“Signor Daddi, it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance,” said an impeccably well-dressed man in his mid forties with a crisp bow and handshake. “My name is Ricardo Fellini.”
“The pleasure is mine, Signor Antinori.”
This exchange repeated itself a dozen times. Although he was sure that he should have recognized some of the names, they rushed past Daddi in a blur.
“My friend Giotto is much too generous in his praise,” protested Daddi humbly, after the initial round of introductions had passed. “I am but a student of the master, trying to catch a glimpse of the light that shines on Tuscany’s greatest artist.”
“Bernardo,” interjected Giotto with obvious delight at his pupil’s praise, “you must meet Arnolfo di Cambio, one of the greatest sculptors that Florence has ever produced.”
A slight, thin man with green eyes and light brown hair, dressed more plainly than the others, stood by Giotto’s side and bowed slightly towards Daddi.
“I have seen your work, Signor Daddi. My friend Giotto does not exaggerate about your skills. You are a master beyond your years.”
As an artist, to receive a compliment from a non-artist was wonderful. It made him happy that someone else appreciated his work. To receive such praise from a fellow artist, especially one who is held in such high esteem by a man he idolized, was something completely different. It was a validation of him as a person, of what he had dedicated his life to be. So few see the world the way an artist sees it. The way light caresses the cheek of a beautiful woman, or the way subtle emotions show themselves and then disappear from a stranger’s face. Not only to see it but to capture it on a flat wooden plank or a plaster wall, knowing that he was never satisfied with what he had painted.
In his previous life in Lucca, Berlinghiero was the acknowledged master. He was never short of hearing praise from those around him. He had grown immune to it. Bishops, priors and wealthy donors were always offering him effusive exultation. At first he had relished it and then he came to realize that it was that first type of praise, praise by non-artists who liked his paintings, who were moved by them, that meant nothing.
This was different. This was a sculptor, an artist held in the highest esteem, a peer, telling him that he knew of his work and thought that it was, in essence, worthwhile.
Daddi bowed deeply towards di Cambio. “I am humbled by your praise, Signor. Please,” said Daddi to the group, “continue with your conversation. I rudely interrupted you.”
“Have no fear, my friend,” said Giotto. “I was just boring them with a description of a new painting I am working on. Have you seen Speziali yet? He is right over there,” he pointed to his right at Signor Speziali surrounded by a swarm of people. “You need to go over there directly and pay your respects,” he admonished.
Daddi nodded. “Indeed. I shall return. Please forgive me,” he said as he bowed to the group.
He gradually inched his way through the crowd and eventually came to Speziali, who was talking with a group of at least a dozen people that Daddi had never met before.
“Here he is!” exclaimed Speziali the moment he saw Daddi. “This is the man who is going to bring the beauty of Florence into my new home!”
The others surrounding Speziali immediately turned to see whom their host had felt important enough to single out.
“I apologize for interrupting you,” said Daddi, feeling like this was becoming his standard greeting at parties. “Thank you very much for inviting me, Signor Speziali. This is the most splendid party I have ever attended.”
“I am glad you could make it, Signor Daddi.” He turned to the group in front of him, “Please, allow me a minute with the artist.”
He placed his arm around Daddi and led him away from the group. “Bernardo, how old are you?”
Daddi paused for a moment, because in actuality this was a surprisingly complex calculation for him. “Thirty-one, Signor.”
“Please, call me Giuseppe,” said Speziali with a smile. “It is about time that you thought about starting a family, do you not agree?”
Taken somewhat by surprise, Daddi stammered, “Well, I had not really given it much thought.”
“Exactly!” proclaimed Speziali. “That is the problem with artists. You are too focused on your art to see what is going on around you. A man of your means should have a family. You are not planning on becoming a monk, are you?”
“No, I have no plans to become a monk.”
“That is precisely why you need someone like me to look out for you, my friend,” said Speziali with a smile. “I want to introduce you to my niece. Of course, if you find her hideous-looking, then you should run away at once. But I think you might be intrigued. She is a very beautiful girl and she has a bit of the artist in her, from what my sister tells me.”
Daddi was completely caught off guard. He was serious when he said that he hadn’t thought of a family. He had had a family, a family that he loved dearly. They were all gone now. Their passing had left an empty pit in his heart that he had tried to fill by immersing himself in his work. He had felt dead inside for years after they passed. His family was gone, his home and the beautiful city that he had called home was taken from him. He roamed the Tuscan countryside in a daze for decades before finally settling on a new identity in Florence.
“I am not sure what to say, Giuseppe. I would be pleased to meet your niece when the time is right,” he said, trying not to offend this very powerful man who was, at the moment at least, the primary source of his own wealth.
“Well then, you are in luck. She is here tonight. Come, I will introduce the two of you,” confided Speziali as he put his arm around Daddi’s shoulder and led him to the left and under an enormous archway that led into another room that seemed to be almost as large as the first.
As they made their way through the crowd they were stopped every few feet by guests providing greetings to the host. Speziali was a fine host and a diplomat as well. He had a way of making everyone feel welcome without spending more than thirty seconds with any of them. He greeted all of them by name, asked about their children, their business, and thanked them for coming and then continued his procession forward.
At last they came upon a group of six, four women and two men, talking next to a large, marble column. One of the men facing them stopped his conversation and greeted Speziali with a slight bow and a handshake.
“Giuseppe! We thought that perhaps you would not be able to make it over this far with all these guests.”
“Someone told me that this group was drinking all of my finest wine and I wanted to get over here and try some before it was all gone.” Everyone in the group laughed.
Speziali, still with his arm around Daddi, said to the group, “I want to introduce you to someone you will be hearing a lot about in the coming years. This is Bernardo Daddi, who will be painting a few soon-to-be masterpieces to grace the walls of my new home. He comes personally recommended by the great Giotto.”
The man who first greeted Speziali, held out his hand.
“Greetings to you, Signor Daddi, I am Stephano Castracani, and this is my wife, Giadda.” He motioned to the woman standing to his left.
The other man who appeared somewhat younger than Stephano stepped forward to greet them. “Signor Daddi, it is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Gabriel Antinori. This is my wife, Catherine, and my daughters, Gabriella and Angelina,” he said, motioning to a tallish woman standing next to him as well as a young, slightly plump woman who was likely in her late teens or perhaps early twenties, and a strikingly beautiful girl who was in her late teens. The younger daughter, Angelina, was stunning. Her name was fitting. She really did appear to be an angel.
Daddi shook Gabriel’s hand and bowed low to the entire group. “It is my distinct privilege to make your acquaintance. I had no idea that I would be introduced to such beautiful women this evening.”
“An artist and a gentleman,” Speziali said, laughing warmly. “Signor Daddi, your talents c
ontinue to impress. Catherine is my sister and these lovely girls are my nieces.”
“Signor Daddi, my brother is very impressed with your work and speaks very highly of you. Perhaps you would honor us at our home for dinner sometime in the near future.”
Daddi tried hard to hold back his excitement over the opportunity to spend more time with the beautiful Angelina.
“It would be my pleasure,” he responded trying not to stare at Angelina.
“Catherine,” added Speziali, “Signor Daddi is a bachelor and therefore could definitely benefit from some home cooking.”
“Then we will need to get together sooner rather than later,” said Catherine with a conspiratorial smile to her brother. “We would not want Signor Daddi to waste away and not have the energy to finish your project, Giuseppe.”
“If you would excuse us, I have a few more guests that I need to say hello to and I want to show off Signor Daddi to them as well,” continued Speziali as he began to lead Daddi away from the group.
As they moved through the crowd, Speziali leaned closer to Daddi. “So, what did you think of my sister’s family?”
“They seem to be a lovely family,” responded Daddi.
“Well, of course they are. But what I mean is, what do you think of Angelina?” pressed Speziali.
“She is very beautiful, although I obviously do not know anything about her.”
“That is exactly what we need to work on. You cannot remain a bachelor all your life. A man needs a family. She is a beautiful girl from a very good family. I have known her for her entire life. She would make you a wonderful wife.”
Daddi didn’t know what to say. He had not thought about starting another family. He had to admit, though, Angelina was beautiful and he was tired of living alone. Perhaps he had been single long enough. He could also do far worse than having Giuseppe Speziali as part of his family.
“You know, if we do get married, you still do not receive a family discount,” quipped Daddi.
“And they call me a tough negotiator!” laughed Speziali. The two continued their way through the crowd.
Chapter 38
Florence, Italy, August 1344
It was a beautiful country villa, everything that Daddi had ever wanted and more than Berlinghiero could have dreamed. Daddi had done well; he had commissions with the wealthiest and most famous men of Italy and beyond. With his friend and mentor Giotto now deceased, Daddi had emerged as the premier artist in Florence, which meant that he was one of the premier artists in the known world. His success had afforded him the money to buy something that he had always wanted, a large estate in the beautiful Tuscan countryside.
Rows of vineyards grew thick with dark green leaves and deep, purple grapes that would be picked and turned into wine in the fall. Orchards hung heavy with green olives that would be picked and pressed into fragrant, peppery olive oil. Fluffy, white sheep, most of which would be sheered and whose fine wool would be woven into some of the finest fabric in the world roamed the hillsides. Some of them would ultimately be slaughtered and sold to the markets as lamb and mutton to be consumed by families in the city. Even as a child, more than a hundred years ago, he had loved the Tuscan countryside. Now he had his own piece of it.
The villa had been built thirty years ago by a wealthy merchant, who was a friend and colleague of Speziali. It was Speziali, his old patron, who had told Daddi about this villa and the estate that went with it. Daddi hadn’t hesitated to jump at the opportunity. He still kept his house and studio in the city and, much to Angelina’s chagrin, spent too many days locked inside it.
Due to his constant focus on fulfilling orders and building his wealth, Daddi had been largely an absentee parent while his daughters, Constanzia and Estancia, were young. They were now grown women, with husbands and children of their own. Even now he still worked many weekends trying to finish up projects with tight deadlines. His work at Speziali’s mansion had been a huge hit and word had spread quickly throughout the wealthy merchants and lesser royalty of the city, thanks in large part to Speziali’s enthusiastic endorsement. He and his ever-growing team of apprentices had so much work that they had a two-year backlog on orders. His studio turned out an amazing volume of work, some of which was great but most of which, he had to admit, was merely adequate. All of it, though, was extremely profitable. He referred less lucrative work to other artists, many of whom were his or Giotto’s former apprentices, who were busy making names for themselves.
He and Angelina sat outside underneath the shade of the delicate purple wisteria, which hung like grapes from the latticed canopy. The gentle flowers swayed in the warm breeze. Angelina sat nestled against Daddi with his arm wrapped over her shoulder. Two glasses of red wine sat on the marble table in front of them along with some cheese and a slab of sausage, both of which came from the farm. He rested his cheek on the top of her head and allowed himself to breathe in the clean, intoxicating smell of her hair. It smelled of lavender and honey, and her. This was heaven, he thought. Life had never been so enjoyable. He wished moments like this could last an eternity, but he knew they wouldn’t.
“Bernardo,” she purred quietly.
“Yes, my love,” he responded softly.
“We should spend more time like this. More time here in the country, where you can relax and spend time with me and your girls and your grandchildren. You are in the city so long and under such stress that it takes you at least a day to relax and start enjoying life.”
He thought quietly and let out a very slight murmur. His relationship with Angelina had grown, despite his frequent absence. Angelina grew up in the family of a wealthy merchant and understood that success required sacrifice. But, as she pointed out on numerous occasions, her father always made sure to balance his work with spending time with his family.
“I plan on doing just that, my love,” he said after some quiet reflection. “There is just so much work right now that I have to finish and I cannot delegate all of it to my apprentices.”
“You know how proud I am of all that you have achieved. Your success has provided us with a very comfortable lifestyle.” She continued, still with her head nestled against his chest. “But we could live comfortably on a fraction of what you make. We do not need more money. I am very proud to be married to the famous artist whose name is known throughout the land. But I miss the man that no one else knows. The one who is not afraid to make silly faces for his girls who adore him and crave his attention. You are the husband I always dreamed of since I was a young girl. I just want to have more of you here, with us, rather than pursuing more fame and fortune.”
He knew that what she said was true. He felt the same way about Angelina and his daughters. They were by far the most important people in his life. Still, for some reason he was afraid to let his business slip and be overtaken by other artists. After all, people were fickle, especially the rich. He was in favor now, but how long that would last was anyone’s guess. He was determined to build up such a strong foundation of wealth and fame, like Giotto had, that he would never have to worry about his family’s future or the longevity of his name.
He held her closer and kissed the top of her head. “I will try to slow down and spend more time with you. I know I have not spent as much as I should and I apologize for that.”
† † †
The next week was his grandson Rocco’s, seventh birthday. In keeping with his promise, Daddi took the weekend off to bring his extended family together, to spend time and celebrate. Angelina’s parents, who were now in their early seventies, had come to be with their children, grandchildren, and now great grandchildren. His daughters and their husbands came with their children, who ranged in age from two to seven. Angelina’s sisters brought their five children along with their husbands.
Angelina worked closely with the cook they kept at the villa to make a memorable meal. Daddi had hand-selected some of the oldest vintages of the spectacular Chianti that his estate produced and that he had insisted
upon including as part of the purchase price of the villa and surrounding countryside.
He had not seen Angelina’s parents Gabriel and Catherine for several months and the years were clearly catching up to both of them, Gabriel especially. Being with their family was one of the greatest joys in their life and Daddi did what he could to ensure they had experiences like this to share, enjoy and remember.
The children played in the garden and ran through the vineyards. They watched the sheep and fed milk to the little lambs. They played games that only children can invent. The older children served as leaders and mentors to the younger ones. They played, laughed, rolled in the grass, the young ones fell, cried and were consoled by the older ones, and then quickly returned to their games, seemingly forgetting that they had been crying just minutes earlier.
The men stayed close to the villa sipping wine and talking about business and politics. The women, who were all sisters or daughters, worked in the kitchen with the cooks to bring out servings of various antipasti, including some of the cured olives from the estate, along with sausages and cheeses, to enjoy with their husbands. It was a glorious Tuscan summer day. Hot, with a topaz blue sky, a warm breeze, the aromas of grilled meats, dark fruits ripening on the vine and the ever present smell of lush vegetation.
Angelina worked tirelessly. She was the youngest daughter and strove to be respected in her family. She wanted to be the best wife and mother and make her parents proud. Daddi often watched her at such gatherings. She spent her time making sure that the cook knew how she liked her dishes or, more importantly, how her husband liked them. She never rested. Even though they had a small team of servants, she was always watching to make sure that glasses remained full and that no one had to wait too long for something they wanted. Daddi couldn’t ask for a better wife to spend his life, or at least this iteration of it, with. He sometimes wondered what Ilaria would think of Angelina, and vice versa. They would clearly be jealous of each other, but in a different environment they would probably like and respect each other. There were so many similarities between the two. They were both youngest daughters and were young when they married. They had both been strong, loving, and caring woman who weren’t afraid to share their opinions with their husband, despite being rather quiet and demure when they were with others. Both of them were beautiful. Even as a grandmother, Angelina was young, vibrant and full of life. She was his constant companion.
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