57 pages • 1 hour read
Maggie O'FarrellA modern alternative to SparkNotes and CliffsNotes, SuperSummary offers high-quality Study Guides with detailed chapter summaries and analysis of major themes, characters, and more.
Ideas of duality and switching between two variations of the same type permeate O’Farrell’s novel, especially with regard to the two main characters, Alfonso and Lucrezia.
The painter’s assistant Maurizio aptly compares Alfonso to the Roman god Janus, noting that he has “two faces, two personalities” and can change between them by snapping his fingers (258). The Roman god, who gives his name to the first month of the year, is associated with beginnings and endings. Therefore, he can be both an initiator of conflict and a peacemaker. This is relevant to Lucrezia, as Alfonso both initiates her married life and adult identity and presides over their end when he intends to strangle her. In the beginning of his relationship with Lucrezia, he exposes affectionate playfulness when he pretends to be her pet mouse or gifts her the picture of the stone marten, knowing her love of wild beasts. He professes his admiration of the stone marten as “an attractive yet shy” wild animal, suggesting that he admires similar traits in Lucrezia, yet he also wants to see both of them “tamed in oils,” reduced to a harmless, biddable state on the canvas (106).
Alfonso’s need for power in the face of an alarming fact he cannot control—his infertility—causes him to alternate between extreme courtesy and self-control and brutal violence. Lucrezia notices that he is more polite than her father in addressing his servants. His ability to make civilized conversation at times of great tension imbues him with a formality that stands in stark relief to his most sadistic actions, such as forcing his sister to watch as her lover is being strangled. O’Farrell uses Alfonso’s opposing elements of cerebral self-restraint and visceral violence to show the terrifying power that he can command and to heighten the suspense of Lucrezia’s challenge in outwitting him.
Another key duality in the novel is that of Lucrezia and her maid, Emilia. The girls physically resemble each other and were nursed by the same balia, Emilia’s mother, the woman for whom Lucrezia longed for in her early life. As toddlers, the girls were affectionate playmates, but Emilia’s pattern of taking life’s blows in Lucrezia’s place also began then. Emilia explains that she got her distinctive crescent-shaped scar from a falling, boiling pot that missed Lucrezia “by this much” (230) and caused her to scream as though she were the one burned. As a working-class woman, Emilia is trained to think of her life as having lesser value than that of her noble mistress; thus, she says, “Better that it was me and not you” (231) who was burned. Lucrezia, however, observes that it would have been better if neither girl had to go through such misfortune. In adulthood, when Emilia accompanies Lucrezia as her maid to Ferrara, they repeat their childhood pattern of intimacy. For example, the girls share secrets and a bed, and Emilia again sacrifices for Lucrezia, who traded places with her by creeping through the Fortezza in Emilia’s clothes, saving herself from Alfonso’s murderous plans. In contrast, Emilia, who is left alone in the duchess’s bed, with her fair hair “fanned out” and sleeping in the typical night shift of the era (425), is suffocated in a case of mistaken identity. In this instance, the girl with the appearance of the maid is the fortunate one, while the one who passes as nobility is doomed. Emilia’s death creates a sense of poignancy that counters the joy of Lucrezia’s liberation, in addition to highlighting the injustice of the structural inequality that valued noble lives above all others. This inequality in echoed in the text, as O’Farrell grants Lucrezia an artist’s sensibility, while she makes Emilia a flat character who is a satellite to her mistress’s whims and has no personal ambitions beyond serving her.
The theme of exchanged bodies and fates continues a theme from O’Farrell’s 2020 historical novel, Hamnet, in which William Shakespeare’s 11-year-old son takes on his twin sister’s fever and dies in her place. In both cases, O’Farrell draws attention to the random whims of chance and the fragility of human life. In her works, the fate to be saved or doomed becomes a character that can enter and inhabit different bodies.
While the female wish for autonomy is most acutely embodied in Lucrezia, her appetite for free thought and expression begins with Eleanora during Lucrezia’s conception. Instead of focusing on the physical act with her husband, her mind is teeming with ideas for the potential of a Tuscan marshland, and she looks at maps on the wall that refer to the distant lands of ancient Greece, Byzantium, and the Roman Empire. While Cosimo orgasms, she pictures “constellations of the heavens, uncharted seas, islands real and imagined, mountains that disappear up into thunderstorms”(9), elements that speak to uncharted territory and a sense of exploration. Eleanora later blames this “distraction” for Lucrezia’s wild, unusual temperament, which she felt that she had to bring under control by separating her troublesome fifth child from her more obedient siblings to stop her from contaminating them. Eleanora reflects her subconscious fear that her own independent spirit will thwart the patriarchal dynasty that her husband worked hard to build.
Lucrezia, who even after her return to the nursery is often bullied and excluded by her siblings, develops “a toughness, a resilience that will carry her through” (185). O’Farrell expresses Lucrezia’s singularity in her affinity with the tigress, the only such creature in Tuscany, at Cosimo’s menagerie at the Sala dei Leoni. While the fair and scrawny Lucrezia feels inferior to her siblings, who have “the sleek, fox-dark coloring of their Spanish mamma” (17), the tigress’s astonishing striped fur lets her appreciate what is unique in herself and in other creatures. She begins to see her own wildness as an advantage as she tears at a hunk of bread with her teeth and envisions herself as “the tigress, devouring an enemy” (26). Lucrezia also senses the tigress’s sorrow at being transplanted to Florence and her wish to escape captivity, which parallels her own instinctive resistance to rules. This singular creature’s extermination by a pair of lions—animals traditionally associated with royalty and rulership—portends the pattern of Lucrezia’s life. Those in authority will seek to tame her native toughness and her willingness to live as she pleases.
The regimes that prevent Lucrezia from exploring the world as freely as she wishes begin with Eleanora’s rigid schedule, which does not allow anyone “an empty minute in their days” and keeps Lucrezia occupied with pursuits that do not favor her, such as dancing (6). An accidental doodle made during a lesson and discovered by her tutor enables Lucrezia to gain some autonomy through the addition of drawing lessons that allow her time to enhance her own skills and imagination. Artmaking becomes a force for resistance throughout the various institutions to which those in control subject her. The phenomenon of overpainting, for example, allows her to express her secret thoughts in hidden underpaintings but conceal them with more acceptable themes. Later, when the physician takes away her paints for fear that they are too stimulating and will block her fertility, Lucrezia looks for any way possible to draw. The connection between drawing and a lifeline accompanies her even into the Fortezza, where she contemplates which marks she will be able to make on the canvas—and by extension in her life—before Alfonso kills her.
Lucrezia’s new life as an artist of enigmatic miniatures in Venice represents the triumph of autonomy over institutional control. This life of anonymity, devoid of the fine clothes or status of her upbringing and marriage, is shown as the only way she can escape the mechanisms of institutional control that govern nobility and upper-class womanhood and exert autonomy over her life and body.
Sixteenth-century Italy was a patriarchal society in which daughters were the property of their fathers and the wives of their husbands. Within this power dynamic, women were expected to obey men, surrendering their autonomy to the one who was responsible for them. However, as O’Farrell shows, there was variety in how this dynamic was exacted, with different men allowing their spouses and their daughters varying degrees of freedom.
Although the marriage of Eleanora of Toledo and Cosimo di Medici appears conventional on the surface, given that the negotiations began when the bride was 13—a typical age for Renaissance brides—it was unusual for being a love match. Cosimo welcomes Eleanora’s opinion on state matters and personal troubles and is sexually faithful to her. For her part, Eleanora feels that Cosimo allows her “numerous liberties and powers” as long as he has “unimpeded access to her body” (8), sometimes expecting sex from her when her mind is elsewhere. Here, O’Farrell conveys that Eleanora’s marriage is built on negotiation and compromise to an extent that is unusual in the era, but she continues to lack full autonomy over her body. While she is aware that her husband has institutional power over her, she retains space for self-expression and to run the Medici household according to her tastes, as is evident in her management of her children’s education and schedule.
Having grown up with such a model of marriage, Lucrezia expects her own to be similar. She finds that Eleanora and Cosimo’s dynamic as near equals is present in Elisabetta and Contrari’s relationship, which is forbidden because Contrari is a guardsman and, therefore, her social inferior. Lucrezia notes “the way a love like this can render a man of great physical strength to gentleness” (340) in the tender expression in his eyes, his whimsical wearing of the holly sprig that Elisabetta finds, and his desire to know his partner’s opinion. These traits indicate a relationship of equals that springs from natural affection, rather than from socially enforced patterns. Lucrezia’s longing to “have such a connection with someone” expresses the loneliness in her marriage and the egalitarian relationship she would prefer (340).
Lucrezia’s marriage to Alfonso has no chance of developing such a bond; she is forced into it against her will for dynastic purposes, and her husband has no interest in building a partnership with her. Lucrezia enters the marriage as the replacement of her older sister to prevent the Medicis from losing the dynastically beneficial Ferrara connection. Alfonso offers gifts in the early days of their marriage that seem designed to build her affection for him by appealing to her interests, but he ultimately aims to control her. Their marriage is designed to ensure that she remains under his influence and bears his heirs. Lucrezia’s sexual aversion toward him embodies her reluctance to be married to him, and his forcefulness in bed with her prefigures the violence he will later inflict on her. Similarly, his refusal to discuss court business with her limits her worldview. While Alfonso’s determination to control Lucrezia’s body and her public image is a continuation of the kind of regime her parents imposed on her, his desire to limit her perspective contrasts with their efforts to educate her and prepare her to participate in the world.
Like Elisabetta, Lucrezia finds her true partner outside her social class and the patriarchal institution of dynastic marriage. The humble artist’s assistant Jacopo speaks to her in the working-class Neapolitan dialect she learned from her nurse. By evoking Sofia, Jacopo connects Lucrezia to real feelings of affection and love. On a more fundamental level, there is also an “invisible yet indissoluble tether” (269) between her and Jacopo after she saves his life. His saving her at the end of the novel expresses a symmetry in their relationship and their sense of mutual necessity to one another. Lucrezia’s becoming an anonymous artist in Venice, free from family and dynastic ties, adds to the utopian nature of their relationship, which can occur only outside societal hierarchies.
By Maggie O'Farrell