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diff --git a/2460-h/2460-h.htm b/2460-h/2460-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5fd2164 --- /dev/null +++ b/2460-h/2460-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1770 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>The Madonna of the Future</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">The Madonna of the Future, by Henry James</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Madonna of the Future, by Henry James + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Madonna of the Future + + +Author: Henry James + +Release Date: May 8, 2005 [eBook #2460] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MADONNA OF THE FUTURE*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1887 Macmillan and Co. edition by David Price, +email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk, proofed by Jennifer Austin.</p> +<h1>THE MADONNA OF THE FUTURE<br /> +by Henry James</h1> +<p>We had been talking about the masters who had achieved but a single +masterpiece—the artists and poets who but once in their lives +had known the divine afflatus and touched the high level of perfection. +Our host had been showing us a charming little cabinet picture by a +painter whose name we had never heard, and who, after this single spasmodic +bid for fame, had apparently relapsed into obscurity and mediocrity. +There was some discussion as to the frequency of this phenomenon; during +which, I observed, H--- sat silent, finishing his cigar with a meditative +air, and looking at the picture which was being handed round the table. +“I don’t know how common a case it is,” he said at +last, “but I have seen it. I have known a poor fellow who +painted his one masterpiece, and”—he added with a smile—“he +didn’t even paint that. He made his bid for fame and missed +it.” We all knew H--- for a clever man who had seen much +of men and manners, and had a great stock of reminiscences. Some +one immediately questioned him further, and while I was engrossed with +the raptures of my neighbour over the little picture, he was induced +to tell his tale. If I were to doubt whether it would bear repeating, +I should only have to remember how that charming woman, our hostess, +who had left the table, ventured back in rustling rose-colour to pronounce +our lingering a want of gallantry, and, finding us a listening circle, +sank into her chair in spite of our cigars, and heard the story out +so graciously that, when the catastrophe was reached, she glanced across +at me and showed me a tear in each of her beautiful eyes.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>It relates to my youth, and to Italy: two fine things! (H--- +began). I had arrived late in the evening at Florence, and while +I finished my bottle of wine at supper, had fancied that, tired traveller +though I was, I might pay the city a finer compliment than by going +vulgarly to bed. A narrow passage wandered darkly away out of +the little square before my hotel, and looked as if it bored into the +heart of Florence. I followed it, and at the end of ten minutes +emerged upon a great piazza, filled only with the mild autumn moonlight. +Opposite rose the Palazzo Vecchio, like some huge civic fortress, with +the great bell-tower springing from its embattled verge as a mountain-pine +from the edge of a cliff. At its base, in its projected shadow, +gleamed certain dim sculptures which I wonderingly approached. +One of the images, on the left of the palace door, was a magnificent +colossus, shining through the dusky air like a sentinel who has taken +the alarm. In a moment I recognised him as Michael Angelo’s +<i>David</i>. I turned with a certain relief from his sinister +strength to a slender figure in bronze, stationed beneath the high light +loggia, which opposes the free and elegant span of its arches to the +dead masonry of the palace; a figure supremely shapely and graceful; +gentle, almost, in spite of his holding out with his light nervous arm +the snaky head of the slaughtered Gorgon. His name is Perseus, +and you may read his story, not in the Greek mythology, but in the memoirs +of Benvenuto Cellini. Glancing from one of these fine fellows +to the other, I probably uttered some irrepressible commonplace of praise, +for, as if provoked by my voice, a man rose from the steps of the loggia, +where he had been sitting in the shadow, and addressed me in good English—a +small, slim personage, clad in a sort of black velvet tunic (as it seemed), +and with a mass of auburn hair, which gleamed in the moonlight, escaping +from a little mediæval birretta. In a tone of the most insinuating +deference he asked me for my “impressions.” He seemed +picturesque, fantastic, slightly unreal. Hovering there in this +consecrated neighbourhood, he might have passed for the genius of æsthetic +hospitality—if the genius of æsthetic hospitality were not +commonly some shabby little custode, flourishing a calico pocket-handkerchief +and openly resentful of the divided franc. This analogy was made +none the less complete by the brilliant tirade with which he greeted +my embarrassed silence.</p> +<p>“I have known Florence long, sir, but I have never known her +so lovely as tonight. It’s as if the ghosts of her past +were abroad in the empty streets. The present is sleeping; the +past hovers about us like a dream made visible. Fancy the old +Florentines strolling up in couples to pass judgment on the last performance +of Michael, of Benvenuto! We should come in for a precious lesson +if we might overhear what they say. The plainest burgher of them, +in his cap and gown, had a taste in the matter! That was the prime +of art, sir. The sun stood high in heaven, and his broad and equal +blaze made the darkest places bright and the dullest eyes clear. +We live in the evening of time! We grope in the gray dusk, carrying +each our poor little taper of selfish and painful wisdom, holding it +up to the great models and to the dim idea, and seeing nothing but overwhelming +greatness and dimness. The days of illumination are gone! +But do you know I fancy—I fancy”—and he grew suddenly +almost familiar in this visionary fervour—“I fancy the light +of that time rests upon us here for an hour! I have never seen +the David so grand, the Perseus so fair! Even the inferior productions +of John of Bologna and of Baccio Bandinelli seem to realise the artist’s +dream. I feel as if the moonlit air were charged with the secrets +of the masters, and as if, standing here in religious attention, we +might—we might witness a revelation!” Perceiving at +this moment, I suppose, my halting comprehension reflected in my puzzled +face, this interesting rhapsodist paused and blushed. Then with +a melancholy smile, “You think me a moonstruck charlatan, I suppose. +It’s not my habit to bang about the piazza and pounce upon innocent +tourists. But tonight, I confess, I am under the charm. +And then, somehow, I fancied you too were an artist!”</p> +<p>“I am not an artist, I am sorry to say, as you must understand +the term. But pray make no apologies. I am also under the +charm; your eloquent remarks have only deepened it.”</p> +<p>“If you are not an artist you are worthy to be one!” +he rejoined, with an expressive smile. “A young man who +arrives at Florence late in the evening, and, instead of going prosaically +to bed, or hanging over the traveller’s book at his hotel, walks +forth without loss of time to pay his devoirs to the beautiful, is a +young man after my own heart!”</p> +<p>The mystery was suddenly solved; my friend was an American! +He must have been, to take the picturesque so prodigiously to heart. +“None the less so, I trust,” I answered, “if the young +man is a sordid New Yorker.”</p> +<p>“New Yorkers have been munificent patrons of art!” he +answered, urbanely.</p> +<p>For a moment I was alarmed. Was this midnight reverie mere +Yankee enterprise, and was he simply a desperate brother of the brush +who had posted himself here to extort an “order” from a +sauntering tourist? But I was not called to defend myself. +A great brazen note broke suddenly from the far-off summit of the bell-tower +above us, and sounded the first stroke of midnight. My companion +started, apologised for detaining me, and prepared to retire. +But he seemed to offer so lively a promise of further entertainment +that I was indisposed to part with him, and suggested that we should +stroll homeward together. He cordially assented; so we turned +out of the Piazza, passed down before the statued arcade of the Uffizi, +and came out upon the Arno. What course we took I hardly remember, +but we roamed slowly about for an hour, my companion delivering by snatches +a sort of moon-touched æsthetic lecture. I listened in puzzled +fascination, and wondered who the deuce he was. He confessed with +a melancholy but all-respectful head-shake to his American origin.</p> +<p>“We are the disinherited of Art!” he cried. “We +are condemned to be superficial! We are excluded from the magic +circle. The soil of American perception is a poor little barren +artificial deposit. Yes! we are wedded to imperfection. +An American, to excel, has just ten times as much to learn as a European. +We lack the deeper sense. We have neither taste, nor tact, nor +power. How should we have them? Our crude and garish climate, +our silent past, our deafening present, the constant pressure about +us of unlovely circumstance, are as void of all that nourishes and prompts +and inspires the artist, as my sad heart is void of bitterness in saying +so! We poor aspirants must live in perpetual exile.”</p> +<p>“You seem fairly at home in exile,” I answered, “and +Florence seems to me a very pretty Siberia. But do you know my +own thought? Nothing is so idle as to talk about our want of a +nutritive soil, of opportunity, of inspiration, and all the rest of +it. The worthy part is to do something fine! There is no +law in our glorious Constitution against that. Invent, create, +achieve! No matter if you have to study fifty times as much as +one of these! What else are you an artist for? Be you our +Moses,” I added, laughing, and laying my hand on his shoulder, +“and lead us out of the house of bondage!”</p> +<p>“Golden words—golden words, young man!” he cried, +with a tender smile. “‘Invent, create, achieve!’ +Yes, that’s our business; I know it well. Don’t take +me, in Heaven’s name, for one of your barren complainers—impotent +cynics who have neither talent nor faith! I am at work!”—and +he glanced about him and lowered his voice as if this were a quite peculiar +secret—“I’m at work night and day. I have undertaken +a <i>creation</i>! I am no Moses; I am only a poor patient artist; +but it would be a fine thing if I were to cause some slender stream +of beauty to flow in our thirsty land! Don’t think me a +monster of conceit,” he went on, as he saw me smile at the avidity +with which he adopted my illustration; “I confess that I am in +one of those moods when great things seem possible! This is one +of my nervous nights—I dream waking! When the south wind +blows over Florence at midnight it seems to coax the soul from all the +fair things locked away in her churches and galleries; it comes into +my own little studio with the moonlight, and sets my heart beating too +deeply for rest. You see I am always adding a thought to my conception! +This evening I felt that I couldn’t sleep unless I had communed +with the genius of Buonarotti!”</p> +<p>He seemed deeply versed in local history and tradition, and he expatiated +<i>con amore</i> on the charms of Florence. I gathered that he +was an old resident, and that he had taken the lovely city into his +heart. “I owe her everything,” he declared. +“It’s only since I came here that I have really lived, intellectually. +One by one, all profane desires, all mere worldly aims, have dropped +away from me, and left me nothing but my pencil, my little note-book” +(and he tapped his breast-pocket), “and the worship of the pure +masters—those who were pure because they were innocent, and those +who were pure because they were strong!”</p> +<p>“And have you been very productive all this time?” I +asked sympathetically.</p> +<p>He was silent a while before replying. “Not in the vulgar +sense!” he said at last. “I have chosen never to manifest +myself by imperfection. The good in every performance I have re-absorbed +into the generative force of new creations; the bad—there is always +plenty of that—I have religiously destroyed. I may say, +with some satisfaction, that I have not added a mite to the rubbish +of the world. As a proof of my conscientiousness”—and +he stopped short, and eyed me with extraordinary candour, as if the +proof were to be overwhelming—“I have never sold a picture! +‘At least no merchant traffics in my heart!’ Do you +remember that divine line in Browning? My little studio has never +been profaned by superficial, feverish, mercenary work. It’s +a temple of labour, but of leisure! Art is long. If we work +for ourselves, of course we must hurry. If we work for her, we +must often pause. She can wait!”</p> +<p>This had brought us to my hotel door, somewhat to my relief, I confess, +for I had begun to feel unequal to the society of a genius of this heroic +strain. I left him, however, not without expressing a friendly +hope that we should meet again. The next morning my curiosity +had not abated; I was anxious to see him by common daylight. I +counted upon meeting him in one of the many pictorial haunts of Florence, +and I was gratified without delay. I found him in the course of +the morning in the Tribune of the Uffizi—that little treasure-chamber +of world-famous things. He had turned his back on the Venus de’ +Medici, and with his arms resting on the rail-mug which protects the +pictures, and his head buried in his hands, he was lost in the contemplation +of that superb triptych of Andrea Mantegna—a work which has neither +the material splendour nor the commanding force of some of its neighbours, +but which, glowing there with the loveliness of patient labour, suits +possibly a more constant need of the soul. I looked at the picture +for some time over his shoulder; at last, with a heavy sigh, he turned +away and our eyes met. As he recognised me a deep blush rose to +his face; he fancied, perhaps, that he had made a fool of himself overnight. +But I offered him my hand with a friendliness which assured him I was +not a scoffer. I knew him by his ardent <i>chevelure</i>; otherwise +he was much altered. His midnight mood was over, and he looked +as haggard as an actor by daylight. He was far older than I had +supposed, and he had less bravery of costume and gesture. He seemed +the quiet, poor, patient artist he had proclaimed himself, and the fact +that he had never sold a picture was more obvious than glorious. +His velvet coat was threadbare, and his short slouched hat, of an antique +pattern, revealed a rustiness which marked it an “original,” +and not one of the picturesque reproductions which brethren of his craft +affect. His eye was mild and heavy, and his expression singularly +gentle and acquiescent; the more so for a certain pallid leanness of +visage, which I hardly knew whether to refer to the consuming fire of +genius or to a meagre diet. A very little talk, however, cleared +his brow and brought back his eloquence.</p> +<p>“And this is your first visit to these enchanted halls?” +he cried. “Happy, thrice happy youth!” And taking +me by the arm, he prepared to lead me to each of the pre-eminent works +in turn and show me the cream of the gallery. But before we left +the Mantegna he pressed my arm and gave it a loving look. “<i>He</i> +was not in a hurry,” he murmured. “He knew nothing +of ‘raw Haste, half-sister to Delay!’” How sound +a critic my friend was I am unable to say, but he was an extremely amusing +one; overflowing with opinions, theories, and sympathies, with disquisition +and gossip and anecdote. He was a shade too sentimental for my +own sympathies, and I fancied he was rather too fond of superfine discriminations +and of discovering subtle intentions in shallow places. At moments, +too, he plunged into the sea of metaphysics, and floundered a while +in waters too deep for intellectual security. But his abounding +knowledge and happy judgment told a touching story of long attentive +hours in this worshipful company; there was a reproach to my wasteful +saunterings in so devoted a culture of opportunity. “There +are two moods,” I remember his saying, “in which we may +walk through galleries—the critical and the ideal. They +seize us at their pleasure, and we can never tell which is to take its +turn. The critical mood, oddly, is the genial one, the friendly, +the condescending. It relishes the pretty trivialities of art, +its vulgar cleverness, its conscious graces. It has a kindly greeting +for anything which looks as if, according to his light, the painter +had enjoyed doing it—for the little Dutch cabbages and kettles, +for the taper fingers and breezy mantles of late-coming Madonnas, for +the little blue-hilled, pastoral, sceptical Italian landscapes. +Then there are the days of fierce, fastidious longing—solemn church +feasts of the intellect—when all vulgar effort and all petty success +is a weariness, and everything but the best—the best of the best—disgusts. +In these hours we are relentless aristocrats of taste. We will +not take Michael Angelo for granted, we will not swallow Raphael whole!”</p> +<p>The gallery of the Uffizi is not only rich in its possessions, but +peculiarly fortunate in that fine architectural accident, as one may +call it, which unites it—with the breadth of river and city between +them—to those princely chambers of the Pitti Palace. The +Louvre and the Vatican hardly give you such a sense of sustained inclosure +as those long passages projected over street and stream to establish +a sort of inviolate transition between the two palaces of art. +We passed along the gallery in which those precious drawings by eminent +hands hang chaste and gray above the swirl and murmur of the yellow +Arno, and reached the ducal saloons of the Pitti. Ducal as they +are, it must be confessed that they are imperfect as show-rooms, and +that, with their deep-set windows and their massive mouldings, it is +rather a broken light that reaches the pictured walls. But here +the masterpieces hang thick, and you seem to see them in a luminous +atmosphere of their own. And the great saloons, with their superb +dim ceilings, their outer wall in splendid shadow, and the sombre opposite +glow of mellow canvas and dusky gilding, make, themselves, almost as +fine a picture as the Titians and Raphaels they imperfectly reveal. +We lingered briefly before many a Raphael and Titian; but I saw my friend +was impatient, and I suffered him at last to lead me directly to the +goal of our journey—the most tenderly fair of Raphael’s +virgins, the Madonna in the Chair. Of all the fine pictures of +the world, it seemed to me this is the one with which criticism has +least to do. None betrays less effort, less of the mechanism of +success and of the irrepressible discord between conception and result, +which shows dimly in so many consummate works. Graceful, human, +near to our sympathies as it is, it has nothing of manner, of method, +nothing, almost, of style; it blooms there in rounded softness, as instinct +with harmony as if it were an immediate exhalation of genius. +The figure melts away the spectator’s mind into a sort of passionate +tenderness which he knows not whether he has given to heavenly purity +or to earthly charm. He is intoxicated with the fragrance of the +tenderest blossom of maternity that ever bloomed on earth.</p> +<p>“That’s what I call a fine picture,” said my companion, +after we had gazed a while in silence. “I have a right to +say so, for I have copied it so often and so carefully that I could +repeat it now with my eyes shut. Other works are of Raphael: this +<i>is</i> Raphael himself. Others you can praise, you can qualify, +you can measure, explain, account for: this you can only love and admire. +I don’t know in what seeming he walked among men while this divine +mood was upon him; but after it, surely, he could do nothing but die; +this world had nothing more to teach him. Think of it a while, +my friend, and you will admit that I am not raving. Think of his +seeing that spotless image, not for a moment, for a day, in a happy +dream, or a restless fever-fit; not as a poet in a five minutes’ +frenzy—time to snatch his phrase and scribble his immortal stanza; +but for days together, while the slow labour of the brush went on, while +the foul vapours of life interposed, and the fancy ached with tension, +fixed, radiant, distinct, as we see it now! What a master, certainly! +But ah! what a seer!”</p> +<p>“Don’t you imagine,” I answered, “that he +had a model, and that some pretty young woman—”</p> +<p>“As pretty a young woman as you please! It doesn’t +diminish the miracle! He took his hint, of course, and the young +woman, possibly, sat smiling before his canvas. But, meanwhile, +the painter’s idea had taken wings. No lovely human outline +could charm it to vulgar fact. He saw the fair form made perfect; +he rose to the vision without tremor, without effort of wing; he communed +with it face to face, and resolved into finer and lovelier truth the +purity which completes it as the fragrance completes the rose. +That’s what they call idealism; the word’s vastly abused, +but the thing is good. It’s my own creed, at any rate. +Lovely Madonna, model at once and muse, I call you to witness that I +too am an idealist!”</p> +<p>“An idealist, then,” I said, half jocosely, wishing to +provoke him to further utterance, “is a gentleman who says to +Nature in the person of a beautiful girl, ‘Go to, you are all +wrong! Your fine is coarse, your bright is dim, your grace is +<i>gaucherie</i>. This is the way you should have done it!’ +Is not the chance against him?”</p> +<p>He turned upon me almost angrily, but perceiving the genial savour +of my sarcasm, he smiled gravely. “Look at that picture,” +he said, “and cease your irreverent mockery! Idealism is +<i>that</i>! There’s no explaining it; one must feel the +flame! It says nothing to Nature, or to any beautiful girl, that +they will not both forgive! It says to the fair woman, ‘Accept +me as your artist friend, lend me your beautiful face, trust me, help +me, and your eyes shall be half my masterpiece!’ No one +so loves and respects the rich realities of nature as the artist whose +imagination caresses and flatters them. He knows what a fact may +hold (whether Raphael knew, you may judge by his portrait, behind us +there, of Tommaso Inghirami); bad his fancy hovers above it, as Ariel +hovered above the sleeping prince. There is only one Raphael, +bad an artist may still be an artist. As I said last night, the +days of illumination are gone; visions are rare; we have to look long +to see them. But in meditation we may still cultivate the ideal; +round it, smooth it, perfect it. The result—the result,” +(here his voice faltered suddenly, and he fixed his eyes for a moment +on the picture; when they met my own again they were full of tears)—“the +result may be less than this; but still it may be good, it may be <i>great</i>!” +he cried with vehemence. “It may hang somewhere, in after +years, in goodly company, and keep the artist’s memory warm. +Think of being known to mankind after some such fashion as this! of +hanging here through the slow centuries in the gaze of an altered world; +living on and on in the cunning of an eye and hand that are part of +the dust of ages, a delight and a law to remote generations; making +beauty a force and purity an example!”</p> +<p>“Heaven forbid,” I said, smiling, “that I should +take the wind out of your sails! But doesn’t it occur to +you that, besides being strong in his genius, Raphael was happy in a +certain good faith of which we have lost the trick? There are +people, I know, who deny that his spotless Madonnas are anything more +than pretty blondes of that period enhanced by the Raphaelesque touch, +which they declare is a profane touch. Be that as it may, people’s +religious and æsthetic needs went arm in arm, and there was, as +I may say, a demand for the Blessed Virgin, visible and adorable, which +must have given firmness to the artist’s hand. I am afraid +there is no demand now.”</p> +<p>My companion seemed painfully puzzled; he shivered, as it were, in +this chilling blast of scepticism. Then shaking his head with +sublime confidence—“There is always a demand!” he +cried; “that ineffable type is one of the eternal needs of man’s +heart; but pious souls long for it in silence, almost in shame. +Let it appear, and their faith grows brave. How <i>should</i> +it appear in this corrupt generation? It cannot be made to order. +It could, indeed, when the order came, trumpet-toned, from the lips +of the Church herself, and was addressed to genius panting with inspiration. +But it can spring now only from the soil of passionate labour and culture. +Do you really fancy that while, from time to time, a man of complete +artistic vision is born into the world, that image can perish? +The man who paints it has painted everything. The subject admits +of every perfection—form, colour, expression, composition. +It can be as simple as you please, and yet as rich; as broad and pure, +and yet as full of delicate detail. Think of the chance for flesh +in the little naked, nestling child, irradiating divinity; of the chance +for drapery in the chaste and ample garment of the mother! think of +the great story you compress into that simple theme! Think, above +all, of the mother’s face and its ineffable suggestiveness, of +the mingled burden of joy and trouble, the tenderness turned to worship, +and the worship turned to far-seeing pity! Then look at it all +in perfect line and lovely colour, breathing truth and beauty and mastery!”</p> +<p>“Anch’ io son pittore!” I cried. “Unless +I am mistaken, you have a masterpiece on the stocks. If you put +all that in, you will do more than Raphael himself did. Let me +know when your picture is finished, and wherever in the wide world I +may be, I will post back to Florence and pay my respects to—the +<i>Madonna of the future</i>!”</p> +<p>He blushed vividly and gave a heavy sigh, half of protest, half of +resignation. “I don’t often mention my picture by +name. I detest this modern custom of premature publicity. +A great work needs silence, privacy, mystery even. And then, do +you know, people are so cruel, so frivolous, so unable to imagine a +man’s wishing to paint a Madonna at this time of day, that I have +been laughed at—laughed at, sir!” and his blush deepened +to crimson. “I don’t know what has prompted me to +be so frank and trustful with you. You look as if you wouldn’t +laugh at me. My dear young man”—and he laid his hand +on my arm—“I am worthy of respect. Whatever my talents +may be, I am honest. There is nothing grotesque in a pure ambition, +or in a life devoted to it.”</p> +<p>There was something so sternly sincere in his look and tone that +further questions seemed impertinent. I had repeated opportunity +to ask them, however, for after this we spent much time together. +Daily for a fortnight, we met by appointment, to see the sights. +He knew the city so well, he had strolled and lounged so often through +its streets and churches and galleries, he was so deeply versed in its +greater and lesser memories, so imbued with the local genius, that he +was an altogether ideal <i>valet de place</i>, and I was glad enough +to leave my Murray at home, and gather facts and opinions alike from +his gossiping commentary. He talked of Florence like a lover, +and admitted that it was a very old affair; he had lost his heart to +her at first sight. “It’s the fashion to talk of all +cities as feminine,” he said, “but, as a rule, it’s +a monstrous mistake. Is Florence of the same sex as New York, +as Chicago? She is the sole perfect lady of them all; one feels +towards her as a lad in his teens feels to some beautiful older woman +with a ‘history.’ She fills you with a sort of aspiring +gallantry.” This disinterested passion seemed to stand my +friend in stead of the common social ties; he led a lonely life, and +cared for nothing but his work. I was duly flattered by his having +taken my frivolous self into his favour, and by his generous sacrifice +of precious hours to my society. We spent many of these hours +among those early paintings in which Florence is so rich, returning +ever and anon, with restless sympathies, to wonder whether these tender +blossoms of art had not a vital fragrance and savour more precious than +the full-fruited knowledge of the later works. We lingered often +in the sepulchral chapel of San Lorenzo, and watched Michael Angelo’s +dim-visaged warrior sitting there like some awful Genius of Doubt and +brooding behind his eternal mask upon the mysteries of life. We +stood more than once in the little convent chambers where Fra Angelico +wrought as if an angel indeed had held his hand, and gathered that sense +of scattered dews and early bird-notes which makes an hour among his +relics seem like a morning stroll in some monkish garden. We did +all this and much more—wandered into dark chapels, damp courts, +and dusty palace-rooms, in quest of lingering hints of fresco and lurking +treasures of carving.</p> +<p>I was more and more impressed with my companion’s remarkable +singleness of purpose. Everything was a pretext for some wildly +idealistic rhapsody or reverie. Nothing could be seen or said +that did not lead him sooner or later to a glowing discourse on the +true, the beautiful, and the good. If my friend was not a genius, +he was certainly a monomaniac; and I found as great a fascination in +watching the odd lights and shades of his character as if he had been +a creature from another planet. He seemed, indeed, to know very +little of this one, and lived and moved altogether in his own little +province of art. A creature more unsullied by the world it is +impossible to conceive, and I often thought it a flaw in his artistic +character that he had not a harmless vice or two. It amused me +greatly at times to think that he was of our shrewd Yankee race; but, +after all, there could be no better token of his American origin than +this high æsthetic fever. The very heat of his devotion +was a sign of conversion; those born to European opportunity manage +better to reconcile enthusiasm with comfort. He had, moreover, +all our native mistrust for intellectual discretion, and our native +relish for sonorous superlatives. As a critic he was very much +more generous than just, and his mildest terms of approbation were “stupendous,” +“transcendent,” and “incomparable.” The +small change of admiration seemed to him no coin for a gentleman to +handle; and yet, frank as he was intellectually, he was personally altogether +a mystery. His professions, somehow, were all half-professions, +and his allusions to his work and circumstances left something dimly +ambiguous in the background. He was modest and proud, and never +spoke of his domestic matters. He was evidently poor; yet he must +have had some slender independence, since he could afford to make so +merry over the fact that his culture of ideal beauty had never brought +him a penny. His poverty, I supposed, was his motive for neither +inviting me to his lodging nor mentioning its whereabouts. We +met either in some public place or at my hotel, where I entertained +him as freely as I might without appearing to be prompted by charity. +He seemed always hungry, and this was his nearest approach to human +grossness. I made a point of asking no impertinent questions, +but, each time we met, I ventured to make some respectful allusion to +the <i>magnum opus</i>, to inquire, as it were, as to its health and +progress. “We are getting on, with the Lord’s help,” +he would say, with a grave smile. “We are doing well. +You see, I have the grand advantage that I lose no time. These +hours I spend with you are pure profit. They are <i>suggestive</i>! +Just as the truly religious soul is always at worship, the genuine artist +is always in labour. He takes his property wherever he finds it, +and learns some precious secret from every object that stands up in +the light. If you but knew the rapture of observation! I +gather with every glance some hint for light, for colour, or relief! +When I get home, I pour out my treasures into the lap of toy Madonna. +Oh, I am not idle! <i>Nulla dies sine linea</i>.”</p> +<p>I was introduced in Florence to an American lady whose drawing-room +had long formed an attractive place of reunion for the foreign residents. +She lived on a fourth floor, and she was not rich; but she offered her +visitors very good tea, little cakes at option, and conversation not +quite to match. Her conversation had mainly an æsthetic +flavour, for Mrs. Coventry was famously “artistic.” +Her apartment was a sort of Pitti Palace <i>au petit pied</i>. +She possessed “early masters” by the dozen—a cluster +of Peruginos in her dining-room, a Giotto in her boudoir, an Andrea +del Sarto over her drawing-room chimney-piece. Surrounded by these +treasures, and by innumerable bronzes, mosaics, majolica dishes, and +little worm-eaten diptychs covered with angular saints on gilded backgrounds, +our hostess enjoyed the dignity of a sort of high-priestess of the arts. +She always wore on her bosom a huge miniature copy of the Madonna della +Seggiola. Gaining her ear quietly one evening, I asked her whether +she knew that remarkable man, Mr. Theobald.</p> +<p>“Know him!” she exclaimed; “know poor Theobald! +All Florence knows him, his flame-coloured locks, his black velvet coat, +his interminable harangues on the beautiful, and his wondrous Madonna +that mortal eye has never seen, and that mortal patience has quite given +up expecting.”</p> +<p>“Really,” I cried, “you don’t believe in +his Madonna?”</p> +<p>“My dear ingenuous youth,” rejoined my shrewd friend, +“has he made a convert of you? Well, we all believed in +him once; he came down upon Florence and took the town by storm. +Another Raphael, at the very least, had been born among men, and the +poor dear United States were to have the credit of him. Hadn’t +he the very hair of Raphael flowing down on his shoulders? The +hair, alas, but not the head! We swallowed him whole, however; +we hung upon his lips and proclaimed his genius on the house-tops. +The women were all dying to sit to him for their portraits and be made +immortal, like Leonardo’s Joconde. We decided that his manner +was a good deal like Leonardo’s—mysterious, and inscrutable, +and fascinating. Mysterious it certainly was; mystery was the +beginning and the end of it. The months passed by, and the miracle +hung fire; our master never produced his masterpiece. He passed +hours in the galleries and churches, posturing, musing, and gazing; +he talked more than ever about the beautiful, but he never put brush +to canvas. We had all subscribed, as it were, to the great performance; +but as it never came off people began to ask for their money again. +I was one of the last of the faithful; I carried devotion so far as +to sit to him for my head. If you could have seen the horrible +creature he made of me, you would admit that even a woman with no more +vanity than will tie her bonnet straight must have cooled off then. +The man didn’t know the very alphabet of drawing! His strong +point, he intimated, was his sentiment; but is it a consolation, when +one has been painted a fright, to know it has been done with peculiar +gusto? One by one, I confess, we fell away from the faith, and +Mr. Theobald didn’t lift his little finger to preserve us. +At the first hint that we were tired of waiting, and that we should +like the show to begin, he was off in a huff. ‘Great work +requires time, contemplation, privacy, mystery! O ye of little +faith!’ We answered that we didn’t insist on a great +work; that the five-act tragedy might come at his convenience; that +we merely asked for something to keep us from yawning, some inexpensive +little <i>lever de rideau</i>. Hereupon the poor man took his +stand as a genius misconceived and persecuted, an <i>âme méconnue</i>, +and washed his hands of us from that hour! No, I believe he does +me the honour to consider me the head and front of the conspiracy formed +to nip his glory in the bud—a bud that has taken twenty years +to blossom. Ask him if he knows me, and he will tell you I am +a horribly ugly old woman, who has vowed his destruction because he +won’t paint her portrait as a pendant to Titian’s Flora. +I fancy that since then he has had none but chance followers, innocent +strangers like yourself, who have taken him at his word. The mountain +is still in labour; I have not heard that the mouse has been born. +I pass him once in a while in the galleries, and he fixes his great +dark eyes on me with a sublimity of indifference, as if I were a bad +copy of a Sassoferrato! It is a long time ago now that I heard +that he was making studies for a Madonna who was to be a <i>résumé</i> +of all the other Madonnas of the Italian school—like that antique +Venus who borrowed a nose from one great image and an ankle from another. +It’s certainly a masterly idea. The parts may be fine, but +when I think of my unhappy portrait I tremble for the whole. He +has communicated this striking idea under the pledge of solemn secrecy +to fifty chosen spirits, to every one he has ever been able to button-hole +for five minutes. I suppose he wants to get an order for it, and +he is not to blame; for Heaven knows how he lives. I see by your +blush,” my hostess frankly continued, “that you have been +honoured with his confidence. You needn’t be ashamed, my +dear young man; a man of your age is none the worse for a certain generous +credulity. Only allow me to give you a word of advice: keep your +credulity out of your pockets! Don’t pay for the picture +till it’s delivered. You have not been treated to a peep +at it, I imagine! No more have your fifty predecessors in the +faith. There are people who doubt whether there is any picture +to be seen. I fancy, myself, that if one were to get into his +studio, one would find something very like the picture in that tale +of Balzac’s—a mere mass of incoherent scratches and daubs, +a jumble of dead paint!”</p> +<p>I listened to this pungent recital in silent wonder. It had +a painfully plausible sound, and was not inconsistent with certain shy +suspicions of my own. My hostess was not only a clever woman, +but presumably a generous one. I determined to let my judgment +wait upon events. Possibly she was right; but if she was wrong, +she was cruelly wrong! Her version of my friend’s eccentricities +made me impatient to see him again and examine him in the light of public +opinion. On our next meeting I immediately asked him if he knew +Mrs. Coventry. He laid his hand on my arm and gave me a sad smile. +“Has she taxed <i>your</i> gallantry at last?” he asked. +“She’s a foolish woman. She’s frivolous and +heartless, and she pretends to be serious and kind. She prattles +about Giotto’s second manner and Vittoria Colonna’s liaison +with ‘Michael’—one would think that Michael lived +across the way and was expected in to take a hand at whist—but +she knows as little about art, and about the conditions of production, +as I know about Buddhism. She profanes sacred words,” he +added more vehemently, after a pause. “She cares for you +only as some one to band teacups in that horrible mendacious little +parlour of hers, with its trumpery Peruginos! If you can’t +dash off a new picture every three days, and let her hand it round among +her guests, she tells them in plain English that you are an impostor!”</p> +<p>This attempt of mine to test Mrs. Coventry’s accuracy was made +in the course of a late afternoon walk to the quiet old church of San +Miniato, on one of the hill-tops which directly overlook the city, from +whose gates you are guided to it by a stony and cypress-bordered walk, +which seems a very fitting avenue to a shrine. No spot is more +propitious to lingering repose than the broad terrace in front of the +church, where, lounging against the parapet, you may glance in slow +alternation from the black and yellow marbles of the church façade, +seamed and cracked with time and wind-sown with a tender flora of its +own, down to the full domes and slender towers of Florence and over +to the blue sweep of the wide-mouthed cup of mountains into whose hollow +the little treasure city has been dropped. I had proposed, as +a diversion from the painful memories evoked by Mrs. Coventry’s +name, that Theobald should go with me the next evening to the opera, +where some rarely-played work was to be given. He declined, as +I half expected, for I observed that he regularly kept his evenings +in reserve, and never alluded to his manner of passing them. “You +have reminded me before,” I said, smiling, “of that charming +speech of the Florentine painter in Alfred de Musset’s ‘Lorenzaccio’: +‘I do no harm to anyone. I pass my days in my studio, On +Sunday I go to the Annunziata or to Santa Mario; the monks think I have +a voice; they dress me in a white gown and a red cap, and I take a share +in the choruses; sometimes I do a little solo: these are the only times +I go into public. In the evening, I visit my sweetheart; when +the night is fine, we pass it on her balcony.’ I don’t +know whether you have a sweetheart, or whether she has a balcony. +But if you are so happy, it’s certainly better than trying to +find a charm in a third-rate prima donna.”</p> +<p>He made no immediate response, but at last he turned to me solemnly. +“Can you look upon a beautiful woman with reverent eyes?”</p> +<p>“Really,” I said, “I don’t pretend to be +sheepish, but I should be sorry to think I was impudent.” +And I asked him what in the world he meant. When at last I had +assured him that I could undertake to temper admiration with respect, +he informed me, with an air of religious mystery, that it was in his +power to introduce me to the most beautiful woman in Italy—“A +beauty with a soul!”</p> +<p>“Upon my word,” I cried, “you are extremely fortunate, +and that is a most attractive description.”</p> +<p>“This woman’s beauty,” he went on, “is a +lesson, a morality, a poem! It’s my daily study.”</p> +<p>Of course, after this, I lost no time in reminding him of what, before +we parted, had taken the shape of a promise. “I feel somehow,” +he had said, “as if it were a sort of violation of that privacy +in which I have always contemplated her beauty. This is friendship, +my friend. No hint of her existence has ever fallen from my lips. +But with too great a familiarity we are apt to lose a sense of the real +value of things, and you perhaps will throw some new light upon it and +offer a fresher interpretation.”</p> +<p>We went accordingly by appointment to a certain ancient house in +the heart of Florence—the precinct of the Mercato Vecchio—and +climbed a dark, steep staircase, to the very summit of the edifice. +Theobald’s beauty seemed as loftily exalted above the line of +common vision as his artistic ideal was lifted above the usual practice +of men. He passed without knocking into the dark vestibule of +a small apartment, and, flinging open an inner door, ushered me into +a small saloon. The room seemed mean and sombre, though I caught +a glimpse of white curtains swaying gently at an open window. +At a table, near a lamp, sat a woman dressed in black, working at a +piece of embroidery. As Theobald entered she looked up calmly, +with a smile; but seeing me she made a movement of surprise, and rose +with a kind of stately grace. Theobald stepped forward, took her +hand and kissed it, with an indescribable air of immemorial usage. +As he bent his head she looked at me askance, and I thought she blushed.</p> +<p>“Behold the Serafina!” said Theobald, frankly, waving +me forward. “This is a friend, and a lover of the arts,” +he added, introducing me. I received a smile, a curtsey, and a +request to be seated.</p> +<p>The most beautiful woman in Italy was a person of a generous Italian +type and of a great simplicity of demeanour. Seated again at her +lamp, with her embroidery, she seemed to have nothing whatever to say. +Theobald, bending towards her in a sort of Platonic ecstasy, asked her +a dozen paternally tender questions as to her health, her state of mind, +her occupations, and the progress of her embroidery, which he examined +minutely and summoned me to admire. It was some portion of an +ecclesiastical vestment—yellow satin wrought with an elaborate +design of silver and gold. She made answer in a full rich voice, +but with a brevity which I hesitated whether to attribute to native +reserve or to the profane constraint of my presence. She had been +that morning to confession; she had also been to market, and had bought +a chicken for dinner. She felt very happy; she had nothing to +complain of except that the people for whom she was making her vestment, +and who furnished her materials, should be willing to put such rotten +silver thread into the garment, as one might say, of the Lord. +From time to time, as she took her slow stitches, she raised her eyes +and covered me with a glance which seemed at first to denote a placid +curiosity, but in which, as I saw it repeated, I thought I perceived +the dim glimmer of an attempt to establish an understanding with me +at the expense of our companion. Meanwhile, as mindful as possible +of Theobald’s injunction of reverence, I considered the lady’s +personal claims to the fine compliment he had paid her.</p> +<p>That she was indeed a beautiful woman I perceived, after recovering +from the surprise of finding her without the freshness of youth. +Her beauty was of a sort which, in losing youth, loses little of its +essential charm, expressed for the most part as it was in form and structure, +and, as Theobald would have said, in “composition.” +She was broad and ample, low-browed and large-eyed, dark and pale. +Her thick brown hair hung low beside her cheek and ear, and seemed to +drape her head with a covering as chaste and formal as the veil of a +nun. The poise and carriage of her head were admirably free and +noble, and they were the more effective that their freedom was at moments +discreetly corrected by a little sanctimonious droop, which harmonised +admirably with the level gaze of her dark and quiet eye. A strong, +serene, physical nature, and the placid temper which comes of no nerves +and no troubles, seemed this lady’s comfortable portion. +She was dressed in plain dull black, save for a sort of dark blue kerchief +which was folded across her bosom and exposed a glimpse of her massive +throat. Over this kerchief was suspended a little silver cross. +I admired her greatly, and yet with a large reserve. A certain +mild intellectual apathy belonged properly to her type of beauty, and +had always seemed to round and enrich it; but this <i>bourgeoise</i> +Egeria, if I viewed her right, betrayed a rather vulgar stagnation of +mind. There might have been once a dim spiritual light in her +face; but it had long since begun to wane. And furthermore, in +plain prose, she was growing stout. My disappointment amounted +very nearly to complete disenchantment when Theobald, as if to facilitate +my covert inspection, declaring that the lamp was very dim, and that +she would ruin her eyes without more light, rose and fetched a couple +of candles from the mantelpiece, which he placed lighted on the table. +In this brighter illumination I perceived that our hostess was decidedly +an elderly woman. She was neither haggard, nor worn, nor gray; +she was simply coarse. The “soul” which Theobald had +promised seemed scarcely worth making such a point of; it was no deeper +mystery than a sort of matronly mildness of lip and brow. I should +have been ready even to declare that that sanctified bend of the head +was nothing more than the trick of a person constantly working at embroidery. +It occurred to me even that it was a trick of a less innocent sort; +for, in spite of the mellow quietude of her wits, this stately needlewoman +dropped a hint that she took the situation rather less seriously than +her friend. When he rose to light the candles she looked across +at me with a quick, intelligent smile, and tapped her forehead with +her forefinger; then, as from a sudden feeling of compassionate loyalty +to poor Theobald, I preserved a blank face, she gave a little shrug +and resumed her work.</p> +<p>What was the relation of this singular couple? Was he the most +ardent of friends or the most reverent of lovers? Did she regard +him as an eccentric swain, whose benevolent admiration of her beauty +she was not ill pleased to humour at this small cost of having him climb +into her little parlour and gossip of summer nights? With her +decent and sombre dress, her simple gravity, and that fine piece of +priestly needlework, she looked like some pious lay-member of a sisterhood, +living by special permission outside her convent walls. Or was +she maintained here aloft by her friend in comfortable leisure, so that +he might have before him the perfect, eternal type, uncorrupted and +untarnished by the struggle for existence? Her shapely hands, +I observed, wore very fair and white; they lacked the traces of what +is called honest toil.</p> +<p>“And the pictures, how do they come on?” she asked of +Theobald, after a long pause.</p> +<p>“Finely, finely! I have here a friend whose sympathy +and encouragement give me new faith and ardour.”</p> +<p>Our hostess turned to me, gazed at me a moment rather inscrutably, +and then tapping her forehead with the gesture she had used a minute +before, “He has a magnificent genius!” she said, with perfect +gravity.</p> +<p>“I am inclined to think so,” I answered, with a smile.</p> +<p>“Eh, why do you smile?” she cried. “If you +doubt it, you must see the <i>bambino</i>!” And she took +the lamp and conducted me to the other side of the room, where on the +wall, in a plain black frame, hung a large drawing in red chalk. +Beneath it was fastened a little howl for holy water. The drawing +represented a very young child, entirely naked, half nestling back against +his mother’s gown, but with his two little arms outstretched, +as if in the act of benediction. It was executed with singular +freedom and power, and yet seemed vivid with the sacred bloom of infancy. +A sort of dimpled elegance and grace, mingled with its boldness, recalled +the touch of Correggio. “That’s what he can do!” +said my hostess. “It’s the blessed little boy whom +I lost. It’s his very image, and the Signor Teobaldo gave +it me as a gift. He has given me many things besides!”</p> +<p>I looked at the picture for some time and admired it immensely. +Turning back to Theobald I assured him that if it were hung among the +drawings in the Uffizi and labelled with a glorious name it would hold +its own. My praise seemed to give him extreme pleasure; he pressed +my hands, and his eyes filled with tears. It moved him apparently +with the desire to expatiate on the history of the drawing, for he rose +and made his adieux to our companion, kissing her band with the same +mild ardour as before. It occurred to me that the offer of a similar +piece of gallantry on my own part might help me to know what manner +of woman she was. When she perceived my intention she withdrew +her hand, dropped her eyes solemnly, and made me a severe curtsey. +Theobald took my arm and led me rapidly into the street.</p> +<p>“And what do you think of the divine Serafina?” he cried +with fervour.</p> +<p>“It is certainly an excellent style of good looks!” I +answered.</p> +<p>He eyed me an instant askance, and then seemed hurried along by the +current of remembrance. “You should have seen the mother +and the child together, seen them as I first saw them—the mother +with her head draped in a shawl, a divine trouble in her face, and the +bambino pressed to her bosom. You would have said, I think, that +Raphael had found his match in common chance. I was coming in, +one summer night, from a long walk in the country, when I met this apparition +at the city gate. The woman held out her hand. I hardly +knew whether to say, ‘What do you want?’ or to fall down +and worship. She asked for a little money. I saw that she +was beautiful and pale; she might have stepped out of the stable of +Bethlehem! I gave her money and helped her on her way into the +town. I had guessed her story. She, too, was a maiden mother, +and she had been turned out into the world in her shame. I felt +in all my pulses that here was my subject marvellously realised. +I felt like one of the old monkish artists who had had a vision. +I rescued the poor creatures, cherished them, watched them as I would +have done some precious work of art, some lovely fragment of fresco +discovered in a mouldering cloister. In a month—as if to +deepen and sanctify the sadness and sweetness of it all—the poor +little child died. When she felt that he was going she held him +up to me for ten minutes, and I made that sketch. You saw a feverish +haste in it, I suppose; I wanted to spare the poor little mortal the +pain of his position. After that I doubly valued the mother. +She is the simplest, sweetest, most natural creature that ever bloomed +in this brave old land of Italy. She lives in the memory of her +child, in her gratitude for the scanty kindness I have been able to +show her, and in her simple religion! She is not even conscious +of her beauty; my admiration has never made her vain. Heaven knows +that I have made no secret of it. You must have observed the singular +transparency of her expression, the lovely modesty of her glance. +And was there ever such a truly virginal brow, such a natural classic +elegance in the wave of the hair and the arch of the forehead? +I have studied her; I may say I know her. I have absorbed her +little by little; my mind is stamped and imbued, and I have determined +now to clinch the impression; I shall at last invite her to sit for +me!”</p> +<p>“‘At last—at last’?” I repeated, in +much amazement. “Do you mean that she has never done so +yet?”</p> +<p>“I have not really had—a—a sitting,” said +Theobald, speaking very slowly. “I have taken notes, you +know; I have got my grand fundamental impression. That’s +the great thing! But I have not actually had her as a model, posed +and draped and lighted, before my easel.”</p> +<p>What had become for the moment of my perception and my tact I am +at a loss to say; in their absence I was unable to repress a headlong +exclamation. I was destined to regret it. We had stopped +at a turning, beneath a lamp. “My poor friend,” I +exclaimed, laying my hand on his shoulder, “you have <i>dawdled</i>! +She’s an old, old woman—for a Madonna!”</p> +<p>It was as if I had brutally struck him; I shall never forget the +long, slow, almost ghastly look of pain, with which he answered me.</p> +<p>“Dawdled?—old, old?” he stammered. “Are +you joking?”</p> +<p>“Why, my dear fellow, I suppose you don’t take her for +a woman of twenty?”</p> +<p>He drew a long breath and leaned against a house, looking at me with +questioning, protesting, reproachful eyes. At last, starting forward, +and grasping my arm—“Answer me solemnly: does she seem to +you truly old? Is she wrinkled, is she faded, am I blind?”</p> +<p>Then at last I understood the immensity of his illusion how, one +by one, the noiseless years had ebbed away and left him brooding in +charmed inaction, for ever preparing for a work for ever deferred. +It seemed to me almost a kindness now to tell him the plain truth. +“I should be sorry to say you are blind,” I answered, “but +I think you are deceived. You have lost time in effortless contemplation. +Your friend was once young and fresh and virginal; but, I protest, that +was some years ago. Still, she has <i>de beaux restes</i>. +By all means make her sit for you!” I broke down; his face was +too horribly reproachful.</p> +<p>He took off his hat and stood passing his handkerchief mechanically +over his forehead. “<i>De beaux restes</i>? I thank +you for sparing me the plain English. I must make up my Madonna +out of <i>de beaux restes</i>! What a masterpiece she will be! +Old—old! Old—old!” he murmured.</p> +<p>“Never mind her age,” I cried, revolted at what I had +done, “never mind my impression of her! You have your memory, +your notes, your genius. Finish your picture in a month. +I pronounce it beforehand a masterpiece, and I hereby offer you for +it any sum you may choose to ask.”</p> +<p>He stared, but he seemed scarcely to understand me. “Old—old!” +he kept stupidly repeating. “If she is old, what am I? +If her beauty has faded, where—where is my strength? Has +life been a dream? Have I worshipped too long—have I loved +too well?” The charm, in truth, was broken. That the +chord of illusion should have snapped at my light accidental touch showed +how it had been weakened by excessive tension. The poor fellow’s +sense of wasted time, of vanished opportunity, seemed to roll in upon +his soul in waves of darkness. He suddenly dropped his head and +burst into tears.</p> +<p>I led him homeward with all possible tenderness, but I attempted +neither to check his grief, to restore his equanimity, nor to unsay +the hard truth. When we reached my hotel I tried to induce him +to come so.</p> +<p>“We will drink a glass of wine,” I said, smiling, “to +the completion of the Madonna.”</p> +<p>With a violent effort he held up his head, mused for a moment with +a formidably sombre frown, and then giving me his hand, “I will +finish it,” he cried, “in a month! No, in a fortnight! +After all, I have it <i>here</i>!” And he tapped his forehead. +“Of course she’s old! She can afford to have it said +of her—a woman who has made twenty years pass like a twelvemonth! +Old—old! Why, sir, she shall be eternal!”</p> +<p>I wished to see him safely to his own door, but he waved me back +and walked away with an air of resolution, whistling and swinging his +cane. I waited a moment, and then followed him at a distance, +and saw him proceed to cross the Santa Trinità Bridge. +When he reached the middle he suddenly paused, as if his strength had +deserted him, and leaned upon the parapet gazing over into the river. +I was careful to keep him in sight; I confess that I passed ten very +nervous minutes. He recovered himself at last, and went his way, +slowly and with hanging head.</p> +<p>That I had really startled poor Theobald into a bolder use of his +long-garnered stores of knowledge and taste, into the vulgar effort +and hazard of production, seemed at first reason enough for his continued +silence and absence; but as day followed day without his either calling +or sending me a line, and without my meeting him in his customary haunts, +in the galleries, in the Chapel at San Lorenzo, or strolling between +the Arno side and the great hedge-screen of verdure which, along the +drive of the Cascine, throws the fair occupants of barouche and phaeton +into such becoming relief—as for more than a week I got neither +tidings nor sight of him, I began to fear that I had fatally offended +him, and that, instead of giving a wholesome impetus to his talent, +I had brutally paralysed it. I had a wretched suspicion that I +had made him ill. My stay at Florence was drawing to a close, +and it was important that, before resuming my journey, I should assure +myself of the truth. Theobald, to the last, had kept his lodging +a mystery, and I was altogether at a loss where to look for him. +The simplest course was to make inquiry of the beauty of the Mercato +Vecchio, and I confess that unsatisfied curiosity as to the lady herself +counselled it as well. Perhaps I had done her injustice, and she +was as immortally fresh and fair as be conceived her. I was, at +any rate, anxious to behold once more the ripe enchantress who had made +twenty years pass as a twelvemonth. I repaired accordingly, one +morning, to her abode, climbed the interminable staircase, and reached +her door. It stood ajar, and as I hesitated whether to enter, +a little serving-maid came clattering out with an empty kettle, as if +she had just performed some savoury errand. The inner door, too, +was open; so I crossed the little vestibule and entered the room in +which I had formerly been received. It had not its evening aspect. +The table, or one end of it, was spread for a late breakfast, and before +it sat a gentleman—an individual, at least, of the male sex—doing +execution upon a beefsteak and onions, and a bottle of wine. At +his elbow, in friendly proximity, was placed the lady of the house. +Her attitude, as I entered, was not that of an enchantress. With +one hand she held in her lap a plate of smoking maccaroni; with the +other she had lifted high in air one of the pendulous filaments of this +succulent compound, and was in the act of slipping it gently down her +throat. On the uncovered end of the table, facing her companion, +were ranged half a dozen small statuettes, of some snuff-coloured substance +resembling terra-cotta. He, brandishing his knife with ardour, +was apparently descanting on their merits.</p> +<p>Evidently I darkened the door. My hostess dropped liner maccaroni—into +her mouth, and rose hastily with a harsh exclamation and a flushed face. +I immediately perceived that the Signora Serafina’s secret was +even better worth knowing than I had supposed, and that the way to learn +it was to take it for granted. I summoned my best Italian, I smiled +and bowed and apologised for my intrusion; and in a moment, whether +or no I had dispelled the lady’s irritation, I had at least stimulated +her prudence. I was welcome, she said; I must take a seat. +This was another friend of hers—also an artist, she declared with +a smile which was almost amiable. Her companion wiped his moustache +and bowed with great civility. I saw at a glance that he was equal +to the situation. He was presumably the author of the statuettes +on the table, and he knew a money-spending <i>forestiére</i> +when he saw one. He was a small wiry man, with a clever, impudent, +tossed-up nose, a sharp little black eye, and waxed ends to his moustache. +On the side of his head he wore jauntily a little crimson velvet smoking-cap, +and I observed that his feet were encased in brilliant slippers. +On Serafina’s remarking with dignity that I was the friend of +Mr. Theobald, he broke out into that fantastic French of which certain +Italians are so insistently lavish, and declared with fervour that Mr. +Theobald was a magnificent genius.</p> +<p>“I am sure I don’t know,” I answered with a shrug. +“If you are in a position to affirm it, you have the advantage +of me. I have seen nothing from his hand but the bambino yonder, +which certainly is fine.”</p> +<p>He declared that the bambino was a masterpiece, a pure Corregio. +It was only a pity, he added with a knowing laugh, that the sketch had +not been made on some good bit of honeycombed old panel. The stately +Serafina hereupon protested that Mr. Theobald was the soul of honour, +and that he would never lend himself to a deceit. “I am +not a judge of genius,” she said, “and I know nothing of +pictures. I am but a poor simple widow; but I know that the Signor +Teobaldo has the heart of an angel and the virtue of a saint. +He is my benefactor,” she added sententiously. The after-glow +of the somewhat sinister flush with which she had greeted me still lingered +in her cheek, and perhaps did not favour her beauty; I could not but +fancy it a wise custom of Theobald’s to visit her only by candle-light. +She was coarse, and her pour adorer was a poet.</p> +<p>“I have the greatest esteem for him,” I said; “it +is for this reason that I have been uneasy at not seeing him for ten +days. Have you seen him? Is he perhaps ill?”</p> +<p>“Ill! Heaven forbid!” cried Serafina, with genuine +vehemence.</p> +<p>Her companion uttered a rapid expletive, and reproached her with +not having been to see him. She hesitated a moment; then she simpered +the least bit and bridled. “He comes to see me—without +reproach! But it would not be the same for me to go to him, though, +indeed, you may almost call him a man of holy life.”</p> +<p>“He has the greatest admiration for you,” I said. +“He would have been honoured by your visit.”</p> +<p>She looked at me a moment sharply. “More admiration than +you. Admit that!” Of course I protested with all the +eloquence at my command, and my mysterious hostess then confessed that +she had taken no fancy to me on my former visit, and that, Theobald +not having returned, she believed I had poisoned his mind against her. +“It would be no kindness to the poor gentleman, I can tell you +that,” she said. “He has come to see me every evening +for years. It’s a long friendship! No one knows him +as well as I.”</p> +<p>“I don’t pretend to know him or to understand him,” +I said. “He’s a mystery! Nevertheless, he seems +to me a little—” And I touched my forehead and waved +my hand in the air.</p> +<p>Serafina glanced at her companion a moment, as if for inspiration. +He contented himself with shrugging his shoulders as he filled his glass +again. The <i>padrona</i> hereupon gave me a more softly insinuating +smile than would have seemed likely to bloom on so candid a brow. +“It’s for that that I love him!” she said. “The +world has so little kindness for such persons. It laughs at them, +and despises them, and cheats them. He is too good for this wicked +life! It’s his fancy that he finds a little Paradise up +here in my poor apartment. If he thinks so, how can I help it? +He has a strange belief—really, I ought to be ashamed to tell +you—that I resemble the Blessed Virgin: Heaven forgive me! +I let him think what he pleases, so long as it makes him happy. +He was very kind to me once, and I am not one that forgets a favour. +So I receive him every evening civilly, and ask after his health, and +let him look at me on this side and that! For that matter, I may +say it without vanity, I was worth looking at once! And he’s +not always amusing, poor man! He sits sometimes for an hour without +speaking a word, or else he talks away, without stopping, on art and +nature, and beauty and duty, and fifty fine things that are all so much +Latin to me. I beg you to understand that he has never said a +word to me that I mightn’t decently listen to. He may be +a little cracked, but he’s one of the blessed saints.”</p> +<p>“Eh!” cried the man, “the blessed saints were all +a little cracked!”</p> +<p>Serafina, I fancied, left part of her story untold; but she told +enough of it to make poor Theobald’s own statement seem intensely +pathetic in its exalted simplicity. “It’s a strange +fortune, certainly,” she went on, “to have such a friend +as this dear man—a friend who is less than a lover and more than +a friend.” I glanced at her companion, who preserved an +impenetrable smile, twisted the end of his moustache, and disposed of +a copious mouthful. Was <i>he</i> less than a lover? “But +what will you have?” Serafina pursued. “In this hard +world one must not ask too many questions; one must take what comes +and keep what one gets. I have kept my good friend for twenty +years, and I do hope that, at this time of day, signore, you have not +come to turn him against me!”</p> +<p>I assured her that I had no such design, and that I should vastly +regret disturbing Mr. Theobald’s habits or convictions. +On the contrary, I was alarmed about him, and I should immediately go +in search of him. She gave me his address, and a florid account +of her sufferings at his non-appearance. She had not been to him +for various reasons; chiefly because she was afraid of displeasing him, +as he had always made such a mystery of his home. “You might +have sent this gentleman!” I ventured to suggest.</p> +<p>“Ah,” cried the gentleman, “he admires the Signora +Serafina, but he wouldn’t admire me.” And then, confidentially, +with his finger on his nose, “He’s a purist!”</p> +<p>I was about to withdraw, after having promised that I would inform +the Signora Serafina of my friend’s condition, when her companion, +who had risen from table and girded his loins apparently for the onset, +grasped me gently by the arm, and led me before the row of statuettes. +“I perceive by your conversation, signore, that you are a patron +of the arts. Allow me to request your honourable attention for +these modest products of my own ingenuity. They are brand-new, +fresh from my atelier, and have never been exhibited in public. +I have brought them here to receive the verdict of this dear lady, who +is a good critic, for all she may pretend to the contrary. I am +the inventor of this peculiar style of statuette—of subject, manner, +material, everything. Touch them, I pray you; handle them freely—you +needn’t fear. Delicate as they look, it is impossible they +should break! My various creations have met with great success. +They are especially admired by Americans. I have sent them all +over Europe—to London, Paris, Vienna! You may have observed +some little specimens in Paris, on the Boulevard, in a shop of which +they constitute the specialty. There is always a crowd about the +window. They form a very pleasing ornament for the mantel-shelf +of a gay young bachelor, for the boudoir of a pretty woman. You +couldn’t make a prettier present to a person with whom you wished +to exchange a harmless joke. It is not classic art, signore, of +course; but, between ourselves, isn’t classic art sometimes rather +a bore? Caricature, burlesque, <i>la charge</i>, as the French +say, has hitherto been confined to paper, to the pen and pencil. +Now, it has been my inspiration to introduce it into statuary. +For this purpose I have invented a peculiar plastic compound which you +will permit me not to divulge. That’s my secret, signore! +It’s as light, you perceive, as cork, and yet as firm as alabaster! +I frankly confess that I really pride myself as much on this little +stroke of chemical ingenuity as upon the other element of novelty in +my creations—my types. What do you say to my types, signore? +The idea is bold; does it strike you as happy? Cats and monkeys—monkeys +and cats—all human life is there! Human life, of course, +I mean, viewed with the eye of the satirist! To combine sculpture +and satire, signore, has been my unprecedented ambition. I flatter +myself that I have not egregiously failed.”</p> +<p>As this jaunty Juvenal of the chimney-piece delivered himself of +his persuasive allocution, he took up his little groups successively +from the table, held them aloft, turned them about, rapped them with +his knuckles, and gazed at them lovingly, with his head on one side. +They consisted each of a cat and a monkey, fantastically draped, in +some preposterously sentimental conjunction. They exhibited a +certain sameness of motive, and illustrated chiefly the different phases +of what, in delicate terms, may be called gallantry and coquetry; but +they were strikingly clever and expressive, and were at once very perfect +cats and monkeys and very natural men and women. I confess, however, +that they failed to amuse me. I was doubtless not in a mood to +enjoy them, for they seemed to me peculiarly cynical and vulgar. +Their imitative felicity was revolting. As I looked askance at +the complacent little artist, brandishing them between finger and thumb +and caressing them with an amorous eye, he seemed to me himself little +more than an exceptionally intelligent ape. I mustered an admiring +grin, however, and he blew another blast. “My figures are +studied from life! I have a little menagerie of monkeys whose +frolics I contemplate by the hour. As for the cats, one has only +to look out of one’s back window! Since I have begun to +examine these expressive little brutes, I have made many profound observations. +Speaking, signore, to a man of imagination, I may say that my little +designs are not without a philosophy of their own. Truly, I don’t +know whether the cats and monkeys imitate us, or whether it’s +we who imitate them.” I congratulated him on his philosophy, +and he resumed: “You will do use the honour to admit that I have +handled my subjects with delicacy. Eh, it was needed, signore! +I have been free, but not too free—eh? Just a hint, you +know! You may see as much or as little as you please. These +little groups, however, are no measure of my invention. If you +will favour me with a call at my studio, I think that you will admit +that my combinations are really infinite. I likewise execute figures +to command. You have perhaps some little motive—the fruit +of your philosophy of life, signore—which you would like to have +interpreted. I can promise to work it up to your satisfaction; +it shall be as malicious as you please! Allow me to present you +with my card, and to remind you that my prices are moderate. Only +sixty francs for a little group like that. My statuettes are as +durable as bronze—<i>ære perennius</i>, signore—and, +between ourselves, I think they are more amusing!”</p> +<p>As I pocketed his card I glanced at Madonna Serafina, wondering whether +she had an eye for contrasts. She had picked up one of the little +couples and was tenderly dusting it with a feather broom.</p> +<p>What I had just seen and heard had so deepened my compassionate interest +in my deluded friend that I took a summary leave, making my way directly +to the house designated by this remarkable woman. It was in an +obscure corner of the opposite side of the town, and presented a sombre +and squalid appearance. An old woman in the doorway, on my inquiring +for Theobald, ushered me in with a mumbled blessing and an expression +of relief at the poor gentleman having a friend. His lodging seemed +to consist of a single room at the top of the house. On getting +no answer to my knock, I opened the door, supposing that he was absent, +so that it gave me a certain shock to find him sitting there helpless +and dumb. He was seated near the single window, facing an easel +which supported a large canvas. On my entering he looked up at +me blankly, without changing his position, which was that of absolute +lassitude and dejection, his arms loosely folded, his legs stretched +before him, his head hanging on his breast. Advancing into the +room I perceived that his face vividly corresponded with his attitude. +He was pale, haggard, and unshaven, and his dull and sunken eye gazed +at me without a spark of recognition. I had been afraid that he +would greet me with fierce reproaches, as the cruelly officious patron +who had turned his contentment to bitterness, and I was relieved to +find that my appearance awakened no visible resentment. “Don’t +you know me?” I asked, as I put out my hand. “Have +you already forgotten me?”</p> +<p>He made no response, kept his position stupidly, and left me staring +about the room. It spoke most plaintively for itself. Shabby, +sordid, naked, it contained, beyond the wretched bed, but the scantiest +provision for personal comfort. It was bedroom at once and studio—a +grim ghost of a studio. A few dusty casts and prints on the walls, +three or four old canvases turned face inward, and a rusty-looking colour-box, +formed, with the easel at the window, the sum of its appurtenances. +The place savoured horribly of poverty. Its only wealth was the +picture on the easel, presumably the famous Madonna. Averted as +this was from the door, I was unable to see its face; but at last, sickened +by the vacant misery of the spot, I passed behind Theobald, eagerly +and tenderly. I can hardly say that I was surprised at what I +found—a canvas that was a mere dead blank, cracked and discoloured +by time. This was his immortal work! Though not surprised, +I confess I was powerfully moved, and I think that for five minutes +I could not have trusted myself to speak. At last my silent nearness +affected him; he stirred and turned, and then rose and looked at me +with a slowly kindling eye. I murmured some kind ineffective nothings +about his being ill and needing advice and care, but he seemed absorbed +in the effort to recall distinctly what had last passed between us. +“You were right,” he said, with a pitiful smile, “I +am a dawdler! I am a failure! I shall do nothing more in +this world. You opened my eyes; and, though the truth is bitter, +I bear you no grudge. Amen! I have been sitting here for +a week, face to face with the truth, with the past, with my weakness +and poverty and nullity. I shall never touch a brush! I +believe I have neither eaten nor slept. Look at that canvas!” +he went on, as I relieved my emotion in an urgent request that he would +come home with me and dine. “That was to have contained +my masterpiece! Isn’t it a promising foundation? The +elements of it are all <i>here</i>.” And he tapped his forehead +with that mystic confidence which had marked the gesture before. +“If I could only transpose them into some brain that has the hand, +the will! Since I have been sitting here taking stock of my intellects, +I have come to believe that I have the material for a hundred masterpieces. +But my hand is paralysed now, and they will never be painted. +I never began! I waited and waited to be worthier to begin, and +wasted my life in preparation. While I fancied my creation was +growing it was dying. I have taken it all too hard! Michael +Angelo didn’t, when he went at the Lorenzo! He did his best +at a venture, and his venture is immortal. <i>That’s</i> +mine!” And he pointed with a gesture I shall never forget +at the empty canvas. “I suppose we are a genus by ourselves +in the providential scheme—we talents that can’t act, that +can’t do nor dare! We take it out in talk, in plans and +promises, in study, in visions! But our visions, let me tell you,” +he cried, with a toss of his head, “have a way of being brilliant, +and a man has not lived in vain who has seen the things I have seen! +Of course you will not believe in them when that bit of worm-eaten cloth +is all I have to show for them; but to convince you, to enchant and +astound the world, I need only the hand of Raphael. His brain +I already have. A pity, you will say, that I haven’t his +modesty! Ah, let me boast and babble now; it’s all I have +left! I am the half of a genius! Where in the wide world +is my other half? Lodged perhaps in the vulgar soul, the cunning, +ready fingers of some dull copyist or some trivial artisan, who turns +out by the dozen his easy prodigies of touch! But it’s not +for me to sneer at him; he at least does something. He’s +not a dawdler! Well for me if I had been vulgar and clever and +reckless, if I could have shut my eyes and taken my leap.”</p> +<p>What to say to the poor fellow, what to do for him, seemed hard to +determine; I chiefly felt that I must break the spell of his present +inaction, and remove him from the haunted atmosphere of the little room +it was such a cruel irony to call a studio. I cannot say I persuaded +him to come out with me; he simply suffered himself to be led, and when +we began to walk in the open air I was able to appreciate his pitifully +weakened condition. Nevertheless, he seemed in a certain way to +revive, and murmured at last that he should like to go to the Pitti +Gallery. I shall never forget our melancholy stroll through those +gorgeous halls, every picture on whose walls seemed, even to my own +sympathetic vision, to glow with a sort of insolent renewal of strength +and lustre. The eyes and lips of the great portraits appeared +to smile in ineffable scorn of the dejected pretender who had dreamed +of competing with their triumphant authors; the celestial candour, even, +of the Madonna of the Chair, as we paused in perfect silence before +her, was tinged with the sinister irony of the women of Leonardo. +Perfect silence, indeed, marked our whole progress—the silence +of a deep farewell; for I felt in all my pulses, as Theobald, leaning +on my arm, dragged one heavy foot after the other, that he was looking +his last. When we came out he was so exhausted that instead of +taking him to my hotel to dine, I called a carriage and drove him straight +to his own poor lodging. He had sunk into an extraordinary lethargy; +he lay back in the carriage, with his eyes closed, as pale as death, +his faint breathing interrupted at intervals by a sudden gasp, like +a smothered sob or a vain attempt to speak. With the help of the +old woman who had admitted me before, and who emerged from a dark back +court, I contrived to lead him up the long steep staircase and lay him +on his wretched bed. To her I gave him in charge, while I prepared +in all haste to seek a physician. But she followed me out of the +room with a pitiful clasping of her hands.</p> +<p>“Poor, dear, blessed gentleman,” she murmured; “is +he dying?”</p> +<p>“Possibly. How long has he been thus?”</p> +<p>“Since a certain night he passed ten days ago. I came +up in the morning to make his poor bed, and found him sitting up in +his clothes before that great canvas he keeps there. Poor, dear, +strange man, he says his prayers to it! He had not been to bed, +nor since then, properly! What has happened to him? Has +he found out about the Serafina?” she whispered, with a glittering +eye and a toothless grin.</p> +<p>“Prove at least that one old woman can be faithful,” +I said, “and watch him well till I come back.” My +return was delayed, through the absence of the English physician, who +was away on a round of visits, and whom I vainly pursued from house +to house before I overtook him. I brought him to Theobald’s +bedside none too soon. A violent fever had seized our patient, +and the case was evidently grave. A couple of hours later I knew +that he had brain fever. From this moment I was with him constantly; +but I am far from wishing to describe his illness. Excessively +painful to witness, it was happily brief. Life burned out in delirium. +One night in particular that I passed at his pillow, listening to his +wild snatches of regret, of aspiration, of rapture and awe at the phantasmal +pictures with which his brain seemed to swarm, comes back to my memory +now like some stray page from a lost masterpiece of tragedy. Before +a week was over we had buried him in the little Protestant cemetery +on the way to Fiesole. The Signora Serafina, whom I had caused +to be informed of his illness, had come in person, I was told, to inquire +about its progress; but she was absent from his funeral, which was attended +by but a scanty concourse of mourners. Half a dozen old Florentine +sojourners, in spite of the prolonged estrangement which had preceded +his death, had felt the kindly impulse to honour his grave. Among +them was my friend Mrs. Coventry, whom I found, on my departure, waiting +in her carriage at the gate of the cemetery.</p> +<p>“Well,” she said, relieving at last with a significant +smile the solemnity of our immediate greeting, “and the great +Madonna? Have you seen her, after all?”</p> +<p>“I have seen her,” I said; “she is mine—by +bequest. But I shall never show her to you.”</p> +<p>“And why not, pray?”</p> +<p>“My dear Mrs. Coventry, you would not understand her!”</p> +<p>“Upon my word, you are polite.”</p> +<p>“Excuse me; I am sad and vexed and bitter.” And +with reprehensible rudeness I marched away. I was excessively +impatient to leave Florence; my friend’s dark spirit seemed diffused +through all things. I had packed my trunk to start for Rome that +night, and meanwhile, to beguile my unrest, I aimlessly paced the streets. +Chance led me at last to the church of San Lorenzo. Remembering +poor Theobald’s phrase about Michael Angelo—“He did +his best at a venture”—I went in and turned my steps to +the chapel of the tombs. Viewing in sadness the sadness of its +immortal treasures, I fancied, while I stood there, that they needed +no ampler commentary than these simple words. As I passed through +the church again to leave it, a woman, turning away from one of the +side altars, met me face to face. The black shawl depending from +her head draped picturesquely the handsome visage of Madonna Serafina. +She stopped as she recognised me, and I saw that she wished to speak. +Her eye was bright, and her ample bosom heaved in a way that seemed +to portend a certain sharpness of reproach. But the expression +of my own face, apparently, drew the sting from her resentment, and +she addressed me in a tone in which bitterness was tempered by a sort +of dogged resignation. “I know it was you, now, that separated +us,” she said. “It was a pity he ever brought you +to see me! Of course, you couldn’t think of me as he did. +Well, the Lord gave him, the Lord has taken him. I have just paid +for a nine days’ mass for his soul. And I can tell you this, +signore—I never deceived him. Who put it into his head that +I was made to live on holy thoughts and fine phrases? It was his +own fancy, and it pleased him to think so.—Did he suffer much?” +she added more softly, after a pause.</p> +<p>“His sufferings were great, but they were short.”</p> +<p>“And did he speak of me?” She had hesitated and +dropped her eyes; she raised them with her question, and revealed in +their sombre stillness a gleam of feminine confidence which, for the +moment, revived and illumined her beauty. Poor Theobald! +Whatever name he had given his passion, it was still her fine eyes that +had charmed him.</p> +<p>“Be contented, madam,” I answered, gravely.</p> +<p>She dropped her eyes again and was silent. Then exhaling a +full rich sigh, as she gathered her shawl together—“He was +a magnificent genius!”</p> +<p>I bowed, and we separated.</p> +<p>Passing through a narrow side street on my way back to my hotel, +I perceived above a doorway a sign which it seemed to me I had read +before. I suddenly remembered that it was identical with the superscription +of a card that I had carried for an hour in my waistcoat pocket. +On the threshold stood the ingenious artist whose claims to public favour +were thus distinctly signalised, smoking a pipe in the evening air, +and giving the finishing polish with a bit of rag to one of his inimitable +“combinations.” I caught the expressive curl of a +couple of tails. He recognised me, removed his little red cap +with a most obsequious bow, and motioned me to enter his studio. +I returned his salute and passed on, vexed with the apparition. +For a week afterwards, whenever I was seized among the ruins of triumphant +Rome with some peculiarly poignant memory of Theobald’s transcendent +illusions and deplorable failure, I seemed to hear a fantastic, impertinent +murmur, “Cats and monkeys, monkeys and cats; all human life there!”</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MADONNA OF THE FUTURE***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 2460-h.htm or 2460-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/4/6/2460 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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