicted the Three Graces with Venus, who was handing a gift—flowers, but I knew they represented more—to a lady. The face of the middle Grace, who stood immediately to the left of the goddess, was mine, taken from the sketch the artist had done of me on that night so long ago, when I’d dined at the Medici palazzo.
“Have you recovered from your adventure, Mina?” my grandfather asked, beckoning me to join them. I did as he wished, but could hardly tear my eyes from the fresco. The Graces and Venus looked so much lighter and nimbler than the mortal. Would her stiff form alter and bend once she took the flowers from the goddess? Would she welcome into her world lofty ideas and beauty?
The men were all staring at me. I realized I hadn’t replied. “I have, thank you,” I said. “I owe a great debt to Signore Corsini.”
“As do I,” my grandfather said.
“Neither of you owes me a thing,” my rescuer said. “The swooning compliments I’ll be getting from ladies for months after they hear of my feats will be more than enough.” He smiled at me, then tilted his head and squinted, looking as if he were seeing me for the first time. He turned to the fresco, then back to me. The other men paid no further attention, returning to their discussion, something about Alcibiades, but Signore Corsini continued to stare at me.
“A muse of Botticelli’s. What a lucky man I am to have rescued you.”
I looked at him, alarmed.
“Fear not,” he said. “I’ve no romantic designs on you. I’ve long been an admirer of the artist, and now he will be indebted to me for saving you. He may even agree to paint the chapel in my palazzo.”