‘I don’t work for nothing,’ he said brusquely. ‘You have money?’
‘I have something here that is better than money. I have brought goods that you will be happy to trade your service for.’
‘Bread? Wine?’
‘Something of more value to you.’ I unrolled the piece of paper that Felipe had generously given me to barter with the scribe.
The old man touched it with respect. ‘This is excellent quality – Venetian, I’d say, or perhaps from Amalfi?’ Then, as a thought occurred to him, he asked me quickly, ‘You didn’t steal it, boy, did you?’
I was offended and stepped back from him. ‘I did not.’
‘Don’t be insulted by my question. I had to ask. There are so many people in this city eager to denounce each other through jealousy. It means that if anyone asks how I came by such paper I can assure them it was honestly.’ He took the sheet from my hand. ‘With this I can write your letter, Matteo, and still have plenty left over to make two dozen prayer tracts to sell.’
So the scribe wrote out my letter as I dictated, and Felipe undertook to have it despatched for me on my promise that I would apply myself to studies as soon as he could find someone suitable to teach me.
But before anything could be arranged we had a situation of a more desperate kind to deal with.
There was a problem with the fresco.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
THE WEATHER WAS now much colder.
In the great hall of the Palazzo Vecchio we worked with our caps pulled down over our ears, scarves wrapped tightly round our necks, and wearing gloves with the fingers cut off. Freezing draughts of icy wind found their way in through the chinks in the windows and the outside doors. Florence is a city nestling in a basin of the Arno valley, and the land around it is lush and fertile, due in part to the temperate Tuscan climate. It is protected by the hills and even during the worst weather has little snow, but that winter an intense chill seeped into the streets and buildings of the city.
The paint turned sluggish and difficult to manage. The recipe as laid down by my master was complicated to implement, and even his most experienced pupil struggled to follow his instructions. After my master’s first application of paint in June the central section was almost completed and the figures rose, splendid in their terribleness. But as the rest of the cartoon was transferred the paint became turgid. On consultation with the Maestro a brazier with burning wood was placed near the wall and the construction of the scaffolding was altered to accommodate tapers and small torches to help the fresco to dry on the upper reaches.
On this morning when we arrived our tools were rimed with frost and we had to wait until the fire was alight before we could begin. Felipe was pricking out another section of the cartoon and I was assisting Zoroastro to grind more powder for the paints when there was a commotion with the pupils and apprentices at the top of the scaffolding.
‘Master Felipe!’ Flavio called out, his voice high with fear. ‘We have need of you here. At once!’
Zoroastro and I exchanged glances as Felipe clambered up the scaffolding. Within seconds he was scrambling back down again.
‘Zoroastro, if you would, take a look at that section of the wall.’
Zoroastro too returned to the floor within a minute. ‘Help me,’ he cried and he grabbed hold of the brazier. ‘The paint is coagulating on the surface,’ he explained as we manhandled the fire basket closer to the wall. ‘If we cannot dry it at once then the colours that have just been laid will trickle down the wall and run into the central part.’
‘This has the makings of a disaster,’ said Felipe.
‘And they scoffed at us when we tried to warn them,’ Zoroastro muttered under his breath. He pulled out the small axe he carried in his belt and began frenetically chopping some wood to make more fuel for the fire.
‘We must find the Maestro and tell him right away,’ said Felipe.
‘He rose and went out very early this morning,’ grunted Zoroastro, chips of kindling flying round his head, ‘but I don’t think he intended to visit Fiesole today.’
Having many other interests to sustain him, my master did not come to the Council Hall for the whole of each day. He took time to pursue his botanical or anatomical studies. Occasionally he would make a painting on canvas or board. But these were rare, and only in a particular case would he agree to undertake to do this, as when he was prevailed upon recently by the French king to paint a beautiful Madonna holding the Christ Child playing with a yarn winder.
‘Matteo!’ Felipe called me sharply. ‘Do you know where your master is just now?’
‘I left him this morning at the house of Donna Lisa.’
‘Then go and fetch him. And,’ he shouted after me as I went quickly from the hall, ‘run, boy. Run!’
The Donna Lisa’s house was by the Church of San Lorenzo. So now I, fitted out by Felipe in a winter tunic, new hose and good shoes, raced out of the Palazzo Vecchio, veering past the great colossus of the David, across the Piazza della Signoria in the direction of the baptistry.
The Donna Lisa lived with her husband, the silk merchant Francesco del Giocondo, in the Via della Stufa. He was the man who, two years ago, had given me the few pennies I had ever earned as actual money. I knew the way very well, as I had been to their house many times over the last years.
We had made their acquaintance through their children’s nurse, Zita. The two boys she brought with her to Santa Maria Novella were attracted to Zoroastro’s forge in the courtyard and would stare in fascination as the little man hammered furiously, with sparks showering around him. One day their mother, the Donna Lisa, came looking for them. She had become anxious as the children had been out for the most part of the day, and the nurse, Zita, who had been her nurse as a child, was becoming forgetful in her old age. It was just before the feast of All Saints, at the beginning of November of the year 1503, and the Donna Lisa was with child. I could see this clearly by her shape and the cut of her dress, yet she walked with a fluid grace that resembled St Elizabeth, carrying John the Baptist within her, in the paintings where she meets with Mary, the Mother of God.
‘I am seeking my children, two boys,’ she greeted me as she came into the courtyard, accompanied by a servant. ‘They are with their nurse, who visits this monastery from time to time.’
‘They are over there,’ I said, ‘watching Zoroastro making metal pins to hold our pulleys together.’
The boys were in their favourite spot next to the forge. My master was standing close by, overseeing Zoroastro to ensure the correct dimensions of the metal pieces they were constructing.
‘Oh,’ Donna Lisa said as she approached. ‘I didn’t realize it was the workshop of Messer Leonardo da Vinci that the boys had chosen to frequent.’
‘If one is choosing a workshop to visit,’ said my master, ‘then why not choose the best? Your children have obviously inherited good taste.’
‘Indeed.’ She laughed in amusement. She beckoned to the nurse, Zita, who was sitting on a bench by the wall. ‘We must go,’ she said. ‘My time is near and I tire easily.’
It was a week or so before Zita brought the boys again. She told us that Donna Lisa was unwell and this was when I heard the story of the toad crossing her mistress’s path.
A few days later Donna Lisa came into the courtyard alone. A black veil shrouded her face.
‘I would speak with your master,’ she said to me.
At this time the Maestro was totally absorbed with the cartoon for the fresco. He was making numerous models and sketches of horses in various positions, and drawing a vast amount of sketches of men’s faces, arms and bodies. I glanced at Zoroastro.
‘He cannot be disturbed when he is working,’ Zoroastro told her.
‘I will wait,’ she said.
‘He can work for many hours,’ Zoroastro told her kindly. ‘He is capable of going without food or drink or sleep.’
‘I will wait.’
In the later part of the d
ay Donna Lisa’s husband arrived. He sat beside her and stroked her hand. He was older than she was, but that is the way of our times. A man lives longer and therefore often has more than one wife, and I believe Donna Lisa was Francesco del Giocondo’s second or third. He whispered in her ear but she would not be persuaded to leave and go away with him. Why did he not command her to obey him? He would be within his rights as a husband to bring servants to seize her and force her to return to his house with him. But I saw how it was between them. He put his hand under her elbow and tried to coax her to her feet but she shook her head and would not rise.
Eventually he stood up. ‘You, boy.’ He spoke to me and gave me a few pennies. ‘If your master can spare you I would be obliged if you would attend to this lady and bring word to me when she is decided to come home this evening.’
But evening came and still she did not move. It was cold. Zoroastro piled more wood upon his fire and placed a stool for her closer to the flames. I served her a plate of our food, which she refused, and some wine, of which she sipped a little. The night grew very dark.
Then the Maestro came from the workshop. He came into our common room via the internal door that had been made on his request so that he could pass from his own accommodation directly to the studio at whatever time he chose. His tunic was streaked with plaster and he had clay stuck to his fingers.
I pointed out of the window to where Donna Lisa sat patiently. ‘This lady has waited all day to speak with you,’ I said.
‘A commission? I cannot take on any more work just now.’
‘I told her this, but she said she must speak with you.’
He sighed. ‘It would seem that every rich lady wants her portrait done but I am unable to satisfy the whims of these women.’
‘I do not think this woman would come here on a whim, or to gratify her vanity.’ It was Graziano, the best assessor of women, who made this observation.
I had brought a basin of warm water so that my master could dislodge the particles of clay from his fingers.
‘Very well.’ He immersed his hands in the water. ‘Ask her what she wants, Matteo.’
I went to where Donna Lisa was sitting by the fire. I opened my mouth to speak but she spoke first. ‘Tell your master that I require a death mask made most urgently. Tell him also that this is a task so particular that he is the only person to whom I would entrust it.’
I knew that this work would have to be done at once as, even in cold weather, a body could decay very quickly. It was a very popular custom and there were little workshops that specialized in it. Mainly it was given to apprentices, as by doing it they learned basic bone structure and the contouring of the human face.
I returned and informed my master what she wanted.
‘Tell her that any jobbing craftsman can do this for her.’
‘She says that in her case it is a task most particular.’
‘There is a place in the next street where they do it as a speciality,’ he observed.
The thought came to me that she must have walked past that shop to come here.
She did not bow her head in submission when I gave her my master’s reply. ‘I will wait to speak to him,’ she said.
I returned to the inside of the house and told him of her intention. He made a small gesture of irritation. The dinner was set out on the table. The smell of hot food flavoured the night air. My master made to go away from the window but then he turned back and looked again to where she sat, the veil across her face, her hands folded in her lap.
‘Do we know her? She is familiar to me in some way.’
‘She is the mother or stepmother of the boys who come to watch Zoroastro work at his forge,’ Felipe informed him. ‘The wife of the silk merchant Francesco del Giocondo, who lives in the Via della Stufa.’
‘Giocondo . . .’ The detail in the name caught his attention. ‘Jocund.’ His tongue played on the syllables. ‘A name with more than one meaning.’
‘The merchant, her husband, came by earlier but he could not persuade her to go home with him.’ Felipe paused. ‘When we saw her last she was pregnant with child.’
‘Ah, that is why I did not recognize her at first.’ My master went to the doorway and looked at her.
She became aware of his gaze and raised her eyes. She did not drop her glance. Neither did she smile. Only looked at him steadily.
‘Graziano,’ he began, ‘tell her – very gently, mind – that I cannot—’
He broke off, and then abruptly went out into the yard. He spoke with Donna Lisa for a few minutes and then came into the house.
‘Matteo, I would like you to accompany me.’
‘Now?’
‘Now.’
We had not eaten since mid morning. My master went into his private rooms and came out carrying his leather satchel. He opened the door of our store cupboards and selected some materials. ‘Save us a plate from dinner,’ he said to Felipe, ‘and do not wait up.’ Throwing a cloak over his work clothes, he went out with me at his side.
Donna Lisa shivered as we left the warmth of the courtyard. Away from Zoroastro’s forge we felt the bitter wind that swept up from the river to the city centre. My master took off his cloak and placed it around her shoulders. She looked up at him and her mouth curved a little, a half-smile, barely distinguishable by the light of the street torches.
I saw then the glimmer of the girl she had been. Earlier her face had the cast of a lady who would never smile again.
We had no need to pull the bell to gain entrance to her house. A servant had been stationed to watch for her and the door to the street opened as we approached. The house was shuttered and the inside doors were closed. The place was airless, with a sense of doom and foreboding.
We went upstairs and into a darkened room. The nurse, Zita, sat in a chair by the hearth but no fire burned there. The mirrors were covered. On a chest was a crucifix showing the broken body of the Christ with a candle on either side. Under the window stood a small table with something on it covered with a white linen cloth.
There was a smell in the room. It was one I recognized. The smell of death.
‘I lost the child I was carrying,’ said Donna Lisa. Her voice faded on the next words. ‘A girl.’
She led us to the table. ‘She died within my womb. I knew almost at once when it happened because she ceased to move and that was unusual, for in the latter months I felt her dance within me every night. By day she was quiet, but in the evening she became lively. She loved music, this little one. In the last weeks, when her restlessness kept me from my sleep, I would get up and play my lyre and the sound would calm her.’
She put her hand to her face as she struggled to continue. My master did not speak. He did not move, only remained still until she had the strength to go on.
‘As she was born dead she cannot be buried in consecrated ground. They will not even let me name her. That is why I want you to do a death mask, lest I forget her.’ Her voice trembled. ‘I do not want to forget her. How can a mother forget her child? The doctors say I cannot have another child. So there is no comfort for me there. And according to the laws there will be no record of this child, no mark of her life, her death, her passing. But she did live! I felt her live within me.’
Her resolve weakened and her voice shook.
He reached out his hand. This man, who always kept his emotions in check, who rarely showed grief or anger. But she did not take it. She recovered herself. ‘I will not embarrass you with my frailty, Messer Leonardo. I have cried all the tears in the world over the daughter I have lost. There are no more in me left to shed.’
My master waited and then said, ‘Your husband is agreeable to this?’
‘My husband is a good man.’
I remembered how tenderly Francesco del Giocondo had stroked her head when he was with her in the courtyard.
‘I will leave you to your work,’ she said, ‘and go and speak with him now.’
It was not so long after this t
hat Francesco del Giocondo came to see my master to ask him to paint the portrait of his wife. ‘My wife has a melancholy upon her that makes me fear for her life,’ I heard him tell the Maestro. ‘She will not leave the house. She barely speaks or eats. She never plays her lyre, nor sings, nor reads. You are the single person she spoke to when this tragedy befell us.’ He glanced at me. ‘You, and the boy. I beg you, Messer da Vinci. If you would agree to come to my house, I would pay you what you wished. If only for an hour or so each week. She has gone so far inside herself that I can think of nothing else that might save her.’
And so it was that I knew where my master would be this morning as I ran through the streets of Florence to find him and bring him to the Council Hall.
I found them where they always were, in the little room which opened out into the inner courtyard of the house. Here he had made a painting studio for himself and had been working on Donna Lisa’s portrait for nearly two years now.
On hearing my garbled message he excused himself at once. We left the merchant’s house to hasten back through the streets to the Palazzo Vecchio, me running beside him, having to make two steps to each one of his.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
INSIDE THE HALL was chaos.
Pupils and painters were swarming over the scaffolding with lit tapers and cloths and brushes. Felipe, the coolly efficient Master of the Household, paced the floor, wringing his hands over and over. Graziano was distraught, calling out instructions to the apprentices then rushing to do the task himself. Salai was, for once, shocked into silence while Flavio sat huddled in a corner as though he expected a beating. Zoroastro, tears streaming down his face, ran shouting like a wild man to my master as we entered.
‘What are we to do? The mixture will not dry! What are we to do?’
Among the tumult my master tried to assess the situation. The paint on the upper reaches was oozing down the wall and had already run in parts onto the completed section of the fresco. It appeared that the heat from the brazier had slowed what might have been a flood, but the colours still slid insidiously downwards.
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