Free Da Vinci's Tiger by L. M. Elliott

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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œBut,” I hurried to add, “I would be grateful to return after I better chisel my verse.” Lord, how could I be sopresumptuous? 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.”
    â€œWhy, God speaks to me, child.” She patted my arm. “But it took me a long while to learn to listen well enough to hear.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œCertainly. 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.”
    â€œReally?” 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.
    â€œMy 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.
    â€œOh my!” I exclaimed, pausing in front of it.
    â€œLovely, isn’t it?” Lucrezia asked, putting her arm through mine. “By Maestro Verrocchio.”
    â€œIs it . . . is that you?”
    â€œLord 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.
    â€œIt 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 engagementto Clarice! Pulci had written a long