by Lynn Cullen
From Rome,
this 12th day of March, 1562
Your servant,
Tiberio Calcagni
ITEM: You should have your subject sit for a portrait at the hour of the fall of the evening, for the light is perfect then, especially if it is cloudy or misty. Or have a courtyard fitted up with walls painted black and with the roof projecting forward for the subject to sit beneath. Strong light does not agree with beauty.
ITEM: As is said by Ovid in The Metamorphoses, the marten conceives and gives birth via the ear, thus enjoying its own form of an immaculate conception. Therefore it is considered to be fortuitous to include a marten in the painting of a woman who wishes to conceive.
6 APRIL 1562
The Palace, Aranjuez
Tiberio writes, and to what end? To discuss the health of the Maestro? I have too much on my mind to add him to it. He is bold to think that I care about him now.
It being spring, we are at the country palace of Aranjuez. After walks in the woods and gardens by day, I work on the Queen’s portrait in the evening. It had been the Queen’s decision for me to commence Upon the studies for her picture in February; her idea, too, to wear the Great Pearl in it. Mary Tudor’s beloved trophy dangles like a trifling trinket from My Lady’s jaunty velvet cap: her idea of a jest. It was her intention to jab at her enemies, too, by holding a fur meant to catch fleas.
“It will show how I am beset by pests,” she had said last night. “And I do not mean just fleas.” She wagged the gold-encrusted head of the marten whose pelt made Up the accessory. “ ‘Go, condesa!’ she squeaked, as if making it speak. ‘Go, Doña Juana! Shoo!’ ”
As I dabbed at the canvas, adding depth to the shadow of her browbone, I could not help looking over my shoulder for either of these ladies. In these past six months, as if reacting to the King’s prudence in his bedding of her, My Lady has been wildly imprudent. Besides purchasing jewels and exquisite manuscripts and lavishly decorated carriages for herself, she is extravagant in her show of preference for me, awarding me with jewels, bolts of fine cloth, even, in secret, knowing my interest, books on the workings of the human body, forbidden for women by the Church. She does not think of the havoc her favor wreaks with the other ladies higher than I in rank. I am forever appeasing them, slipping farther down the row from My Lady at processions in town so that they might reap the glory of being seen with her in public, offering them the choicest dishes at dinner, dashing off flattering sketches of them, or, in Doña Juana’s case, sketches of the Virgin Mary weeping. All the while, I must not show ingratitude to the Queen for lifting me Up so high. It is a fine line that I walk.
“The condesa means well,” I had said, dabbing at the Queen’s portrait.
The Queen wrapped the flea fur around her arm, letting the thick gold chain that hung from the gilded mouth of the marten dangle down her heavy black skirt. “You always say that of people who mean not well at all.”
“She does serve you faithfully.”
“Why, I must ask? Do you think she does it to win the King’s favor? Do you notice how she fights to get his attention? Sofi, I do think she lusts after him—imagine!”
“No, thank you.”
The Queen had laughed, affording me the chance to note the way her eyes lit when amused and to quickly record it.
But I am not happy with the portrait as I near its completion. Even though I may not get credit if it is a success, for my own satisfaction, I want it to be right. Yes, I did capture her skin color—its pallor, I should say, for she has been slow in regaining her natural color since her illness. Her expression is true, too—the alert way she holds her head and her barely contained smile are just right. I am pleased with how I was able to create a sense of her liveliness by repeating the same diagonal angle of her cap, her ruff, her arm, even the decorative slashings in her sleeve, thus affording her the illusion of motion. Interesting how establishing a pattern on the diagonal works in that way. But even after adding the sharpest point of white to highlight her black pupils, I failed to catch the spirit behind her eyes. I sense that she did not want me to. The more I tried to connect with her, to plumb her true feelings, the more skittish she became, darting her gaze to her flea fur, to her dog, to the tapestry hanging behind me. It is as if she bears a secret she wishes not to reveal, and no Use of sharp lines against soft, of pattern, of splashes of red on her ruby, her lips, and her sleeves to communicate her vitality, will coax it out.
Others have not seemed to see this weakness in the Queen’s portrait as I work on it. After viewing the studies for it at Easter, Don Alessandro insisted that I paint his portrait—from memory, no less—now that he has returned to University. At least he believes in my work. The studies have been much praised by others, too, including by Alonso Sánchez Coello, who as Painter to the King must now be addressed “don.” On the basis of the studies, the King requested that don Alonso paint his own versions of the Queen’s portrait for His Majesty’s country homes at Valsaín, El Pardo, and here at Aranjuez. Journeymen painters have seen the studies, too, and have in turn churned out their own rough drawings for the price of a jug of wine. When My Lady and the King left Madrid for Aranjuez, people clutched their crude likenesses of the Queen and held Up their children to see her as she passed, pushing and shoving to get a better glimpse. “My Lady! My Lady!” they cried, so caught Up in their eagerness that they forgot to cheer the King.
Older courtiers whisper that His Majesty cannot bear for other men to look Upon his wife, that the King they know would put to death any man who stared too long. That black legend is not borne out by His Majesty’s actions. I, who see him daily, have seen only how proudly he smiles when others gaze at her with admiration in their eyes. I have seen him basking contentedly in the reflection of her glamour before turning back to his mountains of paperwork and the business of ruling. He even insists that she go without a veil when she travels amongst her people in his company. It is with his encouragement that she wears new raiment every day and buys herself whatever jewels she pleases, though he draws the Royal purse strings ever tighter for other expenditures, skimping on the pay of his troops in the Netherlands and selling off viceroyalties in the New World. For while the expense of maintaining order in two worlds is great, the cost of satisfying an impetuous young wife has its own painfully dear price.
Very well. Very well. Very well. I cannot bear pretending I don’t care a moment longer. I will write to Tiberio, if that is what he wants. But he may not like what I have to say.
To Tiberio Calcagni in Rome
Please forgive my silence. It was the silence of confusion. For even though you may have forgotten what transpired that evening in Michelangelo’s house, I have not. In my duties of serving the Queen in her happy marriage to the King, I am reminded of it constantly. Indeed, I would not be serving Her Majesty at all if it had not been for that night. It was not my dream to teach a young queen her colors. I would have turned down the position and continued to pursue my studies, but fear of bringing shame to my family forced me to this court. I am blunt now because I have put away all hope of a happy resolution to that evening. I have accepted my fate and wish you well in your work with maestro Michelangelo. Please give him my fond regards. He has been nothing but kind to me.
From Madrid,
this 9th day of April, 1562
Sofonisba Anguissola
ITEM: The Stork is a mute bird except for when it returns to its nest in April. Then the male and female, who have been separated all winter, throw back their heads and make a loud, prolonged clattering with their beaks when at last they see each other again.
ITEM: A bag of buttercups worn around the neck is said to cure insanity.
ITEM: One’s attention must be given over entirely to perfecting the drawing and modeling in the monochromatic grays of the underpainting before one begins to consider the top layers of color.
30 APRIL 1562
The Palace, Aranjuez
Her Majesty was in one o
f her silent moods today, a state I fear more than her spells of open complaining. As she herself had told me, her mother often fell into weeks of grim silence during the years she endured the French King’s preference for another woman. I could not bear for this lively girl to become a dour ghost as had her mother, especially over disappointment in a husband who truly cares for her, albeit not in the manner of her dreams. Yes, the King can be rigid and sometimes distant and even frightening, especially if one grasps the limitlessness of his power, but My Lady should enjoy his favor while she has it. If anyone has just cause to be glum, it is I, having rashly revealed myself to Tiberio by my letter a fortnight ago. So to cheer Us this day, I suggested a walk in the woods after Mass, it being a fresh, bright day. She shrugged but made no objection.
The smell of incense from Mass still clung to our clothes as we strolled over the bridge and into the woodlands beyond the river. It was a typical fine morning in late April, with a damp breeze full of the green perfume of new leaves and the awakening earth as we tramped through the woods, our skirts dragging along the sandy trails, little Cher-Ami scampering ahead of Us. The Queen and I were alone—madame de Clermont had returned to her bed as she so often does these days. The condesa said she would join Us shortly; she wished to take advantage of madame ’s absence to chide the French ladies, no doubt. I had sent Francesca back to the palace to find Us a snack—perhaps some cheese, or some fruit, or some honey-and-almond pastries. It was just the Queen and I, picking wildflowers, at least I was—the Queen could have been making a bouquet of nettles, for all the care she paid to her gathering.
I had brought along drawing materials in case inspiration should strike. With my sketchbook Under my arm and my string-wrapped chalk gingerly pressed between my lips, I was tucking some buttercups into my handful when I spied doctor Hernández in a clearing on a sunny slope, on his knees inspecting the leaves of one of perhaps twenty low plants growing in a row. Next to him knelt a man dressed in a countryman’s tunic and leather leggings. I Understood from his clean-shaven face that he was not Spanish. The Spaniards do love their mustaches and beards.
I took my chalk from my mouth. “Doctor Hernández!” I called out, seizing Upon a possible diversion for My Lady. I had no compunction in addressing the doctor freely. He is a married man, quite devoted to his wife, and he treats me as he would a daughter, protective of my imagined virginity. We had gotten quite familiar with each other while bringing the Queen through her terrible illness, and through the frequent fleeting fevers and skin eruptions to which Her Majesty is prone. Over our many hours in each other’s company, I had become acquainted with the doctor’s interest in plants from the New World, and in his hope of discovering their medicinal properties.
“Doctor Hernández!” I called. “Have you a new specimen there?”
He sat back on his knees. When he saw the Queen and me, he dropped his measuring stick and stood, the other man doing the same behind him.
The Queen smiled, pulling in her chin, which is sharper these days with the flesh of childhood gone from it. “Doctor Hernández,” she said.
He kissed her hand, his craggy face somber. “Your Majesty. Picking clover?”
She looked at the sad little bouquet in her other hand. “I have simple tastes in flowers.” Her laugh was a tonic to my ears.
“Your Majesty, you look a little pale,” he said. “Have you been taking the roots of the plant I sent to you?”
“Sofi had them boiled into a tea for me.”
“Francesca does it.” I let the buttercups fall from my hand and readjusted my sketchbook, smudging the edges with yellow fingerprints.
“Very good.” Doctor Hernández nodded to me with what would be deemed a grimace in another man, though those of Us who know him would Understand it to be a smile. “And? Do you feel stronger, Your Majesty?”
“They really are foul-tasting, monsieur.”
“You are not consuming them daily?” He saw from my expression this was true. “Your Majesty, how are you to benefit from their goodness if you do not take them each morning?”
“They are terribly hard to get down.”
“Do you mix the brew with honey and mint?” asked the other man.
“ ‘Your Majesty,’ ” doctor Hernández whispered with a frown.
The Queen waved her hand. “We are not standing on ceremony now. The condesa is not here.”
“Your Majesty, this is doctor Debruyne,” said doctor Hernández. “He comes to me from Bruges. He, too, has a great interest in the medicinal plants of the New World.”
A long-boned man with hair and eyes of the same rich brown, doctor Debruyne stepped forward to kiss first the Queen’s hand and then mine, the tassels of the white shirt he wore Under his tunic dangling before him. “You must forgive me. I can be a bit of a root granny. I will spout off remedies without thinking.”
“You must get along well with doctor Hernández,” said the Queen.
“I never thought of myself as a ‘root granny,’ ” doctor Hernández said stiffly. “A scientist, yes. Grandmother, no.”
“I meant that you knew so many remedies, monsieur, not that you were a granny. Oh—Cher-Ami!” The Queen dropped her weeds to scoop Up the pup, who was watering the leather water bucket near doctor Hernández’s feet.
Doctor Debruyne flashed a good-natured smile as she scolded her dog in French. I found that I could not take my gaze from his teeth. They were straight and white, with just a hint of a gap between the front two.
“Actually,” he said, “it was my grandmother who got me interested in plants and their properties, though she never dreamed of there being a land beyond the sea when she was a girl. How she itches to go to the Indies now, to dig Up new and exciting roots, though she is in her ninetieth year.”
“No more than do I,” said doctor Hernández. “Doctor Debruyne has offered to draw the plants for my catalogue when I sail, though I regretfully must refuse his generous offer. I need him to assume my studies here. It is a pity, though. He is a gifted artist as well as a physician.” He turned to doctor Debruyne. “You would be interested to hear that doña Sofonisba has a gift for drawing, too.” He nodded at my sketchbook as if providing evidence. “She studied Under the great Michelangelo.”
Doctor Debruyne pushed back the hank of hair that had fallen into his eyes. “Did you? How extraordinary.”
I looked down quickly. I could see the sandy gray soil of Aranjuez Under the nails of his long fingers.
“I would be honored to see your work,” he said.
“Perhaps you already have,” said doctor Hernández. “Her drawing of a boy being bitten by a crab has been copied all around Europe. In fact, it was the great Michelangelo who first commissioned it from her.”
“The Queen has done her own drawing in the same vein.” I kept my gaze lowered. “Only it is her little dog there who is the surprised victim. It is really very good.”
“And you are really very bad,” the Queen said, scolding Cher-Ami as she put him down. He tottered off, tail a-wag, bits of leaf litter clinging to his white fur.
“I am familiar with Michelangelo’s work,” said doctor Debruyne. “I have seen copies of the cartoons for the Sistine Chapel. I find them to be exquisite, though I Understand that there has been some question—”
“Being from Bruges, you must know the work of Memling and van Eyck,” I said.
“Yes, of course, but I am particularly intrigued by Michelangelo’s—”
“The King is fond of the Flemish painter Hieronymus Bosch,” I said. “Here he is called El Bosco.”
“Oh,” said the Queen, “El Bosco—he is the one who likes to paint about sin.”
I stole an Upward glance. Doctor Debruyne was watching me, puzzled. I shifted my paper Under my arm as inwardly I cringed. What must he think of my awkward conversation? But I could brook no further talk of maestro Michelangelo.
Doctor Hernández bowed to the Queen, then turned to pluck a leaf from the plant at his feet. “Your
Majesty,” he said, rising, “have you had your headaches of late?”
The Queen pulled her gaze from the woods. “I’m sorry—I thought I heard someone out there. Excusez-moi?”
“Have you had headaches?”
“Yes. Always.”
“I see.” Doctor Hernández glanced at doctor Debruyne.
Doctor Debruyne nodded at the oval-shaped leaf doctor Hernández twirled between his fingers. “My colleague here has something from the New World that allegedly cures them.”
Doctor Hernández stilled the leaf. “We aren’t sure—”
“A cure for headaches?” said the Queen. “What is it?”
“The conquistadors called it the miracle plant,” said doctor Debruyne. “The people of the Indies chew its leaves to relieve their aches and pains. Imagine the good we could do with it here if we can get it to grow.”
“We cannot count on that,” said doctor Hernández. “It is a miracle that the rooted plants sent to me from the New World last fall have survived their travels. That they are still alive is a credit to doctor Debruyne.”
The doctor bowed, his glossy forelock slipping into his eyes.
“It will help my headaches?” The Queen held out her hand. Reluctantly, doctor Hernández laid the leaf across her palm.
