“I insist,” she would storm.
It was Boltraffio who painted her jewelry—when she was away from the studio.
“I hope the paint cracks on her jewels,” he snorted, disliking her.
When she died, in ’96, I tried to visit the Duke, to present the finished portrait. He refused to see me. Inconsolable, I was told.
Beatrice was twenty-two or twenty-three when she died; she had been married to Ludovico for seven years. Everyone said the Duke loved her profoundly. He also adored his mistress, Lucrezia. He also adored Cecilia. Love, for Duke Ludovico, was living.
Inconsolable? How long was he inconsolable?
Ginevra de Benci—I painted her in the autumn and painted autumn into her hair, painted it into the juniper trees in the background, in the dress she wore, in her eyes.
I was twenty-two!
She was a sickly person, cold; yet I admired her: she posed with patience, understanding my tedious brush strokes, praising my skill. A woman of scientific inclination, she had learned much from my friend Amerigo, her geographer father.