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Authors: Robert Masello
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with a legal-sized binder imprinted in big block letters with the name of his law firm, HUDGINS & DUNBAR, LLC.
“That was a very interesting talk you gave,” Mrs. Van Owen said, and when David looked up, she seemed to be amused by something. “I learned a great deal about Dante.” There was a slight smile on her lips, but her words, like her features, carried a distant air. She had a faint trace of an accent, but even David, who was very good at placing them, wasn’t sure where this one came from. Definitely European, that much he knew, but it could have been French, or Italian, or even Spanish in origin.
“Thanks very much,” he replied. “Coming from the donor of such a beautiful book, it means a lot. And now that you’re here, I can’t resist asking where the book came from.”
“Florence. But you know that.”
“I meant, how did it come to be yours?”
“Oh, it had been in my family for many years, and I thought it was time the world was able to enjoy—and study—it.”
“But the illustrations,” he persisted. “Do you know anything about who executed them? I’ve consulted dozens of sources so far, and checked archives online all over the world, but I still can’t find a match to any known edition.”
“No, I shouldn’t think you would.”
“Really? Why not?”
“Because it is one of a kind.”
“You know that? You know that it’s the only extant copy?” David could hardly keep the excitement out of his voice. “How?”
But instead of answering, she resorted to an airy dismissal. “That’s what I’ve always been told.”
David visibly deflated. All sorts of myths and legends clung to family heirlooms. This copy of the Divine Comedy was undoubtedly rare and valuable, but it was possible, even likely, that somewhere in the world, perhaps buried in the bowels of the Vatican library, another copy existed.
But it was unlikely to be a more intact one than this.
“Now that that’s been settled,” Mr. Hudgins interrupted, as if uncomfortable with this unmediated conversation, “we should really get on with the business at hand. We have some additional material to be transferred,” he said, nodding at the bulky envelope on the table and making it plain that David should open it.
As David drew it close, Hudgins continued. “Mrs. Van Owen has graciously decided to leave these manuscripts and drawings in the care of the Newberry Library, for further examination and study. She wishes to know as much about them as the curatorial staff is able to discover and is prepared to underwrite the costs of all such work.”
Although David was happy to hear that she would bear the expenses, he was already concerned that something very old and valuable had been transported in such a casual manner as this. He grew even more concerned when, after unsealing the envelope, the unmistakable scent of smoke emanated from inside.
“Their final disposition, however, remains an open question,” Hudgins said. “Much will depend on how the completion of thework goes and whether it yields success. If it goes as well as we hope, the Newberry can expect to receive these materials on a permanent basis, along with a very generous and unrestricted gift to support the library. If not …” He trailed off. “Other arrangements may be made.”
David had just removed the packet of papers, as deftly as he could, from the padded envelope, and already he was astonished at what he saw. Just from the feel of the paper and the ink, he could tell that these papers were hundreds of years old. Fifteenth or sixteenth century, if he had to guess. They reminded him of the many ricordanze he had studied over the years—the memoirs and diaries of Italian businessmen, documents that provided a fascinating glimpse into everyday life during the Renaissance.
This handwriting was in Italian, too, and though faded by time, still more than legible. The edges of the papers were singed here and there, accounting for the smell of
“That was a very interesting talk you gave,” Mrs. Van Owen said, and when David looked up, she seemed to be amused by something. “I learned a great deal about Dante.” There was a slight smile on her lips, but her words, like her features, carried a distant air. She had a faint trace of an accent, but even David, who was very good at placing them, wasn’t sure where this one came from. Definitely European, that much he knew, but it could have been French, or Italian, or even Spanish in origin.
“Thanks very much,” he replied. “Coming from the donor of such a beautiful book, it means a lot. And now that you’re here, I can’t resist asking where the book came from.”
“Florence. But you know that.”
“I meant, how did it come to be yours?”
“Oh, it had been in my family for many years, and I thought it was time the world was able to enjoy—and study—it.”
“But the illustrations,” he persisted. “Do you know anything about who executed them? I’ve consulted dozens of sources so far, and checked archives online all over the world, but I still can’t find a match to any known edition.”
“No, I shouldn’t think you would.”
“Really? Why not?”
“Because it is one of a kind.”
“You know that? You know that it’s the only extant copy?” David could hardly keep the excitement out of his voice. “How?”
But instead of answering, she resorted to an airy dismissal. “That’s what I’ve always been told.”
David visibly deflated. All sorts of myths and legends clung to family heirlooms. This copy of the Divine Comedy was undoubtedly rare and valuable, but it was possible, even likely, that somewhere in the world, perhaps buried in the bowels of the Vatican library, another copy existed.
But it was unlikely to be a more intact one than this.
“Now that that’s been settled,” Mr. Hudgins interrupted, as if uncomfortable with this unmediated conversation, “we should really get on with the business at hand. We have some additional material to be transferred,” he said, nodding at the bulky envelope on the table and making it plain that David should open it.
As David drew it close, Hudgins continued. “Mrs. Van Owen has graciously decided to leave these manuscripts and drawings in the care of the Newberry Library, for further examination and study. She wishes to know as much about them as the curatorial staff is able to discover and is prepared to underwrite the costs of all such work.”
Although David was happy to hear that she would bear the expenses, he was already concerned that something very old and valuable had been transported in such a casual manner as this. He grew even more concerned when, after unsealing the envelope, the unmistakable scent of smoke emanated from inside.
“Their final disposition, however, remains an open question,” Hudgins said. “Much will depend on how the completion of thework goes and whether it yields success. If it goes as well as we hope, the Newberry can expect to receive these materials on a permanent basis, along with a very generous and unrestricted gift to support the library. If not …” He trailed off. “Other arrangements may be made.”
David had just removed the packet of papers, as deftly as he could, from the padded envelope, and already he was astonished at what he saw. Just from the feel of the paper and the ink, he could tell that these papers were hundreds of years old. Fifteenth or sixteenth century, if he had to guess. They reminded him of the many ricordanze he had studied over the years—the memoirs and diaries of Italian businessmen, documents that provided a fascinating glimpse into everyday life during the Renaissance.
This handwriting was in Italian, too, and though faded by time, still more than legible. The edges of the papers were singed here and there, accounting for the smell of
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