The Marriage Portrait(74)
“This is charming,” he says, inspecting the still life, the peaches and the honey, which, she is relieved to remember, completely cover the moonlit river beast with the scaled tail. “Quite charming. Such a pleasant pastime for you, my love, although—” There is another knock at the door, and Alfonso, without looking round, calls, “Enter.”
And Lucrezia turns to see the two apprentices appear in the room, Maurizio ahead, bounding in, beaming, with the expectation of pleasure on his face, Jacopo behind him, eyes lowered. They have changed out of their travelling clothes; both are in clean collars, their boots polished to a shine.
“Ah,” Alfonso says, pausing briefly for their murmured greetings. “Allow me to present to you two apprentice painters, assistants to Sebastiano Filippi, otherwise known as Il Bastianino, who will be painting your portrait when we return to court.” He extends a hand towards her. “This is my wife, the Duchess.”
Lucrezia steps out of the margins of the chamber, into the flickering, intersecting circles of light around the candelabra. The filigreed lace on her sleeves, her ruby pendant, her headdress instantly flare and spark in reply, and the two young men turn towards her.
Maurizio blanches, recognising her, his mouth falling open, but recovers himself quickly, courteously inclining his head, murmuring that he is honoured, he is humbled, he is her devoted servant. Jacopo stands immobile, like an animal afraid of attack, eyes locked on hers. Lucrezia recalls, fleetingly, the clammy give of his skin under her fingers, the terrifying loll of his neck, the slender jut of his collarbone.
For a moment, in the salon, nobody moves.
Then Maurizio jabs Jacopo with an elbow; he startles into life, like a marionette whose strings have been jerked. He snatches the cap from his head, he makes a low, sweeping bow.
“Forgive my friend,” Maurizio says. “He has been a little unwell today and—”
“Unwell?” Alfonso interrupts. “What manner of unwell?”
“Nothing in the way of contagion, Your Highness,” Maurizio says hastily, “I assure you. He was perhaps…a little overcome by heat and—and the journey. Nothing more.”
“I see.” Alfonso steps towards Lucrezia and takes her hand. “This, gentlemen, is to be your subject, your muse.” He makes a gesture indicating the length of her, from her feet to her head. “I expect your master has told you but I have commissioned a marriage portrait of her, as is fitting. You, I gather, are expected to make preliminary sketches so your master and I can decide the best way to approach the work. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” Maurizio says, nodding, “and may I say what a muse she will be, Your Highness, what a delight and a—”
“Your friend,” Alfonso points at Jacopo, “why does he not address us?”
“He never speaks, Your Grace,” Maurizio says, clapping a hand to Jacopo’s shoulder. “We believe him to be a mute.”
“Is he deaf?”
“No, Your Grace. He hears perfectly well, he just doesn’t—”
“But he is…” Alfonso frowns “…a capable draughtsman?”
“More than capable,” Maurizio replies, with a grin. “He is highly skilled, the best apprentice in the workshop. Our master would only send his very best assistants to you, Your Grace. Please be assured. Jacopo’s figures and fabrics are exquisite, second only to those of the master himself. You shall see when we are given the opportunity to pose Her Highness and—”
“Yes, yes,” Alfonso cuts him off, with a curt gesture. “I see that you are more than able to speak for both of you. Well,” he claps his hands together, “I see no reason to prevent us from beginning right away.”
Lucrezia turns to him. She has had no dinner; her stomach feels hollow with hunger; she is tired; her head aches. The very last thing she wishes to do this evening is to pose for sketches by two apprentice artists. But Alfonso is all action. He is pacing the room, saying that he shall direct the pose himself, that he has studied painting in depth, both its practice and its theory, that he will observe how the pair of them fare. He is pausing to say that he should warn them he will not tolerate anything less than perfection. If he is not pleased, they will know it immediately. He is leading Lucrezia by the arm, to a chair at the fireplace, moving back her easel, placing two candelabra next to her on a table, where sit a marble sphere and a goblet.
When she raises her gaze, she finds that, just as she expected, Jacopo is looking straight at her, and his face is curiously dear to her. He is thinking, she knows, that he might have died today, that without her intervention he might not be here, standing in this room, paper in hand, that there would be a vacancy in the air right there, by the credenza. If she hadn’t come to see what the noise was, if she hadn’t found him, if she hadn’t known what to do, if it wasn’t for her. She isn’t sure how she knows this, but she does. She then sees that he is looking at the painting of the peaches on the easel, then back at her, a quizzical expression passing over his features. How peculiar it seems to her, in that moment, to have saved the life of another. It has, she is dimly aware, created an invisible yet indissoluble tether between her and this man, this silent person, who is now weighting down the corners of his paper on the table and taking up his stick. She feels it; he feels it. They know it and they know each other’s thoughts and they sense each other’s actions and fears.