After a long dinner with various antipasti, freshly made pasta followed by braised lamb, they made a large fire in a pit outside the main house. They sat around the fire as its yellow flames leaped skyward in hypnotic patterns. The men drank grappa, the women drank vin Santo, and the children ate some of the sweets that had been prepared. They stayed up late into the evening telling stories.
Maria’s husband Mario was a particularly good storyteller. He was a silk merchant by trade and traveled frequently to places like Genoa, Naples and even Marseilles and Barcelona. He told stories of the strange people he met and of the dangers of being at sea.
When the fire died down and the evening came to an end, everyone made their way into the house and to the guest rooms. It was a good half-day ride back to Florence, so everyone stayed for the whole evening. The estate was large and spacious and had plenty of room for everyone to sleep comfortably.
Daddi planned on spending more time here in the country. He would often stay here for a week at a time. He was even thinking of making a small workshop in the back where he could paint. His studio was in Florence, as were his apprentices. But, if he planned well, he could bring the correct pigments and dyes and other materials with him when he came and spend a couple of days or even a week painting. He wistfully thought of how he and Angelina would take long walks in the countryside, stop and rest with a bottle of wine and make love on a distant hillside, just as they had done when they were first married. They had been married for twenty-seven years. She was forty-six with two children and four grandchildren, but looked almost ten years younger. In his eyes, she was still the beautiful, intelligent girl that he had married when she was nineteen.
He still looked like he was in his mid-thirties. It was something that people often commented on, much to his discomfort. He would laugh and tell them that it was because he drank only the best wine, and then change the conversation as quickly as possible. He grew a thick beard and used some of his knowledge of pigments to add some grey to his hair and to his beard. But Angelina saw him more clearly than others. He had the lean, tight body of a man in his early thirties, not that of a man in his late fifties. He often caught her looking at him when he was asleep or working on his paintings, when she thought that he couldn’t see her. He knew that it must seem strange to her that he did not grow old like everyone else. Daddi was only supposed to be about fifteen years younger than Angelina’s father, but he looked as if he could be her father’s grandson. Her father had a hard time walking now and became more frail and hunched over every time she saw him. Daddi, on the other hand, looked just the same as he did when they were married. She stopped bringing it up as a topic of discussion because he always gave her the same answer and refused to talk about it more. It was the just the way it was. He was blessed with looking younger than his age and that was all there was to be said.
Chapter 39
Florence, Italy, September 1348
Daddi sat cross-legged on the field grass next to the newly dug graves. His farmhouse stood in the distance under an overcast sky. He was alone, again. It had all ended so quickly. The greatest loves of his life were now buried under the cool dirt of the Tuscan countryside, plucked from the world in the prime of their life.
The plague had moved through Florence with devastating speed and ferocity. It had started innocently enough, with the appearance of a bubo or lump, often the size of a small egg, in the groin or armpit area. Once the buboes appeared, they spread quickly to the entire body. Then, black or purple spots would appear on the arms or thighs. These spots were a certain sign of death. Typically it was only a week from the time the first bubo appeared until death ensued.
There were no cures. Doctors were helpless. The clergy preached that it was because of a separation from God, His retribution on the sinners. But many of the clergy themselves fell to the disease. While it hit the poor most severely, the rich and noble families were not immune to its dark fingers.
Constanzia’s son, Rocco, was the first to show the telltale signs. He awoke one morning with a swelling in his armpit. The family was still not sure at that time of the severity of the disease and tried to treat him like they would if it was a normal cold or fever. They applied cold compresses and kept him in bed. Angelina went to the house every day to help Constanzia take care of him. It wasn’t long until the same symptoms appeared on young Giuseppe, as well as Maria in Estancia’s house. Angelina split her time trying to comfort both of them. No one knew how the disease was spread. But these were Angelina’s grandchildren. They were her family. She called in the best doctors in Florence and had them tend to the children. The doctors made them apply foul smelling poultices to their chests and drink herbal mixtures they had concocted. It was to no avail. Within ten days of the appearance of the first buboes, Rocco, Maria, and Giuseppe were dead. Daddi saw that they were buried in the church graveyard and that the bishop himself blessed their souls before they passed.
It wasn’t long before more of their cousins fell to the disease. Two of Margharita and Christiano’s children fell and both of Maria and Mario’s children died as well. Soon Mario, who traveled frequently and was exposed to people from many cities and countries, succumbed to the disease.
Less than a month had passed since Rocco had first shown the symptoms of the disease when Daddi decided to move his entire family to his country estate. He invited Margharita and her husband, Christiano, and their young children, Giuliani and Maria, to live with them. He had heard from some of the wealthy families that it was a good strategy to isolate yourself and get away from the big cities. This made sense to him. Although he wasn’t sure how the disease was being passed on, it seemed as though it spread quicker in the most densely populated areas.
They hadn’t been at the estate for even a week when Constanzia and Marco both showed the first signs of the disease. Angelina worked tirelessly to take care of them, as well as their daughter, Christiana. It was to no avail. Both Constanzia and Marco were gone in little over a week. Daddi buried them on his estate, in a green field under the shade of an old chestnut tree that was his favorite.
It was a very scary time. No one knew what was causing the disease. There was confusion and chaos in the cities and the surrounding countryside. Daddi decided to limit their exposure to the outside world, but it was necessary to get the raw ingredients they needed for food. They had plenty of grapes, wine, olives, and olive oil, and a large herb garden. They had fresh sheep’s milk and they could always slaughter a lamb or a sheep for meat. A deep well on the property provided fresh water. But they had no grains for pasta, nor beans for soups and stews. Because they lacked fresh vegetables, Daddi decided to plant a large garden that would provide them with fresh green vegetables like cardoons, fava beans and kale. They went to small markets to obtain their supplies, where they heard terrible stories of how the plague was cutting a wide swath through the city of Florence and the entire countryside. There were stories of similar destruction throughout the entire peninsula, from Sicily and Naples to Pisa, Genoa and Milan. Nowhere was safe. On the road to the market they would pass piles of dead bodies lying by the side of the road, most of which were burned in huge fires. The smell of those fires was something that Daddi would never forget.
Two months had passed since the first outbreak. They lived quietly on the estate, which spread out to almost a thousand acres. Despite Margharita’s protests, Christiano felt compelled to go work at his bank for at least a few days a week. After all, he couldn’t just live here in the country and do nothing forever. It was about that time that those terrible lumps appeared on Angelina. She was the first to notice them.
Her two sisters, Margharita and Maria, as well as her daughter Estancia, looked after her even though Angelina largely refused to stay in bed. But when the fever took over and the dark spots appeared, they all knew that the end was near. Daddi called the best doctors he knew, as well as priests from Florence to come to the house to see her. He was frantic. He had all the wealth in the world, b
ut it was useless in trying to save the woman he loved more than life itself. The priests said prayers and the doctors recommended the same remedies that hadn’t worked for anyone else. Daddi stayed close to her. At night he drank himself to sleep, unable to quiet the ache he felt in his chest. He rarely left her side and barely slept for almost a week. He prayed as well. Not only to save Angelina, but, if Angelina couldn’t be saved, then to take his life as well. He was ready to go. He would gladly trade his life for hers. He didn’t want to live without Angelina by his side.
He held Angelina as she shook with fever. His heart ached to see her in such distress. He comforted and mopped her forehead with a cool cloth. He cradled her head in his arms and rocked gently back and forth, kissing the matted hair on her head. It took almost two weeks, longer than most, but in the end Angelina fell victim to the disease. On the night before she died, Daddi, crying almost uncontrollably, told her how much he loved her, that he always had, and always would. He held her in his arms and slowly rocked back and forth. He held her hands in his, gently stroking them. She had always been very self-conscious of the long pinkie finger on her right hand and tried to hide it whenever possible. Daddi had told her that was how God had singled her out for him as the love of his life. They had both laughed at that idea, but she had found comfort in it all the same. He always thought that there was some truth to it. Beauty, he told her, was not about perfection.
She was very weak and feverish, but she knew what he was saying and smiled as best she could. She held onto him and whispered to him her thanks for the life they had led. The next morning she was dead.
On a cloudy day with a steady, drizzly rain they buried her next to her children under the chestnut tree. Daddi felt more lost and alone than he had ever felt in his long life. He was angry. Why had this happened? Why had God taken Angelina? Why not take him? He was ready to go. Angelina still had a lot of life to live. Was he cursed to see everyone he loved pass away before his eyes?
A cool breeze blew across the hillside and rustled the leaves in the ancient chestnut tree. Angelina had always loved that tree. His daughters had climbed it when they were young. As a family they had picked the chestnuts in the fall and roasted them over an open fire under the tree while they drank wine and ate the sweet nuts. The tree, he thought, just like himself, endured, ageless and unchanged. But it didn’t know the pain of losing your family, of being left alone in the world with a heartache that seemingly would never end. He looked down at the flowers laid on the graves of his family members, the petals fluttering in the breeze. They too will wither and die, he thought, while I remain.
Chapter 40
Florence, Italy, December 1348
The months after losing Angelina formed a grey, lifeless blur in his memory. It was later that same year that Daddi decided it was time for him to move on. Estancia and Christiano, Margharita’s former husband, gradually made their way through the grief of losing half of their family. Sharing a common bond of sorrow, they became closer and ultimately decided to become husband and wife.
Daddi was heartbroken at the loss of Angelina, as well as his daughter, Constanzia, and four of his grandchildren. His desire to paint had faded away and he spent long days by himself aimlessly walking the countryside. Being outside, among the olive trees, grape vineyards and rolling grasslands covered with sheep was where he felt most at peace. He decided at that point that Daddi the painter would cease to exist.
After dinner one night, he brought out a bottle of grappa and set it on the large, wooden table in the courtyard. He poured glasses for Christiano and Estancia, as well as himself, and asked them to be seated.
“I am going to ask you to help me with something that I know you will find odd. Perhaps you will even think that I have gone mad. But I assure you that I know exactly what I am doing and it is the right decision for me to make. I will need your help and your promise to never speak of this to anyone else. Can you make me that solemn promise on the souls of your mother and your lost children?”
They both looked at him in silence. Estancia was the first to speak.
“Father, you can trust me with anything. I will do whatever is in my power to help you in any way you can. You just need to ask and I am ready to serve.”
Christiano heard how earnest his new bride was. While he had not planned on making promises on the souls of his dead children, he had always trusted and respected Daddi, and felt that it was his obligation to assist him. He looked Daddi in the eyes and gave his reply.
“I also will serve you in any way that I can. Whatever you tell me will go to my grave, if that is what you wish.”
For the first time in months, Daddi’s face warmed into something close to a smile. “I apologize for putting such a heavy burden onto you both. Once I tell you what I have planned, you will understand why I need such a vow of silence.”
He patiently explained to them that he had lost his will to paint and to continue the life of the well-respected and renowned artist. If Bernardo Daddi remained, even if he lived in seclusion, he would be hounded by the wealthy and powerful to commission paintings for them. There would be no escape for him. He also realized, although he did not explain to them at that time, that being famous had the additional disadvantage of focusing people’s attention on him and inevitably raising questions about how it was possible for the great artist to live so long and look so young. He wasn’t ready for that level of scrutiny. It was easier to take this opportunity to put an end to that life and start a new, more reclusive one.
“I have decided that Bernardo Daddi must die, and I must take on a new identity. I have chosen the name Giuseppe di Bernardi.”
While Christiano remained impassive, Estancia was unable to hold back her emotions. She cried out, amid tears, “Father, what do you mean that Bernardo Daddi must die? I have already lost my mother, my sister, and my children. I do not want to now lose my father!”
Daddi held her hand. “I know this is difficult to understand. You will not be losing me. I will be here with you always. Only my name will change, which will allow me to live here in peace.”
Estancia nodded, apparently comforted by his words. Daddi turned to Christiano, who worked in one of the large banks in Florence.
“Christiano, I will need your help and influence at the bank and in the city government. We will need to make a new identity for Giuseppe di Bernardi and start transferring Daddi’s assets to him. Can you help me with that?”
Christiano nodded. “As I said, I will help you in whatever way I can. I believe that I know who to talk to in order to make this happen. Of course, we will need to pay off some government officials to get a new name registered.”
“Of course,” replied Daddi, glad that Christiano was already approaching this from a logistical perspective. He was a serious young man who knew how to get things done. “You have my blessing to use whatever money you need to make this a reality.”
They finished the evening talking about their plans and drinking grappa. It was the most animated that any of them had been since the loss of their family. It felt good to be talking about the future and this seemed to give them something to focus on other than their grief.
Over the next several months, with Christiano managing everything on the financial and legal side, Daddi gradually slowed down his painting, not taking on new projects, and working hard with his apprentices to wrap up the ones that they had in the works. They quietly transferred Bernardo Daddi’s assets, including his country villa and the lands that went with it, over to Giuseppe di Bernardi. They had papers created to establish his new identity. Because he would be recognized in Florence as Bernardo Daddi, Christiano brought the papers to the villa for him to sign and to record all transactions.
He began building a new, smaller villa on the estate, choosing a hilltop location that gave him clear views of the valleys and hillsides of his property. It was out of sight of the main house but within reasonable walking distance so he could visit Christiano and Estancia and
vice versa. He gave his main building to Estancia and Christiano, to live in and raise a family. He planned on spending the next several decades walking the countryside, overseeing the harvests and the wine making, and traveling throughout Italy and beyond. He wished to remove himself from his old life, which was full of memories of Angelina and the people he loved and had lost.
The most emotionally taxing part of the entire process was planning Daddi’s funeral. While Estancia knew that her father would remain, albeit with a new alias, it still pained her to think of losing Bernardo Daddi. Nonetheless, they persevered together, making preparations throughout the summer. Daddi publicly complained of feeling ill and then disappeared to his villa. Because the plague ran its course so quickly, and because Florence and the rest of Europe were still in the heaviest throes of an epidemic that would last for three more years, no one thought it odd when they heard the news that the great artist had succumbed, like his wife and children, to the plague.
Daddi, through Christiano, had ordered a coffin to be brought to the villa. In the month prior to this, Daddi had made a life-size plaster casting of himself and went so far as to paint the entire statue in his image. This they carefully dressed in fine clothing, including a hood, and then wrapped the entire statue in layers of blankets. Daddi had experimented with various plaster mixtures and thicknesses and had come up with a statue that weighed approximately as much as himself. Thus, to the casual and even to the modestly careful observer, this facsimile would easily pass muster. Besides, with the plague raging, people were less than enthusiastic about wanting to look at another dead body up close, even the body of a famous artist.
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