He motioned for me to take his arm again and led me to a statue in the center of the garden. “Yet another by the great Donatello,” he said as we stopped before it. “Commissioned, as was the sculpture of David, by my grandfather Cosimo.” He fell silent, presumably giving me time to study the work, for which I was grateful.
This statue, too, was in bronze, though it seemed to me that it must have been gilded with gold, so brightly did it gleam in the light of the setting sun. It depicted the biblical heroine Judith, her sword raised high above her head as she pulled back the head of the drunken Holofernes with her other hand, baring his throat for her to strike. A look of grim determination was carved onto her face, and it was as if one could see in her eyes both her distaste for the bloody task ahead of her and her resolve to see it through anyway, to save her people no matter the cost.
“It … She is glorious,” I said finally, knowing that Lorenzo was waiting to hear my thoughts. “She is … so brave, and yet so sad at the same time.”
Lorenzo cocked his head, studying the statue again. “I confess I have never thought of it quite that way before, although now I do think I see what you mean,” he said. “Perhaps it takes a woman to notice it. You see her cares and worries and struggles as a man may not.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “Is it not amazing how two people can stand side by side and look at the same work and see two different things?”
Lorenzo smiled. “You have just articulated my very favorite thing about art, signorina—be it statuary, painting, or poetry.”
He fell silent again, giving me another moment in which to study the statue. This time, I noticed two small panels propped up at the base of the statue. Each was a small painting depicting the story of Judith. In the first, she was walking through a landscape that looked very like the Tuscan countryside, a curved sword in her hand. She glanced back over her shoulder, as though about to speak to her maid, who carried the head of Holofernes. Judith’s dress looked much like one my mother owned, and her long blond hair was artfully styled and pinned about her head, just like a sophisticated Florentine lady. I felt myself smiling as I beheld her: her expression was troubled, upset by the assassination she had carried out; yet, unlike in Donatello’s statue, there was relief there, too, and hope. Hope that the future would bring better things, hope that the bloody deed she had committed would not be in vain.
The second panel was much more gruesome. It depicted Holofernes’ generals and guards finding his beheaded corpse within his tent. The viewer’s eye was immediately drawn to the lifeless body in the bottom center of the small panel and, more specifically, to the blood that oozed from his neck, now relieved of its head. The body was contorted in such a painful way that one could feel the agony of his last moments. No doubt the reactions of most viewers would mimic the shock and horror on the painted faces of those discovering the body.
“Ah,” Lorenzo said, noting where my attention had landed. “I am glad you noticed the panels. They are a recent commission by my father, as a gift for my mother. They have only just been completed, and so she and I thought to show them off beside their companion statue, if you will.”
“Who is the artist?” I asked, my eyes slipping back to Judith’s face.
“His name is Sandro Botticelli,” Lorenzo said. “A recent discovery; in fact, it was one of your betrothed’s Vespucci cousins who recommended him to me. A very promising young artist, as no doubt you can see.” He chuckled. “Though I doubt he will thank me for placing his work next to that of a master like Donatello.”
“His work can stand the comparison, though, I think,” I said.
Lorenzo turned to look at me, quite seriously. “Do you think so, signorina?”
Inwardly, I cursed myself for feeling the need to voice my ignorant, uneducated opinion. “I am only a novice in appreciating such things, as I said,” I excused myself.
“No, no,” Lorenzo said. “Please, signorina. I welcome your thoughts most gladly.”
I hesitated for a moment before speaking again. There is nothing for it now, I told myself. I may as well be bold, and hope that Lorenzo is as fond of opinionated women as he seems to be. “Donatello’s statue draws the eye first, of course,” I began. “It shines so in the light; how can it not? And I can certainly see why Donatello was a master, for this work is surely a masterpiece. And yet, even so…” I allowed my eyes to drift back to the painter Botticelli’s panels. “Donatello’s Judith is fearsome, distant, even though one can see the emotion in her eyes. She is magnificent and glorious, but intimidating for all that.” I pointed to Botticelli’s Judith. “Here, she is … different. More lifelike. I feel as though I could know her, as though I might pass her in the street. As though she could be me. Signor Botticelli has managed to capture such detail and feeling in only a small space. It is wonderful.” I smiled, a bit sheepishly. “As I say, I know not much of art. I only know what it makes me feel.”
“That is all one needs to know, Signorina Simonetta, truly,” Lorenzo said, his voice soft. “Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me. They were most illuminating. You have given me much to consider.”
I felt a flush of pride at his words, at his sincere tone. What a strange, wonderful place this Florence was.
“You must give your compliments to the artist himself, as well,” Lorenzo added. “I know he will be pleased to hear your reaction.”
I felt myself flush again as I peered around the garden. “Is he here?”
“Not yet,” Lorenzo said, “though I expect him at any time. He has been a guest of ours often, of late.”
I cast a glance at the entryway to the garden, as though willing this Signor Botticelli to appear. Having seen his work, having been so captivated by it, I found myself both eager and nervous to meet the man himself. An unexpected warmth found its way into my heart as my gaze made its way back to his paintings once more. Who was this man, able to bring such life to his art?
“But how rude of me,” Lorenzo said. “Here I have pressed you for your opinion, and sought to impress you with my family’s treasures, and I have not even offered you a refreshment.” He glanced over his shoulder and, summoned by this merest of glances, a servant appeared. “Signore?” the man said, bowing.
“A glass of wine for Signorina Simonetta, if you would,” Lorenzo said. “If that is agreeable, signorina?”
“Very much so,” I said, smiling up at him.
His eyes widened slightly as they took in my face, then he chuckled and shook his head. “The men of Florence had best guard themselves now that you are here,” he said. “That smile of yours is quite the weapon.”
I preened slightly under Lorenzo’s attentions, even though a part of me preferred it when he was praising my artistic insights. That praise, at least, I felt I had earned.