entourage does not mean I would be swayed by its appearance at my door.”
Giovanni da Udine, in wine-colored velvet, was tall, broad-shouldered, and exceedingly elegant, with a shock of silvery hair that gave him a distinguished air. Despite that veneer, he stifled a snicker behind his jeweled hand. Raphael heard it and shot him an immediate look of reproach. A dozen retorts vaulted through his mind, but he realized then, in the awkward silence, that she was worthy of none of them.
It was getting late, and Raphael had the metal point study of an allegorical Mars to heighten with white chalk for the other Chigi chapel, and a few pencil studies to outline so that his assistants would know what he desired them to paint. Then there was the application of the last layer of plaster on the final Vatican fresco to oversee. There was also a problem with the expression on the pope’s face, as he sat in profile astride his horse, in the
Repulse of Attila,
which he must deal with himself, and it must be accomplished before midday.
He still very much wanted Signorina Luti, but he could not paint her—he could not capture that essence of a Madonna, if her sitting for him was a chore for her. He reached down and drew from his cloak a pouch of gold florins. Gently, he set it on the empty table between the three of them, the coins making a little clinking sound as they settled in the bag.
“We must take our leave. But in the meantime, I have left a first installment on what my studio will pay you to allow me to make several pencil sketches, culminating in a full-color panel of you dressed as the Madonna for my commission by the late Pope Julius II that shall hang in the great Chapel at San Sisto in Piacenza.”
Francesco Luti gave a sound somewhere between a moan and a wail, then made the sign of the cross.
“Santissima Maria!”
“You may pray to the saints, Signor Luti, but as you wait for their reply you would do well to reason strongly with your daughter. This is an existing commission, and I am
not
at liberty to wait forever.” Raphael nodded courteously. “
Buon giorno
to you both.”
“
Mastro
Sanzio, one question if you please.”
The throaty alto voice was Margherita’s. Raphael pivoted back.
In the light of early morning, when Rome was still pink and opalescent, her face looked radiant, and he thought then, for the first time, that he had fooled himself. She was actually remarkably sensual and,
s
. . . appealing, in a way that now piqued all of his senses, not only the initial creative ones.
“May I ask why you have chosen me?”
“Why does anyone make a choice of something,
signorina
?” he said in a flippant tone that was part style, and part self-defense. “There is an element of instinct, and another of fate. With my painting, one is always tied so tightly with the other that I have learned only to honor it, and not to question why. Once again,” he nodded. “
Buon giorno
to you.”
“I DO NOT understand you!” Francesco Luti wailed. He slapped his forehead with the palm of his flour-caked hand, as he cast his eyes dramatically heavenward. “Had I not been here to see it for myself, I would have thought it a cruel jest! Now I
know
without doubt that you have taken full leave of your senses! Where has this come from? This is not you! Thanks to your mother’s dreams for you, you have put Antonio off, waiting all of your life for something extraordinary like this to happen, and now that it has—”
Her mother, so beautiful, and so full of dreams, had told her many stories as a child, like that of the famous and married emperor, Nero, and his love for Poppaea, a girl beneath his station. Their romance had brought a cloud of scandal to Rome. There was always great excitement in her mother’s whispered voice, as she told how Poppaea had become Nero’s great love—and finally his wife.
And so it can happen to any clever, beautiful girl,
Marina Luti had whispered to her youngest
Giovanni da Udine, in wine-colored velvet, was tall, broad-shouldered, and exceedingly elegant, with a shock of silvery hair that gave him a distinguished air. Despite that veneer, he stifled a snicker behind his jeweled hand. Raphael heard it and shot him an immediate look of reproach. A dozen retorts vaulted through his mind, but he realized then, in the awkward silence, that she was worthy of none of them.
It was getting late, and Raphael had the metal point study of an allegorical Mars to heighten with white chalk for the other Chigi chapel, and a few pencil studies to outline so that his assistants would know what he desired them to paint. Then there was the application of the last layer of plaster on the final Vatican fresco to oversee. There was also a problem with the expression on the pope’s face, as he sat in profile astride his horse, in the
Repulse of Attila,
which he must deal with himself, and it must be accomplished before midday.
He still very much wanted Signorina Luti, but he could not paint her—he could not capture that essence of a Madonna, if her sitting for him was a chore for her. He reached down and drew from his cloak a pouch of gold florins. Gently, he set it on the empty table between the three of them, the coins making a little clinking sound as they settled in the bag.
“We must take our leave. But in the meantime, I have left a first installment on what my studio will pay you to allow me to make several pencil sketches, culminating in a full-color panel of you dressed as the Madonna for my commission by the late Pope Julius II that shall hang in the great Chapel at San Sisto in Piacenza.”
Francesco Luti gave a sound somewhere between a moan and a wail, then made the sign of the cross.
“Santissima Maria!”
“You may pray to the saints, Signor Luti, but as you wait for their reply you would do well to reason strongly with your daughter. This is an existing commission, and I am
not
at liberty to wait forever.” Raphael nodded courteously. “
Buon giorno
to you both.”
“
Mastro
Sanzio, one question if you please.”
The throaty alto voice was Margherita’s. Raphael pivoted back.
In the light of early morning, when Rome was still pink and opalescent, her face looked radiant, and he thought then, for the first time, that he had fooled himself. She was actually remarkably sensual and,
s
. . . appealing, in a way that now piqued all of his senses, not only the initial creative ones.
“May I ask why you have chosen me?”
“Why does anyone make a choice of something,
signorina
?” he said in a flippant tone that was part style, and part self-defense. “There is an element of instinct, and another of fate. With my painting, one is always tied so tightly with the other that I have learned only to honor it, and not to question why. Once again,” he nodded. “
Buon giorno
to you.”
“I DO NOT understand you!” Francesco Luti wailed. He slapped his forehead with the palm of his flour-caked hand, as he cast his eyes dramatically heavenward. “Had I not been here to see it for myself, I would have thought it a cruel jest! Now I
know
without doubt that you have taken full leave of your senses! Where has this come from? This is not you! Thanks to your mother’s dreams for you, you have put Antonio off, waiting all of your life for something extraordinary like this to happen, and now that it has—”
Her mother, so beautiful, and so full of dreams, had told her many stories as a child, like that of the famous and married emperor, Nero, and his love for Poppaea, a girl beneath his station. Their romance had brought a cloud of scandal to Rome. There was always great excitement in her mother’s whispered voice, as she told how Poppaea had become Nero’s great love—and finally his wife.
And so it can happen to any clever, beautiful girl,
Marina Luti had whispered to her youngest
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