if the Magdalene stood before you.
You’re talking to her, not me.’
She’s right, though. Other painters of Caravaggio’s age and with lesser reputations took small palaces with the earnings from their altarpieces. A mere storekeeper might live
in a house like this one, which Caravaggio had rented only a month earlier. A single, long room downstairs and one above. Behind the house, a garden with its own well, and upstairs a loggia that
ran the width of the house, though that was barely five paces.
The studio was almost empty of anything but props for his work, apart from a bed for him and a folding cot for Cecco. Rags for preparing canvases and cleaning his brushes brimmed out of an old
chest. A halberd and a breastplate with which he gave atmosphere to his history paintings leaned against the wall beside his sword and dagger. A messy, medium-sized canvas lay across a trunk. He
ate his meals from it, because he had never bothered to purchase a tablecloth.
‘Who am I supposed to be?’ she said.
He paused to take in the canvas. On the right, a soft-faced, smooth-shouldered young woman – Fillide. She turned her unrefined features in a melancholy gaze upon the figure Caravaggio
painted now. ‘You’re Martha, the sister of Mary Magdalene.’
‘Yeah.’ She sounded doubtful. ‘Who?’
‘The Magdalene was a loose woman. Her sister convinced her of the wrongs she had done. I’ve already painted Fillide as the Magdalene. What I’m painting now is the moment when
your insistence gets through to her. She starts to repent.’
‘I could tell you all sorts of things Fillide’s done wrong. I’d like to give her a piece of my mind about it.’
‘Perhaps that’s why I want you in particular to be chastising her,’ he said. ‘In the picture, at least.’
He pulled the easel closer to the mirror to change the focus. He wanted a clear image of the details in the braid at the crown of her head. He worked at them. Then he laid down his brush on a
trolley beside his pigments.
‘Can I have a look?’ she asked.
‘Come on.’ He ran the curtain back along its rail.
As she studied the canvas, her weight rested against his chest. ‘ Dio mio , I wouldn’t have thought it possible. That’s really me, Michele. I don’t even mind that
you painted me next to that bitch.’
‘It’s a good likeness, that’s true.’
‘So many shadows. You can only see part of my face.’
‘It may be even darker once it’s finished.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I know it’s me. You painted me just as I am.’ She smiled. ‘Your eyes are dark, and your face and hair too, Michele. And so are your
paintings.’
‘It’s lucky I’m not blond or my work would be bright and ridiculous like the rubbish Baglione produces.’
‘Who?’
‘No one important.’
‘Are you really going to make me darker still? You won’t be able to see me. You’ll just see Fillide.’
‘The shadow makes you more prominent. People will see Fillide’s face right away, but they’ll have to look hard to see you. They’ll wonder who you were.’ He caught
himself. ‘ Are , I mean, who you are.’
She made a puzzled face, wondering at his stumble. Her neck craned long and pale towards the painting, a few auburn strands of hair tickling across it.
He wished he had the words that would help her survive longer than he surmised she would. I could protect her , he thought, but that would end with me loving her. He shivered with
fear. Love was the preliminary to abandonment. He painted the love of the martyrs for the Lord. Look what they get in return. ‘It’s obvious that you’re the most beautiful
thing in the painting.’
She responded lightly, unaware of the intensity with which he had spoken. ‘Am I, Michele? Thanks, amore .’
At the Mausoleum of the Emperor Augustus, the Pope’s bailiffs were whipping a whore. She was tied to the back of a donkey, her hands bound behind her, her dress ragged
and fallen around her hips to
You’re talking to her, not me.’
She’s right, though. Other painters of Caravaggio’s age and with lesser reputations took small palaces with the earnings from their altarpieces. A mere storekeeper might live
in a house like this one, which Caravaggio had rented only a month earlier. A single, long room downstairs and one above. Behind the house, a garden with its own well, and upstairs a loggia that
ran the width of the house, though that was barely five paces.
The studio was almost empty of anything but props for his work, apart from a bed for him and a folding cot for Cecco. Rags for preparing canvases and cleaning his brushes brimmed out of an old
chest. A halberd and a breastplate with which he gave atmosphere to his history paintings leaned against the wall beside his sword and dagger. A messy, medium-sized canvas lay across a trunk. He
ate his meals from it, because he had never bothered to purchase a tablecloth.
‘Who am I supposed to be?’ she said.
He paused to take in the canvas. On the right, a soft-faced, smooth-shouldered young woman – Fillide. She turned her unrefined features in a melancholy gaze upon the figure Caravaggio
painted now. ‘You’re Martha, the sister of Mary Magdalene.’
‘Yeah.’ She sounded doubtful. ‘Who?’
‘The Magdalene was a loose woman. Her sister convinced her of the wrongs she had done. I’ve already painted Fillide as the Magdalene. What I’m painting now is the moment when
your insistence gets through to her. She starts to repent.’
‘I could tell you all sorts of things Fillide’s done wrong. I’d like to give her a piece of my mind about it.’
‘Perhaps that’s why I want you in particular to be chastising her,’ he said. ‘In the picture, at least.’
He pulled the easel closer to the mirror to change the focus. He wanted a clear image of the details in the braid at the crown of her head. He worked at them. Then he laid down his brush on a
trolley beside his pigments.
‘Can I have a look?’ she asked.
‘Come on.’ He ran the curtain back along its rail.
As she studied the canvas, her weight rested against his chest. ‘ Dio mio , I wouldn’t have thought it possible. That’s really me, Michele. I don’t even mind that
you painted me next to that bitch.’
‘It’s a good likeness, that’s true.’
‘So many shadows. You can only see part of my face.’
‘It may be even darker once it’s finished.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I know it’s me. You painted me just as I am.’ She smiled. ‘Your eyes are dark, and your face and hair too, Michele. And so are your
paintings.’
‘It’s lucky I’m not blond or my work would be bright and ridiculous like the rubbish Baglione produces.’
‘Who?’
‘No one important.’
‘Are you really going to make me darker still? You won’t be able to see me. You’ll just see Fillide.’
‘The shadow makes you more prominent. People will see Fillide’s face right away, but they’ll have to look hard to see you. They’ll wonder who you were.’ He caught
himself. ‘ Are , I mean, who you are.’
She made a puzzled face, wondering at his stumble. Her neck craned long and pale towards the painting, a few auburn strands of hair tickling across it.
He wished he had the words that would help her survive longer than he surmised she would. I could protect her , he thought, but that would end with me loving her. He shivered with
fear. Love was the preliminary to abandonment. He painted the love of the martyrs for the Lord. Look what they get in return. ‘It’s obvious that you’re the most beautiful
thing in the painting.’
She responded lightly, unaware of the intensity with which he had spoken. ‘Am I, Michele? Thanks, amore .’
At the Mausoleum of the Emperor Augustus, the Pope’s bailiffs were whipping a whore. She was tied to the back of a donkey, her hands bound behind her, her dress ragged
and fallen around her hips to
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