Primavera by Mary Jane Beaufrand

Author:Mary Jane Beaufrand [JANE BEAUFRAND, MARY]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: JUV003000
ISBN: 9780316029131
Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
Published: 2008-03-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

Inside, the guests were already seated and munching contentedly. The plates of eels had already been cleared away and everyone was addressing their roasted pheasant with plums and goose gravy. Mamma pointed a bony finger to an open seat on the far end of the dais, away from the people who mattered. In the center, Il Magnifico was talking to Papa, covering Papa’s hand with his own.

I found myself seated next to the head of the goldsmith’s guild, a man named Girolamo, who was apparently Signor Botticelli’s old master. Poverino. Signor Botticelli never stopped talking about how much he hated being apprenticed to the goldsmith, how he never felt he served his artistic vision in that smelly furnace. And yet this man seemed congenial. Most of him was red as though he’d been excessively scrubbed for the occasion, but his hands were black with soot. He regaled me with an appraisal of every necklace in the room, putting my own paltry countinghouse talents to shame.

Count Riorio was seated even farther away from the center of things than I. He spoke to no one as he spooned soup to his mouth. His eyes darted around the room.

And then the moment I dreaded arrived. A covered easel was brought in, and Signor Botticelli stood in front of us, resplendent in a velvet cloak lined with ermine. He did not smile, but his eyes twinkled with delight. This was his moment, and he was pleased.

My father called the guests to silence and made a pretty speech. “We have had the honor of a master artist in our midst these past weeks. He has deigned to use my daughter Domenica as a model for his latest Madonna. We are humbled and pleased to present this painting to our city’s other great patron of the arts, Lucrezia de Medici.”

Signor Botticelli stepped forward. He held himself erect, his piercing eyes meeting those of everyone seated on the dais. He also wore a smug smile, as though he were better than anyone else in the room and he knew it. He still spoke with distinction. “Signor Pazzi, Signora Pazzi,” he nodded. “I thank you for your hospitality. Your daughter is the loveliest young woman I have ever known. If I have captured only a fraction of her beauty, I will have done my work.”

A dainty pheasant bone stuck in my throat.

He clapped his hands twice, and the two assistants threw the cover off the easel.

I dropped my knife and gaped openly.

For there, for all of us to admire, was a Madonna lovelier than any painting I have ever seen. It even put Ghiberti’s gates of paradise to shame.

There were three figures in the painting: the Madonna herself, a Christ child on her lap, and a curly-haired angel standing next to them. The virgin’s face was that of Domenica but the expression — ah! I remembered Signor Botticelli telling me that she was only beautiful when she was sad. And this was a very sad Madonna.

Next to the Madonna, the angel offered her a plate of grapes and wheat.

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