Leonardo's Swans (15 page)

“His greatest pleasure is to lose himself in himself. He would study the day long if he did not have to earn a living. He is so intent upon finding the mystery behind his process that he loses interest in the process. It’s a pity that no one can enter his brain and paint the contents of his mind, for I am convinced that he keeps his genius locked up inside that head of his.”

Exasperated, Ludovico fell back into the chair behind his desk. “And then there is the problem of Beatrice.”

“Why is Beatrice a problem? She does not even care so much for painting.”

“But she must be kept happy. She must not suspect a thing. We cannot have her running to your father, or—Our Lord Jesus forbid—your husband, with stories of how I have allowed you the privileges of a wife. I will simply tell the Magistro that he must do portraits of the both of you.”

“Separately, of course?” Isabella asked. She didn’t want to get into an ownership dispute with her sister.

“Of course. Because she is my wife, Beatrice will have to be painted first. Then, my dear, there will be no problem. That is, if I can force his hand. I cannot promise. He continues to frustrate me over the situation with the equestrian statue of my father. Leonardo got himself a place in my court with promises of that statue. That was ten years ago! Do you see any giant bronze horses in Milan?”

“I understand your frustration, Ludovico, but one cannot treat these artists as one treats ordinary men. One must be very patient. They create in their own time. But if nothing is forthcoming, I highly recommend withholding their pay. It’s the most expedient persuader of all. Even geniuses must eat.”

Isabella was so happy to have conducted her business successfully that she almost forgot to give Ludovico the expected kisses and tenderness in this, their private goodbye.

True to his word, he hired a private courier to ride every other day to Mantua, allegedly so that she and Beatrice might stay in close touch, but in actuality to deliver to her long, secret letters in which he spoke his heart and his mind. In two weeks, she had received four of them, each one of which she answered at a length just slightly shorter than his. A woman, her mother had taught her, must always withhold just a little bit. What she thought at first would be a lover’s correspondence was rapidly transforming into a sharing of minds. They wrote of political gossip, of family news, and of pieces of art they were trying to purchase, for they soon realized that they both shared a collector’s particular mania. They vowed to read certain books at the same time and discuss them in their correspondence. Sometimes Isabella asked his advice on matters of state. Sometimes she forgot all about his hot kisses and felt as if she were corresponding with a twin soul. But she never forgot that this man was Beatrice’s husband.

Now two weeks have passed, and still no word from him about sitting for Leonardo. She is surprised because before she left Milan, she took care of the matter of her sister sitting for the artist once and for all. On the evening before her departure, she mentioned to Beatrice that she had visited the workshop of the Magistro and was considering commissioning a portrait.

“Would you really want to sit for him?” Beatrice asked. “I have seen him only once, but he frightens me. He is very grand. I don’t like the intense way he gazes at things.”

Isabella was very happy to hear that Beatrice was predisposed in this manner. She had already thought the situation through. If the Magistro were so reluctant to take up the brush, then it would be a miracle if he delivered a portrait of each sister. Isabella was determined that if only one portrait was to be done, it would be of her and not of Beatrice. Beatrice did not even like to sit for artists. Hearing this verdict on the Magistro from Beatrice’s own lips was music, and just another indicator that it was Isabella’s fate alone to be painted by Leonardo.

But Isabella was loath to trust anything to Fortuna. So she planted this thought in Beatrice’s mind: “I do not blame you for not wanting to be painted by the Magistro. It would put you on par with your husband’s mistress. Everyone in Italy knows of the painting of la Gallerani. You must not stoop to that level. You are the duchess and his lawful wife. You should hold yourself above that.”

She could tell by the stricken look on Beatrice’s face that the poison had taken hold. There was no way that her sister would agree to sit for Leonardo.

Now, back home in Mantua, she asks herself what she might do to put a seal to this deal. She wants to send Il Moro a gift, the perfect token of her affection, something that could be taken as impersonal, but was loaded with meaning. What can one give the man who already has everything? It should be small but significant. She looks over the treasures of her studiolo—paintings, sketches, statues from antiquity, even a bust of Caesar Augustus from his own time, cracked at the ear, but still beautiful.

But what to send a man whose collections and tastes outshine even hers? Her eyes scour the rooms, finally gazing out the window, where she sees the family of swans waddling along the half-frozen pond. The great white male with his huge wingspan is followed by a slightly smaller female and three fat white babies. The male squawks loudly at the pond, annoyed that his winter bath has been interrupted by the big blocks of ice. The majestic creature acts as if his complaints will melt the waters. It is odd for the swans to appear in weather this cold. Perhaps it is a sign.

The next morning, Isabella sends Ludovico a pair of the young swans, a male and a female. Two days later, she receives a letter from him thanking her for these beautiful birds, who will remind him daily of her, the most graceful and beautiful creature he knows.

When she writes back, she suggests that it is not she but he who is the swan—the god in disguise, the seducer of women, a creature no one can resist. She even suggests that he is more powerful than Zeus because he does not need to transform himself to transfix women. In his mere mortal form, he already has her heart.

She knows that if nothing else, no man can resist the idea of himself as irresistible. She thinks upon which seal she will use for this letter, settling on a musical note cut in a wide, orange carnelian stone. She presses the cold imprint into the hot wax, hands the letter off to a secretary, and then settles back into her routine at Mantua, confidently waiting for him to summon her for her sitting in Milan with Leonardo.

Chapter Four

VI * GLI AMANTI (THE LOVERS)

IN THE YEAR 1492; IN THE HUNTING PARKS AND PLEASURE PALACE AT VIGEVANO,
IN THE REGION OF MILAN

 W
E
look like unicorns,” Beatrice says playfully, trying to think of some way to pull her cousin out of her gloom. It is a glorious spring day, with lords and ladies dressed for the hunt in matching green splendor, all of Beatrice’s design, and she is tired of wasting this, her grand moment, on propping up the flagging spirits of the Duchess of Milan.

Surprisingly, Isabel of Aragon responds by bucking at Beatrice with the jewel-encrusted horn at the top of her forehead, and Beatrice nudges back with the identical crescent. Their horses, not entirely comfortable being so close while their riders play-joust, snort and shimmy to gain distance from each other.

Beatrice straightens her headdress, signaling for Isabel to do the same. It will not do, on the occasion of a royal hunt, with so many companions of noble birth—and nitpicking tongues—to have a crooked horn jutting out of one’s forehead. Grateful for the moment of levity, Beatrice hopes that it lasts for the rest of the day; with the exception of the morose, anxious cousin who rides beside her, she cannot, in her beautiful clothes, riding in and out of cool shade and shimmering sun, think of one foul thing to spoil her own mood. The mere touch of her silk green veil grazing at her face and cascading down her shoulders all the way to the ground when she is standing, but now covering the rear of her horse like a tent, is enough to make her happy.

“They say that all the ladies of France are wearing such headdresses,” Beatrice replies. “But undoubtedly, they were invented here.”

“Undoubtedly,” replies Isabel, eyes glued straight ahead again, and mouth slouching back into its downturned grimace.

Beatrice has been noticing all day that Isabel of Aragon has tried her best to avoid looking at her husband. Gian Galeazzo, the young Duke of Milan, has spent the day falling off his white steed while trying to pick boughs and fruits and flowers to give to his swarthy young lover who rides beside him. Every time he sees some bauble from nature that he thinks will please the hulking youth, he reaches for it without caution, sliding unconsciously from the horse and into the dirt. Everyone smiles apologetically, with the exception of the young lover, who laughs without restraint at the duke’s antics.

His green satin doublet—identical to those worn by the twenty lords who are today accompanying them on this adventure—is disgraced with stains, standing out against the still-pristine satins and moirés of the other men. The belt sewn with diamonds and emeralds with which he started the day has long since been captured by a faithful page, after the duke threw it to the ground for constricting one of his many attempts at garnering a white blossom for his paramour. He has not stopped drinking since the previous evening, Isabel has confided to Beatrice, who, frankly, would prefer to concentrate on the great feats of hunting being performed by Ludovico’s special dogs and falcons. Ludovico himself is very kind to his nephew, making excuses for him each time he makes a fool of himself, cajoling him to be more careful.

“How my nephew loves nature!” Ludovico says to the lords and ladies who try to hide their snickers as the young duke again nearly slips from his saddle in another comical inebriated lurch. “You must not let it be your demise, my lord. You must be more cautious in reaching for God’s little presents.”

Yet each of Ludovico’s generous apologies for his nephew makes Isabel of Aragon’s proud face sink deeper and deeper into an ugly frown.

Beatrice has her frustrations with Ludovico, but in comparison to his nephew—intoxicated with liquor and lusting for a crude country boy—she can hardly complain. Ludovico had allowed her to commission matching costumes for forty lords and ladies for this occasion, tearing the artisans and seamstresses away from his decorating projects throughout the many houses and castellos he occupies to satisfy Beatrice’s desire for the clothing, which she had designed herself. Before they had departed from Milan, he had taken her through the Treasure Tower and selected a wardrobe of gems to adorn her riding habit. He picked out hundreds of pearls, emeralds, diamonds, and rubies, all of which were then sewn into her headdress, bodice,
camora
, and sleeves.

“You must outshine the Queen of France,” he said.

“My lord, I do not think the queen is going to be present on the hunt,” she replied.

“Ah, but if all goes according to plan, someday you and she may be the best of friends,” he countered. He kissed her sweetly on the forehead and would say no more on the subject. Well. He had grand plans for her, indeed.

Now her jewels shimmer in the lazy May sun, making her look like an angel in a painting haloed with God’s own light. She has asked to stop at every pond and stream so that she can admire her radiant reflection, and the lush landscape of Ludovico’s hunting park at Vigevano is full of such opportunities. All day long, they have been riding along the perimeter of wide lakes and jumping across rushing brooks and streams, stopping often to let their horses partake of the sweet waters. Each time she catches a glimpse of her grand figure in the water’s surface, she falls in love with her own image, and has to remind herself not to get so lost in the glowing, undulating likeness of herself that she tips, like Narcissus, into the water and drowns.

Surely Ludovico must notice that she cuts a striking figure in this magnificent dress, riding her white palfrey. How can his eyes avoid the dramatic effect of her long dark hair and olive complexion against the emerald green of her habit, the color of which makes her look as if she is rising directly out of the lush landscape like some nymph. He must have observed how the diamond-and-pearl choker elongates her neck, making her seem tall, and that her bodice is tight, demonstrating that she has the smallest waist of any woman present today, with the exception of his thirteen-year-old daughter, Bianca Giovanna. He must also have perceived how Beatrice has taken Bianca Giovanna into her confidence; how Beatrice allows the girl to have all the attention when they are in the presence of Galeazz, her fiancé. Surely, taking note of all of these things, Ludovico’s heart must be opening up to her. Did he not spend hours of his time adorning her with jewels for this outing? That was a good sign of his growing affection.

He is polite, generous, and complimentary. Yet he treats her much the same as he treats his little Bianca Giovanna, as a charming child who amuses him but cannot hold his attention. He only comes to his wife after consulting with his astrologer on fortuitous nights for conception, rapidly completing his husbandly duties so that he can spend the evening with Cecilia, whose son by Ludovico is over one year old. After hours of prayers to the Blessed Virgin, however, the physical pain caused by Ludovico’s visits has diminished, and only the loneliness lingers after he leaves Beatrice’s bed.

Beatrice knows all too well what her husband likes, and she does not have it. She remembers the way he stared at her sister’s glorious bosom, but he does not even touch her tiny buds when they make love—if one can give such a lofty description to the polite mechanics they practice in the dark. From all reports, Cecilia sounds as if she might be Isabella’s twin. Isabella is womanly and has a fountain of golden blond hair and is a great lover of literature and learning. What justice is there in this horrible fact that one’s husband is
naturally
drawn to the qualities one’s sister
naturally
possesses? Between the time Il Moro spends in correspondence with Isabella and the time he spends with his mistress, he has no time at all for his wife, so he has thrown her at Galeazz who distracts and entertains her.