Leonardo's Swans (37 page)

As for my alleged inactivity at the convent, you should know that I work on the mural at least two hours a day, and moreover, that higher minds achieve the most when they appear to be doing the least. That is when one completes his search of what he has been looking for.

JANUARY 2, 1497; IN THE CITY OF MILAN

 U
NDER
the grand arch supported by four imposing pillars, Beatrice stands in what will be her final resting place. Since Bramante has finished his work in the church of Santa Maria delle Grazie, she and Ludovico have visited often to admire the work of the master, to pray, and to direct the completion of the sixteen-vault marble crypt Ludovico is building to eventually entomb himself, his wife, and the members of their family. Beatrice often wonders if Ludovico wants to be as far away as possible from his brother and all the other wicked Viscontis buried in the Duomo, but still remain in Milan. Surely, he does not want to be buried near Gian Galeazzo, the late Duke of Milan, as rumors of Ludovico’s responsibility for his death still fly around the kingdom like stealthy buzzards. Though Ludovico has always denied that he had any complicity in the young duke’s death, Beatrice imagines that he would not wish to spend eternity in a place where the duke’s spirit might take vengeance upon him even if it is undeserved. The Santa Maria delle Grazie is all the way across town near the Porta Vercellina and well out of reach of any angry spirits entombed in the Duomo, or so Beatrice imagines.

She has had no idea that she would be spending so much time in this church while she is still living; no idea that one of the vaults would be filled so soon. But she has visited the church every day in the weeks since Bianca Giovanna has died. It happened suddenly, at Vigevano, in late November, right after the weather turned cold. The girl ate something that did not agree with her and took herself to bed. No one worried excessively over this; Bianca Giovanna was delicate of stomach, but the bouts she experienced had always been of little duration. But this time, her pains became increasingly difficult, and before a doctor could diagnose her condition, the life passed right out of her.

Galeazz, a groom for little more than a year, retreated. Ludovico was inconsolable and shut himself up alone in his quarters, closing his heart and his doors to his wife. Nor could Beatrice reach out to Isabella, for just a few weeks before the passing of Bianca Giovanna, Isabella’s second daughter, Margherita, had died in her crib. Beatrice could not go to Isabella, nor could Isabella come to Milan. Francesco had fallen dangerously ill with a fever in Calabria, where he was stationed with his army, and Isabella was bringing him back to Mantua, slowly, and in small increments.

Seven months pregnant, Beatrice has been left alone to grieve. She has longed for her husband, sending him notes and messages, asking him to let her console him, and asking him to try to console her, since she has also suffered the loss of the girl. But Ludovico has ignored her pleas, finally sending a brief note in return:
Forgive me, Beatrice. You only remind me of her.

The only place Beatrice could find solace was with Bianca Giovanna herself. Every morning, she would drive her chariot to the Santa Maria delle Grazie and sit by the girl’s tomb, talking to her, asking her if she, from the spirit world, could inspire her father to open his doors, his arms, his bed again to Beatrice. The talk was that Ludovico was not grieving alone, as he had led Beatrice to believe. Supposedly, he cried late into the night in the arms of the beautiful Lucrezia Crivelli. Everyone whispered about it, in low tones, of course, if Beatrice was present. But she could not help but believe that these
sotto voce
mumblings were meant to be heard by her ears. It seemed that no one approved of Ludovico’s liaison, not even the pet dwarves. Mathilda let it slip while drunk that she refused to be funny in the duke’s presence, no matter how much he begged her for a little joke, in protest of his treatment of the duchess. Beatrice did not know which was more humiliating: the fact that Ludovico was consoling himself with the charms of Lucrezia while his wife was left to grieve on her own, or the kingdom’s pity of Beatrice over the duke’s treatment of her. Despite all of this, she has missed him. She wants him to return to her confidence and her bed. Together they can solve any problem, overcome any obstacle, even the obstacle of another woman’s clutches on his heart.

Beatrice has tried to take solace in the child growing in her womb, as women are supposed to do when their husband’s attention wanders, but the little baby has not comforted her. Children were one of God’s great rewards, but they did not take the place of a husband at one’s side. Beatrice’s only moments of succor were accompanied by great pain. Kneeling by the tomb of Bianca Giovanna, whispering her problems to the dead girl and making pleas to Our Lord to improve her situation, she found the only company agreeable to her.

Then, after passing a miserable Christmas, with no warning, Ludovico came out of his room on the first day of the year. He came to her apartments, not with arms outstretched to comfort her but with a plan for completing his grand improvements to the city. “I have been inspired,” he said. “We must go on, Beatrice. My little girl would have wanted us to stop our grief and return to our earthly occupations.”

It was not precisely what Beatrice had wanted to hear, but she interpreted his enthusiasm, after more than a month of his self-imposed exile from her, as a sign that things were about to improve.

“What have you in mind?” she asked.

“We shall use the Magistro’s desperate financial situation to our advantage!” he said, his eyes displaying the stirrings of life that had been absent since putting Bianca Giovanna in the vault.

Ludovico explained that there was fresh coin in the coffers, thanks to his raising taxes. They would forward the Magistro enough money to entice him back to their service, withholding the lion’s share until the mural of Our Lord’s Last Supper and the addition of the portraits of the family on the wall opposite were complete. Perhaps they might even tempt him to finish Beatrice’s apartments in time for the birth of the child. In any case, the two projects in the refectory of the Santa Maria delle Grazie had to be completed first because Ludovico was exhausted with the complaints from the prior about the Magistro’s procrastination. Ludovico promised that he would use whatever means necessary to coerce the Magistro into finishing the projects, but he also capitalized on the prior’s frustration by demanding that the Order of the Dominicans absorb some of the cost of the great mural, which made the prior grouse even more.

“Why can the Magistro not act in the ordinary manner of an artist, say, as Montorfano did? We agree on the contents of the mural, in this case, a painting of the Crucifixion. We forward him half of the money. He painted for a month or two. The oils dried. We approved his work. He is paid and out of our hair!” Beatrice noticed that the special frustration Ludovico reserved for the Magistro was often more intense than the ire manifested against his political enemies.

“And yet, Your Excellency, may I remind you that Montorfano’s mural is rather ordinary, or at least all the experts in your court say so. Isabella remarked on it as well. It is large and grand, and it honors the order of the Dominicans. But there is nothing of the genius on the wall.” Beatrice was thinking that both she and Leonardo had given Ludovico so much above the ordinary, and he still considered them tools to further his own ambitions. Nothing more. Ludovico regarded himself the sun and the rest of them, lesser planets.

“That is further to my point, Beatrice,” he said. “The painting of the Lord’s Last Supper is turning out to be a masterpiece. People will come from thousands of miles just to see it, to study it, to praise it.” Ludovico seemed to be bringing himself back to life with each word he said, suddenly aglow with his own thoughts. His cheeks, grown hollow in recent weeks, puffed up as they had in the past. “On the wall opposite, incorporated into the mural by Montorfano, they will see the portraits of the family under whose patronage the Magistro fulfilled his genius. At last, the world will have one of his grand works in a completed form to admire. And we will be eternally recognized as those who made it possible for this unparalleled talent to flourish. Think of it, Beatrice, we and the Magistro shall all be linked together in immortality!”

You should have married my sister
, she wanted to say. For Isabella was always seeking fame and immortality. Beatrice was more concerned with the quality of their lives in the here and now.

“I will have him incorporate our heralds and coats of arms—not just mine, but yours, and those of our sons—in his mural so that forever more, all will know that it was the Sforza family who brought about, by their considerable efforts and funds, this great work!”

“Surely you do not wish for me to sit for the Magistro in this bloated condition,” she said, putting her hands on her belly.

“But Isabella sat for Mantegna when she was pregnant, and look at the result. The painting of Mount Parnassus is a masterpiece, talked about all over Italy. They are saying that Isabella looks more the goddess than Venus herself. And so shall you.”

“I doubt it,” she said. “I am already stouter than I was the last pregnancy. Let me wait until the baby has come. I’ll exercise my horse daily until I am trim again.”

“Who knows what strange inventions will be occupying the mind of the Magistro by that time? He needs money now. He is willing to work now. Let us strike. I tell you, this is our chance. They say he is making secret plans to test his flying machine. I insist that you sit for him before he throws himself off a roof and plummets to his death.”

“But I do not care so much to be around him, Ludovico, especially while I am pregnant. He is charming, to be sure, but to me, he is also frightening, even foreboding. I do not like that he draws babies in the womb, or that he cuts open the dead to uncover the secrets of the body. Those are God’s own mysteries. They are not for men to know, otherwise, Our Lord would have made us all transparent.”

“Ah, Beatrice. You easily tame horses that turn great warriors white with fear, but you are afraid of an artist. You make no sense, my wife.”

He smiled at her in the old way, the way that bespoke of an intimacy between them, that bespoke of his knowing her better than others did and admiring her for her uniqueness. That comment, that smile, encouraged her to agree to sit for the Magistro the very next day.

Thus, this morning she is on her way to sit for Leonardo in the refectory. Before meeting with him, Beatrice has stopped in the church to thank Bianca Giovanna for interceding with her father. Beatrice would have preferred a return to their old days of enthrallment with each other—nights of lovemaking and laughter—rather than conspiring to complete a work of art. But perhaps this bout of enthusiasm was all Bianca could instigate from the grave. Perhaps a return to the way things were would be a gradual one. With the birth of another child, Beatrice might be able to oust Lucrezia from Ludovico’s heart just as she had with Cecilia. Yes, perhaps it would all turn out well in the end.

Despite that it is a sunny day, the temperature inside the church is frigid, and Beatrice feels the chill this morning all the way inside her bones. She thinks she feels the little one inside her shiver, so her talk with Bianca is hurried. “I wish I could wrap my arms around you and save you from this awful cold, my darling girl. Remember how we used to sit close together by the fire and talk? Little saintly girl, ask Our Lord if He will allow us such moments when I join you in His heaven, for that is the only place you could possibly be.”

She always hates to leave Bianca Giovanna alone in this chilly place, with fifteen empty crypts surrounding her, but she forces herself to imagine that the girl’s spirit is not lonely, but seated near the foot of God, for that is where such a sweet soul belongs. Beatrice has the fleeting thought—or rather, hope—that she is pregnant with a girl; another beautiful little girl to replace Ludovico’s perfect daughter. A little girl would open his heart, both to the child and to the woman who gave him the child. She hesitates, wishing to turn to the altar and make a prayer that her child be a female. But if the child is not—and she has spent months thinking it is not—she does not want to insult either the baby or God, who makes such decisions. What if she angers God, questioning His judgment in sending her a child the sex of which He has chosen? Isabella had prayed for a boy, and God had taken the child from her sister when the little baby was only two months old.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers to the baby, warming her cold hands on the velvet covering her stomach. “I didn’t mean to wish you away. I love you no matter what you are. Whoever you are, boy or girl, I cannot wait to see your sweet face and touch your little tiny hands and hear your angel cries.”

It occurs to her that it cannot be good for a nascent life to have spent all this time in the company of the dead, and she hurries out of the church and into the courtyard of the rectory, where she sees the Magistro finishing the last of his loaf of bread. He quickly chews, bowing to her, she thinks, to cover up the fact that he is swallowing.