Struggles Within

The difficulty with stucco and tiling is certainly not a matter of beauty but a matter of echo. At the moment, when I could hear the raised voices of Papa and Blasio echoing from the scrittori through the passages of the palazzo I wished Agneta would develop an attraction to rugs to place through the rooms and muffle noises. I knew what they fought over and I felt shame and guilt over my own part in it.

I sat on the window seat in my room with the casement window thrown open to the darkening sky. The door to my room opened slowly and Fina crept in like a whipped cur. I reached a hand out to her and she rushed into my arms almost near to tears. I had no words to comfort her, knowing where her pain came from, and simply held her until she felt well enough to sit on the seat calmly.

“You know why they argue?” She asked, her voice so small I could barely hear it.

“I do.” This battle of wills had grown up like an insidious weed over the few weeks since Blasio’s arrival. I felt sure Agneta quietly pushed the battle hoping for the outcome she favored. I heard Pietro’s voice raised in anger now as well. While he was young and full of fire, he would be hardly a match for Blasio’s blustering force and Agneta’s wiles. At best all he could hope for was to relieve some of the strain from Papa.

“Why?” She leaned on the window sill and stared out at nothing, her eyes huge and dark in the evening light, like great, black wells of sorrow.

I shrugged. She knew the reason they fought as well as I did and surely the closest neighbors or any passerby on the street. Though the why of the matter was very complex.

I believed it was all driven by Agneta. Without her constant prodding Blasio could not care less what I did with my time as long as I was not a financial burden on the family. On the contrary, since I helped his frail and all but useless wife take care of their child I was an asset freeing him of the need to hire a nurse.

In Agneta’s mind, though, a woman could be nothing but a breeding mare or a nun. Since the death of my Simon I was caught in that place in-between. I had some small modicum of freedom allowed by Papa as long as I did nothing to shame the family. Agneta believed my painting to be that shame though she could never convince Papa of that. She would see me married or shuffled off to the convent to live a life of seclusion as a bride of God. I would die in a convent. I know I would.

“What will you do?” Fina asked, taking my hand. We both jumped when a door slammed somewhere and the voices quieted. Moments later a horse charged out of the courtyard and its hoof beats echoed off into the gloom.

I patted her hand and rose from the window seat. “I will do as Papa bids me. If he says I must find a husband then I must. If he says I must go to the convent...” I swallowed hard, trying not to choke on the words, “Then I will go to San Geminiano.”

“Geminiano! They are dogs of the Florentines!”

I shrugged and did not answer her. Fina often parroted the political views she heard others use. I was more pragmatic. With the French always nipping at our borders I felt the great city-states of Italy would do better to cooperate than battle each other but I did not pretend to understand politics. Much like my father, I found myself more concerned with art. And war was certainly bad for art.

“Vinca,” she paused and looked at the door as if waiting for someone to walk in before she lowered her voice and continued. “Vinca you could leave. Francesca has said you could come to her in Venice.”

Francesca. How I missed my cousin but I was no fool. I knew the life she led and that she wished me to join her in that life. In her letters she spoke of her freedom and her joys but was being owned by a man of means so free? And what of her soul? When it came time to acknowledge her debt to God what ring would take a soul so stained with sin? I loved my cousin but I could not share her life.

“No, Fina. I could not live that life. I wish to present my soul to God with as little sin as possible.”

“So you would become a prisoner? You would chain yourself to a man or into a convent because Agneta cannot bear the sight of your freedom? You do have some freedom.”

“Selfish freedom. You see the damage these battles with Blasio do to Papa. And how long can it last? Already my ‘freedom’ has gone longer than should be permitted. Only the Vettori support of Papa allows me to remain ‘free’. What will happen when that protection is gone?” I had lay awake many nights asking myself that question. I didn’t know why it must be so; only that it had always been. But society is not kind to widows.

She looked so broken I suddenly understood that her fear was not just for me, but for herself as well. “Then there is no freedom, ever, is there?”

I did not wish to cause her pain but neither would I deceive her. “No,” I whispered. “Papa is far more lenient on both of us than should have been allowed. He has protected us, loved us, given us a taste of life. He will have to find you a husband soon and I fear if he does not give in to Blasio’s demands for me it will cause his health to fail. I dared to hope I could do more. I dared to hope to paint. Now I can only hope that if he does find a husband for me who will wed a widow it will be a man generous enough to allow me to paint on occasion to amuse myself. I do not hold out much hope of that.”

“Vinca, without your art you will die. Your body may walk but your soul will wither away.” I knew the truth of her statement better than she ever could. I wanted to cry, to let the sorrow I felt building inside swallow me but for her I would bury my own pain.

“I will survive. You must do the same. Now let us talk about that lovely smile of yours and how you are going to use it to catch a husband that Agneta and Blasio could never argue with. You will wed eventually but if you are lucky, you will catch the eye of someone with enough social standing to please them and perhaps with enough wit and kindness to please you as well.”

Eventually we buried our uncertainties and sorrows in stories of handsome noblemen come to sweep us off our feet who drape us in glorious fabrics and jewels and shower us with attention. She was still young enough to take comfort in such fantasies. Once she was off to her room to sleep I sat again on the window seat staring out at the darkened city.

She was right. I would die without my painting but I could not blindly watch my father be torn apart. It was then I made my decision.

***************

I found Papa in the workshop early the next morning. He did not come to breakfast and those of us that did felt weighed down by the silence laced so tight with tension. I left the table and sought him out amid his colors and powders. I knew how much peace he found in his bright alchemy of paint mixing for I found the same peace. When I came up beside him I simply stood there for several long moments drawing comfort from the movement of his hands grinding his powders.

When I felt I could speak without breaking my voice or letting loose my tears I found no easy way to broach the subject so I simply blurted it out. “Papa, you must find me another husband.”

His marble pestle dropped to the table with a heavy thud and he turned red-rimmed eyes on me. I was unsure if it was caused by tears or by drink but I knew his night had been too long and it was, in a way, my fault. I felt the guilt of his pain wash over me.

“No,” his voice came out in a broken growl, harsh from the night before.

“Papa you must. My painting—it is foolish. There is no place in this world for a woman who paints. Now the city whispers in amusement about the painter that lets his daughter play in his work shop. For now the name of Vettori protects you from this folly, but what will happen to you, to the family, when that protection is gone? I will no longer be a novelty and will be a shame instead.”

“No.” He turned back to his pestle and paused when he gripped it. “You have a gift,” he said into the silence. “A glorious gift from God himself. I do not know why He put it in your hands but I will not be the one to deny Him. You notice your horse is gone? As is the washer woman and others? They are now in the hands of one of the masters I learned from. I wait word on whether he will take you as a student.”

“Papa—“ I could not finish my sentence. I didn’t know what to say. He truly believed he could find a master that would teach me what I lacked. I was scared to hope. I wanted to let it into my heart and warm me but feared it would not come to pass. My hands trembled with how bad I wanted what he promised but could I watch as his soul was battered by those who would crush my dream?

When he turned to me I realized this was not my dream alone. He fought for this dream for himself as much as he did for me. How could I give up on him?

“Fight for it, Vinca,” he whispered fiercely. “I will fight too but you must fight harder than anyone. The fight will hurt at times. You will feel as if you are ready to give up but during those times you must fight back the hardest.”

He seemed so vehement I could not argue with him but did I dare hope? He patted my hand and turned his attention fully to his powders. “I will deal with Blasio,” he said. My father is sometimes a great deal more observant than I believe. He must have seen the worry I dared not voice. “You worry about paint. There is a wood panel in the corner for you. Paint it how you will.”

I understood the dismissal and said nothing further. Sometimes Papa needed silence and solitude and it seemed this was one of those times. I started gathering up my charcoal sticks and a few sketches I had done to take to the garden to work when Fina burst into the room, her eyes lit up and her cheeks glowing with excitement.

“Vinca! You must come to the sala! Quickly!” I laid my tools back on the workbench and hurried to my sister, her smile and excitement infectious. She took my hand and nearly dragged me through the palazzo. “Something has come for you. A delivery.”

When we reached the sala she stopped so suddenly I tripped over my own feet trying not to run into her. At the far end of the room the loggia doors stood open to the sunshine and breeze from the courtyard and standing there was a man dressed in a peculiar livery and another that bore the manner and clothing of a servant. The servant held something large wrapped in muslin and the other man watched me as I approached. I could see when he noted my simple linen gown and paint-stained apron and dismissed me as beneath his concern.

Agneta stood nearby glaring at me and I felt there was something deeper to her anger with me today than usual. I turned back to the men with the delivery, unable to withstand her gaze.

“Signora Soletti of the house of Vettori sends gracious appreciation to Signora Vinca Taviani for creating a portrait of beauty featuring Signorina Luca Vettori. As a gift the House of Vettori presents cloth imported from far away China. It is requested that it be used for a gown for the upcoming Vettori Masquerade.” With a flick of his wrist he flipped back the muslin to reveal silk of deepest purple with gold vines woven into it and blossoming into flowers. I could not have imagined and painted such beauty on my finest day.

“Tell your mistress the gift is most generous.” I tried not to stumble over my words but knew I must sound like a talking horse to him. “I will be quite honored to wear it for the Vettori Masquerade.”

He nodded and motioned the servant to hand the precious bundle over to one of the palazzo servants Agneta had called for. I stood there numb and watched the servant carry it off to the sewing room. Agneta saw the visitors out and when she returned I could not read her expression completely though I what I did see frightened me. I most assuredly saw anger and envy but the cunning she let slip scared me the most. She said nothing as she crossed the sala and went upstairs. I heard her enter her own chamber then nothing more. Once she was gone Fina grasped my hand and pulled me through the palazzo to the sewing chamber.

The fabric had been left on the cutting table and she immediately peeled back the muslin to run her hands over it. “Oh, Vinca! It's beautiful! You will look so lovely in this.”

I could not argue with her. Like many women I did enjoy beautiful gowns. I felt strange in them, like a sow wearing brocade, but that did not stop me from enjoying them. My vanity was yet another sin. I should be content with my simple linen gowns and not long for velvet and silk and though I did not pursue such luxuries, I did enjoy them on the rare occasions when they came to me. This was the finest cloth I had ever touched, however. I think even finer than anything Agneta had touched (and she did have a craving for silks and velvets far beyond my own!).

I carefully laid my rough, paint-stained hand on the fabric. It felt so smooth and I felt my skin snag against it as I touched it. My mind began to worry and fret, however, about the cost of such a thing. Three of Papa's finest paintings could not buy this silk, let alone one of my own. I worried about the generosity then began to wonder if truly Imilia's hand was the only one involved in this gift.

“The seamstress will have to begin right away if it is to be done in time for the masquerade,” Fina fretted as she, too touched the fabric. When she noticed how my rough fingers caught on the threads she grabbed my hand and examined it. “Oh this will never do! We must do something with these hands.”

I let her lead me to her chamber clucking her tongue and fussing about my fingers as my own thoughts chased themselves like a puppy after its own tail. Surely he would not have been involved? His game was to insult me, annoy me, anger me beyond all reason. Was this some new tactic to catch me unaware?

“You have that look again,” Fina muttered as she scrubbed my hands with some ointment that smelled so awful I did not want to know what it contained. It did seem to be working the stains off my fingers and it did feel soothing and softening to my skin.

“What look?” I watched her work, her fingers as expert with ointments and cosmetics as mine were with paint. Whenever Agneta felt my hair needed extra work or my face needed to be painted, Fina was the one given the task because I invariably made a mess of it. Already she had worked the pigments from most of the cracks of my skin though around my fingernails would take a great deal longer. I did not have the heart to point out to her that I would likely stain them again before the masquerade arrived, ruining all of her hard work.

“Your 'I'm thinking too much' look. Tell me what you are thinking.” She said, her voice as soothing as the fingers that now worked out stiffness I did not realize had settled into my hands.

“I.,.” how could I tell her I felt like a rabbit sniffing the bait? Felt like this was a silken trap laid for the unwary. “I wonder the true price of it,” I said.

She was silent so long I felt she would never answer and I felt my mind beginning to drift into relaxation as she worked. I loved my sister for many things. Her ability to relax the stiffness from my hands was one of the gifts I appreciated the most.

“You think about him, don't you?”

I could not help it. I jumped at her sudden statement and nearly jerked my hand out of hers. She held fast despite the ointment and gave a tug on it letting me know I would not get free.

“I do not...”

“You do. Do not lie to me. That is a sin.” She pulled a sharpened stick of wood from her box of cosmetics and ointments and used it's fibrous, softened tip to scrub her ointment into the stains about my fingernails. “I know you think I am young, my sweet sister, and that you should protect me, but I know things that would shock you. You think of him. Just as he thinks of you. He watches you. Like a cat at the rat hole. He rarely takes his eyes off you. I have been in Papa's workshop or studio when he is there. If you enter the room it is a wonder he notices what Papa says at all.”

“It is because he hates me,” I frowned watching vermillion disappear from around my left index fingernail ever so slowly. “He plans his next verbal attack upon me. I am his favorite sport.”

She shrugged. “You watch him too.”

“Only to guard myself!” I tried to pull my hand away again but she would have none of it. I did not want to hear what she was saying but if I could not get away from her I could not stop it. And God forgive me, in the hearing I began to listen and to think and wonder.

“Believe what you will, sister,” she said sounding older than I had ever heard her. “But I am not blind. Neither is Agneta. She knows we could never afford a dowry into Vettori but anything she could use as a weapon against you, she would.”

She said nothing more as she worked and I found I had nothing to say. Each time I opened my mouth nothing came out or my thoughts were too confused to make sense. Each denial I thought of sounded more foolish and forced. She just did not understand. Domenico was a beast! A fiend; frightening and callous. He terrified me. From the beginning he wished more to torment me than anything else. The silk could have come from Imilia or it could have come from him as a way to put me off my guard so he could attack from another angle.

As for Agneta, the more I thought about it the more frightened I became. Rumors could do more damage to a woman than a man. If she grew bold enough, rumors about the times I had been alone in the presence of Domenico could do serious harm to my reputation. Serious enough that I would have no choice but to capitulate to her wishes or be turned into nothing but rubbish in the streets.