Leonardo's Swans

  “I shudder to think how Fortuna might have played her cards differently, and I could have been saddled with an old man like Ludovico, who—goodness!—is already almost forty,” she says boldly to Francesco. He looks at Beatrice’s portrait and Isabella’s portrait and does the thing that he must know makes her whole body quiver, which is to kiss her hand, letting his lips linger two seconds or three past propriety. “I shudder too,” he says.

  Oh, he was perfect! At the Christmas pageants, for which people came from all over Italy, he sat next to the duke at each performance, complimenting him on his devotion to reviving the theater. To please the clergy, Ercole always staged a religious tableau or two so they wouldn’t complain about his more pagan theatrical endeavors. This year, Ercole chose the Annunciation for the opening pageant, in which a bold player wearing angel wings flew onstage on ropes to announce the Virgin’s fate. The following evening they witnessed a reenactment of the birth of Christ in a manger. The court artists had filled the stage with real barnyard animals, and at times the bleating goats drowned out the players’ words. Still everyone agreed that this did not distract from the drama of the tableau, but added realism, since such animals were undoubtedly present at Our Lord’s birth.

  After Christmas, and to celebrate the New Year of 1490 as well as the beginning of a new decade, the duke let loose his passion for the sort of theatrical presentations he loved. In the old Palazzo della Ragione, remodeled into a theater, he presented ancient Latin comedies which he himself translated into Italian, hiring actors, dancers, and musicians from all over Italy. He collaborated with Niccolò da Correggio on a new version of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, a lavish production with music, dance, and recitation. Francesco sat with the duke during the performance, gasping in awe at how convincing the actors were in both behavior and costume as the gods of old, thus proving himself a worthy son-in-law.

  Isabella did see her betrothed making flirtatious conversation with some of the ladies of the court, which she did not like at all. She had thought that this enticing demeanor of his had been her private reserve. But her fiancé had charm to spare, and virility too, and someday, she reminded herself, she would be the happy recipient of all of that. In the meanwhile, her mother, Leonora, counseled her that a woman must always forgive her husband any indulgences before the marriage. For it was natural for an unmarried man to give in to these urges. And besides, it did not do for two innocents to tumble into bed together after a wedding and have to figure out the entire map of lovemaking. If he carried these proclivities into the marriage, well, a woman could choose to rebel and demand fidelity, or to adjust and remain silent. Either way, the outcome would probably be the same. The man would do whatever he wished, quietly or openly, for that was the nature of men. Some Italian women were getting just as bad, but thanks to Our Lord and her own good discipline, Leonora was certain her daughters would not join the ranks of the promiscuous. The women of the House of Este must be above these things.

  “SO if Ludovico Sforza had been less interested in making mischief in Milan and more interested in arranging a good marriage for himself, I would be taking home the portrait of Beatrice? Is that what you are telling me?” Francesco smiles naughtily as his valet shakes out the thick muslin he will use to wrap the painting of Isabella.

  “That is correct,” she says as she watches her image disappear behind the heavy white cloth. “The court records show that there were a mere thirty days between the arrival of the ambassador from Mantua and the arrival of the ambassador of Milan.”

  “Then your family concluded the business of our marriage rather quickly. Perhaps they were afraid you would receive no more offers,” he teased.

  “Sir!” she exclaims. Might he really believe that? “Have you so little regard for me?”

  Francesco quickly takes her aside, away from the ears of his servants. “It was God Himself pushing your father to hurry because He ordained this union from Heaven. You are not meant for Ludovico of Milan or anyone else, but me. That is what our marriage is going to be, Isabella. Heaven.”

  How does he always know exactly what to say to please her? He is right; marriage with any other man is unthinkable. How grateful she is that she will spend her life with the man she loves while her sister must go live in the strange city of Milan in a huge fortress where her husband pleasures himself with the company of other women.

  “What about you, my dear Isabella? Do you not wish the ambassador from Mantua had slipped from his horse, or had run into terrible weather or a band of thieves or something else to detain him so that you would be going to Ludovico? He intends to rule a great portion of the European continent, you know.”

  “Oh, how can you suggest that? Ludovico is old and terrible! He has no interest in marriage. Beatrice’s portrait will probably be eaten by worms before he sends someone to collect it!” She leans as close to her fiancé as she dares to share her secret. “It is very bad, sir, what has happened. Please do not betray my confidence. My father had no higher wish than to marry his daughters in a double wedding, but Ludovico refused, making some excuse for why he could not marry next year. Messer Trotti, our ambassador to Milan, has pushed him as hard as he dares to set a firm date into the future, but Ludovico will not! They say he is in love with a woman named Cecilia, who is very beautiful, and that he holds her up as a wife in his court. But her family is of no use to him politically, and therefore he cannot marry her. My poor sister! Do you think I would trade places with her?”

  Francesco does not seem at all surprised by this news, gossip in Italy being impossible to suppress. Perhaps the entire country knows of Ludovico’s slight to Beatrice and to the Este family. Francesco does, however, take advantage of being this close to his beloved with no eyes upon them. He moves his lips to her neck. He doesn’t kiss her exactly, but takes in a deep breath, as if he wishes to carry her scent with him back to Mantua. He runs his nose the length of her neck from the bottom of her ear to the nape, breathing her in. Then, he pulls away, whispering, “That will have to linger in our memories until our wedding day.”

  While she is still recovering, she realizes that he and his valet and her portrait are gone, and she will not see him again for three months.

  To: Ludovico Sforza, Duke of Bari, Regent of Milan

  From: Leonardo the Florentine, Master of Engineering, Weaponry, and Painting

  Most Illustrious Lord,

  Having now seen the creations of all those who call themselves masters and inventors of the instruments of war, and finding that these inventions are no greater in any respect than those in common use, I am emboldened to write to you to acquaint you with my secrets, and offer to demonstrate at any convenient time all those assertions which are recorded below:

  1. I have designs for bridges that are light, strong, and easily carried to pursue and defeat the enemy. I also have plans for destroying the enemy’s bridges and siege equipment.

  2. I know how to cut off water from trenches, and how to construct an infinite number of movable shelters, scaling ladders, and other instruments crucial to the enterprise of a siege.

  3. I have plans for destroying every fortress or other stronghold unless it has been founded upon rock.

  4. I have designs for making cannon, very convenient and easy to transport, with which to hurl small stones like a rain of hail, causing great terror, loss, and confusion to the enemy.

  5. I can make armored vehicles, safe and unassailable, which will infiltrate the ranks of the enemy.

  6. I can make cannon, mortars, and light ordnance of very beautiful and useful shapes, quite different from those already in use.

  7. I can supply catapults and other engines of wonderful efficacy for slinging great stones and other instruments of destruction.

  8. Also, in times of peace, I will prove myself as adept as anyone else in architecture and in the construction of buildings, and in conducting water from one place to another.

  9. I can execute sculpture in marble, bronze, or clay, and als
o painting, in which my work will stand comparison with anyone else, whoever he may be.

  10. Finally, I would undertake the work of making the bronze horse, which shall honor the memory of your father and the illustrious House of Sforza.

  If any of the aforesaid claims seem impossible, I offer myself as ready to demonstrate them in whatever place shall please Your Excellency, to whom I humbly commend myself.

  —Leonardo the Florentine, 1483

  THE NEW YEAR, 1490; IN THE CITY OF FERRARA

  BEATRICE’S portrait sits alone for weeks in Leonora’s studiolo, and the family practically goes mad trying not to mention it. Isabella takes pity on Beatrice and asks Niccolò da Correggio to set some of his sonnets to song so that she might sing them for her sister and cheer her up. That the poet Niccolò is hopelessly in love with Isabella and carries out her every wish as if she were doing him the favor by asking is common knowledge. He has now set fifteen sonnets to the lute. Every evening after dinner, Isabella plays one or two for her sister, followed by a game of cards, at which Beatrice excels. Isabella either lets Beatrice win, or Beatrice wins fairly, and then Isabella rushes to her room, where she can enjoy in privacy the memory of Francesco’s breath on her neck.

  When she becomes bored with entertaining Beatrice, she sends her pet dwarf, Mathilda, to make Beatrice laugh by lifting up her skirts and chasing Beatrice’s greyhound puppy around the room, shooting little squirts of pee in his direction. Mathilda reports that Beatrice has laughed at no jokes, but cannot stifle her delight at this routine. “I ran after that little dog ’til I was bone dry and out of breath. The princess finally passed out on her bed, and the servants had to come in and clean so she wouldn’t have to wake up to the stink of piss, God bless her little soul.”

  Isabella has also become very devout in recent weeks, attending Mass daily, much to her mother’s happy surprise. She does not reveal the reason, but it is this: she gives thanks to God for the celestial secretary who arranged the schedules of all parties so that Francesco Gonzaga’s ambassador from Mantua arrived in the nick of time to save her from a betrothal to Ludovico, who would have humiliated her as he is doing to her sister.

  Isabella knows that Beatrice inquires daily whether their father has received correspondence from Ambassador Trotti in Milan. Finally, on one of the frigid, last days of January, Trotti returns from Milan, and asks for an immediate audience with the duke and his family.

  The family, minus the three little brothers, Alfonso, Ferrante, and Ippolito, who are already sent to bed, gather in the small drawing room that is easiest to warm to a crisp by its large fireplace. The ceiling is not so very high, and the room has an intimate feel, conducive for spilling gossip, for that was the main product that the Ferrarese ambassadors brought back from their missions.

  Trotti is as puffed up as a pig’s bladder with his news. Impatient to get through the small talk and the niceties, he turns to Duke Ercole. “Your Excellency, how I wish you had been there to see it! It was the most magnificent spectacle in the world. All of Italy is talking of it.”

  The family looks at him mutely.

  “So, you have not heard?”

  No one says a word. Ercole and Leonora, practiced at receiving the most devastating news without reaction, remain as inscrutable as ever while Isabella guesses that Trotti will announce some magnificent ceremony at which Ludovico has married his mistress after all. Beatrice anticipates his words like a poor starved dog waiting outside a tavern for scraps.

  “The Masque of the Planets? The Feast of Paradise?” Trotti looks at them as if their very knowledge of the Italian language is in question. “Don’t be surprised if you soon receive dozens of letters describing the wonders. It was the most magical, spectacular thing I have ever witnessed, and all designed by the painter and engineer Leonardo the Florentine. Picture this: a gigantic dome built under the ceiling of a great hall. All night long, there was music and dancing and processions of gigantic murals of Italy’s most glorious battles, from the days of the Romans all the way to the days of Ludovico’s father’s great victories for Milan. The scenes were so detailed and so gloriously violent, I felt as if I was thrown into the midst of battle.

  “Then, when the bells rang at midnight, Ludovico presented himself costumed as an Oriental pasha. I must say, he looked every bit the magician. He ordered the music stopped and the curtain to rise. Suddenly, all the foliage fell away from the dome, revealing it to be a replication of the sky itself. The entire sphere was gilded, a great golden universe, if you can fathom it. Live players representing all seven of the planets and the twelve signs of the zodiac began to orbit, exactly as they do in the sky! Everything was lit by dozens of torches. The players, each dressed according to character—Mars, Venus, Neptune, and the like—spun around the sky so many times it made us all dizzy. Then, one by one, they floated in front of the stage and delivered fine orations. They hung in the air, as if by magic! No one knows how it was done, but afterward, everyone crowded around the Florentine, who would not reveal any of his secret means.”

  Silence.

  “They say that in ancient times, the sculptor Pheidias alone was given knowledge of the exact image of the gods, which he revealed to man. I believe that Leonardo has been thus gifted.”

  More silence. It must occur to Trotti that Beatrice and her family have waited for weeks for news of her pending marriage, and here he is describing a theatrical presentation. Isabella, for her part, is no longer thinking on Beatrice’s humiliation, but is caught up in the magnificence of the scenario and wants to hear more.

  “Well everyone’s talking about it,” Trotti says with a defensive sniff.

  “And to what purpose was this festa held?” Duke Ercole finally asks.

  Isabella sees Beatrice hold her breath.

  “It was to celebrate the anniversary of last year’s marriage between Ludovico’s twenty-year-old nephew, Gian Galeazzo, the young Duke of Milan, and his wife, your cousin Isabel of the House of Aragon. That was the intention, but of course it was held entirely to raise esteem for Ludovico. He holds these pageantries allegedly to glorify his nephew, but there is no question that he intends to keep the boy out of the business of government entirely and, as soon as possible, steal the title of duke for himself.”

  He looks at Beatrice. “By the way, he likes to be called Il Moro.”

  “Does he truly look like a Moor?” Beatrice asks.

  “You will have to judge for yourself,” Trotti says, and Isabella assumes that he is being the diplomat. Ludovico must be called Il Moro because he is dark and savage like the barbarians she’s seen in paintings—those men who live in tents, cut the throats of their enemies, and eschew the teachings of Our Lord. Poor Beatrice! Imagine having to allow such a man entrance into your bed.

  “And of the wedding?” asks the duchess.

  “Il Moro expresses his deepest regrets that he is unable to gratify you on the date proposed early next year, but he pledges to send alternate dates by his own messenger in the coming months.”

  “There is still no hope, then, of the double wedding of my daughters?” asks the duchess.

  “Il Moro repeats that his duties preclude the celebration of the marriage at that time. He asks for your patience.”

  “I am losing faith in this man’s promises,” says the duke.

  “Your Excellency, it is my opinion at this time that this one may be worth waiting for.”

  Beatrice shrugs, curtsies, and asks to be allowed to go to bed.

  But Isabella’s curiosity has been piqued by the description of the spectacle at Milan. A thorough interrogation of Trotti is in order, though the hour is late. She has heard stories about the Florentine Leonardo, called Magistro throughout Italy for his innovations in painting. So now he is in the service of Ludovico, Beatrice’s future husband. Beatrice’s possible future husband. Pity that the opportunity to be painted by so great a master will be wasted on Beatrice, who cares nothing for posing.

  “How is it that
the Florentine came to serve the Regent of Milan?” Isabella asks.

  “The story goes that Prince Lorenzo the Magnificent insulted the Magistro by giving the commission to do a mural of the execution of the Pazzi conspirators to Sandro Botticelli. Leonardo wanted the commission badly, and had submitted beautiful drawings—or so they say—of the hanging men, so lifelike that one felt as if one were present at the scene. Then, to add to the injury, Lorenzo sent Florence’s ‘best’ painters—Botticelli, Signorelli, Ghirlandaio, and Perugino—to paint Pope Sixtus’ chapel in Rome, but not Leonardo. Imagine!”

  “Oh, Lorenzo doesn’t always see what’s right in front of him,” says Ercole. “He’s overly impressed with manners and formality and the reading of Greek. He is quite capable of treating a great genius like a laborer if the man has not studied classical literature. Bravo to the Magistro for going over to Ludovico. Milan—not Florence—is the new Athens, and Ludovico its Pericles. That is why we are putting up with the duke’s procrastination over the marriage.”

  Isabella has noticed that though her father pays public tribute to Lorenzo, he is not so generous to him in private dialogue.