Chapter 2 Chapter One

St. Vitra's Convent Rollo Schiffner August 1528 Confessions of Sister Lucrezia Looking back now, my father brought the young painter home from the north in the spring, not so much out of friendship, but out of pride.At that time, the chapel in our yard had just been completed, and my father had been looking for a suitable painter for several months to paint the frescoes of the altar, a method of painting on the wall, mixing the powder of the pigment with water, and then applying it on the wall on wet plaster.The original text is Fresco, which means "fresh" in Italian.It's not that Florence doesn't have enough artists, the city smells of paint, and there's no shortage of contracts signed by painters.The streets are full of mires and potholes left by construction sites, and people are always on tenterhooks, afraid of falling into them.Everyone with a little money wants to give art a chance to glorify God and the Republic.Now I hear people describe it as a "golden age," but then I was young and, like many people, dazzled by the spectacle.

When Domenico Girandayo Dominique Girandayo (1449-1494), a Florentine painter.For the Tonabuni family The Tonabuni family, in-laws of the Medici family, rulers of Florence in the 15th century, hired Gilanda to paint their family chapel in Santa Maria Novella, completed between 1486 and 1490 .I was not ten years old when I finished the frescoes in the Central Church of Santa Maria Novella.I remember it so well because my mother once told me: "You should remember this moment, Alexandra, these paintings will bring great glory to our city." Everyone who saw these paintings thought that Indeed.

At that time, the dye vats in the back street of Holy Cross Church were full of steam and brought my father a lot of money.Today, smelling cochineal, I still think of my father coming home from the workshop, his clothes covered with the bits of these exotic insects. 1492 - I remember the time because Lorenzo de' Medici The Medici family made their fortunes in banking trade and virtually controlled Florence from 1434, and later extended to the whole of Tuscany; until 1737 The region was under the control of the Medici family for most of the 1990s.Lorenzo Medici (1449-1492) was the fourth-generation heir after his family took control of Florence. He loved poetry and art and was known as "Lorenzo the Luxurious" in history.By the time the painter died that spring--the painter came to live with us--my family was already well off by the Florentine taste for luxurious clothes.My family's newly built mansion is on the east side of the city, between the Church of Our Lady of Hundred Flowers and the Church of the Patron Saint.The house is four stories high, with two inner courtyards and a small walled garden. The first floor is where my father talks about business.The outside walls are decorated with my family's crest.When the fastidious mother starts to rein in some extravagant expenses, we all know that it will be a matter of time before the whole family sits down to be painted in the Gospel statue—although it can only be hung in their own chapel.

I still have a deep impression on the night of the painter's arrival.It was winter, and the stone fence was covered with misty night mist, so that when I went to replace my sister's watch of the horses in the front yard, we bumped into each other on the stairs.It was late at night when my father came home, but we were still very happy, not only because of his safe return, but also because there were always clothes specially for us in those panniers full of goods.Protila was full of anticipation, while she was engaged, and her mind was full of her dowry.The brothers get their father's attention by not being home.Relying on the family's prestige and wealth, Tommaso and Luca always sleep during the day and hang out at night, more like wild cats than good people.According to the servant of the family, the gossip-loving Ilila, their existence prevented good women from going to the streets at night.Trouble arose whenever Dad found out they were away.

But not that night, because that moment surprised us all.Torches blazed in the air, and grooms comforted the horses, which panted and puffed white steam into the cold air.Father got off the horse, his face was dusty, and he waved to us with a smile; then he turned and walked towards his mother who was coming down the stairs to welcome him.The red velvet nightgown was tied tightly around her neck, and her hair was loosely draped behind her back like a golden river.The courtyard was full of voices, the light of the torches and the joy of returning home safely, but not everyone felt this way.A lanky lad straddled the last horse, his cloak rolled up like a cloth wrapped around him, and he was tottering in the saddle from the cold and the weariness of the journey.

I remember that when the groom approached him to take the reins, he was startled and reached out to copy it back, as if afraid of being attacked; then my father went to comfort him.I wasn't very good at putting myself in other people's shoes at the time, so I didn't realize how uncomfortable that should be for him.I had not then heard of the difference in the North, how the damp sun there changed everything: from the air to the soul.Of course, I didn't know he was a painter then, he was just a new servant to me.But his father had favored him from the very beginning: he spoke to him kindly, dismounted him, and made a separate room in the backyard as his living room.

Later, Father untied the knots, produced the Flemish tapestry that Mama had brought, and unfolded the cream embroidered linen he had brought us. "My daughters are dazzling, enough to make the women of Rennes, France feel ashamed." The father told us how he found the painter while he was busy.The painter was an orphan, born on the flooded northern coast, and raised by monks.His talent for painting far exceeded his understanding of religious vocation, so the monks sent him to a painter as an apprentice.After returning from his studies, he was grateful and painted and decorated not only his own room, but also the rooms of other monks.Impressed by these paintings, my father decided on the spot to invite him to add splendor to our chapel.But I will state that my father, while good at fabrics, was not very good at art; I suspect his decision was motivated by money, as he always had a shrewd eye in business.As for the painter, as my father had said, there were no more rooms in the monastery for him to decorate, and the rise of Florence's reputation as the Rome and Athens of our time would undoubtedly attract him here.

In this way, the painter came to live in our house. The next morning we went to the Church of the Annunciation to thank God for my father's safe return.We sat in the middle of the church, with models of ships donated by survivors of the shipwreck hanging above our heads.My father had been shipwrecked once—but then he had no money to donate souvenirs to the church, and he was only a little seasick on that final voyage.He and his mother sat upright, and you could feel their gratitude for God's bounty.We kids are less religious. Coming home, the house was filled with the smell of a festive feast—the smell of roasts and stews from the upstairs kitchen and the staircase winding out into the yard.At mealtime, the lights were on, and we thanked God and filled ourselves up: fried chicken, roast pheasant, salmon, macaroni, followed by red pudding and caramelized custard.Everyone ate gracefully, even Luca held his fork decently, but his fingers were eager to grab a piece of bread and stuff it into his mouth with the sauce.

I was a little carried away with excitement at the thought of the new arrival.In Florence, Flemish painters were respected for their virtuosity and spirituality. "He'll draw us all, Daddy, and we'll have to pose for him, won't we?" "Yes. That's one of the reasons he's here. I'm sure he'll do a great job of painting your sister's marriage and do us honor." "That means he will paint me first!" Protila was very excited, and the milk pudding in his hand shook on the tablecloth, "Then Tommaso, because he is the oldest, then Luca and Alex Sandra. My God, Alexandra, you're going to grow taller then."

Luca looked up from his plate and grinned with a mouthful of food like it was the funniest joke he'd ever heard.But I just got back from church and my heart is still filled with God's goodness for my family. "Still, he'd better be quick. I've heard that a daughter-in-law of the Tonabuni family died in childbirth because Girandayo had painted her nude in a painting." "Don't worry. We'll talk when you find a husband," Tommaso, sitting next to me, muttered so softly that only I could hear. "What did you say, Tommaso?" Mother's voice was calm but stern.

He put on the most innocent look: "I said 'I'm very thirsty'. Bring the jug, dear sister." "Okay, brother." I took the flagon and handed it to him, and when I handed it to him, the flagon fell out of my hand, and the spilled liquid splashed on his new coat. "Ah! Mother," he cried, "she did it on purpose." "I'm not." "she……" "Kids, kids, Daddy is tired, you two are too noisy." The word "children" worked, bringing Tommaso to a sullen silence.The sound of Luka gulping became harsh.Mother was so annoyed by our behavior that she sat impatiently in her chair.The lion tamer at the zoo in the city restrained the lion's movements with a whip, while his mother stared at Luca.But Luca was so preoccupied with enjoying his treat today that I kicked him under the table to remind him.We are creatures of Mother's life, her children, but there are still too many things for her to worry about. "But," I said, when the atmosphere loosened, "I can't help but want to see him now. Oh, Dad, he must be very grateful to you for bringing him back, and so are we. Take care of him and keep him at home." It is our honor and responsibility as a Christian family to feel at home in this great city." Father frowned, and quickly exchanged glances with mother.He had been away from home for so long that he had apparently forgotten that his youngest daughter was always outspoken. "I think he can take care of himself perfectly, Alexandra," he said gently. I understood the meaning of my father's warning, but I couldn't stop myself.I took a breath and said, "I heard that Lorenzo the Luxe took great care of the artist Botticelli and let him dine at my table." There was an uneasy silence in the dining room, and this time it was my turn to be stared at by my mother.I looked down at my plate again and could feel Tommaso's smug smile next to me. Yet it is true.Sandro Botticelli was indeed sitting at Lorenzo Medici's table.The sculptor Donatiro once strolled through the city, dressed in the red robe given by Lorenzo's grandfather Cosimo for his service to the Republic.My mother used to tell me how she saw him when she was a little girl—everybody saluted him and made way for him, though it was more out of fear of his bad temper than respect for his genius.Sadly, despite the abundance of Florentine painters, I have never encountered a single one.Compared with other families, our family rules are not strict, but as an unmarried girl, it is forbidden to be in any group of men, let alone workers.Of course, this does not prevent me from encountering them in my imagination.Everyone knows where the art workshops are in the city.The great Lorenzo himself created one, filled with classic sculptures and paintings from his collection.In my imagination, it is a brightly lit house, the smell of paint is like simmering soup, and the space inside is as boundless as imagination. My pictures hitherto consisted of scribbling on boxwood with silverpoint pens, or scribbling with black chalk on found paper.Most of them I thought were worthless, so I threw them away; the best ones were put on the shelf (I learned early on that my sister's cross-stitching was far more popular than my paintings).So I don't know if I can draw.I'm like Icarus without wings, but with a strong desire to fly inside.I think I've been looking for a Daedalus. I was young then, less than 15 years old.My rudimentary knowledge of mathematics enabled me to deduce that I was conceived during the scorching heat of summer, an inauspicious season for childbirth.During her mother's pregnancy, Florence was in the midst of Pazzi's plot to riot the Pazzi family, and it was rumored that she had seen killings and brawls in the streets.I once heard a servant say in private that my waywardness was the result of my mother's misbehavior.Or maybe that has something to do with my wet nurse.Every time Tommaso mentioned this maliciously, he always said that my wet nurse became a prostitute, and who knows what liquid and desire I sucked from her breast?Although Elila said it was just his jealousy, he always dismissed me in the classroom, which hit me hard. A 14-year-old is still a child anyway, and should seek knowledge rather than talk about marriage.My sister is 16 months older than me. She first became popular last year and has been betrothed to a good family.My family, ignoring me, became more and more rebellious and began to talk about booking me for an equally glamorous marriage (a father's expectations for his children's marriages grew as much as the family's wealth). In the weeks following the painter's arrival, my mother watched my every move like a hawk, shutting me up in my room to study, or asking me to help Protila arrange her dowry.Soon, the mother gave birth to a giant baby in Fiesol's sister, whose body was damaged, Mother is in urgent need of care.When she left, she gave a strict order, asking me to continue studying and strictly follow the instructions of my teacher and my sister.I obediently agreed. I know where to find him.My family is like a poorly governed country, where good deeds are publicly rewarded and evil deeds are punished privately; gossip is costly, but this time Ilila was not hesitant to tell me: "No one talked to him. No one knew anything about him. He was alone, he ate in his room and didn't talk to anyone. But Maria said she saw him walking in the yard at midnight." It was noon, she untied my hair, closed the curtains, ready to let me rest.As she was about to leave, she turned and faced me directly: "We both know you can't visit him, right?" I nodded, and my eyes fell on the carved wooden bed frame, which was carved with a blooming rose with as many petals as my little lie.She didn't make a sound for a long time, and I knew she looked at my unruly look with sympathy.She said, "I'll be back to wake you up in two hours. Get some rest." When the sunlight in the house died down, I slipped down the stairs and across the backyard.The stones in the courtyard were hot, and the door to his room was left open, perhaps to let in even the slightest breeze.I walked silently across the hot yard and slid into the room. The interior was rather dark, and the sunlight that shone into the room illuminated several dust pillars.The room was pitifully small, consisting of a table, a bench, hanging buckets in one corner, and a half-open door leading to an even smaller bedroom.I push the door open slightly.The eyes couldn't adapt to the darkness for a while, but the ears became sensitive and heard his gentle breathing.He was lying on the felt against the wall, his hands flung over a pile of loose papers.Before that, except for the two snoring brothers, I didn't see any other sleeping men.The soft breath touched me, my stomach clenched with the sound, and I felt like an intruder.I stepped out and closed the door behind me. In contrast, the outside room is much brighter now.On the table lay some scraps of paper, torn blueprints of the chapel, marked by masons, filthy.Next to it hangs a wooden crucifix, which is rough in carving but shocking: the body of Christ hangs down from the cross, and the weight of his body hanging on the nail can be seen at a glance.Below it were some sketches, but when I picked them up, the opposite wall caught my eye.On the plastered walls were painted two half-formed figures: on the left was a graceful angel with wings spread like smoke behind him; Leaving the ground, floating in the air like a ghost.The ground under the candlesticks was covered with a thick layer of melted wax.Does he sleep during the day and work at night?No wonder Maria is thin, her figure must have been elongated by the flickering candlelight, but the light also illuminates her vivid face.Her appearance is northern, with her hair tied back revealing a broad forehead.Her head reminds me of a perfectly shaped, pale egg.She stared at the angel with wide eyes, and I could feel the excitement in her eyes, like a child who has been given a precious gift but can't quite understand the good fortune.Maybe she shouldn't treat God's servants so aggressively, but her expression is focused, revealing a soul-stirring joy.I think of my sketches of the Annunciation, and flush with clumsiness. Suddenly there was a voice almost like a roar.He must have crept out of bed because when I turned around he was standing in the doorway.What do I remember at that moment?He was tall and thin, in rags, with a broad face beneath his long, black, tangled hair; taller than I remembered from the first night, and a little brutish.He was still bleary-eyed and smelled of dry sweat.The room I live in has always been sprayed with orange or rose perfume, but his is the smell of the market.I don't know why before, but I always believed that artists came directly from God, so they were closer to God and farther away from people.It wasn't until that moment that I changed my mind. The shock he gave me physically drained my courage.He stood in the light and blinked, then suddenly rushed towards me and snatched the drawing from my hand. "Bold!" I cried, as he pushed me aside, "I am your master's daughter, Paul Sage." He didn't seem to hear, rushed to the table, put away the remaining sketches, muttering in Latin all the time. "Don't touch...don't touch." No doubt my father forgot to tell us that the painter was brought up in a monastery, and when his eyes were fixed on things, he was deaf to sound. "I didn't touch anything!" I yelled in horror. "I was just looking! If you want the people here to accept you, speak our language! Latin is spoken by priests and scholars, not painters!" My rebuttal, or perhaps my fluency in Latin, silenced him.He froze there, shaking.It was hard to say which of the two of us was more scared at that time.If I hadn't been worried that I would run into the servants serving my mother when I walked through the yard, I would have run away.Among the servants are my allies and my enemies.Angelica has always been known for her loyalty. If she finds out about me now, who knows what waves will be caused at home. "Please trust me that I haven't ruined your drawing," I said hastily, hoping to avoid another confrontation. "I'm interested in the chapel, and I'm only here to see how your work is progressing." He muttered again and I waited for him to say it again.After a long time, he finally looked up at me.It was then that I realized for the first time how young he was—older than me, of course, but not by a few years; his skin was fair and sallow.Of course, I know that the skin of foreigners is related to the soil and water of foreign countries. My servant Ilila is from North Africa, and her skin is blackened by the sand of the local desert.Because Florence was a business center at the time, you could find people of any color in the city.But this whiteness is different, it conjures up images of damp stones and dark skies.Just a day in the Florentine sun will shrivel and tan his delicate exterior. He tried his best to stop trembling, and finally spoke. "I paint for God," he said, as if reciting a newly learned but incompletely understood prayer. "For me, talking to women is forbidden." "Really?" I said arrogantly with a sting in my voice, "Maybe it's because you have no idea how to draw them well." I glanced at the elongated Madonna on the wall. Even in the gloom, I could feel the words hurt him.At first I thought he was going to attack me again, or break his own precepts, and talk to me.But he didn't, he just turned on his heels, clung to the sketches, staggered into the inner room, and slammed the door shut. "Your rudeness is as bad as your ignorance, sir," I shouted after him to conceal my embarrassment. "I don't know what you learned in the North! We Florentine painters learned to praise the human body in In harmony with God's perfection. You better learn the art of this city before you paint the walls of your chapel." I walked from the room into the sunlight with a self-righteous flair, whether my voice penetrated the door or not.