When the appointed day arrived, I rose early, so that Chiara might bathe me and wash my hair. I then sat in the sun on the roof of our house, my trusty hat in place, so that the sun might dry my hair. Once it was dry—hours later—Chiara sat me in front of the dressing table and artfully twisted up and bound certain strands, pinning them about the crown of my head, while leaving the rest to flow freely down my back, as was appropriate for an unmarried woman. The final result took much more time than one would guess from looking at it, which was perhaps the point. She then dressed me in a clean shift, petticoat, and, finally, the gown. My neck was left bare, but I donned a pair of pearl earrings of my mother’s, and finally clasped Marco’s bracelet about my wrist.
The entire process took most of the day, and the afternoon sun was slanting its light down the streets and alleys of Florence by the time we were finished. I was exhausted, despite not having done much of anything at all. Yet I had to keep my wits about me for the upcoming gathering.
Marco came for me right on time, and Chiara and I were waiting in the receiving room for him with my mother. He came in and swept us a bow as we rose to our feet. “Simonetta, mio cuore,” he said. “You are a vision. I did not believe you could possibly look more beautiful, but today you have managed it.”
I smiled. “I shall have to try something quite new for our wedding day, then.”
“It does not matter, for I will be just as in love with you no matter what,” he vowed. He offered me his arm. “Shall we, then?”
My mother trailed out behind us, offering me last-minute advice on etiquette and posture and “Do not blather on about your poetry in such company, Simonetta.” Again, it was all I could do not to roll my eyes. I had not come to Florence to not talk about poetry. “Si, Madre,” I called over my shoulder as Marco handed me into the carriage, with Chiara following behind me. And then we were off.
7
The Medici palazzo was situated in the Via Larga, a stone’s throw from the great cathedral, baptistery, and campanile in the Piazza del Duomo. The palazzo had been constructed, so Marco told me en route, by the great Cosimo de’ Medici, father of Piero and grandfather of Lorenzo and Giuliano. “One of the greatest men this city has ever known,” he told me, his eyes shining with pride in his homeland. “It is quite the building, as you will see. Many have tried to emulate and even surpass it, though none, in my opinion, have succeeded.”
I only smiled encouragingly as he went on. Marco did not seem to notice that I was too nervous to reply.
I longed to turn my head to peer out of the carriage windows at the houses, shops, churches, and streets as we passed. I was so curious about this city of which I had heard so much, and taking in my new surroundings would have been a good way to keep my mind off of the importance of the evening ahead. But it would have been rude to so blatantly ignore Marco, even though he was doing nothing to put me at ease with his accounting of the accomplishments of Cosimo de’ Medici, and even those of Lorenzo himself, just back from a very successful diplomatic visit to Milan, where he had apparently been very well received by Duke Galeazzo Maria Sforza himself.
And now, home in Florence, this supposedly great Lorenzo shall receive a simple noble girl from Genoa, I thought, my heart doubling its pace.
Thankfully, before too long, the carriage rolled to a stop, and Marco hopped out in order to help me down. “Here we are,” he said cheerfully.
The building I beheld upon stepping out of the carriage was more like a fortress than anything else. Taking up the entire block on which it sat, it was a massive rectangular configuration of sandy-colored stone, allowing it to fit in nicely with the brown and yellow buildings and reddish-tiled roofs that covered Florence. Two neat rows of arched windows marched in orderly fashion across the top half of the façade, marking the second and third floors. At ground level were two massive doorways cut into the stone.
All in all, the exterior was intimidating, exuding force and power without being particularly beautiful or elegant. Perhaps these Medici—whom I had been told are not royalty, even though Marco spoke of them with all the awe and honor that I imagined one would accord to royalty—must be careful not to appear too ostentatious, as though they are setting themselves up too grandly. Perhaps it was fine for others to speak of them as royalty in this republican Florence, so long as they did not seem to see themselves that way.
As we approached the center door, Chiara following behind us, it swung open to reveal a servant standing behind it. “Welcome, signore, signorina,” the man said, stepping aside to allow us in. “It is Signor Vespucci, is it not?”
“Si,” Marco replied, “and my betrothed, Simonetta Cattaneo.”
The servant nodded, though I noticed him sneaking another glance at me. “Very good. The party is just through the courtyard in the gardens, signore.”
“Grazie,” Marco said, taking my hand and placing it on his arm. “I know the way.”
The servant bowed, withdrawing and gesturing for Chiara to follow him, no doubt to the kitchens.
We stepped into a small but elegant courtyard, ringed with arches supported by simple, smooth columns topped with elaborately carved capitals. Above us, windows of the interior rooms of the palazzo looked down upon the courtyard. Directly across from the entrance, above the center arch, was a large stone carving of what I had learned to recognize as the Medici crest: a coat of arms with six balls arranged upon it.
In the very center of the courtyard, upon a pedestal, stood a magnificent statue in bronze of David. He wore a wide-brimmed shepherd’s hat but was otherwise naked, and carried a great sword in his right hand, with his left hand resting confidently on his hip. As well it should: at the shepherd boy’s sandaled feet rested the head of Goliath.
I drew away from Marco and stepped closer to the statue, intent on examining it further. Unfamiliar though I was with the male nude—real or rendered in art—I could still appreciate the detail, the lifelike quality of each line and curve of muscle and flesh. So lifelike was this David that I half expected him to step down from the pedestal and begin to converse with us.
Marco came to stand next to me. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” he said softly.
“I have never seen anything like it before,” I breathed.
“Nor will you, I shouldn’t think,” Marco said. “It was sculpted by the great Donatello.” He turned to look at me significantly. “David is one of the symbols of Florence, of course.”
“Is he?” I asked. “Well, this is a most worthy representation—more than worthy.”
Marco smiled at my appreciation. “Come,” he said, taking my hand again. “Let me introduce you to the family. Then you shall be able to discuss art to your heart’s content.”
We moved past the statue of David and stepped through an archway at the opposite end of the courtyard, emerging into a lovely garden ringed by the stone walls of the palazzo. Straight stone paths cut through the carefully tended grass, with small trees and flowers planted along the walkways, and more statues interspersed among the plant life. At either end of the garden was a fountain, sending streams of water bubbling peacefully into the basin below. On the grass in the center of the garden a long table draped in a gauzy tablecloth had been placed, with perhaps twenty chairs arranged around it. Some of those chairs were occupied, while other guests wandered about the garden.
So captivated was I by my surroundings that I did not immediately notice that the attention of every individual in the garden was fixed on me. Once I did, I began to blush. So much for appearing the consummate sophisticate.
“Marco, you scamp!” a voice rang out. An exceedingly handsome dark-haired young man—of about my age, I thought—came toward us. “This cannot be your betrothed!”
Marco laughed. “Indeed she is,” he said. He brought me forward slightly. “May I present my affianced bride, Simonetta Cattaneo of Genoa. Simonetta, meet Giuliano de’ Medici.”
So this was the younger Medici brother. “An honor, signore,” I said.
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He took my hand and kissed it, bowing low over it. “The honor and pleasure are all mine, signorina,” he said. His eyes roved appreciatively up my person, settling on my face, as though he was transfixed. “You have no idea.”
A laugh sounded behind him. “Trust Giuliano to monopolize the most beautiful woman in any company,” another man said, coming forward. “Signorina Cattaneo, I must apologize for my younger brother, and assure you that not all Florentines have such appalling manners.” He, too, took my hand and kissed it. “Lorenzo de’ Medici, at your service.”
When he straightened up again, I got my first good look at this Lorenzo, the bright light of Florence. It was apparent that his brother had gotten all the good looks in the family, for Lorenzo himself could certainly not be described as handsome—indeed, one would not, perhaps, be wrong to describe him as ugly. His features, surrounded by almost black hair that came nearly to his shoulders, were too strong, too forceful: his chin jutted forward sharply, and his nose was large and almost somewhat flattened, as though it had been broken in a fight. His eyes were dark and deep, set beneath thick black brows. Yet even so, he radiated warmth and charm, and his eyes sparkled with intelligence and conviviality. For all Giuliano’s almost godlike handsomeness, I knew that Lorenzo was the brother whom I would rather think well of me.
“I am honored to make your acquaintance,” I said, favoring him with a smile.
For a moment his face, too, took on the same transfixed look as his brother’s had. Then he chuckled and shook his head. “I do not even want to know what black arts you practiced in order to get such a beauty as your bride, Marco,” Lorenzo said, turning to my betrothed and greeting him with a friendly embrace. “But, mind you, run straight to your confessor.”
At first I was shocked to hear such a joke, but when all those around me laughed, Marco included, I pushed my discomfort aside. This Florence was a new world; if I wanted to belong here, I would have to listen and observe and acclimate. I must embrace it.
“Come, Signorina Simonetta,” Lorenzo said, offering me his arm. “Allow me to introduce you to the rest of the party.”
He led me the rest of the way into the garden. Behind us, Marco had been drawn into easy, jovial conversation by Giuliano, and for a moment I felt adrift without him, alone among strangers. Yet this, too, I cast aside. If I was to make my home here, then I must make friends of my own. I stood a bit straighter, head back, as Lorenzo began to make introductions.
“My new bride,” he said, gesturing forward a petite, pale woman with fawn-colored hair and wide eyes. “Clarice Orsini de’ Medici.”
The name Orsini seemed familiar. If I recalled my lessons with Padre Valerio correctly, the Orsini were one of the leading noble families of Rome. The Medici had brokered an advantageous match for their heir, indeed. “Signora,” I said graciously. “It is a pleasure. And I must thank you for your kind invitation.”
“Of course,” she said in a soft voice. “I shall be glad to meet more women amongst my husband’s circle.”
“And my esteemed mother,” Lorenzo continued, walking me around the table. “Lucrezia Tornabuoni de’ Medici.”
Lucrezia, the formidable Medici matriarch, surprised me somewhat. She was quite tall, with her brown hair—a few shades darker than Clarice’s—pinned up modestly. Her face, however, was serene and inviting, much like paintings of the Madonna I had seen. Yet I knew that she was as able a politician and businesswoman as her husband—perhaps more so, some said. I also remembered a remark made in passing by Marco’s father that the Medici matriarch was an accomplished poet, and had penned many lovely devotional verses. “It is my honor, signora,” I said. “I have heard many wonderful things about you.”
She laughed, and the sound was bold, somewhat belying her gentle appearance. “I thank you for saying so,” she said. “My, but what a beauty you are! I have scarce seen your like all over Italy. Though I expect that I am not the first to tell you so. Signor Vespucci is a lucky man indeed.”
My jaw felt a bit tight from smiling so much, from appreciating the same compliment over and over again, no matter how sincerely it was meant. “I thank you for saying so, signora,” I said. “You are very kind.”
The introductions continued, a few scholars and writers as well as other friends of Lorenzo’s and Giuliano’s. I knew that I would never remember so many names, nor which names went with which faces. But perhaps that is one of the advantages of beauty, I realized, my lips curving into what no doubt seemed to be a mysterious smile. A new sense of boldness flooded through me. These men would be falling all over themselves to remind me of their names, and with pleasure, so long as I engaged in conversation with them for a brief moment. I had been told all my life—subtly and not so subtly—that beauty was a weapon, a tool, a source of power—sometimes the only one available to a woman. Yet it was not until that first evening among the Medici that I began to consider—rather innocently—how I might use it as such.
At some point, Marco had reclaimed his place at my side. “Signorina Cattaneo was very taken with the statue of David in the courtyard,” he told Lorenzo. “She is a lover of art as well.”
“Ah!” Lorenzo said, turning to regard me with renewed interest. “And do you prefer sculpture or paintings, signorina?”
I flushed slightly at having his undivided attention. “In truth, signore, I favor poetry,” I confessed. “But I have never seen such artwork as here in Florence—the fresco in the great Duomo, and now your statue.”
“Then it is my fondest hope that Florence shall continue to oblige in your desire to see, and to learn,” Lorenzo said. “Indeed, I shall contribute to your education further right now, if I may.”
“Please,” I said eagerly.
He motioned for me to take his arm again and led me to a statue in the center of the garden. “Yet another by the great Donatello,” he said as we stopped before it. “Commissioned, as was the sculpture of David, by my grandfather Cosimo.” He fell silent, presumably giving me time to study the work, for which I was grateful.
This statue, too, was in bronze, though it seemed to me that it must have been gilded with gold, so brightly did it gleam in the light of the setting sun. It depicted the biblical heroine Judith, her sword raised high above her head as she pulled back the head of the drunken Holofernes with her other hand, baring his throat for her to strike. A look of grim determination was carved onto her face, and it was as if one could see in her eyes both her distaste for the bloody task ahead of her and her resolve to see it through anyway, to save her people no matter the cost.
“It … She is glorious,” I said finally, knowing that Lorenzo was waiting to hear my thoughts. “She is … so brave, and yet so sad at the same time.”
Lorenzo cocked his head, studying the statue again. “I confess I have never thought of it quite that way before, although now I do think I see what you mean,” he said. “Perhaps it takes a woman to notice it. You see her cares and worries and struggles as a man may not.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “Is it not amazing how two people can stand side by side and look at the same work and see two different things?”
Lorenzo smiled. “You have just articulated my very favorite thing about art, signorina—be it statuary, painting, or poetry.”
He fell silent again, giving me another moment in which to study the statue. This time, I noticed two small panels propped up at the base of the statue. Each was a small painting depicting the story of Judith. In the first, she was walking through a landscape that looked very like the Tuscan countryside, a curved sword in her hand. She glanced back over her shoulder, as though about to speak to her maid, who carried the head of Holofernes. Judith’s dress looked much like one my mother owned, and her long blond hair was artfully styled and pinned about her head, just like a sophisticated Florentine lady. I felt myself smiling as I beheld her: her expression was troubled, upset by the assassination she had carried out; yet, unlike in Donatello’s statue, there was relief there, too,
and hope. Hope that the future would bring better things, hope that the bloody deed she had committed would not be in vain.
The second panel was much more gruesome. It depicted Holofernes’ generals and guards finding his beheaded corpse within his tent. The viewer’s eye was immediately drawn to the lifeless body in the bottom center of the small panel and, more specifically, to the blood that oozed from his neck, now relieved of its head. The body was contorted in such a painful way that one could feel the agony of his last moments. No doubt the reactions of most viewers would mimic the shock and horror on the painted faces of those discovering the body.
“Ah,” Lorenzo said, noting where my attention had landed. “I am glad you noticed the panels. They are a recent commission by my father, as a gift for my mother. They have only just been completed, and so she and I thought to show them off beside their companion statue, if you will.”
“Who is the artist?” I asked, my eyes slipping back to Judith’s face.
“His name is Sandro Botticelli,” Lorenzo said. “A recent discovery; in fact, it was one of your betrothed’s Vespucci cousins who recommended him to me. A very promising young artist, as no doubt you can see.” He chuckled. “Though I doubt he will thank me for placing his work next to that of a master like Donatello.”
“His work can stand the comparison, though, I think,” I said.
Lorenzo turned to look at me, quite seriously. “Do you think so, signorina?”
Inwardly, I cursed myself for feeling the need to voice my ignorant, uneducated opinion. “I am only a novice in appreciating such things, as I said,” I excused myself.
“No, no,” Lorenzo said. “Please, signorina. I welcome your thoughts most gladly.”
I hesitated for a moment before speaking again. There is nothing for it now, I told myself. I may as well be bold, and hope that Lorenzo is as fond of opinionated women as he seems to be. “Donatello’s statue draws the eye first, of course,” I began. “It shines so in the light; how can it not? And I can certainly see why Donatello was a master, for this work is surely a masterpiece. And yet, even so…” I allowed my eyes to drift back to the painter Botticelli’s panels. “Donatello’s Judith is fearsome, distant, even though one can see the emotion in her eyes. She is magnificent and glorious, but intimidating for all that.” I pointed to Botticelli’s Judith. “Here, she is … different. More lifelike. I feel as though I could know her, as though I might pass her in the street. As though she could be me. Signor Botticelli has managed to capture such detail and feeling in only a small space. It is wonderful.” I smiled, a bit sheepishly. “As I say, I know not much of art. I only know what it makes me feel.”
The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence Page 4