The Book of Hours

by Brooke Bianchi-Pennington

Florence, 1497

He had reached the peak, he knew. The name of Ulisse de’ Rossi would now and forever more be sought after. Others may follow with solid work, but after the pomp and circumstance of tonight, men would always seek the particular brand of meticulously illuminated de’Rossi manuscripts.

Pride was a sin; of course he knew that. He always made sure to include prayers warding off this particular vice with some of his haughtier clients (as long as he could be assured they did not read Latin and therefore would not be offended). But de’ Rossi wasn’t proud in a sinful way. His talents, after all, were given by and given to the Lord in service, helping the wealthy families of Florence pay their proper respects to the saints. De’ Rossi’s personalized Books of Hours housed all the prayers and rituals a prominent Florintine family would need for home devotion.

Indeed, his reach went beyond Florence.  He had even been commissioned for a Book of Hours to be sent to Rome, some extended connections of one Medici or another. And just look at him now. Tonight he would get to witness all the fruits of his labors these thirty years. He had secured special leave from Abbot Ughelli; he was to attend the Gia-Bertoli wedding to personally see the gift Maddelena Bertoli’s father commissioned be delivered to her. 

* * *

He knew why he, of all the scribes in all the monasteries, was chosen for this task. Monastic life was often austere. One had to be focused, especially when one’s orders included the scripting of texts. Learning ancient languages, perfecting one’s calligraphy, all were skills one acquired best while unencumbered with gilded distractions. Living simply was both a spiritual and an academic practice, and de’ Rossi had no quibble with it. However, he did find that sometimes this austerity had a limiting effect. It stifled temptations, yes, but also imagination. 

Ulysses de’ Rossi had imagination. Take this Book of Hours recently completed for the wedding. In composing it, he could clearly envision the finery of the wedding at which it would be presented. Though he had never been to an event as fine before, still he could imagine, and tend to each page with the color, the ornament with which the occasion required. 

He had an eye for these things. Whenever the wealthy patrons (or their emissaries) came to commission manuscripts or make a large donation in recompense for some public faux pas, de’ Rossi would observe the dress.  What colors, what patterns were the wealthy Florentines wearing? But more than this, what did the colors and patterns say? Was today’s society man interested in showing off with ostentatious design? Was it a time to flaunt splendor? Or had the tides changed to a more understated elegance? It was a pendulum swing throughout the years. As soon as the lower classes caught on to what the wealthy were doing, they would imitate it, rendering it an ineffectual status marker. So the trends would change again. One had to be careful not to illuminate a manuscript with an outdated aesthetic and reveal oneself to be not of the same ilk as the commissioner. 

But it wasn’t ornamentation alone that won de’ Rossi wealthy patrons. There was a certain manner of address one could affect. Most in the monastery had a difficult time understanding and interacting with patrons—their ways of life were too far apart. But de’ Rossi instinctively knew what to do. What the wealthy wanted more than anything, what they spent all their money on in their quartered off houses and exclusive clubs, was comfort. Comfort meant not only luxury, but also freedom from anything not within their prescribed boundaries. They wanted only the world they curated for themselves; nothing else should be sent to disturb them. 

To interact, then, one had to play a delicate game—a balancing act for which de’ Rossi was a born performer. How many times had he taken that stage, steeled himself with a breath before stepping into a room as a patron talked with Abbot Ughelli. The key was never to announce one’s self. That would set off the alarm, notify the patron that one was crossing the threshold from one realm into another—theirs. No, one waited to be called upon, but, once so called, had to act habituated, comfortable, so as to make them comfortable. 

“Ah, yes, Signore, I am also fond of this script. It is rather distinguished.”

“The Nobile is too kind. Of course this kind of work is what is befitting of such a house as yours.”

“I thank you for the compliment, Signore. I know a Verrazzano piece could not but include a tribute to your famed rose gardens.”

Quick comments, and then one retreated before one could overstay one’s welcome. One had to become a habituated piece of the patron’s decor. Something unobtrusive yet aligned with the sequestered world encompassed in the wealthy man’s eye.

After thirty years of this, it was no longer an act. De’ Rossi was a name bandied about in all the wealthy circles. Everyone had to have his manuscripts. If he had been attentive to what was in vogue among the highest class before, now he was what was in vogue. His name had become part of the ornamentation. 

* * *

The evening proceeded exactly as de’ Rossi had envisioned. After the ceremony, he and the Abbot were warmly welcomed to the extended festivities, with several former patrons making introductions for him. 

“Ah, Alessandro, this is Ulisse de’ Rossi. You must have one of his manuscripts for your collection.”

“Ulisse! I hear the new happy family is to receive one of your manuscripts! Delightful, delightful.”

The bride was young and beautiful, just fifteen. Her large eyes and rosy cheeks exuded child-like enthusiasm. De’ Rossi could not wait to see that countenance lit up as she received her father’s gift and beheld de’ Rossi’s own beautiful work made especially for her. It would be picturesque, burned into his mind for whatever remaining years he had. Her father would present the gift, a heartfelt symbol of the creation of a new, sanctified family. Maddelena would open it and the gold gilt would light her face as if with the fire of God himself. She would exclaim in wonder. De’ Rossi would say nothing, pretend to be nothing other than an observer happy for the child’s beautiful gift. 

But then people around him would whisper, “that’s a de’ Rossi manuscript. See him sitting right there!” He would pretend not to hear, but, if he were too close to feign deafness, he would give a slight nod of humble acknowledgement, at ease with his prominence.

Gifts were making their way to the couple now, beautiful foreign artifacts, jewels, highly-crafted pieces of furniture. Now a couple servants were hauling in a hefty chest of quality wood and ornament. Setting it before the couple, one servant then unlocked it as an uncle strode forward.

“For the happy couple and my dearest Maddelena, I present to you a chest for books, as I am sure as your family grows, so will your collection. To begin it, inside you will find a printed book from Florence’s very own Giunti Printing Press.”

“A printed book!” Maddelena exclaimed. “From here in Florence?”

“That’s right, Fiorella.”

Maddelena descended from the elevated seat where she and her now husband were being presented with their treasures. A servant handed her the book, and she flipped through its pages rapidly.

“I’ve seen a few printed books before, but I didn’t know we had a press here in Florence!”

“It’s new, Fiorella. They can print almost fifteen books a day!”

De’ Rossi scoffed. Abbot Ughelli turned to him briefly, so de’ Rossi patted his mouth as if he had a cough. Fifteen books a day was ludicrous. Where was the art? Where was the craft? A printed book was fine for the masses, but nobles like Maddelena should have more refined materials, not mere novelties. He had worked on her Book of Hours for six months. That time showed. That time was part of what made it so valuable.

Maddalena placed the book in the book chest. “Thank you uncle,” she said and turned to her husband.

“Thank you, uncle,” said Angiolo Gia.

At this, Domenico Bertoli stood and greeted his daughter. 

“Now seems like a fitting time to present my gift,” he began. “Maddalena, Angiolo, as you begin your new family, you must always remember to keep the one true faith. Here I gift you your family’s own Book of Hours so you may start your lives together on a solid foundation.”

Angiolo and Maddalena both took turns leafing through the pages of de’ Rossi’s manuscript. 

“Oh father, it’s beautiful!” Maddalena exclaimed.

Yes. Yes, it was beautiful, child. De’ Rossi had to remember that. She was, after all, just a child. It made sense she would be distracted by quick and clever new things. But his gift was lasting.

“Do you think, husband, we should commission a printing of our Book of Hours at the new printing press?  What a better way to celebrate our marriage and our devotion to the one true faith than sharing our prayers with our friends!”

“We can buy our own printing press if it will make you happy, Bellina,” said Angiolo. 

De’ Rossi stood.

All eyes turned toward the sudden movement, and, before he knew what he was doing, de’ Rossi found himself speaking, for the first time, uninvited.

“Signora,” he began, “any printed version, I am sorry to inform you, would not compare to the manuscript you now hold. No printing press can recreate the script, the color, the images of this made especially for you these six months.”

The young bride turned to her father, somewhat bewildered.

“This is Ulisse de’ Rossi, Maddalena. The renowned scribe who crafted this manuscript for you,” explained Domenico.

The childlike face of Maddalena suddenly turned to de’ Rossi with a soft, pitying smile.

“Of course nothing could compare to this beautiful original,” she said, not quite to de’ Rossi, but in his general direction. “Still, I’d love to share this art with the world. The Gia family will be devoted, benevolent, and invested in modern innovation.”

She closed her Book of Hours with a dark thwump and handed it to a servant who placed it in the book chest next to the printed piece.

“Thank you, Father,” she said, once the chest had been removed. “And thank you, Signore de’ Rossi, for your beautiful work. You can have a seat.”

It wasn’t until the child had uttered these words that de’ Rossi realized he was still standing.

“Brother,” he heard from Abbot Ughelli below, “sit down.” 

De’ Rossi sat.

* * *

For years he had fulfilled the script, gilded the edges of his patron’s lives without ever demanding more. He had filled their homes without ever entering. 

He should have never crossed that threshold tonight.

De’ Rossi went to bed. Tomorrow, there would be another script to write. And the day after that. And the day after that. Machines did not mind monotony, he reminded himself as he stared at the blankness of the ceiling of his chambers and nodded off into the rest of his life.

About the author

Brooke Bianchi-Pennington is a writer and educator currently working in international education in Taipei, Taiwan. Brooke has published poetry in the Journal of Language and Literacy Education, Thorn & Bloom Magazine, Dipity Lit Mag, and Arkana, and has won writing awards for her academic work on censorship in education. You can find her literary and academic work at brookebianchipennington.com.

About the illustration

The illustration is  two pages (32v and 33r) of the Farnese Hours, an illuminated manuscript by Giulio Clovio, 1546. In the collection of the Morgan Library & Museum, New York, USA.