by Karen Essex
Isabella is riveted to these renderings, though she cannot rationally figure what is erotic in coupling with a swan. Perhaps the priests are right in their condemnation of the old myths as vulgar and perverse.
Still, there is something irresistible about these swans, particularly the way that Leonardo has drawn them. The god-bird copulating with the vulnerable Leda, who looked stunned to have this gigantic and seemingly gentle bird suddenly taking her from behind, draws Isabella into the picture, though she knows that she should look away. She is embarrassed to be so captivated by it in the presence of Galeazz, but it seems to have captured his attention as well.
“It must have been nice to have been one of the Olympian gods,” he says. “Imagine the possibilities.”
“Blasphemer,” Isabella says lightly. “Besides, I think you are probably gifted enough in this arena. I loathe to see you with a god’s edge.”
“The Magistro tells us that the painter must create as if he were a god,” the apprentice offers. He is an earnest boy, Isabella thinks, quoting his master frequently. She wonders if he has any talent of his own.
“Not as if he were being inspired by God?” she asks.
“No. He says that painting is an act of creation, and the painter must be God-like in his ability to imagine.”
“No wonder he left Florence,” Galeazz says. “Fra Girolamo Savonarola and his agents of condemnation would have his head on a stick for likening a painter to God.”
“Sandro Botticelli is right now doing penance with the priest for painting his fantastical nude goddesses,” says Isabella. “I believe he is saying twenty-five rosaries a day and submitting to the lash every evening because his paintings make one yearn for that time when beautiful gods walked the earth and mingled with the mortals.”
“Oh, the Magistro does not admire Maestro Botticelli,” the apprentice says, ever eager to share his knowledge of his master’s mind. “He says he is a nice man, but he floats his subjects in space as if perspective did not exist. The Magistro attributes it to laziness. He doesn’t condone any painting ignorant of the laws of mathematics. ‘Perspective is the bridle and the rudder of painting,’ he always says.”
“Whom does he admire?” Isabella asks.
“Your Excellency, he does not care to look at the work of other painters. ‘He who paints from others is creating something false.’ That is another of his favorite sayings.”
“I must admit that I am growing fearful of meeting a man who holds so many powerful opinions on such a variety of subjects,” Isabella says. “It would be rather like an encounter with my father, who can seem daunting.”
“No, Isabella, he is the essence of charm,” replies Galeazz, taking the opportunity to put his arm about her shoulder as if he thought she truly was afraid. “You shall see.”
“Your Excellency is too kind.”
The voice is low in register, knowing in tone, and inscrutable.
His scent of lavender and poppies reaches her nose just as she turns around. How long has he been standing there? She sees a mature man of beauty and detached amusement. What strikes her first is his clothing, so elegant that he must design it himself. Despite the cold, he wears a short, rose-colored garment, probably to show off his fine calf, easily discernable beneath black hose. His vest is of gold brocade, trimmed with rosy stones, dusted at the collar by his long, curly hair, worn in the manner of a Greek youth.
As he stretches out his right hand in a formal bow, she sees that unlike every other artist she has met, his hands are pristine and show no sign of labor. His nails are as clean as a pampered princess’s and look buffed to a shine. There is neither a splatter of paint nor a speck of dust about him. On one finger is a great intaglio of a ring that she thinks is a delicate carving of some naked god. Despite the immaculate appearance and the flowery scent, there is nothing of the feminine in him. He is muscled and looks as strong as a bull. At his side stands an overdressed adolescent boy, with shining black hair and eyes, ivory skin, and a little too much lace about his neck. He has a terrible, knowing look about him, and has the nerve to stare at Isabella as if she were some housemaid that he might lure into the loft above.
“We were just admiring your swans,” Isabella offers, ignoring the brat and speaking to the Magistro. “We own many swans at Mantua.”
“Your Excellency, is it possible to own a swan?”
“I do not mean that we possess God’s creatures, but that we have many nesting in our ponds. They are very beautiful, lovely to observe.”
“But like so many creatures of beauty, untrustworthy,” he replies looking at the boy. “Bring our guests some wine,” he tells him, and the boy takes leave, turning on his buckled shoe, and brushing his black locks away from his eyes, as if inconvenienced to do his master’s bidding.
Strange arrangement, Isabella thinks. The master is the slave. Leonardo follows the boy with his eyes, which are large and russet-colored, a good match to his mane. Unlike the boy, he has a look that penetrates, but does not violate. His expression has a sweetness to it that one does not expect to find in a man of genius. He is beautiful and grand and retreating all at once. Isabella finds herself fascinated with his features—the aquiline nose and sensuous, symmetrical lips slicing his face like a mezzaluna. In fact, there is a perfect symmetry to his face as if he himself had painted it. He possesses the features of one who could play the role of the beloved in a love affair, if so he chose, but he is probably too remote and untouchable for that. Perhaps in his youth? But now strands of gray twist like ribbons through his curls. Lines that will undoubtedly deepen have made themselves at home on his face like scars interrupting his otherwise unblemished olive skin. He looks more model than artist, even at his advanced age, which must be approximately forty; more like a nobleman than any artist she has seen.
“Magistro Leonardo, I am fantastically interested in commissioning a portrait by you,” Isabella says, getting down to business. “I am the Marchesa . . .”
He interrupts. “I have seen your star shine at the festivities in honor of your sister’s marriage, and have heard many tongues sing of your love of all things of beauty, Marchesa.”
She could not say that he did not sound sincere, but something in his tone puts him in command of the conversation. She cannot name the quality. She has grown up and holds her own in the most heated intellectual circles, among the most cultured men in society. But this man is of a different nature than the courtiers with whom she has sparred. Isabella is known in the courts of Ferrara and Mantua as one who can defend any argument, but here is a man who will never argue. Of this, she is sure. And yet she imagines he rarely does anything he does not want to do.
“I paint only at the pleasure of Il Moro,” he continues. “I am his servant; he is my lord and master. I cannot take any commissions without his permission, and to be truthful, I am behind schedule on so many of his projects.”
“But you have done commissioned work for Messer Galeazz.”
“But with Il Moro’s permission, no?” Leonardo raises his brows in question at Galeazz.
Isabella knows that Leonardo knows that the Moro was not consulted, but there is deep conviction in his questioning look.
Galeazz merely gives an apologetic shrug.
“I am pleased to have served you, sir, but we wronged my lord Ludovico, did we not?”
“No, the enterprise was for the honor and pleasure of his bride, and I am certain that her squeals of delight at seeing our costumes so skillfully designed by you compensate for any time lost on his own projects,” Galeazz says.
“Magistro, a portrait of me by your own hand would bring the same pleasure to my sister, knowing as she does my love of fine painting.” She hopes that she does not sound coy. It works so well with most men, but she knows it will do her no good with this one. Nor does she sense that, like all other artists, he would be swayed by praise. With this one, she is not even sure that money would motivate, though with his taste for fine costume for both himsel
f and his liege, it might influence.
“It would be my privilege. But Your Excellency must take the subject up with the duke. I do his bidding. I am nothing more than his servant in these matters.”
The boy never does return with the wine. Leonardo neither calls for him nor offers any more conversation. Their business, Isabella realizes to her dismay, is concluded.
THE journey to Milan: A success, a failure? Isabella cannot judge. She sits in her studiolo in Mantua taking stock of its contents. She has returned to nothing but incompletion: the decorations she wants for the walls of her office are not finished. She has just written to the artist to inform him that she will have to have him executed if he does not return to Mantua and finish the job. She hopes that her letter struck just the right note between teasing and threat. These artists! It is easier to coax small children to go to bed at night than to get these grown men to finish their commissions. Perhaps more women should take up the brush. They might be more easily coaxed to do one’s bidding. Stacks of documents and letters sit on her desk waiting for her attention. The finance minister wishes to spend the afternoon reviewing the bills that must be paid and others that must be collected. Francesco is a good husband and a great soldier, but he is no administrator. He leaves the detail of running the government up to her while he brandishes his swords with his lieutenants or talks breeding with the trainers in the stables.
Francesco certainly would characterize her Milan trip as a success. She charmed all the people with whom he had wished to strengthen their political ties, and when she came home, she poured all of her pent-up desire for her brother-in-law into her marriage bed. She felt as if she was making love to two men at the same time, and the idea thrilled her. Francesco was amazed at her appetites, letting her stark desires swell up the pride he had in his ability as a lover of women. If he could have read her thoughts, he would have murdered her, or murdered someone. But as she kept them to herself, he took her sudden advances as evidence of his own power over her.
But thoughts of Milan gnaw at her, like so much unfinished business. Never before had she seen such an assemblage of royalty, presenting itself to honor Ludovico’s marriage to her sister. Yes, the House of Este is an old and influential one. Ferrara is an important state. Her father holds powerful sway with Italy’s strongest and richest princes. But she is under no illusion that the princes and kings and ambassadors from all corners of Europe who gathered at Beatrice’s wedding were there to garner favor with the Este family. They were there to strengthen ties with Ludovico Sforza, Regent of Milan, controller of one of Italy’s greatest treasuries; brother of a powerful cardinal in Rome; friend to the German King Maximilian of the Holy Roman Empire and a host of other royals; and now tied to the venerable House of Este by marriage. What a pity that her sister is to be the partner and mate of such a man; Beatrice, who would prefer to ride all day long rather than worry over matters of government. What a wife—what a duchess—Isabella would have made for him. How she could have aided him in his endeavors. Oh, the list of his interests and accomplishments goes on and on—planner of cities; patron of universities and of scholars of all subjects; collector of books, of priceless jewels, and of antiquities; benefactor of Italy’s greatest artists; builder of churches and cathedrals and libraries. Conqueror of women. Yes, especially that. And in that arena, Isabella has shown herself to be if not his equal, then at least his match.
How much would he do for her favor? How far would he go? These are the questions that occupied her mind during her last days in Milan. She wanted to test his affection for her, but it was not simple to shake loose of her family to garner private moments with him. Her mother must have observed this special connection. On the morning after Francesco left Milan, Leonora took the apartment next to Isabella’s, using the excuse that since she could not intrude upon Beatrice in the days after her wedding, the least she could do was comfort herself with proximity to her eldest before she had to take leave of both girls. It was not at all like Leonora to exhibit such a cloying display of motherly attachment. Isabella was certain that her mother was trying to act as a shield between herself and her brother-in-law.
Nighttime visits were not possible. One afternoon when Beatrice was getting fitted for some dresses to wear into her new life, Isabella boldly strutted into Ludovico’s office, where he sat studying some long edict issued by the Pope.
“What has so captured your attention, brother?” she asked.
“A lot of papal nonsense, my dear. Our Holiness has decided to dictate to whom we must and must not give our allegiance. It is drivel.” He cast the paper aside and sent his secretaries away.
When they were safely alone, she said, “I have wanted to see you, but my mother has been sticking to me like an eel upon the neck. We leave tomorrow.”
“But I will make certain that you return to Milan without your saintly mother to guard you, and without your masked husband to keep us apart.” He rose from his chair and took her arms. “We must be very careful. Every pair of eyes within these walls seeks idle gossip like a fishmonger’s wife.”
He kissed her very lightly on the lips and then invited her to sit down. “Do you think that, thus far, your sister is happy?”
It was not the question she had hoped he would ask.
“I suppose so. She is being fitted for magnificent gowns, given tours of the treasury and told to pick out her favorite jewels, brought delicacies and sweets from the moment she awakens until she tumbles into bed, and taken for endless rides through the countryside by the most handsome knight in Italy, who has pledged his very life to her every whim and desire. Besides all of that, my mother lectures to her day and night on her duty to be happy. The peace of all the world hangs on her delight, haven’t you heard?”
Ludovico threw back his head and laughed. His laugh was deep and lusty, showing all of his big white teeth and his long red tongue. Isabella wanted to throw herself upon his lap, taking that fat snake of a tongue into her mouth, but she remained in her chair.
“By the way, my dear, I am on to your game with Messer Galeazz and my sister.”
“What on earth do you mean?” he asked, still collecting himself from his great chuckle.
“Your little Bianca—adorable, by the way—is only twelve. Galeazz cannot marry her for at least another three years. In the meanwhile, you’ve commissioned him to distract and woo my sister so that she will not notice that your real wife in Milan is Cecilia Gallerani.”
Ludovico stopped laughing. He slapped his hands on his thighs, and he stared at her, his normally open face suddenly unreadable.
“I hope I haven’t made you angry.”
“Actually, my dear Marchesa, I commissioned him to distract her attention from my infatuation with you.”
“How clever you are, Your Excellency, to compliment me beyond my wildest dreams and divert our conversation from your mistress, all with the stroke of a sentence.”
He jetted from his chair, landing on his knees at her feet, almost frightening her. She threw herself against the back of the chair, but he put his head in her lap, rubbing his cheek against her thigh. Then he looked up at her. “I never dreamed that I would find a woman as clever and intelligent as Cecilia, who would also exceed her beauty. But you are that woman. When I think that I had sent to Ferrara all those years ago to ask for the hand of the eldest Este daughter, and when she was already betrothed, I so quickly and without thought accepted the younger.”
“And now, there is nothing to be done about it.”
“Oh no, there is much to be done. You will see. I will send for you very soon. Your husband will not be able to turn me down. I am very persuasive when I wish to be. Ask anyone in Italy. To demonstrate the depth of my affection for you, I will do anything for you that you like. You have my word. It will be as if a magical genie from the land of the Turks has entered your life. There is a reason they call me Il Moro, you know.”
“There is one feat of magic I would like you to perform,” she said. �
��I have visited the workshop of Magistro Leonardo. I have spoken with the man. I wish to have my portrait done by him. He tells me that I must speak with you for he is merely your servant.”
“Ha! If that were only true. He is his own master. But I will demand this of him, just to see your face preserved for all time as lovely as it is at this very moment.”
“Thank you, Ludovico. It is all that I ask of you.”
As the idea sank in, Ludovico’s eyes darkened. He used Isabella’s thighs to pull himself up to a standing position, and he began to pace, shaking his index finger in the air.
“This will not be easy, you realize. Sometimes, I want to send him away. I am certain that someone who is less than a genius might be more productive. You have no idea how frustrating this man can be, Isabella. If I ask for a portrait, for instance, he will not simply sit the subject in a lovely ray of light like other painters. No, he does not even pick up the brush, but spends years lost in the study of light itself. He could not proceed, he once told me, until he comprehended the nature of light as if he had created it himself. Only then could he paint the face properly. You see the problem in getting a simple likeness of yourself out of the man?”
Il Moro was working himself into a state. Isabella thought it best to say nothing, to let him work out his frustration. Then she would take up the practicalities of sitting for the Magistro.
“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.”