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Authors: Walter Ellis
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blasphemer!’
‘In fact, Master Cherubini, I’m a Milanese. But let that pass. I did what was asked of me. I produced a finished canvas, on time, to specifications, and all I’ve got to show for it is a miserable advance of fifty scudi.’
Cherubini ran a veiny hand down the full length of his face, as if conjuring up a new expression fresh from the wreckage of the old. The truth was, he planned to sell the painting in the commercial market. Several experts, among them Vincenzo Giustiniani and the Flemish master, Rubens, had pronounced it first-rate, worth twice at least what Cherubini was paying for it. So it was just a matter of allowing a discreet interval to pass between saying no to it and realizing a handsome profit.
‘And you shall be paid,’ he announced, a new orotundity entering his delivery. ‘For I am a man of my word. Indeed, you shall be paid this very week. But as for the painting being installed in Santa Maria della Scala, well, I’m afraid that is quite out of the question. Quite aside from the matter of the bare feet, your model for the Virgin turns out to have been be a dirty whore from Ortaccio … a slut whose favours you have no doubt enjoyed many times. More than that – more than that, even – you have depicted Our Lady as … dead , when, quite explicitly, she was to have been shown on the point of her dormition into heaven.’
Caravaggio adopted a defiant pose, with his hands on his hips. The bishop, a Spaniard, who knew well the artist’s high standing at the papal court, was enjoying this unexpected diversion and stared at the artist with a grin on his face, waiting for the next outburst.
‘Have you ever actually read the Bible, Master Cherubini?’ Caravaggio asked.
‘What? How dare you!’
‘Because, if you have, perhaps you would be so kind as to point out to me where it says that Mary, the Mother of Jesus, did not die like the rest of us, but “dormissioned” into heaven, leaving no trace of her earthly body behind.’
‘It is set out quite clearly in the Golden Legend .’
‘The what?’
‘The Golden Legend … the Lives of the Saints. You know very well …’
‘– I know very well, Signor, that The Golden Legend is a story book and no substitute for the word of God.’
This was too much for Cherubini, who by now was smouldering with rage. ‘Happily for the Church,’ he boomed, ‘not all artists take so lofty a view. You should know that a new work has been commissioned, showing the dormition of Our Lady, by the esteemed artist Carlo Sarasceni, and it is this, rather than your own sacrilegious daub, that will occupy the altarpiece in Santa Maria della Scala.’
This news stung Caravaggio. Sarasceni, a Venetian who had lived in Rome for the last five years, was a friend and one of his most devoted admirers. It was hard to believe that he would accept a commission in such circumstances. But then, he reflected, times were hard, business was business and everyone was out to make as much as they could before they were thought old hat or the plague got them.
‘Daub it might be to you, Signor Cherubini,’ he retorted. ‘We shall see how history judges your action. I wonder which of us will be remembered a hundred years from now, the artist or the … lawyer .’
For a moment, Cherubini was speechless. Caravaggio could have chosen no more personal line of attack. Then he recovered his voice. ‘Get out!’ he said. ‘Leave my house. You shall be paid your thirty pieces of silver. Do not, however, on pain of arrest for trespass, dare to darken my door again.’
But before he had finished speaking, Caravaggio had already gone.
That afternoon, in the Turk’s Head, Prospero Orsi and Onorio Longhi, Caravaggio’s two closest companions in Rome, listened indulgently as the monstrous tale unfolded of how Cherubini – a buffoon as well as a rogue, and quite possibly a child molester – had rejected Death of the Virgin and given a fresh commission in its
‘In fact, Master Cherubini, I’m a Milanese. But let that pass. I did what was asked of me. I produced a finished canvas, on time, to specifications, and all I’ve got to show for it is a miserable advance of fifty scudi.’
Cherubini ran a veiny hand down the full length of his face, as if conjuring up a new expression fresh from the wreckage of the old. The truth was, he planned to sell the painting in the commercial market. Several experts, among them Vincenzo Giustiniani and the Flemish master, Rubens, had pronounced it first-rate, worth twice at least what Cherubini was paying for it. So it was just a matter of allowing a discreet interval to pass between saying no to it and realizing a handsome profit.
‘And you shall be paid,’ he announced, a new orotundity entering his delivery. ‘For I am a man of my word. Indeed, you shall be paid this very week. But as for the painting being installed in Santa Maria della Scala, well, I’m afraid that is quite out of the question. Quite aside from the matter of the bare feet, your model for the Virgin turns out to have been be a dirty whore from Ortaccio … a slut whose favours you have no doubt enjoyed many times. More than that – more than that, even – you have depicted Our Lady as … dead , when, quite explicitly, she was to have been shown on the point of her dormition into heaven.’
Caravaggio adopted a defiant pose, with his hands on his hips. The bishop, a Spaniard, who knew well the artist’s high standing at the papal court, was enjoying this unexpected diversion and stared at the artist with a grin on his face, waiting for the next outburst.
‘Have you ever actually read the Bible, Master Cherubini?’ Caravaggio asked.
‘What? How dare you!’
‘Because, if you have, perhaps you would be so kind as to point out to me where it says that Mary, the Mother of Jesus, did not die like the rest of us, but “dormissioned” into heaven, leaving no trace of her earthly body behind.’
‘It is set out quite clearly in the Golden Legend .’
‘The what?’
‘The Golden Legend … the Lives of the Saints. You know very well …’
‘– I know very well, Signor, that The Golden Legend is a story book and no substitute for the word of God.’
This was too much for Cherubini, who by now was smouldering with rage. ‘Happily for the Church,’ he boomed, ‘not all artists take so lofty a view. You should know that a new work has been commissioned, showing the dormition of Our Lady, by the esteemed artist Carlo Sarasceni, and it is this, rather than your own sacrilegious daub, that will occupy the altarpiece in Santa Maria della Scala.’
This news stung Caravaggio. Sarasceni, a Venetian who had lived in Rome for the last five years, was a friend and one of his most devoted admirers. It was hard to believe that he would accept a commission in such circumstances. But then, he reflected, times were hard, business was business and everyone was out to make as much as they could before they were thought old hat or the plague got them.
‘Daub it might be to you, Signor Cherubini,’ he retorted. ‘We shall see how history judges your action. I wonder which of us will be remembered a hundred years from now, the artist or the … lawyer .’
For a moment, Cherubini was speechless. Caravaggio could have chosen no more personal line of attack. Then he recovered his voice. ‘Get out!’ he said. ‘Leave my house. You shall be paid your thirty pieces of silver. Do not, however, on pain of arrest for trespass, dare to darken my door again.’
But before he had finished speaking, Caravaggio had already gone.
That afternoon, in the Turk’s Head, Prospero Orsi and Onorio Longhi, Caravaggio’s two closest companions in Rome, listened indulgently as the monstrous tale unfolded of how Cherubini – a buffoon as well as a rogue, and quite possibly a child molester – had rejected Death of the Virgin and given a fresh commission in its
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