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Manuscript Addition: To Charles F Murray / DGRossetti 1876
HAND AND SOUL.
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- ‘Rivolsimi in quel lato
- Là onde venìa la voce,
- E parvemi una luce
- Che lucea quanto stella:
- La mia mente era quella.’
Bonaggiunta Urbiciani, (1250.)
Before any knowledge of painting was brought to
Florence, there were
already painters in Lucca, and Pisa,
and Arezzo, who feared God and loved
the art. The
workmen from Greece, whose trade it was to sell their
own
works in Italy and teach Italians to imitate them, had
already found
in rivals of the soil a skill that could
forestall their lessons and cheapen
their labours, more
years than is supposed before the art came at all
into
Florence. The pre-eminence to which Cimabue was raised
at once by
his contemporaries, and which he still retains to
a wide extent even in the
modern mind, is to be accounted
for, partly by the circumstances under which
he arose, and
partly by that extraordinary
purpose of
fortune
born with the
lives of some few, and through which it is not a
little thing
for any who went before, if they are even remembered as
the
shadows of the coming of such an one, and the voices
which prepared his way
in the wilderness. It is thus, almost
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exclusively, that the painters of whom I speak are now
known. They have
left little, and but little heed is taken of
that which men hold to have
been surpassed; it is gone like
time gone,—a track of dust and
dead leaves that merely led
to the fountain.
Nevertheless, of very late years and in very rare in-
stances, some
signs of a better understanding have become
manifest. A case in point is
that of the triptych and two
cruciform pictures at Dresden, by Chiaro di
Messer Bello
dell' Erma, to which the eloquent pamphlet of Dr.
Aemmster
has at length succeeded in attracting the students. There
is
another still more solemn and beautiful work, now proved
to be by the same
hand, in the Pitti gallery at Florence.
It is the one to which my narrative
will relate.
This Chiaro dell' Erma was a young man of very
honorable family in
Arezzo; where, conceiving art almost
for himself, and loving it deeply, he
endeavoured from
early boyhood towards the imitation of any objects
offered
in nature. The extreme longing after a visible embodiment
of his
thoughts strengthened as his years increased, more
even than his sinews or
the blood of his life; until he would
feel faint in sunsets and at the sight
of stately persons.
When he had lived nineteen years, he heard of the
famous
Giunta Pisano; and, feeling much of admiration, with per-
haps a
little of that envy which youth always feels until it
has learned to measure
success by time and opportunity, he
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determined that he would seek out Giunta, and, if possible,
become his pupil.
Having arrived in Pisa, he clothed himself in humble
apparel, being
unwilling that any other thing than the desire
he had for knowledge should
be his plea with the great
painter; and then, leaving his baggage at a house
of enter-
tainment, he took his way along the street, asking whom he
met
for the lodging of Giunta. It soon chanced that one of
that city, conceiving
him to be a stranger and poor, took
him into his house and refreshed him;
afterwards directing
him on his way.
When he was brought to speech of Giunta, he said
merely that he was a
student, and that nothing in the world
was so much at his heart as to become
that which he had
heard told of him with whom he was speaking. He
was
received with courtesy and consideration, and soon stood
among the
works of the famous artist. But the forms he saw
there were lifeless and
incomplete; and a sudden exultation
possessed him as he said within himself,
‘I am the master
of this man.’ The blood came at first
into his face, but the
next moment he was quite pale and fell to trembling.
He
was able, however to conceal his emotion; speaking very
little to
Giunta, but when he took his leave, thanking him
respectfully.
After this, Chiaro's first resolve was, that he would work
out
thoroughly some one of his thoughts, and let the world
know him. But the
lesson which he had now learned, of
how small a greatness might win fame,
and how little there
was to strive against, served to make him torpid, and ren-
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dered his exertions less continual. Also Pisa was a larger
and more
luxurious city than Arezzo; and when, in his
walks, he saw the great gardens
laid out for pleasure, and
the beautiful women who passed to and fro, and
heard the
music that was in the groves of the city at evening, he
was
taken with wonder that he had never claimed his share of
the
inheritance of those years in which his youth was cast.
And women loved
Chiaro; for, in despite of the burthen of
study, he was well-favoured and
very manly in his walking;
and, seeing his face in front, there was a glory
upon it, as
upon the face of one who feels a light round his hair.
So he put thought from him, and partook of his life.
But, one night,
being in a certain company of ladies, a
gentleman that was there with him
began to speak of the
paintings of a youth named Bonaventura, which he had
seen
in Lucca; adding that Giunta Pisano might now look for a
rival.
When Chiaro heard this, the lamps shook before
him and the music beat in his
ears. He rose up, alleging
a sudden sickness, and went out of that house
with his teeth
set. And, being again within his room, he wrote up
over
the door the name of Bonaventura, that it might stop him
when he
would go out.
He now took to work diligently, not returning to Arezzo,
but remaining
in Pisa, that no day more might be lost; only
living entirely to himself.
Sometimes, after nightfall, he
would walk abroad in the most solitary places
he could find;
hardly feeling the ground under him, because of the
thoughts
of the day which held him in fever.
The lodging Chiaro had chosen was in a house that
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looked upon gardens fast by the Church of San Petronio. It
was here,
and at this time, that he painted the Dresden
pictures; as also, in all
likelihood, the one—inferior in
merit, but certainly
his—which is now at Munich. For the
most part he was calm and
regular in his manner of study;
though often he would remain at work through
the whole of
a day, not resting once so long as the light lasted;
flushed,
and with the hair from his face. Or, at times, when he
could
not paint, he would sit for hours in thought of all the
greatness the world
had known from of old; until he was
weak with yearning, like one who gazes
upon a path of
stars.
He continued in this patient endeavour for about three
years, at the
end of which his name was spoken throughout
all Tuscany. As his fame waxed,
he began to be employed,
besides easel-pictures, upon wall-paintings; but I
believe
that no traces remain to us of any of these latter. He
is said
to have painted in the Duomo; and D'Agincourt
mentions having seen some
portions of a picture by him
which originally had its place above the high
altar in the
Church of the Certosa; but which, at the time he saw
it,
being very dilapidated, had been hewn out of the wall, and
was
preserved in the stores of the convent. Before the
period of Dr. Aemmster's
researches, however, it had been
entirely destroyed.
Chiaro was now famous. It was for the race of fame
that he had girded
up his loins; and he had not paused
until fame was reached; yet now, in
taking breath, he found
that the weight was still at his heart. The years of his
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labour had fallen from him, and his life was still in its first
painful desire.
With all that Chiaro had done during these three years,
and even
before with the studies of his early youth, there
had always been a feeling
of worship and service. It was
the peace-offering that he made to God and to
his own soul
for the eager selfishness of his aim. There was earth,
indeed,
upon the hem of his raiment; but
this was of the
heaven,
heavenly. He had seasons when he could endure to think
of no
other feature of his hope than this. Sometimes it had
even seemed to him to
behold that day when his mistress
—his mystical lady (now hardly
in her ninth year, but whose
smile at meeting had already lighted on his
soul,)—even
she, his own gracious Italian Art—should
pass, through the
sun that never sets, into the shadow of the tree of
life,
and be seen of God and found good: and then it had
seemed to him
that he, with many who, since his coming,
had joined the band of whom he was
one (for, in his dream,
the body he had worn on earth had been dead an
hundred
years), were permitted to gather round the blessed maiden,
and
to worship with her through all ages and ages of ages,
saying, Holy, holy,
holy. This thing he had seen with the
eyes of his spirit; and in this thing
had trusted, believing
that it would surely come to pass.
But now, (being at length led to inquire closely into
himself,) even
as, in the pursuit of fame, the unrest abiding
after attainment had proved
to him that he had misinterpreted
the craving of his own
spirit—so also, now that he would
willingly have fallen back on
devotion, he became aware
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that much of that reverence which he had mistaken for faith
had been no
more than the worship of beauty. Therefore,
after certain days passed in
perplexity, Chiaro said within
himself, ‘My life and my will are
yet before me: I will
take another aim to my life.’
From that moment Chiaro set a watch on his soul, and
put his hand to
no other works but only to such as had for
their end the presentment of some
moral greatness that
should influence the beholder: and to this end, he
multiplied
abstractions, and forgot the beauty and passion of the
world.
So the people ceased to throng about his pictures as
hereto-
fore; and, when they were carried through town and town
to their
destination, they were no longer delayed by the
crowds eager to gaze and
admire: and no prayers or offer-
ings were brought to them on their path, as
to his Madonnas,
and his Saints, and his Holy Children, wrought for the
sake
of the life he saw in the faces that he loved. Only the
critical
audience remained to him; and these, in default of more
worthy
matter, would have turned their scrutiny on a puppet
or a mantle. Meanwhile,
he had no more of fever upon
him; but was calm and pale each day in all that
he did
and in his goings in and out. The works he produced
at this time
have perished—in all likelihood, not unjustly.
It is said (and we
may easily believe it), that, though
more laboured than his former pictures,
they were cold
and unemphatic; bearing marked out upon them the
measure
of that boundary to which they were made to
conform.
And the weight was still close at Chiaro's heart: but he
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held in his breath, never resting (for he was afraid), and
would not
know it.
Now it happened, within these days, that there fell a
great feast in
Pisa, for holy matters: and each man left his
occupation; and all the guilds
and companies of the city
were got together for games and rejoicings. And
there were
scarcely any that stayed in the houses, except ladies who
lay
or sat along their balconies between open windows which
let the breeze beat
through the rooms and over the spread
tables from end to end. And the golden
cloths that their
arms lay upon drew all eyes upward to see their
beauty;
and the day was long; and every hour of the day was bright
with
the sun.
So Chiaro's model, when he awoke that morning on the
hot pavement of
the Piazza Nunziata, and saw the hurry of
people that passed him, got up and
went along with them;
and Chiaro waited for him in vain.
For the whole of that morning, the music was in Chiaro's
room from the
Church close at hand; and he could hear
the sounds that the crowd made in
the streets; hushed only
at long intervals while the processions for the
feast-day
chanted in going under his windows. Also, more than
once,
there was a high clamour from the meeting of factious
persons: for
the ladies of both leagues were looking down;
and he who encountered his
enemy could not choose but
draw upon him. Chiaro waited a long time idle;
and then
knew that his model was gone elsewhere. When at his
work, he
was blind and deaf to all else; but he feared
sloth: for then his stealthy
thoughts would begin to beat
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round and round him, seeking a point for attack. He now
rose,
therefore, and went to the window. It was within a
short space of noon; and
underneath him a throng of people
was coming out through the porch of San Petronio.
The two greatest houses of the feud in Pisa had filled
the church for
that mass. The first to leave had been the
Gherghiotti; who, stopping on the
threshold, had fallen
back in ranks along each side of the archway: so that
now,
in passing outward, the Marotoli had to walk between two
files of
men whom they hated, and whose fathers had hated
theirs. All the chiefs were
there and their whole adherence;
and each knew the name of each. Every man
of the Maro-
toli, as he came forth and saw his foes, laid back his
hood
and gazed about him, to show the badge upon the close cap
that held
his hair. And of the Gherghiotti there were some
who tightened their
girdles; and some shrilled and threw
up their wrists scornfully, as who
flies a falcon; for that was
the crest of their house.
On the walls within the entry were a number of tall
narrow pictures,
presenting a moral allegory of Peace, which
Chiaro had painted that year for
the Church. The Gher-
ghiotti stood with their backs to these frescoes; and
among
them Golzo Ninuccio, the youngest noble of the faction,
called by
the people Golaghiotta, for his debased life. This
youth had remained for
some while talking listlessly to his
fellows, though with his sleepy sunken
eyes fixed on them
who passed: but now, seeing that no man jostled
another,
he drew the long silver shoe off his foot and struck the
dust
out of it on the cloak of him who was going by, asking him
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how far the tides rose at Viderza. And he said so because
it was three
months since, at that place, the Gherghiotti had
beaten the Marotoli to the
sands, and held them there while
the sea came in; whereby many had been
drowned. And,
when he had spoken, at once the whole archway was
daz-
zling with the light of confused swords; and they who had
left
turned back; and they who were still behind made
haste to come forth: and
there was so much blood cast up
the walls on a sudden, that it ran in long
streams down
Chiaro's paintings.
Chiaro turned himself from the window; for the light
felt dry between
his lids, and he could not look. He sat
down, and heard the noise of
contention driven out of the
church-porch and a great way through the
streets; and soon
there was a deep murmur that heaved and waxed from
the
other side of the city, where those of both parties were
gathering
to join in the tumult.
Chiaro sat with his face in his open hands. Once again
he had wished
to set his foot on a place that looked green
and fertile; and once again it
seemed to him that the thin
rank mask was about to spread away, and that
this time the
chill of the water must leave leprosy in his flesh. The
light
still swam in his head, and bewildered him at first; but
when he
knew his thoughts, they were these:—
‘Fame failed me: faith failed me: and now this
also,—
the hope that I nourished in this my generation of
men,—
shall pass from me, and leave my feet and my
hands
groping. Yet because of this are my feet become slow and
my hands
thin. I am as one who, through the whole night,
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holding his way diligently, hath smitten the steel unto the
flint, to
lead some whom he knew darkling; who hath kept
his eyes always on the sparks
that himself made, lest they
should fail; and who, towards dawn, turning to
bid them
that he had guided God speed, sees the wet grass
untrodden
except of his own feet. I am as the last hour of the
day,
whose chimes are a perfect number; whom the next fol-
loweth not,
nor light ensueth from him; but in the same
darkness is the old order begun
afresh. Men say, “This is
not God nor man; he is not as we are,
neither above us:
let him sit beneath us, for we are many.” Where
I write
Peace, in that spot is the drawing of swords, and there
men's
footprints are red. When I would sow, another harvest is
ripe.
Nay, it is much worse with me than thus much. Am
I not as a cloth drawn
before the light, that the looker may
not be blinded; but which sheweth
thereby the grain of its
own coarseness; so that the light seems defiled,
and men
say, “We will not walk by it.” Wherefore
through me they
shall be doubly accursed, seeing that through me they
reject
the light. May one be a devil and not know it?’
As Chiaro was in these thoughts, the fever encroached
slowly on his
veins, till he could sit no longer and would
have risen; but suddenly he
found awe within him, and
held his head bowed, without stirring. The warmth
of the
air was not shaken; but there seemed a pulse in the light,
and a
living freshness, like rain. The silence was a painful
music, that made the
blood ache in his temples; and he
lifted his face and his deep eyes.
A woman was present in his room, clad to the hands
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and feet with a green and grey raiment, fashioned to that
time. It
seemed that the first thoughts he had ever known
were given him as at first
from her eyes, and he knew her
hair to be the golden veil through which he
beheld his
dreams. Though her hands were joined, her face was
not
lifted, but set forward; and though the gaze was austere, yet
her
mouth was supreme in gentleness. And as he looked,
Chiaro's spirit appeared
abashed of its own intimate
presence, and his lips shook with the thrill of
tears; it
seemed such a bitter while till the spirit might be indeed
alone.
She did not move closer towards him, but he felt her to
be as much
with him as his breath. He was like one who,
scaling a great steepness,
hears his own voice echoed in
some place much higher than he can see, and
the name of
which is not known to him. As the woman stood, her
speech
was with Chiaro: not, as it were, from her mouth or
in his ears; but
distinctly between them.
‘I am an image, Chiaro, of thine own soul within thee.
See
me, and know me as I am. Thou sayest that fame has
failed thee, and faith
failed thee; but because at least thou
hast not laid thy life unto riches,
therefore, though thus late,
I am suffered to come into thy knowledge. Fame
sufficed
not, for that thou didst seek fame: seek thine own con-
science
(not thy mind's conscience, but thine heart's), and
all shall approve and
suffice. For Fame, in noble soils, is a
fruit of the Spring: but not
therefore should it be said:
“Lo! my garden that I planted is
barren: the crocus is
here, but the lily is dead in the dry ground, and
shall not
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Note: There appears to be a missing period at the end of the final sentence in paragraph 27. In that location, between the 'l' and
close quote, is a small blot, as if from a broken or misaligned piece of type.
lift the earth that covers it: therefore I will fling my
garden
together, and give it unto the builders.” Take heed
rather
that thou trouble not the wise secret earth; for in the
mould
that thou throwest up shall the first tender growth lie to
waste;
which else had been made strong in its season.
Yea, and even if the year
fall past in all its months, and the
soil be indeed, to thee, peevish and
incapable, and though
thou indeed gather all thy harvest, and it suffice for
others,
and thou remain vexed with emptiness; and others drink of
thy
streams, and the drouth rasp thy throat;—let it be
enough that
these have found the feast good, and thanked
the giver: remembering that,
when the winter is striven
through, there is another year, whose wind is
meek, and
whose sun fulfilleth all’
While he heard, Chiaro went slowly on his knees. It
was not to her
that spoke, for the speech seemed within
him and his own. The air brooded in
sunshine, and though
the turmoil was great outside, the air within was at
peace.
But when he looked in her eyes, he wept. And she came
to him, and
cast her hair over him, and took her hands
about his forehead, and spoke again:—
‘Thou hast said,’ she continued, gently,
‘that faith failed
thee. This cannot be. Either thou hadst it
not, or thou
hast it. But who bade thee strike the point betwixt
love
and faith? Wouldst thou sift the warm breeze from the
sun that
quickens it? Who bade thee turn upon God and
say: “Behold, my
offering is of earth, and not worthy: thy
fire comes not upon it: therefore,
though I slay not my
brother whom thou acceptest, I will depart before thou
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smite me.” Why shouldst thou rise up and tell God He is
not
content? Had He, of his warrant, certified so to thee?
Be not nice to seek
out division; but possess thy love in
sufficiency: assuredly this is faith,
for the heart must believe
first. What He hath set in thine heart to do,
that do thou;
and even though thou do it without thought of Him, it
shall
be well done; it is this sacrifice that He asketh of thee, and
his
flame is upon it for a sign. Think not of Him; but
of his love and thy love.
For God is no morbid exactor:
He hath no hand to bow beneath, nor a foot,
that thou
shouldst kiss it.’
And Chiaro held silence, and wept into her hair which
covered his
face; and the salt tears that he shed ran through
her hair upon his lips;
and he tasted the bitterness of
shame.
Then the fair woman, that was his soul, spoke again to
him, saying:—
‘And for this thy last purpose, and for those
unprofit-
able truths of thy teaching,—thine heart hath already
put
them away, and it needs not that I lay my bidding upon
thee. How is
it that thou, a man, wouldst say coldly to the
mind what God hath said to
the heart warmly? Thy will
was honest and wholesome; but look well lest this
also be
folly,—to say, “I, in doing this, do
strengthen God among
men.” When at any time hath He cried unto
thee, saying,
“My son, lend me thy shoulder, for I
fall?” Deemest thou
that the men who enter God's temple in
malice, to the
provoking of blood and neither for his love nor for
his
wrath will abate their purpose,—shall afterwards stand with
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thee in the porch, midway between Him and themselves, to
give ear unto
thy thin voice, which merely the fall of their
visors can drown, and to see
thy hands, stretched feebly,
tremble among their swords? Give thou to God no
more
than He asketh of thee; but to man also, that which is man's.
In
all that thou doest, work from thine own heart, simply; for
his heart is as
thine, when thine is wise and humble; and
he shall have understanding of
thee. One drop of rain is
as another, and the sun's prism in all: and shalt
thou not
be as he, whose lives are the breath of One? Only by
making
thyself his equal can he learn to hold communion
with thee, and at last own
thee above him. Not till thou
lean over the water shalt thou see thine image
therein:
stand erect, and it shall slope from thy feet and be lost.
Know
that there is but this means whereby thou mayest
serve God with
man:—Set thine hand and thy soul to
serve man with God.’
And when she that spoke had said these words within
Chiaro's spirit,
she left his side quietly, and stood up as he
had first seen her: with her
fingers laid together, and her
eyes steadfast, and with the breadth of her
long dress
covering her feet on the floor. And, speaking again, she
said:—
‘Chiaro, servant of God, take now thine Art unto thee,
and
paint me thus, as I am, to know me: weak, as I am,
and in the weeds of this
time; only with eyes which seek
out labour, and with a faith, not learned,
yet jealous of
prayer. Do this; so shall thy soul stand before thee
always,
and perplex thee no more.’
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And Chiaro did as she bade him. While he worked,
his face grew solemn
with knowledge: and before the
shadows had turned, his work was done. Having
finished,
he lay back where he sat, and was asleep immediately: for
the
growth of that strong sunset was heavy about him, and
he felt weak and
haggard; like one just come out of a dusk,
hollow country, bewildered with
echoes, where he had lost
himself, and who has not slept for many days and
nights.
And when she saw him lie back, the beautiful woman came
to him,
and sat at his head, gazing, and quieted his sleep
with her voice.
The tumult of the factions had endured all that day
through all Pisa,
though Chiaro had not heard it: and the
last service of that feast was a
mass sung at midnight from
the windows of all the churches for the many dead
who lay
about the city, and who had to be buried before morning,
because
of the extreme heats.
In the spring of 1847, I was at Florence. Such as were
there at the
same time with myself—those, at least, to
whom Art is
something,—will certainly recollect how many
rooms of the Pitti
Gallery were closed through that season,
in order that some of the pictures
they contained might be
examined and repaired without the necessity of
removal.
The hall, the staircases, and the vast central suite of
apart-
ments, were the only accessible portions; and in these
such
paintings as they could admit from the sealed
penetralia
page: 19
were profanely huddled together, without respect of dates,
schools, or persons.
I fear that, through this interdict, I may have missed
seeing many of
the best pictures. I do not mean
only the
most talked of:
for these, as they were restored, generally
found their way somehow into the
open rooms, owing to the
clamours raised by the students; and I remember how
old
Ercoli's, the curator's, spectacles used to be mirrored in
the
reclaimed surface, as he leaned mysteriously over these
works with some of
the visitors, to scrutinize and elucidate.
One picture that I saw that spring, I shall not easily
forget. It was
among those, I believe, brought from the
other rooms, and had been hung,
obviously out of all
chronology, immediately beneath that head by Raphael
so
long known as the ‘Berrettino,’ and now said to be
the
portrait of Cecco Ciulli.
The picture I speak of is a small one, and represents
merely the
figure of a woman, clad to the hands and feet
with a green and grey raiment,
chaste and early in its
fashion, but exceedingly simple. She is standing:
her
hands are held together lightly, and her eyes set earnestly
open.
The face and hands in this picture, though wrought
with great
delicacy, have the appearance of being painted
at once, in a single sitting:
the drapery is unfinished. As
soon as I saw the figure, it drew an awe upon
me, like
water in shadow. I shall not attempt to describe it more
than I
have already done; for the most absorbing wonder
of it was its literality.
You knew that figure, when painted,
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had been seen; yet it was not a thing to be seen of men.
This language
will appear ridiculous to such as have never
looked on the work; and it may
be even to some among
those who have. On examining it closely, I perceived
in
one corner of the canvass the words
Manus Animam pinxit,
and the date 1239.
I turned to my Catalogue, but that was useless, for the
pictures were
all displaced. I then stepped up to the
Cavaliere Ercoli, who was in the
room at the moment,
and asked him regarding the subject and authorship of
the
painting. He treated the matter, I thought, somewhat
slightingly,
and said that he could show me the reference
in the Catalogue, which he had
compiled. This, when
found, was not of much value, as it
merely said, ‘Schizzo
d'autore incerto,’ adding the
inscription.* I could willingly
have prolonged my inquiry, in the
hope that it might some-
how lead to some result; but I had disturbed the
curator
from certain yards of Guido, and he was not communicative.
I
went back therefore, and stood before the picture till it
grew dusk.
The next day I was there again; but this time a circle
of students was
round the spot, all copying the ‘Berrettino.’
I
contrived, however, to find a place whence I could see
my
Transcribed Footnote (page 20):
* I should here say, that in the latest catalogues, (owing, as
in
cases before mentioned, to the zeal and enthusiasm of Dr.
Aemmster),
this, and several other pictures, have been more
competently entered.
The work in question is now placed in the
Sala Sessagona, a room
I did not
see—under the number 161. It is described as ‘Figura
mistica di Chiaro
dell'Erma,’ and there is a brief notice of
the
author appended.
page: 21
picture, and where I seemed to be in nobody's way. For
some minutes I
remained undisturbed; and then I heard,
in an English voice:
‘Might I beg of you, sir, to stand a
little more to this side, as
you interrupt my view.’
I felt vexed, for, standing where he asked me, a glare
struck on the
picture from the windows, and I could not see
it. However, the request was
reasonably made, and from a
countryman; so I complied, and turning away,
stood by
his easel. I knew it was not worth while; yet I referred
in
some way to the work underneath the one he was copying.
He did not
laugh, but he smiled as we do in England:
‘
Very
odd, is it not?’ said he.
The other students near us were all continental; and
seeing an
Englishman select an Englishman to speak with,
conceived, I suppose, that he
could understand no language
but his own. They had evidently been noticing
the interest
which the little picture appeared to excite in me.
One of them, an Italian, said something to another who
stood next to
him. He spoke with a Genoese accent, and
I lost the sense in the villanous
dialect. ‘Che so?’
re-
plied the other, lifting his eyebrows towards the figure;
‘roba mistica: 'st' Inglesi son matti sul
misticismo: somigliaalle nebbie di là. Li fa pensare alla patria,
- “e intenerisce il core
- Lo dì ch' han detto ai dolci
amici adio.”’
‘La notte, vuoi dire,’
said a third.
There was a general laugh. My compatriot was evi-
dently a novice in
the language, and did not take in what
was said. I remained silent, being amused.
page: 22
‘Et toi donc?’ said he
who had quoted Dante, turning
to a student, whose birthplace was
unmistakable, even had
he been addressed in any other language: ‘que dis-tu de ce
genre-là?’
‘Moi?’ returned the
Frenchman, standing back from his
easel, and looking at me and at the
figure, quite politely,
though with an evident reservation: ‘Je dis, mon cher, que
c'est une spécialité dont je me
fiche pas mal. Je tiens que
quand on ne comprend pas une chose, c'est qu' elle ne
signifie rien.’
My reader thinks possibly that the French student was
right.
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI, 1850.
London: Strangeways and Walden, Printers, 28 Castle St., Leicester Sq.
page: [23]
Note: The final two blank pages comprise the pamphlet's closing sheet.