1337
MARTINI AVOIDS LAURA AS ASSIDUOUSLY AS PETRARCH seeks her out. Whenever Petrarch is in Avignon, he dogs the poor woman’s steps, carefully trailing twenty or thirty paces behind her, scrupulously praying a stone’s throw away: close enough to see her, close enough to be seen—his melancholy face, his artfully downcast gaze—yet far enough that the distance is conspicuously chaste. For Simone, on the other hand, no distance would be chaste or ethereal if he were in her presence, so he steers clear altogether.
And yet there’s no escaping her, or at least the reminders of her; in a way, she trails Simone as relentlessly as Petrarch trails her. Scarcely a day goes by without some count or marquis or emissary or lady seeking him out, taking him aside, and murmuring in his ear, as if it were a secret, “I know you painted the lady Laura’s portrait for poor Petrarch. I have seen it—and such a likeness!” Apparently everyone in Avignon has seen the secret portrait…and yet he knows that is not so, for occasionally, to test the admirers, he poses trick questions, which nearly always trip them up: “And what did you think of the emerald necklace she wore?” he might ask, or perhaps, “Was the blue of her eyes perhaps too deep?”
Astonishing, how the small, secret portrait of Laura—seen by few but praised by many—has put Martini’s name on the lips of all. Petrarch has now written not one, but two sonnets praising the picture. These have been copied and put into wide circulation, perhaps by other poets, but perhaps by Petrarch himself, not one for self-effacement. Martini had been appalled by the poems, but he’d be a fool to turn down the well-heeled clients that the poems have brought him. One of them, Cardinal Corsini—even more prone to self-admiration than Petrarch, if such a thing is possible—has commissioned a portrait of his own dearly beloved: himself.
Between the portraits and the frescoes in the pope’s bedchamber, Simone is now laden with work, and gradually the death portrait of Christ seems less urgent. The pope’s frescoes are nearly finished. The twenty-four panels that crown the bedroom’s walls depict scenes from the four Gospels, although—high on the walls as they are—who will be able to see and appreciate their details? The frescoes in the window recesses depict architectural features—arches, columns, and coffers—that heighten the illusion of depth, making the walls appear not merely six feet thick, but ten or twelve, so His Holiness can sleep secure in the knowledge of the strength of his fortress.
Simone now employs two assistants to do the drudge work for him: painting backgrounds and draperies and inscriptions, freeing Simone to focus on what he does best, and prefers above all: the faces and bodies that everyone tells him are more lifelike than any other painter’s—and it’s true! He’s buried in commissions, working harder than he has ever worked in his life.
His latest project is a set of four frescoes commissioned for the portico of the cathedral. One of them, Andrea Corsini Healing a Blind Man, is paying the bills for the other three scenes, in a manner of speaking. The painting depicts a miracle that—according to the Corsini family, at least—occurred only a few years earlier, right here on the cathedral’s front porch, one morning before Mass. A wondrous event, if true, restoring sight to a blind man, yet Simone can’t help suspecting that the painting isn’t motivated purely by piety. The Corsinis have launched a vigorous campaign to have Andrea declared a saint, and the fresco is central to their strategy: “See,” it seems to say, “the proof is right before your eyes. You’d have to be blind yourself not to see it.”
The second fresco, the Madonna of Humility, is obligatory—the cathedral is, after all, dedicated to Mary. This one, too, Simone finds it hard to put his whole heart into. Perhaps he’s grown skeptical about the miracle of the Virgin Birth, but more likely he’s simply tired of painting mothers and babies year after year, especially as Giovanna grows sadder and sadder about her barren womb.