44
Cecilia
Milan, Italy
April 1491
WOULD SHE MAKE A DIFFERENCE, IN THE END?
Cecilia sat on her bed and contemplated the question while she listened to Bernardo the poet read his latest composition:
. . . the more lively and beautiful Cecilia is,
The greater will be your eminence in the future.
Be thankful therefore to Ludovico, or rather
To the genius and hand of Leonardo the painter
Which allows your image to endure for posterity.
But the larger the poem made her seem, the smaller Cecilia felt. She ran her palms over Violina’s full belly. The white dog was stretched down the length of her legs, dormant, its ears spread out over her knees, its paw pads resting on Cecilia’s bulging midsection. From her spot on her high, platform bed, Cecilia watched the dog’s eyes open and close lazily, alternately sleeping and waking to peer at Bernardo as he paced back and forth before Cecilia. Bernardo continued:
Everyone who sees Cecilia Gallerani—even if too late
To see her in life—will say: that suffices for us
To understand what is nature and what is beauty.
“. . . what is nature and what is art,” said Master da Vinci, holding his brush in the air as he spoke.
“You are correct on that count, my friend.” Bernardo scratched out a word on the parchment with his pen. “. . . what is nature and what is art,” he said. “Much improved.”
The nuptials concluded and the guests long gone, the Castello Sforzesco had returned to its quiet rhythm. The only difference was that Cecilia was now holed up in her own private chambers instead of the library. Yes, she was cast aside. But if she was honest with herself, she was not completely dissatisfied with this arrangement, as she had no desire to encounter Ludovico’s new wife in the corridors. Beatrice d’Este of Ferrara, by the servants’ accounts, was a girl Cecilia’s own age, and of remarkably similar appearance, with the exception that she had unparalleled taste in clothing. In no time, she was sure to set the fashions for all the ladies in the house, if not for the entire duchy of Milan.
With his mistress little more than a prisoner in her own suite, Ludovico had consented to Cecilia’s request to have some of her favorite volumes transferred from the library to a cabinet in a small sitting room at the threshold to her bedchamber. It was there that Leonardo and Bernardo met each day to continue their creative pursuits, and where Cecilia did her best to keep the court ladies and servants away. She requested a particularly quiet chambermaid twice a day to tend to the fire and tolerated Lucrezia Crivelli’s double-edged banter only as long as it took for her to fasten the tight buttons up the back of her dress and to oil the soles of her feet.
With his elaborate decorations put away and the rotting flowers thrown out, Leonardo had returned to the portrait. And Bernardo was now composing a laudatory poem in praise of the picture—and in praise of Cecilia herself. Cecilia realized that as much as she had dreaded the thought of sitting for long hours before the artist, she relished their private jokes, their conversations about literature, ancient stories, and the meaning of symbols and images. She could not imagine how empty her days would have felt without these two fellow Tuscans by her side.
“I shall begin again,” said Bernardo, clearing his voice. He held the paper out with an extended arm. Cecilia watched him squint at the large, looping script he had captured on the page:
. . . Nature, who stirs your wrath, and who arouses your envy?
Nature: It is Master da Vinci, who has painted one of your stars!
Cecilia Gallerani, today so very beautiful, is the one
Beside whose beautiful eyes the sun appears only a dark shadow.
The poet: All glory to you, Nature, even if in his portrait
She seems to listen rather than talk . . .
A knock at the door interrupted Bernardo’s recitation.
Cecilia recognized her brother’s face poking into the room. The lace sleeve flourished as he waved. He cleared his throat.
“Excuse the interruption, signori.” Fazio’s eyes flitted toward the portrait, and Cecilia saw Master da Vinci place his body in front of it as if to shield it from view, at the same time that the painter smiled at her brother. “Our Most Excellent Lord requests to know the status of the portrait. And of Master Bernardo’s verses.”
“We are working on them now,” Cecilia said, grimacing as the baby kicked her swiftly in her side. She pressed her palm to her middle and arched her back. The baby had become active in recent days, sending stabbing pains through her back and thighs. As Cecilia squirmed, Violina trotted, tail wagging, toward Fazio. The dog pressed her stomach to the ground, cowering in submission to Fazio’s hand on her head. Cecilia wished that she, too, could crawl into the comforting embrace of her brother, that he might be able to give her some assurance that everything would be all right, in the end. But she would never want to appear so vulnerable to Master da Vinci and to Bernardo. They were counting on her.
“My poem will be a mere distraction compared to Master da Vinci’s portrait, but we will be ready,” said Bernardo.
“I had hoped to see the likeness of my own sister before the crowds assemble to break down the gates of the palace,” Fazio teased. “It seems that Master da Vinci’s name is on everyone’s lips in Milan. People are clamoring to see his work after having witnessed his talent for decorative programs. After this party, I am certain that everyone in this city will want a picture painted by Leonardo da Vinci!”
Master da Vinci took a curt bow. “I am flattered.”
“It is true,” Fazio said. “An unseen number of guests have accepted His Lordship’s invitation.”
Cecilia stood awkwardly, pressing her bulk before her and setting her slippered feet on the stone floor. She approached her brother. “Fazio, you are sure that Ludovico wants me there? It is strange, I think.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” said Fazio. “The portrait is of you, my lovely. It would be strange if you were tucked away in this chamber while everyone is gawking at your likeness.”
“Your brother is correct,” Bernardo said.
“Besides,” Fazio continued, “one of the seamstresses is finishing a new dress for you to wear to the portrait’s unveiling. His Lordship himself requested that she make one that more . . . suits your current condition.” Fazio waved an unsure hand across Cecilia’s burgeoning form.
She nodded. “Good. I might play the lute with no problem but I can hardly sing with my laces strapped so tight.” Cecilia looked down and ran her hands over her stomach. “And . . . Beatrice?” she asked warily.
Fazio shook his head. “His Lordship’s secretary has assured me that while you all are entertaining guests at the unveiling, Beatrice will be in a carriage on her way to Ferrara with her sisters-in-law. We made sure that she had business to attend to there.”
Cecilia felt her shoulders drop in utter relief. “Madonna mia. Thank you,” she said to her brother, grasping his hand.
“My pleasure,” he said. “I am a diplomat, after all, though I must admit that this type of thing is outside my usual course of business.”
Leonardo had gone back to painting, making small, careful adjustments with his brush and thumb. Fazio took advantage of the opportunity to glance at the portrait. Cecilia watched his hand fly to his mouth as he examined it.