Chapter 6 chapter Five

The house is still rough and has little to do with God.He surrounded the nave of the chapel with a broad golden frieze, on which the sunlight came in from the side windows.He sat in the shade, beside a small table with paper, pen and ink, and freshly sharpened black plaster chalk. I walked in slowly, the aged Ludovica following me.Maria fell ill with indigestion.As much as I wanted her to be sick that day, you have to believe me, it really had nothing to do with me what she ate or why she got sick. When I went in, he stood up and kept his eyes on the ground.Ludovika's old age made us walk slowly, and I ordered a comfortable chair for her and put it next to her.It was only a matter of time before she fell asleep at this time of day, and needless to say, she would forget that she had.She has been my best assistant during these times.

He seemed to have forgotten the last time we met.He gestured me to a small altar lit by light, where a high-backed wooden chair was angled so that our eyes wouldn't meet.I walked up, a little embarrassed by my height.I think we were both equally nervous. "Should I sit down?" "Whatever you want," he muttered, still not looking me in the eye.I posed like a portrait of a woman from a church fresco: back straight, head held high, hands folded on knees.Not knowing where to turn my eyes, I looked forward for a while, but it was too dark; so I shifted my gaze to the left, and I could see the lower half of his body.I noticed that the fur under his stockings was frayed, but his calves were just as good as mine, and wished they were longer.I began to smell his body odor, stronger this time: an earthy smell mixed with a pungent sourness.I wondered what he had done at night to make him stink so badly.Apparently he didn't shower very often.

time flies.Very warm in the sun.I squinted at Ludovika, who had brought her embroidery on her lap, and she put down her needle, and looked at us for a moment; but even when her eyes were bright, she was not much interested in art.I started counting slowly with a limit of 50, and when I reached 39, I heard her gurgling breath in her throat.In the quiet chapel she sounded like a big panting cat.I turned to look at her, and then my eyes fell on him. Today's light allows me to see more clearly.For someone who wanders around the city at night, he's in pretty good shape.His combed hair was too long for the Florentine fashion, but it was thick and healthy, and it even set off the fairness of his skin.He's tall and thin like me, but that's not so bad for a man.He had broad, fine cheekbones, and almond eyes, grey-green with bits of black, marble-like, and reminded me of a cat's eyes.He was unlike any man I had seen in the past.I don't even know if he's good-looking, although that might have something to do with his shy personality.Besides my brother and teacher, he was the first man I've ever been so close to, I could hear my heart pounding in my chest.He didn't seem to be aware of me when he looked at me, but at least I didn't look like a giraffe when I was sitting.

"My mother said you had a fever." Finally I spoke, as if the two of us were family members who had been talking for an hour and then fell silent for a few seconds.After I confirmed that he would not answer, I tried to bring the topic to his night tour, but I didn't know how to start.The sound of the paintbrush continued.I turned my gaze back to the walls of the chapel.There's a subtle silence at this point, and I'm starting to think we're here to stay.But Ludovika will wake up eventually, and then it will be too late... "You know, painter, if you want to succeed here, you've got to talk, even with women."

His eyes rolled and I knew he was listening.But even though I said it, I felt as if I was being presumptuous, and moved the chair awkwardly, into another position; he paused, waiting for me to settle down again.I made a little noise on purpose, because the more I tried to be quiet, the more uncomfortable I felt.I stretched again, and he stopped and waited again.I finally found the possibility of mischief: if he doesn't talk, I can't sit still.I raised my left hand up in front of my face, deliberately obscuring his vision.Hands have always been the most difficult to draw, bony and plump, and have troubled even the greatest painters.But soon he was drawing again, so intently that the sound made me long to see what he was drawing.

After a while, tired of my futility, I put my hands back on my knees and spread my fingers until they looked like a wicked spider resting on my skirt.I watched the knuckles of my fingers slowly turn white, a blood vessel pulsating in the skin.What a strange body!We used to have a Tartar slave girl who had epilepsy and a violent temper.If anyone approached her, she would fall flat on the ground and convulse, fingers scratching the floor, her head thrown back, her neck stretched long and tight like a horse's head.Dad later sold her, though I've always wondered if he was hiding her health.Although it was a disease, it was often taken for possession; if one wanted to paint Christ casting out demons, she would be a perfect model.

Ludovica's snoring became louder and louder, and it would take thunder to wake her up.If I don't act, there will be no more chances.I stood up and said, "Can I see how you draw me?" I felt him froze all of a sudden.I could tell he wanted to put the drawings away, but he also knew that wouldn't be right.What can he do?Pack up his guys, turn around and leave?Or attack me again?If he did, he would be driven back to the wild north.Still so silent, but I don't think he's stupid. I worked up my courage and walked to the table.I was so close to him that I could see the stubble on his face, the stench of his body was more pungent now, it reminded me of rot and death, and I remembered his last violence.I looked at the door nervously. What would happen if someone walked in at this time?Maybe he was thinking the same thing, and he fumbled to lift the drawing board off the table so that I could see it without getting any closer.

The paper was full of sketches: a trial drawing of my entire head, and then part of a face with drooping eyelids, looking a little shy and a little sly.He didn't flatter me the way I sometimes paint Protila's portraits to keep her a secret, but that's me, lively, naughty and neurotic, hesitant to talk.He already knows me better than I know him. Then there is the hand I have in front of me, the palm and the back, my fingers fresh and round, lifelike.his skills It left me dumbfounded. "Ah!" My voice was a little painful, but also curious, "Who taught you how to draw?"

I took a look at my finger portrait again, eager to see how he painted it, to see how each stroke was drawn on the sketch.For this I will get closer to him.I looked into his face, and if it wasn't arrogance, then it must have been shyness that kept him silent.What made him feel so shy that he couldn't talk about it? "You must be suffering here." I said quietly, "If it were me, I would be homesick." As I did not expect his answer, my heart trembled when I heard his voice; softer than I remembered it, though deeper than his eyes. “There are so many colors here. Where I come from, everything is gray. Sometimes you can’t even tell where the sky ends and the sea begins. Color makes all the difference.”

"Oh, but Florence must be the same as it was. I mean the Holy Land, where our Lord lived. The sun shines. That's what the Crusaders told us. They must be as colorful as we are. You should go if you have time Look at my father's workshop, the finished cloth is piled together, and walking through it is like walking through a rainbow." It was probably the longest speech he'd ever heard a woman say, and I could feel the pain arousing in him again, and remember his earlier savagery, the way he trembled before me. "You don't have to be afraid of me!" I yelled. "I know I talk too much, but I'm only fourteen and I'm a child, not a woman, so there's no way I could hurt you. Besides, I love art as much as you do. "

I stretched out my hands and gently placed them on the table between us. My fingers spread out randomly and rested on the table. The whole posture seemed relaxed. "Since you're drawing hands, maybe you'd like to see them still, easier to observe than on my lap." I think Mom would approve of the humility in my voice. Eyes downcast, I stood very still, waiting.I saw him remove the drawing board from the table and pick up a crayon nearby.The rustling of the drawing board made me look up.The sketch I saw was placed at a slant, but it was enough to see how it was formed: the nib of the pen fell on the draft as quickly as many raindrops, in such a hurry that there was no need to think or consider it, and he and I were in such a hurry. Hold your breath.It looked as if he read my hands from the inside and drew them from the inside out. After I let him draw for a while, the silence between us became a little more comfortable. "Mom said you visited our church." He nodded slightly. "Which fresco do you like best?" He stopped.I look at his face. "Our Lady of the New Church. The Life of John the Baptist," he said affirmatively. "Quirandayo's. Oh yes, his cathedral is one of the wonders of the city." He said hesitantly, "There is...another church on the other side of the river." "The Church of the Holy Spirit, or the Church of Our Lady of Carmine?" He said it was the second.of course.The Brown Khaki Chapel is located inside the Carmine Convent.His mother directed him to that place, and needless to say, it must have used her connections, as well as his status as a secular practitioner, to allow him to enter that restricted area. "The frescoes of St. Peter's life. Oh, and it's held high here too. You know, Masaccio died before he could finish them. He was only 27!" I knew it struck him, "as a child I've been there once, but I've mostly forgotten about it. Which one do you like best?" He frowned, as if the question was too difficult to answer. "There are two images of the Garden of Eden. The second one, Adam and Eve are crying when they are expelled from the Garden of Eden... no, it's more like howling, because they are forbidden to cry. I have never seen it because of the loss of God so sad for his gift." "And before their fall? Was their joy then manifested as strongly as their later sorrow?" He shook his head: "The joy is not strong. It was painted by another artist. The snake hanging from the tree has a woman's face." "Oh, yes, yes." I nodded.Our eyes met, and this time he didn't look away in excitement. "Mother told me. You know, there's no evidence of that in the Bible." But speaking of the devil in women, he recoiled and fell silent again.He started drafting.I glanced at the drawing board: Where did these talents come from?Is it really God-given? "Have you been born with this skill, painter?" I asked softly. "I don't remember." He whispered, "The godfather who taught me to paint told me that when I was born, God was attached to my hands, as compensation for my father and mother." "Oh, I'm sure he's right. You know, in Florence we thought great art was a representation of the essence of God. That was the theory of Alberti, one of our greatest scholars. The artist Cenini thought so too. Their treatise on painting is widely circulated here. I have it in Latin, if you are interested..." Although I know that such knowledge is actually a show, I can't help saying: "Alberti pointed out that human How the beauty of form reflects the beauty of God, of course he had this vision partly influenced by Plato. But maybe you haven't read Plato. If you want to make a name for yourself in Florence, you can't ignore him. Although He never knew Christ, but he had a lot to say about the human soul. The understanding of God by the ancients is already one of our great discoveries in Florence." If my mother was here, she would put her head in her hands at my bombast, ashamed of me and the city; but I know he is listening because his hand on the drawing board has stopped.I think he would have said more if Ludovika hadn't suddenly let out a loud snore.That meant she would wake up soon, and we both calmed down. "Okay," I said quickly, stepping back, "maybe we have to stop now. But if you want, I can come back and let you paint my hands." But when I saw the panel he had put down, I realized he had got all he wanted.