“No, no, we must have both!” Bernardo swept his arms out in a gesture of largesse. “Mustn’t we, maestro?”
Verrocchio knew how to close a deal. “Let us talk inside about what you would like, Your Excellency.” He quickly ushered Bernardo toward the privacy of the small adjacent room where he did business.
I started to protest once more but realized it was futile—these men had decided what to do with me, and that was that—as always. My mouth snapped shut. I looked instinctively toward Sancha, who stood in the corner, as the only other woman present. She seemed to beam with pride and a sense of adventure. Well, I thought, escorting me back and forth to the studio would make her life more interesting than house chores.
Why not, then? I felt myself shrug as a voice inside me told me to relax and bask in the attention. Besides, if Bernardo ordered two portraits of me, Leonardo would certainly be responsible for the painted version. That was what I had hoped for, after all. I turned to him expectantly.
Leonardo watched Bernardo and Verrocchio exit, disdain on his face. I knew it was not directed at his old master, whom he clearly adored. “You do not like the ambassador much—why?”
Surprised by me for once, Leonardo mulled over his answer before speaking. “I happen to know the ambassador placed a large and losing wager on the palio. I doubt he has the florins for two commissions of art. I saw a great many gentlemen like him come to my father for notarizing legal documents. They seemed inordinately impressed with themselves, calculating, and blind to the effect on those they used to achieve their aims. Braggadocios all. Quite often they did not have the money they claimed to.”
I noted with concern the statement that Bernardo was a betting man but knew it was unseemly for me to ask for more details. Leonardo might think me a gossip. Sancha could find it out for me later. “So you did not think of becoming a notary yourself?” I asked instead to make what I thought would prove polite conversation.
He snorted. “As an illegitimate son, I am not allowed to go into the law.”
I blushed at my thoughtlessness. “Pardon me, signor, I forgot that restriction.”
Leonardo caught his breath. I was sure it was in anger at my rudeness, and my face flushed even more. When he reached toward my cheek, I flinched, having endured Uncle Bartolomeo slapping me for insolence when I was home from the convent. But Leonardo cupped my chin and tilted it up so the sun spilled along my face and cheeks. “I must find a way to capture all these layers of color—rose, violet, cream, tan.”
As I stared at him in bewilderment, his eyes refocused from my skin tones to me, the person. “Scusa, Madonna.” He stepped back abruptly. “But your face’s flesh, the blush and cream of it, will allow me to show precisely what I was talking about being the painter’s particular gift—the ability to use colors, shadow, and light to represent transparent and luminous surfaces, where the life of something emanates from within.”
He backed up and continued to assess me.
I fidgeted, feeling aflutter under the unyielding scrutiny from an artist and from such an attractive and vibrant young man. As all girls in Florence must, I had grown accustomed to being appraised by older men and relatives—like a horse being readied for market—especially regarding the fit of my gown and coif of my hair. But Leonardo’s lingering evaluation felt different, very different.
Only Sancha’s chortling in the corner finally interrupted his concentration. He turned. I turned. She held several sketches in her hand. Sancha had been snooping.
Even with the heaviness of my dress, I got to my servant before Leonardo moved. “What are you doing, Sancha? Those are private to Maestro Leonardo.”
“But look how funny these are.” She pointed to a smattering of faces on one page—men with enormous noses and jutting jaws, with great jowls hanging from their chins, toothless grins, and mirthless frowns. All roughed in lightly, with urgent stroke marks, as if Leonardo had drawn one after another while they passed him on the street.
I couldn’t resist. I reached out and took the stack from her. In my hands were such complete miniature scenes—cats washing themselves, dogs barking, men arguing, all so alive. I recognized the horses, prancing and straining, from the meadow before the run of the palio. Underneath them was a page with a petite maiden pointing to a unicorn. Her face was round like an apple, framed by a froth of tight curls, the rest of her hair swept up and back. Her pointing hand was delicate, its fingers long and thin.
“My lady!” Sancha gasped. “That’s you!”
Indeed. The sketched maiden appeared very like me.
“An idea from the day of the race,” Leonardo said quietly. He had approached and stood by as we looked at his drawings, complimented by our rapt examination of them.
I was too moved by the image to look up from the page at him—both for the prettiness of the depiction and because of the symbolism inherent in a maiden taming a unicorn. It was one of Florence’s favorite metaphors for goodness.
A silence hung between us as I kept my gaze on the paper, but I could sense Sancha looking from me to Leonardo and back to me. There was one last page underneath the maiden. I pulled it out. I had never seen anything like it—a pure landscape, no human being upon it, dated 5 August 1473. The Feast Day of Holy Mary of the Snow.
“Ah, yes.” Leonardo seemed relieved to switch the conversation. “This is overlooking the Arno Valley near my village of Vinci.”
The drawing included a waterfall cascading into a gorge, rocky cliffs crowned with trees, and a walled fortress on a hilltop. I could feel the expanse of the view, could smell the sweet fragrances of new grass and budding trees carried on the wind, could hear the song of clean, rushing water. Looking at it, I remembered the feel of lying in a field in Antella, basking in the sun, rolling down a small incline, gathering wildflowers in my skirts. No one telling me what to do, what to say, or what to wear. “How lovely,” I murmured. “Your drawing brings back the childhood happiness of my family’s country home.”
He nodded, pleased.
“Have you read Petrarch’s ‘Ascent of Mount Ventoux’?”
“I do not like Petrarch’s works.”
Surprised, I looked up at him. No one who wanted favor among Florence’s elite should admit that. He shrugged.
“Well, this drawing of yours is extraordinary, signor, for many reasons. But I am particularly struck by the difference from Petrarch. He climbed Mount Ventoux and was inspired to look inward to examine his soul. His essay is all about man’s perceptions of nature and using that to find God. But this . . .” I tried to find the right way to describe something that would seem so radical to Lorenzo and Ficino’s Platonic society. “This has nothing to do with man.”
Leonardo grinned. “Precisely!”
I laughed.
“I had a thought, signora, about your portrait, having watched you in the meadow the day of the race. I would like to put you in front of a landscape like this.”
Leonardo seemed unaware of how inappropriate it was for him to say he had been watching me or to suggest a portrait in which a gentlewoman be presented out of doors. We were domestic creatures, our definition coming from the houses we occupied and our roles within them. I had seen female portraits that included glimpses of the wide world, but only through windows behind the human subject. I asked if that was what he meant.
Frowning impatiently, Leonardo waved his hand as if to rid himself of a fly. “No, no. I am doing that for Giuliano de’ Medici’s Virgin and child. In fact, I will ask if I can paint Madonna Simonetta in the Medici palazzo, in front of those arched windows, to avoid her suffering from the dust Andrea makes with his chisel here. No, I would like to paint you as if you are out in the world, part of it. I have been thinking that a woman’s ability to conceive and bear children is very like nature’s ability to regenerate and create new entities.” He pointed to his drawing. “Just as this waterfall carved the rock over time to give birth to the riverbed.”
I laughed nervously, startled, even t
hough flattered, by how he glorified childbearing. I stuck to the theological point. “But doesn’t the Church say God created all that we see in seven days? You don’t believe that?” I wasn’t so sure I did either but certainly would not admit it out loud.
Leonardo made a face. “No.” He snorted before continuing, “I do believe God, or some eternal force, set our world in motion. But I think nature continues that motion, changing the earth constantly.”
I stared at him. What Leonardo suggested was so unorthodox. And what he was saying about women so ennobled us. How I wished I could tell Abbess Scolastica that the man who was to paint me saw women in this way.
Sing of us, Ginevra. Make them listen. Sing of what treasure lies inside women’s hearts and minds.
Leonardo seemed to hear our song already.
So I nodded. “Yes, let us do that then.” I agreed just as Verrocchio and Bernardo stepped back into the room, having negotiated the scope and price of the commission. Outwardly, Leonardo and I slipped back into our prescribed roles—he the hired craftsman and I the docile subject matter. Inwardly was another matter altogether. We, together, were creating something entirely new.
16
ABBESS SCOLASTICA RONDINELLI DIED THAT WEEK. HER funeral was as well attended as that of a state official. Le Murate’s main chapel was packed with dignitaries: Lorenzo and Giuliano de’ Medici with all their kin, ambassadors from every foreign land, including Bernardo, and the richest of Florence’s merchants. As I waited for the service to begin, I overheard murmurings of worry about whether the convent would continue its thread production, its embroidery, its sewing of delicate linens for rich family’s trousseaus, and its illuminated manuscript copying now that Scolastica was gone. Nothing about her the person. I wanted to swat them all on the head.
I looked up to the chapel’s second-floor choir loft, where the nuns watched services. Behind an ornately carved grating, the sisters of Le Murate were as densely packed as the laypeople below. Scolastica had governed them for thirty-six years, allowing such freedom of scholarship even while strictly directing their religious piety. Their worries that morning, unlike those of the city officials below, were real ones, coming from the fear of not knowing who would next control their lives. I was afraid myself. Le Murate was my second home, but mostly because Scolastica had been the mother who had awaited me there.
Turning back to face the high altar, I gazed at a painted Annunciation—a depiction of the angel Gabriel announcing to a virginal Mary that she was to give birth to the son of God. I let my eyes wander over it, remembering how oft I had prayed in front of it, kneeling on the stones of my father’s tomb. The Benci crest of two lions was included in the elaborate frame of the large painting to mark who was its patron.
My grandfather had commissioned the deeply spiritual work from Fra Filippo Lippi and paid dearly for the expensive gold leaf and aquamarine paint that made it so vibrant. What I liked most about it, though, was the scene’s drama. Most Annunciation paintings depicted Mary passively kneeling in prayer, head bowed, accepting the angel Gabriel’s announcement that she would mother a child without first knowing a man. Lippi’s Annunciation showed the Blessed Virgin rising, reaching out for the lily the angel held toward her. Lippi’s Mary was making a choice. I always wondered if Scolastica had insisted upon that presentation of a decisive Mary.
I smiled, thinking on Scolastica, relieved I had been able to honor her last request to me. Inside her casket, underneath her robes, was her exquisite embroidery. I had managed to tuck it there for her. Knowing I might need to charm my way in, I had worn the simple brown dress Scolastica had mentioned during my visit—the one embroidered with Le Murate gold thread along its neckline—and the long, scarf-like scapular she had given me. Both items of clothing clearly marked my devotion to the convent.
Thus clad, I arrived early for the service. Sister Margaret had tried to block me. But I had already thought of something clever to argue my way in. “Why, good Sister Margaret,” I said, “I would be so grateful for a moment to say my prayers for the soul of our beloved abbess. I would also like to kneel at my father’s crypt to ask for the continued well-being of my family—and that I might convince my uncle to keep up the Benci’s annual gift of one hundred forty-four bushels of grain and sixty barrels of wine to you and the sisters of Le Murate.” That had done it.
As the service began, Bernardo turned toward me. He was so tall I could see his face over the heads of the dozens of people in between us. I nodded toward him in reply but did not return his gaze for more than a moment. I could sense his staying on me. God help me, there in that sacred place, my mind wandered to things other than church, to romance beyond Platonic admiration. Luigi had always been so disinterested in me, and here was this influential, eloquent, and exceedingly handsome man who celebrated my mind and my beauty. It was beyond flattering. It was totally disarming. I feared that under the right—or the wrong—circumstances, I might allow the boundary walls of Platonic inspiration to crumble. Oh, how I would miss Scolastica’s good counsel.
I shook my head to squelch such thoughts and focused on the service.
The priest droned on, we recited prayers, and still I felt Bernardo’s gaze. My heart began to thud heavily in my chest and pound in my head. I decided to answer it by going from my mentor’s funeral to see Verrocchio and Leonardo, knowing that Scolastica had wanted me to stand up and accept the possibilities offered me. When her funeral ended, I slipped away down the streets with Sancha while Bernardo lingered to talk with the Medici in the customary discourse about the beauty of a church service after it was concluded.
The studio was in its usual flurry of activity. The great furnace was roaring as it baked Giuliano’s bust. Verrocchio stood in front of the flames, timing the cooking of his masterpiece.
“Good afternoon, maestro,” I called out as I approached.
Verrocchio turned, and I had to stifle my laugh upon seeing his face. It was as red as the baking terra-cotta, awash in sweat and grime. Sancha, however, did not curb her amusement.
“My lady!” Verrocchio wiped his face with his billowing sleeve, leaving a smear of black soot on the white linen. “Forgive my appearance.” He waved at the furnace. “Today we complete the Medici bust.” His gaze darted from me to the fire and back again. “I am sorry, I . . .”
“It’s all right, maestro. I can see you need to watch your kiln. I just thought I might speak with you about scheduling sittings for the portraits. I can return another day.”
“No, no, my lady,” he hastened to say. “Leonardo is inside, working on his Madonna and child. You two could discuss the painting he plans.” He grinned. “Leonardo must plan a great deal to be able to create something as lovely as the sculpture I envision of you.”
His jovial competitiveness was such an antidote to my sorrow. I felt myself revive. Verrocchio clapped his hands to get one of the apprentices’ attention. “Paolo, take the signora to Leonardo.”
Inside, Leonardo leaned over a large sketch attached to a gessoed wooden board. He had stabbed pinpricks all along the outline of the drawing and held a small cloth bag of charcoal dust, poised to pat it along the pinpricks. It would leave a powdery trail, the skeleton of his painting-to-be. On the paper, I could see a beautiful Mary with great twists of braids and curls like the joust banner’s nymph. She held a carnation to a wiggly, fat Christ child, who reached out for the blossom.
It was such a lively, endearing image, aglow with Mary’s obvious enjoyment of showing a blossom to a delighted baby, I spoke without waiting for Leonardo to notice me standing there. “Ah, maestro, what a sweet portrait of Mary’s love for her child!”
Leonardo dropped the bag, making a splat of black dust on his drawing.
“I am so sorry!” I cried as he grimaced and blew on the dust to scatter it away. Would I ever manage to encounter him without doing something to make our meeting awkward?
After a few moments of blowing and wiping, Leonardo straightened up. I could tell
he was planning a formal greeting, but when he looked at me, he blurted out instead, “Is that what you plan to wear for your portrait?” His eyes traveled from my feet, up my dress, lingering at my waist and my bodice before rising to my face.
“Oh, no,” I said.
Leonardo stepped toward me and bowed to catch the end of my scapular, which reached to my knee. Lifting the cloth, his face was quizzical.
“My abbess gave it me to signify my being a laysister of the order. It allows me access to the convent when I desire its serenity. It was a great gift and honor she did me,” I said, choking on the last sentence. “She was a magnificent lady. Most of what I am I owe to her.”
He fingered the edge of the scapular. “I have never seen this before. It is very . . . somber.”
“Yes, it is. Do not worry. I will not be wearing this for my portrait.”
He let it go, and the velvety black scarf dropped back down to rest along my dress. “Why not, my lady,” Leonardo asked, “if it is a marker of something that is important to you?”
I paused, taking in that concept: important to me. “Well,” I said slowly, “it would cover the lily pattern of the scarlet brocade gown my husband wishes me to wear and certainly would distract from my trousseau necklace of gold and pearl.” The outfit would be a beautiful combination of riches, fit for a duchess.
Humph. Leonardo snorted, still assessing my face, considering something. He was careful when he spoke again. “It is not for me to say, signora, but as I look at you in this attire, I think the finery you describe would overtake your portrait and distract from your”—he paused—“your lovely face. It is quite open and uninhibited.”
“Hah, you are one of the first to think my inability to mask my emotions a good thing,” I said. But I blushed at the compliment.
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