The Marriage Portrait(87)
She sits down at the desk and takes out a roll of vellum and a sheet of paper. She cuts herself a new nib, brushing the shavings into a neat pile. She draws the feathered tip of the quill against her lips one way, then the other, feeling the hooks of the filaments unlatch then reconnect, unlatch, reconnect.
She has no sense of what she wants to do: write a letter, draw, read, commit a verse to memory. She just knows that sitting here, in front of her desk box, with its cargo of ink and charcoal and penknife and paper and brushes, brings her a peace that she can find nowhere else.
Sleep will not come for her; it is a steed she cannot catch or harness; it throws her off, it takes flight if she comes near, it refuses her entreaties. She doesn’t know if it is the rich food she has eaten or the tall man sprawled across the middle of her bed or the distracting blue-white light spilling into her rooms.
She dips the quill in ink and lets it dry as she stares, unmoving, at the coin-like face of the moon, which has pasted itself to the outside of her window. She dips it again. She resolves to write not to her sister but to her mother.
Dearest Mamma,
It is late at night and I am thinking of you all. I hope this letter finds you in good health and even better spirits. I send my love to you, and Papa, Francesco, Isabella, Giovanni, Garzia, Ferdinando and Pietro.
Please ask them all to write to me, as often as they can. I wish to hear everything that goes on. How are Papa’s hounds, the cats in the nursery, and also the little chestnut pony? Who is riding her now, I wonder? Please don’t let it be Pietro—he will kick her too hard and she is too sweet-natured for that.
We arrived in Ferrara yesterday, where hundreds and hundreds of citizens were waiting for us. Alfonso’s people are very loyal to him: he looked very handsome and grand, sitting up on his horse as we rode through the streets. I wish you could have seen it. I have met his sisters, two of them (his mother and the eldest sister have gone to France—I do not know why—maybe Papa has heard something of this?).
Tonight was the festa. There was music (evirati—have you ever heard their singing?) and a recitation. I have written on the back of this page a list of the food that was served, and also sketched for you the dress of a Ferrarese lady. Isabella might find this interesting. Their fashions, as you can see, are quite different from ours.
The castello is so large and is certainly a change from the delizia. I am worried I will get lost in all the corridors and staircases! My rooms are in the south-east tower, on the floor above Alfonso. His sisters fitted them out for me, and they are very nice. If you like, I will do a drawing of them for you next time I write.
Tell me news of Sofia. I hope her knees aren’t troubling her too much in damp weather?
I pray for you all and I wish I could see you. I send a thousand salutations, and even more kisses,
Your affectionate daughter,
Lucrè
She reads over her page. How bloodless it all seems, how craven: the questions about pets and siblings, the lists of food, the quince-dumb cinghiale and dishes of figs. She hates the self she is in these words. It could have been written by anyone.
What she really wants to know is: Is it raining in Florence tonight? Has the thunder of autumn begun? Is Papa swimming in the Arno? Are the starlings swarming above the piazza at the day’s end? Does the light still slant into my chamber in the evening, just before it disappears below the city’s roofs? Do you miss me? Even a little? Does anyone ever go and stand before my portrait?
She melts the sealing wax over a candle flame, then presses her insignia into the molten drips: her father’s crest of a shield with six palle.
She puts the finished letter to one side and, glancing over her shoulder, she reaches into the desk box once more, this time taking out a small square of tavola, one she planed and sanded herself, only last week. It is untouched; she runs her fingers over its smooth surface, weighs it in her hand. She takes up a piece of red chalk and moves across it, from top to bottom, sketching an upright object, narrow, double-sided. A pillar. Next to it emerges first a triangular shape, which, with a few more strokes of the chalk, acquires a head and arms, resolves into a figure.
Lucrezia grinds pigments, mixes them with drops of oil. She takes a slender-tipped brush and paints a fine, heart-shaped face, a narrow neck, a diminutive chin, lowered eyes, a dreamy expression. Behind this woman, she puts a man, barely seen, merging into blue shadow; this second figure is leaning towards the first and its face is tender and gentle.
When it is finished, the palm-sized painting fills Lucrezia with satisfaction and also fear. She looks at it for a long time; she watches as the paint dries and solidifies, the couple’s features resolving into permanence, the man for evermore leaning towards his lover, her face suffused with pleasure.
Lucrezia touches her fingertip to the oil paint, to ascertain that it is indeed dry, irrevocable, and the moon suddenly clothes itself in mist, as if it, too, is alarmed by what her hand has created.
She glances behind her, as if to check that the door to her chamber is shut, that Alfonso is not looking over her shoulder. Then she takes a stiff-bristled brush and loads it with a dark greenish-brown, the colour of forest shade, and with sweeping movements, she covers the image with darkness, obliterating the lovers, sealing them inside a tomb of paint. The woman’s dress disappears, the man’s hand, their faces, the column. In moments, it is all gone, hidden for ever, the only sign the scene was ever there the slight undulations in the paint’s surface, like rocks on the bed of a lake.