Light on Lucrezia (21 page)

Conversation in her apartments must be witty; and she must reign indisputably queen—she, Isabella d’Este Gonzaga. Her father, the Duke of Ferrara, and her brothers all respected her political genius; they always had; and thus she had habitually visualized herself as the most brilliant member of the most important family in Italy. It was small wonder that she felt piqued to see the rise of another family and the power which the women of that family seemed to possess over its head.

Now with Giovanni Sforza in her salon she led the conversation to the affairs of the Borgias and declared that Giovanni Sforza, who had intimate experience of that strange family, would be able to tell them whether those tales they heard of the scandalous Borgias were really true.

So Giovanni told the stories which Isabella wished him to tell.

He had been forced to divorce Lucrezia! Why? Because His Holiness was so enamored of his daughter that he could not endure her having a husband. The marriage had not been consummated! Lies … all lies. It had been
consummated a thousand times. And the golden-haired, innocent Lucrezia, who had stood before the assembly so demurely and declared herself still a virgin was then truly pregnant. But the child was not his.

The apartments of Mantua rang with laughter. Old scandals were revived; and Giovanni felt his vanity soothed in some measure. He could not fight the Borgias with arms, but he could with his tongue.

Lucrezia, shut in
her apartments in the castle of Nepi, bent over the cradle of her child. Each time she looked at him she must be vividly reminded of all the wonderful plans she and Alfonso had made together; and she would weep afresh, telling herself that this little one would never know his father.

Her women had given up trying to comfort her; they wished that Madonna Sanchia were with them. She had been stricken in her grief also; but the two ladies would have done much to comfort each other.

And then suddenly one of the pages came running to Lucrezia’s apartments to tell her that soldiers were approaching the castle.

Lucrezia threw back her hair which was less bright than usual (she had forgotten to wash it so frequently); her gown was black and plain; and she looked unlike the gay Lucrezia who had taken such pride in the elegant garments which she had worn in Rome.

She ran to her window that she might see who these soldiers were who had come to disturb the peace of Nepi.

A brilliant sight met her eyes as she looked down on the advancing men. They were singing as they came; and there was laughter in their ranks. Ahead of them were carried the yellow and red banners; and as she looked the heralds blew triumphal notes on their silver trumpets, and there was in those notes a joyous sound which seemed to shatter the melancholy of Nepi.

And then she saw him; he was riding at their head—the
condottiere
in his brilliant uniform—and her heart leaped with pride to behold him thus; and, for the first time in the six weeks since the most tragic day, Lucrezia smiled.

Then she hurried down to greet her brother.

He had leaped from his horse, throwing the reins to one of his men; he ran to her, picked her up in his arms and laughed into her face.

She looked at him for a moment; then she took his face in her hands and cried: “Cesare … oh, Cesare!”

But almost immediately it was as though Alfonso was with her, and she recalled that apartment in the Borgia Tower and Alfonso’s limp body lying across the bed.

“Cesare,” she said, “why have you come?”

“A strange question, sister. How could I pass within a few miles of your stronghold and resist the temptation of seeing you?”

“I had thought you would not come here,” she answered dully.

He had put her on her feet and, placing his arm about her, he said: “I am hungry. We are all hungry. Can you not feed us?”

“We are unprepared,” she said. She called to one of the dwarfs who stood watching the scene with astonishment. “Go to the kitchens. Bid them cook all they have. It would seem we have an army to feed.”

The dwarf disappeared, and Cesare turned to one of his captains and gave him orders to look after the men, and find suitable billets in the town. He would stay the night at the Castle of Nepi.

When his captain had departed, he asked her to take him to that room where she spent most of her time, and she did so. They stood side by side, looking out on the awe-inspiring scenery.

“How are you faring in your battles?” she asked.

“So well,” he replied, “that soon I shall be in possession of my kingdom.”

“Did I not always say you would achieve your desires?”

“You did, sister.”

“I remember so well how you railed against your Cardinal’s robes.”

“You see,” said Cesare earnestly, “all such irritations pass. Like grief they loom large when they are close; they are infinitesimal in the distance. Look at the Sabine mountains … nothing but a chain of blue mist from this window. But stand beneath those towering peaks; there is a different story.”

She smiled in agreement, and he put his hand under her chin and turned up her face to his.

“Thus it will be with you, sister.”

She shook her head and would not meet his eyes, and for a moment anger shone in them. “Are you still moping here, Lucrezia?” he demanded. “Oh, it is wrong of you.”

“I loved my husband,” she answered. “You, who have never loved a
wife as I loved him, cannot understand why his death should affect me as it does.”

He laughed suddenly. “Before I leave here,” he said, “you shall be gay once more.”

“I heard you say you were staying but one night.”

“Nevertheless, before I go you shall cease to think of your husband. Stop thinking of him, Lucrezia. Stop now.”

She turned away. “Cesare,” she said, “you cannot understand.”

He changed the subject. “We will order food to be brought to us here … here in your room of shadows. Here we shall eat alone, you and I. What say you to that, Lucrezia?”

“I would rather that than sit down with your men.”

He began to pace up and down the apartment. “I had pictured it differently … yourself eagerly greeting me … singing for me and my men … giving us a gay and happy evening, a memory which we could carry with us when we go into battle.”

“I am in no mood for merrymaking, Cesare,” she said.

Then he came to her again and took her by the shoulders. “Yet before I leave, I swear, your mood shall be changed.”

She allowed her eyes to rest upon his face. She thought: Once I should have been frightened of Cesare in this mood; now I no longer care. Alfonso, my love, is dead; and when he died, I ceased to care what happened to me.

The small table
was laid in the room which overlooked the Sabine Mountains; there was a silver dish for Cesare, and an earthenware one for Lucrezia.

Cesare, frowning, called to a servant: “What means this? What is this from which you ask your mistress to eat?”

The servant was overcome by that fear which Cesare never failed to inspire. “If it please your lordship, it is the wish of Madonna Lucrezia to eat from earthenware as a sign of widowhood.”

“It is ugly,” said Cesare.

Lucrezia addressed the servant. “Leave the dish. It is my desire to eat from earthenware while I mourn my husband.”

“You shall not eat from earthenware while you sit at table with me, sister.”

“I am a widow, Cesare. I observe the custom of mourning.”

“It is well to mourn when there is someone to mourn for,” said Cesare. He called to the servant. “Bring a silver dish to replace this hideous thing.”

“Nay …” began Lucrezia.

But Cesare had picked up the earthenware dish and thrown it at the servant. “A silver dish,” commanded Cesare with a laugh.

And a silver dish was brought.

What did it matter? thought Lucrezia. Nothing could matter again. Could eating from an earthenware dish bring Alfonso back? Could it do him any harm if she ate from a silver dish?

They sat down and Cesare ate, but Lucrezia could swallow little.

“It is small wonder that you are looking frailer than ever,” said Cesare. “I shall not have a good report to take to our father.”

“I beg of you do not disturb him with tales of my ill health.”

“And I beg you to regain your health and spirits. You will never do that while moping in this place. How can you be content here?”

“I can be as contented here as anywhere.”

“Lucrezia, discard your mourning. The boy is dead. There are others in the world. I demand that you eat. Come … the food is good. You have an excellent cook here. I command you to eat. I shall insist, Lucrezia; so you must learn obedience.”

“We are not in the nursery now,” she said.

And she thought: No! Those days are far away. And it was as though the ghost of Giovanni, her murdered brother, came and stood at the table with the ghost of Alfonso.

If she were disturbed by these ghosts, Cesare was not. He had murdered her husband and their brother, yet he showed no signs of any qualms of conscience. It was necessary to Cesare to remove people, and he removed them. When they had gone he ceased to think of them.

“Then we will pretend we are,” he said.

She answered boldly: “Then Giovanni would be here.”

“There were happy days,” he retorted, “when you and I were alone. Let us imagine one of those days.”

“I cannot,” she cried. “I cannot. When I think of nursery days I remember
Giovanni, even as I shall remember Alfonso, my husband, every minute of my life.”

“You are talking like a hysterical woman, Lucrezia. It is not what I expect of you. Come, be my sweet sister. Lucrezia,
I
am here. I, Cesare. I have come here with the express purpose of making you forget your grief. Now … we will begin by eating and drinking together. Come, Lucrezia, be my sweet sister.”

He was gentle suddenly, appealing to her love, and for a while she forgot that his hands were stained with the blood of her husband; and then she marveled at herself for forgetting.

She began to eat and, with his eyes upon her, she swallowed the contents of her silver dish.

He filled a goblet with wine and toasted her.

“To you, my love! To your future! May it be great and glorious.”

“And to you, Brother.”

“To our future then, which is one and the same. How could it be otherwise?”

He came to stand beside her at the table; he put his arm about her and drew her to him.

She thought: He is the greatest man in Italy. One day all will acclaim him; and he is my brother, who loves me … no matter what he does to others. He loves me … and no matter what he does to me, how can I stop loving him?

She was conscious of the old spell, and he knew it even as she did; he was determined that tonight he would carry her across the bridge which spanned the chasm between past and present; when she was safely over, he would make her look back and see that the past was vague and as shadowy as the Sabine Mountains seen from the castle of Nepi.

They sat talking
after the meal was over.

He wanted her to return to Rome. This was no place for her. She was young—only twenty—and was she going to spend the rest of her days pining for what could never be?