The dinner ended with the passing of gorgeous platters of confetti, each sweet perched on a gold or silver leaf, each fashioned to resemble a different fruit and colored to its image — the grapes purple, the cherries scarlet, the lemons yellow. If the common people knew how these people eat, there would be an uprising.
After supper we danced under the stars with five musicians making music on a balcony hidden from view by billowing satin drapes. After offering his arm to Madama for the opening pavane, Lord Pirro gave every dance to me, twirling me around and around until the tapestries that covered the walls, the candles flickering in their sconces, the rouged cheeks of the ladies flashing by, the gorgeous fabrics of their costumes, the fast beat of the frottole, the crash of the tambourines, the musky perfume of civet (with which everyone there had doused himself except me), my lover’s murmurs in my ear, his hot breath on my neck — all of this blended into a single sensation: rapture. Whirling around the floor in my lover’s arms, lifted above all earthly concerns — the casa dei catecumeni, my family, Cateruccia, even God, forgotten — I was the happiest girl in the world.
Rapture by its own definition is finite. Inevitably it ends and the quotidian life recommences. The Game of Ships remained unplayed. Madama was, then as now, a pit bull when it came to having her way. At her insistence the game had to be played and played by all, “. . . for it will bring bad luck upon the entire company if any one of us breaks the circle before all disperse,” she informed the gathering. So the musicians were dismissed; the dancing ended and the choosing began.
Of the dozen or so ladies present three others, including the Marchesana, drew the Marchese as one of their suitors. All three were given their chance to choose ahead of me and all three chose to keep the Marchese and to throw his opponent overboard. Madonna Isabella gave as her reason that she had pledged her life to her honored husband before God. “And were I to betray him in front of Messer Equicola” — his rival in the game — “and this gathering,” she added prettily, “I should not only dishonor myself here on earth but would surely suffer for all eternity in that fifth circle of Hell that Dante reserves for those who bear false witness.”
Next to be called, Madonna Maria Pia, also chose Marchese Francesco in preference to his rival, a certain Fabiano. “For although Messer Fabiano is a man of virtue, Marchese Francesco is of noble ancestry and thus more worth saving in the eyes of both God and man,” she reasoned. She was rewarded by an approving grunt from the Marchese.
The third lady who drew the Marchese and also chose to save him, this time at the expense of Fra Pietro, did so on the pretext that the man of God had already performed his portion of God’s work on earth whereas the Marchese, still in the vigor of his youth, was needed down here to defend God with his sword. By now, the Marchese had lost himself in a tease with two of his dogs and had not even a grunt to spare for the lady.
Then came my turn.
“Signorina ebrea, here are your suitors: Marchese Francesco and Lord Pirro. What say you? Who lives and who dies?” he demanded.
I hesitated, for I could not find it in my heart to consign my beloved to a watery grave.
“What of Lord Pirro? Is he to be kept by your side safe in the ship or fed to the fishes? You know the rules. You must choose. I ask you for the last time, who lives and who dies?”
“Lord Pirro.” I could hardly summon up the voice to reply.
“Fed to the fishes or kept?”
“Kept,” I whispered.
Too late, I understood from the shocked faces around me that I had made a devastatingly wrong choice. But now I could not take it back.
“And the Marchese?” the questioner pressed.
“He dies,” I mumbled.
A disapproving murmur ran through the company. The only person in the room who appeared not to be affected was the Marchese Francesco himself. He simply sat upon his golden chair and picked his teeth.
I told myself that he was too worldly to take a silly game seriously. I reassured myself that if I came up with a flattering reason for making fish food out of him I could recoup my loss of favor. But deep inside, a wiser voice told me that princes do not appreciate being condemned to death, even in jest.
“And what do you give as the reason for your choice, signorina ebrea?” The Master tapped me lightly with his mestola.
I took a deep breath and plunged into an effulgence of flattery. “His Celsitude is much too far above me ever to be my cavalier. He is far too noble. Far too good. Too good even for this world. He is one of those whom, the poet tells us, the gods have picked out as their favorites. I take my reason from the poet.” Then, placing my palms together in a worshipful attitude, I intoned the words of Plautus: “Quem di diligunt, adolescens moritur.”
“What’s she saying?” The Marchese suddenly came to life.
“She quotes the Latin poet Plautus, honorable husband,” Madonna informed him.
“And what does this poet have to say about me?” he growled.
“He says, ‘Those whom the gods favor die in youth,’” she translated with deadly accuracy. “I recognize the passage,” she added. “It is from Bacchides, a piece often performed at our court in Ferrara, for the Roman poet is favored by my honored father, the Duke.”
Marchese Francesco mulled this for several moments, masticating it with his mind as if to extract the full flavor. Then, he called up an enormous gob of spittle from deep in his chest and spat it across the room with terrific force. “That is what I think of your honored father’s favorite poet, honored wife.”
With that he strode out of the room. At his heels, the dogs, who had somehow caught the scent of his fury, set up a fearful clamor, circling him round and round as he made his way across the room and taking the opportunity to nip at my ankles as they passed.
21
Although I might have been excused for offending the Marchese once, I could hardly expect to be forgiven a second time. The man hated me. And he was the most powerful being in Mantova. I spent the days after the debacle at Marmirolo waiting for the axe to fall. Instead, to my surprise I received a courteous invitation to wait on Madonna Isabella the very next week.
She received me in the first of her “three little rooms” — her camerini, that suite of treasures for which she was already celebrated throughout Europe. Having commanded me there, she then kept me cooling my ardor for some considerable time while she composed a shopping list to be sent to her agent in Venezia. She needed at once blue cloth for a gamorra, an engraved amethyst, a rosary of black onyx and gold, and anything else that was new and elegant in Venezia. She also must have black cloth for a mantle such as should be without a rival in the world even if it cost two ducats a yard — this at a time when a master like Sandro Botticelli was paid no more than thirty ducats for all the labor he lavished on the Bardi Chapel in Firenze.
While my ears absorbed the details of lusso yet to come — each item to be found and shipped to her quickly, quickly — my eyes catalogued the treasure she had already amassed: crystal candlesticks with gold bases, blown at Murano and carved by Ragusa at Venezia; cameos and porphyry vases; books bound in velvet and gold or rich white brocade; portrait medals by such masters as Pisanello and Sperandio, including one of Madonna Isabella herself, cast in gold and ringed with diamonds.
At last her long list wound down and the lady dismissed her secretary and turned her attention to me.
“Now then, signorina ebrea.” She beckoned me to join her. “Let us see your fair face. Let us look into your eyes.” Whereupon she did indeed gaze steadily and at some length into my eyes.
“What do we see?” she mused. “Do we see faith? Purity of purpose? Dedication? Or do we see wantonness and desire?”
She laid her hand on my cheek. “Cool.” She tilted her head to one side, thoughtfully. “And the flesh is pale, which would indicate serenity of spirit. But the eyes are cloudy.” She shook her head disapprov
ingly. “I fear there is turmoil in the eyes.”
“Oh no, illustrissima!” Without knowing why, I knew that my happiness depended on there being no turmoil in my eyes.
“Our illustrious lord, the Marchese, believes this conversion of yours has been planned for purposes other than good Christian ones. He fears that it is not Christ you have chosen to follow but the charm of a well-turned calf and a pair of blue eyes.”
I could not look her in the eye and deny it.
“On the other hand, Fra Pietro assures us that you are sincere . . .” But would the frate’s commendation prevail over a great lord’s vengeance? “And so I must make my own investigation. That is the reason for your presence here today. By the time we are done, I shall either stand sponsor at your baptism or wash my hands of you.”
“And what must I do to win your —”
“Be sincere,” she ordered coldly. “Do not play a part for me. For I always know when I am being deceived.”
If that was so, my cause was lost. For, given Jesus Christ at one end of the room and Lord Pirro of Bozzuolo at the other, there was no doubt which one I would have chosen to spend my life with. Fearful that these thoughts might be read on my face, I turned aside and busied myself with the portrait medals. Thus I did not see but only heard her order to have Lord Pirro summoned at once.
I did not turn when I heard him enter the room. But I could hear him breathing behind me. And I swear to you I could feel Madama’s eyes boring through my spine and straight into my heart.
Save me, Jesus. Give me the strength to dissemble, I prayed. Fancy the gall of such a prayer — to ask Christ to aid me in my efforts to disguise my preference for an earthly love over His!
“She is transported by Sperandio’s portraits,” I heard her whisper. “She does have a most keen appreciation of beauty for an ignorant girl.”
“The better for us, madama. For we are her teachers. And what is more godlike in the world of mortals than to create a mind? Is that not what the esteemed Vittorino once wrote to your illustrious father?” my lord inquired with courtly grace.
“Cousin, you astonish me.” Her tone became light and bantering, as it so often did when in his company. “No sooner do I begin to think of you as permanently attached to a sword and pike than you give me a peek into another side of your being.”
“Not for all the world would I mislead you, madonna. I am a soldier by trade and in my heart like all the Gonzaga men. But I take as my model your husband’s father, the late Marchese Lodovico, a great condottiero who took time between campaigns to search out Andrea Mantegna when that maestro was a stripling, and who rebuilt this city according to the dictates of no less a master than Leon Battista Alberti.”
As I listened to this exchange, it occurred to me that courtly conversation is like a tennis game in which the conversational ball is always returned but never so far out of reach as to force a lady to run or otherwise extend herself in order to win.
I turned slowly, eyes downcast (just in case Madama could, as she claimed, read the turmoil in my soul), and interrupted their chitchat. “Forgive my inattention, madama. I was bewitched by the artistry of the medalist.” Then, as if noticing him for the first time, I glanced up at my love. “Lord Pirro. What a surprise. It has been so long that I thought I might never have the pleasure of seeing you again.”
“I have been at Venezia, lady, attending on the Marchese.”
“Yet you are at Mantova today,” I answered with every show of coolness. “For how long, I wonder.”
“Only until this evening, lady,” he answered. “Then I am off to Brescia to join my lord in the lists.”
“The more reason for us to make the very most of this day,” Madonna Isabella interrupted. “For I too am off with the sun to pay a delayed visit to my esteemed sister, the Duchess of Ban.” (That must be the little dark one with the mean face, the one called Beatrice, I thought.)
“Cousin, bring out my silver lute and let us have some music.” She waved him toward an intarsio lute, cunningly implanted in the door of a cabinet. And for a moment I believed he would attempt to dislodge it. But instead, he swung aside the panel of woodwork, revealing it to be no thicker than a finger’s depth (amazing that it looked the full volume of the instrument from the distance of a few feet). Behind the panel in a niche lay the true instrument, not an illusion this time but a body of silver gilt complete with gut strings and ready to play. “Come, honored ladies,” he invited us sweetly. “Follow me and I shall serenade you with the latest tune from France.”
Madonna Isabella clapped her hands delightedly — reminding me that for all her imperious airs, she was still a young girl — and followed him into the larger adjoining room. There, he located a footstool, perched his left foot on it in the manner of a troubadour, swung the instrument into place, and began to strum.
The name of the air, he advised us, was “Three Maids and a Monk” and the lyric was enough to bring a blush to my cheeks.
In this ditty a priest manages to trap not one or two but three virgins in a chapel in the woods. Each in turn offers herself to him if he will spare the other two. But no! He wants all three. And take them he does, one after the other, then two together, one from in front and one from behind while the other is bade to “kiss me on the lips to sanctify the pleasure.” In the last verse, the monk goes off unfrocked, his shirt and “other accessories” hanging between his legs and his habit under his arm.
The song ends with a warning to virgins not to pray in that chapel: “For, girl, although three Hail Marys may take away your sins, that monk will load you with three more before he has come to the end of his beads.”
To this scurrilous lyric, Madama gave her delighted attention. And the pun at the end evoked a loud handclap from her and a demand for more.
“What ails you, signorina ebrea?” Madonna Isabella’s voice cut off my thoughts. “Are you not amused or is it that you do not understand French?”
I understood French well enough, but it seemed wise to feign ignorance.
“Then Lord Pirro must translate for you so that you can share our mirth.”
“Better still,” he responded, “allow me to sing in Italian so that all may understand. A favorite of yours, madama,” bowing, “with a verse by the magnificent Lorenzo dei Medici.”
Until then I knew the Medici as bankers and patrons, not as poets. Yet this verse, which has since become as popular as any sonnet of Petrarch’s, seemed wonderfully lyrical to me — and without the extreme coarseness that marked the French verse.
Youths and maids, enjoy today.
Naught ye know about tomorrow.
Fair is youth and void of sorrow
But it hourly flies away . . .
During the rendition of the many verses of this song, Madonna Isabella began to taunt me lightly with references to Lord Pirro. His charm. His looks. His sweet voice. “What do you think of your troubadour from Bozzuolo, signorina?” she crooned. “Does he not sing in the tones of an angel? Is he not fair? Do his eyes please you, lady? And his golden curls? Do they not curl their way around your heart?” Rising above the singer, her questions pricked at me like little daggers.
Was this the test I had been promised earlier, meant to take the measure of my wantonness and desire? If so, I passed but only just. Certainly Lord Pirro gave no indication of strain. He strummed away on the silver lute seemingly oblivious of the barrage of little pointed questions that punctuated his ditty. And when it was done, he asked permission to sing a song “for the lady Grazia,” which Madonna Isabella graciously granted.
Then, looking deep into my eyes like a truly lovesick troubadour, he commenced his serenade:
Oh beauteous rose of Judea, oh my sweet soul,
Do not leave me to die, I beg of you.
Wretch that I am, must I perish
For serving well and loving faithfully?
See, I am dying for the love of this Jewess.
Help me in my despair. Do not let me die.
As the last strum died away, he gave me one long, last look, made a deep bow to his kinswoman, and was off, leaving me exposed to Madama’s pitiless gaze, my pose of indifference shattered.
“Now where do you suppose he picked up that strange little tune?” she inquired coolly. When I did not reply, she shrugged and, indicating a painted cassone against the wall, instructed, “Come over here. I have something to show you.”
It was an exquisite piece of French lace fashioned into a cap, most delicate and expensive.
“Take this as a reaffirmation of my pledge to stand beside you at the font, signorina ebrea.” She tucked the gossamer thing into my pocket. “Wear it on the day of your baptism. Until then I urge you to attend faithfully to your instruction. Remember that when your course is done we will become sisters in Christ.” She bent over to kiss me on the cheek.
I had passed the test of sincerity. I was to be the Madonna Isabella’s sister in Christ. But would I also become her cousin in the world? Could I trust her to honor her undertaking to me? Or Lord Pirro himself?
During the days that followed, thoughts of my brothers intruded constantly. And of my father. Had I sacrificed every golden thing in my life for dross? Doubt joined with fear and regret to undermine my resolve. Put your faith in Christ, I told myself. Work. Study. Pray. Be patient and your prayers will be answered.
My dedication was rewarded. Within weeks Fra Pietro pronounced me ready for baptism. Next came news that Madama had returned from visiting her sister at Milano and would be pleased to audience me, not in private this time but at her weekly levee, the forum in which all manner of events — births, deaths, marriages, and betrothals — were announced.
In the way of such audiences, I was kept waiting while several petitions were heard. A wife-beater was let off with a warning. A certain Zoppo was granted fishing rights in the Lago Minore in exchange for half the catch. A fence was ordered torn down. Impatient as I was for her to get to my business, I had to admire the young Marchesana’s conscientious conduct of her tasks. It is not amusing to sit for hours week after week adjudicating trivial disputes and judging minor offenses. But she betrayed no sign of boredom at the tedious parade, listening attentively as the petitioners gave their accounts, questioning the timid most gently, the bombastic with severe rigor, and rendering what seemed to me a series of just and compassionate judgments.
The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi Page 23
