Modena is a smaller city than Padua or Ferrara. At its center is the enormous Duomo, a cathedral built on the tomb of the city’s patron saint, Geminianus. Along its north end, also enormous, is the Palazzo Ducale. At that time, it was debatable which of the two was more important in the life of the city: the Church, headed by a distracted archbishop ambitious to become a cardinal and leave Modena for Rome, or the State, which was synonymous with an equally ambitious Duke whose sole focus was Modena, which he wanted to make as influential as the cities to her east and west, Bologna and Parma.
Rinaldo d’Este—Rinaldo III—was the Duke of Modena. The d’Este line was long: at one time, Rinaldo’s ancestors had also held the title of Duke of Ferrara and controlled the two large, rich provinces on either side of the Panaro River, an area of roughly sixteen hundred square miles. Now all that remained of that domain were two outposts, the principalities of Mirandola, twenty miles to the north, and Casina, ten miles to the south. The latter, the poorer of the two, was nestled high in the Apennine Mountains and ruled by the Duke’s sister, Beatrice, the Baronessa Casina. Her father had married her off to Barone Casina, a fading aristocrat who received a large dowry, in order to consolidate Modena’s hold on the principality. The Baronessa had been widowed young. Because she and her daughter, Maria Angela, were his only remaining blood relatives, the Baronessa was maneuvering to have the Duke anoint Maria Angela as his successor in Modena. To date, he had resisted her entreaties, but the Baronessa was certain she would convince him. She reasoned that he had no choice, after all, unless he remarried at the age of sixty-two and fathered another child. But that was unlikely; he seemed to be frozen in deep mourning and perpetually gloomy. Preceding the deaths of his children, Rinaldo d’Este had lost his wife, Charlotte Felicitas, four years earlier. In retrospect, that was the worst blow of all. When it came to running the government, however, the Duke remained strong-minded and intellectually sharp, well attuned to his citizens. He didn’t suffer fools, and he was not easily deceived or outmaneuvered. Having ruled for four decades, he knew how to inspire both loyalty and fear. He spent many hours in his library and liked to entertain visiting scholars. But, as always, the concerts and recitals he sponsored at the palace were his greatest pleasure. There were intimate evenings for members of his court, local gentry, influential bankers and merchants, but also frequent performances open to all that his late wife had preferred, which were staged in the great hall of the palace.
Adriana and I entered Modena on a warm afternoon and found a hotel near the palace. I requested a room on the top floor in the rear, where I could play my clarinet without disturbing anyone, and they accommodated me.
It was an expansive room that overlooked a narrow, littleused courtyard. It had a large bed, a washbasin and pitcher, heavy drapes, and a Persian rug. Curling her toes in the thick rug, Adriana sat down on the edge of the bed. I had grown accustomed to hotels during my tours, but she had never stayed in a large urban hotel. I hung up my jacket, washed my hands and face, and took my clarinet from its case.
“What are you doing?” Adriana asked, removing her stockings.
“I need to practice.”
“Come here,” she said, holding out her arms.
I walked over and she pulled me onto the bed.
“I need to practice, too,” she said, blushing, and we burst into laughter.