Snapshot Fiction: A Sister's Wish

Several sticks of freshly sharpened charcoal lay on the table next to an untouched sheet of paper. The blank canvas stood on the easel nearby glaring down at the lack of progress in Vinca’s work. As Papá bade her, she found the face she wanted to paint but a nagging voice of propriety told her it would not be appropriate for her to paint the face of the brash musician. His behavior towards her was downright shameful and if anyone ever found out about it a fierce tongue-lashing from Agneta would be the mildest reprimand she could hope for.

There was so much character in that face, though. It cried out to be painted; captured forever on canvas. If she put charcoal to paper this moment she felt sure she could capture the fire and joy of his personality. She couldn’t hide the smile as she remembered his voice and the touch of his hand on hers. Maybe nobody else would recognize him.

She thought of Pietro. The face would not escape his notice. What would he think? Would he think her shameful for entertaining thoughts of Marin? Could she convince him it was nothing more than simply a face she wanted to paint? Perhaps she could keep him from seeing it.

She set the charcoal in her hand next to the others on the table and just sat there for several moments, her hands in her lap.

“It does not speak to you today, does it?” Her father called from behind his canvas.

“No Papá. Not today.” She hoped her voice didn’t reveal the lie hidden beneath. He would believe the face was simply the one she found most interesting to create in paint but it was not his opinion she feared.

“Perhaps after church I will point out some interesting faces to you on the way home, hm?”

“What will I do until then? That is two more days away. Besides, just glancing at someone in passing is not enough. I need some time to study the face.”

She could almost sense his shrug as he spoke though she couldn’t see him behind his canvas. “Perhaps you could… embroider… something?”

She grimaced and wrinkled her nose. “Papá! You know I don’t like embroidery! I have no hand for it. Even Agneta has declared me useless with a needle.” And she wouldn’t tell him that her darling sister, whom she loved more than anyone in the entire world, told her it looked like a drunken donkey had done her embroidery for her.

He chuckled and she realized the tease.

“As for needing more time, child, I have seen you sketch a face after just watching them pass the window. Your memory for people is far greater than mine, I fear. However if you must put aside working on a portrait for today, then just sketch something. Anything. It does not matter. Just let your hands and thoughts wander.”

With a sigh and trying not to sound sulky she took up the charcoal stick once more and answered, “Yes, Papá.”

At first she stared at the paper again simply wondering why Papá had been pushing her so hard recently to create. In the weeks since they moved into the palazzo it seemed as if he pushed her harder than ever with her painting. Surely he realized she could never do anything but entertain herself with it! Art was the man’s world and there was no place in it for her. Why if he didn’t have such a powerful man protecting him, allowing a woman, even his own daughter, in his workshop would be a death sentence to his art.

If only she had been born male she would be free to follow her father. What a cruel thing to give her such love of the work but put it in a female body. While her thoughts wandered she let her hand guide the charcoal in quick, sharp strokes. Even as she brooded, lines took shape under her hand and she didn’t realize what she had drawn until her father stood over her shoulder nodding in approval.

“Well done,” he said and she looked down at the face staring back at her. “Your memory works well when you do not think about it. And though this is a fine sketch I think it would be prudent for you to choose another subject to paint, hm? This one seems to be presented rather fiercely and I would not like for him to take offense.”

Domenico’s face glared at her from the paper, his visage fearsome. Dark shadows sharpened his piercing gaze and gave him a more terrifying face than she would have dared to draw consciously. She dropped the charcoal and hastily rolled up the paper when the door from the street into the workshop opened and Papá turned to greet the visitor.

She tried not to stare at the girl that stepped into the room but there was something about her that held her attention. If someone were being kind her face would be called plain but Vinca realized most commonly she would be considered homely at best. The girl’s features were long and her chin jutted out prominently. Her nose was sharp and resembled a beak while her eyes seemed too small in her face. Pale skin and hair was washed out by an equally pale yellow over dress. Vinca frowned thinking the girl’s complexion would be much better suited to dark jewel tones or tones of the earth.

When she stepped further into the workshop she gazed around with polite interest, waiting for two older women to follow behind her. She moved with the awkward motions of a youth that has suddenly sprouted too much leg over a summer and didn’t quite know what to do with their feet. As she studied the girl it occurred to her that her homeliness was more a lack of physical maturity. Vinca stared at her trying to picture what she would look like when her face and form filled out replacing the awkward form of adolescence.

The girl turned then and met Vinca’s gaze unflinchingly and she found herself staring into eyes that seemed vaguely familiar in their intensity. She realized where she had seen them before when Domenico stepped into the room mere paces behind the other visitors. She quickly averted her gaze and tried to wish herself hidden from them.

She picked up the charcoal and focused on another sheet of paper, sketching quick lines of the fountain she had seen in the square, as Papá greeted Domenico. Distantly she registered the introduction of Imilia Soletti, the name she recognized as the matron of the Vettori family. The girl was introduced as Luca, the youngest daughter and Domenico’s sister. Vinca didn’t hear an introduction of the other woman because a voice at her elbow drowned out the conversation near the door.

“Did you draw that?” The voice was young but not as high pitched as she expected and she turned to nod politely at the girl next to her.

“I did,” she said quietly, meeting the girl’s gaze.

The girl studied the drawing for several moments more. “You know it is not proper for a woman to do the work of a man.”

Vinca tried not to tense up defensively as she shrugged. “It is only a sketch.”

“I have heard that you work here in your father’s shop and he lets you paint.” Her tone was of smug superiority and it grated on Vinca’s polite self control.

“He does let me paint to amuse myself,” she said.

“Show me what you paint.”

Not wishing to draw further attention she motioned toward the painting of the washer woman leaning against the wall. If she judged this girl correctly she would look at the painting of the commoner at labor and quickly lose interest in the work.

She was surprised when Luca approached the painting and took several moments studying it, her expression one of deep thought. Vinca watched a bevy of emotions play across the girl’s face; surprise, foremost among them. She began to get nervous when her expression slowly settled into one of determination.

“I am surprised at how well that is done, painter-girl.” She turned and pinned Vinca with that determined look. Had this girl been born male she would well be the match for her brother. “She is an old wrinkled plebian but you made her worth looking at.”

She had no response, though it seemed Luca wanted one, and she glanced nervously at her father. No help was to be found there, though, for he was deep in conversation with Signora Imilia. Without meaning to she glanced at Domenico and found him watching her and Luca in return. She couldn’t read his expression well but she felt almost sure there was a touch of amusement in his dark eyes. It made her more nervous than him looking fierce did so she returned her gaze back to Luca who seemed to be patiently waiting her answer.

“There is beauty to be found in all things created by God’s hand. One just has to look deep enough.”

Luca seemed to consider her words for several long moments again. Vinca realized she would have to take care with this child for she had a keener mind than she first expected. “Do you see beauty in my face?” She said, setting her jaw and thrusting her chin forward almost defiantly. “My brother says I have the face and form of the horses they use in the street races.”

The length of the face would lend itself to the insult and Vinca heard the pain beneath the words. Her height and long limbs would lend more credence to it for her thin frame did seem rather like that of a gangly colt. Beneath the child’s unformed features Vinca could see what the face would do once it started to fill out in adulthood. When the roundness of womanhood, which didn’t touch the girl yet, started to bloom the face would fill out. The jaw, which would always remain square and strong, would not stick out so and the fullness of her cheeks would balance the nose that seemed overly large on her face now. A dusting of charcoal on her brows would bring out her eyes making the deep brown of them stand out in her cream colored face.

She considered her words carefully before speaking because she understood what the girl was asking for. Vinca could easily imagine how many cruel taunts she had endured already and she simply wanted someone to see her differently. “You should thank your gracious brother,” she said. She continued when she saw the muscles around the girl’s eyes tighten in anger and hurt. “The horse is by far one of God’s most beautiful creatures.”

She watched the anger stop as Luca considered her words with a look of puzzlement on her face. Into the silence she continued. “When you see one, do you not agree they are beautiful? Graceful and powerful only as God Himself could create. Truly they are creatures straight from His glorious hand and it is so very kind of your brother to see that grace and beauty in you. Unfortunately I have not your brother’s gift for seeing the hidden graces of God. I see, though, the handsome woman you will become and she, too, is a gift from God’s hand.”

She turned and walked away and Vinca sighed in relief, wondering if it would be too noticeable if she slipped from the workshop and out of sight. Her relief was replaced by horror when she heard Luca speaking firmly to the gathered adults.

“I want her to paint my portrait. The painter-girl.”

She flicked a frightened glance at her father who peered at Luca for a moment then nervously glanced to Domenico. He said something quietly but Vinca couldn’t hear him and wasn’t sure she wanted to when Domenico turned and stared at her. He turned his attention back to Luca and said in a voice just loud enough for Vinca to hear, “Girardus is the painter. She is just his daughter and nobody of import.”

Luca drew up to her full height, which Vinca noted was nearly equal to her own, and stared straight at her brother. “I want her to paint my portrait.”

“Signorina Luca, I swear I will capture your beauty as it should be in your portrait,” Papá said in his calmest voice.

Vinca half expected Luca to stamp her foot and found herself mildly surprised when she did not engage in such a show of childish dramatics. “There is no need to try and flatter me, painter. I know what I look like. Bartolo reminds me regularly.” She thrust her arm out, pointing at Vinca and all eyes landed on her. She felt her throat tighten and her hands begin to shake. “She does not see me like that. I want to see what she sees.”

Domenico looked at Vinca again and she wished she could decipher the look in his eyes. “Women do not do the job of men,” he said, watching her. “It would be shameful to encourage such unbecoming behavior. It is the source of street gossip that she is even allowed in a workshop with brush in hand.”

Vinca felt her face grow warm and she found it difficult to tell if it was from embarrassment or anger. She stood from her stool and spoke before she even realized what she was saying. “Would it not be even more shameful to deny the will of God?”

Her words caught Domenico off guard and she continued while she had the advantage. “Many of the greatest artists are said to have God in their hands, my father included, for their ability to create. Their gift of art comes straight from Heaven and His blessing. Why, isn’t God the greatest creator of all; ‘In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.’ In all His glory and His power how could one simple girl of no import have a gift to create images of the beauty of His creations unless He so chose to bestow it? Does it not hold then that it would be a denial of His generosity not to use His gift?”

She saw his eyes narrow and he would have responded if Luca hadn’t wrapped both of her hands around his and looked up at him with the most woeful expression Vinca had ever seen. She would have laughed at how skillful the girl was if she hadn’t been seething inside with anger. “Please, Domenico? If the painting is terrible then the real painter can do one. And you will not have to pay for it if is awful. There will be no harm done. Please?”

He watched his sister for a moment more before turning his steely gaze on Vinca then her father. “When it comes out wretched you will owe me three portraits for the price of one.” He gave no time to answer before turning to leave the workshop. His mother nodded politely at Girardus who bowed to her, a bit shaken. She then turned and nodded at Vinca and she was almost sure she saw admiration and amusement buried deep beneath her serene expression. “Odierna will bring you home when your sitting is complete,” she said to Luca. “I would advise you to sit well and still since you chose the painter.”

Luca nodded meekly, her hands folded demurely in front of her. “I will, mama. Thank you.”

“Do not thank me. Thank your brother.” She smiled slightly and flicked a glance at Vinca then focused on Luca again. “I am quite sure he will wish to have a conversation with you later.” She held out her hand to Girardus who bent over it with as much grace as any courtier. “Good day to you, Girardus. I look forward to your portraits.”

“Good day to you, Signora Imilia.”

As gracefully as she had entered the room, she left and Vinca felt extremely grateful she would not be in Luca’s shoes for that conversation.