8
“There is one more thing I would show you, Signorina Simonetta,” Lorenzo said as we left the chapel. “If you would allow me.”
“Of course,” I said, curious.
He led us back up the hallway down which we had come, up another staircase, and down another corridor before stopping in front of a set of double doors. “You mentioned your love of the written word, signorina, so I thought you might particularly appreciate our library.” He flung open the doors in a wide, showy gesture, and I breathed a happy sigh at what was beyond.
Rows and rows of shelves stretched back into the narrow room, stacked one atop the other, higher than a man’s head. Scarcely was there any empty space; books and manuscripts and papers were crammed—neatly so—into the confines of each shelf. I had never seen so many books in one place in all my life. It seemed to me that all the knowledge in the world must be in that room, waiting for those who would seek it out.
I felt my pride in my own small book collection wither and die. What must it be like to have so many books in your own home, for your own learning and pleasure, at your fingertips whenever you may choose to peruse them?
Openmouthed with wonder, I turned back to Lorenzo. “Have you read all these?” I asked, astonished.
He laughed. “I am afraid I have never had the time nor the leisure to read them all, much as I may wish to. I have read a good number of them, though; either in the course of my lessons as a boy or for my own edification. I have begun to add to the library myself, and plan to do so as much as I can.”
I began to wander along the shelf-lined wall to the left of us. I resisted the urge to let my finger trail down the spines, and instead merely peered at each volume, imagining all the things that they might contain. Some were bound in worn, faded cloth; others in rich cloth of the brightest, most vibrant colors; others were bound in brown or black leather; still others were just bundles of papers held together with string.
“I do not know that any of my friends, learned as they are, appreciate this library quite as much as you, Signorina Simonetta,” Lorenzo said. He clapped Marco on the back. “Beautiful and pious and learned, eh? Truly you are the luckiest of men, amico.”
Marco nodded. “Simonetta and I share a love of Dante,” he said. “It was one of the many, many things that made me fall in love with her.”
I turned from the shelf and caught his smile with my own. I felt my heart flutter in that strange way I had begun to get accustomed to.
“Indeed,” Lorenzo said. “No doubt Florence’s greatest son. And tell me, Signorina Simonetta, have you also read the works of Francesco Petracco?”
“I have not heard this name,” I confessed. “My formal education ceased a few years ago, and so I have had to make do with such books as I can find in Genoa.”
“I have heard the name, but cannot recall any of his works at present,” Marco said.
“Well, now you are here in Florence, signorina, the center of poetry and art and philosophy in all the world,” Lorenzo said, as though Marco had not spoken. “We shall remedy this immediately.” He began to move across the room toward one of the shelves.
I smiled as I watched him. “You speak of Florence as if it is like to Athens,” I said.
He retrieved a book from the shelf and came back toward me with it in hand, grinning. “Precisely, signorina. You have divined my dearest wish perfectly—to make of this city of Florence a new Athens, where learning and beauty are prized above all. And you, who have both, may well be the jewel in Florence’s crown before long.” He bowed and presented me with the book. “A gift, signorina. For you and your betrothed. A book of Petracco’s poetry.”
“Oh, but I could not accept—not from your own library!” I protested, even as Marco stepped forward and took the book on our behalf.
“You need think nothing of it, signorina. I have several copies of these particular poems, and so do not deprive myself or my household the pleasure of reading them by making you such a gift,” Lorenzo said. “And I wish to extend to you—to the both of you—an invitation. I pray you to make full use of my library whenever you like.”
I was quite overwhelmed by Lorenzo’s generous offer—and to a woman he had met just a few hours ago.
“That is most kind and generous of you, Lorenzo,” Marco said, finding words when I was not able to. “I thank you, on behalf of us both.”
Lorenzo nodded, but he was looking at me. “You are most welcome. I am happy to share these treasures my family has acquired, and to make such friends happy.” He began to lead us back to the doors. “Now we must return to the party, before I am accused of being derelict in my duties as a host!”
“You are anything but, my friend,” Marco said, falling into step beside him, and I followed the two men out. I placed a hand on Marco’s shoulder and gestured to the book, which he handed to me wordlessly, even as he engaged Lorenzo in a new topic of conversation.
Walking behind them, I took a moment just to enjoy the feel of the book in my hands. It was bound in coarse leather, and the paper was thin; it was not as fine as some of the volumes I had glimpsed on the shelves. Yet it mattered not at all. To hold a book, any book, in one’s hands, to smell the leather and the paper and feel the smooth pages beneath one’s fingers, to anticipate the pleasures contained within, was a gift and a blessing. I could not resist the temptation of opening it and reading a few lines of the first poem. Yet before I could get any further, we had returned to the courtyard where the evening had begun, and I could read no more. In spite of such illustrious company, however, I could not help but wish that I might take myself off to a chair in a corner and devour the entire volume in one sitting, so entranced had I been by just the few lines I had read. From the smile that Lorenzo gave me when he saw me clutching the book tightly, protectively, lovingly, I knew that he, at least, understood.
*
We took our leave not long after that, and Marco called for our carriage to be brought around. Lorenzo bid us an effusive farewell, and I received smiles from Lucrezia and Clarice, who both said that it had been a pleasure to meet me, and that they would come to call on me soon. We passed the painter Botticelli again, and he bowed deeply and kissed my hand without a word.
Giuliano de’ Medici saw us out. “I shall look forward to your wedding, though the occasion shall break my heart,” he said. He clapped Marco on the back, then turned to me. “Signorina Simonetta.” He clasped both hands over his heart. “The mere sight of you has ruined me for all other women, for all time.”
I laughed; Giuliano, it seemed, managed to put everyone at their ease. “Away with you, signore,” I said. “Would you so cavalierly break the hearts of all the women of Florence?”