Читать книгу The Woman in the Painting - Kerry Postle - Страница 11

A flurry of prospective patrons with a penchant for portraits patrolled the workshop over the following days and weeks. Now there’s a sentence I couldn’t have said at the time. I kept my head down and worked hard. My father’s ire was – for the moment – appeased. And though, after that first day at Sebastiano’s, I’d been demoted to mopper-upper (all because I’d got the name of a painting wrong), I very quickly worked my way up to brush cleaner. Giulio said I was the best. The best brush cleaner he’d ever seen. And, very recently, I had been called on to grind pigments. At last. The job I’d had when I was at Michelangelo’s was mine once more. Giulio had seen to that.

Giulio had a very special talent when it came to drawing that was in great demand. And the guilt he’d felt at the humiliation he’d caused me had prompted him to use his particular drawing skills to help me out. He had an excellent hand and eye when it came to drawing the human form, and Taddeo, in charge of assigning jobs in the studio, had a greedy interest in Giulio’s particular line of work. He was so hungry to accept Giulio’s latest drawing of a young woman, undressed, that he overlooked the fact that I might need training for one of the jobs I was soon going to be called upon to do. That I was managing to grind Verona green, umber, sienna, until I could hide behind their undulating hills of colour, must have misled him. But for now, we had no idea what disaster lurked up ahead. For both of us.

It was a Tuesday, the day that wretched girl came. Or was supposed to. I’d seen her once or twice. She was more graceful than in Sebastiano’s, admittedly unfinished, portrait of her, her features less lumpen. She’d been unreliable of late, and her blatant lack of respect for the maestro divided the apprentices, shocking some (Taddeo and myself), entertaining others (Giulio and everyone else). Out of all the people to pass through the studio, she was the only one who’d ever said buongiorno to me. But I still didn’t like her.

And now Sebastiano was waiting for her to arrive. He paced the studio floor, starting each time a would-be patron came through the door. His face forced a smile as noble after noble looked round the studio with a view to securing a portrait of themselves. The rich and the vain of Rome, unlike the girl with the floury skirt, were queuing up to be painted. They had bags of money with which to pay, while la fornarina clearly paid in other ways. As I peered over my impressive mounds of ground pigment, I observed Sebastiano. His eyes smouldered like hot coals sparking angrily to life every time they caught an apprentice chatting, smiling, looking up from his work. I slumped further down behind my pigment piles. I could only imagine that the girl in the unfinished painting was late with her payment.

A common baker’s daughter, immortalised in paint by one of the finest painters in all Europe. At least, that was the reputation Sebastiano had. She did not realise her good fortune.

I looked on while the nobility of Rome jostled with each other to enjoy the same privilege, bombarding the maestro with questions.

‘Who have you painted?’

‘Him? Have you really?’

‘Her? Well I never.’

‘Them? How marvellous.’

‘Could I possibly see them?’

‘When can you start?’

‘When can you finish?’

‘How long must I wait?’

Interest was overwhelming. Portraits were easier and evidently more profitable than painting an elaborate fresco cycle for a church or a monastery, they needed less planning and were relatively quick to complete. Sebastiano must have been pleased when he’d turned his hand to them. But as I noticed the colour in Sebastiano’s face rising, caught the flames flickering in his eyes, it was clear portraits were not uppermost in his mind this Tuesday. I kept my head down. He could go off at any second.

‘Have you seen her?’ He drew close to Giulio, his eyes pulled to the door by invisible strings.

I clapped a pigment-covered hand over my mouth as I watched an interested patron reach out to touch a just-finished portrait left to dry on an easel in the corner. ‘The hair, it looks so real,’ he trilled with enthusiasm.

Sebastiano turned. The invisible strings snapped.

‘DON’T TOUCH!’

The nobleman jumped back. When the shock had subsided he glared at the artist.

‘Signore, it’s best you don’t touch it … per favore!’ Sebastiano added quickly, his good sense returning. It was one thing to shout at one’s apprentices and quite something else to shout at one’s patrons.

‘One drawback with portraits,’ he explained, his tone somewhere between apologetic and grovelling, ‘is the drying time of the oil paint … signore … and it’s a devil to get off one’s fingers.’

Still, portraits were durable (when ready), and easy to display. And fashionable. That made them desirable at any price. That’s why, shouted at or otherwise, this nobleman couldn’t hand his ducats over fast enough in order to seal the deal.

For the next few hours Sebastiano occupied himself with business matters. He needed to simmer down. He sat in a quiet corner with interested patrons, and in a special book he recorded names, measurements, family mottoes, interests, estimated completion times, costs.

But when the business had been settled, and the last of the noblemen had been shown out, it was clear that the maestro still had that girl on his mind.

‘Is she here yet?’

He stood before his painting of her and shouted. ‘Taddeo! I need— Fetch me— Don’t forget— Give me that—’

Sebastiano’s demands spread out across the studio like molten lava and not even my mountains of ground colour could stem the flow.

‘Here, boy. Pietro!’ Taddeo had found me. ‘The maestro needs lamp black.’

‘But I don’t know how to m-m-m …’

With consummate care and attention Taddeo trained me dutifully in the preparation of lamp black by considerately pointing to Cennini’s handbook, il libro dell’arte. Every artist’s workshop had a copy as it told you how to make pens, paper, brushes, work on frescoes, grind pigments – you name it, Cennini’s handbook could tell you how to do it.

‘Chapter th-th-thirty-seven,’ he yelled at me, with the stammer a cruel and unnecessary addition, I thought. There was no need to make fun of me. ‘Everything you n-n-n-need to know is in there.’

Sebastiano mixed lamp black with lead white to form the imprimatura for his paintings, the base for his portrait work. And so he needed it. Lots of it, as portraits were fast becoming his stock in trade. In itself lamp black was comparatively simple to make. And it was quick. The easiest way, according to Cennini, was to burn linseed oil in a lamp and collect the soot created by the process. It needed no grinding, and, once burned, the soot was as fine as powder. Even a fool could make it. ‘Lamp black. Sebastiano needs more lamp black!’ Taddeo shouted at me.

‘Is she here yet?’ the maestro’s plaintive cry reverberated around the studio like an echo. Giulio raised an eyebrow.

*

The following Tuesday the atmosphere in the workshop was even more tense.

‘The takings are down,’ Giulio whispered in my ear as he passed by.

‘B-b-but the p-p-portraits—’

‘I know,’ he said, cutting me off. ‘If he would only allow me to do them.’

I sniffed at Giulio’s arrogance. But he had a point. All Sebastiano had to do was work on the designs, start the drawings. The more experienced apprentices – Giulio among them – could do the rest. But the maestro would not entertain the possibility. Unfortunate, as he was experiencing artistic paralysis, the cure for which was that common girl. I willed her to appear.

‘That commission, the one from Pope Julius,’ Sebastiano barked at Taddeo, ‘is it here yet?’ That a papal commission Sebastiano had been promised had yet to turn up also did nothing to lighten the mood. ‘It should be here by now,’ the maestro muttered. Though apprentices nodded, they kept their eyes on their work, afraid to look up. Still, we all expected instructions from the Vatican to arrive at any moment.

‘Is she here yet?’ Sebastiano paced the studio. ‘Is she not here yet?’

A red velvet curtain divided the workshop in two: one area, closest to the entrance, for the apprentices; and the other, at the far end, for the maestro and his baker’s daughter. He had already pulled it up in anticipation of her arrival, ready to let it fall dramatically the instant she crossed from one side to the other. He had yet to finish his painting of her. Tongues had, initially, wagged with wanton excitement as to why that was. The maestro, it was said, was too busy fornicating with the fornarina during their sessions together to find the time to plunge his paintbrush in his paints and get the work done. But that wasn’t it, even though many of the younger apprentices held on to this illusion and even though, I suspected, the maestro would have wanted it so.

No, the reason he hadn’t finished his painting of her was down to the fact that she rarely turned up. And many of the apprentices were now beginning to lose interest in the girl, the maestro, their supposed relationship, and the painting.

Giulio was taking a break from grinding lapis lazuli to make pens, some fine, some broad. He’d been instructed to make six of each. I was tempted then to ask why he had twenty quills ready instead of twelve. But I already knew the answer. He was stealing them. Out of defiance. But also because he needed them. I’d seen him slip charcoal into his pockets before, that he’d used to pursue his sideline in unsavoury drawings. I wondered that his pockets weren’t bulging. I looked at them and saw that they were.

‘Where is she?’ Meanwhile Sebastiano’s frustration spread out over the studio like a barbed net, causing apprentices to jump and writhe and pray that the girl would arrive soon and put them all out of their misery.

Giulio breathed in deeply. Both eyebrows rose. He glanced at me. He’d had enough. Mischief danced across his features.

He rummaged round his bag and pulled out a miniature portrait – a copy, no doubt, that he had made himself. It was of a young man, handsome, and clothed. Giulio passed it round the squirming apprentices as if it had soothing powers.

‘Look. This is a portrait of Raphael of Urbino, the artist. He’s recently arrived here in Rome.’

At the mention of Raphael’s name, I felt the pain in my leg where Michelangelo had kicked me, imagined my father’s knuckles as they twitched at his sides. I kept well away. Taddeo’s beady eyes were everywhere and I could not afford to get into any further trouble. Giulio on the other hand seemed to laugh in the face of fate. And fortune seemed to favour him.

‘Giulio! You need to be quicker.’ Taddeo’s voice was all authority. Giulio’s face was all scorn. You couldn’t rush Giulio Romano and to do so made him slow down intentionally. He put down the quills he’d been working on, stretched out his arms high above his head then gave a yawn. Taddeo scuttled back to his place.

Meanwhile, the miniature portrait had made its way around nearly every workbench, dazzling the eye and mind of each apprentice and elevating them above Sebastiano’s net of barbs. Raphael. Quite the hero, and to see his likeness confirmed it. The apprentices at the workbench nearest to Taddeo had put down their tools in anticipation. Unable to resist, they huddled round the boy currently looking at it.

‘Is that him? Is that Raphael?’

It did not matter that the words were whispered, barely audible to the human ear. Sebastiano had heard them. Like a hunting dog, and Michelangelo before him, he sniffed the air.

‘That’s Raphael?’ ‘Is that Raphael?’ ‘Raph—?’ Excitement had rendered the apprentices oblivious.

Sebastiano threw his paintbrush to the floor and roared.

‘I never, NEVER, want to hear that name in here again. Understand?’ The voices of the young apprentices died instantly; the miniature was hastily pushed under a pile of sketches.

‘What’s the time?’ Sebastiano asked.

‘Half past ten.’

‘I know it is, Taddeo. I know what the time is, you halfwit!’ Sebastiano said. ‘But where is she? That’s what I want to know, you oaf. Where is she?’

The maestro stormed off, wearing his bad mood like an aura around his head. He stood before his portrait of the baker’s daughter, as if willing her to step out of the picture.

The apprentices pulled out the miniature again, the urge to see this now forbidden young artist more irresistible than ever. ‘Nature made him then broke the mould,’ one of them said with appreciation, taking care not to mention the artist by name. I was sure I’d heard that phrase somewhere before, but, while I struggled to place it, Taddeo, with eyes cruel and greedy as a tyrant’s, marched over to see what was going on.

That tyranny begets tyranny was never borne out so clearly. Within seconds he had prised the portrait from their hands and was holding it up. He shot a look of victory in Giulio’s direction. His mouth was open, about to chastise the apprentices for wasting time. Then he heard the cry.

‘Taddeo!’

Sebastiano’s faithful assistant glanced up at the portrait in his hand. He lowered his eyes. They met the maestro’s, recognised what was coming next. Taddeo’s eyelids flapped wildly, as if by blinking alone he could become airborne and escape. Beads of sweat broke out across his forehead.

‘It wasn’t me … It was them … They had it … I …’ He mumbled his excuses. A spurt of pleasure shot through me as I watched his suffering. At once unfair and so deserved.

Sebastiano thundered over and snatched the offensive image out of the faithful Taddeo’s hands.

He looked at it.

If the mention of the young artist’s name had irked him already, the sight of Raphael’s image up close put him in the foulest of tempers. Dark clouds marred Sebastiano’s features like flies on rotting flesh. I glanced over at Giulio. He had a knowing look upon his face. It gave me a secret thrill to see it.

Sebastiano, miniature in hand, went over to the far side of the workshop to where his easel was set up. He smashed the perfect image down on a nearby table. ‘Damn that wastrel from Urbino!’

He returned to pacing. This time we all hid behind our work.

‘Have we no letter from the Vatican yet?’ he shouted, pushing the miniature away. We’d heard a workshop was being set up for Raphael. He had wealthy patrons, said to be friends of the Pope. ‘Look at him!’ Sebastiano said to himself, glowering at the likeness as if it were alive, ‘as beardless as a young girl!’ Several of the apprentices came out of hiding. They dragged strange sounds from their mouths and nodded, thinking they’d been called on to agree. They had not.

‘Who asked you?’ Sebastiano growled at their forced laughter and nodding heads. ‘Go back to your work. Now!’

I looked towards the entrance, attracted by a sudden movement. And there, framed in the doorway with her eyebrows raised in mockery at the commotion, stood the girl. The girl the maestro had been waiting for. Here. In the studio. At last. Knowing I’d seen her, she glided in.

Sebastiano, his face blanching at the sight of her, ran to pull the heavy red velvet drape down, an action he had been waiting to perform for such a long time. She made her way to the table, intrigued no doubt to see the face of the man who had provoked the scene she’d just caught the tail of. She picked up the small portrait and gave an approving smile. Her face opened up like a flower in the sunshine at the sight of it.

Sebastiano noticed. His already cloud-eaten face turned blacker still. He tugged on the curtain repeatedly. It resisted his pull.

‘Damn! Damn!’

The atmosphere in the studio cranked up to thunderous; in an instant the velvet curtain had crashed to the floor.

‘Take it to the side, for heaven’s sake!’ At the flick of his wrist he conjured up two apprentices. They scuttled over and made the curtain disappear.

The girl was still waiting. Still amused. Still unperturbed.

‘It’s too warm to be wearing this,’ she said, as she picked up the fur-lined cape hanging over the back of her chair. She draped it over her left shoulder nevertheless, while stooping over to pick up a laurel wreath from her basket. She wore it on her head like a green crown. I watched her, grateful for the patches of light and pockets of calm she had brought in with her. The maestro’s bad temper, like a poison-tipped arrow, breached the walls of almost every other person in the studio, while she remained inviolate.

We had never observed Sebastiano paint this model before, though we’d occasionally heard them behind the velvet. We liked to imagine the scene, full of lust and desire. But today, with no curtain to shield our eyes, nor fuel our imaginations, we would get the opportunity to see Sebastiano and his model in the flesh. There was a sufficient whiff of excitement at the prospect to cut through the dark clouds of the morning.

We buried our heads in cleaning, grinding, planning, sketching. Every apprentice made the workshop seem busy. The noises of wooden brushes dropping on floors, paper tearing, knives cutting, chair legs scraping, had the space filled with life so that Sebastiano and his model would soon believe that no one was interested in what they were doing or saying.

But we were.

Whenever we looked something up in the Cennini, or asked a fellow apprentice for some help, we watched out of the corners of our eyes. Our maestro performed his role much as we’d envisaged, with the wandering hands of an attentive paramour. Yet his model seemed to have forgotten the yielding lines our heads had written for her, replacing them with some feisty ones of her own. She sat, her back straight, on a chair on a raised platform, bathed in the light that flooded in through the window.

Sebastiano went to hang a pearl drop from her ear.

‘Please don’t. I can do this myself,’ she told him, with a shrug. No, Sebastiano’s model was not responding in the way we’d expected at all. Sebastiano’s fingers dropped from her ear to stroke her face; she reeled her head back like an untamed horse. The maestro attempted to smooth down her dress; she brushed his hand away. He caught her hand in his; she withdrew it, a delicate hand from a coarse, ill-fitting glove.

‘I am the great Sebastiano!’ he said, smoothing his own dark hair back with disappointed fingers. His widow’s peak and pointed beard made his face look, in that moment, like a heart. Vulnerable, he cast his eye around the studio. Had we witnessed his humiliation as the girl rejected him? Overheard the girl’s insolence as she refused his help? Our studied concentration on the jobs in front of us, and our louder-than-usual discussions regarding work-related matters, reassured him. ‘The great Sebastiano!’ he repeated, as he returned to the task in hand: the painting of the girl.

‘Your hand needs to be pointing towards your heart,’ he said. Afraid to touch her now, he modelled the pose for this lowborn girl himself.

I stole a glance at Giulio. His eyes twinkled with tears of mirth. To see the power this model wielded over the maestro entertained him.

‘Now turn to the left and look at me. Look at me. Yes, that’s right.’

I too was amused.

Yet something niggled at the back of my mind. Who was this worthless girl to treat the ‘great Sebastiano’ so? And how could he let her?

There was no money in it. And, from appearances today, no profit of the sort Sebastiano was interested in either. Whatever he was hoping to get from her it was apparent that he wasn’t getting it. Nor ever would. I did not know whether to applaud or curse her but one thing was clear – she was not the girl we’d all assumed she was.

‘When can you come again?’ The sitting had come to an end and the maestro’s voice was little, beseeching.

‘I don’t want to sit for you again. You’ve finished.’

‘I haven’t. The hand, pointing to your heart. It’s not quite right.’

‘You are the great Sebastiano,’ she said, her voice mocking, ‘you don’t need me to finish your painting.’

‘You can’t stop coming. I forbid—’

The girl raised her hand. She looked around the workshop. It was silent. Conspicuously so.

‘Sebastiano!’ Her voice rang out like a warning bell. If she’d intended to bring the maestro to his senses, she hadn’t succeeded.

Lust and pride, a heady concoction, had got the better of Sebastiano the great. And it made for the most unedifying of sights.

‘You WILL come back … Powerful Romans pay a lot for a portrait by Sebastiano Luciani …’ Bitterness twisted itself around his words. ‘I have noble families queuing up for the privilege … yes, it’s a privilege … I paint you and receive nothing in return. Girls like you …’

She threw her head back and lifted her shoulders. She’d heard enough. ‘Remember, I did not ask to be painted.’ She was strong, proud.

‘I have an agreement with your father. I have paid him …’

‘To PAINT me,’ she said, giving way momentarily to exasperation. ‘And now you have. But as for—’ She broke off, aware that she had an audience. ‘As for all the rest, believe me when I say that I will not be bought.’

We silent apprentices listened on. Excitement crackled in the air.

‘Besides, my father needs me. There’s a grain shortage going on. It might not affect you, but times are hard for ordinary working Romans.’ She paused. ‘And you made a promise you’d be finished by now. A promise.’

‘Margarita. I can gi—’

‘Ssh!’ she hissed, trying to silence him. ‘It’s not about the money. All right, I will stay, for a little while longer, if you need to paint my hand. But trust me when I say I am deaf to all other entreaties.’ We waited.

But as maestro painted model, they said nothing more to each other. Pockets of chat and the sounds of work built up again. The show was over. For the moment.