Girl Reading (3 page)

Simone Martini? I’ve heard of him! He was Duccio’s pupil.

This is the best accolade he can hope for now. One wants to be trained by the greatest living artist, and then to transcend him. That will not happen.

Simone examines the icon, trying to see it as a peasant would, as a monk would, as a lord, a foreigner, a child, a dog. He tries to see it for what it seems to be and for what it is. He tries to see its multiplicity in order to see its truth, but the truth eludes him like incense. It is before him, around him, above him, but vanishes into air. He is morose.

A new commission for Siena Cathedral. Something
different.
He is getting what he wants, and he does not like it. He does not like the serpent of his vanity being provoked by a bishop’s crozier.

Vescovo Donusdeo dei Malavolti glides toward the artist, extends his hooked hand for Simone to kiss the episcopal ring. The bishop has an ancient face but his frailty comes and goes. Sometimes the sharp edge of his willpower is visible, which can be dangerous; sometimes he is as meek as a kitten, which can be lethal. When the formalities are over, he extends a trembling pat of reassurance to the artist’s arm and wheezes, It warms me, Maestro Simone, to see that you have begun your work. That is what I like about painters, they always have their most valuable tool on their person: their imagination. You cannot help it, can you? You are making lines and filling shapes with pigment even as we stand here. If I were a betting man, which naturally I am not, I would say you have made up your mind what the finished piece will look like. But I must reign in your impulses, though it grieves me to, for I would be intrigued
to know what the farthest limits of your creativity can do. It is the Opera del Duomo, you see. You know what they are like. Some of them can be resistant to innovation. They mean well, of course, but it would be remiss of me not to repeat, for appearance’s sake, the prescriptions they have made.

Prescriptions?

Prescription, guidance, what you will. You know best, and I trust you will interpret their expressed wishes suitably. They are not as brave as you and me. Were it my choice, I would say go and do your best, give to the cathedral whatever your genius can conceive of, and be as radical as you dare. They ought to listen to me, but they do not. I am too lenient with them. I sympathize, Maestro Simone, I do. Having someone restrict what you can paint must make you feel as I would feel if someone restricted my prayers.

I would not want my prayers inhibited either. What are the instructions?

Hardly worth mentioning. As I have stated already, you are to paint a functioning altarpiece that celebrates our principal protector, the Virgin, and represents an episode from her life. In due course there will be four new altars in the cathedral, each dedicated to one of Siena’s auxiliary patrons, starting with Saint Ansanus—and then Saint Savinus, Saint Victor, and Saint Crescentius. Each altar will feature a moment from Our Lady’s history. Yours is the first commission. I insisted to the Opera del Duomo that you should have the honor.

You flatter me, Vescovo. So far, these are reasonable specifications.

I am glad you think so. The next point is one I am sure your expert eye has already discerned: that the new altarpiece must be in harmony with Duccio’s
Maestà,
and naturally in keeping with the traditions of the faith. How do you fellows say? The spatial relationship, the style, must not depart from his. There should be accord.

Simone takes some steps away from the bishop and faces the spot where his altarpiece would be installed relative to Duccio’s: to the side of it; smaller in size than it; dedicated to a relatively obscure saint instead of the Virgin herself; replicating his old tutor’s hand. Vescovo Donusdeo is correct; the artist had indeed guessed as much. Simone says, What if I am engaged in another commission? I am in great demand.

The bishop laughs. Who in Siena would put his own interests above the needs of the Church? Tell me the name of the man who is attempting to commandeer you, and I shall personally intervene. It must be at the preliminary stages of negotiation in any case—I spoke with your brother-in-law and know you not to be under contract at present.

Simone remains rigid and silently curses Lippo.

Besides, the patronal altars of Siena will become supremely famous. After the first has been dedicated, artists will flock from miles around to beg for the next commission. People will expect it of you, Simone, as Siena’s famous son, to make a panel for the Duomo. The question is not whether you paint one, but
which one
you will paint. I suspect that you would prefer to be the pioneer, and to have the freest hand. Have I not said, moreover, that what the Opera requires of you is something quite new?

You wish me to create an icon that maintains tradition, and yet is entirely original?

I am relieved you understand. You are capable of it.

The artist gazes at Duccio’s legacy.

The bishop shares his contemplation briefly and sighs. It is a remarkable object, a singular tribute to the majesty of Our Lady. Do you think I am blind as well as old, my dear Simone? Do you think bishops arrive in office fully formed? Every day I walk in the footprints of my predecessors.

Have the Nine been informed of this project?

I am sure somebody has conveyed the news. You know how easily these things get about.

Are they aware the Duomo is appropriating some of their imagery?

Their imagery . . . ? I am not sure I follow.

Well, you say there shall be four altars dedicated to Siena’s patrons—and citizens will come here to the cathedral to petition the saints through prayer, and the saints in turn petition the Blessed Virgin Mary and she in her turn is their advocate to God. True? I am simply wondering if the politicians could view this arrangement as—evocative.

You amuse me. What a cynic you have become. You have such a low opinion of people, and for what reason? I am sure such a misplaced and petty notion would not occur to any of the Council of Nine. And if it did, shame would prevent them from saying it aloud. And if they said so, I would answer, the Church is staking a claim only to that which she already owns.

Simone senses the bishop’s enjoyment in being able to rehearse his argument.

But let me explain something to you, in strictest confidence. I know you will appreciate the spirit of it. Siena is a beam of marble supported by three columns: the Town Hall, Siena Cathedral, and Santa Maria della Scala hospital. If one of these cracks or weakens, the other two must take more of the strain, so all is kept stable. Coincidental that you and I should visit this topic now, when I was debating it with Rettore Giovanni di Tese Tolomei just yesterday. He and I have had many productive conversations on this matter . . .

He notices how the bishop leaves the ribbon of his remark hanging in space, inviting someone to tug it. You have concerns about the Nine?

Certainly not. The oligarchs do a fine job. Legislating, scrutinizing decisions, collecting taxes, arbitrating—how shall we
say?—
disputes
regarding boundaries and livestock, and so on. Custodianship of these mundane matters is, I suppose, a necessity. And yet, even the ruling classes must acknowledge that truth is to be found not in the letter of the law but in the Word of God, and that the richest currency is not vulgar struck metal but what is scored into men’s hearts. You count real wealth by good deeds and by saved souls, by charity and by faith. The Council of Nine, through no fault of their own, do not understand how transient they are. Their world is unstable, fickle. When the government of fair Siena has fallen twice-twenty times, the poor will still seek respite at her hospital, and sinners will still pray for salvation at her church.
These
are permanent.
These
endure. I know it absolutely, and Signor Rettore is of the same mind. It is our moral obligation as Christians to act in accordance with what a perfect God has decreed, not with what imperfect and fallible men have frivolously decided.
Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s.
(The bishop pauses, waiting for the other to concur, but Simone remains dispassionate.) I hear unsettling rumors.

Rumors are rarely of the reassuring kind.

I ought not to repeat them, because I do not believe them, they are too ridiculous. But you are a well-connected man and they will reach your ears sooner or later, so I really might as well tell you; apparently the Nine are planning an assault on the hospital and the cathedral. Not one of physical force, you understand—one of diktat. For Siena’s hospital: a meticulous inventory of their assets and a regimen limiting their tax-free entitlements. For Siena’s cathedral: the creation of a new “official,” a secular bureaucrat who would mediate between the church and the Nine, and be ever present. Well, it is very far-fetched.

And devilish?

Must you be so glib, Maestro Simone? I do not concern myself with the little schemes Siena’s government might or might not be
concocting, I have no time for it. But Signor Rettore and I agree that our institutions, or rather God’s, could cooperate much more. We acknowledge that we can be of unique help to each other.

There. The bishop has all but told the artist he and Rettore Giovanni di Tese Tolomei have formed an alliance. No, Simone sneers inwardly, more than an alliance; they are in cahoots. He pictures the handshake: one hand gnarled and sinewy, covered in the spots of age, clasping the other, plump and pink, the jewels on their knuckles knocking together. What Vescovo Donusdeo dei Malavolti says next confirms his suspicions.

I understand you are planning a trip to Avignon, Maestro? If you manage to have a private moment with the Pope, please convey my personal greetings to him as his humble servant, admirer, and brother.

You are misinformed. I have not yet made up my mind about going to Avignon. If I make the journey, I will of course pass on your message.

I hope you will also consider putting in a good word for Santa Maria della Scala hospital. The Holy Father is able to bestow favors on the agencies performing God’s works, you know.

Yes, I am aware.

I was holding a light aloft for you. Our Lady would want you to remember Siena’s hospital to the Pope, I guarantee it, and I shall entreat her to speak to your better judgment.

The painter reexamines the sallow features of the bishop and wonders what precisely the rector of the hospital has offered him that has him so enthralled? Something more than mere strategic advantage. It has a filthy-dark quality to it and moves Simone to change the subject. Tell me, Vescovo, when does the Opera del Duomo expect their new altarpiece?

By the feast of Saint Ansanus, on the first day of December.

That is less than two years hence, but not inconceivable.

Considerably less than two years. They want it by this coming feast of Saint Ansanus.

Simone Martini stares at Vescovo Donusdeo but does not speak. The acquisition of materials, carpentry, and gold-beating alone would normally take at least a year.

If the bishop perceives a problem, his face does not betray him. He waits serenely for Simone’s reply.

The artist’s mind turns to the wife he will neglect if he accepts this commission, and intuitively he recalls her birthday and the gift he gave, her intake of breath when she saw it, the gratification to have chosen a present she adores . . . and his annoyance when she insisted on having her fortune told (it was her birthday, he could not refuse her whim). A card was turned over for him, La Papessa. He says aloud, I have a condition before I agree.

A condition? The bishop crosses himself and mutters a prayer. Maestro Simone, I am not a well man. I cannot vouch for what will happen if you presume to make demands. But you may make a request, and I shall take the matter to the Opera for discussion.

I want to do an Annunciation.

He recoils. Oh, my dear Simone. Extraordinary. I am amazed. What an idea. Oh. I am struck by your audacity. Are you sure this is what you want me to tell them?

Do you not think the Opera will approve? Did they not specifically request something new?

The bishop’s serenity appears to have deserted him; he succumbs to a vicious cough.

The artist does not inquire after the bishop’s health, remarks instead, Funny that you should approach me now, when I am actively considering retirement from painting—did I not mention it before?—in order to spend more time with my wife. She tells me I have made my mark on the world. I take her views very seriously.

Vescovo Donusdeo puckers his dry mouth and draws his hairy
eyebrows together, two caterpillars meeting on a leaf. Eventually he says, Can you do it?

Simone does not need to look at Duccio’s
Maestà
anymore; every inch of it is committed to memory. He nods.

The bishop throws up his hand in surrender and agitation. I do not know. I shall have to make a very thoughtful argument. Some may call it controversial, but if it were done correctly, if it conveyed Our Lady’s obedience and piety . . . on balance I am cautiously optimistic that the officials of the Opera del Duomo could be—how shall we say?—
persuaded
to take a risk on a talent as unique as yours. After proper consultation and prayer, of course. An Annunciation, then! Congratulations, Maestro Simone, we are thrilled to have engaged you for this commission. There is one further detail I ought to tell you, although it is of such little consequence.

Three girls, including Laura Agnelli, kneel or crouch by baskets of almonds, shelling and grinding. It is hard, repetitive work. Imelda calls it peasant work, and moans that the land laborers should do it, not the daughters of Santa Maria della Scala. The almonds they have done are paltry in number, while the almonds left to do seem hardly to have reduced in volume. They will be at this for hours, aching and numb afterward, sick of the sight and smell. The time would pass better were talking permitted. The noise of the scraping makes discreet conversation difficult; nonetheless Imelda manages to mutter some of her complaints into Gisila’s ear.