rens
and Cupids and heraldic devices replaced the acanthus or rams' horns of
the capitals. It was to this middle portion of the house that Domenico
ascended up a noble steep-stepped staircase, protected from the rain
by a vaulted and rosetted roof, for it was external and occupied the
side of the yard left free from cloisters. The great banker had bidden
Domenico to his midday meal, which was served with a frugality now fast
disappearing, but once habitual even among the richest Florentines. But
though the food was simple and almost scanty, nearly forty persons sat
down to meat together, for Neri Altoviti held to the old plan, commended
by Alberti in his dialogue on the governing of a household, that the
clerks and principal servants of a merchant were best chosen among his
own kinsfolk, living under his roof, and learning obedience from the
example of his children. Despite this frugality, the dining-room was,
though bare, magnificent. There were none of those carpets and Eastern
stuffs which surprised strangers from the North in the voluptuous little
palaces of contemporary Venetians, and the benches were hard and narrow.
But the ceiling overhead was magnificently arranged in carved compartments,
great gold sunflowers and cherubs projecting from a dark blue ground
among the brown raftering; in the middle of the stencilled wall was one
of those high sideboards so frequently shown in old paintings, covered
with gold and silver dishes and platters embossed by the most skilful
craftsmen; and at one end a great washing trough and fountain, such as
still exist in sacristies, ornamented with groups of dancing children
by Benedetto da Maiano; while behind the high seat of the father of
the family a great group of saints, emerging from blooming lilies and
surrounded by a glory of angels, was hanging in a frame divided into
carved compartments: the work, panel and frame, of the late Brother
Filippo Lippi. At one end of the board sat all the men, arranged
hierarchically, from the father in his black loose robe to lads in short
plaited tunic and striped hose; the womankind were seated together, and
the daughters, even the mother of the house, modest and almost nunlike
in apparel and head-dress, would rise and help to wait on the men, with
that silent and grave courtesy which, according to Vespasiano, had
disappeared from Florence with Alessandra dei Bardi. There was little
speech, and only in undertones; a Franciscan said a long gra