Light on Lucrezia (38 page)

But Lucrezia was unimpressed. She told him firmly that she could not possibly live on less than 12,000 and she considered even that beggarly.

The Duke stumped away in anger, reiterating that this preoccupation with money was downright vulgar.

One would need to be insensitive, thought Lucrezia, to endure meekly this new state of affairs in the Este palace. The continual haggling with the old Duke over money was indeed undignified; it was being made perfectly clear to her that she had been accepted into the family merely because her wealthy father was willing to buy her position; Alfonso, now that she was pregnant, showed clearly that he preferred his low-bred mistress. There was continual bickering between her intimate attendants and the Ferrarese, and the little rooms of the balcony became like a separate court.

Lucrezia then decided that she would do what she had done once before when she had found her position intolerable.

It was Easter week and she decided to find refuge in the quiet of convent
life; there she could be at peace; she could meditate on her position; she could look at her life clearly and make up her mind how she should act.

So, a few weeks after her wedding, she entered the Convent of the Poor Clares, and in the quiet cell allotted to her and among the gentle nuns she considered her problems.

It was not
possible for the wife of the heir of Ferrara to remain shut away, and Lucrezia’s spell of peaceful contemplation with the Poor Clares was brief.

Soon she was back in the rooms of the balcony to find that nothing had been changed by her absence. There were still the same conflicts between her attendants and the Ferrarese; her husband’s visits remained spasmodic and he showed quite clearly that he had no intention of trying to smooth out matters between herself and his father; and that his duty, which was to get her with child, had been expeditiously performed.

The Duke visited her in his somewhat ceremonious fashion but he did not come to discuss her income. He had, he considered, been quite magnanimous when he offered 10,000 ducats a year; he implied that, if he had taken a great deal from her father, it was because Este dignity was impaired by accepting a Borgia into its intimate family circle, and for this a great price must naturally be demanded.

But he came with further complaints.

“My daughter,” he said, “there are two maids of yours whose levity is giving some cause for scandal in my court.”

“And who are these?” she asked.

“Your cousin, Angela Borgia, and Nicola the Sienese.”

“I beg of you, my lord Duke, tell me in what way these ladies have offended.”

“My sons, Ferrante and Giulio, are enamored of them, I hear, and these two ladies are less virtuous than they should be.”

“It is to be hoped,” said Lucrezia, “that they are not as lacking in virtue as their two admirers, or I should tremble for the consequences.”

“Ferrante and Giulio are men. There is a difference, you must understand.
There could be no marriage between my sons and these ladies. I would prefer that there should be no scandal either.”

“You forbid them to meet? Then, my lord, I must ask you to tell your sons of your displeasure. You have more authority in this respect than I could possibly have.”

“I have already made my wishes clear. They are not to visit these apartments each night, as they have been doing.”

“So you would forbid them to come here.”

“I do not forbid. I have told them that they may come here not more than twice a week, and then only when others are present.”

“I will respect your wishes as far as is in my power,” said Lucrezia. “But you must understand that while I may command my ladies I have no power over your sons.”

“I know it,” said the Duke. “But I ask you not to encourage their frolics.”

Lucrezia bowed her head.

The Duke took one look at the extravagant hangings, and Lucrezia could see that he calculated the cost as he did so. She smiled ruefully and bowed him out of the apartment.

It was impossible
to restrain the young princes in their love affairs. Giulio was particularly ardent and Angela was by no means discouraging. How far had that affair gone? Lucrezia asked herself. She dared not ask Angela; nor did she wish to pry. It was not in her nature to administer strictures which were going to bring unhappiness to lovers. So she turned aside from asking awkward questions and let matters take their course.

She herself was thinking a great deal about the child she would have. It was in the early days of pregnancy yet, but she longed for a child. She often thought of Giovanni and Roderigo in Rome and wondered when she would be allowed to have them with her. The thought of suggesting such a thing filled her with bitterness. Duke Ercole was not eager to support
her
; what would he say if she asked permission to bring her sons to Ferrara? That project must wait. So she gave herself up to contemplating the new child.

To the little rooms of the balcony came some of the most interesting
people in Ferrara. Writers and musicians felt that the atmosphere of those rooms was more congenial than that of the main apartments of the castle; and among those who came was a man who aroused Lucrezia’s immediate interest. This was Ercole Strozzi. Strozzi was a member of a Florentine family of great riches. They had been bankers who had come to Ferrara some years before, and they had found great favor with Duke Ercole.

This was probably due to the fact that they were experts with money. They knew how to make it, how taxes could be levied; and since they proved to be an asset to Ferrara, Duke Ercole was ready to lavish titles on them. Tito Vespasiano Strozzi was a poet in addition to being a brilliant money-maker, and this doubly endeared him to Duke Ercole, so he was ready to be gracious to his son, Ercole Strozzi.

Alfonso was paying one of his rare evening visits to Lucrezia’s apartments when Ercole Strozzi first came. Alfonso had been sitting at Lucrezia’s side, playing the viol with that touch of near genius which seemed so incongruous in a man of Alfonso’s kind. The company was listening entranced when Ercole Strozzi slipped into the room with the friend who wished to make him known to Lucrezia.

There was about Ercole Strozzi an air of distinction. He was not handsome but elegant; he was crippled and walked with the aid of a crutch.

Lucrezia’s eyes held his as Alfonso continued with his playing. Ercole Strozzi gave her that startled look of admiration which she had received from others yet which seemed different on Strozzi’s face. He bowed and stood perfectly still where he was, for ceremony was not observed in the little rooms, and art was all-important.

When Alfonso ceased playing, Strozzi came forward and taking her hand bowed over it.

He said: “The greatest moment in my life, Duchessa.”

“Then, my friend,” sneered Alfonso, “yours must have been a singularly unexciting life.”

Strozzi smiled lightly and condescendingly. His favor with the Duke absolved him from paying much respect to his uncouth son. It was true that one day Alfonso would be Duke of Ferrara, but it was no use Strozzi’s trying to curry favor with him; he would never achieve it however much he tried. He and Alfonso were so very different in outlook that there could never be harmony between them.

“I would not call it that,” said Strozzi, still keeping his eyes on Lucrezia, “yet would I insist this is its greatest moment.”

Alfonso guffawed. “Strozzi’s a courtier, or fancies he is. Poet too. Do not take his words too seriously, Lucrezia. Well, Strozzi, what are your latest verses, eh? Ode to a red rose or a pale primrose?”

“You are pleased to mock,” said Strozzi. “And while you may mock me as much as you wish, I confess it grieves me that you should speak slightingly of poetry.”

“I am an uncouth fellow, as you know full well,” said Alfonso. He looked round the company. “So elegant, these ladies and gentlemen! These artists! What right have I to be here among them with the odor of the foundry upon me?”

“You are very welcome here,” said Lucrezia quickly. “We should be gratified if you came more often.”

He chucked her under the chin, for he took a great delight in calling attention to his crude manners in such company. “Come, wife,” he said, “let us have the truth. You’ll be glad to see me gone. Truth is more interesting to a plain man like me than your precious poetry.”

He put a hand on Strozzi’s shoulder with such force that the poet almost lost his balance and was forced to lean heavily on his crutch.

“It is not so,” began Lucrezia, but he interrupted her.

“Adieu, wife. I’ll leave you to your art. I’m off to those pastures more suited to my animal tastes and spirits. Adieu to you all.” And, laughing, he left the apartment.

There was a brief silence which Strozzi was the first to break.

“I fear my coming is the cause of his departure.”

“You must not blame yourself,” said Lucrezia. “I blame no one. He rarely comes here and, apart from the time when he plays his viol, seems to have little interest in what goes on.”

“He will never like me,” said Strozzi.

“It may be because he does not know you.”

“He knows much of me which he does not like. I am a poet for one thing. A cripple for another.”

“Surely he could not hate you for these reasons?”

“To a maker of cannons poetry seems a foolish thing. He is strong, never having known a day’s sickness in his life. He regards with horror any person
who is not physically perfect. It is often so with those who have physical perfection and something less in their mental powers.”

A faint smile twisted the handsome lips, and Lucrezia was aware of a stab of pity, which was what Strozzi intended. Strozzi was not in the least sorry for himself; he would not have changed places with Alfonso. Strozzi was so mentally brilliant that he had quickly learned to turn his physical disability to advantage. His love affairs were conducted with a finesse which would have seemed incomprehensible to Alfonso d’Este, but they were as numerous and satisfactory as he wished. He had come now to charm Lucrezia and to win for himself a Cardinal’s hat.

He stayed at her side throughout the evening, and he was not long in assuring Lucrezia that in him she had found a friend who would compensate her for all the hostility she had met with at the Este court.

He could not dance. He indicated his crutch.

“I was born with a deformed foot,” he told her. “In my youth this caused me pain and discomfiture. It no longer does, because I have realized that those who would despise me for my deformity are not worthy of my friendship. I think of my deformity as a burden which for a long time I carried on my back, until I suddenly realized that through it I had developed other qualities; then it was as though the load had burst open to disclose a pair of wings.”

“You are a philosopher, as well as a poet,” said Lucrezia. “And I like your philosophy.”

“Have I your permission to come to your apartment often? I feel that you and I could have a great deal to say to each other.”

“I shall look for you tomorrow,” Lucrezia told him.

When Alfonso visited her that night, he was unusually talkative. She was in bed when he entered the apartment in his brisk manner.

“So the Strozzi has found his way to your apartments, eh?” he said. “The greatest moment of his life!” Alfonso burst into loud laughter. “You understand what that means, eh? At last he has a chance—so he thinks—to get his Cardinal’s hat. The Pope’s own daughter! How could he get nearer the Pope than that?” Alfonso wagged a finger at her. “Mark you, he’ll be asking for the hat before long.”

“I think you are wrong, Alfonso,” she said. “You judge everyone by … by the people you know here. There was a delicacy in his manner.”

That made Alfonso laugh still more. “He knows how to manage the
ladies, eh? Not the women … but the ladies. Strozzi wouldn’t look at a mere serving-woman. What good could she bring to him? I tell you a Cardinal’s hat means more to him than any of your gracious smiles. He wouldn’t as much as
see
a kitchen girl. He wouldn’t see what she could offer. He’d only know she hadn’t Cardinals’ hats to give away.”