“I didn’t know if you really meant it.”
“I don’t always keep my promises, Master Simone, but I do try.” She smiles, though the smile has sadness in it. He sees the poignancy in her expression at the same moment he hears the poignant chanting of the Carmelite nuns. She lays the mirror on the worktable, then unties the scarf and folds it, setting it on the table, too, followed by the shawl. Picking the mirror back up, she inspects her hair, adjusts the cloisonné comb in some infinitesimal way Simone can’t detect, and then walks to the easel. “Show me, Master Simone. How did you describe what you’ve painted—my ‘own true self’? Show me my own true self, Master Simone.”
Nervously, as if unveiling his very first painting for the very first time, the grizzled artist takes the cloth by the upper corners and lifts it. As it slides slowly up the picture, the threads catch now and then on the textured paint; the slight rustle of the moving fabric is the only sound in the room. Then he hears her breathe—a quick intake, almost a gasp. He dares to breathe now, too, and risks a glance at her.
He is shocked by what he sees. He’d hoped she would smile, perhaps even laugh or clap her hands in delight. Instead, she looks like a mother who has just witnessed the death of her only child. Her eyes are filled with anguish; her right hand flutters across her lips and chin and neck; her left hand, still holding the mirror, drops to her side. She closes her eyes and hangs her head, and her shoulders begin to shake.
“Oh, my lady, I have displeased you. I…don’t know what to say. Forgive me. Oh, forgive me, please.”
“You have deceived me, Master Simone,” she whispers. “This is not…my own…true…self. Perhaps it once was. But not now. I am not that woman now. Perhaps I never was.”
“What do you mean? Tell me, I beg you—I cannot bear this.” Never in all his years of painting has his work inspired such hope followed by such despair, and never in these years has he been brought to tears by a critic. Yet Simone of Siena, Knight of Naples, is crying now, too, and the chanting nuns seem to give voice to his pain. “Where is the fault? What is untrue? How have I disappointed you so badly?”
“You’ve put flesh and blood on your canvas, Master Simone. You should have painted stone instead. Marble, covered with words. I am nothing but stone and verses now. Even my heart has turned to stone. My husband prefers his mistress; the man who claims to love me sings my praises to everyone but me.” She turns away and steps behind the easel so she will not have to see the portrait any longer.
Simone does not speak for some time. Finally he shakes his head. “Oh, poor woman. Oh, foolish man—what has he done to you?”