“But we are not the world—Orsino and I,” persisted Lucrezia. “And my mother …”
“Your mother was an Italian woman. It will be well if you forget your Italian birth. In Spain to share a pleasure is a good thing because in sharing what is good one gives something worth having. To share one’s sorrow is to beg that one’s burden shall be partly carried by another. Spaniards are too proud to ask favors.”
The matter was closed. Lucrezia blushed over her plate. She had much to learn, she realized. She was sorry she had spoken, and now she looked pleadingly at Orsino for comfort; but he was not looking at her. Orsino was one of the few people who did not admire her yellow hair and pretty face. She might have been one of the ornamental chairs, of which there were so many in the principal rooms of the palace, for all the notice he took of her.
Adriana was looking severe, and Lucrezia feared that she would always disappoint her because she was such a good woman and thought always of doing what was right.
Later that day, as she and Adriana sat together working on an altar cloth, Adriana said: “You will soon have a companion to share your dancing and music lessons.”
Lucrezia dropped the gold thread and waited breathlessly.
“I am to have a daughter,” said Adriana.
“Oh, but … a daughter! I thought …” Lucrezia at nine years of age was knowledgeable. She had seen certain sights from the house on the piazza; she had listened to the talk of her brothers and the servants. It seemed incredible that the pious widow could have a daughter.
Adriana was looking at her in surprise, and Lucrezia flushed again.
“My son is of a marriageable age,” said Adriana coldly. “His bride will soon be coming here. She will live with us as my daughter until the marriage takes place.”
Lucrezia picked up her needle and began to work, hoping to hide her embarrassment. “That will be pleasant, Madonna Adriana,” she said, but she felt sorry for the girl who would be married to Orsino.
“Orsino,” said Adriana as though reading her thoughts, “is one of the best matches in Rome.”
“Is Orsino happy?” asked Lucrezia. “Is he dancing with joy because he is to have a bride?”
“Orsino has been brought up as a Spanish nobleman. They, my dear Lucrezia, do not jump for joy like any Italian shepherd on the Campo di Fiore.”
“Assuredly they do not, Madonna Adriana.”
“He will be happy. He knows his duty. He must marry and have sons.”
“And the bride.…”
“You will soon see her. I shall teach her as I do you.”
Lucrezia continued to stitch, thinking of the companion she was to have. She hoped the bride would not mind too much … having to marry Orsino.
* * *
Lucrezia waited in the great dark room in which, because this was a special occasion, the tapestries had been hung.
They were gathered to greet the girl who was being brought to her new home, and Lucrezia wondered how she was feeling. She would quickly try to reassure her for she would be a little frightened perhaps. Lucrezia herself knew how alarming it could be to be taken from one’s home to an entirely different place.
Orsino stood beside his mother. Adriana had talked severely to him of his duty and poor Orsino looked more sallow than ever in his Spanish black, and not at all like a bridegroom-to-be; his squint was more distressing than ever; it always seemed more pronounced at times of stress, and his mother’s cold gaze was continually admonishing him.
Lucrezia was also in black, but there was gold and silver embroidery on her gown. She wished that they did not always have to follow the Spanish customs. The Spanish were fond of black for all ceremonial occasions and Lucrezia loved bright scarlet and gold and particularly that shade of deep blue which made her hair look more golden than ever. But black made a happy contrast to her light eyes and fair hair, so she felt she was fortunate in that.
And as she waited, Giulia Farnese entered the room. Her brother, Alessandro, a young man of about twenty, had brought her. He was proud, distinguished-looking and splendidly clad; but it was Giulia who held Lucrezia’s attention and that of all those assembled, for she was beautiful, and her hair was as golden as Lucrezia’s. She was dressed in the Italian fashion in her gown of blue and gold, and she looked like a Princess in a legend and far too beautiful for this world among the somberly clad Orsinis.
Lucrezia felt a twinge of jealousy. All would be saying: This Giulia Farnese is more beautiful than Lucrezia.
The girl knelt before Adriana and called her “Mother.” When Orsino was pushed forward, he came shambling, and was fumbling and ungracious in his greeting. Lucrezia watched the lovely young face for a sign of the revulsion she must surely be feeling, and she forgot her jealousy in her pity for Giulia. But Giulia showed no emotion. She was demure and gracious—all that was expected of her.
* * *
They quickly became friends. Giulia was vivacious, full of information, and very ready to give her attention to Lucrezia when there were no men about.
Giulia told Lucrezia that she was nearly fifteen. Lucrezia was not quite ten; and those extra years gave Giulia a great advantage. She was more frivolous than Lucrezia and not so ready to learn, nor so eager to please. When they were alone she told Lucrezia that she thought Madonna Adriana too strict and solemn.
“Madonna Adriana is a very good woman,” insisted Lucrezia.
“I don’t like good women,” retorted Giulia.
“Is that because they make us all feel so wicked?” suggested Lucrezia.
“I’d rather be wicked than good,” laughed Giulia.
Lucrezia looked over her shoulder at the figure of the Madonna and child with the lamp burning before it.
“Oh,” laughed Giulia, “there’s plenty of time to repent. Repentance is for old people.”
“There are some young nuns at San Sisto’s,” Lucrezia told her.
That made Giulia laugh. “I’d not be a nun. Nor would you. Why, look at you! See how pretty you are … and you’ll be prettier yet. Wait until you’re as old as I am. Mayhap then, Lucrezia, you’ll be as beautiful as I am, and you’ll have lovers, many of them.”
This was conversation such as Lucrezia enjoyed. It brought back echoes of a past she could scarcely remember. It was four years since she had left the gaiety of her mother’s house for the strict etiquette and Spanish gloom of Monte Giordano.
Giulia showed Lucrezia how to walk seductively, how to brighten her lips, how to dance. Giulia possessed secret knowledge which she allowed Lucrezia to coax from her.
Lucrezia was a little worried about Giulia; she was afraid that, if Adriana discovered what she was really like, she would send her away and this exciting companion would be lost to her.
They must not let Adriana see the carmine on their lips. They must not appear before her with their hair in the loose coiffure into which Giulia had arranged it. Giulia must never wear any of the dazzling but daring gowns which she had brought with her. Giulia giggled and tried to be prim before her prospective mother-in-law.
Orsino never troubled them, and Lucrezia noticed that he seemed more afraid of his bride than she was of him.
Giulia had a sunny nature; she told Lucrezia that she would know how to deal with Orsino when the time came. It was clear that all the low-cut dresses, the attention to her appearance which seemed to absorb Giulia, were not for Orsino’s benefit.
Lucrezia felt that Giulia must be very wicked.
I believe, though, she said to herself, I also like wicked people better than good ones. I should be desolate if Giulia went away, but I should not care very much if Madonna Adriana did.
* * *
There was excitement in the Orsini palace. It was one of those special days when Lucrezia must be more sedate than usual, when she must behave as a Spanish lady, and walk with the utmost grace, for Cardinal Roderigo Borgia was coming to Monte Giordano to visit his daughter, and Adriana was eager that he should not be disappointed in her.
Lucrezia wore her hair parted in the center and falling demurely over her shoulders. Giulia watched her Spanish maid prepare her, with great interest.
“Is he very solemn, the great Cardinal?” she asked.
“He is the most important man in Rome,” boasted Lucrezia.
“Then,” said Giulia, “you will have to pull down your lips in a sour expression because, when you do not, you look too happy, and you will have to be quiet and speak only when spoken to.”
“My father likes to see me happy,” said Lucrezia. “He likes me to smile, and he likes me to talk too. He is not in the least like Adriana. But she will be watching and I shall have to remember all she has taught me, since, as he sent me here to be taught by her, that is surely what he wished me to learn.”
Giulia grimaced; and Lucrezia left her and went down to the intimate and pleasant little room where Roderigo was waiting for her.
The tapestries were hanging on the walls and the finest silver goblets had been brought out for this occasion.
Adriana stood by Roderigo while Lucrezia bowed in the Spanish fashion. Roderigo laid his hands on her shoulders and kissed her cheeks and then her forehead.
“But how she grows, my little one,” he said tenderly. “Madonna Adriana has been telling me of your progress.”
Lucrezia looked askance at Adriana whose expression was grim.
“It has not been as good as you hoped?” said Lucrezia timidly.
“My dear, who of us reaches perfection? You please me. That will suffice.” Roderigo looked at Adriana, who bowed her head. He was asking that they be left alone.
When Adriana had gone she took all restraint with her, and Lucrezia threw herself into her father’s arms telling him how wonderful it was to see him.
He kissed her with tenderness and passion, and brought a bracelet from his pocket, which he put on her wrist. She kissed it and he kissed it. He was always passionately sentimental when they were alone. He wanted to tell her of his love and to be assured of hers.
When these assurances were made they talked of Vannozza and of Cesare and Giovanni.
“Cesare does well at the university,” said Roderigo. “I am proud of his scholarship and his prowess at sport. It will not be long, I swear before he becomes a Cardinal. And Giovanni does very happily in Spain. My Lucrezia is growing into a beautiful lady. For what more should I wish?”
“And Goffredo?”
“He grows in strength and beauty every day. Ah, we shall have to make plans for him before long.”
Over her father’s shoulder Lucrezia saw the door open slowly. Giulia, her face flushed, was peering round it.
Lucrezia shrank in horror. This was an unforgivable breach of etiquette. Giulia could not realize how very important the Cardinal was. To dare to come peeping thus … it was unthinkable. Giulia would be dismissed, and the marriage arrangements would be broken off, if Adriana discovered she had done such a thing.
Roderigo had sensed his daughter’s dismay; he turned sharply and Giulia was caught.
“And who is this?” asked Roderigo.
“Giulia, you must come in now,” said Lucrezia, “and I will present you to the Cardinal.”
Giulia came, and to Lucrezia’s consternation she was not wearing her most modest gown, and her lips were faintly carmined. Lucrezia prayed the Cardinal would not notice.
Giulia, reckless as she was, flushed and with her golden hair falling in tumbled curls about her shoulders, looked a little apprehensive as she came slowly toward them.
“My father,” said Lucrezia quickly, “this is Giulia who is to marry Orsino. She meant no harm, I do assure you.”
The Cardinal said: “I believe she did mean harm. She looks full of mischief.”
“Oh no …” began Lucrezia; and then she stopped, realizing that her father was not at all angry.
“Come, my child,” he said, “you do not need my daughter to speak for you. I pray you, speak for yourself.”
Giulia ran to him and knelt. She lifted those wonderful blue eyes of hers to his face, and she was smiling that confident smile which said clearly that she did not believe anyone could really be annoyed with her, if only because of her enchanting presence.
“So you are to marry Orsino,” said the Cardinal. “My poor child! Do you love the young man?”
“I love Rome, Your Eminence,” said Giulia, “and the people I meet in Rome.”
The Cardinal laughed. To Lucrezia’s great relief she knew now that, far from being angry, he was pleased.
“On these occasions when I visit Lucrezia,” he explained to Giulia as though she were one of his family, “there is no ceremony. I will have it thus. Come, you shall sit on one side of me, Lucrezia on the other, and we will talk to each other of Rome … and the people we meet in Rome.…”
“You are gracious to me, Your Eminence,” said Giulia with a demureness which did not ring true. “I fear I have behaved very badly.”
“My child, you are charming enough to dispense with that etiquette which others less fortunate must sustain.”
Lucrezia noticed, as they sat together laughing and talking, that her father turned more often to Giulia than to herself.
She was too astonished to feel jealousy.
And it was thus that Adriana found them.
* * *
Strangely enough Adriana did not appear to be angry, and much to Lucrezia’s relief and astonishment nothing was said about Giulia’s alarmingly bold action.
Giulia herself seemed to change subtly; she was more subdued and, when Lucrezia tried to talk to her about Roderigo, Giulia seemed less communicative than usual. Yes, she replied to Lucrezia’s insistence, she did think the Cardinal was a very fine man. The finest man she had ever seen? demanded Lucrezia, who always enjoyed hearing compliments about her family. It might well be so, admitted Giulia.
She would say no more than that and, during the whole of that day, she seemed to withdraw herself from Lucrezia so that the little girl could not help feeling uneasy.
And when on the following day, hearing the sound of horses’ hoofs, she looked out from her window, and saw the Cardinal riding away from the palace, her first impulse was to call him, but that of course would be undignified. He had come alone, which was unusual, and he had not seen her which was more unusual still. For what reason would he come to Monte Giordano if it were not to see his little daughter?
It was bewildering. Then Lucrezia thought she understood. Certainly he could not allow Giulia’s boldness of the previous day to go unpunished. Because he was gentle by nature and hated to be present when it was necessary to punish, he had not scolded Giulia but had pretended to be pleased by her company. That was entirely due to his courteous manners; but now he had come back to talk seriously to Adriana; he had come to complain and ask how such a minx as Giulia could possibly be a fit companion for his daughter.
Lucrezia’s bewilderment turned to misery. She felt sure that very soon she would be deprived of Giulia’s bright company.
* * *
Giulia was gay. She was wearing a new necklace set with emeralds and rubies.
“But it is exquisite workmanship,” cried Lucrezia. “You possessed such a treasure and did not show it to me before!”
“It is certainly exquisite,” agreed Giulia; “and I should never have kept it from you for a day, sweet Lucrezia, if I had had it to show you. I have just received it.”
“A gift! From whom?”
“That would be to tell, and to tell is somewhat unwise.”
Giulia had seemed to grow up in a few hours. Full of coquetry, she seemed more like a girl of eighteen than one of fourteen. Her laughter was high and infectious; she sang gay Italian songs about love; and she was tantalizingly secretive. There was also the mystery of the necklace.
But Giulia was too young, too excited to keep up the secrecy for long. She wanted to share confidences; she wanted to flaunt her experience before Lucrezia. Lucrezia demanded: “What has happened? Why are yo
u so pleased? You do not care that the Cardinal complained to Madonna Adriana of your forwardness—which may well mean that you will be sent away.” Then Giulia laughed and retorted; “I shall not be sent away. And the Cardinal did not complain. I’ll tell you something, Lucrezia. I have a lover.”
“Orsino …”
“Orsino! Do you think I should ever take Orsino for a lover? Would you?”
“I … but I would never …”
“Mayhap you are over-young yet. For myself I shall be fifteen soon … and married to Orsino. Therefore what is there for me to do but take a lover?”
“Oh, have a care,” begged Lucrezia. “What if Madonna Adriana should hear you talk thus? You would be sent away.”
“I shall not be sent away. Oh no … no … no!”
Giulia laughed so much that the tears came to her eyes. Lucrezia gazed at her puzzled.
* * *
The Cardinal’s visits to Monte Giordano became very frequent and he did not always come to see Lucrezia.
Giulia would dress very carefully before his visits—not in her most modest gowns—and sometimes Lucrezia would hear Giulia’s high-pitched laughter when she was alone with the Cardinal. It was disconcerting.
But he always came to see me! Lucrezia told herself.
And then she began to understand.
Giulia had many rich presents. She was the loveliest girl in Rome, Lucrezia had heard the servants say. They had named her La Bella, and referred to her more often by that name than her own. The rich presents came from a rich lover, a lover whom Giulia was entertaining in the formal household of the Orsinis. It was some time before Lucrezia would allow herself to believe who that lover was.
Then she could keep her suspicions to herself no longer.
One night she slipped from her bed, took her candle, and went to Giulia’s bedchamber. Giulia was asleep, and the light from Lucrezia’s candle showed her the beauty of that perfect face. Giulia was indeed La Bella.
Madonna of the Seven Hills Page 5