Fludd: A Novel

In paintings, there are various guises in which angels come to make their annunciation. Some have bird-bones and tiny feet, and wings that shimmer like a kingfisher’s back. Others, with delicate, crimped gold hair, have the demure expression of music-mistresses. Some angels appear more masculine. Their feet, huge and simian, dig into the marble pavements. Their wings have the wet solidity of large marine animals.

There is a painting, a Virgin and Child, by Ambrosio Bergognone. The woman has a silvery pallor; her child is plump and well-doing, the kind of baby, ready to walk if it were not so idle, that makes your arms ache. She supports him with one hand; his feet are set upon a deep green cloth.

On either side of her is an open window, giving out on to a dusty street. Life goes on; in the distance is a bell-tower. Approaching, a figure carries a basket. Walking away from us are two other figures, absorbed in conversation, and following them closely is a small white dog with a plumed tail. The infant plays with a string of rosary beads: coral, perhaps.

An open book is propped before the woman. She is reading the First Psalm, with its message of utter reassurance: “For the Lord knoweth the ways of the just; and the ways of the wicked shall perish.”

The Virgin’s expression, at first sight, seems unfathomably sad. It is only on closer observation that one notices the near-smirk on her dimpled mouth, and the expression of satisfaction in her long, duncoloured eyes.