He was sitting in the shade, murmuring verses to himself, when he heard the sound of voices. There was music too, and feminine laughter. A party was sailing down the river. He did not bother to go and look, and suddenly he was aware of her coming toward him. She was dressed in cloth of gold and there was an emerald on her forehead; her long golden hair was caught in a net which was sewn with pearls.
She said: “Good day to you, poet. You know me?”
He knelt at her feet, took her musk-scented hand and kissed it. “There is only one who could look thus, Duchessa.”
“Strozzi said you would know me. I have so enjoyed your poems. I could not resist the opportunity of telling you so.”
“You have come with friends?”
“Some of my women and other attendants. They await me in the barge.”
“Then you have come in simplicity. I am glad. For I live simply.”
“I know. Strozzi told me.”
“He has told you much about me?”
“So much that I cannot believe we are now meeting for the first time. I also know you through your works.”
“I am so overwhelmed that I forget the duties of a host. You will take refreshment?”
“Perhaps a goblet of wine.”
He clapped his hands and commanded a slave that it should be brought to them in the garden; they sat in the shade drinking, and talking mainly of his poetry.
She enchanted him. She was ethereal, so different from the woman rumor had painted for him. She was so gentle, even more fragile than usual after her recent illness, and that she should be one of the notorious Borgias seemed incongruous while it added to her attractions.
“I cannot stay long,” she told him. “We must get back to Ferrara before dark.”
He said he would show her the herb gardens; he was interested in herbs and had made additions to Strozzi’s collection. And as they walked through the gardens he made poetry for her, and this told her that her coming was something he would never forget as long as he lived.
“You will visit me again here?” he asked.
She smiled a little sadly. “I could not come often. It would be noticed. Then, I do not doubt that I should be forbidden to come. But why should you not come to Ferrara? You could meet your friend Strozzi, and there are often parties in my apartments. You would be very welcome.”
He took her hand and kissed it fervently. Then he walked with her to the barge.
She stood looking back as they glided away; he stood watching. They were both aware of a tremendous attraction, different from that which either had ever felt for any other person.
Pietro Bembo came to Ferrara, and he was seen each night in the little rooms of the balcony.
As he was famous thoughout Italy his presence added luster to those gatherings. Bembo was accustomed to adulation and it affected him little as he was completely absorbed in his friendship with Lucrezia. For the first time in their lives each was indulging in an absorbing friendship which was as yet Platonic. It was a friendship of the mind, of spiritual love; and it was felt by both that should it descend to a physical level it would deteriorate and become another love affair such as each had known before.
Lucrezia, weak from that recent illness which had almost proved fatal, Pietro seeking a sensation which would lift his muse to even greater heights, found in each other all that, at this time in their lives, they longed for. Each of them felt exalted—together, apart from the rest of the world.
Strozzi looked on, content. This was as he wished. He had brought them together; he could watch them indulge in their unusual relationship and know that it was what he had intended. He could feel godlike; he could say to himself: I took these two prominent people and brought them together, I knew that they would behave thus, and it is what I wished. It would be interesting to see how long the friendship lasted on this level, how long before passion gained control and brought them tumbling from their lofty eminence down to earthly pleasures. Two beautiful sensual people, mused Strozzi; how long before they went the way of all flesh?
He believed he could keep them where they were or bring them down to Earth. It was a sensation of power which appealed to him mightily, which soothed the pain in his leg, which eased the fatigue which came so readily because of that pain, which made him say to himself: Ercole Strozzi, if you can rule the lives of two such people, why could you not rule the world?
Angela, so abandonedly in love with Giulio now that she made no secret of the fact that she spent half her nights in his company, was delighted by Lucrezia’s friendship with Pietro.
“Why, cousin,” she cried, “Giulio tells me that his sister Isabella is furious because Pietro comes here. She prides herself that all great poets are her property. How glad I am that we have secured him.”
Lucrezia smiled gently at her exuberant cousin. Poor wayward Angela, thought Lucrezia, she would never understand the delights of spiritual love.
“Giulio tells me that Isabella is offering him bribes to go to her in Mantua,” went on Angela. “She wants him there, not only because he is a great poet, but because he is so devoted to you. At last you have a chance to pay her back for all the insults she heaped on you at the time of the wedding. It must give you great pleasure to contemplate that.”
But spiritual love was certainly beyond Angela’s comprehension. It seemed a strange way for two lovers to behave … to meet only to quote poetry.
“It will not last,” she said to Nicola. “You wait. Soon they will be lovers in the true sense.”
Nicola was not sure. Angela was such a sensual little animal, a madcap who might one day find herself in a difficult position. Nicola, now that her love affair with Ferrante had faded, was quite ready to believe in the beauty of that new kind of love practiced by her mistress and the poet. Indeed the character of Lucrezia’s little court had changed. There was less pandering to sensation. Instead of aromatic baths and leisure hours spent in Moorish shirts, there was continual reading of poetry and playing of music.
Only Angela went on in the old way.
One day Ercole Strozzi gave a grand ball in his palace in Ferrara to which the whole court was invited. Alfonso, back from his inspection of the fortifications, was present; so were all his brothers.
Pietro Bembo was naturally a guest, and it delighted Strozzi to watch his two Platonic lovers together. Lucrezia had changed. In this sedate ethereal young woman it was almost impossible to recognize the girl who, during her wedding celebrations, had taken her castanets and danced the erotic dances of Spain for the amusement of the court.
Strozzi guessed that Alfonso was thinking that it was time they attempted to get an heir for Ferrara, and decided it would be interesting to see how Lucrezia kept these two relationships apart—that entirely physical one which she would be forced to share with her husband, and the Platonic one with Bembo.
It seemed that Lucrezia had discovered the art of dividing her personality. She showed no revulsion for Alfonso, and at the same time she preserved that unworldly air of a woman spiritually in love with an ideal.
Duke Ercole’s agreement to pay her 12,000 ducats a year was proving to be a small victory for Lucrezia since he paid the difference in kind, as he had said he would; and there was continual complaint about the quality and short weight of the goods he supplied.
Lucrezia however, immersed in her devotion to her poet, could not concern herself, as she had previously, with material matters; she accepted the stinginess of Duke Ercole without complaint; and while she continued to receive Bembo at her gatherings Duke Ercole left the court for a quiet sojourn in Belriguardo, taking with him the State ledgers so that in the peace of his retreat he could go over his accounts and try to discover a way of saving money.