A Monologue by Barbara of Austria to her lover, Lucio, her father’s messenger:
Am I as lovely, Lucio, as she
whom you beheld behind the drapery
within my future husband’s hall? Some charm
I must possess more potent than an arm
5 long sever’d. Did her disembodied flush
beguile you? Seldom do you, lover, rush
between these bedclothes where we used to play
such games as make girls’ bellies grow. They say
Lucrezia was a great while kept in bed
10 by what she later died of. No? ’Tis said
she was. O, Lucio, be not so stern
with me. Lucrezia is stone dead. Return
your gaze to flesh. Ferrara showed you naught
but paint on canvas. Feel me. I am wrought
15 of matter fitter for a lover’s touch.
Fear not my future lord. “She smiled too much,”
is what Ferrara said. You’ll keep your hands.
I pray you, keep them not from me. The sands
caress the ocean yet no judgment fear,
20 for nothing makes them shine apart. Feel. Here
your hand belongs, love, pressed against my breast,
your heart’s own temple. You have labored. Rest
secure now. Trust my love, my woman’s guile.
I’ll give you everything—except my smile.
25 And that should suit him well, who loves his name,
his house, his lineage, his crest, his fame,
himself, in short, far more than any bride.
His duchess, for her own self’s sake must hide
behind a curtain, a protective veil.
30 Fear not, dear heart, our venture cannot fail,
nor will love fade between us. Oh, ’tis said
Ferrara’s clever, but my father’s head
is full of misconceptions, spread by you
and I, my love. So then, my husband, too,
35 could be deceiv’d. My darling Machiavel,
how I admire you! Who else could so well,
so skillfully feign interest in reports
of sever’d arms and tarts from distant courts.
Such rapt attention! Ever-wid’ning eyes!
40 Your mock deilght is the ideal disguise
for our romance. As if you e’er could be
enchanted by a sever’d hand! None see
our stolen kisses, for you’ve blinded them with your feigned interest in a severed limb
45 when your true interest lies in arms still whole,
these wrapped around you now. With all my soul
I love you, sweet my darling, and our own
dear child will sit upon Ferrara’s throne
if all goes well. Faith, no one will suspect
50 your blood flows through his veins, nor recollect
his mother but with love. They’ll not call me
a wanton woman, for the crowds will see
no blush upon my cheek, no crimson cast
to indicate my blood boils like his last
55 naïve young duchess’s. You’ll find that paint—
not prayer—makes her a sinner, me a saint.
2003
By Sarah Jett
The Artist Painting His Masterpiece
An Eccentric Artist
An Artist's Palette
Barbara, as She Wishes to be Seen:
