Caravaggio: A Passionate Life

by Seward, Desmond

  The Baptist sailed into battle with the knights, his gilded statue at the poop of every galley and his head on their banners. His likeness was engraved on many of the brethren’s breastplates, helmets, swords, and daggers. Several times a year his hand, cased in silver, was borne in procession around the conventual church.

  The Religion’s greatest feast was St. John’s Nativity on 24 June. During the week before, all seagoing was suspended; no boat would leave the harbor till it was over. At the vigil on the previous day, the knights heard how John’s father had prophesied that the Last of the Prophets “shall convert many of the children of Israel to the Lord their God.” On the feast itself, all the brethren on the island were present at Mass in the conventual church, when the sermon extolled the holy war against the foes of the risen Christ, promising salvation to all who died fighting in it or as captives of the infidel. The rest of the day, apart from vespers, was given up to banqueting, regattas, and fireworks.

  Caravaggio could have chosen no subject with a greater impact on the Knights of Malta than the Beheading of St. John the Baptist, nor could anything have fascinated him more, given his own ghastly obsession with decapitation. As usual, Bellori has a good description, having traveled to Malta to see the painting, which Caravaggio probably completed while he was still a novice: “The saint has fallen to the ground while the executioner, as though he had not been able to cut it off at once with his sword, takes his knife from his side in order to sever the head from the trunk. Herodias is looking on intently, while the jailer, dressed as a Turk, points fiercely at this awful butchery.” Caravaggio had succeeded in finding just the right model, beautiful and auburn haired, for Herodias, who holds the charger in readiness for her daughter’s gruesome reward. Perhaps she was one of the Greek courtesans who shocked Sandys.

  The largest of his pictures, it must have been painted where it was to hang, in the recently completed Oratory of San Giovanni Decollato in the conventual church, as an altarpiece between the Doric pillars on the east wall. The oratory was used as a lecture hall for the novices, and was more than familiar to him. Here he spent the night before taking his vows, in vigil before what many consider his masterpiece. It was his passagio or passage money, the sum paid by every Knight on entering the Religion.

  Understandably, Caravaggio was pleased with this painting, the only one he is known to have signed, “F Michelangelo.” It is not clear if he signed it before or after his profession; he may well have done so afterward, proud of at last being able to call himself “Fra’ Michelangelo.” The signature is in blood, or at any rate blood red, as if lifeblood streaming from the Baptist’s neck. The head is not a self-portrait. Even Caravaggio dared not shock his new brethren in such a way.

  The painting’s impact on the Religion, especially on the grand master, was overwhelming. We have to remember the knights’ intense devotion to their conventual church, whose decoration was the first item in the order’s annual budget. So far, it was a starkly functional building, largely unadorned, and therefore an unrivaled setting for so dramatic a painting.

  Caravaggio took his vows at Mass in the Oratory on 14 July 1608, between the Epistle and the Gospel, in front of his own painting of St. John. Having confessed his sins, wearing a red silk surcoat embroidered with a great white cross, he stood before Fra’ Alof. First, he was made a knight. At the Giving of the Sword, he was reminded that normally membership of the Religion was “by custom granted only to those who, by virtue of their ancient lineage and personal virtue, are accounted worthy.” He promised to defend the Church, together with “those who are poor, dispossessed, orphaned, sick and suffering.” Next, he was clothed as a monk, swearing on the crucifix to obey his superiors and live in poverty and chastity. He was given the habit, the black choir mantle with a white cross, and a stole embroidered with symbols of the Passion.

  The bull for his admission states that Malta would honor him “as the island of Cos honoured its own Apelles,” suggesting the document was issued after he had produced some particularly impressive painting, probably the Beheading of St. John. Bellori says it so delighted Fra’ Alof that he gave Caravaggio a gold chain and two slaves as a reward. He was doing just what the grand master had hoped—producing pictures that would shed luster on the Religion.

  Even so, judging from his small output on Malta, he seems to have spent comparitively little time painting. Perhaps he had difficulty in finding the right models, though whoever posed for Herodias was a woman of great beauty. Possibly he painted works that await rediscovery. He certainly produced a now-lost portrait of Fra’ Ippolito Malaspina, once in Ottavio Costa’s collection, which, no doubt, had been commissioned by that discerning patron. A picture that has survived from the Maltese period is a repellent Sleeping Cupid, the subject of which, with his swollen stomach, looks more like a dead baby intended as a warning for celibates against the joys of fatherhood. Today in the Galleria Palatina at Florence, it originally belonged to a knight, Fra’ Francesco dell’ Antella.

  Now that he had been professed, he would have time to dazzle his new brethren with his genius. But, if neither noble nor young enough to fight at sea against the infidel, was a painter really suited to the last crusaders’ calling? Not everyone on Malta thought so.

  XXIX

  The Unknown Knight, September 1608

  Caravaggio’s career as a Knight of Malta was all too brief, ending suddenly in his arrest and disgrace. We do not have the full details, but we can discount the theory that he was disowned by the order when it learned about the killing of Ranuccio Tommasoni. The grand master had always known this and had obtained a dispensation.

  While contemporary sources agree on the broad outlines of what happened, the key account is by Susinno, who wrote a hundred years later. From his vocabulary, it looks as though he himself belonged to the Order of Malta, as either a chaplain or as a Priest of Obedience, that is, a priest employed to serve one of the knights’ chapels. He therefore understood the Religion and its members’ highly individual mentality. No other early writer on Caravaggio possessed this sort of specialist knowledge.

  Bellori’s version of Caravaggio’s Maltese downfall is, however, the one that has been used most. He says, “abruptly, his disturbed genius caused him to forfeit the Grand Master’s favor, and because of a stupid quarrel with a most noble Knight, he was thrown into prison….” Clearly, Bellori had heard that his opponent was someone of considerable distinction.

  Susinno’s account is not so very different, but it contains one particularly significant clue. “Michelangelo paraded in front of everybody with the Cross on his chest, but this did not calm his troubled spirit, and he let himself be blinded by the madness of thinking himself a nobleman born [italics mine]. A Knight’s quality is not shown by pride, but by a wish to please. He grew so rash that one day he competed with other Knights, and he fought with a Knight of Justice.”

  If there was one thing of which every member of the Religion was profoundly convinced, it was the value of noble blood, descent from a long line of warrior aristocrats with unquestioned lordship over the land and those who toiled on it. God had placed all men in the condition He saw fit, and Susinno reflected the general view, that Caravaggio was insane to think himself the equal of a man who was a Knight of Justice by right of noble birth. Generally, other men of obscure origin who became knights through dispensation were gratifyingly mindful of their “low extraction.”

  Speculation about just what prompted the quarrel has ranged from a dispute over a woman to a sexual assault on one of the grand master’s pages, lurid fantasies for which there is not the slightest shred of evidence. The most plausible explanation is undoubtedly Susinno’s, that it was a fight over rank and birth. Some years later another painter-knight, Mattia Preti, also a Knight of Magistral Obedience, found himself in a situation of this sort when a member of the Religion began to sneer at his questionable pretensions to noble blood and his undistinguished background. After a few days, Preti lost his temper, wh
ipped out his rapier, and left the man for dead.

  Caravaggio’s haughty antagonist may well have told him that he was no more than a painter. It was probably a considerable time since anyone had spoken unpleasantly to Fra’ Michelangelo. As Bellori put it, Caravaggio “had lived on Malta as an honoured guest, prospering in every way.” He had forgotten that he had arrived on the island as a fugitive. The Religion’s flattery and his new status as a professed knight had completely turned his head.

  We do not know his opponent’s name, though Bellori’s “most noble Knight” sounds very like a Bailiff Grand Cross, one of the order’s senior officers. It is also possible that he belonged to one of the great families of southern Italy, since he had unusually good contacts in Naples. Clearly very important, and perhaps elderly, he was a man whom Caravaggio should never have dared to confront. The combat that ensued was much more than a brush with swords. No one else seems to have taken part, since no one else was arrested afterward. It looks as though Caravaggio attacked his antagonist in a burst of blind rage. He appears to have hurt him very badly, inflicting wounds that would take months to heal.

  Why did the fight cause such outrage among the Religion? Despite the harsh penalties, duels were not uncommon at Valletta, generally taking place in Strada Stretta. It was customary to mark with a cross the spot where a knight had been killed, and during the next century an English tourist counted twenty crosses in this street. What seems to have angered the brethren was not so much Caravaggio fighting a duel as his opponent’s distinction.

  Instead of rushing down to the harbor, boarding a boat about to sail, and escaping from Malta without delay, Caravaggio simply went home and stayed there, apparently unhurt. What makes his behavior so extraordinary is that, during his novitiate, his novice master must surely have made sure that the killer of Ranuccio Tommasoni learned all about the savage penalties on Malta for this sort of offense. He was quickly arrested by the grand viscount, the island’s senior police officer; perhaps significantly, he was not apprehended by the master squire, who normally dealt with errant brethren. Far from being confined to his house, he was immediately dragged off to prison, plainly on orders given at the very highest level.

  His arrest by the grand viscount, who seldom had dealings with members of the Religion, was so unusual that everyone in Valletta must have heard about it. Undoubtedly, the order was very angry indeed and wanted to punish him severely. Yet, if it did, it would face an international outcry for imprisoning such a great artist. The grand master was well aware that Scipione Borghese, in particular, could be counted on to make serious trouble, and he had no wish to upset the omnipotent cardinal secretary. Fra’ Alof may even have wanted to pardon Caravaggio. He had the power to do so, but, conceivably, he feared that a pardon in this case might upset the brethren. He seems to have decided that the simplest solution was to let the painter escape, and then expel him from the Religion.

  Caravaggio had done more than make it impossible for himself to remain a member of the Order of Malta. He had acquired the most dangerous enemy of his entire career. We can be sure of at least one thing about the unknown knight. He was implacably revengeful. When he recovered from his wounds, he would begin a carefully planned vendetta, and Caravaggio would live in fear for his life until the day he died.

  XXX

  A Dungeon Called the “Birdcage,” September 1608

  Meanwhile, in chains and under armed guard, Caravaggio had been taken by boat across Grand Harbor to the Religion’s state prison at Fort Sant’ Angelo. Landing, he was marched through a narrow gate, then up steep ramps into the inner castle. On the tip of the peninsula occupied by the city of Vittoriosa, Fort Sant’ Angelo was Malta’s Bastille, ringed by massive walls and bastions, surrounded by sea on three sides and by a deep moat on the fourth. It was constantly patrolled by sentries on guard against a sudden Turkish attack or a revolt by the slaves. Over the drawbridge, Vittoriosa was almost as closely guarded, its great gates firmly shut each night.

  The prisoner Caravaggio was thrown into the fortress’s maximum-security cell, a painful experience in itself since the cell was eleven feet deep. He had been in jail many times before, but never in a place like this. Beehive-shaped and about twelve feet in diameter, the guva, or “birdcage,” had been hacked out of the limestone rock like a well; the only opening was the wellhead at the top, three feet round and closed by an iron grille. If someone gave him a candle before the grille slammed down, he would have been able to see from prayers or coats of arms scratched on the walls that other knights had been imprisoned here already; one sad little inscription referred to “this living grave.” Since the guva was near a key gateway, opposite the well-attended chapel of Our Lady of Victories, occasionally he could hear footsteps and voices. His horrible prison was stiflingly hot during the autumn days, icy cold at night. Bellori may well be quoting the artist’s own words, if at second hand, when he says he was “fearful of an evil end and in terror.”

  However, Caravaggio spent only a few days in the guva. Baglione tells us that “during the night, he climbed out of the prison and fled, reaching the isle of Sicily,” while Bellori writes of his “fleeing unrecognized to Sicily, so fast that no one was able to recapture him.” It is obvious that in the darkness someone pulled Caravaggio up from out of his dungeon with a rope or a rope ladder and then lowered him over the high walls down to the sea; they also provided him with a safe conduct, so that the sentries of the most closely guarded fortress in the Mediterranean would not shoot at him. A boat was waiting below, because it was much too risky to cross Vittoriosa, whose gates were shut in any case. No one else is known to have got out of the guva and escaped from Fort Sant’ Angelo. The only possible explanation must be that he was “sprung” by people acting on the instructions of somebody very high up in the order indeed, presumably the grand master himself.

  Somehow, Caravaggio mysteriously acquired a large sum of money, enough to hire a felucca and pay its crew sufficiently to risk putting to sea at night, despite the danger from corsairs lurking outside the harbor in the darkness. Bellori and Susinno both say that as soon as he reached Sicily, he went straight to Syracuse, remaining there for some months. Syracuse was the nearest big port to Malta, used by the order’s galleys and transports, with an important commandery; it was visited constantly by the knights, who were frequently to be seen in its streets. Not the slightest attempt was made to rearrest him while he was at Syracuse, which serves to confirm the suspicion that Fra’ Alof arranged his escape.

  On 6 October 1608, the procurator made a formal complaint to the grand master and his council, to the effect that Fra’ Michelangelo had fled from Fort Sant’ Angelo. This implies he had escaped very recently. In response, Fra’ Alof and the council commissioned two knights to seek help from the master squire’s men in recapturing him and discovering how he had escaped. Needless to say, they could find no trace of him.

  On 7 December, a general assembly of all members of the Religion on Malta was summoned to meet in the Oratory of St. John, to discuss the case formally. A report, now lost, was read to the assembly by the master squire. It stated that Fra’ Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio “while confined in the prison at Fort Sant’ Angelo had escaped from the said fortress by means of ropes” and that, despite numerous summonses in public places, he had not surrendered himself.

  Wignancourt, who was absent, wanted the embarrassing business over as quickly as possible, presumably according to his discreet instructions. Instead of discussing Caravaggio’s assault on the distinguished knight, the assembly simply found him guilty of not giving himself up when summoned. A convenient clause in the statutes stated that any knight absent from the convent without written permission could be deprived of the habit, and expelled from the order.

  In front of the oratory’s altar, below Caravaggio’s Beheading of St. John, stood a stool draped in a choir mantle, which represented Fra’ Michelangelo. By a bitter irony, the worst humiliation of his life took place under a pa
inting many consider his masterpiece. Having tried him in absentia, the assembly of the Religion condemned him to suffer the ultimate penalty, the much feared Privatio Habitus, or Loss of the Habit, and be “thrust forth like a rotten and putrid limb from our Order and Community.” (This was the standard formula in such cases.) Finally, the black choir mantle with its white cross was symbolically ripped off the stool, as if ripping it off Fra’ Michelangelo’s shoulders.

  Caravaggio always refused to accept the fact that he was no longer a Knight of Malta. He regarded his admission into the Religion as one of the supreme achievements of his life, placing him above all other painters. But, whatever he may have liked to think, his attempt to make a new beginning after Tommasoni’s killing and his flight from Rome as an outlaw ended in irretrievable disaster and rejection. It severely damaged his chance of obtaining a papal pardon. No less alarmingly, it had involved him in a sinister vendetta with the unknown knight, though for the moment he was unaware of this. He was thirty-seven, entering middle age, and, for all his wonderful gifts, a hunted outcast. Despair might certainly help to account for some of his strange behavior in Sicily.