Leonardo's Swans (27 page)

“It took Maestro Bramante three years to enlarge the apse,” Beatrice says. “We think it was worth the time and money spent.”

“It’s magnificent,” Isabella replies. “It is grand and soothing all at once, a difficult marriage of qualities.”

“I did hope you would like it,” Beatrice says. “Ludovico and I will make our final home here. That is why we are sparing no expense in the decorations. See how lovely the choir is. I often think of how happy I will be when I am lying here being serenaded by Milan’s most beautiful voices.”

“Please do not speak that way, Beatrice. You are too young for such thoughts!” Isabella touches her sister’s stomach. “You are getting so big, I am sure that the little one already has sprouted ears and is listening to every word we say.”

“Ludovico always says that he is much closer than I to making the church his permanent home. That is why he is pushing to have it completed. Of course, he is joking, but he did promise the Dominicans that all will be finished within the year—church, rectory, and refectory.”

“Will he meet his promise?”

“I doubt it,” Beatrice says, smiling. “One of the larger projects is in the hands of none other than the Magistro.”

Beatrice guides Isabella from the church, through the courtyard, and into the refectory, a large rectangular room with plain wooden dining tables and benches in the center. A lone young monk sweeps the floor, the scratching of the broom against pavement echoing through the room. A vast mural of a Crucifixion scene is painted on one of the room’s walls; the others are blank.

“Even with so large a mural, the room seems cold and empty,” Isabella says.

Beatrice whispers, “They say that the Inquisition trials were held in this very room. I must say, I do not like it very much in here. It is cold and creepy, and I feel sorry for the monks who have to take their meals here.”

“Oh, but what do monks want with cheer anyway?” Isabella jokes. “The gloom probably brings them closer to God.”

“I wanted you to see the site of the Magistro’s next great work,” Beatrice says. “I also wanted to spy a bit on him to see if he had begun it. He promised Ludovico, but Leonardo is nowhere in sight, is he? No tools have appeared; no sketches yet drawn on the wall. The duke will go mad.”

“What is this grand project?” Isabella asks, curiosity piqued as it always is concerning the Magistro and his schedule.

“We have commissioned a mural on the wall opposite the Crucifixion scene of Our Lord Jesus having his last meal with the Apostles.”

“Why did you have another artist paint the Crucifixion? Would it not have been better and more consistent to have the entire room decorated by one artist?”

“Oh, you are too clever,” Beatrice says. “You can tell that the Crucifixion scene is not the work of the Magistro.”

Isabella eyes the figure of Christ on the cross, flanked by the two thieves. “It is grand and large and dramatic, Beatrice, but the composition is poor for my tastes, and it is overcrowded with elements. It tells a story, but has little drama and no discipline of perspective. It could not be the work of Leonardo.”

“And yet the artist finished it on time and without asking for a single ducat beyond what was contractually agreed upon. Imagine our delight. We had hoped to have the Magistro paint both murals, but Ludovico said that getting one mural out of Leonardo would be a great accomplishment. Another Lombard, Giovanni Montorfano, painted the Crucifixion. He’s not quite the artist Leonardo is, but he began on time and did not quit until he was finished. Ludovico has asked the Magistro to insert portraits of us with our children into Montorfano’s finished mural. That was the compromise.”

“And when will the Magistro begin the Last Supper?”

“Oh, you know the Magistro. He says he has begun preparations, but his concentration lies elsewhere. We are hoping that he does not have to make a study of prayer itself in order to insert portraits of Ludovico and me with our hands folded into Montorfano’s mural.”

Isabella stares at the Crucifixion scene so that she does not have to look at her sister. “So, I take it that you have conquered your aversion to sitting for the Magistro?” She hears her voice rise as she asks the question. She knows that it is impossible to hide her agenda, but she cannot help but inquire anyway.

“No, not entirely. I do not like to sit for artists. I am too fidgety. I particularly do not want to spend hours under
his
scrutiny. Though I revere his work, and though he shows only charm in my presence, he makes me uncomfortable. There is something dark and intense about the man.”

“I do not believe I have ever met the lighthearted genius, Beatrice. At least he is handsome and mannered, and not sickly and sour all the time like Mantegna.”

“Ludovico says that the portrait by the great painter of our day will bring honor to the family, and so I must do it. He has convinced me that asking the Magistro to make my likeness is an act of love on his part. ‘I must move mountains to get the man to paint!’ ” Beatrice says, throwing her arms in the air, imitating Ludovico. “‘I would only make these efforts and go through this frustration for those whom I love!’ ”

Isabella decides to say nothing. It is not her place to encourage or discourage. Beatrice will do as she pleases, and now it seems that she is pleased to sit for the Magistro, not because it will please herself but because it will please Ludovico. Or aid his ambitions. Or send the message to the clergy of Milan about their powerful benefactor. Or appease Savonarola. Or indelibly link in the minds of generations to come artistic genius with the mighty and powerful family. Or accomplish whatever it is that Ludovico wishes such things to accomplish. It is clear that Beatrice’s motives are selfless.

“After all,” she says to Isabella, placing her small hands atop her big belly, “Ludovico was in love with Cecilia when he commissioned her portrait. He is in love with me now. He tells me so all the time. I have seen how much effort and patience it takes to coax the Magistro to finish any of his works. I am sure that Ludovico would not take up this challenge unless it was in the name of love for me and for his children.”

Leaving the refectory, entering the courtyard, Isabella and Beatrice see the broad back of a man sitting cross-legged on the walkway like an eastern potentate, staring at a courtyard wall as if in a trance. His shaggy curls hang incongruently on the shoulders of his rich blue velvet cape. The late-morning sun highlights the deep brown hues of his hair, as well as casts an elaborate shadow on the wall. A moldy water stain mingles with the shadows on the stucco.

“Sir!” Beatrice says.

The Magistro, startled from his meditation, turns around. Upon seeing the Duchess of Milan and the Marchesa of Mantua, he stands abruptly—and adeptly, Isabella notices—rising to a full stance without uncrossing his feet.

“What on earth are you doing, Magistro?” Beatrice asks.

He points to the stain on the wall. “I am looking at a great landscape of human drama, Your Excellencies. Do you not see it?”

“I see a rather mildewed wall,” Isabella says. “If the duke is so intent upon renovating the church and monastery, surely he should order a fresh coat of paint for the exterior.”

“Marchesa, if you will permit me.” Leonardo steps toward the wall, bending slightly and pointing. “Everything in creation might be seen in these shapes and shadows and qualities if one looks with fresh eyes. I have seen, in these humble discolorations, great battles in progress, tableaux of life and death, jousting matches, babies being born, old women dying, goddesses rising out of the sea, boats crashing against the quay during a storm. It is all there, if one looks long enough and with enough concentration.”

Isabella stares at the wall, unable to see what the Magistro is talking about. She has seen shapes and faces in cloud formations, but she cannot make a scenario out of these stains. Beatrice, on the other hand, is nodding politely, as if she has begun to delineate the Magistro’s imaginings.

“Your Excellency,” he addresses Beatrice with what Isabella discerns is either a sense of anticipation or anxiety in his voice, as if he is almost afraid to ask the question. “Have we word yet on the bronze?”

“The bronze?” Isabella asks.

“The Magistro wants to cast his horse in bronze so that it will last for all time, or for as long as bronze lasts—and I do not think the world is old enough as of yet to know the life of a good piece of bronze.”

“It is mere clay, Marchesa, and will destruct with time and the elements,” Leonardo says, making a funereal face. “I have been spending my days at the foundries, discussing methods of casting with the engineers and metallurgists in preparation for the project.”

“The Magistro has become an expert in the study of metals, a veritable alchemist,” Beatrice says.

“Your Excellency flatters me.”

“Not at all. I had hoped to find you here so that I might tell you the news. The bronze for the horse has been located, and you will have access to it immediately.”

Beatrice smiles, raising her eyebrows at Isabella. So this was her mission. Was she flaunting her power over the Magistro in front of her sister?

“My eternal gratitude to you, Duchess,” he says, tilting his chin toward what Isabella thinks is the direction of his heart. His face flushes with color, leaving him looking relieved, touched, and slightly embarrassed that he is blushing.

“Congratulations, Maestro, your monument will last for a hundred generations,” Isabella says, but she is thinking that this colossal new work will put her own sitting with the Magistro out of reach for God knows how many more years.

“The Magistro has devised the most fascinating method for casting the horse. Will you indulge my sister in an explanation?” Beatrice asks. What woman does not know when she has a man’s pride in her grip?

Leonardo stoops down and reaches into a large leather satchel resting on the ground, pulling out a wide expanse of paper and unfolding it for Isabella to see. Two drawings of the monument sit side by side: one, the sculpture in its entirety replete with its rider; the other, the horse alone drawn upside down and quartered into pieces. Complex mathematical formulas and measurements, all in an impossible handwriting, cover the paper with other bits of unreadable scrawl.

“I have begun to supervise the digging of an enormous hole in the empty fields to the rear of the Castello. The purpose of this enterprise is so that the mold for the horse might be placed inside of it in an upside-down position so that when the bronze is poured, it will run through the animal’s body.”

“Astonishing,” Isabella says. “Has this procedure been accomplished before?”

“No, Your Excellency, no such thing has ever been attempted. This will be the first equestrian statue of its size to be cast in the metal. Naturally, the endeavor demanded a new technique. The old methods are inadequate to the task, which is the reason for the delay.” He looked pointedly at Beatrice. “Invention cannot be rushed. When one desires, as does our illustrious Lord Ludovico, to create memorials of a size and scope heretofore unseen upon this earth, one must tolerate the process of inquiry and experimentation.”

Isabella has never heard the Magistro speak so excitedly. The news of the arrival of the bronze seems to have infused his body with a new vigor. For a moment, he has lost his perpetual look of detachment, and she believes that he even takes on the appearance of a younger man, what with his rosy cheeks and hurried speech.

“Speaking of my husband, he did wish me to add this caveat: you shall have your bronze immediately, sir, but on the condition that you begin the mural. The duke has promised the monks delivery of all improvements and decorations to the church and monastery by the end of the year. Please do not put him in difficult stead with the prior.”

Admonished perhaps, but undiminished, Leonardo says, “Madame, I have already spent weeks in the study of numerous types of faces in order to do justice to Our Lord and the Twelve. The scenario I have in mind will be a great religious drama.”

The church bells begin to ring the noon hour, and the white-and-black-clad Dominican friars file out of doorways and toward the refectory for their meal. Beatrice links arms with Isabella and excuses them, perhaps because she does not wish to be caught in conversation with the prior, who has a reputation for being long-winded and difficult. As they leave the company of the Magistro, Isabella says, “How marvelous of Ludovico to allow these grandiose experiments!” She wonders if her father, her husband, even herself would have the patience, money, and vision to finance such an experimental endeavor—and one of undoubtedly great cost.

“Ludovico was astonished at the breadth of his research and his labors and his passion, and so gave him permission to begin the dig. Did you see Leonardo’s excitement, Isabella? He’s worked so long on the horse and waited so long for the bronze that he looked like a bride who had been betrothed for years and was finally called to the altar,” Beatrice giggles.

Isabella is not surprised that Beatrice would create the metaphor, since she also had lived that situation. But she has come so far from that humiliated girl who was not certain that her betrothed would honor the engagement that she doesn’t even seem to make the correlation.

T
HAT
night, as Isabella blows out the candle at her bedside and closes her eyes, her mind is as jumpy as a cat. When Beatrice speaks of her husband, she glows with the fervor of a novitiate at the feet of a saint. If Ludovico had been complicit in the duke’s demise, Beatrice shows no trace of carrying the burden of that knowledge. Perhaps her adoration of Ludovico precludes believing the rumors. Or perhaps she condones what he has done—if indeed he has done it.

Isabella would like to soothe herself with the notion that she is now one step closer to being painted by the Magistro, since Beatrice has agreed to sit for him, even though he will undoubtedly be years in the making of the bronze horse, much less the great mural. But nothing makes sense anymore; logic does not necessarily apply. She feels as if she has suddenly been dropped inside a play where she does not know any of the other characters, but is expected to perform as usual. She is watching the shifts in alliances—personal, political, artistic—in the same way that she observes the currents of a great body of water, which move swiftly and are beyond her control. Survival will surely depend upon staying dry.