Enclosed you will find the deed to a house and vineyard just outside the Porta Vercellina, not far from the Santa Maria delle Grazie. I purchased it some years ago from the monks of Saint Victor, and it has always been quite lucrative for me. In addition to the production of a nice wine, the vineyard also generates a good income. The land upon which it rests is fertile and in a good location. Magistro, in my judgment and in the judgment of every expert in our land, you are the master painter of all masters, dead and living. You have been employed by me these eighteen years in manifold works, and in all of these you have shown admirable genius. The time has come for me to execute the promises made over the years. The land, the vineyard, the income from the aforementioned, and the house upon the land I have deeded to you. Though this gift is small, indeed, compared with your talents and your merits, please take it as a sign that, as in the past, you will find me eternally a loyal patron. In the future, when Fortune permits, I will more fully reward your excellent service and singular gifts.
Signed and dated April 26th, in the year 1499, by
Ludovico Maria Sforza, your humble benefactor.
Here comes Isabella’s husband now, in his spotless armor, his toes slightly out-turned and his gait swaying with self-satisfaction, a little man inflated with his own opinion of himself. She hates him, this man whom she once loved above all; this dandy with whom she has made two children and nine years of a life. Hates him because when he chose to humiliate and betray, he made certain that the right people were present to see it all. He had attended a festival of tournaments at Brescia in honor of Her Highness the Queen of Cyprus, urging Isabella to remain at home because he was “worried over her health” after she had “fatigued herself entertaining that demanding son of a bitch, Ludovico.” Isabella was not particularly exhausted after Ludovico’s visit, but the Mantuan treasury certainly was, so rather than incur the expense of having the appropriate wardrobe made for herself and her ladies, she elected to remain at home. She found out, through malicious tongues that could not wait to share the news, that Francesco had had a lady at his side the entire time—a young woman, Teodora, costumed extravagantly as the Lady of the Joust, wearing his colors, and acting as if she were the Marchesa of Mantua. There to witness the infidelity was Galeazz. Noble, beautiful Galeazz, still in mourning for his wife and his lady Beatrice, had entered the contests with forty of his men. All still mourned, keeping their long curls dyed as black as hawks, wearing armor of black and gold, and carrying heralds in honor of Beatrice, black pendants with bright gold griffins. Isabella wondered if Francesco had dared to present his dreadful little whore to Beatrice’s glorious knight. Her only consolation was that Galeazz once again took every prize in the tournaments and Francesco, none.
Isabella has had many thoughts about Francesco’s infidelity. Her mother believed that all men eventually fell prey to other women and cautioned her daughters to refrain from making too much of a fuss over these affairs. Isabella is a realist, not a romantic dreamer like Beatrice who lived—and perhaps died—for Ludovico’s attentions. She thinks that Francesco has always had little assignations. And of course, like all soldiers, she knows that when he is away on a military campaign, he entertains himself with boys. They are less expensive and less trouble than women, she has heard many a military man say. Moreover, they are present in abundance and, also, apparently willing to secure the favor of their superiors by affording access to their young, smooth asses. So it is with men. A woman mustn’t grumble over these things. Isabella knows that this kind of sexual release is nothing more to a man than, say, urinating. The suspected carnal and casual dalliances with females, too, she has not minded, really; she has always regarded it as a payback for the massive attention she receives from other men. After all, Francesco has had to contend with a wife about whom men write poems and songs and sonnets; who is sought as a model for masters’ paintings; who receives the finest minds of Europe at her court and dialogues with them late into the evenings long after her husband has gone to bed. Not to mention the close relations and constant correspondence with Ludovico, which would be enough to send any husband into fits. So if Francesco has needed to affirm his own manly charisma in the arms of ladies and maids, why should she care? He always returns to her bed desirous of her.
But this time, he has allowed another woman to take the place of his wife at a public event. She wonders if he did this purposely, to pay her back for her political support of Ludovico, for coercing her husband to enter into Ludovico’s employ. But what should she have done? Ludovico was their brother-in-law and the most powerful prince in Italy, by far. He offered them a fortune for Francesco’s services. Isabella was acting in the interest of Francesco, of their family, and of Mantua by negotiating with Ludovico. Francesco had been difficult and had offered resistance along the way, but he was also delighted with the prestige his title and salary would bring. Had he resented it so much that he had to avenge himself in this nasty and public manner?
Isabella sees that her husband is headed for her studiolo, where he thinks she must be. He swaggers as if he expects to be greeted by the doting wife he left at home, who will be elated that her great warrior of a husband has come home to her. In this, and in many other things, he is mistaken.
She slips quietly into the parlor, where she has placed the clavichord she finally wrestled from Ludovico. Beatrice had had it made by Lorenzo of Pavia, who everyone agreed was the greatest master designer and builder of musical instruments that Europe has ever produced. Isabella has always coveted the clavichord, writing letter upon letter to Lorenzo asking him to make a duplicate for herself. But the maestro was always too busy with other commissions from more illustrious patrons, such as the Doge of Venice. After Beatrice died, Isabella wrote to Ludovico asking for the piece to be sent to her so that she might have a memory of her sister when she sat down to play. Isabella had already learned to play all the other stringed instruments and was anxious to master this one, which made the most thrilling and somber sounds by pressing upon beautiful ivory and ebony keys. Lorenzo had painted a magnificent scene upon the lid of the instrument of Odysseus addressing King Alcinous and Queen Arete, asking for safe passage to Ithaca. How she would love to have a large fresco of the scene painted on one of the walls of her studiolo. Perhaps she would see if old Mantegna, growing grumpier by the day in his dotage, would accept the commission.
Isabella has not found any music written specifically for this instrument, so she has been composing her own, adapting her favorite sonnets and poems. She hears Francesco’s footsteps approach. Striking the keys with vigor, she sings the lament she has been working on, pleased with the way that the melody complements the words of her favorite poet, and that of Beatrice, Petrarch. And I am one of those whom weeping pleases; it seems I strive to make my eyes produce a family of tears to match the sorrows in my heart.
She is very grateful that she has practiced her singing all of her life and that she can make her voice affect the appropriate measures of beauty, sorrow, and pain. Not to mention a seething but controlled anger beneath it all. She is nothing if not nuanced in her actions, and singing and playing are no exceptions.
With the hum of the strings still resonating in the air and her fingers still on the keys, she looks up at her husband and says, “Your Excellency.” That is all. She has no intention of helping him through his awkward homecoming; no intention of doing what her mother and every other woman she has known has done, which is to affect a false cheeriness to compensate for their husbands’ sins. To pretend that the blow of his humiliation is light, that it does not matter so much to her. That she is not hurt. No, let the little beast squirm.
“What is this, Isabella? You have purchased Beatrice’s instrument? It must have cost a fortune.” She remembers all those years ago when she realized that his protruding eyes would become more froglike as the years went on. Now her prediction has come true. He stands in the doorway with his eyes bulging, looking like cannonballs waiting to be fired her way
. He gestures toward her studiolo. “And whom did I find in your studiolo, making a new, extravagant set of doors and carving a giant cameo of your image looking like some Roman empress?”
“Oh yes, after years of my courting him, Cristoforo Romano has finally come to my service. He found Milan very depressing after the duchess died. So many are saying that she died of a broken heart after Ludovico’s public infidelity. Do you believe such a thing possible?”
He ignores the question and its implications altogether. “Cristoforo tells me he is going to make a marble bust of you, just like the one he made of Beatrice. Where are we getting the money to pay for these extravagances? Do you know what they are charging these days for a block of stone?”
“Ludovico is paying you a fortune. Surely the person who negotiated the commission for you is entitled to a small gift for herself?”
“I see what you are doing, Isabella. Even though your sister is dead, you are still trying to keep up with the Sforzas. How often do I have to remind you that we do not have Ludovico’s money?”
“But we do have his money. A substantial portion of it is being transferred to our treasury right now.”
“So you admit it? The money is not yet arrived and you’re already spending it on your vanities. I’ve caught you borrowing again, haven’t I?”
“I’ve told you before, I am much too full of spirit to allow eight or ten percent to come between myself and the things that I desire.” This was the philosophy she has always lived by. If Francesco thought she would change her ways now, he was mistaken. Especially after what he has done.
“And what do you desire now? Your sister’s things? Things made for you by your sister’s artists? Aren’t you tired of picking Beatrice’s bones?”
She won’t fall into his trap. She is the wronged party. He is the sinner. This confrontation must conclude with that fact understood. She parries, quickly delivering the riposte. “I feel secure that my sister would rather her clavichord be in my hands than in the hands of Ludovico’s mistress. A woman’s wishes should be honored, even in death.”
“You persist in straining our finances.” His bug eyes narrow into puffy little slits.
“I do. Because this is my comfort, my lord, for the way you have humiliated me before all of Italy. I advise you to stop complaining before I find reasons to comfort myself further. Be done now and be grateful that this is the extent of the damage.”
“Why do you let nasty gossips infect your mind with wicked talk?”
“Because what they say is true. I have found myself asking some difficult questions. What good has it done me to be a devoted wife? What thanks have I received for maintaining good relations with Ludovico, after you tried your best to destroy the goodwill between our houses? What reward has my husband given me but to humiliate me in front of friends and allies?”
“Come, Isabella, I have done nothing wrong. You’ve always had your admirers.”
“Admirers are not lovers. Admirers bring honor and alliances to the House of Gonzaga. I might attract and cultivate admirers, but you reap the benefits of their attentions too.”
“But I am a man, or have you forgotten? What do you expect?”
“I expect that even a man might act with discretion and decency. From now on, I shall do as I please. If you protest, you may divorce me, explain yourself to our families and allies, including Ludovico, and let your whore run the kingdom. Would that suit you, my lord?”
She expects him to be angry, repentant, and finally, seductive. That is how she would predict the sequence of emotions and actions from her husband, knowing him as she has since she was but a child. He should make a brilliant defense for himself, acting falsely accused, followed by a brief moment of pretending to be terribly hurt by her suggestion, ending with sitting on the bench beside her, asking her to play something pretty, and then interrupting her song with lingering kisses to her neck. But he does none of these things. Instead he smiles broadly, so broadly that the one missing tooth on the right side of his mouth interrupting his perfect ivory chain is revealed. “I am going to be very happy when you can no longer throw your close relations with our brother-in-law in my face.”
“Do you anticipate a rift between Ludovico and myself?”
“I anticipate a rift between that scoundrel and the rest of the world! If you love him so much, you may choose to go down with him. Maybe you will even choose him over your own husband.”
What is this insane little man squawking about? She knows that he has long harbored jealously over her relationship with Ludovico, but she wonders if it has festered so long that it has eaten his brain.
“Sir, I seem to be missing a crucial piece of information, since we have just signed an alliance with the Duke of Milan. I am under the assumption that, as captain general of his army, you would be fighting on the same side.”
“That may no longer be possible.”
She waits for him to continue.
“Negotiators for the Doge of Venice and King Louis have been meeting in secret. I do not know who initiated the contact, but I suspect it was the doge, who has long despised Ludovico. Isabella, they’ve made a secret alliance to attack Ludovico and split the duchy of Milan between themselves. Here is how it will happen: Venice will attack from the east, the French will march from the north, and Ludovico will be crushed between them.”
Isabella has never seen Francesco look so pleased. What is he thinking? “But my lord, you are Ludovico’s captain general! You must get word to him at once. You must prepare the army.”
“Surely you don’t suggest that I fight against both France and Venice?”
“But that is what you have agreed to do!” she exclaims, wondering what piece of information she has yet to either hear or apprehend to have all of this make sense.
“Isabella, I am not a man to throw in my lot with a hopeless cause. I have offered my services to King Louis, and he has accepted them.” He bows to his wife, as if he is reintroducing himself to her. As if to say, Dear Lady, Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua, captain general of the Italian army, the man you have known since your sixth birthday, the man who put his signature on a treaty next to those of the Duke of Milan and the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire has miraculously disappeared and has been reborn as a new man, a French loyalist, a servant of King Louis.
“Last year you made a vow to annihilate the French, and you succeeded, almost to the man! Now you say you are going to support them? And Venice? Did the doge not dismiss you from his service?”
“King Louis has seen my value and has demanded that the doge make peace with me. With us, Isabella, unless you choose to ally yourself with Ludovico.”
“Are you mad?” She cannot imagine how her husband has adjusted himself so quickly to his new loyalties. “Ludovico is our friend, our ally, our brother, and your employer. You have a contract.”
“He is also a widower now. Perhaps you can arrange to divorce me and marry him. I believe that is what you always wanted. Not always, not when you were a naïve girl. Not until you saw the things the Duke of Milan was able to give a wife that the mere Marquis of Mantua could not. I am sure that once Ludovico was exposed to your charms, he, too, regretted the thirty days he dallied before sending an ambassador to Ferrara to ask for a bride. The two of you were so very wronged by la Fortuna, Isabella. Perhaps you can rectify it now.”
Francesco has always had a smug air, but never more than now. Satisfied with his speech, he turns on his heels and leaves the room.
For once in her life, Isabella cannot fathom what to do. She has spent eight years cultivating the favor of Ludovico; first, because she had been seduced by his charms, but later, because she found that she loved him in spite of his defects. Beyond the initial attraction of lust, past the boundaries of family and political necessity, they have shared a passion for so many things. Moreover, she has given him more than her friendship and loyalty; she gave him her word. And now is she to join her husband and what appears to be the rest of It
aly in contributing to his destruction?
She cannot remain in the same house as Francesco, so she goes to visit her father, who is putting on a series of Latin comedies in Ferrara. Duke Ercole is happy to see his daughter, and not surprised at the news that she brings about France and Venice aligning to rid the country of Ludovico. He’s heard it all; in fact, he had sent his own ambassadors to the secret meetings at which it was arranged.
“But Father, how can we turn our backs on Ludovico? He’s Beatrice’s husband, and the father of her two boys, who will be his heirs.”
Ercole’s expression does not change. “Ludovico has made his own tomb, Isabella. He played all parties against each other for too many years. His ambitions and his hubris are naked for all the world to see. Louis has always laid claim to Milan. His grandmother was a Visconti, what can I say? He has as much right to the duchy as Ludovico.”
“But Beatrice—” Isabella begins.
“Beatrice is in her grave. We must act in the interests of the living. The smart people—and we Estes are the smartest of the smart—will wait this out to see who is the victor. Don’t let Francesco move on behalf of anyone, not Ludovico, not the French, not the Venetians. Here is what matters: after this is over, after Ludovico Sforza is a forgotten man long turned to dust, the House of Este will still be standing. And the House of Gonzaga too, God willing, if your husband follows my example.”
“Father, I will heed your counsel, though it may cost me my heart to betray Ludovico or to sit by while he is attacked.” What did she expect from her father, who, as soon as her mother’s body was cold, supported the French in their invasion of her native kingdom of Naples?
“Isabella, why do you think I have lived to be an old man? If you want to see your dotage, you will learn from me: in these matters the heart must hide behind the mind’s greater powers of reason.”
Still, she cannot bear it. She foresees the scenario: Ludovico, with both enemies closing in on him, will write frantic letters and send hard-riding messengers to Mantua, demanding that Francesco move the army to help him. The missives will get more desperate until Ludovico realizes that he has been betrayed. He will assume that the marchesa is in on the betrayal. And he might go to his grave wondering why. Yet what good would it do her to betray her own husband? To reveal his duplicity to Ludovico? What would she do? Flee to Milan, only to be crushed herself? To end her life a fallen woman and disgraced daughter? A mad harridan who couldn’t wait for her sister’s death so that she could seize her husband?