The Marriage Portrait(103)

It is unclear to Lucrezia how much time passes here. She walks every loggia, every terrace, every battlement of the castello, over and over again, coming inside only at dusk. She is aware of fitful nights, drifting in and out of sleep, of the fire dying down to embers, then being fed with logs. Ice appears on the windows in the early mornings, in patterns of long, frayed fronds, as if cold feathers are pressing themselves up against the glass. Warm broths and preserves are brought to her bedside, and she waves them away. As soon as day breaks, she puts on her warmest clothing and goes out to the terrace or the orangery, Emilia trailing behind.

She is climbing the narrow stairs up to the south-west tower when a servant brings a letter. Lucrezia catches a glimpse of her mother’s precise, sloping handwriting and snatches it from the man’s hand. She sits on a cold step and pulls it open.

It is brief, hastily written, and contains no invitation or offers of horses. Lucrezia can picture her mother, about to leave her rooms, to join Cosimo in the offices, pausing at the desk in her scrittoio, pulling a sheet of paper towards her, and dashing it off. She would then have thrust it into the hands of a servant, with an impatient There.

Lucrezia holds it in trembling hands as she scans it.

    My dear Lucrè,

What a wild and worried letter was your last! You must be careful not to let your imagination run away with you—you are aware, I’m sure, how that tendency has been in you from a very young age. Remember that your Alfonso is an honourable man, so let him be your guide, always. I am sorry to hear that Lady Elisabetta’s departure has upset you—the loss of a friend is indeed a sad thing. Perhaps, however, this will give you opportunity to spend time with Lady Nunciata, free of the rivalry you mentioned before. Most of all, I would advise you most strongly, my darling, to pay attention to your own position at court, which will only be truly assured by the birth of an heir. I have no doubt that motherhood will bring you the peace and security you so desire. Your father is in agreement with me on this.

All is well here. Isabella has taught everyone a new card game, and we spend more time than we should engaged upon it. I am having a fitting for a new gown this afternoon—cream silk with embroidered panels. The boys are doing well in their lessons. We send our love and prayers.

Your loving mother



Lucrezia reads it twice, first quickly, then more slowly. She places it on her lap and looks down, letting her eyes rest upon it, unfocused, so that the words and sentences fade into black lines, like columns of ants.

She then leans over and thrusts the edge of the letter into the sconce burning on the wall of the stairwell. For a second or two, it seems the flame cannot believe its luck, refusing to consume the page. Then it comes to its senses, asserting its grasp, turning the edges of the paper black, shrivelling and devouring them.

It burns quickly, merrily, casting a leaping orange glow on to the damp steps, making Emilia start forward with an exclamation and shake Lucrezia’s wrist. When the burning letter falls to the floor, Emilia stamps on it, again and again, extinguishing the fire.





The Marriage Portrait of Lucrezia, Duchess of Ferrara


Fortezza, near Bondeno, 1561





She descends the staircase, haltingly, from the fortezza’s damp chamber, leaving Emilia behind. When she reaches the dining hall, she stands in the doorway, catching her breath, holding on to the door frame. There is Il Bastianino, at the side of the great hall, his back to her, talking about the brilliance of the commission. It has been one of his favourites, he is saying, and he hopes His Grace is only half as delighted with the result as he himself is, what an honour, what an accolade, for a humble painter such as himself to paint a woman of such virtue and beauty, he will never, never surpass such a—

One by one, the men in the room notice her, standing on the threshold: first Baldassare, who is nearest, leaning against a table, his arms crossed, then the four servants who wait at the far side of the room, then the two apprentices, Maurizio and Jacopo, who are propping up in their hands a large, flat object swathed in linen, then Alfonso, who is seated by the fire, his legs crossed, his hunting dogs asleep at his feet. The artist himself is the last to realise she is there, so deep is he in relating the story of her portrait.

His words flow on, eddying around them all, transfixing them. At last, he turns his head and sees her and his voice stops.

She finds, reflected in their startled faces, a testament to how changed she is. In the raising of Maurizio’s brows, she knows that her face is pale and gaunt; in the dying stutter of Il Bastianino’s words, she feels the ragged tresses of her severed hair, tied at the nape of her neck. Baldassare looks quickly at her, then away, unfolding and refolding his arms, and Lucrezia wants to go to him, to beat her fists against him and say, Yes, yes, do you see how sick I look, but do you know what else? I’m still alive, I will not be so easily dispensed with.

For a moment or two, no one speaks, no one moves. The room hangs suspended, as if these men are all people in a painting, satyrs in a forest, perhaps, or penitents in a saint’s procession. Then the spell, if that is what it is, is broken. Alfonso, who knows better than any of them what rituals should be observed, what must be said and left unsaid, comes to life. He uncrosses his long legs, rises from his chair and walks towards her, his hand outstretched.

“My love,” he exclaims, “you look most unwell. Let me fetch the physician.”