Venice, 4 August 1598

My dear Tiziana,

I would like to congratulate you on your twenty-third birthday. I hope this letter reaches you in good health. It has been so long again since we saw each other. And the wonderful night we spent together is as well remembered as if it were only yesterday. How often I have thought back to those happy hours when we made love in your bed. Your hands on my breasts, your lips between my legs. My longing for you grows into an ever-greater desire. And even though Lorenzo, my faithful husband, does everything for me, he cannot give me what you gave me.

As a sign of my trust and my love for you, I want to give you a very special gift. I want to let you in on a secret. You are the only person to whom I entrust this, and I know that this secret will be well kept with you. It is one of my most beautiful and intimate memories.

When I was 18, I was in Milan with my father. He was on a business trip, and I accompanied him out of curiosity. One day I was wandering the streets alone when a girl, hardly older than I was at the time, stole my purse. There must have been about ten scudi in it. I felt her snatch the small pouch from my belt and saw her running away.

I didn't run after her, I didn't care about the money, but I remembered her well. She had reddish hair that stood out a lot. She tried to hide it under her headscarf, but it fell down when she ran away.

Later I told my father about the incident. He was furious that I had been robbed and that evening he went to the magistrate to explain the case. He paid more money than was stolen from me just to have the thief found. And according to my description, she was indeed caught the next day.

She was a soft girl with red hair, white skin, blue eyes, and freckles on her face. When the thief was brought before the judge, she was trembling with fear. It was obvious that the theft had been her first crime. The girl was not vicious at all, on the contrary, she made a good-natured impression.

It turned out that she was a young prostitute who had stolen out of desperation to pay off the debt to her pimp. I never saw the money again. To this day, I can hardly believe that this beauty was of such low birth.

She was put on trial and my father pushed for the severest possible punishment. The sentence was finally that she should receive twenty lashes on the back if I did not grant her mercy and let her off with the scare. According to the constitution of the town, I, as the aggrieved party, was given the right to let her go if I so wished. I credit my father to this day for not trying in any way to influence me in any direction. He told me to judge as I saw fit and so it would be done. That power was exhilarating. She begged me for mercy. The girl went down on her knees before me, weeping from her beautiful sky-blue eyes, but I chose to have the sentence carried out.

So, they took her to the marketplace, took off her robe and tied her arms to a rack. My father and I sat on a tribune with the best view of the event. Crowds of onlookers had also gathered beneath us to enjoy the punishment.

Thus, the condemned stood before us, naked, her arms stretched out from her with her bare back to the executioner. I will never forget how bright her white back shone in the sunlight. She was terrified of what was about to happen. The executioner stroked her shoulders once gently with the leather whip. She shrugged fearfully. Then he swung out and struck. The whip cracked, the girl screamed, and the first stripe adorned her back. The red blood on her white skin was a wonderful contrast. Then he struck again. With each stroke, my abdomen tingled more. And again. And again. Each time drove me to a higher level. I could have watched it forever. It was like heaven. And all this, knowing that the girl was only down there because of me. Because of my testimony and my judgement.

Before the last strokes, the condemned fainted and the sentence was recognised as served. She was then released and I never saw her again. But I thought of her often. At night, when I closed my eyes, I would tickle myself between my legs and try to relive the moments.

Isn't it interesting why the girl was whipped? Why this particular punishment? I said it before, I never saw the money again. And the lashes on her back wouldn't bring the money back to me either. She could instead have been sentenced to serve in my house until the equivalent of the stolen sum was paid off- then the damage caused would have been compensated. But she paid off the damage to me in a different way. Namely in the feeling of well-being that I had when I unhesitatingly vented my power on a powerless girl. In the pleasure I felt when I saw her being whipped. In the uplifting feeling that came over me when I knew that this girl was beneath me and I could make her suffer without a second thought.

Now, my dear, I have let you into one of my innermost and most private memories. Consider it a sign of my trust in you.

With love,

Fillide

Florence, 6 August 1598

My beloved Fillide,

I send you a thousand kisses. How delighted I was to receive your letter. I read it again and again. And still I am touched by your openness towards me.

I enjoyed your account of your experiences in Milan. And just two months ago I had a similar pleasure, which I will now tell you about. I am trying to be as truthful and detailed as possible about what happened.

It was the beginning of July, and I was in Rome to freshen up my wardrobe. During my stay, an amusing incident occurred that resembled your experiences. A young servant in the papal palace was caught with a cassette full of stolen gold coins. It was a considerable sum and the girl tried to abscond with it.

She was thrown into the local prison. There the girl spent several days, uncertain of her fate. I later learned that she was eating when she was told that she would be publicly beheaded the next day for her crime. There were many pilgrims in the city at that time, so they wanted to use the opportunity to make an example of her.

The beheading was to take place at noon at the church of San Giovanni Decollato. A wonderful irony. I knew there would be a big crowd, so I went to the execution site the day before and already saw the scaffold being prepared with the Mannaia on it. This is a machine where a blade is mounted between two wooden rails. The neck of the condemned is fixed under the blade with a kind of pillory. Then the blade is dropped down and the condemned is beheaded.

I made out an apartment building that was right next to the scaffold, went to the second floor and knocked on the door of the apartment. A young woman who introduced herself as Cornelia opened it for me. She was a plain but lovely girl and wore a usual Roman dress. I had refrained from putting on an expensive outfit, but enjoyed walking the streets in my riding trousers, knee-high boots, and a simple white blouse. My clothes were more like those of a fencer than a noblewoman.

I introduced myself and asked to be let in. She let me in. I looked around her small flat and stepped into the living room. Indeed, from her windows one had a perfect view of the scaffold. It was like a box seat.

I told Cornelia that I wanted to see the thief's execution tomorrow and offered her two scudi if she would let me watch alone from her living room the next day. I showed her the money and her eyes sparkled. She said she would gladly accept the offer, but she had invited one of her friends whom she could not possibly refuse. So, there would be three of us in her flat. I agreed, gave her a scudo in advance and announced myself for the next day. Then I left her. I spent the rest of the day in eager anticipation of tomorrow's spectacle.

The next morning, I put on the previous day's clothes and set off early to Cornelia's before the crowds overflowed the streets. Nevertheless, by eight o'clock it was already almost impossible to get through to her. I struggled through the masses of people. Old and young, rich and poor, ugly and beautiful, all had gathered in front of the scaffold to watch the girl being beheaded. In the crowd were a few vendors offering drinks, pies and sweets. Elsewhere, beer was being served. Some youths tried to climb a nearby wall to get a better view of the scaffold. Whores wandered through the mass and ensnared the young men. In short, all of Rome seemed to have gathered in front of this church.

I reached Cornelia's house. The stairwell was already full of onlookers trying to get one of the window seats. I squeezed past them, thundered at her door and shouted for her to open up for me. She opened it for me, I quickly entered, and we locked the door before anyone else could get in. The rabble in the stairwell knocked for a long time, but we pushed a heavy chest of drawers in front of the door with the help of her young friend, who introduced himself as Caravaggio, and told the pack to go away. Then I gave Cornelia the promised second scudo.

It was entertaining with these people. The festive execution would not be carried out for a few hours, so we passed the time. This Caravaggio was a peculiar fellow. He was so full of energy but made a tortured impression on me at times. He had black hair, a neat beard and even wielded a sword. He eyed me while we sat at the table and Cornelia made us something to drink. Then he suddenly asked me if he could draw my portrait. I was taken aback but accepted. He instructed me how to sit and gently grabbed me under the chin as he moved my head in the direction I should look. I liked his touch. Cornelia grinned. It was obviously not the first time he did that. She took a lute, sat down on a bench and played a pleasant melody.

So, the time passed really quickly. Finally, he showed me his work. I was amazed. I had never seen such a portrait of myself. He seemed so casual when he drew me, but his picture was masterful. Looking back, I also relish the thought that we spent our time so serenely while the condemned girl was saying her final prayers in the nearby church. I looked at the drawing for a long time and wanted to thank him, but before I could speak a word, the sound of trumpets rang out from outside. The condemned was led forth.

We all rushed to the windows. Below us, the crowds were packed in the hot midday sun, but it was dead silent. So quiet, in fact, that we could hear the footsteps of the priests who preceded the procession. They carried a golden cross and finally stopped in front of the steps of the scaffold. Next to the Mannaia stood the executioner. He had raised the machine's blade and opened the wooden frame underneath. Everyone was just waiting for the young thief.

And finally, accompanied by four soldiers, she was led out of the church to the scaffold. She was a girl of perhaps 21 with dark brown hair tied back in a ponytail, brown eyes and a graceful face. Her hands were tied behind her back. During her imprisonment, they had taken her dress and put plain white trousers on her. On her feet she wore sandals of brown leather. Her upper body, however, was completely unclothed and her firm youthful breasts were a wonderful sight to behold. Around her neck she wore a small wooden cross on a leather ribbon.

She let herself be led with unsteady steps towards the scaffold. Her face was as white as a sheet and her gaze was constantly fixed on the glittering blade. When she reached the foot of the scaffold, she bent down and kissed the crucifix that the priest held out to her. She did not stop kissing it until two of the soldiers grabbed her by the arms and led her up the steps.

I could not take my eyes off the condemned girl. And with each step she took towards her safe end, I felt my heartbeat more fiercely. Sweat trickled down my chest. The girl immediately went down on her knees before the Mannaia. The executioner took off her cross necklace, placed her neck on the lower part of the wooden frame, closed the pillory and thus fixed her under the blade. Directly under her head was a leather bag. I felt an increasing pulsation between my legs as the last seconds of her short life ticked away.

Before either she or we knew what was happening, the blade flashed, and the girl's head rolled into the bag. A jolt went through her now headless body and blood from her open neck poured down her unclothed torso. Her trunk then slumped lifelessly and lay at the executioner's feet.

I was overwhelmed by a surge of lust that washed through my body. It felt like I was following her to heaven, only unlike her, I found myself back in my body again.

The executioner lifted her head out of the leather sack and presented it to the crowd. The tip of her tongue protruded slightly between her lips and her eyes were turned upwards, as if she had avoided the sight of the leather bag, preferring to stare at the crowd in front of her. She resembled an angel splattered with blood.

It took me a few moments to regain control of my body. To come back to my senses. The sight of the execution had been overwhelming. Watching this gentle thing being sent to the afterlife at my feet for her petty crime.

The crowd below us slowly dispersed. Then I noticed that Caravaggio had not been watching the execution at all but was only looking at me. He had seen everything. All the ecstasy that had come over me, all the satisfaction I had felt from the beheading. I blushed, for I was convicted.

But now he surprised me again. He asked me if I wanted to do him a favour and model for his painting of St Catherine. I accepted his offer. He said we had to hurry while the impression on my face was still fresh. We said goodbye to Cornelia and went to his studio shortly thereafter. There he put a dress on me, made me sit down in front of him, gave me a sword in my hand, showed me which posture to take and began to paint me. I ran my fingers gently over the blade I held in my hands, thinking about how it must feel when it slides through your own neck. When you see your own head fall. In my mind I was all the time with the girl whose head I had seen roll just before.

I felt like he could read my mind. He seemed to like it and continued to paint my face all the more eagerly.

I visited him regularly in his studio in the following days until he finally had the rest of me on canvas. I couldn't believe it. It was as if I was looking into a mirror. This man made me immortal with his work. Me, who was still completely under the spell of the execution. It was a stroke of genius on his part.

So you see, beloved Fillide, we share the same passions. And I can not wait to hold you in my arms again and to savour these pleasures together with you.

With love,

Tiziana.

I hope you enjoyed my little scribble.

For those who are interested, here are some notes on the text:

Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio (known as Caravaggio) was indeed a peculiar fellow. His paintings are often gloomy and brutal.

He frequently painted decapitations. For example: Medusa, Judith beheading Holofornes, David with the head of Goliath (the severed head bears Caravaggio's face), Salome with the head of John the Baptist or The Beheading of St. John (with whose blood he wrote his own name, by the way).

So I think you can say with some certainty that he was at least interested in the subject. The life of this man was also interesting. He was known for his quick temper and committed a murder in Rome, which forced him to flee the city and spend the rest of his life in exile. There he became depressed while trying to obtain his pardon with his paintings.

The painting referred to in the story is this one:

https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikiped...n_image%29.jpg

It shows St Catherine of Alexandria. As is usual with depictions of martyrs, the tools of execution are shown as well. Behind her is the wheel with which she was supposed to have been executed. However, it was smashed by God, so that she was finally beheaded. Milk instead of blood flowed from her open neck. The picture was painted by Caravaggio in Rome in 1598. He used a Roman prostitute as a model.

By the way, I can warmly recommend the two comics about Caravaggio by the legendary Milo Manara. They depict the most important stages of his life and it is a real pleasure to see how he portrays Italy in the early 17th century.

The comment on the feeling of well-being that comes from the whipping is taken from Friedrich Nietzsche's Genealogy of Morality. In several places he refers to the pleasure that arises from punishment.

For example, in the second essay, §6

I ask again: to what extent can suffering be a compensation for ‘debts’? To the degree that to make someone suffer is pleasure in its highest form, and to the degree that the injured party received an extraordinary counter-pleasure in exchange for the injury and distress caused by the injury: to make someone suffer, – a true feast, something that, as I mentioned, rose in price the more it contrasted with the rank and social position of the creditor.

(Nochmals gefragt: inwiefern kann Leiden eine Ausgleichung von »Schulden« sein? Insofern Leiden-machen im höchsten Grade wohltat, insofern der Geschädigte für den Nachteil, hinzugerechnet die Unlust über den Nachteil, einen außerordentlichen Gegen–Genuss eintauschte: das Leiden-machen – ein eigentliches Fest, etwas, das wie gesagt umso höher im Preise stand, je mehr es dem Range und der gesellschaftlichen Stellung des Gläubigers widersprach.)

This thought simply begged to be put forward by the sadistic girl. Even though the social position of the condemned in the story is rather low, the pleasure of torture is still present here.

Finally: The execution in the second letter is strongly inspired by Charles Dickens' Pictures from Italy. There he describes how a criminal was publicly beheaded in Rome. He had robbed and beaten to death a pilgrim from Bavaria. It is decribed beautifully and the text is freely available on the internet.

Anyway, have a nice day.

Yours sincerely,

DutchDillan