father. His sour mood had not lightened even a fraction, and I was further assailed by a disapproving look that said, “Why did you not come to me when I called?” I replied with the downcast eyes of a chastised daughter and was much relieved when the stanza moved him on, putting in his place the city’s current gonfaloniere , a fat and jolly guildsman who, with a delighted belly laugh, gave me an extra twirl that nearly undid the perfect symmetry of the double-circle dance.
Coming back to my place in the circle, I found myself before another friendly face, though this one my age. My father’s nephew Marco was a happy, boisterous young man known and loved for his clownishness.
“What’s that stuck between your bosoms, good cousin?” he demanded, improvising an extra hop and a spin. As he bowed, he reached out and gave my mother’s silk kerchief a tug.
“Marco,” I whispered threateningly.
“It looks very silly,” he said in a loud voice. “Poufs on your poufs!”
Before I could bean the boy, he had danced away, and to my dismay I now stood before Signor Strozzi. My husband-to-be, clutching my hand with the long, tapering fingers of his own cold, clammy one, was silent and stultifyingly formal. His steps were stiff, as though a pole were lodged in his ano . I nearly laughed aloud at that thought. But what he did next stifled the sound in my throat.
He smiled. Smugly. Possessively. With long yellowing teeth.
I thought I might faint.
Never had I been gladder for a cast-off to a new partner than I was when the stanza changed, and no more delightful a partner could I have wished for. It was our host. Cosimo de’ Medici’s eyes sparkled so impishly and his feet stepped so lightly that he seemed a much younger man. I suddenly understood why Lucrezia loved him so.
“Ah, Juliet,” he said, beaming, “what a joyful occasion. Tell me, is your friend happy?”
I executed the slight swivel of a campegiarre and gazed back at him over my shoulder.
“Only walking on air. How could she feel otherwise?”
With the quadernaria drawing to a close, we made our final bows, but as before, the musicians had barely finished with one tune before striking up another. These were the chords we all recognized as a bassadanza , a slow and stately procession of couples. Everyone took a moment to place their masks on their faces.
Don Cosimo had moved forward to partner with the lady next to me. Suddenly I felt my hand grasped by strong, warm fingers and turned to greet my partner. All I could see of him behind his sleek wolf ’s mask were his eyes, deep brown and soulful, a firm angled chin, and lush lips.
Facing one another, broken into two lines—men and women—we began the graceful rising and falling motion of the undagiarre , but I found myself quite unnerved.
My partner’s eyes would not leave mine.
There I found myself, imprisoned by a stranger’s gaze and oddly longing for the moment he would grasp my hand again. His lips parted. Revealed was an even line of pearl white teeth. We came together, palms touching palms, and then he spoke.
“ ‘Such sweet decorum and such gentle graces attend my lady as she dances.’ ”
“What did you say?”
We separated again. My mind reeled.The voice itself was rich and mellifluous, a kind of music unto itself. But it was the words that had rocked me. Now I took his arm, and facing front, we promenaded forward, stepped and pivoted, stepped and pivoted.
I could not contain myself, but I kept my voice low as I said, “The line reads, ‘Such sweet decorum and such gentle graces attend my lady’s greeting as she walks .’ ”
“Yes, but you are dancing.”
“You dare amend Dante?”
“When it suits me,” he said, his tone simple and sincere. But I was flummoxed.
“You are outrageous, my lord!” I cried, losing my step and my footing. Then to my horror I stumbled. I saw myself careening into the back of Cosimo’s partner, but in the moment before I collapsed the
Coming back to my place in the circle, I found myself before another friendly face, though this one my age. My father’s nephew Marco was a happy, boisterous young man known and loved for his clownishness.
“What’s that stuck between your bosoms, good cousin?” he demanded, improvising an extra hop and a spin. As he bowed, he reached out and gave my mother’s silk kerchief a tug.
“Marco,” I whispered threateningly.
“It looks very silly,” he said in a loud voice. “Poufs on your poufs!”
Before I could bean the boy, he had danced away, and to my dismay I now stood before Signor Strozzi. My husband-to-be, clutching my hand with the long, tapering fingers of his own cold, clammy one, was silent and stultifyingly formal. His steps were stiff, as though a pole were lodged in his ano . I nearly laughed aloud at that thought. But what he did next stifled the sound in my throat.
He smiled. Smugly. Possessively. With long yellowing teeth.
I thought I might faint.
Never had I been gladder for a cast-off to a new partner than I was when the stanza changed, and no more delightful a partner could I have wished for. It was our host. Cosimo de’ Medici’s eyes sparkled so impishly and his feet stepped so lightly that he seemed a much younger man. I suddenly understood why Lucrezia loved him so.
“Ah, Juliet,” he said, beaming, “what a joyful occasion. Tell me, is your friend happy?”
I executed the slight swivel of a campegiarre and gazed back at him over my shoulder.
“Only walking on air. How could she feel otherwise?”
With the quadernaria drawing to a close, we made our final bows, but as before, the musicians had barely finished with one tune before striking up another. These were the chords we all recognized as a bassadanza , a slow and stately procession of couples. Everyone took a moment to place their masks on their faces.
Don Cosimo had moved forward to partner with the lady next to me. Suddenly I felt my hand grasped by strong, warm fingers and turned to greet my partner. All I could see of him behind his sleek wolf ’s mask were his eyes, deep brown and soulful, a firm angled chin, and lush lips.
Facing one another, broken into two lines—men and women—we began the graceful rising and falling motion of the undagiarre , but I found myself quite unnerved.
My partner’s eyes would not leave mine.
There I found myself, imprisoned by a stranger’s gaze and oddly longing for the moment he would grasp my hand again. His lips parted. Revealed was an even line of pearl white teeth. We came together, palms touching palms, and then he spoke.
“ ‘Such sweet decorum and such gentle graces attend my lady as she dances.’ ”
“What did you say?”
We separated again. My mind reeled.The voice itself was rich and mellifluous, a kind of music unto itself. But it was the words that had rocked me. Now I took his arm, and facing front, we promenaded forward, stepped and pivoted, stepped and pivoted.
I could not contain myself, but I kept my voice low as I said, “The line reads, ‘Such sweet decorum and such gentle graces attend my lady’s greeting as she walks .’ ”
“Yes, but you are dancing.”
“You dare amend Dante?”
“When it suits me,” he said, his tone simple and sincere. But I was flummoxed.
“You are outrageous, my lord!” I cried, losing my step and my footing. Then to my horror I stumbled. I saw myself careening into the back of Cosimo’s partner, but in the moment before I collapsed the
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