Da Vinci's Tiger

by L. M. Elliott

  “And that, there.” He pointed at my cheek and spoke with a hushed voice. “That is a lovely quality, so natural. As I said before, I want to capture that coloring. But I would also like to convey that intense reaction of yours to the world, your steadfast curiosity and openness.” His eyes met mine. “The two together would be proof of painting’s superiority.”

  I laughed self-consciously. “I am glad my annoying tendency to turn red will be useful to you, maestro!” Surely he would take my cue and keep to more general dialogue.

  But Leonardo could not stop being an artist. His eyes drifted down from my face to linger on the cut and color of the dress’s bodice. “Yes,” he murmured, talking more to himself than to me. “The blue ribbon threading the bodice together is just the hue of the afternoon sky. Mmmmm. That and the deep brown of the dress will be a wonderful echoing of the natural hues of the landscape backdrop I am planning.” He seemed pleased with himself.

  He stared at my bosom. Although mortified, I also found myself proud of my new womanly figure as he did so. I was more aghast at the idea of not being bejeweled for the portrait. Not to present the riches of my trousseau—the clothing that still marked me as a Benci and tied my identity to my father and his success, financially and intellectually. Not to represent the social status, or the trade, of my husband. This dress was the simplest of wool, dyed the dullest of brown monachino, the color of monks’ robes. “But—but—signor, even your Madonna there seems to wear a sumptuous dress and a large brooch at her breast.”

  “Yes, she must wear such,” he said, “because she is a Medici Madonna.”

  I looked at the sketch and realized the gemstone and its setting resembled jewelry Simonetta had worn at the joust. Leonardo including that brooch would identify whom this particular Virgin Mary was inspired by and who commissioned it.

  Leonardo still gazed at me, now focusing on my neckline. “The stitching on your dress is also splendid, so fine. Its gold thread matches the lighter strands in your hair. It is perfect. Simplicity provides the highest sophistication, the greatest elegance, after all. Your attire will be the perfect framing of you, so that the viewer focuses on what your face can tell us about your inner being rather than tallying the costs of your finery or speculating as to your family’s wealth.”

  I was relieved that he finally had said something I could respond to rather than continuing to sit, annoyed with myself for being atremble with a disquiet that his incessant gaze produced in me.

  “Do you realize, Maestro Leonardo, that what you just described is the perfect representation of me as the Platonic love of the painting’s commissioner? If indeed my outward self represents inner virtues that are to inspire others to a more godly life? The ambassador must have described the philosophy to you?”

  “No,” Leonardo said. “Besides, I find it foolishness, this idea that a rose is merely a momentary expression of the absolute truth of beauty that we can only recognize through contemplation. I believe reality is rooted right here on earth, in nature. I also believe we come to understand our universe through active observation brought through our senses, not praying or meditating. It’s our senses that allow us to watch and hear and feel and then comprehend the processes behind the phenomenon of light, water, a body’s movement, a bird’s flight, or”—he paused and gestured toward me—“the blush of a woman’s face.”

  I stared at him. “You express Aristotle’s philosophies, maestro. Have you read his translated works?”

  “I cannot really read Latin, my lady. I was never taught and am trying to learn it a little at a time now. However, Master Verrocchio can and has told me some of these philosophies. Even so, I find experience to be a truer guide than the words of others.”

  His intellect was extraordinary given his lack of formal book learning. I mulled over his suggestion. Leonardo already planned an unprecedented setting for this portrait—a woman sitting outside her home, encased in the uncontrollable power of nature. His suggestion for my clothes would push my portrait even further beyond tradition. In such a dress I would be stripped down to my basics, the bare-boned facts of my face and thereby, as he called it, the motions of my mind, my heart, my soul. That certainly would be new to Florence’s high society.

  I weighed the consequences of such a portrait. Wearing the black scapular and a dress whose only adornment was the embroidery I had done with gold thread spun at Le Murate would allow me to pay homage to my beloved abbess and the world of learning and creativity she had fostered for women within the convent’s walls.

  Sing of us. Sing of yourself.

  “All right,” I said. “So be it.”

  17

  “OUCH!” I YELPED THE NEXT DAY. “OH PLEASE, SANCHA, rest a moment.”

  She had been plucking my hairline to give me the appearance of a high forehead, a mark of intelligence in Florence. Many a woman was tortured this way with tweezers when God had not thus endowed her—especially for important occasions and portraits.

  Flopping onto the edge of my bed as I rubbed my head to sooth the sting, Sancha eyed the clothing she’d spread out for me to put on for my sitting. “I think you have gone mad, my lady. This is a dress my mother might wear!”

  Her face puckered with disapproval at my brown dress. “Why would you choose such a garment, when you have this?” She reached for the rich red dress punctuated with a delicately loomed pattern of white lilies. It rustled and shimmered as she lifted it, and the sunlight played along its different weft and weave. Indeed, the dress was its own work of art. And its detachable sleeves! They were even more beauteous, a midnight-blue velvet, embroidered from wrist to shoulder with one full-bloom lily in pearls and gold thread and tied to the dress with long silk ribbons of red, gold, and white.

  Looking at the dress that morning, I wondered myself if I was insane. I had agreed to the simple brown frock, mesmerized by Leonardo’s glowing enthusiasm. Away from him, it seemed a foolishly Spartan choice, perhaps even disrespectful of my station and my husband. I did look so pretty in that red dress. But I had said yes. I would not be some simpering, foolish woman and back away from a promise.

  “It will be all right, Sancha. A magnificent dress would distract from what Leona—the maestro—wishes to accomplish. He wants to focus not on the details of luxurious clothes or jewels, but instead on what my face says about my soul, my inner thoughts.”

  Sancha frowned. “I don’t know about you, my lady, but I have plenty of thoughts I prefer no one know about. I would think twice about inviting people into my head.”

  I laughed. “But Sancha, it is such a good head you have upon your shoulders. I am grateful for its wisdom.”

  That brought back her protective smile. “Well, my lady, I do not agree with you, but I will defend you like a mare would her colt if asked about it.” She lowered her voice to a fond teasing. “And I will respect what you decide with Leona—oh!” She held her hand to her mouth and fluttered her eyes like a courtesan. “I mean . . . the maestro.” She grinned at me.

  “I—I—what do you mean by that?”

  “Oh, nothing.” She was still amused with herself. But then she quieted. “The ambassador is another matter. There is something about him. It’s clear he has his own plans about you. You know that?”

  I, too, sobered. Bernardo was a disquieting, alluring mystery to me thus far. All I knew for certain was that this portrait would solidify his friendship with the Medici, just as a hunting party brought men fellowship. And that he was a gambling man, of what degree Sancha had not been able to determine from her sources of gossip.

  “What will you tell your husband about your dress?” she asked.

  That I did know. I had lain awake all night planning my reasoning. “I will say it is a perfect way to draw attention to the beauty of simple wool, the mainstay of Florence’s trade and his shop.”

  Sancha snorted. “Godspeed with that, my lady.”

  But that conversation went better at breakfast than either Sancha or I had anticipated. L
uigi seemed flattered by my concern for the state of his beloved wool trade. I actually felt a twinge of guilt as he nodded and thought over my justification for the plain brown dress. It was the first time I had sought to convince him of something by using an argument I had fashioned and that suited needs of my own that I did not reveal. It felt disingenuous.

  Luigi popped a fat sausage into his mouth and chewed loudly. “In truth, wife”—he splattered sausage as he talked—“there are sumptuary laws being passed that might make your choice of modest brown better politically for me. I sense a growing discomfort among magistrates with the grandeur of display by Florence’s wealthiest. There is a law prescribing the number of buttons women may have on their dresses. Buttons!” He shook his head. “A woman is now allowed only twenty-two gilded silver buttons on her everyday gown. As if buttons were the sin that led to Satan. Plus, legislators just passed an edict prohibiting fur trim except on state occasions and special events like weddings. The tamburi boxes are stuffed to the brim with accusations of vice and sexual misconduct.”

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hopefully this mood is temporary. And certainly there are ways to get around all this if one knows how.” He paused and considered for a moment. “But perhaps it would be wise for me and my brothers to display a godly reserve in our cloth business and to emphasize how rich one can look even in the simplest gown—if it is made of the finest-quality material.”

  And so later that day, I sat in the afternoon sun while Leonardo sketched me. For almost an hour there was no sound save the scratch of his drawing, the song of a chaffinch, and the flirtatious laughter of Sancha and an apprentice in the front courtyard. And then Bernardo, the handsome master of grand entrances, stood in the archway of the studio’s inner garden, his voice booming into the quietude like a cannon. “Carissima!”

  Leonardo startled and looked toward the door with annoyance.

  Bernardo’s arms were filled with dog-rose blossoms. He swept in and knelt by my feet. “My Bencina,” he crooned. “How lovely you are. I have brought blooms for you, my own flower.”

  He held the thatch of pink blooms toward me. As I gathered them up, a thorn stabbed me. “Oh, ouch,” I squeaked.

  A little teardrop of blood glistened on my thumb. Before I could move, Bernardo clasped my injured hand to wipe away the blood, turning my thumb upward to make sure no more blood would form. Then he kissed it, holding his lips to my flesh for one, two, three, four, five spellbinding seconds before looking up into my face. “There now,” he said, his voice warm, his eyes caressing, “all better.”

  I knew I should withdraw my hand from his. But I was frozen, enthralled by Bernardo’s smile. When I finally made myself slide it out of his grasp, I lifted my hand to my heart and cradled the bouquet of roses close to my chest with my other arm.

  “Oh my, look at that, Leonardo. What a picture.”

  I glanced up and realized that Verrocchio had entered behind Bernardo and now stood beside his former apprentice. He beamed.

  “Forgive me, my lady, but if I may . . .” Verrocchio slowly circled me. Bernardo rose from his knees and stepped back to allow Verrocchio to study me from every angle. Verrocchio stopped, frowned, stuck out his lower lip in thought, and then circled me again in the opposite direction.

  He looked to Bernardo. “Your Excellency, I have always believed that hands and gestures, the movement of a body, suggest a person’s emotions. I have been able to do that with my narrative sculpture.” He pointed across the studio toward an enormous wax figure, still being formed for bronze casting. “I am creating a sculpture of Doubting Thomas. He will be stepping forward, his hand extended to touch the wounds of the risen Christ. I believe his gesture will convey Thomas seeking proof and help the viewer feel his crisis of faith.

  “Portrait sculpture, on the other hand, has always stopped with the shoulders. It does not allow such expressiveness. With your permission, I would like to sculpt Donna Ginevra from the waist up, with flowers, so that we see her lovely hands and how she cradles the blossoms with such tenderness. If I can re-create the sense that she has just plucked the flowers from a field she is walking in . . . Well”—he nodded as he spoke, more to himself than to anyone in the studio—“that motion would say so much about her leggiadria, her inner harmony and grace. And certainly it can hint at her vaghezza, that powerful attraction a woman has on a man’s soul.”

  “Magnificent!” Bernardo clapped his hands together. “I have not seen anything like that before.”

  “No, indeed not, Your Excellency. I believe it will be the first portrait sculpture of its kind in our great city of Florence.” Verrocchio smiled with palpable pride. “Thanks to your beneficence. But”—he reined in his enthusiasm—“I will need a much larger piece of stone to carve such a statue, my lord. It might double the cost of the marble.”

  “Psssssh.” Bernardo waved his hand impatiently. “No matter. Find the best and purest slab of marble in all of Tuscany. If I must, I will borrow the money!”

  18

  “READ THAT TO ME AGAIN, SISTER.” GIOVANNI LEANED BACK in his chair and put his hands behind his head.

  For about the hundredth time, I unfolded Bernardo’s letter. Inside was a poem he had commissioned from Lorenzo’s old tutor and friend, Cristoforo Landino.

  “And so I shall play with Bembo’s chaste affections,

  so that Bencia will rise up, made famous by my verses.

  Beautiful Bencia, Bembo marvels at your loveliness,

  which would overcome the heavenly goddesses’,

  which great Mars could prefer to Venus’s love . . .”

  I looked up at Giovanni and smiled with embarrassment.

  “Well, well, sister. Mars could prefer you to Venus? Are you ready to make . . . war?”

  “Shut up!” I laughed.

  He grinned. “Keep going. It is a beautifully turned verse.”

  “But he, awestruck, marvels more at your modest heart,

  your old-fashioned virtue, and your Palladian hands.

  He is inflamed with holy love, and the infections

  of foul extravagance are not able to touch him.”

  I sighed heavily, with rapture.

  To have such a poem written to me and about me by one of Florence’s most renowned poets was like being fed ambrosia. Poetry, after all, was my greatest passion.

  “Wait. He is inflamed with a holy love?” Giovanni sat up abruptly. “Ginevra, my dear . . . you know Bernardo Bembo is rumored to have fathered at least one bastard child back in Venice?”

  I felt my happiness falter. “No, brother, I did not know that.”

  “He has been ambassador to many nations. He has traveled a great deal. He surely has known many women.” Seeing my disappointment, he softened that news. “But none as exquisite or fascinating as you, sweet sister. I do not doubt that he is besotted with your beauty and your soul. All of Florence should be.”

  I brightened. “With the right inspiration, men can reform their ways.”

  “Yes,” he said cautiously, “some men.”

  “His Platonic love for me could better him. If the rumor you’ve heard is even true. It might be that some idiot has invented the tale to heighten Bernardo’s reputation for virility and sport to impress a certain type of man. Besides, all the ambassador desires from me is inspiration, to be his muse. Here, listen to this as proof:

  “And so, noble Bencia, having mastered such conduct,

  you arrive as a role model for Tuscan maidens.

  I admit Paris’s love and madness for Helen is famous . . .

  But now, Bencia, you are more beautiful than Helen, and

  your rare modesty makes you famous the whole world over.”

  I looked up from the paper with pride. “Think of how many times Uncle Bartolomeo berated me and derided the joy I find in books and learned conversation, my shunning of superficial flirtations. Here is a worldly man who lauds those qualities.” I smiled at my brother. “You of all people
, Giovanni, must understand how this lifts my heart. Do not spoil my newfound happiness.”

  There was a knock on the door of Giovanni’s suite. He rose to answer it, kissing me on top of my head as he passed. “How can I argue with a lady who is famous the world over and lovelier than Helen of Troy, whose beauty was so stunning it sparked a war?”

  I laughed, my good humor restored.

  It was Leonardo. Verrocchio’s studio was crowded with work as he prepared to cast the Christ figure in his statue of St. Thomas’s doubting. To get away from that fray, Leonardo had asked to paint my portrait at my home. But the light was poor in my narrow row house. Indebted to Leonardo for spotting the caltrop spikes at the palio, Giovanni offered a corner of his rooms in our childhood palazzo. I was to sit in the light of a second-story window facing into our center courtyard, where afternoon sun was gentle and rose-gold.

  “Good day, signora,” Leonardo greeted me. “How is your Zephyrus, signor?” he asked Giovanni.

  “Full of himself! Especially since winning St. John’s palio. He seems to believe his own legend now. I hope to enter him in Siena’s race.”

  They continued to chat about horses as Leonardo set up to paint. He had brought with him a board of poplar, sanded smooth and prepared with gesso. He unrolled the sketch cartoon he had already pinpricked. He would pounce the outline onto the board and begin painting after he mixed his colors.

  “Mind if I stay?” Giovanni asked. “I have never seen a painting being created before.”

  “Of course, signor. Although it will not be interesting for a long while. Your sister’s image will be revealed slowly, layer upon layer.”

  “Well then, maestro, you will have need of my company. My sister is not a patient lady.”

  “Giovanni!” If my eyes could throw daggers, my older brother would have been bleeding all over.

  But Leonardo laughed. “I think impatience is the mother of stupidity. But I am often guilty of it myself. It is the bedevilment of an inquisitive mind.”