“Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit
of thy womb, Jesus. . . .”
IN THE CHAPEL, THE VOICE OF LORENZO’S MOTHER ROSE AND fell, songlike. Gray head bowed, eyes closed, she appeared so peaceful. I watched her pray and wondered if it had been hard for her to achieve that level of faith and calm. Lucrezia Tornabuoni Medici was a bit of a heroine for me—her devotional verses moved many to tears. How did she choose her words, her images, to so affect her reader? Plus, her family clearly adored her. On the way to the chapel we passed a painted portrait and a sculpted bust of her. How had she achieved that level of respect and honor from the men in her family? I almost laughed to think what Uncle Bartolomeo might do to such portraits of me. Luigi would certainly decry such expenditure of florins as frivolous.
“Ill things from us expel, all good for us procure . . .”
Kneeling on either side of Lucrezia, Clarice and Lisabetta harmonized, syllable by syllable in sync. Lisabetta’s chest rose and fell with that slumber-like bliss of innocents at prayer that I had envied in new novices at the convent. I tucked the folds of my dress under my knees to pad them better against the hard inlaid marble floor and, lowering my face over my clasped hands, squeezed them tight to concentrate.
“O Lord we beseech thee, that all thy saints may everywhere help us . . .”
A candle flickered, spat, and fizzed. I looked up, distracted by the spluttering light dancing along an ornate fresco of the Magi. Across the entire chapel, in sumptuous lacquers of red, ultramarine, and emerald, marched a parade of kings, pages, and penitents on the long trek to find the newborn Christ child. First came Melchior, the oldest of the holy kings; then Balthazar, in his manly prime, his ornate gold crown festooned with feathers; and finally the youth Gaspar, with yellow curls and a tunic that gleamed with gilded gold highlights. Even the kings’ attendants were resplendent. One had a cheetah in a jeweled collar, riding beside him on his horse’s rump.
Following the three biblical kings was a closely packed crowd of recognizable Medici faces. Lorenzo’s father, Piero, rode a white horse behind Gaspar. Next came Cosimo, sitting atop a donkey, as he always did in life, no matter the wealth he amassed. I spotted the teenage Lorenzo because of his crooked nose. To his left peeked a beautiful young face—Giuliano. Nearby was Luigi Pulci, with his saucy expression, and Marsilio Ficino, his hand held up as if preaching. The painter had captured exactly the personality of the Medici conclave and made them almost as important as the Magi themselves.
I couldn’t help going back to Balthazar, seeing something of the Venetian ambassador echoed in the powerful and handsome king. My heart beat a little quicker remembering the feel of Bembo’s hand pressing mine, the melodious resonance of his whispered request to read my poem. He had called me La Bencina—delicate, pretty, little Benci. No man had ever talked to me like that before. My hands began to tremble and grow damp with nervous perspiration.
Thanks be to God . . . Amen.
We rose, they shaking out dust from their skirts, I trying to dry my hands on the fabric of mine.
“Shall we?” Lucrezia motioned for us to move next door to the main camera, Lorenzo and Clarice’s bedroom. Typically the most lavishly decorated rooms in Florence’s palazzos, bedrooms were the place friends were received. An enormous carved bed with a canopy of silk and fringed curtains dominated the room. We sat atop cassoni chests adjacent to it, and Lucrezia, stiff with arthritis, lowered herself into a carved wooden chair, arranging pillows around herself. “Now, what shall we discuss?”
She smiled in a warm, nurturing way I had always longed for from my own mother. Having birthed seven healthy babies and losing her husband immediately after the last child arrived, my mother always seemed so desperate to please her brothers-in-law. I knew widowhood placed her in that humiliating position, but I still resented her seeming so cowed. The only book she read was Alberti’s treatise on the family, I Libri della Famiglia, which pronounced that women were by nature destined to be timid, slow, and weak—she certainly proved his thesis.
How I missed my father and our conversations.
As if reading my mind, Lorenzo’s mother turned to me. “Ginevra, my dear, I am pleased you have come. I so enjoyed my chats with your father. Amerigo wrote several spiritual lauds I thought finely turned. You write yourself?”
Once again, I was overtaken with shyness. I nodded like a village idiot.
“I think my son frightened you by asking you to share a poem at supper. Perhaps you would share it with me now?”
Sweet Mother Mary, how could I possibly share a poem about my spiritual inconsistency with this noted poet of faith? I swallowed hard. “I think not tonight, my lady.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Lisabetta and Clarice startle at my rudeness.
“But,” I hurried to add, “I would be grateful to return after I better chisel my verse.” Lord, how could I be so presumptuous? But I could not stop myself. I was so hungry for such conversation. “If I might be so bold, my lady, tonight I would appreciate learning how you find your voice for your verse. I am sure that knowledge would help guide my quill.”
“Why, God speaks to me, child.” She patted my arm. “But it took me a long while to learn to listen well enough to hear.”
“Really?”
“Certainly. Sometimes artwork inspires me, too. Do come back in daylight. I will take you into the garden to see Donatello’s statue of Judith and Holofernes. It helped me write my devotional about the good widow Judith.”
“Really?” I repeated myself, this time incredulous that she did something I often did for inspiration—gaze upon art, not the altar. I was about to ask more, but one of Clarice’s servants entered the room.
“My lady, your guests are preparing to leave. Your husband asks that their wives join Signori Benci and Niccolini downstairs.”
On the way out, we passed Lorenzo’s study. Hanging there was another painted portrait—this one of a beauteous young woman in profile. Her hair was caught up in elaborate coils of thick braids, intertwined with pearls and flowers.
“Oh my!” I exclaimed, pausing in front of it.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Lucrezia asked, putting her arm through mine. “By Maestro Verrocchio.”
“Is it . . . is that you?”
“Lord love you, child. No, not I. I was never that pretty.”
I glanced toward Clarice to ask if it was she, but I could see for myself that her haughty face had not been the subject for this painting.
Lisabetta frowned at me in an expression full of warning. But I did not know of what.
“It is Lucrezia Donati,” Clarice said, pinpricks in her voice. “Godmother to my son Piero.”
Lucrezia Donati!
Like Simonetta was to Giuliano, Lucrezia Donati was Lorenzo’s much celebrated Platonic love. Their very public idealized romance had entertained the people of Florence for years. According to Ficino’s Neoplatonic philosophy, if a man could keep his ardor for a woman to a Platonic friendship—in a look-but-do-not-touch idolization—and only contemplate her physical loveliness as being manifestation of her virtuous spirit and absolute beauty, then his soul was purified. His love would, in essence, replicate the selfless love of Christ for us and bring the man closer to God.
With this kind of unconsummated love, it was entirely acceptable for the love object to be married to someone else. Perhaps even easier to maintain the desired chastity.
I stared at Lucrezia Donati’s portrait. The painting felt like a shrine. What was it like for Clarice day after day to pass by a portrait of the woman to whom her husband wrote endless sonnets and to whom he saw as his way to heaven? Lucrezia Donati had actually been the Queen of the Tournament at the joust Lorenzo hosted to celebrate his engagement to Clarice! Pulci had written a long narrative poem about the event, spending stanza upon stanza on the beauty of Lucrezia Donati. Only in passing had he mentioned Clarice, who still resided in Rome at the time, portraying her as praying for her soon-to-be husband’s safety during the joust.
Glorious for Lucrezia Donati to be such inspiration for the Magnifico, to be sure. But what was that like for his wife? I had never thought of that before.
The question must have been etched all over my face.
Clarice’s smile was cold. “Come, it is late. Your husband awaits you.” As we came to the staircase, she added pointedly, “When you return, I do hope Ambassador Bembo’s wife will join us. Such a shame she was indisposed tonight. I think she would like you, just as much as I do Lucrezia Donati.”
I had spent enough time with my sisters and other boarders at the convent to spot a cat’s claws in Clarice’s tone of voice. Before that moment, I had been thrilled and aflutter that a man of letters seemed so interested in my writing and my thoughts. But Clarice’s remark about the ambassador’s wife made me recognize what everyone else had clearly already understood about tonight—that Ambassador Bembo’s interest in me might go beyond poetry.
At the bottom of the steps stood Lorenzo de’ Medici, my uncle, my husband, and my new admirer, deep in conversation. As if sealing some deal, Lorenzo slapped Ambassador Bembo’s back and laughed. When they noticed us looking down on them, the men abruptly stopped their banter. They bowed low, Bernardo Bembo keeping his eyes upon me as he did, his gaze so flattering, so inviting, Lord, so . . . so brazen.
I felt dizzy. What did it all mean? Stumbling, I put my hand on the marble rail to steady my wobbly legs.
As steeped as I was in ancient lore and biblical tales, there was so much to the world I did not know or understand yet. I was, after all, only a few years past childhood. I hadn’t even begun bleeding—the mark of womanhood—until the previous spring.
Suddenly, I longed for the simplicity of my convent school years—prayers and psalms, giggles and gossip, innocent imaginings of what romance promised—and the wisdom of its Mother Superior. I wanted to nestle up against her and pour out my heart as I used to during my weekly confessionals. I needed her sage advice.
Tomorrow I would flee to that sanctuary, as fast as my shaky legs would carry me.