The Passion of Artemisia (17 page)

At the Baptistry, we stopped and Signor Galilei stepped out. “I won't be long. I am somewhat acquainted with the sacristan.” He went into a building on the piazza.

Palmira grew restless in the carriage so I let her get out. “Stay close,” I cautioned. Immediately she ran behind three pigeons. She could scurry away and get lost in the crowd just while I blinked. I followed her to keep her in view among the musicians, fruit vendors, and gamblers dicing at small tables. She was attracted by a
porchetta
wagon with the pig's head cut off like Holofernes's and looking at its roasted body. I didn't tell her the pig was stuffed with its own cut-up ears and entrails.

The ragged penitent sat moaning on the cathedral steps. Her anguish didn't seem false to me, as it did to Pietro. No woman would choose to live out her days that way and look so unkempt unless compelled to by something stronger than her will. Palmira's curiosity outweighed her timidity, and she approached the woman. The pathetic creature wailed louder and Palmira ran back to me crying. The louder Palmira cried, the louder the woman did also. I had to shake Palmira to get her to stop. “That's not kind. She's a sad old woman and you're not to pay her any attention.”

“Look how dirty she is. Her feet are black, Mama.”

“Yours would be too if we couldn't afford shoes. Now behave. Here comes Signor Galilei. He's doing us a favor so don't be contrary.” I took out a handkerchief and wiped her face. “We're going to see where you were baptized as a little baby.”

We followed Signor Galilei and the sacristan to the Baptistry and together the two men slowly pulled open one of the massive bronze doors just far enough for us to slide through sideways. We stood in the dim light coming in from the high windows until our eyes adjusted and I noticed features I hadn't at Palmira's baptism—the walls of green and white stone set in a geometric pattern, and the flat, fluted pillars. An enormous, ornate silver cross on the altar held Palmira's attention.

I left her there and crossed the open space with Galilei. Between two rose-colored marble columns stood Donatello's wooden Magdalen in old age. In one shocking moment I saw it all. An emaciated figure with wild, hollow eyes in deep eye sockets, and sunken cheeks, ravaged by time in the wilderness, her hands close together, praying. She was barefoot, standing with thin legs widely placed, naked, not artfully nude, clothed only in tangled hair that reached to her knees. Only two teeth stood like tiny headstones in her gaping mouth. Her shriveled legs so far apart and her clenching toes rooted her to earth while she longed for Heaven. I shuddered.

“It's that lady outside!” Palmira shrieked behind me. She buried her face in my skirt and a burst of crying echoed in the empty stone chamber. Palmira would not be calmed no matter what I said. The only solution was to get her out of there quickly.

I looked at Signor Galilei helplessly, petrified with shame. “I'm sorry, signore. I think we must leave.”

I grasped Palmira's hand and hurried her out, but I turned back for another look at the Magdalen. Pathetic woman, still driven mad by her sin seventeen centuries old.

“No need to take us home, Signor Galilei. We don't live far. I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you.”

13
Venus

T
he next afternoon a messenger delivered a letter.

The wax seal displayed an animal surrounded by laurel branches underneath a crown. The Lyncean Academy of Science, it said.

Observations of the planet Venus? Why that particular planet? What would Pietro think? What did I think? I wasn't sure. His interest in me must surely be only fatherly. After all, he was old enough to be my father. I had inconvenienced him, and I didn't want to appear ungrateful. And there were definite advantages to being in the presence of Cosimo's court. Every gentleman there would be a potential patron, including the young sons Ferdinando and Giovanni when they came of age. I answered yes.

By evening, I thought better of it. I didn't know Signor Galilei's intentions. If Pietro were with me, that wouldn't raise any suspicions. When he came home from painting, I told him about the invitation casually, as I was slicing onions.

“Would you like to go?”

“Let me see the invitation.”

The knife slipped off the onion round. “No invitation. A messenger came in Medici's livery and recited it in verse. Quite clever.”

I looked only at the onion and cut more carefully.

“When is it?”

“Saturday after next. Late afternoon and evening. To look through a telescope.”

“No. I'm going to the horse races.”

Horse races. That meant he'd either come back elated and generous with his money, or morose and tight-fisted.

The whole city was a cloudy oven on the afternoon of Giovanni de' Medici's birthday. Sultry heat waved up from the paving stones and bounced off stone walls. The air was so heavy it would weigh down a moth's wings.

In the Sala Bianca a steward directed me to sit next to Galilei at the end of the U-shaped arrangement of tables. As soon as he saw me, he stood up and bowed and drew back the chair for me.

“Have you forgiven me for abandoning you to the mercy of the sacristan?” I asked. “I am afraid both my daughter and I behaved badly.”

“And I am afraid I have failed you again, signorina.”

“How can that be?” I asked.

“The clouds.” He glanced out the open window. “Venus won't show herself tonight.”

“Perhaps they will blow away,” I said.

Moving only one finger, he pointed to a banner hanging limp and unmoving from the opposite wing of the palace.

Nothing he said gave me any indication as to his intentions. More than once I found him not following the conversation at the table while absently scraping his thumbnail across the pads of his fingers. His mind
was
in the stars, just as those women had said.

Waiters served the antipasti of anchovies in olive oil and lemon, and fried zucchini flowers. People ate slowly, talked slowly, moved as little as possible. Even the laughter was slow and listless. No air entered through the open windows. Rivulets ran down the waiters' necks. Guests dabbed at their foreheads with napkins. Signor Galilei wet his handkerchief and laid it over my wrist to cool me.

We ate the
prima portata
, a savory pork pie with onions, dates, almonds, and saffron, while singers performed a
rousing song composed by Lorenzo de' Medici.
Chi vuol esser lieto, sia di doman non c'è certezza
, they sang. Be happy now since the future is uncertain. What a song for a birthday. Others laughed and set down their painted paper fans to clap, but to me it seemed a grim augury. I thought of Pietro at the races, gambling. Signor Galilei, too, seemed to have dark thoughts at that moment, though I couldn't guess what they might be. His thumb worked rapidly against his fingers.

Cosimo escorted his son Giovanni along the tables, introducing him as if he were a little man, though he couldn't be more than seven or eight. When they came to me, Cosimo said, “This is Donna Artemisia Gentileschi, a great painter. She is working on a painting for your mother right now.”

I quailed a little because I hadn't started it and feared he would ask about its progress.

“You will want paintings by her in your collection someday.”

“Someday I shall be happy to paint for you,” I said, and they moved on.

From where I sat I could see the dour Archduchess Maria Maddalena. She bore herself with pride, but she made no sweet gestures toward her boys that Cosimo's mother, the Grand Duchess Cristina, made freely. The mother's manner lacked the engagement and lively spirit the grandmother showed in honoring her grandson by reciting a poem dedicated to him.

I leaned toward Signor Galilei and whispered, “This archduchess of the egg-shaped face who queens the table with such gravity would not be flattered by emaciation and wildness of the kind Donatello's sculpture portrays.”

“But what are you painting for, to flatter a patron or to express an idea?”

“My own idea, which is not of a woman crippled for life
by exaggerated penitence. I had hoped to make her a heroine, but a penitent is not a woman doing a bold act for which she would later be proud.”

“Then what will you do?”

I took a long, slow breath. “I don't know.”

Next to me a lady waved her fan, and then thought better of the exertion and simply gazed out the window.

“The best paintings depict a specific narrative moment,” I said, thinking out loud. “I had thought of depicting the moment of anxiety outside Simon's house when she was holding in her hand the alabaster box of costly oil, waiting for an opportunity to enter in order to wash and anoint the Master's feet, but now I'm not sure.”

“You have read the Scriptures?” His thumb stopped moving.

“No. I just imagined that moment outside the house.”

“But you have knowledge of the Bible.”

“When my mother died, I was raised by the Sisters of Santa Trinità dei Monti in Rome.”

“Is that to say that you take the Bible as literal truth?”

“I am not a theologian. I'm a painter. The Bible is a rich source of stories to depict dramatically in painting and sculpture”—I smiled here—“and in song, which you say is the higher art. As to the absolute truth of these stories, that is not my purview. I deal with the imagination.”

“Bene.”
He leaned back comfortably.

“I may not have it right, but my imagination tells me that Mary Magdalene had a closer relationship with Jesus than her sister Martha had, bustling about serving food. He said to Martha that Mary had chosen the better way.” I looked at the archduchess's hands weighted down with enormous rings. “That's what I'd like to show in some way, that Martha's active life with her concerns about propriety and things of this world was less important, at the moment the
Master was teaching, than Mary's meditative life. The Magdalen was the sister who had the nature to dwell in a thinking plane occupied mostly by men.”

He lifted his wine goblet but did not drink. “By men only?”

“Virtually so. Look at the disciples. Anyone who expressed a reasoned thought, even just an inquiring thought—all men. Biblical women
display
acts of faith and spirituality, but where have you seen them engage in speech or inquiry like Mary Magdalene did with the Master?”

“What about the Virgin?”

“What has she ever said from a spiritual consciousness? What evidence do we have of an inquiring, vibrant mind? Do we have a Virgin's Prayer like we have a Lord's Prayer? The Magnificat is the closest there is.”

“Such an assessment would not gladden the Holy Fathers.”

“It's not that she is undeserving of sanctity, but you have to admit, she has come down through the centuries in near silence. At least Mary Magdalene spoke with a mind aware of another perspective and capable of reasoning.”

“If I might say so, you are like your Magdalen in that respect, which makes you an extraordinary woman, by your own argument.”

“How's that?”

“A meditative mind. Looking at things from another perspective.”

I nodded an acknowledgment at the compliment. “But it's difficult to convey any of that in a painting. And those not willing to reflect on a painting miss such suggestions.”

After an interlude performed by players on stilts, waiters served the
seconda portata
—roasted pigeons wrapped in bacon, and after that, figs stuffed with musky black grapes. No one felt like eating. It still had not begun to cool.

“Signorina, or may I call you Artemisia?”

“Signora, but please, use Artemisia.”

“Yes. I was much impressed by your participation in our debate over painting and sculpture.”

“An interesting discussion, though not my usual fare.” When had I had such a discussion with Pietro? I couldn't remember.

“Do you realize the magnitude of your success—the first woman in the academy? A woman kicking against the pricks of narrowness and tradition. A woman with a vision for herself. Very admirable.”

I couldn't help but smile at such remarks. If it were cooler, I could have thought of a demure reply.

Guests strolled out to the terrace and garden in search of shade and a breeze. Galilei made no move to leave the table. He pulled out from his pouch a handkerchief full of the citron candies. “An old man's indulgence.” With the handkerchief draped over his hand, he offered them to me.

“They're lovely. Each one is a different shape. Like molten glass.” I picked one out. “Or raw jewels.”

“The citron has done well this year. I grow them in terra-cotta pots at my villa. Oranges and lemons too.”

“Candies growing on trees?”

He chuckled softly at his omission. “Made into candies by Sister Maria Celeste of the Convent of San Matteo in Arcetri.” He laid the handkerchief on the table and watched them tumble out. “My daughter.”

“Oh. I didn't realize you were married.”

“I'm not.” He let a moment pass. “Nor have I ever been.”

It shouldn't have surprised me. Though not particularly handsome, he was an intelligent man capable of kindness, a man whose gallantry was sincere, a man easy for an intelligent woman to love.

“Strange, yes? For a man my age.”

“Perhaps not strange for a man in love with the stars.”