THE GOVERNOR OF CESENA
That night I would have supped in my own quarters
but that Filippo sent for me and bade me join him
and swell the little court he kept. At times
I believe he almost thought that he was the true Lord
of Pesaro—an opinion that may have been
shared by not a few of the citizens themselves.
Certainly he kept a greater state and was better housed
than the duke of Valentinois’ governor.
It was a jovial company of perhaps a dozen nobles
and ladies that met about his board, and Filippo bade
his servants lay for me beside him. As we ate
he questioned me touching the occupation that I had
found during my absence from Pesaro. I used
the greatest frankness with him, and answered that
my life had been partly a peasants, partly a poet’s.
“Tell me what you wrote,” he bade me his
eyes resting on my face with a new look of interest,
for his love of letters was one of the few things
about him that was not affected.
“A few novelle, dealing with court-life; but
chiefly verses,” answered I.
“And with these verses—what have
you done?”
“I have them by me, Illustrious,” I answered.
He smiled, seemingly well pleased.
“You must read them to us,” he cried.
“If they rival that epic of yours, which I
have never forgotten, they should be worth hearing.”
And presently, supper being done, I went at his bidding
to my chamber for my precious manuscripts, and, returning,
I entertained the company with the reading of a portion
of what I had written. They heard me with an
attention that might have rendered me vain had my ambition
really lain in being accounted a great writer; and
when I paused, now and again, there was a murmur of
applause, and many a pat on the shoulder from Filippo
whenever a line, a phrase or a stanza took his fancy.
I was perhaps too absorbed to pay any great attention
to the impression my verses were producing, but presently,
in one of my pauses, the Lord Filippo startled me
with words that awoke me to a sense of my imprudence.
“Do you know, Lazzaro, of what your lines remind
me in an extraordinary measure?”
“Of what, Excellency?” I asked politely,
raising my eyes from my manuscript. They chanced
to meet the glance of Madonna Paola. It was
riveted upon me, and its expression was one I could
not understand.
“Of the love-songs of the Lord Giovanni Sforza,”
answered he. “They resemble those poems
infinitely more than they resemble the epic you wrote
two years ago.”
I stammered something about the similarity being merely
one of subject. But he shook his head at that,
and took good note of my confusion.
“No,” said he, “the resemblance
goes deeper. There is the same facile beauty
of the rhymes the same freshness of the rhythm—remotely
resembling that of Petrarca, yet very different.
Conceits similar to those that were the beauty spots
of the Lord Giovanni’s verses are ubiquitous
in yours, and above all there is the same fervent
earnestness, the same burning tone of sincerity that
rendered his strambotti so worthy of admiration.”
