Within the week, a messenger came to our house with an invitation for a dinner at the Medici palazzo, to “celebrate the newest work by Maestro Sandro Botticelli, and his beautiful subject, Signora Simonetta Vespucci,” so the wording went. It would take place in a week’s time.
“Your painter wastes no time,” Marco commented to me, handing me the letter to read over dinner.
“He is hardly my painter,” I said quickly. “He is just eager to show off such an exceptional work, as he should be. I am proud of it as well, for my own small contribution.”
After that our talk turned to other matters, though Marco sent a reply the very next morning stating that we would, of course, attend.
Time, which had flown by at an exceptional pace when I was sitting for the painting, slowed to the pace of the oldest, most broken-down horse in the week before the unveiling festa. I finished reading The Republic, though since my first urge was to discuss it with Sandro, it hardly served as a distraction. For that, too, I would have to wait until the party. I tried to implore Marco to read it yet again, and again he told me that he was too busy. “Perhaps in a few months, if business should slow down,” he told me.
So I went back to my copy of Dante, and the book of Petrarch that Lorenzo had given me, and tried to read the poetry with the same critical mind with which I had read Plato. Truly the purpose of the language, especially in Dante’s Divina Commedia, I found, was threefold: to tell a story; to create a beautiful, pleasing phrase; and to enfold within it another, more subtle meaning. Of course this, too, I wished to discuss with Sandro, and so my plans for distraction were once again foiled.
Fortunately, one day that week Clarice invited me to take a midday meal with herself and her mother-in-law, so I passed a happy afternoon with the Medici women, discussing plans for the upcoming party, as well as matters of fashion.
“I do not know if you noticed, Simonetta,” Clarice said, her eyes bright with mischief, “but half the women at Mass last week were wearing gowns just like the one you wore to dinner here last.”
My eyes opened wide, shocked. “I did not notice,” I said. “Surely you are mistaken. Why would anyone have copied my gown?”
Clarice and Lucrezia exchanged knowing looks, united, for once, in their teasing of me. “Why, can it be that you do not know, my dear?” Lucrezia asked. “You are the reigning beauty of Florence. You are the one who decides the trends, the fashions.”
“Surely not,” I protested. “Why, what silliness! I have not even met many people in Florence, save your friends and acquaintances, and Marco’s—”
“Simonetta, those are all the people that matter,” Lucrezia interjected. “And just because you have not met the rest of Florentine society does not mean they do not know who you are.”
“Why, surely you notice how everyone—men and women—stares at you in the street,” Clarice said.
I blushed. “I had not noticed. Not to sound vain, but … it has ever been so. I am stared at wherever I go, and always have been. So I do not even take note anymore.”
Lucrezia sighed. “Ah, to be young, and so beautiful.”
“I shall never know what that is like,” Clarice said, laughing.
“Nor I,” said Lucrezia. “But come, we are embarrassing poor Simonetta. See how red her face grows?”
Thankfully, Clarice changed the subject, asking her mother-in-law what she had thought of the sermon from Sunday. I chimed in as needed, though I confess that most of my mind was devoted to considering this new information I had learned.
Before leaving, I asked Clarice if I might borrow a new book from the library. “Not more of my husband’s pagan philosophers, I hope?” she asked, lips pursed. “He had best hope Holy Mother Church does not take an interest in the contents of that library any time soon.”
I smiled tightly but did not respond, nor did I show her the title I eventually selected: a book of stories of the old Greek gods. Pagan, indeed.
I passed the rest of the week happily enough between my poetry and the new book, which contained some stories with which I was familiar, and others with which I was not. At the rate at which I was reading, I would need to begin paying much more regular visits to the Medici library.
Finally, the appointed day arrived, and in a fit of showmanship I had Chiara dress me in the same gown I had worn when posing for the portrait. I also had her put up my hair in an elaborate braided style; I could not recall the exact details of how Sandro had painted my hair in the portrait, but Chiara’s finished product would be an echo of it, certainly. I would look as though I had just stepped from the canvas itself.
Today, as always, everyone would be looking at me, but today I was ready for them. I would be artwork made flesh; would show everyone the masterful resemblance Sandro had created.
Even Marco looked slightly taken aback when he saw me. “Simonetta,” he said, as he came to escort me down to the carriage. “You look … beyond words. An artist could have no worthier muse, in truth.”
I smiled serenely at him. “You are too kind, husband,” I said, placing my hand on his arm. “Shall we go?”
As we made the familiar journey to the Medici palazzo, I considered seriously why I was so eagerly anticipating this evening. I craved it. Never had I been possessed of the type of vanity that would allow me to revel in a room full of people looking at a portrait of me. It was not that; no, I was proud of the painting, almost as proud as if I myself had created it.
And why should that be? Nothing of skill or talent had been required from me; all that was needed was to sit still as Sandro worked. No, the truth had lain somewhere in my words to Marco the day we had received our invitation. I was proud of Sandro, proud of what he had accomplished with the portrait, and eager for everyone to see it and marvel at his skill and give him the praise he so richly deserved.
Marco was right—somehow, Sandro was my painter, and I wanted the rest of the world to respect his talent—and him—as I did. I had tried not to think about it, to avoid it, but it was true.
And, of course, I had been looking forward to seeing him all week. That could not be denied, not even to myself. Perhaps least of all to myself.
I miss the company of my friend, that is all, I told myself. I am allowed to enjoy the company of others than my husband.
“Are you ready?” Marco asked, jolting me from my reverie, and I looked up to see that we had arrived. “You have been quite lost in your thoughts.”
I pushed aside my musings and smiled at him. “I have been, indeed,” I said. “My apologies, husband. I am ready.”
We went inside and were led up to a receiving room on one of the upper floors that I had never been in before. The ceiling was carved with elaborate gilded moldings, and rich, vibrant tapestries hung on the walls. Gilt chairs lined the perimeter of the room, and to my left tall, elegant windows let in the autumn light.
“There she is! Signora Simonetta Vespucci, our own Maestro Botticelli’s great muse!” Giuliano de’ Medici said, immediately coming toward us. He swept me a deep bow and kissed my hand. “Your beauty shall now be preserved throughout the ages, as it should be.” He gestured to the back of the room, where my portrait was displayed upon an easel for all to see. “I have written you a poem in honor of this occasion, that I may make my own small artistic offering to your beauty,” he went on. “Shall I read it to you?”
“Honestly, Giuliano,” Lorenzo said, approaching us. “Let Simonetta come in and gather herself first, I pray you.” He offered me his arm, and I took it, my hand slipping from Marco’s grasp as I did so. “The portrait is as beautiful as its subject,” he said, leading me toward the easel. “Sandro has outdone himself, truly, yet how could he do otherwise, with you as a model?”
As we approached, Marco behind us, I felt rather than saw Sandro’s gaze on me, and turned to see him off to one side of the room, accepting congratulations—and no doubt commissions—from other members of the Medici circle. Among them, I noticed, was Lucrezia Donati Ardenghelli and her husband. “You must paint my likeness, Maestro Botticelli,” she purred, laying a hand on his arm. “Mustn’t he, marito?” she asked of her husband.
“Whatever you want, my dear,” Signor Ardenghelli said tolerantly.
Jealousy, hot and thick, exploded within me and dripped down my insides, giving the feeling that my innards were coated in hot wax. How dare she? Look at her preening in front of him. Who did she think she was? And would Sandro truly paint her?
Of course, I told myself, startled slightly at my own reaction. He would paint whoever gave him a commission, and I must wish that he received many of them, that he might flourish and prosper.
I took a deep, steadying breath and turned my attention back to my portrait. It was even more beautiful than I remembered. I had forgotten certain details: the brilliant texture of my hair and gown, the vividness of the pendant about my neck, which had been a wedding gift from Lorenzo and Clarice.
I turned to Marco, who had come up on my other side. “What say you, marito?” I asked him.
“It is masterful, as you said,” he replied, smiling down at me. “A perfect likeness.”
I was happy that he liked it, happy that he saw all its merit. “I am so glad you think so,” I said. “It is a true testament to the talent of its creator, is it not?” I glanced in Sandro’s direction to be sure he had heard my words, and the smile he threw my way gave me every assurance that he had.
“Indeed, it is,” Lorenzo said. “And so we must persuade you to sit for him again soon.”
“I would like nothing better,” I said. I could not resist glancing at Sandro again, and his smile had grown even brighter. He beamed.
Before the evening was over, I resolved, I would try to steal him away for a private word. It would not be long enough, I knew. It could never be long enough.
In the meantime, Lorenzo was steering me to a table filled with refreshments. I quite lost track of Marco. “Wine?” Lorenzo asked. I nodded, and he handed me a goblet. “I shall take some as well. Come, amici,” he said, turning to address the room at large, and everyone ceased in their conversations and looked to him—to us. “A toast! To our brilliant Maestro Botticelli, and to his muse—la bella Simonetta!”
The gathered company echoed him, raising their glasses in my direction. “To Maestro Botticelli, and la bella Simonetta! To la bella Simonetta!”
“Now,” Lorenzo said, once the toast had been drunk, “I see that my copy of Plato’s Republic has been returned to my library. Pray tell me, Simonetta, what were your thoughts on it?”
Truly, I would never tire of this wonderful Florence of mine.