My grandmother had not met us at the dock. Nor did she come out to the courtyard to greet us. She chose instead to welcome us formally in her reception room, her sala grande, and thence we were conducted by a liveried porter up a staircase broad enough to accommodate three stout men abreast. When he threw aside the curtain, what greeted my eyes was an Aladdin’s cave of a room, every meter of wall space covered with a tapestry or a fine Persian carpet, every surface crowded with gold and silver bowls and pitchers and ceremonial cups and wonderfully carved crystal vessels and cameos in frames and all manner of expensive stuff. In the midst of this grandeur stood my grandmother dei Rossi, an incongruity among her treasures — short, squat, and squinty, with beady black eyes and skin that hung in leathery furrows like the skin of a toad.
Her first words to us were: “Take off your boots, children. The carpet under your feet cost your honored grandfather three hundred gold ducats at Constantinople.”
As she led us through room after luxurious room, every object and artifact was catalogued for us as if in a ledger. This plate had cost so many ducats at the kiln of Maestro Orazio in Deruta. The marble for that mantel had been hauled from Toscana at a cost of so many ducats per wagonload. The vault that covered the grand staircase had been painted by a pupil of Cossa, the favored artist of the Este dukes, a rascal who charged four forms an ounce for the ground lapis he used to make the ultramarine color of the vault and fifteen ducats for the measly handful of golden stars.
Only once was she distracted from her single-minded concentration on the price of things. It happened after we had climbed the staircase and were about to begin our procession through the balance of the private rooms. Using her walking stick as a pointer, she drew our attention to the delicate Roman-style decorations that adorned the portal ahead of us.
“This is my sala di giustizia,” she announced. Hall of justice? “Now tell me, what do you see carved here on the portal, children?”
As these were the first words she had addressed directly to us since she ordered us to take off our boots, both Jehiel and I were too surprised to reply as quickly as we might have. Whereupon she repeated her question, this time reinforced by a sharp poke at Jehiel with the end of the stick.
“Fruits . . .” he blurted out. “And plants and designs . . . and . . . and . . .” Another poke with the stick.
“Monsters . . .” I interrupted. “Images . . .”
“Graven images?” She spoke the phrase in such ominous tones that I knew I had fallen into some kind of trap, but, for my life, I could not discern where the danger lay. They were images, I reasoned. And they were graven on the portal.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Wicked girl. Do you accuse your grandparents of breaking the second commandment?”
“No, madama.”
“Madonna La Nonna,” she corrected me. Then she turned to Papa and announced, “This girl needs lessons in deportment. She has no respect.”
“She meant nothing by it . . .”
His reasonable tone was drowned out by her forceful croak. “Never let it be said that the dei Rossi house dishonors the Lord in any way, nor that we break commandments here. If you look at these grotteschi, you will observe that they resemble nothing to be seen in the sky, on earth, or in the seas. For that reason, they do not fall under the interdiction against making graven images. Do you understand?” She fixed her beady eyes on me.
“Yes, honored Madonna La Nonna,” I answered.
“This disrespect is what comes of teaching girls pagan languages,” she informed my father.
I looked to him for a denial of this insult to the humanistic creed, but he remained silent and the procession moved on.
After showing us the family rooms and our own rooms — Jehiel and I were each to have our own bedroom — and introducing us to our body servants — one apiece, quite in the style of little royals — and having dispatched Zaira up to the top floor with an impatient wave of the hand and instructions to find herself a little room near the kitchen maids, my grandmother conducted us back down the grand staircase through the courtyard and into the banco, to be presented to the lord of this domain, my grandfather.
My first impression was of a striking resemblance to my father: the same thick, shiny brown hair — although my grandfather’s mane did show quite a few strands of silver by then. But this cavalier made no concession to his advancing years. No coarse or dun-colored cloak for him. His everyday garment was a velvet tunic lined in red satin. And I noticed that his sleeves were lined with sable fur that perfectly matched his eyes.
Even Papa was intimidated by this exalted being. The moment he entered that room and laid eyes on his father, he became a boy again, shy, withdrawn, stammering when asked to account for the state of his health.
“F-f-fine, Signore Padre,” he replied, in a weak tone such as I had never heard issue from his lips.
“And the children?” the old man asked, turning his hard stare on us.
“We are well, sir,” I replied quickly. “As well as can be expected after our ordeal and the terrible loss we have suffered.”
Grandfather fixed his eyes on me, squinting as if he couldn’t quite make me out. Then he turned to my father and asked, “Is there anything you will be needing for these children?”
“Yes, sir, there is,” Papa replied, slightly stronger this time. “They are accustomed to taking their exercise each morning on horseback. I wondered if our family still possessed the right to ride in the Este park and whether there would be suitable mounts for Grazia and Jehiel in our stable.”
“We haven’t kept ponies in years,” my grandmother burst in impatiently. “And I doubt that Nachum would take kindly to that idea.” Nachum was the stableman.
“He is most irascible these days,” Grandfather added.
“The children are accustomed to their ride,” Papa replied mildly. “And I do believe the exercise keeps them free of coughing and phlegm. Besides, I myself enjoy a brisk canter.”
“I daresay you do, my son,” my grandmother rejoined in a scathing tone. “But I think you will find yourself too occupied with responsibilities to have time for courtly affectations. Is that not so, Honored Signore?”
“Quite so,” my grandfather agreed. “You must bear in mind, my son, that the Ferrarese banco is the mother of all the dei Rossi branches. We carry a heavy responsibility here.” He shook his head gravely. “Even I do not find time for recreation.”
“But the children . . .” my father protested.
“Their cousins, Asher and Ricca, have managed to remain quite healthy without careening all over the countryside on wild animals, and I am certain that your children will too, Daniele,” my grandmother announced firmly. And thus the matter was settled.
We were given two days to settle ourselves and unpack our possessions. On the evening of the second day, La Nonna ordered Jehiel to present himself in the schoolroom at a goodly time before sunrise the next day. Although she did not address me directly, I took myself to be included and made my preparations accordingly. I awoke in the dark, dressed, washed my face and hands in the icy bowl at my bedside, and went in search of my brother.
There was no “little meal” to ward off the plague in this austere household. Wary as forest creatures, Jehiel and I padded through attics and storerooms, picking our way among the servants, many of them still sleeping against sacks or in stairwells. At last we reached the schoolroom, which was situated at the southern end of the house so as to catch the first rays of daylight from the east.
There I stood in the gloom beside Jehiel, my writing case under my arm, my pens and powder and quills and vellum prepared as I learned to do in our Mantovan schoolroom.
Jehiel tapped lightly on the portal.
After a moment or two, the curtain was drawn aside and Nataniele, the tutor, took his arm to usher him in. But when I stepped forward the fell
ow pushed me back.
“No, no.” He shook my shoulder impatiently. “No girls in this schoolroom. This is for serious work.”
“But I am serious,” I replied.
He smiled one of those patronizing smiles that stupid adults reserve for children. “Run along now. Off to your sewing. There’s plenty of women’s work to be done.”
“Women’s work?” Having been nurtured on Vittorino’s humanistic theories, the idea of denying learning to anyone — even a girl — came as a heresy.
“Women’s work,” the tutor reiterated. “The duties of the household: to make bread, dress the capon, sift the flour, make the bed, spin, darn stockings. These are the skills you must learn so that when you marry it will not be said of you that you come from the woods.”
“What about Latin?” I inquired, still not understanding the full import of what he was telling me. “I have already committed to memory Virgil’s Eclogues and have begun Cicero’s Epistles . . .”
At the mention of Virgil, his hand fell from my shoulder. Cicero brought a gasp of horror such as one might emit at the first sight of buboes on a plague victim. He fell back, his arm holding me at its full length as if to escape the contagion, and intoned in a quivering voice, “It is not proper for a devout Jewish maiden to read Latin.”
“Why, that is the most foolish thing I ever heard in my life,” I shot back, without thinking. My impudence gave him all the provocation he needed.
“Do you call me foolish, girl?” he thundered, and began to shake me vigorously back and forth. “Do you dare to insult me?”
“It is not your person that I impugn, sir,” I explained, with as much dignity as I could muster between shakes. “It is your ideas.”
Whereupon the man slapped me.
That was the first slap I ever received in my life and it took the juice out of me. Shocked and humiliated, I fled.
How I found myself in my grandfather’s studiolo I cannot tell you. Perhaps the smell of the books lured me in. However it happened, that is where my feet landed me and that is where I was discovered fondling a Greek manuscript that had been left on the lectern, by my grandmother’s steward, Giorgio.
The moment he recovered from his shock at finding me in Grandfather’s study — sitting on Grandfather’s chair, touching Grandfather’s book! — he picked me up as if I were a sack of flour and dumped me down on the floor, not seeming to care if I landed head or feet first. Then he picked me up and dragged me along the corridor to my room and ordered me to stay put until I was called. And there Zaira found me licking my wounds, which, motherly creature she was, she set about to soothe. To the ugly redness on my cheek, she applied a sweet-smelling unguent. To my wounded spirit, soft words of comfort.
But, like a good mother, she had more than sympathy and poultices to give. After she had tidied me up and heard the tale of my misadventures to the end, she stood me up straight and announced that I must seek out the tutor and make my apologies to him, as soon as possible.
“But he told me that I was tainted by reading Latin,” I protested. “How can I agree . . .”
“Shush, child,” she silenced me. “Of course the fellow’s an ass. But since when did a woman ever win a case against a foolish male? Give it up, Grazia. Make your peace with him.”
“Must I?”
“Absolutely.” Then, taking my face in her hands as my mother used to do when she had a lesson to teach me, she continued. “We are all of us on very rocky terrain here in the Casa dei Rossi. New habits. New rules. And you must learn them quickly. If you cannot — or will not — I cannot protect you.”
“Do you want me to play false, then? To pretend a regard for cant and idiocy?” I demanded, stiff-necked to the end.
“This is not a debate, Grazia,” she answered with a sad shake of her head. “This is the game of life, where only those who play by the rules survive. In your mother’s house, God bless her name, justice and kindness ruled. Here, respect is the first principle. You must learn to show respect for those who are deemed to be above you — fools included — whether or not you feel it in your heart. For my sake, will you promise me to try?”
For her sake, I promised.
By now, the dinner bell had rung and the famiglia were already seated when we entered the sala. But before we could take our seats, we were stopped by my grandmother’s commanding croak. “What brings you here, Grazia? Were you not told to wait for me in your room?”
Zaira stepped forward, as if to shield me. “She asked me to bring her, madonna, so that she could pay her respects and apologize for her —”
“And who gave you authority over this child, signora?” The old woman’s wattles were beginning to quiver. “Do you take her for an orphan, like yourself, with no family of her own to teach her right and wrong?”
“But madonna . . .” I had never before seen Zaira nonplussed.
“Release my granddaughter’s hand, signora, and take your assigned place at the table.” In these moments, she rolled on like a battlewagon, flattening everything in her way. “Go, go.” She waved Zaira out of her sight the way we ward off troublesome Gypsies in the street, then turned her attention to me. “You, Grazia, will accompany me to my sala di giustizia. I will require your services, Giorgio.” She nodded to her beefy steward. “And you, Rabbi. Move along, Grazia.”
I turned to Zaira for a gesture, a sign. But all I got were tears and a helpless shrug.
In spite of its formidable name, the sala di giustizia was not an imposing room. Nothing but a bare trestle table, three crude chairs, and a small washstand with a basin on it. Nor was my grandmother’s manner calculated to cause alarm. She simply took a seat behind the table, beckoned me to approach and began to speak to me across the table in a low, conversational tone.
She talked of the natural depravity of children — imps, she called them, “imps with folly tied onto their backs” — and the double depravity of children of the female sex.
“Beginning with Eve,” she explained, “women have followed the paths of curiosity and pleasure, with what sad results you know well, for you are an educated girl. You remember, do you not, what wise King Solomon told the Queen of Sheba?”
I did remember only too well and intellectual pride compelled me to confess my knowledge. “He wrote that while one might find one good man among a thousand, he had never found among all women even one who was virtuous,” I reported.
For this, I got a rare, pinched smile. “Well then,” she resumed, “you can understand that women are in the greatest danger of falling prey to sloth and corruption. That is why we have a special duty to little girls to keep them from such folly in the tenderness of their youth, while the twig is still pliant.”
To this awkward metaphor, the rabbi, who until then had remained seated quietly beside her, nodded his bobbing assent.
Now it was his turn. He took as his text the line from Genesis: God formed the rib he had taken from the man into a wife. Staring fixedly into my eyes, he asked, “Why was Eve not formed out of man’s head?”
Then, before I had a chance to open my mouth, he answered his own question. “In order that she might not be clever and learn more than was good for her,” came his reply.
Beside him, La Nonna nodded her approval.
“And why not out of his eye or ear?” he continued. Then again without waiting for my answer: “So that she should not be curious, wishing to see and hear everything.”
As before, La Nonna shook her wattles in furious approval.
“And why was she not formed out of his mouth?” Again he answered his own question. “She was not formed out of his mouth so that she might not be too talkative. Or out of his heart so that she not be passionate. Nor was she formed out of his hand or foot. And why? In order that she might not touch everything nor go everywhere. It was to avoid all of these pitfalls that Eve was formed out of Adam’s rib, a par
t that is hidden from sight and must serve as an emblem of modesty and virtue. Forget the mind,” he concluded, waving his ignorance like a banner. “Women do best to keep their bodies in continual travail. Work, work, and more work. Make use of the needle and go to the loom for your recreation. Too much learning has already led you to pride and disrespect. Now you must learn to subdue the flesh.”
With this he leaned back in his chair, exhausted from the expenditure of such profound mentation.
But my grandmother had barely begun to exhaust her intellectual resources. “It is books and study that have corrupted your virtue, child,” she explained in a quiet, even sympathetic tone. “Books destroy a woman’s brains, who has little enough to begin with. And it is the solemn duty of all who are entrusted with the care of little girls to minister to them with the rod . . .” Here she nodded in the direction of a clutch of birch rods hanging on a hook behind her. “Yes, the rod,” she gestured to Giorgio — “applied in the greenness of their years so as to refashion their evil nature into a mold more pleasing to Him.”
On cue, the steward, a strapping fellow with a forearm as big as a ham hock, stepped forward and took me from the rear, pinning my arms behind me. I did manage to get in one good kick, which made him curse but gained me only further binding, this a rope he kept dangling from his belt that he employed to tie both my ankles and my wrists.
So now I was bound hand and foot, immobilized, with no recourse left me but to shout. And that I would not do. For I feared that once I opened my mouth, I would release a flood of tears. So I simply glared silently at the old woman, whose eyes glittered now with all the zeal of one of the Pope’s inquisitors. “Bring her to me, Maestro Giorgio,” she ordered.
Now, Giorgio dragged me across the floor and laid me against Grandmother’s bony knees. Then, as majestically as if he were a king, that monster turned to the wall and, making certain that he was in my full sight, selected one from among the birch rods hanging there and held it up.
The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi Page 7