The Passion of Artemisia by Susan Vreeland Read Free Book Online Page B

can’t take it.”
    â€œYes, you can. Let it remind you,” she whispered. “Do not lose yourself completely to man or God. Do not delude yourself. You cannot afford to believe in illusion—for the sake of your happiness and for the sake of your art. As for the sake of your soul, trust that to me. I have many hours to pray, and it grows tiresome praying for one’s own soul.” She closed my hand around the earring. “You have work to do.”
    â€œYes, I have work to do.”
    â€œHide it under your bodice now, and remember, the real principles of living are not all in the Scriptures. They are in blood ties, histories, sayings, innuendoes, surreptitious looks, clandestine agreements, and hot clasped hands. Whenyou learn to recognize them, life will become easier, rich in opportunities and rewards. Be wise, Artemisia. Be watchful. Look in their faces and show no fear.”
    I looked in her face now, and said her words over again in my mind. Their importance made them toll like deep bells that I knew would echo in the years ahead.
    Sister Paola came hurrying down the nave, her short legs moving fast, her fingers on her cheeks, her face alive in a hundred expressions of joy.
    â€œOoh, Artemisia! I was afraid I missed you. Sister Graziela told me! I’m so happy, I could touch Heaven with a finger.”
    â€œI’m sorry to disappoint you, Sister Paola,” I teased.
    â€œI told you we believe in miracles.”
    â€œBecause I’m getting married?”
    â€œBecause you’ll be in the art center of the world. For you, what could be better?”
    â€œThat’s generous of you.”
    They walked me to the door and Sister Paola put the sign of the cross on my forehead with her warm finger, her cherubic face made even rounder with her happiness. Graziela held me by the shoulders and touched her forehead to mine. We stood there together awhile, our heads touching, our feelings pulsing breast to breast.
    â€œYou’re doing that for my sake,” Sister Paola said. “The only time her head will touch a wimple.” We laughed a little, sadly. “Remember us, tesoro ,” Paola said.
    â€œLocked close to my heart.” I touched my bosom where I’d hidden the pearl. Graziela couldn’t speak.
    I pushed open the heavy door. It had begun to rain lightly, and I lifted the hood of my cloak. As the door was closing, I heard Graziela’s soft, desperate cry, “Write and tell us what everything looks like.”
    I started down the stairs.
    Sister Graziela was still grieving. After nine years. When had she discovered he had a lover? What surreptitious look had she passed over? In what private moment of horror had she happened to piece together bits of strange behavior, a stuttered answer, a shifted glance, an errand forgotten? Had she looked him in the face? The first meal she made for him after she realized—was it prepared with the same care as the one before? Had he once loved the sheen and heft of her hair, and did she cry when the sisters sheared it? Were such losses in my path too? If I remembered her words and watched enough, would I be spared the same—a life of contemplation and sacrifice and endless acts of humility?
    All the way back to the church I held Graziela’s still-raw heart in my hand like a relic.

6
Pietro
    T he carriage wheels clattered across the Tiber on Ponte Sant’ Angelo where a row of eighteen gallows led to the fortress and prison of Sant’ Angelo. Eighteen, the age I was when I went to trial. I was barely nineteen now. I wrapped the single earring in a handkerchief and hid it beneath the lining of my cassone .
    I found Father pacing in front of the church. “What do you mean running off like that? Where did you go?” he demanded.
    â€œTo see the sisters. It’s all right. I’m not late.”
    I gave my cloak to Porzia to hold. Father held my arm tightly and we marched down the