Polia dei Poli, whom I have just mentioned, was then in the palazzo of the Pisani family, where Leonora had decided her to come to spend the mad weeks of the Carnival. Eight years younger than her cousin, and more beautiful than Leonora was herself, Polia, dedicated, as were a great number of young ladies of noble birth, to serious studies, profited from her sojourn in the capital of the scholarly world to improve herself in areas of knowledge today quite alien to her sex, and the habit of these solemn meditations had imparted to her face something cold and austere which passed for pride. It was not really to be wondered at, however, for Polia was the last surviving remnant of the ancient Lelia family in Rome, from whom she was descended by way of Lelius Maurus, the founder of Treviso. She was brought up under the watchful eye of an imperious and haughty father, so proud of the splendour of his race, that he would have considered the marriage of his daughter to the greatest prince in Italy as marrying below her station, and besides, it was known that the treasures that she would inherit one day could suffice for the dowry of a queen. She had nonetheless granted to Francesco, in their first meetings, a few signs of almost affectionate benevolence, but, as time went on, she seemed to have gradually prescribed for herself a reserve that was severe, not to say disdainful, and when he stopped showing himself at the palazzo Pisani, she no longer bothered with him.
It was during the course of the month of February 1466. Spring, often early in that fair region, was beginning to fill it with all its favours. Polia was about to return to Treviso, and her cousin multiplied around her the various festivities that might enhance her sojourn in Venice and make it harder for her to leave. One day had been taken up by gondola outings on the Grand Canal and on that broad and deep arm of it that separates the Serenissima from the solitude of its Lido. But Francesco had not been overlooked in Leonora Pisani's invitations, and the letter which he had had from her contained such amiable and touching reproaches as to his long absence that for him to refuse would have been inconceivable. Polia was besides, as we have pointed out, on the point of leaving for Treviso, and we may safely assume that Francesco wanted to see her again in spite of the habitual coldness of her welcome. Thinking more and more about the drastic change that had so soon come about in the relations between them, he had ended up by persuading himself that this capricious metamorphosis was due to something other than hate. He found himself then on the steps of the palazzo Pisani, the general assembly point for the departure of the gondolas. The ladies, wearing masks and identical dominos, came out in a crowd from the hallway at the agreed upon signal, and each of them went to choose, as custom decreed, with the familiar decency imparted by disguise, the companion that they were pleased to attach to themselves for the journey. This way of doing things, more gracious and better understood than the one that has taken its place in balls and assemblies, also had less serious disadvantages, women never being more attentive to the preservation of their reputations than on those too rare occasions when they are wholly responsible for maintaining them. So Francesco was waiting, motionless and with downcast eyes, for someone to take notice of him, when a pretty gloved hand came to rest on his arm. He welcomed the unknown woman with modest and respectful assiduity, and led her to the gondola already prepared to receive them. A moment later the elegant flotilla was moving to the rhythmical splash of the oars on the calm and polished face of the canal.
The lady, who was seated at Francesco's left, remained silent for a time, as if she had needed to recollect herself and to master, before she spoke, some involuntary emotion. Then she undid the ties of her mask, threw it back upon her shoulder, and gazed at Francesco with that gentle and serious assurance that self-consciousness gives to elevated souls. It was Polia. Francesco trembled and felt a sudden shiver pass through all his veins, for he had expected nothing like this. Then he leaned his head and covered his eyes with his hand in the fear that it might be a kind of defilement for her to look at Polia so closely.
"This mask is useless," said Polia. "There is no reason for me to take advantage of the custom which allows me to keep it. Our friendship does not need it and its feelings are too pure for it to blush to express them. Do not be surprised, Francesco," she continued after a moment of silence, "to hear me speak of my friendship for you after so many days of rigorous constraint in which I may have given you grounds to doubt it. My sex is subject to certain laws of decorum which do not permit it to manifest its most legitimate sympathies to the interpretations of the crowd, and there is nothing more difficult than to feign to a correct extent an indifference one does not feel. Today I shall leave Venice, and although I am destined to live very near to you, it is quite probable that we will never see each other again. Henceforth there is no longer any possible way for us to communicate with each other than by memory, and I did not want to leave you with a false idea of me, or to take away of you an anxious and painful idea that would trouble my peace of mind. I have provided for the first eventuality by giving you an explanation that I thought I owed you. I expect from your sincerity that you will reassure me as to the second point by confiding in me, which is something that you owe to me perhaps. Don't be alarmed, Francesco. You yourself shall be the sole judge of whether my questions are appropriate or not."
Just before she had said this Francesco had opened his downcast eyes. He dared to look at Polia. He drank in her words avidly. "Ah!" he cried. "As God is my witness, my soul has no secret that does not belong to you."
"Your soul has a secret," replied Polia, "a secret that besets your friends and that certain people among those you love best may find it of use to fathom. Endowed with all the advantages that augur for a happy future: youth, ingenio, knowledge and already glory, you nonetheless abandon yourself to the languor of a mysterious sadness, you are consumed by a secret care, you neglect the works on which your reputation is based, you flee from a world that seeks you out in order to hide in almost opaque solitude days that so much success should make resplendent and, finally, if the rumours that are circulating are worthy of credence, you are on the point of breaking entirely with human society and retiring to a monastery. Is what I have just said to you true?"
Francesco seemed agitated by a thousand conflicting emotions. He needed a few moments to gather his strength. "Yes," he replied, "that is true. At least, all of it was true this morning. An event which has happened since has changed the course of my ideas without changing my resolutions. I will go to a monastery and my commitment is irrevocable, but I will go with a mind that is fully consoled and joyful, for my existence is complete and I cannot conceive of any other one so happy on earth that it would render me jealous. Born into obscurity and poverty, but stronger than my fate, I had only measured my unhappiness by the immensity of the void into which my heart had plunged. This void has been filled by the most delightful of hopes: you will remember me!"
Polia looked at him sweetly. "I want," she said, "not to see in your words a simple game of the imagination or one of those flattering condescensions of courtesy with which people think to have repaid friendship. It seems to me that this artificial language of the cold should not be applied to us. I therefore think that I begin to grasp a fraction of the things that you have said to me, with the exception of your resolve, but," she added smiling, "I do not understand them sufficiently."
"You shall understand them better," said Francesco, encouraged, "for I shall tell you everything. Forgive however the troubled nature and the lack of resolution in my words, for, of all the vicissitudes in my life, this is the most unexpected. The strange position into which I was born, without parents, without a guardian, almost without a friend, fallen from a great name and an independent fortune, would doubtless be enough to explain my natural melancholy. It's a cruel thing to say to yourself that your unhappiness started in the cradle and stayed with you the rest of your life. But that idea was the first I was able to be aware of. I had to acquit myself of the material debt of gratitude before I could think for a single moment of myself, and I do not need to tell you that I succeeded in that. From that time on my courage grew. I had few regrets for the grandeur and the opulence that had faded away forever. I went further. I congratulated myself sometimes, in my childish pride, on owing all my illustriousness to myself, and on being able one day to force the family that had rejected me to envy the celebrity of my once repudiated name. Such are the illusions of inexperience and vanity. One day was to destroy all and to recall me to misfortune and oblivion. Alas!" Francesco went on, "this is the mystery your overly benevolent curiosity has expressed the desire to know, and which reason made for me a law of keeping hidden in my breast. But how can I dare to reveal to you those sad and deep secrets of sick hearts that wisdom and philosophy regard as a puerile infirmity of the mind, and over which the elevation of your character keeps you too high for you to deign to bestow on them any other feeling apart from pity? I fell in love…"
Hereupon Francesco stopped for a time, but reassured by a look from Polia, he continued as follows: