entirely overbearing the year long, acting like generals preparing for the most important confrontation in history. Beatrice was made to observe Isabella’s constant joy while she experienced only heartache and humiliation over her canceled marriage dates.
Why was it that Isabella was getting everything, especially a man who looked at her as if she were Eve before the fall? Who couldn’t wait to see her, to give her the slightest little kiss or touch, which seemed to thrill the both of them? Just standing between Isabella and Francesco was to feel a current of intolerable heat, particularly if all that you were receiving from your own betrothed was one cold stab of disappointment after another. Beatrice had to admit, her sister was the essence of beauty and graciousness on her wedding day. She bore no jealousy toward Isabella. Except that she and not Beatrice would have constant access to those famous Gonzaga steeds. But gallant Francesco saw Beatrice’s lust for the animals and promised her that he would make her a gift of one very special horse every year, if that were her pleasure.
No, Beatrice knew that she and Isabella had very different ambitions. Achievement and recognition were everything to Isabella. She wanted to rule a kingdom and have all the interesting and powerful and artistic men in Italy at her feet, whereas Beatrice was not fed by the good or bad opinion of others.
Beatrice thought it had everything to do with the difference in their childhood years. Isabella grew up in Ferrara having to perform and be perfect for her exacting parents. Beatrice grew up in Naples with a bunch of indifferent nurses looking after her with one eye closed while they took yet more lovers among the king’s staff. The rules and standards of the Duke and Duchess of Ferrara were almost the death of Beatrice when she returned to their home. She longed powerfully for the days when she was set free to ride along the coast at Naples Bay, making picnics with the other unwatched children of the court, sneaking wine from the tables, and spying on the lascivious adults late into the night. Ferrara was a cold and damp prison of rigorous intellectual standards and artistic disciplines compared to wild and sunny Naples.
Isabella grew up behind the tall walls of that daunting castle and had prepared for a life of one public triumph after the next. Beatrice simply wanted to be happy, which did not include throwing her young life away on a man with a long reputation for dishonesty and intrigue, whose heart already belonged to another. With every breath, she felt as if the air was freezing her heart into a solid, lifeless thing. Perhaps she could keep it this way through the long years to come in an undoubtedly loveless marriage.
FROM THE NOTEBOOK OF LEONARDO:
The heart: A marvelous instrument, invented by the Supreme Creator.
“Il Moro! Il Moro!”
Hundreds of people shouted his name as Beatrice rode next to her fiancé on the wide Strada Nova at the head of the royal pageant. It seemed to her that the entire population of Pavia, this city of one hundred towers, this ancient home of the Lombard kings, had turned out to meet her. Even the busts of the great rulers of the past that lined the street and the characters in the frescoes on the walls of the palaces seemed to be looking in her direction, welcoming her to her new home. The muted winter light was soft on the grand palazzos on one side of the boulevard, and on the marble colonnades of Pavia University on the other, one of the oldest and best of all European institutions of learning. Today it was Isabella’s turn to ride behind Beatrice, which she did graciously, while Beatrice rode proudly next to her powerful bridegroom. Looking at him now, she was embarrassed by the fears that had gripped her on the journey toward this remarkable city and this remarkable man.
“My ancestors, the Viscontis, moved the capital to Milan long ago, but I still have tremendous love for Pavia,”
Why was it that Isabella was getting everything, especially a man who looked at her as if she were Eve before the fall? Who couldn’t wait to see her, to give her the slightest little kiss or touch, which seemed to thrill the both of them? Just standing between Isabella and Francesco was to feel a current of intolerable heat, particularly if all that you were receiving from your own betrothed was one cold stab of disappointment after another. Beatrice had to admit, her sister was the essence of beauty and graciousness on her wedding day. She bore no jealousy toward Isabella. Except that she and not Beatrice would have constant access to those famous Gonzaga steeds. But gallant Francesco saw Beatrice’s lust for the animals and promised her that he would make her a gift of one very special horse every year, if that were her pleasure.
No, Beatrice knew that she and Isabella had very different ambitions. Achievement and recognition were everything to Isabella. She wanted to rule a kingdom and have all the interesting and powerful and artistic men in Italy at her feet, whereas Beatrice was not fed by the good or bad opinion of others.
Beatrice thought it had everything to do with the difference in their childhood years. Isabella grew up in Ferrara having to perform and be perfect for her exacting parents. Beatrice grew up in Naples with a bunch of indifferent nurses looking after her with one eye closed while they took yet more lovers among the king’s staff. The rules and standards of the Duke and Duchess of Ferrara were almost the death of Beatrice when she returned to their home. She longed powerfully for the days when she was set free to ride along the coast at Naples Bay, making picnics with the other unwatched children of the court, sneaking wine from the tables, and spying on the lascivious adults late into the night. Ferrara was a cold and damp prison of rigorous intellectual standards and artistic disciplines compared to wild and sunny Naples.
Isabella grew up behind the tall walls of that daunting castle and had prepared for a life of one public triumph after the next. Beatrice simply wanted to be happy, which did not include throwing her young life away on a man with a long reputation for dishonesty and intrigue, whose heart already belonged to another. With every breath, she felt as if the air was freezing her heart into a solid, lifeless thing. Perhaps she could keep it this way through the long years to come in an undoubtedly loveless marriage.
FROM THE NOTEBOOK OF LEONARDO:
The heart: A marvelous instrument, invented by the Supreme Creator.
“Il Moro! Il Moro!”
Hundreds of people shouted his name as Beatrice rode next to her fiancé on the wide Strada Nova at the head of the royal pageant. It seemed to her that the entire population of Pavia, this city of one hundred towers, this ancient home of the Lombard kings, had turned out to meet her. Even the busts of the great rulers of the past that lined the street and the characters in the frescoes on the walls of the palaces seemed to be looking in her direction, welcoming her to her new home. The muted winter light was soft on the grand palazzos on one side of the boulevard, and on the marble colonnades of Pavia University on the other, one of the oldest and best of all European institutions of learning. Today it was Isabella’s turn to ride behind Beatrice, which she did graciously, while Beatrice rode proudly next to her powerful bridegroom. Looking at him now, she was embarrassed by the fears that had gripped her on the journey toward this remarkable city and this remarkable man.
“My ancestors, the Viscontis, moved the capital to Milan long ago, but I still have tremendous love for Pavia,”
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