“I think that with this coup the books on the Petrucci account can finally be closed,” my brother advised us, stroking his chin in the manner of a shrewd old banker. “At last we can all rest easy. By the way,” he added, “Ser Chigi is not unaware of your contribution to our success, sister. He has spoken to me many times of your quick wits and your discretion. I do believe he intends to express his gratitude in some material way.”
“I do not want his money, brother,” I snapped. “We merely did the honorable thing. There has already been too much talk of money to suit me.”
In truth the unfolding of the Petrucci conspiracy had left me disillusioned with the great world, so much so that even when Zacharias Callierges, a publisher of Greek texts, invited me to meet with him, I refused. I had had my fill of Leonine Roma. Fortunately Judah did not abandon me to my folly. He insisted I must at least hear the Greek’s proposal, if only for the sake of courtesy. He reminded me that Callierges’ edition of Pindar sat on my own shelf and that, as a proponent of the printed book, I owed the man my respect.
Like you, I have never found it easy to deny Judah his way. Two days after our conversation I found myself face-to-face with the Greek publisher. No longer the terrified girl who had feared to negotiate with Aldus Manutius, I sat down to the meeting calmly confident that if I did agree to it, I would end up with the commission on my terms. But my calm confidence was totally destroyed when, instead of offering me some Greek translation, he proposed to publish my Book of Heroines.
“I have heard from reliable sources that this book of yours takes up where Boccaccio left off,” he informed me. “And that your authorship is of a quality that will bring distinction to our press.”
Caught so by surprise, I had all I could do not to collapse into a puddle of accommodation. But I did keep enough possession of myself to inform him that, honored though I was by his offer, I must insist on certain conditions before I could accept it; namely, that I would submit to no editorial interference either with the selection or with the rhetoric of my text. To my astonishment he agreed without demur and we shook hands on it. And from that moment dates the long-awaited debut of my heroines and the beginning of whatever small celebrity I have achieved as their author.
A final note on the Petrucci conspiracy.
I once asked Madonna Isabella what she made of the affair. Here is her answer: “If I had known that Pope Leo was selling off cardinals’ hats for ten thousand ducats, I would have bought one for my son Ercole. By the time I got to Roma, the price had doubled.”
49
On my first visit to the Villa Suburbana, apprehension and fear had blinded me to the gorgeous works of art that Ser Chigi had commissioned for the little palace. I had failed even to notice Il Sodoma’s frescoes in the room in which I was interviewed, scenes from the life of Alexander the Great, considered by many to be his masterpiece. Now I was offered a second chance, an invitation to sup with Agostino Chigi at his villa. This time I would not pass up the two loggias on the ground floor said to be frescoed by the finest artists in Roma — Sebastiano del Piombo, Giulio Pippi (whom they call Romano), Baldassare Peruzzi (Chigi’s architect), and, at the pinnacle of this array of stars, Raffaello Santi, the prodigy of our age.
My plan was to beg a few minutes to repair my toilet before being announced. Thus would I give myself time to feast my eyes on the gorgeous swirls of color and form before my gaze and above my head, for I meant to fix them so firmly in my memory that even if I never saw them again they would be with me until I died.
Although the design was Raffaello’s, only one figure in the entire panorama had been executed by the master’s hand, Gershom told me. “Try to determine which one that is,” he dared me.
What was I to look for? I asked.
“Look for the same quality you would seek in a great poem, where grace and life are implicit in every line,” was his answer.
Now, although I had been exposed to poetry since early days, I had had no opportunity to live with works of art, so had little basis for judgment. But, never able to resist my brother’s teases, I determined to somehow find out the one figure above all the others that exhibited grace and life in every line. I went so far as to lie down on the tiles and study the ceiling straight up, thinking to give myself a more revealing perspective from that position. But no one figure on that vault jumped out at me and announced, “I am by the hand of Raffaello.”
The more I beheld them, the more they all looked slightly puffy and just a little too earthbound for gods and goddesses. Confused and out of patience, I rose and was ready to give up when a figure in one of the lunettes caught my eye, a female posed with her back to the viewer. The curve of her back, one beautiful long line, especially enthralled me.
“You have a good eye, madonna. That is indeed the one.”
I turned to face Agostino Chigi, his sallow face wreathed in a smile of pleasure. “Not a few connoisseurs have failed this test. Or were you prepared in advance by your brother Maestro Geronimo?”
I assured him that, quite the contrary, my brother had put me to the test.
“In that case allow me to congratulate you. And with your consent to conduct you into the loggia of Galatea where you can peruse the master’s hand to your heart’s content.”
So saying, he led me into an adjoining loggia where, grasping my shoulders, he spun me around to face the interior wall. “Allow me to direct your eye to the masterwork of this house.”
What greeted my eye was a triumphant Galatea aloft in her scallop-shell chariot, driving a team of dolphins across a froth of waves at flying speed. No puffy goddesses here. This was indeed a scene with grace and life in every line.
“Magnificent, is she not?”
I nodded my assent.
“I knew the lady,” he continued. “Believe me, he does not do her justice.”
“You knew Galatea?” I asked, foolishly.
“I speak of the model, madonna. Every poet in Italy has tried his hand at describing her. Even I took my poor turn at it. But none of us has succeeded in capturing her ineffable beauty. Not even my Raffaello has done her justice.”
“May I know the name of this paragon?” I asked.
“Imperia,” he replied.
Now Imperia’s fame was so widespread that even I had heard of her — a legendary courtesan, dead by her own hand, pursued by every great man in the peninsula; among them, Agostino Chigi.
“It is on her account that I invited you to sup with me,” he told me. And before I had a chance to pursue this cryptic statement, he held out his arm and asked, “Shall we go in?”
He spent the entire course of the meal extolling the virtues of Imperia — her swanlike neck; her broad brow crowned with golden hair; her breasts, the most perfect of any woman in Italy; her talents: her mastery of the viola da braccio; the sweetness of her voice, her poetry. She was a second Sappho, he rhapsodized, with the ability to create grace and harmony wherever she laid her hand. And if that were not enough . . . He waved the servants off, moved closer to me, and whispered: “What I tell you now, Madonna Grazia, are intimate secrets. I speak to you of the tenderness of a woman’s heart and of the callousness of a man. You may have heard that Imperia committed suicide . . .” I confessed that I had heard of it.
“She swallowed poison,” he continued. “For three days and three nights I stood at her bedside hoping and praying, but to no avail. The divine Imperia died for the love of an unworthy man.” He leaned closer, close enough for me to see the beginnings of mist cloud over his crystalline eyes. “And I am that man. This woman who commanded the most highly regarded and powerful men in the land wanted only the one she could not command.” He turned aside to dab at his eye. “I broke her heart.”
We had begun to sup while the sun was visible in the sky. By now the moon had risen and was shining overhead. Yet I still had no clue why I had been singled out to hear this
tale of love and loss. Now, it came.
“Do you not agree that this lady’s story cries out to be told?” he asked. And when I did not agree instantly, he added, “Is she not the perfect model of a modern Dido?”
Given my lifelong devotion to Dido, it was an unfortunate choice of persona. Pathetic though his story was, I certainly could not see this Imperia reaching the stature of my queen.
“I have asked you here to beg a favor, madonna,” he went on. “I would give much to see my Imperia enshrined in your Book of Heroines. That is my request.”
I cursed myself inwardly for not having guessed the destination of this pathetic tale, and cursed my brother for sending me there.
“Do I sense a reluctance, madonna?” he asked very quietly. “Have I invaded your private preserve? Have I offended the independence of your spirit?” he asked.
He seemed so sympathetic, so understanding that with no further thought for the enormous risk I was about to take, I launched into a breathless history of my battle to control the fate of my heroines, of my soul-destroying afternoons with Mario Equicola, of my vow to consign my creations to oblivion rather than abandon them to molding by another hand.
To my astonishment he proved an entirely sympathetic listener.
“I understand, madonna.” He took my hand in his. “Let us leave the matter for now. From what I understand, the Book of Heroines is likely to find a large public. If so, there will be amendments, corrections, new editions. Perhaps then . . .”
“Perhaps, signore,” I allowed, more persuaded by his understanding than by his sad tale.
We parted without rancor, having reached a bargain of sorts. If my Book of Heroines did go into further printings, I would seriously consider adding Imperia to their number. If there were no future editions, he wouldn’t care since he was seeking a literary memorial secure enough to outlive him at the very least. My father would have called the outcome an excellent condotta. Neither got exactly what he wanted but we each got enough to satisfy the other.
When I told my brother of the conversation he was aghast.
“You refused Ser Chigi?” he asked, unable to believe his ears.
“I told him I would seriously consider including Imperia in the next edition,” I corrected him. “And by the way, I did pick out the Raffaello. Furthermore, you owe it to me to admit that you were entirely in error about the purpose of the interview. He never once offered to do anything for me. It was altogether the other way around.”
“But Grazia, he has already done you a great service.”
“By giving me supper?”
“No, dunce, by publishing your book.”
The answer made no sense to me. “My book is being published by Callierges, the Greek.”
“But everyone in Roma knows that Ser Chigi set up the Greek press for Callierges. Grazia, how could you?”
Now, the enormity of my ingratitude struck me full force. If I were Chigi, I thought, I would stop the publication. But I still had something to learn about Agostino Chigi. My Book of Heroines was published by the Callierges Press with each word as I had written it, no additions, no excisions. It brought me enough acclaim so that a second edition was ordered. Among the many congratulatory letters I received was one from Madonna Isabella. Apparently our estrangement was over.
You could say that this note more than any other thing signified that I had won the battle for my integrity. But my heart told me that in the final reckoning, Agostino Chigi had won the war. He gave his patronage to me freely with no strings attached; whereas I, in the grip of a mean-spirited rigidity, had rejected without consideration a reasonable request to include a lady who could have shared pride of place with the likes of Lucrezia Borgia or Giulia Farnese without shaming the more “respectable” ladies in my pantheon.
I made a vow there and then to include Imperia in all subsequent editions. That vow I kept. But, sad to tell, by the time the second edition came out, Agostino Chigi was beyond caring whether his Imperia was in my book or not. Had I known how ill he was on the night of that candlelit supper, I would not have waited. But not even Gershom knew that. Chigi shared his secrets with no one. He died in the spring of 1520 only a few days after his protégé, Raffaello.
First Chigi. Then Raffaello. Of the Leonine triumvirate only the leading light, Leo himself, was left. And very soon that beacon began to flicker.
50
The person least surprised by Pope Leo’s early death was Judah. “He will not live to see his forty-fifth birthday,” he had predicted gloomily after his first examination of the patient. “And nothing I can do will delay his end.”
“Because you cannot cure his fistula?” I asked.
“Men do not die of fistulas, they only suffer,” he replied. “No, this Medici is at risk from birth — all the Medici die young; it is bred in the bone — and he compounds the inheritance by his manner of living. Everything I observe in his constitution spells death: his corpulence, his bloat, his chronic catarrh, all demand that he follow a regimen of moderation. Instead, he alternates fasts with gorging and bouts of violent exercise with torpor. And every excess brings him nearer to the diseases that carried off his father and brother.”
Leo died on the second of December in the year 1521, in the forty-sixth year of his life, cheating Judah’s prediction by six months. His death blasted apart the fabric of Roman life like a broadside from one of Alfonso d’Este’s bombarde, leaving the tattered shreds of the golden years fluttering in the winter wind. At his death every cup, every chalice, every crucifix, every altarpiece, every valuable object in his treasury lay in pawn. He was in debt over 850,000 ducats.
Like lice we Romans live off the body of the Curia. When the Pope rides high on the hog’s back we gorge ourselves. When his fortunes wane we all go hungry. With Leo’s death Roma entered on a prolonged fast. Everyone felt the pinch at once — bootmakers, butchers, courtesans, muleteers, innkeepers, embroiderers, actors, musicians, even the Jewish rag peddlers — all lost custom.
Our family was doubly hit in that twelvemonth. With the death of the Pope, Judah lost his patron. With the death of the Pope’s banker, my brother lost his sinecure, his home, and his mistress. When he announced he was retiring from the world of banking to live frugally on his investments, Pantesilea took off for greener fields with no hard feelings on either side. In fact, Gershom continued to advise her on her investments and she continued to call me sister and visit us on those occasions when her conscience led her to her favorite sanctuary, the Church of Sant’Agostino.
She and my brother were two of a kind, I tell you. It took more than hard times to knock them off their pins. Gershom accepted his reversal of fortune with a shrug and a smile.
“Remember what Koheleth tells us, that everything has its season,” he reminded me. “In time, this harsh climate will give way to fair weather and the barren bushes of this city will blossom once again with lush fruit. When they do I, Geronimo dei Rossi, will be there to gather in the harvest. Meantime I will take a lesson from Signore Bear, go into hibernation, and live off my fat.”
Others simply fled. Bembo, the exquisite, felt a sudden need to commune with nature and withdrew from Roma to a secluded spot near Padova, taking with him as a memento of his Leonine days a beautiful concubine named Morosina and all the wealth he had accumulated as Leo’s principal secretary.
Many prelates joined the exodus. Cardinals who had not laid eyes on the source of their benefices for twenty years heard the call of duty and sped off to give succor to their distant flocks. The Academicians wandered into exile. Sadoleto, our finest Latinist, retired to Carpentras, Castiglione to Mantova. The Florentines who had been nibbling away at Leo’s treasury like clever mice for a decade skittered back to Toscana with wagonloads of loot. Of the inner circle only Paolo Giovio remained — a diligent scholar of history marking off the daily defections.
It seemed that God wa
s determined to exact retribution for every golden moment of Leonine indulgence. While the cardinals were locked up debating who they would elect as Leo’s successor, a new menace appeared in our midst: the plague.
Overwhelmed by their misfortunes, the Romans looked to the Vatican for a savior. What they got for their Holy Father was Adrian of Tortola, tutor to Emperor Charles V, a man so mindful of his obligations to his Emperor that he would not leave Spain even to attend the consistory that elected him pope.
When the cardinals emerged to announce the election of a German to the throne of Saint Peter, the streets filled with people hissing and booing to express their indignation. With a world of candidates to choose from, these men had elected a barbarian, a poor dependent of the Emperor, a man from whom no one could expect a favor.
Only Cardinal Gonzaga had the courage to face the howling crowd. Putting on a brave smile, he thanked his clamorous attendants for contenting themselves with words of abuse. “We deserve the most rigorous punishment,” he told them. “I am grateful that you choose to avenge your wrongs with words and not with stones.”
By the day of the new Pope’s coronation as Adrian VI, the plague was claiming victims at the rate of thirty or more a day. Judah said he had never seen it more virulent, not even in Firenze in the nineties. “I fear lest God should completely annihilate the inhabitants of this city,” he confided in me. Was it God who had it in for us, I wondered, or the devil? Demons and furies infected the Roman imagination that plague season and I was not immune to the contagion.
There was a Greek called Demetrius who paraded the city with a bull he claimed to have tamed by spells. He came to our piazza one morning, and despite Judah’s warning, I found myself down in the street with the gawkers come to touch the miraculous animal and thus to achieve immunity from the pestilence.
The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi Page 56