We moved to our own new house in March, 1503 on Via Della Stufa. I met Leonardo next month when Francesco commissioned him for my portrait to celebrate the purchase of our new house. He was living in Cesena at that time, engaged as the Chief Military Engineer and Architect in the service of Cesare Borgia. Refulgence of his towering and versatile genius had spread even outside Italy. Affording him was too ambitious for my husband, besides his engagement in the service of Borgia was immensely demanding.
Renown of his portrayal of Cecilia Gallerani of Siena had influenced Francesco’s thought of commissioning him. Leonardo had demanded an exuberant amount of two thousand florins. The amount could have compelled even “The Merchant of Prato” Marco Datini and the Duke of Milano to consider his commissioning. But my prosperous husband was so ambitious that he refused to re-consider his decision.
I had once seen him in Milano, before the Louis XII’s Italian war started in 1499, though from a considerable distance. The most respected intellectual of Italy was surrounded by his votaries and aficionados. But, probably I was the greatest admirer of Leonardo in entire Italy. Nevertheless I was not comfortable with my husband’s decision.
He married me eight years ago, in the March of 1495. I was almost sixteen that spring, when my father Antonmaria di Noldo Gherardini requested Francesco to accept me as his third wife. Though Gherardinis had lost their fortune and influence considerably, the name held good as earlier. For a prospering cloth and silk merchant, association with my family was significantly important. We had one son and two daughters by 1502. Though he was prospering with remarkable enthusiasm, it was not earlier than March, 1503 when we could afford our own house. He bought the illustrious house for twelve hundred florins.
Though he was prospering by leaps and bounds, parading one’s wealth was appointing Leonardo. Such an expensive exhibition of wealth might incite malevolence. One portrait, richer than a house, would avowedly not be appreciated. I had acquainted him about my concerns, but Francesco was one of the bravest men I had ever met. And resolute too. He had reassured me such delicately that all my concerns took refuge in certitude. It would have been mendacious of me had I said that I didn’t want Leonardo to portray me. No one was more able than him in those days.
Spring late afternoon of 1st April that was, when he arrived in our house after a wearisome journey from Cesena. I watched him entering our house with my husband from the window of my bedroom in the second floor. Before my husband could send for me, I stood in front of the mirror. A dark silk gown with a shoulder cape which held my loose light coloured sleeves was what I was wearing. The neckline was trimmed with golden embroidery. Sleeves were rolled back to elbow. I was wearing a comfortable yet firm corset underneath which held my bosoms unwaveringly, revealing my cleavage prominently through the low neck line of my gown. Though I let my dark, long and thick hair flow free I wore a black veil broached with my hair. Oh! I was so labile.
Our maid Taddea knocked my door. Composing myself I opened the door and asked her to convey her master that I would be there shortly. After few more moments I entered the salotto with as grace as a peacock’s train flaunt. He was seated on the most monarchical poltrona we had, majestic and demure like Dent d’Herens. Lustre of his wisdom and genius had illuminated the salotto. He rose like the risen Sun, kissed my hand and said as courteously as a man of his esteem could, “Buona sera, mia signora.” He was taller than Francesco, masculine than many Italian intellectuals, extremely bright and elegant, sharp nose, dreamy eyes with penetrative sight and shoulder-long hair. He was the charming prince of a remarkable fable. His touch awakened a reverberation of an undiscovered impetuousness.
Until the supper was served he played and talked with our children like no other of his age could. Piero, Camilia and Andrea were so gleesome that they refused to allow him for supper. However, he earned their permittance against unyielding commitment of playing with them entire next morning. Francesco escorted him towards tavolo da pranzo which was decorated in his honour. I had arranged a traditional short course dinner with Suffrito de Pollastri, Vermicelli and Diriola. Suffrito de Pollastri was a traditional Italian dish for generations, with chicken, special spices and lots of saffron. Diriola a custard tart was signature of Gherardinis. Lucrezia, our cook, had put her special spices in the Suffrito as the chicken was perfectly fried. For Diriola she outdid herself. Leonardo quietly savored each of the delicacies with satiety. Dining with a man of supreme excellence as him at the same tavolo remained only as a dream for many.
Vino Santo was quite rare in Via Della Stufa. Francesco had a business acquaintance in Sant’Antimo in Tuscany who was the principal supplier of our provisions for the “Holy Wine”. He served us. Leonardo took the same poltrona, while we took our facing him. Francesco started the conversation, “Signor Vinci, albeit not appropriate time this is as your lassitude has reached its confine, but please tell us when you want to commence your venture.”
‘Signor Francesco, I came here conceiving an image in mind which has lost all its colours.”
Thought of his refusal concealed my senses. Francesco also did not look unsecured.
“Radiance of Signora Lisa is far more than I had imagined that would be. Manifestation of such radiance can deplete a lifetime. So, amato signor Francesco, you will require patience to have. I earnestly hope that, my work will worth your patience.”
“Like the lady of Siena?” I interrupted him.
“Have you seen it, Signora?”
“No.” I said with a dull-witted smile, “Have heard about it.”
“Every woman is luminous in her own grace. Comparing is foolery.’
Such a statement to a blue could have considered as utter impudicity. But, he was Leonardo da Vinci.
He looked at my husband, “Do you have any provision about the tenure of my residing here?”
“Not at all Signor, he instantaneously replied, “You can stay as long as it takes. Hosting you is our pride.”
“Grazie, Signor Francesco,” with a little pause he said, “Lombardi pioppo produces best canvas for such works. You need to procure some for me. Will you, Signor?”
“Of course, Signor Vinci, of course. Whatever it takes to make her radiance eternal.”
He laughed. We laughed.
“But,” Leonardo said, “you have to procure that either from Milano or from Lombardi. They do not supply it to Florence.”
“I have connections in Milano. Let me know of the merchant.”
“That I will provide you tomorrow morning, if that is not inconvenient for you.”
“No, Signor. In fact, I was about to seek your permission for calling it a day so that you can retire to rest.”
“ Lisa can guide you to your room. Sarà lei, mia cara?”
I expressed my willingness and obedience with a smile.
“This way, signor,” I indicated towards the staircases.
He rose from poltrona and said, “After you, bella signora.”
Our guest room was at the first floor. The second one was for us and family. But for him we had arranged in the second floor. I guided him to his room, Taddea carried his luggage.
“We have arranged our study as your studio at the first floor. We hope your stay here will be comfortable. If you are in need of anything be kind enough to tell me or Taddea” I told him.
“Not until tomorrow,” he replied.
I was so happy. Indulged Francesco to make savage love with me that night to let him feel how grateful I was.
Next morning at breakfast, he gave name and address of the merchant to Francesco. Francesco arranged to send the details to his contact in Milano that very day. After the breakfast, with café in our salotto he told my husband, “till the poplars arrive I want to start with some sketches of her and want to see around for a place a suitable background that can be.”
“Splendido! We have arranged our study for you where you can work without any undue intrusion. I will keep my carriages at your disposal. And you will have to accept my sincere apologies, since I will not be of much assistance. The fair of Siena by Arte di Calimala of Florence is a place of fortune for cloth merchants. Merchants from Francia bring new designs, though Italian dyes are better than theirs.”
“I have seen their designs,” replied Leonardo, “those are really approvable. Wonderful art works, done by good craftsmen.”
“Indeed! Indeed!” Agreed Francesco.
“As our agreement signor Francesco, I will be enjoying your undeniably nonpareil hospitality till end of next month, if the poplars arrive in time. Otherwise, I will take your leave to serve signor Borgia. I will return at your service after two months. My services are of national importance there. Can I assume your understanding?”
“Of course, signor. Days of my hardship have taught me that for a magnificent outcome hard work and patience are greatly utile. In my absence, my immortal wife will take care of all the proceedings. I will depart tomorrow morning.”
“I wish you a mine of fortune, Signor Francesco. Now, if you grant your permission I want to have a look at my workplace.”
“Leonardo da Vinci does not require that of an obscure cloth merchant.”
“No one is obscure, until he chooses to be.”
Francesco smiled and looked at me, “Mio amore, will you please guide him to the study.”
“This way Signor,” I showed him the way.
In the study, on the easel was a veiled unfinished painting. Without waiting he unveiled the easel and looked on few moments. Then he turned to me with an inquirer look. I returned a concessive smile.
“Why has it not achieved finality?” He seemed displeased.
I had no apposite answer.
“Art is too great to attract your inattention.” He said with great umbrage.
I remained silent in shame.
He looked around the room and seemed satisfied.
I presumed his need and call Taddea to bring his painting tools.
“I will arrange everything and send for you, signora.”
Not till afternoon he had sent for me. He asked me to settle on a chair beside the easel. Observing me from a distance he came to me and removed strands of hair from my cheek. His touch again shivered me. He started sketching. I witnessed how he sank in his art like the pebbles remain absorbed in river bed to realise the resonance of its supple waves. I had no idea how long I remained in that posture, but definitely my senses were not in me. They were dancing in the same tune as each of the strokes of his brushes. “Are you feeling benumbed?” I regained my senses by his asking. “No,” I could say that much.
He observed me for few moments before he said, “Only an artistic mind can be sou motionless, Lisa.” He called me by my name disintegrating all observance of nobility. A strange ardency oscillated the very fabric of my existence. “Why am I feeling so disquiet?” My ardour was not for his ears.
“I will no more be neronian to you today. But I will prefer to look around Della Stufa tomorrow, if that will not be of much discomfort to you.” He expressed.
“Will tomorrow late afternoon be a good time for you? I will be occupied in the morning for my husband’s departure.”
“That will be perfect. Now, with your permission I will take your leave to spend the rest of the day with the children.”
Next morning Francesco set off for Siena. In the afternoon I told him, “Arno is not far, if you wish to visit.”
“Arno! This woman will never leave me.” He smilingly said.
“I will ask the coachman to ready the coupe. We can start in an hour.”
When we reached by the banks of Arno, no such people were there who could recognise him. We had time of solitude. Remaining inert with a steadfast and nonchalant look at the Arno, he said, “Does life always reel in a whorl?”
“Not always, if I know enough,” I replied in a diffident voice.
“Then why in every stage of my life I return to her?”
“She is, haply, ineluctable chapter of you.”
“Nothing is ineluctable,” he smilingly replied, “Until we conceive such.” With a little pause he continued, “I have never been at these banks of her. Such verdurous landscape!” He looked at me, “what did forbear you from putting an end to that painting?”
He hadn’t forgotten about that. I had no reasonable answer to satisfy his intelligence.
“Why to incept if not to conclude?”
I asked in reply, “Can you claim entirety?”
He remained silent for few moments gazing at me with a blank look. “Even he who is there in firmament above us all cannot claim entirety. I will never be exempted from disgrace of incompleteness.”
I apologized, as I didn’t mean to hurt him that he assuredly was, “I didn’t intend either to hurt you or being rude.”
“I am certain of your intentions. Not you worry.”
I smiled, though I had become uneasy. Understanding state of my mind he said, “You have no reason to be uncomfortable for what you have asked. A mind enriched with artistry has every right to be questioning.”
I asked about a rumour I had heard of, “is what people say about you and that lady of Siena true?”
“Do they still discuss about that? It has been more than a decade.” He mockingly said.
“Was it true?”
“What was true?’
“That you had intimacy with her. I mean…”
He didn’t allow me to finish, “Is physical relationship meant by intimacy?”
Understanding my silence he said, “You know signora, at my youth I was once accused with the sin of sodomy.”
My right hand flew through to mouth to cover my flinching exclamation. In widened eyes I said, “You were not.”
“Oh yes! But unfortunately I was not fortunate enough to experience the life of a prisoner.”
My wonderment was hunting for its limit, “You wanted to become a convict of sodomy.”
“They couldn’t land their feet on sufficient evidence.”
I was too bewildered to talk.
He said, “So, people talking such inapposite about me is expected.” He suddenly became staid, “Besides they do not know how to respect a relation. They, at every chance, refuse to believe about an incorruptible relation between a damsel and an unwedded man. They do not consider twice before spreading such heinous rumours about such a wonderful woman” He paused for a moment, “I was in my late thirties when I was commissioned to portray her. She was one of the most beautiful women I have ever met. At seventeen she was so promising. She was an ingenious musician. Her voice was like a nightingale. Her poetry was like the first flowers of spring. She was not from any nobility, which became curse for her. She remained as the mistress of lascivious Ludovico Sforza. When I portrayed her, he didn’t become Duke of Milano when I was commissioned. But his demeanour was no less. He married the granddaughter of Duke of Ferrara, when Cecilia was nurturing his seeds in her womb. I was court artist of Ludovico during those days. His passion for Cecilia’s portrait had moved me. Though I knew him quite a few days by then, we came closer during my portrayal. We spent solitary hours together. We met beyond the hours of portrayal, knowingly she was the mistress of Ludovico. Sometime we met outside the castle hiding all eyes. After all I was a court artist and any relation with his woman would not have been an affair of appreciation. Knowingly what peril could befall on us, we were attracted to each other like the insect dives into fire knowingly it would turn to ashes. My infatuation for her blooming youth knew no bounds.”
He again paused. I was too rapt to speak. Few moments later he started again, “Do not take my infatuation as prurience. Her youthful immaturity, her undeniable talent, her impeccable sense of music, her unfeigned and vernal poetry had awakened primordial and sincere affinity of masculine for a feminine in me. I had kissed her once, deep and passionate. A kiss, which could fade hours of playful copulation.”
He looked abstracted. We remained silent for long. Horizon was preparing to envelope the tired Sun. I was thinking of proposing our return when he asked, “Can we wait till the Sun is set?”
Setting Sun was never so melancholic to me. Mind was encumbered. He looked on to the Sun until that magnificent exhibition of nature’s wonder concluded. The lamplighters were illuminating the streets. He said, “Oh! I am being so selfish. Children must be longing for you,” as we approached the coupe.
Next few days he worked alone in the studio. In those afternoons and evenings we roamed about the Florence. We discussed about arts, about how different forms of art were going through a breakthrough transformation, how Italy and other countries were producing more geniuses and many other topics. Completely absorbed was I in his erudition and by his unimpeachable locution. He answered all my questions, even the most mindless ones, with equal patience and importance. I had started to wait for the afternoons.
At the breakfast of 14th April he asked, “Can we go to Arno tomorrow with the children? And instead of having lunch in your house, we can have there, like a picnic.” Children erupted in uproar. Though I was quite reluctant but agreed. That day he remained captivated in his room for almost all the day. At dinner I asked him about his absence from us. He smiled but didn’t reply. In silence, we finished our dinner. Usually, he spent some time playing the viol. But that day he said, “If it is not of much trouble, will you come to my room.”
Hesitatingly, after an hour and half of dinner I knocked his door. He was already in his sleeping gown. As I entered the room he said, “I hope my demand about tomorrow’s picnic was not of any objection you.” Suppressing the truth, I remained silent. “Your silence has confirmed my fear,” he said, “The arrangement can be crossed off.”
“No need of that. Children are excited.”
His smile looked pale, “Fifty one years ago on tomorrow’s date I was born.”
I suddenly felt so ashamed, but my smile was from bottom of my heart. I complained, “Why didn’t you tell us in the morning? Not fair at all what have you done. How can we gift you something tomorrow?”
He shone, “On the contrary I have a small gift for you. But you will have to be patient till tomorrow.”
“Of course not. How dare you to tell me to wait after the sin you have committed? You have to show it to me now and here.” I forgot that who I was talking to in excitement, knowingly his gifts can nothing be less than a masterpiece.
“It’s yet to be finished.” He tried to defend himself.
“Sometime incompleteness bears its own charm.”
“Give me this night to complete.”
“Now and here,” I remained unswayed.
Understanding my steadfastness he picked up a sheet of pioppo from his table and handed over to me, “Until the Lombardi pioppo arrives and I can start portraying you, this is something I wanted to do since the first evening by Arno.”
I turned the paper and looked at the painting. A lady was standing by a river, wind was playing with her dishevel hair, she was standing unperturbed and unbent looking at the setting Sun which had smeared a melancholic glow in her face with its own colour, her mirthless and supple gaze at incertitude had created an unworldly aura. Brilliance of the artwork had left me with no words. I silently looked at him with most definitive curiosity to which he smiled in approbation. I was so begone by the painting that I went out of his room without thanking him.
My mother was my father’s third wife and I was the eldest of seven children she had given him. Gherardinis’ wealth and income had shrunken to one farm and a rented space near Santo Spirito, as my father could not afford to renovate our house in Santa Trinita. I was merely sixteen when my father proposed my hands in marriage to Francesco. My opinion didn’t hold any good as I was presumed be to not mature enough to have the ability to perceive the significance of my marriage with him. I had lost my maidenhood before I came to know what love was. The first experience was hurtful initially but brought the unknown feeling of coition with time. Vehemence and penetration of masculinity had awakened an untameable pleasure in me. That was the prime traction which made me to like Francesco. Before realising that there could be joy of repletion and cession I gave birth to our first child, a son.
Painting was something I was always very fond of. In the initial years of my marriage, I did not have much time to spend for painting. After I lost one of my daughters in 1499, I again took up painting to alleviate myself from dole of bereavement. But painting came back in my life with a strange feeling. That year I had seen his work in Santa Maria delle Grazie in Milano – the ‘Lultima ‘tfe na. That mural had changed my conceived notion for art. And that had given birth to undulation in me with questions which I had never asked myself. Relation between man and woman beyond bodily was inexistent in my life. Fervidity of such poverty had made me inane. Perhaps Leonardo, unknowingly, was opening those closed doors of my life.
Next morning, children were awake earlier than usual in excitement. Two carriages carried us all to further west by the banks of Arno. Taddea and Lucrezia were taking care of the children and I sat with him. “Did you truly love her?” I asked. He did not seem surprised by such a direct question, “What ascends your conscience by dispelling all the narrowness and inciting your intellection and cognition is true love. Yes, I had loved her truly.”
“Then why didn’t you marry her?”
“It was not that simple. Marrying her could only mean going against Ludovico. And that could jeopardise her entire poor family. But tell me, why an affair of love must mature to marriage?”
He had again started surprising me, “I sincerely hope you do not mean it?”
“Why should I not mean it?”
“It is illicit.”
“Why? Since it is not accepted by many?”
“Marriage is holy. It is bondage of trust, love, respect, loyalty. Denial is not wise. Dissenting is blasphemy.”
He laughed, “Poor woman, you will never know the freedom lies beyond.”
His words made me unstable. What freedom was he talking about? Freedom from what? I asked, “What freedom can possibly lie beyond holy wedlock? Why does one need to know of this freedom?”
“Marriage,” he answered, “legitimatises sexual rights. You can enjoy each other’s body lawfully if you are married, irrespective of presence of love. Could not have been any better bondage there than marriage to make ravishment law-abiding. Foolery will be denying that love may bloom after years of cohabitation. But what is the foundation of such love? Ask yourself. Did you know Signor Francesco before your marriage?”
“No, I did not.”
“How old were you?”
“Almost sixteen.”
“Did you love someone before?”
“No”
“Did your father ask your consent?”
“No. He told me that I was getting married.”
“Did he do it with your consent at the first occasion?”
“I was afraid. But he made that easy for me.”
“How did you feel when a man, whom you did not know enough, entered you?”
I, probably, had become red by his question which he had definitely noticed, “You need not to answer me. Instead, you should have asked this to yourself. You are a wonderful wife, a remarkable mother, an ideal daughter, but where is your own self? Do you see yourself in a mirror or the characters you play? The love I was advocating for takes down all the visors you wear and shows you your own self. You are someone beyond being daughter or wife or mother. And there lies the freedom. It is our right to know of this freedom. We are too great to be just of someone else’s.”
His words again plunged my mind in inquietude. Was I, then, living in illusion denying my own self? What was Francesco? My love? Compulsion? Or an acquired habit? Being contemplative I remained silent looking on to my children.
“Sooner the pioppo comes, better for me. I cannot indulge myself basking your hospitality for time indefinite.” He changed the subject.
“Have you decided on the background?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Which one? Where?” I asked excitedly.
“In my imagination it is.” He replied.
I smiled as if I knew his answer.
“Aren’t those little ones feeling hungry?”
I said, “Picnic is not what they can enjoy often. Haven’t seen them so overjoyed, so happy for long. A mother will be grateful to you.” He smiled and I continued, “You did not do any fair hiding this day from me till last night. I wish I could present you something memorable.” I took out a piece of cloth from one of the baskets. It was embroidery work about how had I seen him in Milano surrounded by his adorers. I had used only black and white yarns, as no other colours were with me. He observed with heed, “You have an artistic soul. What could have been more memorable? This will remain with me. You embroidered it overnight?”
I was feeling so contented and proud. “Yes,” I smilingly replied.
“Splendido! It was always there for you, in you. Never allow it to leave you.”
The day came to an end in short order as that seemed. We went back to home. Children went to sleep early. He retired too.
I took a bath to calm my untamed mind. Before going to bed I stood in front of the mirror to arrange my hair. Instead, I let it flow free. My hair was dark brown, long and somewhat curly. My hair was quite a complement to my round face with brown eyes. My lips tender like sunlight of winter, could smile in any situation hiding myself. Suddenly, to my utmost surprise, I undressed myself. Instead of feeling ashamed I looked at myself. Even after giving birth to four children by twenty four, I was attractive. My bosoms were proud to have quenched a man’s lust and nourished four lives. Yet they were filled with abundant ambrosia. My waist lines were like curves of both sides of Arno which will never meet but will complement each other. My womb, inside my belly, the most consecrate of the vessels. I turned left. My crescent nates gave fullness to my grace.
Francesco had always been an admirer of my appeal. I felt his satisfaction each and every occasion. I had surrendered myself to him. He always cherished my obedience, in bed and out of it. He savored me with immense satiety. I was proud that I had outdone each of his earlier wives.
But was that only the very foundation of our conjugal relation? Could he love me had I not been the same as I was to him? Did he love me for the pleasure I gave him? Did he love me for I had always been a good housewife? Did he love me for I was not demanding? Could he love me had I wanted to be myself? Could our domestic lives be so peaceful had I wanted to put my art before everything? He had never fallen short of his duties towards me. Respect and dignity, I deserved being his wife, he had always extended in any social gatherings. Not any single birthday I could remember since our marriage, he came home without gifts for me. He had helped me as much as he could in every household work when we could not afford maids. Even to make our prosperity memorable he had commissioned the most expensive artist in Italy to portray me. And suppressing every other reason to be proud for being his wife, he had always been loyal to me. Yet, I was having doubts about him? Or about myself? Was my loyalty for him unflinching? Why did I feel jealous, every occasion Leonardo praised the lady of Siena? Every man and woman would be drawn to him for who he was, but my reasons were far more than just his virtues. My body ached for his touch, my lips craved for the kiss that could overshadow hours of playful copulation. Even knowing that it was treachery, I never could refrain myself. Knowingly I would be confined in purgatory forever, I let my thoughts ran wild. Went to bed unclothed.
Ignited desire of coitus didn’t allow me to sleep. Harder I tried, more miserable I became. My sinister self within me was rebellious. Laying aside all boundaries of nobility, pride and relations I put only my night gown on to knock his door.
He opened the door with disturbed sleep in his eyes and was surprised to see me at those dead hours of night. Without seeking his permission I entered and closed the door behind me.
“What could possibly be bothering enough to bring you here at these hours?” He asked.
“Was that woman prettier than me?” I asked without any pretense.
“Every woman is beautiful in her own way. You need not to compare.”
“I am not a child and I do not deserve a diplomatic answer.” I said restlessly.
He remained silent. And each moment of his silence made me uncontrollably unruly. I disgowned myself and stood naked in front of him. I could easily read his uneasiness, but asked, “Now tell me was she prettier than me?”
He didn’t take his eyes off me, “Nudity doesn’t reveal the beauty. I was inclined towards her.”
Though I knew what would be answers, my eyes filled up with tears and I let myself sat on his bed, “I have always been loyal to him as he has been to me. I never disobeyed him; neither has he ever disgraced me. I am happy with him. I think I am. But I can’t find myself, my very own self. Well before I could realise, it was buried under duties of my domestic life. But she wants to be free, she deserves to be free.”
“Freedom comes only when you are strong enough to challenge your own limits.” He sat by my side.
I looked at him. I was not feeling naked.
“You can find yourself in your paintings. You can find her in whatever you do. Cease to be someone’s daughter or wife or mother. Freedom is to be earned and labour for such earning is onerous.”
“My family will not accept my denials.”
“I said it is not easy, more difficult than you can ever imagine.”
“No one will stand by my side, I know.”
“It is your battle and you will have to fight alone.”
“Will you show me the path?”
“You know the path already.”
“Will you come to visit us often for the portrait?”
“Not if there is no reason.”
“Procrastinate. Nobody will seek explanations.”
“Art takes it own time. Procrastination is an insult.”
“I want you to come back.” I was desperate.
“If it is necessary, I will.”
“I don’t bother about the portrait, but about you.”
He remained silent for few moments, “Your husband is my employer for he has commissioned me and he has agreed to my demand without slightest of negotiation. I am concerned about that. My return will entirely depend on need.”
His reply took me to the ends of desperation. Throwing the entire world aside I grabbed her shirt and locked his lips with mine. He neither rejected nor accepted. Time had stopped for me. After countless moments I released him and sat by his side. He placed his hand on my head and asked, “Are you relieved?”
Little knew he how far was I from that feeling at that very moment. Instead of answering I took his other hand and placed on my breast.
He smiled and asked, “Do you want to sleep here?”
I didn’t reply.
I laid down in his arms and we both remained silent for long. I had no feeling of guilt when I rose to kiss him. That time, he restrained me, “Lisa, freedom is not always in breaking the rules but in rising above the rules. You cannot find yourself through me for she resides in you. My entering in you will appease your body not your mind since it is temporary. It will leave mark of guilt on your soul for you are not adulterous. For momentary furore and debility you cannot impair the vessel that holds you. You have to outgrow the vessel by dint of your virtues. That is what freedom about. Life is the most precious gift our unseen parent could give us. Making it condemnable or commendable is what we decide. You leave this bed and room with effulgence of self-esteem this night or in the dark of disgrace and defeat tomorrow morning is your decision.”
I laid down in his arms for long in silence. All my feelings dissolved into tears. I rose and looked at his face, which was blurred by my tears. Before I left his room putting my gown on he said, “Your portrait will bear the grace of femininity.”
Next day the Lombardi pioppo arrived. He was so happy to see those in good condition. I was immediately informed that, from that afternoon he would start his work. I asked him, “Do I need any preparation?”
“Want you in the same dress I had seen you in at the first day.”
“I have more gorgeous ones.”
“You need to look yourself, not gorgeous.”
In the afternoon he started his work. He asked me to take my seat on a pozzetto with my arms folded. I rested my left hand on one arm of the chair and right hand rested on the left. He also asked me sit straight and look at him. He made a very unusual request then, “I want you to take your wedding ring off.”
“Why? This is my wedding ring, just not any ring.”
“Just a ring cannot prove your loyalty for him. But you, yourself do,” he smilingly replied.
Reluctantly I obeyed him.
He was not happy with my way of looking at him. After wasting considerable amount of time for correcting my look, he asked me to try to look away to an imaginary observer with a slight smile instead of looking at him. I felt, he was not contented with that look either. But he did not complain anymore. I sat for him for next fourteen days. I was not allowed to look at his work.
It was the evening of fifteenth day of my sitting when Francesco returned making a handsome fortune. He was very happy. After dinner when we sat in our salotto he proposed, “Signor Vinci, I want to invite some of our friends and relatives in your honour, if you grant us to.” He looked at me for support, which I immediately extended.
“You do not need my consent, signor Francesco. But I want to discuss about my commissioning and wage with you.” His tone clearly revealed that he wanted the discussion in private. I left the salotto.
Leonardo left for Cesena in next two days. He promised to send the portrait once completed. I never had to sit for him again. Francesco never told me what he had discussed with him, but he was happy.
My life and time were going by in their own accord. I was unassailable as the wife and the mother.
In the last week of February, 1504 a big parcel arrived from Cesena for Francesco. We knew what that was, but he wanted to unwrap that ceremonially. My desperation was somehow able to convince him that only we two, husband and wife, would see the portrait that night. When everybody retired to bed, we two spread the pioppo on the table in the studio. Time stood still, words were lost, and my own existence felt petit. He had drawn me as a virtuous woman and a loyal wife, in front of an imaginary backdrop having two regal pillars opening towards a green field at sunset. My upright sitting posture with folded arms gave me a look of a reserved, noble woman. My gaze towards the imaginary observer had emphasised my characteristics that he intended to portray. But, he had given an unearthly smile in my lips which definitely was not their when I gave sitting. He didn’t draw my eye-brows for giving me the look of a noble lady as that was the fashion for them.
I looked at him in moist eyes when he told me, “He had denied his wage.” I couldn’t believe my ears. How could someone deny two thousand florins?
We went to bed. I couldn’t sleep. Even after witnessing my libidinous self, why did he portray me like that? Did he mock me? Did he really understand me? Was it just for him to overshadow his own genius? Why did he refused take his wage? Had he feelings for me? Had he seen the lady of Siena in me? Why was I so concerned?
As life moves forward holding hands of time many memories becomes inexistent, many becomes ashen, some remains confined unremembered.
I had become engrossed in my domestic life. My elder daughter Camilia became nun in the convent of San Domenico di Cafaggio at the age of sixteen. But brutal destiny took her way from us when she was only eighteen. Our two sons Piero and Giocondo followed their father’s path. Sant’Orsola was one the convents in Florence which was held in high esteem among others. Francesco’s influence on administration of Florence helped me to build up a strong relationship with that convent, where we placed our youngest daughter Marietta.
Seldom, in those days of my dedicated involvement in domestic life, I could ruminate the memories of spring of 1503. Though a personality like him was always in news and I knew about him what others knew. He had moved to France in 1516 permanently retiring from services of Pope Leo X in Vatican. He had become an intimate friend of Francis I, the King of France. Leonardo was given the manor house of Clos Lucé in the city of Amboise by the King near his palace.
In 1519, entire Italy mourned along with France for final departure of her most illustrious child, Leonardo da Vinci. It was 4th of May when we came to know about his demise, two days after his death. Behind the closed door, that night, I lamented long. When no more tears were left in me, I realised how I had treasured the spring of 1503 in abyss of my heart - those moments by the Arno, on the streets of Florence, in his bed. Unknowingly, his words were cherished within me. But, did he remember me at all? Did he think of me, even for once, in those sixteen years?
Next morning the Sun rose in the east, as usual. But for me, the Sun had set forever. He had taken away all the fragrances of my life with him.
Life and time never stopped for anyone. Not even for Leonardo da Vinci. Years passed by. In 1538, a plague turned to epidemic which took away Francesco from me. Though he had provisioned a huge fortune for me in the year previous, I took refuge in Sant’Orsola donating my fortune there.
In an evening in the monsoon of 1539 a messenger arrived from Clos Lucé in Amboise. Prioress called me, “Monsieur Jacques de Brilhac travelled from far-off Amboise in your search. He carries a parcel which cannot be handed over to anyone but you. I will take your leave for evening service.”
I said him courteously, “Monsieur Brilhac, I am beyond any doubt about your lassitude from such a long journey. If it is not a matter of urgency I will request you to rest.”
With his French etiquette he said, “Signora Lisa, this matter has waited for last two decades beyond anyone’s notice in dark.”
“Then waiting for another night will not make any considerable difference.”
“Besides I will have to return to France with your reply as soon as I hand this over to you, it may make difference for you.”
I looked at him curiously.
“The manor house of Clos Lucé where Signor Vinci spent his last years, was undergoing repairs when from a drawer of a closet this parcel was found with your name on it. I was immediately sent for you.”
I felt the appetence, which I had felt in a day of spring thirty six years ago.
Monsieur Brilhac handed a leather envelope and a big rolled parcel to me. I said, “Monsieur you must rest now as I will have to attend the evening service. At breakfast tomorrow I will talk to you. You can’t make your journey at these hours in this downpour.” I called a postulant and asked her to show Monsieur Brilhac the dormitory in the hospice and arrange foods for him.
After the evening service I retired to my chamber. Eyesight had become blurry. I lit up another candle. Inside that leather envelope was another envelope, in which was the note. It was a twenty years old piece of pioppo, preserving his impeccably slightly scripts.
01st May, 1519
Clos Lucé, Amboise, France
Lisa,
Not many days are left for I have heard his tread.
At these dernier moments, some memories still bear fragrance of newly abloom. Cecelia was the cold shadow one needs in a summer midday. You were the fire which warms and purifies. But, softness of that shadow or the warmth of that fire was not something life wanted to make perdurable for me.
Infallible is undying allurement of masculine towards feminine. In these last days I feel no shame to confess that for Cecilia that allurement had nested in me, though never awakened. But for you I never felt that allurement. Your devotion for your husband, for your children was beyond such allurement.
Though you were not the only one of your kind, but the desperate revolution you had in you for searching your own self made you so. When you had bared yourself that night I saw that revolution in you.
All along I have spent my life in solitude. Rather I had embraced it. One thing this solitude gave me is the time I needed to talk to myself, to hear my thoughts well, to emend myself.
Since I have started living in Clos Lucé my solitude became my master. It made me to realise how my portrayal of you had confined the irrepressible vigour of yours. You cannot be limited to such a confined background. There at, I ventured again from my memory though it had become quite vague with age. I had completed that two years ago, but was indecisive for sending to you.
But I will go in empty hands as I had come. And, if there is anyone to own this, it is you. You are the owner, rightfully.
I do not know if this will reach you when I am alive. I do not know if you will be alive when this reaches Via Della Stufa. But it will be yours.
Leonardo
With tears of that treasured night in eyes I opened the roll of pioppo. I was exactly the same as he had drawn me three and half decades ago. How can someone imitate his memory flawlessly? I could not find even slightest of difference. But that was not about the painting at all. It was the background - wide and mysterious. Was it Arno? Where was it? No land, in my knowing, looked like that. Such endless horizon for a woman who seldom went out of Florence was nothing but freedom.
I kept looking at his work, at me for long. Time had again stopped for the sixty years old woman as it had for a twenty five years old wife and mother. I could not sleep at all that night. I could spend rest of my life looking at that horizon, one night compared to that was dime. The rain stayed up with me.
Next morning, after the morning service I met Monsieur Brilhac in the hospice at breakfast.
“I hope you had a comfortable night”, I asked him.
“Undoubtedly the bed was very comfortable.”
Porridge was served for us, though I didn’t have any appetite. “How did he die?” I asked.
“We know that Signor Vinci died of his old age. Though I was a mere boy at that time, living far from Amboise.”
As we finished breakfast he said, “I will prefer to start for Amboise with your reply, before the rain starts again.”
“Ready your horse. I will meet you at Priory gate.”
Refreshing petrichor had filled the air. Clouds had made the atmosphere lachrymose. Not many were near the priory gate in fear of torrent again. I handed the portrait in the leather roll over to him. He asked, “Wasn’t this for you?”
“It was. But I have no such covert where I can keep such treasure.”
He looked confused for if that was such a treasure how could I hand that over to him, whom I barely knew.
“I had heard that he was an intimate friend of the King of France.”
“We all know that way.”
“Then, give this to him. He will know what to do with this.”
The young lad was might have been thinking about the obscure woman he was sent for. For whom Leonardo da Vinci had left a treasure, which she wanted to give away to the King of France.
“Do you have any notes for the King?”
I smiled, “just tell him Leonardo’s Lisa has sent this.”
As soon he bid me farewell and mounted his horse the rain started.
Raindrops carried my tears to him through the soil. Alone standing in the downpour I looked on to the endless horizon, to where the most precious treasure of my life, the last resort of my existence was galloping away from me.
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