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Updated: May 20, 2025
She spoke eagerly and hotly, fearing her courage would falter before she could make known her wish: "Ecco, Messer Sandro," she whispered, casting a furtive look about "who is there in Florence like me?" "There is no one," calmly answered Sandro. "I will be your Lady Venus," she went on breathlessly, stepping closer "You shall paint me rising from the sea!"
Now and then it seemed hard that there could be no affection between her and the one being whom the course of events plainly suggested for her love. But, as Sandro said, they knew one another very well.
All the gay court dresses, the rich quaint robes of the fair ladies, helped to train the young painter's fancy for flowing draperies and wonderful veils of filmy transparent gauze. There was one fair lady especially whom Sandro loved to paint the beautiful Simonetta, as she is still called. First he painted her as Venus, who was born of the sea foam.
He started up with the lather on his chin, and the cloth round his neck, to search in his saddle-bag for the belied medicines, and Nello in an instant adroitly shifted the shaving-chair till it was in the close vicinity of the horse's head, while Sandro, who had now returned, at a sign from his master placed himself near the bridle.
Gladness rang in her voice. "Coming for the whole winter let me see, the letter is dated the fifteenth she will sail this week. Oh, Sandro, I am so happy!" For a moment it would have been hard to say which looked more pleased, the prince or the princess.
Sandro Botticelli, the painter, who made sensuality beautiful, ugliness seductive, and the sin-stained soul attractive, renounced all and followed the Monk of San Marco sensuality and asceticism at the last are one.
"You've done a good bit already, Sandro," she said. "And you're only thirty-nine." "And I'm to die at thirty-nine, or else live like an idiot, bored to death, and boring to death everybody about me!" "I shall go now," said Aunt Maria. "Good-bye, Sandro. Send for me again when you want me." "Aunt Maria!" She stopped at his call. "Go and see May. Go and talk to her." "Yes, Sandro."
He knew what he would do in that instance. He would find out which one was 'Sandro . . . and then . . . The bleating of the stray sheep annoyed him. He told Chance to stay in the room. Then he stalked out and opened the gate. "Mebby they want water. I dunno. Them's Loring's sheep, all right, but they ain't to blame for for Sinker." With the idea came a more reasonable mood.
"And it would seem rather dull now to lose him?" Again May nodded, laughing a little. Aunt Maria understood her feelings very well, it seemed. "I should be dull too if I lost him." The old lady folded her hands in her lap. "There is that about Sandro," she said with a touch of pride in her voice.
Peter probably in the centre. Lastly, below again, the great series of frescoes of the History of Christ and the History of Moses by Sandro Botticelli, Domenico del Ghirlandaio, Cosimo Rosselli, Pietro Perugino, Bernardino Pintoricchio, Luca Signorelli, and Bartolomeo della Gatta.
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