Setting:
A small, quiet garden in Florence, perhaps part of a grand palazzo, but one that feels more intimate and lived-in than purely formal. It is a late morning; the light is soft and golden, filtering through an ancient olive tree. The interviewer and his host are seated at a small, elegantly simple wrought-iron table with two chairs, adorned with yellow cushions in a rich Florentine fabric. A delicate terracotta pot on the table holds a single bloom of a deep red rose, echoing the subtle colours of a distant fresco visible through an arched doorway. The air is still, perhaps carrying the faint scent of citrus from nearby gardens. Miss Ginevra Gherardini is dressed in a gown of dark, rich green velvet, a color that would complement her dark hair and eyes and a simple, elegant, natural pearl necklace. She is holding a delicate fan, occasionally unfurling it with a gentle flick of her wrist. The whole atmosphere is one of decent elegance, perfect for a thoughtful conversation.
Interviewer (with a tight smile): Signorina Gherardini, thank you for accepting the audience and for inviting me into this lovely garden. I must begin with the question on everyone’s mind:
Your older sister, Lisa, is immortalised in a portrait that is admired by all of Florence and beyond. What was it like growing up alongside the woman who would become known as the Mona Lisa?
Ginevra Gherardini (blushing): Signore, I’m not used to speaking publicly, so please bear with me…
Interviewer (offers a gentle, reassuring smile and leans slightly forward): Please, Signorina, there is no public; only I am here, as a humble observer, and the silent olive tree over there. Think of it not as a public address, but simply as a quiet conversation between two people in this beautiful garden. You speak with such clarity and grace; just continue to share your memories as if we were merely sipping water and discussing the weather. Take your time. We are only interested in hearing your truth.
Ginevra Gherardini (an almost imperceptible smile touches her lips, then quickly fades): Growing up with Lisa? It was nothing more than simply life. We were a large family, seven children in all, so there was always noise, always a flurry of activity in our home. Lisa was the eldest and she had a quiet diligence about her, a seriousness that sometimes settled upon her even as a girl. She was beautiful, as you already know, but it wasn’t that kind of startling beauty that announces itself; it was a deeper, more enduring quality. She took her duties seriously, both to our parents and, later, to her husband, Messer Francesco. To us, she was just our sister, the one who read the letters from Father while he was overseas. Lisa was the one who tried to keep us, the younger ones, in line. The idea that her image, a simple portrait commissioned by her husband, would become this legend … I assure you, it would have been the last thing any of us, especially Lisa herself, would have ever imagined. She was a woman of her time and her family, not a future immortal. (she briefly fans herself with a thoughtful gesture)
Interviewer (attempts to swat away an irritating fly): I like the ‘future immortal’ idea very much; it makes perfect sense, and it is a fair point. To get us back on track, I wanted to discuss the matter of her husband, Messer Francesco di Bartolomeo del Giocondo. The portrait was his commission, after all. What can you tell me about the circumstances surrounding the sitting? Was it to celebrate a certain event, perhaps the birth of one of their five children, or the purchase of a new house?
Ginevra Gherardini (closes the fan and rests both hands on the table): It was, as you correctly surmise, a celebration of sorts. Their new home, yes, and the arrival of their son, Andrea. Lisa was in her prime, a young wife and mother of perhaps twenty-four, well-settled into her domestic life and Francesco wished to mark this good fortune. This was, however, a common enough practice among the merchants and the well-to-do of Florence. But the true peculiarity, the part that remained with me after all those years, was Messer Leonardo himself; a real genius and perhaps a rather eccentric one…
Interviewer (his eyes show a keen interest): Oh, the highest authority, the Master of masters! Did you meet him yourself?
Ginevra Gherardini (her gaze is fixed on the delicate red rose in the terracotta pot): I did, indeed, on a few occasions, in Lisa’s house. He was, how can I put it, unsettling. Not in a frightening way, but in a way that made one feel utterly seen. His eyes, Signore, they did not just observe; they seemed to dissect. He carried with him a kind of preoccupied air, as if half his mind were still sketching contraptions or pondering the path of water. He was devoted to the work, though. He took an extraordinary amount of time. Months, if I remember well. Francesco, my brother-in-law, grew impatient, I know, but Leonardo was adamant. He claimed he could not rush the soul of the subject.
Interviewer (a thoughtful nod): ‘He could not rush the soul…’ Oh, another memorable phrase. But the painting? Many have remarked on the portrait’s peculiar vivacity. The eyes that follow you, the famous, ambiguous smile. Did Lisa speak of the sitting? Did she consider the whole process exhausting? Did the Master use any of the methods we hear whispered: the musicians or the jesters to draw that expression from her? Did…
Ginevra Gherardini (freezes, her eyes wide with a sudden scare): Ah!
Interviewer (with a sheepish grin): Oh my, I know, sorry about that! I fired off too many questions, and too quickly. Take your time, please.
Ginevra Gherardini (with a quiet chuckle): Yes, a lot, and all at once. At least for my timidity. You see, Lisa found it draining. She was a practical woman, not one happy to sit still for hours, day after day. It was a test of her considerable patience. The musicians and jesters? Yes, they were there. But no, not for amusement, but for distraction. Leonardo did not want a pose; he wanted a state of being. He would have the musicians play a gentle lute piece, or the jester would recite a simple, lighthearted poem, all to prevent that stiff, formal look that characterizes so many portraits of the time. He wanted her to be relaxed, thoughtful. To be, quite simply put, Lisa. But the smile, Signore … The smile was a different matter. I asked her about it once, when the painting was nearly finished.
Interviewer (fascinated): And what did she say?
Ginevra Gherardini (exhales slowly, reaching for the water-filled carafe): She merely said, ‘The Master keeps asking me to think of secrets, Ginevra. He tells me to hold a thought I will never share with anyone.’ Back then, she found it odd, a silly game, but she humoured him. And that, I believe, is the heart of the mystery that so fascinates the world: it is not a smile of joy, or sorrow, or flirtation. It is the simple, quiet look of a woman who has been asked to keep her own secret. A look of beautiful, dignified reserve.
Interviewer (intrigued): ‘Dignified reserve.’ This sheds a completely new light upon Gioconda’s image. Thank you, Signorina. This is a marvelous insight. I also wanted to discuss the matter of fortune, should your time allow.
Ginevra Gherardini (a little cough before she starts): If it is a brief one, why not?
Interviewer (grateful): Well, I very much appreciate your time. Your family, the Gherardinis, were of the old Florentine nobility, well-established, but not quite at the same level of wealth as, say, the Medicis or the Strozzis. Lisa married Messer Francesco del Giocondo, a successful merchant, but somehow considered an upstart. Was this marriage, as many historians suggest, an entirely pragmatic union, a linking of an ancient name with the rising commercial wealth? Please excuse the wording if I was too blunt.
Ginevra Gherardini (pauses, using her fan to trace a pattern on the tabletop): In Florence, Signore, it is often said that every marriage is signed not just by a priest but by an accountant. Our family had an esteemed name, yes, but names do not pay for dowries or for the upkeep of properties. My father, with seven children to settle, was a practical man. Lisa’s marriage was a good match, one that pleased everyone. Francesco was considerably older than Lisa, a difference of almost twenty years, but he was highly respected, a prosperous silk merchant, and a man of sober habits. Our family was able to provide a decent dowry, land and a generous sum of florins. And in return, Lisa gained security and position in a well-regarded merchant household. To call it entirely pragmatic is perhaps too harsh. There was respect and a quiet, domestic affection. Lisa was devoted to her duties as his wife and to raising his children, including the son born to Francesco’s first, deceased wife. She took her vows seriously. But love, the kind sung about by the poets? That was an extravagant luxury few of us expected or even required from a good marriage. It was a typical Florentine arrangement where name met money, and both families benefited.
Interviewer (offers a sympathetic nod): A quiet woman who achieved the loudest form of immortality. Signorina Gherardini, this has been an extraordinary honour. Thank you for giving us a glimpse beyond your sister’s smile.
Ginevra Gherardini (gives a small, decisive nod, placing the fan on the wrought-iron table): It was simply my truth, Signore. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall retire into the coolness of the palazzo.
(Ginevra slowly walks towards the arched doorway.)
You can read more imaginary interviews here: https://mybook.to/UnlikelyInterviews
