Popolo and San Luigi dei Francesi, his work was in great demand. He was twenty-eight years old, and the talk of Rome.
Francesca and Laura worked their way through the entries for 1600, but found nothing concerning Caravaggio. Laura grew momentarily excited when she found a reference to a “Mich’ Angelo pittore.” But it was for work in the garden, and for only ten scudi. Caravaggio commanded much higher sums.
They went slowly and carefully through the year 1601, but again found nothing. By then, Caravaggio certainly was living in Ciriaco’s palazzo. They each began to feel a sense of resignation, although they said nothing of it to each other, as the possibility grew that they might not come across anything more significant than they’d already found.
Francesca had gotten up from her chair when she heard Laura softly exclaim, “Ecco!”
The date was January 7, 1602, and Ciriaco had written in a clear, unmistakable hand the name “Michel Angelo da Caravaggio pittore.” The payment was one hundred fifty scudi for the painting of—and here they had difficulty deciphering Ciriaco’s handwriting. It seemed to say, “for the painting of N.S. in,” and then two words that were unclear. One of them looked as if it began with a “p”—could it be “padrone,” meaning master or owner? The “N.S.” probably meant “Nostro Signore,” a common reference to Christ.
The Marchesa, her attention attracted by their excitement, looked on with curiosity. “You’ve found something interesting?” she asked.
“Possibly,” replied Francesca, “but there are some words we don’t quite understand.”
They each copied out the entry in their notebooks as precisely as they could, mimicking Ciriaco’s handwriting for the words they couldn’t decipher. The entry was four lines long, a record of payment to Caravaggio that no one had seen since the moment Ciriaco wrote it almost four centuries ago. Almost certainly it referred to the painting known as
The Supper at Emmaus,
which Baglione had seen in Ciriaco’s palazzo. It now hung in London, in the National Gallery.
Two pages later—it took Francesca and Laura half an hour of reading to get there—they found another payment to Caravaggio. The date was June 26, 1602, and the sum was sixty scudi, but this time Ciriaco did not specify the reason for the payment. Could it have been for the
St. John
? Sixty scudi seemed a rather small sum for Caravaggio, but the
St. John,
after all, depicted just a single figure.
They worked quickly, skimming through the entries, occasionally sharing a glance with each other. Now they knew for certain that Ciriaco had been a diligent bookkeeper and that they would find the other payments to Caravaggio. Such a find was the grail for all art historians, the closest one could come to the past creation of a work of art.
The next payment came at the beginning of the year 1603, on January 2. And this time they understood immediately which painting Ciriaco had bought. One hundred and twenty-five scudi “for a painting with its frame of Christ taken in the garden.”
“La Presa di Cristo,”
murmured Francesca.
The Marchesa looked over with inquiring eyes.
“Another painting by Caravaggio,” explained Francesca.
“Now, is that the one you’re looking for?” asked the Marchesa.
“Not exactly,” replied Francesca. “It’s been lost for many years.”
“Ah,” said the Marchesa, narrowing her eyes. “What happened to it?”
“No one knows for certain. Several people have looked for it, but they haven’t found it.”
“Such a pity that we have lost everything,” said the Marchesa in a dolorous voice.
Francesca and Laura had found three payments, and Baglione had written that Ciriaco had owned three paintings by Caravaggio. And perhaps Ciriaco had bought even more. Baglione said that Ciriaco had owned
The Incredulity of St. Thomas
—a painting now in the Bildergalerie in Potsdam, Germany—but they’d found no reference to
Francesca and Laura worked their way through the entries for 1600, but found nothing concerning Caravaggio. Laura grew momentarily excited when she found a reference to a “Mich’ Angelo pittore.” But it was for work in the garden, and for only ten scudi. Caravaggio commanded much higher sums.
They went slowly and carefully through the year 1601, but again found nothing. By then, Caravaggio certainly was living in Ciriaco’s palazzo. They each began to feel a sense of resignation, although they said nothing of it to each other, as the possibility grew that they might not come across anything more significant than they’d already found.
Francesca had gotten up from her chair when she heard Laura softly exclaim, “Ecco!”
The date was January 7, 1602, and Ciriaco had written in a clear, unmistakable hand the name “Michel Angelo da Caravaggio pittore.” The payment was one hundred fifty scudi for the painting of—and here they had difficulty deciphering Ciriaco’s handwriting. It seemed to say, “for the painting of N.S. in,” and then two words that were unclear. One of them looked as if it began with a “p”—could it be “padrone,” meaning master or owner? The “N.S.” probably meant “Nostro Signore,” a common reference to Christ.
The Marchesa, her attention attracted by their excitement, looked on with curiosity. “You’ve found something interesting?” she asked.
“Possibly,” replied Francesca, “but there are some words we don’t quite understand.”
They each copied out the entry in their notebooks as precisely as they could, mimicking Ciriaco’s handwriting for the words they couldn’t decipher. The entry was four lines long, a record of payment to Caravaggio that no one had seen since the moment Ciriaco wrote it almost four centuries ago. Almost certainly it referred to the painting known as
The Supper at Emmaus,
which Baglione had seen in Ciriaco’s palazzo. It now hung in London, in the National Gallery.
Two pages later—it took Francesca and Laura half an hour of reading to get there—they found another payment to Caravaggio. The date was June 26, 1602, and the sum was sixty scudi, but this time Ciriaco did not specify the reason for the payment. Could it have been for the
St. John
? Sixty scudi seemed a rather small sum for Caravaggio, but the
St. John,
after all, depicted just a single figure.
They worked quickly, skimming through the entries, occasionally sharing a glance with each other. Now they knew for certain that Ciriaco had been a diligent bookkeeper and that they would find the other payments to Caravaggio. Such a find was the grail for all art historians, the closest one could come to the past creation of a work of art.
The next payment came at the beginning of the year 1603, on January 2. And this time they understood immediately which painting Ciriaco had bought. One hundred and twenty-five scudi “for a painting with its frame of Christ taken in the garden.”
“La Presa di Cristo,”
murmured Francesca.
The Marchesa looked over with inquiring eyes.
“Another painting by Caravaggio,” explained Francesca.
“Now, is that the one you’re looking for?” asked the Marchesa.
“Not exactly,” replied Francesca. “It’s been lost for many years.”
“Ah,” said the Marchesa, narrowing her eyes. “What happened to it?”
“No one knows for certain. Several people have looked for it, but they haven’t found it.”
“Such a pity that we have lost everything,” said the Marchesa in a dolorous voice.
Francesca and Laura had found three payments, and Baglione had written that Ciriaco had owned three paintings by Caravaggio. And perhaps Ciriaco had bought even more. Baglione said that Ciriaco had owned
The Incredulity of St. Thomas
—a painting now in the Bildergalerie in Potsdam, Germany—but they’d found no reference to
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