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@@ -0,0 +1,5450 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Knights of Art, by Amy Steedman + +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: Knights of Art + Stories of the Italian Painters + +Author: Amy Steedman + +Posting Date: September 13, 2008 [EBook #529] +Release Date: May, 1996 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KNIGHTS OF ART *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Keller. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + + + + +KNIGHTS OF ART + +STORIES OF THE ITALIAN PAINTERS + + +BY AMY STEEDMAN + +AUTHOR OF 'IN GOD'S GARDEN' + + + +TO FRANCESCA + + + +ABOUT THIS BOOK + +What would we do without our picture-books, I wonder? Before we knew +how to read, before even we could speak, we had learned to love them. +We shouted with pleasure when we turned the pages and saw the spotted +cow standing in the daisy-sprinkled meadow, the foolish-looking old +sheep with her gambolling lambs, the wise dog with his friendly eyes. +They were all real friends to us. + +Then a little later on, when we began to ask for stories about the +pictures, how we loved them more and more. There was the little girl in +the red cloak talking to the great grey wolf with the wicked eyes; the +cottage with the bright pink roses climbing round the lattice-window, +out of which jumped a little maid with golden hair, followed by the +great big bear, the middle-sized bear, and the tiny bear. Truly those +stories were a great joy to us, but we would never have loved them +quite so much if we had not known their pictured faces as well. + +Do you ever wonder how all these pictures came to be made? They had a +beginning, just as everything else had, but the beginning goes so far +back that we can scarcely trace it. + +Children have not always had picture-books to look at. In the long-ago +days such things were not known. Thousands of years ago, far away in +Assyria, the Assyrian people learned to make pictures and to carve them +out in stone. In Egypt, too, the Egyptians traced pictures upon the +walls of their temples and upon the painted mummy-cases of the dead. +Then the Greeks made still more beautiful statues and pictures in +marble, and called them gods and goddesses, for all this was at a time +when the true God was forgotten. + +Afterwards, when Christ had come and the people had learned that the +pictured gods were not real, they began to think it wicked to make +beautiful pictures or carve marble statues. The few pictures that were +made were stiff and ugly, the figures were not like real men and women, +the animals and trees were very strange-looking things. And instead of +making the sky blue as it really was, they made it a chequered pattern +of gold. After a time it seemed as if the art of making pictures was +going to die out altogether. + +Then came the time which is called 'The Renaissance,' a word which +means being born again, or a new awakening, when men began to draw real +pictures of real things and fill the world with images of beauty. + +Now it is the stories of the men of that time, who put new life into +Art, that I am going to tell you--men who learned, step by step, to +paint the most beautiful pictures that the world possesses. + +In telling these stories I have been helped by an old book called The +Lives of the Painters, by Giorgio Vasari, who was himself a painter. He +took great delight in gathering together all the stories about these +artists and writing them down with loving care, so that he shows us +real living men, and not merely great names by which the famous +pictures are known. + +It did not make much difference to us when we were little children +whether our pictures were good or bad, as long as the colours were +bright and we knew what they meant. But as we grow older and wiser our +eyes grow wiser too, and we learn to know what is good and what is +poor. Only, just as our tongues must be trained to speak, our hands to +work, and our ears to love good music, so our eyes must be taught to +see what is beautiful, or we may perhaps pass it carelessly by, and +lose a great joy which might be ours. + +So now if you learn something about these great artists and their +wonderful pictures, it will help your eyes to grow wise. And some day +should you visit sunny Italy, where these men lived and worked, you +will feel that they are quite old friends. Their pictures will not only +be a delight to your eyes, but will teach your heart something deeper +and more wonderful than any words can explain. + + AMY STEEDMAN + + + +CONTENTS + + GIOTTO, . . . BORN 1276, DIED 1337 + FRA ANGELICO, . . " 1387, " 1466 + MASACCIO, . . . " 1401, " 1428 + FRA FILIPPO LIPPI,. . " 1412, " 1469 + SANDRO BOTTICELLI,. . " 1446, " 1610 + DOMENICO GHIRLANDAIO, " 1449, " 1494 + FILIPPINO LIP . . " 1467, " 1604 + PIETRO PERUGINO, . " 1446, " 1624 + LEONARDO DA VINCI,. . " 1462, " 1619 + RAPHAEL, . . . " 1483, " 1620 + MICHELANGELO, . . " 1476, " 1664 + ANDREA DEL SARTO, . " 1487, " 1631 + GIOVANNI BELLINI, . " 1426, " 1616 + VITTORE CARPACCIO,. . " 1470? " 1619 + GIORGIONE, . . " 1477? " 1610 + TITIAN, . . . " 1477, " 1676 + TINTORETTO, . . " 1662, " 1637 + PAUL VERONESE, . . " 1628, " 1688 + + + +LIST OF PICTURES + +IN COLOUR + +THE RELEASE OF ST. PETER. BY FILIPPO LIPPI, + 'The tall angel in flowing white robes gently leads St. Peter + out of prison,' + Church of the Carmine, Florence. + + +THE VISIT OF THE MAGI. BY GIOTTO, + 'The little Baby Jesus sitting on His Mother's knee,' + Academia, Florence. + +THE MEETING OF ANNA AND JOACHIM. BY GIOTTO, + 'Two homely figures outside the narrow gateway,' + Sta. Maria Novella, Florence. + +THE ANNUNCIATION. BY FRA ANGELICO, + 'The gentle Virgin bending before the Angel messenger,' + S. Marco, Florence. + +THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. BY FRA ANGELICO, + 'The Madonna in her robe of purest blue holding the Baby + close in her arms,' + Academia, Florence. + +THE ANNUNCIATION. BY FILIPPO LIPPI, + 'The Madonna with the dove fluttering near, and the Angel + messenger bearing the lily branch,' + Academia Florence. + +THE NATIVITY. BY FILIPPO LIPPI, + 'His Madonnas grew ever more beautiful,' + Academia, Florence. + +THE ANGEL. BY BOTTICELLI, + TOBIAS AND THE ANGEL. + 'His figures seemed to move as if to the rhythm of music,' + Academia, Florence. + +ST. PETER IN PRISON. BY FILIPPO LIPPI, + 'The sad face of St. Peter looks out through the prison bars,' + Church of the Carmine, Florence. + +TWO SAINTS. BY PERUGINO, + THE FRESCO OF THE CRUCIFIXION. + 'Beyond was the blue thread of river and the single trees + pointing upwards,' + Sta. Maddalena de Pazzi, Florence. + +TWO SAINTS. BY PERUGINO, + THE FRESCO OF THE CRUCIFIXION. + 'Quiet dignified saints and spacious landscapes,' + Sta. Maddalena de Pazzi, Florence. + +ST. JAMES. BY ANDREA DEL SARTO. + 'The kind strong hand of the saint is placed lovingly + beneath the little chin,' + Uffizi Gallery, Florence. + +CHERUB. BY GIOV. BELLINI, + 'Giovanni's angels are little human boys with grave sweet faces,' + Church of the Frari, Venice. + +ST. TRYPHONIUS AND THE BASILISK. BY CARPACCIO, + 'The little boy saint has folded his hands together and + looks upward in prayer,' + S. Giorgio Schiavari, Venice. + +THE LITTLE VIRGIN. BY TITIAN, + 'The little maid is all alone,' + Academia, Venice. + +THE LITTLE ST. JOHN. BY VERONESE, + THE MADONNA ENTHRONED. + 'The little St. John with the skin thrown over his bare + shoulder and the cross in his hand,' + Academia, Florence. + + +IN MONOCHROME + +RELIEF IN MARBLE BY GIOTTO, + 'The shepherd sitting under his tent, with the sheep in front,' + Campanile, Florence. + +DRAWING BY MASACCIO, + 'His models were ordinary Florentine youths,' + Uffizi Gallery, Florence. + +DRAWING BY GHIRLANDAIO, + 'The men of the market-place,' + Uffizi Gallery, Florence. + +DRAWING BY LEONARDO DA VINCI, + 'He loved to draw strange monsters,' + Uffizi Gallery, Florence. + +DRAWING BY RAPHAEL, + 'Round-limbed rosy children, half human, half divine,' + Uffizi Gallery, Florence. + +DRAWING BY MICHELANGELO, + 'A terrible head of a furious old man,' + Uffizi Gallery, Florence. + +DRAWING BY GIORGIONE, + 'A man in Venetian dress helping two women to mount one + of the niches of a marble palace,' + Uffizi Gallery, Florence. + +DRAWING BY TINTORETTO, + 'The head of a Venetian boy, such as Tintoretto met daily + among the fisher-folk of Venice,' + Uffizi Gallery, Florence. + + + + +GIOTTO + +It was more than six hundred years ago that a little peasant baby was +born in the small village of Vespignano, not far from the beautiful +city of Florence, in Italy. The baby's father, an honest, hard-working +countryman, was called Bondone, and the name he gave to his little son +was Giotto. + +Life was rough and hard in that country home, but the peasant baby grew +into a strong, hardy boy, learning early what cold and hunger meant. +The hills which surrounded the village were grey and bare, save where +the silver of the olive-trees shone in the sunlight, or the tender +green of the shooting corn made the valley beautiful in early spring. +In summer there was little shade from the blazing sun as it rode high +in the blue sky, and the grass which grew among the grey rocks was +often burnt and brown. But, nevertheless, it was here that the sheep of +the village would be turned out to find what food they could, tended +and watched by one of the village boys. + +So it happened that when Giotto was ten years old his father sent him +to take care of the sheep upon the hillside. Country boys had then no +schools to go to or lessons to learn, and Giotto spent long happy days, +in sunshine and rain, as he followed the sheep from place to place, +wherever they could find grass enough to feed on. But Giotto did +something else besides watching his sheep. Indeed, he sometimes forgot +all about them, and many a search he had to gather them all together +again. For there was one thing he loved doing better than all beside, +and that was to try to draw pictures of all the things he saw around +him. + +It was no easy matter for the little shepherd lad. He had no pencils or +paper, and he had never, perhaps, seen a picture in all his life. But +all this mattered little to him. Out there, under the blue sky, his +eyes made pictures for him out of the fleecy white clouds as they +slowly changed from one form to another. He learned to know exactly the +shape of every flower and how it grew; he noticed how the olive-trees +laid their silver leaves against the blue background of the sky that +peeped in between, and how his sheep looked as they stooped to eat, or +lay down in the shadow of a rock. + +Nothing escaped his keen, watchful eyes, and then with eager hands he +would sharpen a piece of stone, choose out the smoothest rock, and try +to draw on its flat surface all those wonderful shapes which had filled +his eyes with their beauty. Olive-trees, flowers, birds and beasts were +there, but especially his sheep, for they were his friends and +companions who were always near him, and he could draw them in a +different way each time they moved. + +Now it fell out that one day a great master painter from Florence came +riding through the valley and over the hills where Giotto was feeding +his sheep. The name of the great master was Cimabue, and he was the +most wonderful artist in the world, so men said. He had painted a +picture which had made all Florence rejoice. The Florentines had never +seen anything like it before, and yet it was but a strange-looking +portrait of the Madonna and Child, scarcely like a real woman or a real +baby at all. Still, it seemed to them a perfect wonder, and Cimabue was +honoured as one of the city's greatest men. + +The road was lonely as it wound along. There was nothing to be seen but +waves of grey hills on every side, so the stranger rode on, scarcely +lifting his eyes as he went. Then suddenly he came upon a flock of +sheep nibbling the scanty sunburnt grass, and a little brown-faced +shepherd-boy gave him a cheerful 'Good-day, master.' + +There was something so bright and merry in the boy's smile that the +great man stopped and began to talk to him. Then his eye fell upon the +smooth flat rock over which the boy had been bending, and he started +with surprise. + +'Who did that?' he asked quickly, and he pointed to the outline of a +sheep scratched upon the stone. + +'It is the picture of one of my sheep there,' answered the boy, hanging +his head with a shame-faced look. 'I drew it with this,' and he held +out towards the stranger the sharp stone he had been using. + +'Who taught you to do this?' asked the master as he looked more +carefully at the lines drawn on the rock. + +The boy opened his eyes wide with astonishment 'Nobody taught me, +master,' he said. 'I only try to draw the things that my eyes see.' + +'How would you like to come with me to Florence and learn to be a +painter?' asked Cimabue, for he saw that the boy had a wonderful power +in his little rough hands. + +Giotto's cheeks flushed, and his eyes shone with joy. + +'Indeed, master, I would come most willingly,' he cried, 'if only my +father will allow it.' + +So back they went together to the village, but not before Giotto had +carefully put his sheep into the fold, for he was never one to leave +his work half done. + +Bondone was amazed to see his boy in company with such a grand +stranger, but he was still more surprised when he heard of the +stranger's offer. It seemed a golden chance, and he gladly gave his +consent. + +Why, of course, the boy should go to Florence if the gracious master +would take him and teach him to become a painter. The home would be +lonely without the boy who was so full of fun and as bright as a +sunbeam. But such chances were not to be met with every day, and he was +more than willing to let him go. + +So the master set out, and the boy Giotto went with him to Florence to +begin his training. + +The studio where Cimabue worked was not at all like those artists' +rooms which we now call studios. It was much more like a workshop, and +the boys who went there to learn how to draw and paint were taught +first how to grind and prepare the colours and then to mix them. They +were not allowed to touch a brush or pencil for a long time, but only +to watch their master at work, and learn all that they could from what +they saw him do. + +So there the boy Giotto worked and watched, but when his turn came to +use the brush, to the amazement of all, his pictures were quite unlike +anything which had ever been painted before in the workshop. Instead of +copying the stiff, unreal figures, he drew real people, real animals, +and all the things which he had learned to know so well on the grey +hillside, when he watched his father's sheep. Other artists had painted +the Madonna and Infant Christ, but Giotto painted a mother and a baby. + +And before long this worked such a wonderful change that it seemed +indeed as if the art of making pictures had been born again. To us his +work still looks stiff and strange, but in it was the beginning of all +the beautiful pictures that belong to us now. + +Giotto did not only paint pictures, he worked in marble as well. +To-day, if you walk through Florence, the City of Flowers, you will +still see its fairest flower of all, the tall white campanile or +bell-tower, 'Giotto's tower' as it is called. There it stands in all +its grace and loveliness like a tall white lily against the blue sky, +pointing ever upward, in the grand old faith of the shepherd-boy. Day +after day it calls to prayer and to good works, as it has done all +these hundreds of years since Giotto designed and helped to build it. + +Some people call his pictures stiff and ugly, for not every one has +wise eyes to see their beauty, but the loveliness of this tower can +easily be seen by all. 'There the white doves circle round and round, +and rest in the sheltering niches of the delicately carved arches; +there at the call of its bell the black-robed Brothers of Pity hurry +past to their works of mercy. There too the little children play, and +sometimes stop to stare at the marble pictures, set in the first story +of the tower, low enough to be seen from the street. Their special +favourite is perhaps the picture of the shepherd sitting under his +tent, with the sheep in front, and with the funniest little dog keeping +watch at the side. + +Giotto always had a great love for animals, and whenever it was +possible he would squeeze one into a corner of his pictures. He was +sixty years old when he designed this wonderful tower and cut some of +the marble pictures with his own hand, but you can see that the memory +of those old days when he ran barefoot about the hills and tended his +sheep was with him still. Just such another little puppy must have +often played with him in those long-ago days before he became a great +painter and was still only a merry, brown-faced boy, making pictures +with a sharp stone upon the smooth rocks. + +Up and down the narrow streets of Florence now, the great painter would +walk and watch the faces of the people as they passed. And his eyes +would still make pictures of them and their busy life, just as they +used to do with the olive-trees, the sheep, and the clouds. + +In those days nobody cared to have pictures in their houses, and only +the walls of the churches were painted. So the pictures, or frescoes, +as they were called, were of course all about sacred subjects, either +stories out of the Bible or of the lives of the saints. And as there +were few books, and the poor people did not know how to read, these +frescoed walls were the only story-books they had. + +What a joy those pictures of Giotto's must have been, then, to those +poor folk! They looked at the little Baby Jesus sitting on His mother's +knee, wrapped in swaddling bands, just like one of their own little +ones, and it made Him seem a very real baby. The wise men who talked +together and pointed to the shining star overhead looked just like any +of the great nobles of Florence. And there at the back were the two +horses looking on with wise interested eyes, just as any of their own +horses might have done. + +It seemed to make the story of Christmas a thing which had really +happened, instead of a far-away tale which had little meaning for them. +Heaven and the Madonna were not so far off after all. And it comforted +them to think that the Madonna had been a real woman like themselves, +and that the Jesu Bambino would stoop to bless them still, just as He +leaned forward to bless the wise men in the picture. + +How real too would seem the old story of the meeting of Anna and +Joachim at the Golden Gate, when they could gaze upon the two homely +figures under the narrow gateway. No visionary saints these, but just a +simple husband and wife, meeting each other with joy after a sad +separation, and yet with the touch of heavenly meaning shown by the +angel who hovers above and places a hand upon each head. + +It was not only in Florence that Giotto did his work. His fame spread +far and wide, and he went from town to town eagerly welcomed by all. We +can trace his footsteps as he went, by those wonderful old pictures +which he spread with loving care over the bare walls of the churches, +lifting, as it were, the curtain that hides Heaven from our view and +bringing some of its joys to earth. + +Then, at Assisi, he covered the walls and ceiling of the church with +the wonderful frescoes of the life of St. Francis; and the little round +commonplace Arena Chapel of Padua is made exquisite inside by his +pictures of the life of our Lord. + +In the days when Giotto lived the towns of Italy were continually +quarrelling with one another, and there was always fighting going on +somewhere. The cities were built with a wall all round them, and the +gates were shut each night to keep out their enemies. But often the +fighting was between different families inside the city, and the grim +old palaces in the narrow streets were built tall and strong that they +might be the more easily defended. + +In the midst of all this war and quarrelling Giotto lived his quiet, +peaceful life, the friend of every one and the enemy of none. Rival +towns sent for him to paint their churches with his heavenly pictures, +and the people who hated Florence forgot that he was a Florentine. He +was just Giotto, and he belonged to them all. His brush was the white +flag of truce which made men forget their strife and angry passions, +and turned their thoughts to holier things. + +Even the great poet Dante did not scorn to be a friend of the peasant +painter, and we still have the portrait which Giotto painted of him in +an old fresco at Florence. Later on, when the great poet was a poor +unhappy exile, Giotto met him again at Padua and helped to cheer some +of those sad grey days, made so bitter by strife and injustice. + +Now when Giotto was beginning to grow famous, it happened that the Pope +was anxious to have the walls of the great Cathedral of St. Peter at +Rome decorated. So he sent messengers all over Italy to find out who +were the best painters, that he might invite them to come and do the +work. + +The messengers went from town to town and asked every artist for a +specimen of his painting. This was gladly given, for it was counted a +great honour to help to make St. Peter's beautiful. + +By and by the messengers came to Giotto and told him their errand. The +Pope, they said, wished to see one of his drawings to judge if he was +fit for the great work. Giotto, who was always most courteous, 'took a +sheet of paper and a pencil dipped in a red colour, then, resting his +elbow on his side, with one turn of the hand, he drew a circle so +perfect and exact that it was a marvel to behold.' 'Here is your +drawing,' he said to the messenger, with a smile, handing him the +drawing. + +'Am I to have nothing more than this?' asked the man, staring at the +red circle in astonishment and disgust. + +'That is enough and to spare,' answered Giotto. 'Send it with the rest.' + +The messengers thought this must all be a joke. + +'How foolish we shall look if we take only a round O to show his +Holiness,' they said. + +But they could get nothing else from Giotto, so they were obliged to be +content and to send it with the other drawings, taking care to explain +just how it was done. + +The Pope and his advisers looked carefully over all the drawings, and, +when they came to that round O, they knew that only a master-hand could +have made such a perfect circle without the help of a compass. Without +a moment's hesitation they decided that Giotto was the man they wanted, +and they at once invited him to come to Rome to decorate the cathedral +walls. So when the story was known the people became prouder than ever +of their great painter, and the round O of Giotto has become a proverb +to this day in Tuscany. + + 'Round as the O of Giotto, d' ye see; + Which means as well done as a thing can be.' + + +Later on, when Giotto was at Naples, he was painting in the palace +chapel one very hot day, when the king came in to watch him at his +work. It really was almost too hot to move, and yet Giotto painted away +busily. + +'Giotto,' said the king, 'if I were in thy place I would give up +painting for a while and take my rest, now that it is so hot.' + +'And, indeed, so I would most certainly do,' answered Giotto, 'if I +were in your place, your Majesty.' + +It was these quick answers and his merry smile that charmed every one, +and made the painter a favourite with rich and poor alike. + +There are a great many stories told of him, and they all show what a +sunny-tempered, kindly man he was. + +It is said that one day he was standing in one of the narrow streets of +Florence talking very earnestly to a friend, when a pig came running +down the road in a great hurry. It did not stop to look where it was +going, but ran right between the painter's legs and knocked him flat on +his back, putting an end to his learned talk. + +Giotto scrambled to his feet with a rueful smile, and shook his finger +at the pig which was fast disappearing in the distance. + +'Ah, well!' he said, 'I suppose thou hadst as much right to the road as +I had. Besides, how many gold pieces I have earned by the help of thy +bristles, and never have I given any of thy family even a drop of soup +in payment.' + +Another time he went riding with a very learned lawyer into the country +to look after his property. For when Bondone died, he left all his +fields and his farm to his painter son. Very soon a storm came on, and +the rain poured down as if it never meant to stop. + +'Let us seek shelter in this farmhouse and borrow a cloak,' suggested +Giotto. + +So they went in and borrowed two old cloaks from the farmer, and +wrapped themselves up from head to foot. Then they mounted their horses +and rode back together to Florence. + +Presently the lawyer turned to look at Giotto, and immediately burst +into a loud laugh. The rain was running from the painter's cap, he was +splashed with mud, and the old cloak made him look like a very forlorn +beggar. + +'Dost think if any one met thee now, they would believe that thou art +the best painter in the world?' laughed the lawyer. + +Giotto's eyes twinkled as he looked at the funny figure riding beside +him, for the lawyer was very small, and had a crooked back, and rolled +up in the old cloak he looked like a bundle of rags. + +'Yes!' he answered quickly, 'any one would certainly believe I was a +great painter, if he could but first persuade himself that thou dost +know thy A B C.' + +In all these stories we catch glimpses of the good-natured kindly +painter, with his love of jokes, and his own ready answers, and all the +time we must remember that he was filling the world with beauty, which +it still treasures to-day, helping to sow the seeds of that great tree +of Art which was to blossom so gloriously in later years. + +And when he had finished his earthly work it was in his own cathedral, +'St. Mary of the Flowers,' that they laid him to rest, while the people +mourned him as a good friend as well as a great painter. There he lies +in the shadow of his lily tower, whose slender grace and +delicate-tinted marbles keep his memory ever fresh in his beautiful +city of Florence. + + + +FRA ANGELICO + +Nearly a hundred years had passed by since Giotto lived and worked in +Florence, and in the same hilly country where he used to tend his sheep +another great painter was born. + +Many other artists had come and gone, and had added their golden links +of beauty to the chain of Art which bound these years together. Some +day you will learn to know all their names and what they did. But now +we will only single out, here and there, a few of those names which are +perhaps greater than the rest. Just as on a clear night, when we look +up into the starlit sky, it would bewilder us to try and remember all +the stars, so we learn first to know those that are most easily +recognised--the Plough, or the Great Bear, as they shine with a clear +steady light against the background of a thousand lesser stars. + +The name by which this second great painter is known is Fra Angelico, +but that was only the name he earned in later years. His baby name was +Guido, and his home was in a village close to where Giotto was born. + +He was not a poor boy, and did not need to work in the fields or tend +the sheep on the hillside. Indeed, he might have soon become rich and +famous, for his wonderful talent for painting would have quickly +brought him honours and wealth if he had gone out into the world. But +instead of this, when he was a young man of twenty he made up his mind +to enter the convent at Fiesole, and to become a monk of the Order of +Saint Dominic. + +Every brother, or frate, as he is called, who leaves the world and +enters the life of the convent is given a new name, and his old name is +never used again. So young Guido was called Fra Giovanni, or Brother +John. But it is not by that name that he is known best, but that of Fra +Angelico, or the angelic brother--a name which was given him afterwards +because of his pure and beautiful life, and the heavenly pictures which +he painted. + +With all his great gifts in his hands, with all the years of youth and +pleasure stretching out green and fair before him, he said good-bye to +earthly joys, and chose rather to serve his Master Christ in the way he +thought was right. + +The monks of St. Dominic were the great preachers of those days--men +who tried to make the world better by telling people what they ought to +do, and teaching them how to live honest and good lives. But there are +other ways of teaching people besides preaching, and the young monk who +spent his time bending over the illuminated prayer-book, seeing with +his dreamy eyes visions of saints and white-robed angels, was preparing +to be a greater teacher than them all. The words of the preacher monks +have passed away, and the world pays little heed to them now, but the +teaching of Fra Angelico, the silent lessons of his wonderful pictures, +are as fresh and clear to-day as they were in those far-off years. + +Great trouble was in store for the monks of the little convent at +Fiesole, which Fra Angelico and his brother Benedetto had entered. +Fierce struggles were going on in Italy between different religious +parties, and at one time the little band of preaching monks were +obliged to leave their peaceful home at Fiesole to seek shelter in +other towns. But, as it turned out, this was good fortune for the young +painter-monk, for in those hill towns of Umbria where the brothers +sought refuge there were pictures to be studied which delighted his +eyes with their beauty, and taught him many a lesson which he could +never have learned on the quiet slopes of Fiesole. + +The hill towns of Italy are very much the same to-day as they were in +those days. Long winding roads lead upwards from the plain below to the +city gates, and there on the summit of the hill the little town is +built. The tall white houses cluster close together, and the +overhanging eaves seem almost to meet across the narrow paved streets, +and always there is the great square, with the church the centre of all. + +It would be almost a day's journey to follow the white road that leads +down from Perugia across the plain to the little hill town of Assisi, +and many a spring morning saw the painter-monk setting out on the +convent donkey before sunrise and returning when the sun had set. He +would thread his way up between the olive-trees until he reached the +city gates, and pass into the little town without hindrance. For the +followers of St. Francis in their brown robes would be glad to welcome +a stranger monk, though his black robe showed that he belonged to a +different order. Any one who came to see the glory of their city, the +church where their saint lay, which Giotto had covered with his +wonderful pictures, was never refused admittance. + +How often then must Fra Angelico have knelt in the dim light of that +lower church of Assisi, learning his lesson on his knees, as was ever +his habit. Then home again he would wend his way, his eyes filled with +visions of those beautiful pictures, and his hand longing for the +pencil and brush, that he might add new beauty to his own work from +what he had learned. + +Several years passed by, and at last the brothers were allowed to +return to their convent home of San Dominico at Fiesole, and there they +lived peaceably for a long time. We cannot tell exactly what pictures +our painter-monk painted during those peaceful years, but we know he +must have been looking out with wise, seeing eyes, drinking in all the +beauty that was spread around him. + +At his feet lay Florence, with its towers and palaces, the Arno running +through it like a silver thread, and beyond, the purple of the Tuscan +hills. All around on the sheltered hillside were green vines and +fruit-trees, olives and cypresses, fields flaming in spring with +scarlet anemones or golden with great yellow tulips, and hedges of +rose-bushes covered with clusters of pink blossoms. No wonder, then, +such beauty sunk into his heart, and we see in his pictures the pure +fresh colour of the spring flowers, with no shadow of dark or evil +things. + +Soon the fame of the painter began to be whispered outside the convent +walls, and reached the ears of Cosimo da Medici, one of the powerful +rulers of Florence. He offered the monks a new home, and, when they +were settled in the convent of San Marco in Florence, he invited Fra +Angelico to fresco the walls. + +One by one the heavenly pictures were painted upon the walls of the +cells and cloister of the new home. How the brothers must have crowded +round to see each new fresco as it was finished, and how anxious they +would be to see which picture was to be near their own particular bed. +In all the frescoes, whether he painted the gentle Virgin bending +before the angel messenger, or tried to show the glory of the ascended +Lord, the artist-monk would always introduce one or more of the +convent's special saints, which made the brothers feel that the +pictures were their very own. Fra Angelico had a kind word and smile +for all the brothers. He was never impatient, and no one ever saw him +angry, for he was as humble and gentle as the saints whose pictures he +loved to paint. + +It is told of him, too, that he never took a brush or pencil in his +hand without a prayer that his work might be to the glory of God. Often +when he painted the sufferings of our Lord, the tears would be seen +running down his cheeks and almost blinding his eyes. + +There is an old legend which tells of a certain monk who, when he was +busily illuminating a page of his missal, was called away to do some +service for the poor. He went unwillingly, the legend says, for he +longed to put the last touches to the holy picture he was painting; but +when he returned, lo! he found his work finished by angel hands. + +Often when we look at some of Fra Angelico's pictures we are reminded +of this legend, and feel that he too might have been helped by those +same angel hands. Did they indeed touch his eyes that he might catch +glimpses of a Heaven where saints were swinging their golden censers, +and white-robed angels danced in the flowery meadows of Paradise? We +cannot tell; but this we know, that no other painter has ever shown us +such a glory of heavenly things. + +Best of all, the angel-painter loved to paint pictures of the life of +our Lord; and in the picture I have shown you, you will see the tender +care with which he has drawn the head of the Infant Jesus with His +little golden halo, the Madonna in her robe of purest blue, holding the +Baby close in her arms, St. Joseph the guardian walking at the side, +and all around the flowers and trees which he loved so well in the +quiet home of Fiesole. + +He did not care for fame or power, this dreamy painter of angels, and +when the Pope invited him to Rome to paint the walls of a chapel there, +he thought no more of the glory and honour than if he was but called +upon to paint another cell at San Marco. + +But when the Pope had seen what this quiet monk could do, he called the +artist to him. + +'A man who can paint such pictures,' he said, 'must be a good man, and +one who will do well whatever he undertakes. Will you, then, do other +work for me, and become my Archbishop at Florence?' But the painter was +startled and dismayed. + +'I cannot teach or preach or govern men,' he said, 'I can but use my +gift of painting for the glory of God. Let me rather be as I am, for it +is safer to obey than to rule.' + +But though he would not take this honour himself, he told the Pope of a +friend of his, a humble brother, Fra Antonino, at the convent of San +Marco, who was well fitted to do the work. So the Pope took the +painter's advice, and the choice was so wise and good, that to this day +the Florentine people talk lovingly of their good bishop Antonino. + +It was while he was at work in Rome that Fra Angelico died, so his body +does not rest in his own beloved Florence. But if his body lies in +Rome, his gentle spirit still seems to hover around the old convent of +San Marco, and there we learn to know and love him best. Little wonder +that in after ages they looked upon him almost as a saint, and gave him +the title of 'Beato,' or the blessed angel-painter. + + + +MASACCIO + +It must have been about the same time when Fra Angelico was covering +the walls of San Marco with his angel pictures, that a very different +kind of painter was working in the Carmine church in Florence. + +This was no gentle, refined monk, but just an ordinary man of the +world--an awkward, good-natured person, who, as long as he had pictures +to paint, cared for little else. Why, he would even forget to ask for +payment when his work was done; and as to taking care of his clothes, +or trying to keep himself tidy, that was a thing he never thought of! + +What trouble his mother must have had with him when he was a boy! It +was no use sending him on an errand, he would forget it before he had +gone a hundred yards, and he was so careless and untidy that it was +enough to make any one lose patience with him. But only let him have a +pencil and a smooth surface on which to draw, and he was a different +boy. + +It is said that even now, in the little town of Castello San Giovanni, +some eighteen miles from Florence, where Tommaso was born, there are +still some wonderfully good figures to be seen, drawn by him when he +was quite a little boy. Certainly there was no carelessness and nothing +untidy about his work. + +As the boy grew older all his longings would turn towards Florence, the +beautiful city where there was everything to learn and to see, and so +he was sent to become a pupil in the studio of Masolino, a great +Florentine painter. But though his drawings improved, his careless +habits continued the same. + +'There goes Tommaso the painter,' the people would say, watching the +big awkward figure passing through the streets on his way to work. +'Truly he pays but little heed to his appearance. Look but at his +untidy hair and the holes in his boots.' + +'Ay, indeed!' another would answer; 'and yet it is said if only people +paid him all they owed he would have gold enough and to spare. But what +cares he so long as he has his paints and brushes? "Masaccio" would be +a fitter name for him than Tommaso.' + +So the name Masaccio, or Ugly Tom, came to be that by which the big +awkward painter was known. But no one thinks of the unkind meaning of +the nickname now, for Masaccio is honoured as one of the great names in +the history of Art. + +This painter, careless of many things, cared with all his heart and +soul for the work he had chosen to do. It seemed to him that painters +had always failed to make their pictures like living things. The +pictures they painted were flat, not round as a figure should be, and +very often the feet did not look as if they were standing on the ground +at all, but pointed downwards as if they were hanging in the air. + +So he worked with light and shadow and careful drawing until the +figures he drew looked rounded instead of flat, and their feet were +planted firmly on the ground. His models were taken from the ordinary +Florentine youths whom he saw daily in the studio, but he drew them as +no one had drawn figures before. The buildings, too, he made to look +like real houses leading away into the distance, and not just like a +flat picture. + +He painted many frescoes both in Florence and Rome, this Ugly Tom, but +at the time the people did not pay him much honour, for they thought +him just a great awkward fellow with his head always in the clouds. +Perhaps if he had lived longer fame and wealth would have come to him, +but he died when he was still a young man, and only a few realised how +great he was. + +But in after years, one by one, all the great artists would come to +that little chapel of the Carmine there to learn their first lessons +from those life-like figures. Especially they would stand before the +fresco which shows St. Peter baptizing a crowd of people. And in that +fresco they would study more than all the figure of a boy who has just +come out of the water, shivering with cold, the most natural figure +that had ever been painted up to that time. + +All things must be learnt little by little, and each new thing we know +is a step onwards. So this figure of the shivering boy marks a higher +step of the golden ladder of Art than any that had been touched before. +And this alone would have made the name of Masaccio worthy to be placed +upon the list of world's great painters. + + + +FRA FILIPPO LIPPI + +It was winter time in Florence. The tramontana, that keen wind which +blows from over the snow mountains, was sweeping down the narrow +streets, searching out every nook and corner with its icy breath. Men +flung their cloaks closer round them, and pulled their hats down over +their eyes, so that only the tips of their noses were left uncovered +for the wind to freeze. Women held their scaldinoes, little pots of hot +charcoal, closer under their shawls, and even the dogs had a sad, +half-frozen look. One and all longed for the warm winds of spring and +the summer heat they loved. It was bad enough for those who had warm +clothes and plenty of polenta, but for the poor life was very hard +those cold wintry days. + +In a doorway of a great house, in one of the narrow streets, a little +boy of eight was crouching behind one of the stone pillars as he tried +to keep out of the grip of the tramontana. His little coat was folded +closely round him, but it was full of rents and holes so that the thin +body inside was scarcely covered, and the child's blue lips trembled +with the cold, and his black eyes filled with tears. + +It was not often that Filippo turned such a sad little face to meet the +world. Usually those black eyes sparkled with fun and mischief, and the +mouth spread itself into a merry grin. But to-day, truly things were +worse than he ever remembered them before, and he could remember fairly +bad times, too, if he tried. + +Other children had their fathers and mothers who gave them food and +clothes, but he seemed to be quite different, and never had had any one +to care for him. True, there was his aunt, old Mona Lapaccia, who said +he had once had a father and mother like other boys, but she always +added with a mournful shake of her head that she alone had endured all +the trouble and worry of bringing him up since he was two years old. +'Ah,' she would say, turning her eyes upwards, 'the saints alone know +what I have endured with a great hungry boy to feed and clothe.' + +It seemed to Filippo that in that case the saints must also know how +very little he had to eat, and how cold he was on these wintry days. +But of course they would be too grand to care about a little boy. + +In summer things were different. One could roll merrily about in the +sunshine all day long, and at night sleep in some cool sheltering +corner of the street. And then, too, there was always a better chance +of picking up something to eat. Plenty of fig skins and melon parings +were flung carelessly out into the street when fruit was plentiful, and +people would often throw away the remains of a bunch of grapes. It was +wonderful how quickly Filippo learned to know people's faces, and to +guess who would finish to the last grape and who would throw the +smaller ones away. Some would even smile as they caught his anxious, +waiting eye fixed on the fruit, and would cry 'Catch' as they threw a +goodly bunch into those small brown hands that never let anything slip +through their fingers. + +Oh, yes, summer was all right, but there was always winter to face. +To-day he was so very hungry, and the lupin skins which he had +collected for his breakfast were all eaten long ago. He had hung about +the little open shops, sniffing up the delicious smell of fried +polenta, but no one had given him a morsel. All he had got was a stern +'be off' when he ventured too close to the tempting food. If only this +day had been a festa, he might have done well enough. For in the great +processions when the priests and people carried their lighted candles +round the church, he could always dart in and out with his little iron +scraper, lift the melted wax of the marble floor and sell it over again +to the candlemakers. + +But there were no processions to-day, and there remained only one thing +to be done. He must go home and see if Mona Lapaccia had anything to +spare. Perhaps the saints took notice when he was hungry. + +Down the street he ran, keeping close to the wall, just as the dogs do +when it rains. For the great overhanging eaves of the houses act as a +sheltering umbrella. Then out into the broad street that runs beside +the river, where, even in winter, the sun shines warmly if it shines +anywhere. + +Filippo paused at the corner of the Ponte alla Carraja to watch the +struggles of a poor mule which was trying to pull a huge cartload of +wood up the steep incline of the bridge. It was so exciting that for a +moment he forgot how cold and hungry he was, as he shouted and screamed +directions with the rest of the crowd, darted in and out in his +eagerness to help, and only got into every one's way. + +That excitement over, Filippo felt in better spirits and ran quickly +across the bridge. He soon threaded his way to a poor street that led +towards one of the city gates, where everything looked dirtier and more +cheerless than ever. He had not expected a welcome, and he certainly +did not get one, as, after climbing the steep stairs, he cautiously +pushed open the door and peeped in. + +His aunt's thin face looked dark and angry. Poor soul, she had had no +breakfast either, and there would be no food that day unless her work +was finished. And here was this troublesome boy back again, when she +thought she had got rid of him for the day. + +'Away!' she shouted crossly. 'What dost thou mean by coming back so +soon? Away, and seek thy living in the streets.' + +'It is too cold,' said the boy, creeping into the bare room, 'and I am +hungry.' + +'Hungry!' and poor Mona Lapaccia cast her eyes upwards, as if she would +ask the saints if they too were not filled with surprise to hear this +word. 'And when art thou anything else? It is ever the same story with +thee: eat, eat, eat. Now, the saints help me, I have borne this burden +long enough. I will see if I cannot shift it on to other shoulders.' + +She rose as she spoke, tied her yellow handkerchief over her head and +smoothed out her apron. Then she caught Filippo by his shoulder and +gave him a good shake, just to teach him how wrong it was to talk of +being hungry, and pushing him in front of her they went downstairs +together. + +'Where art thou going?' gasped the boy as she dragged him swiftly along +the street. + +'Wait and thou shalt see,' she answered shortly; 'and do thou mind thy +manners, else will I mind them for thee.' + +Filippo ran along a little quicker on hearing this advice. He had but a +dim notion of what minding his manners might mean, but he guessed +fairly well what would happen if his aunt minded them. Ah! here they +were at the great square of the Carmine. He had often crept into the +church to get warm and to see those wonderful pictures on the walls. +Could they be going there now? + +But it was towards the convent door that Mona Lapaccia bent her steps, +and, when she had rung the bell, she gave Filippo's shoulder a final +shake, and pulled his coat straight and smoothed his hair. + +A fat, good-natured brother let them in, and led them through the many +passages into a room where the prior sat finishing his midday meal. + +Filippo's hungry eyes were immediately fixed on a piece of bread which +lay upon the table, and the kindly prior smiled as he nodded his head +towards it. + +Not another invitation did Filippo need; like a bird he darted forward +and snatched the piece of good white bread, and holding it in both +hands he began to munch to his heart's content. How long it was since +he had tasted anything like this! It was so delicious that for a few +blissful moments he forgot where he was, forgot his aunt and the great +man who was looking at him with such kind eyes. + +But presently he heard his own name spoken and then he looked up and +remembered. 'And so, Filippo, thou wouldst become a monk?' the prior +was saying. 'Let me see--how old art thou?' + +'Eight years old, your reverence,' said Mona Lapaccia before Filippo +could answer. Which was just as well, as his mouth was still very full. + +'And it is thy desire to leave the world, and enter our convent?' +continued the prior. 'Art thou willing to give up all, that thou mayest +become a servant of God?' + +The little dirty brown hands clutched the bread in dismay. Did the kind +man mean that he was to give up his bread when he had scarcely eaten +half of it? + +'No, no; eat thy bread, child,' said the prior, with an understanding +nod. 'Thou art but a babe, but we will make a good monk of thee yet.' + +Then, indeed, began happy days for Filippo. No more threadbare coats, +but a warm little brown serge robe, tied round the waist with a rope +whose ends grew daily shorter as the way round his waist grew longer. +No more lupin skins and whiffs of fried polenta, but food enough and to +spare; such food as he had not dreamt of before, and always as much as +he could eat. + +Filippo was as happy as the day was long. He had always been a merry +little soul even when life had been hard and food scarce, and now he +would not have changed his lot with the saints in Paradise. + +But the good brothers began to think it was time Filippo should do +something besides play and eat. + +'Let us see what the child is fit for,' they said. + +So Filippo was called in to sit on the bench with the boys and learn +his A B C. That was dreadfully dull work. He could never remember the +names of those queer signs. Their shapes he knew quite well, and he +could draw them carefully in his copy-book, but their names were too +much for him. And as to the Latin which the good monks tried to teach +him, they might as well have tried to teach a monkey. + +All the brightness faded from Filippo's face the moment a book was put +before him, and he looked so dull and stupid that the brothers were in +despair. Then for a little things seemed to improve. Filippo suddenly +lost his stupid look as he bent over the pages, and his eyes were +bright with interest. + +'Aha!' said one brother nudging the other, 'the boy has found his +brains at last.' + +But great indeed was their wrath and disappointment when they looked +over his shoulder. Instead of learning his lessons, Filippo had been +making all sorts of queer drawings round the margin of the page. The +A's and B's had noses and eyes, and looked out with little grinning +faces. The long music notes had legs and arms and were dancing about +like little black imps. Everything was scribbled over with the naughty +little figures. + +This was really too much, and Filippo must be taken at once before the +prior. + +'What, in disgrace again?' asked the kindly old man. 'What has the +child done now?' + +'We can teach him nothing,' said the brother, shaking a severe finger +at Filippo, who hung his head. 'He cannot even learn his A B C. And +besides, he spoils his books, ay, and even the walls and benches, by +drawing such things as these upon them.' And the indignant monk held +out the book where all those naughty figures were dancing over the page. + +The prior took the book and looked at it closely. + +'What makes thee do these things?' he asked the boy, who stood first on +one foot and then on the other, twisting his rope in his fingers. + +At the sound of the kind voice, the boy looked up, and his face broke +into a smile. + +'Indeed, I cannot help it, Father,' he said. 'It is the fault of +these,' and he spread out his ten little brown fingers. + +The prior laughed. + +'Well,' he said, 'we will not turn thee out, though they do say thou +wilt never make a monk. Perhaps we may teach these ten little rascals +to do good work, even if we cannot put learning into that round head of +thine.' + +So instead of books and Latin lessons, the good monks tried a different +plan. Filippo was given as a pupil to good Brother Anselmo, whose work +it was to draw the delicate pictures and letters for the convent +prayer-books. + +This was a different kind of lesson, indeed. Filippo's eyes shone with +eagerness as he bent over his work and tried to copy the beautiful +lines and curves which the master set for him. + +There were other boys in the class as well, and Filippo looked at their +work with great admiration. One boy especially, who was bigger than +Filippo, and who had a kind merry face, made such beautiful copies that +Filippo always tried to sit next him if possible. Very soon the boys +became great friends. + +Diamante, as the elder boy was called, was pleased to be admired so +much by the little new pupil; but as time went on, his pride in his own +work grew less as he saw with amazement how quickly Filippo's little +brown fingers learned to draw straighter lines and more beautiful +curves than any he could manage. Brother Anselmo, too, would watch the +boy at work, and his saintly old face beamed with pleasure as he looked. + +'He will pass us all, and leave us far behind, this child who is too +stupid to learn his A B C,' he would say, and his face shone with +unselfish joy. + +Then when the boys grew older, they were allowed to go into the church +and watch those wonderful frescoes, which grew under the hand of the +great awkward painter, 'Ugly Tom,' as he was called. + +Together Filippo and Diamante stood and watched with awe, learning +lessons there which the good father had not been able to teach. Then +they would begin to put into practice what they had learned, and try to +copy in their own pictures the work of the great master. + +'Thou hast the knack of it, Filippo,' Diamante would say as he looked +with envy at the figures Filippo drew so easily. + +'Thy pictures are also good,' Filippo would answer quickly, 'and thou +thyself art better than any one else in the convent.' + +There was no complaint now of Filippo's dullness. He soon learned all +that the painter-monks could teach him, and as years passed on the +prior would rub his hands in delight to think that here was an artist, +one of themselves, who would soon be able to paint the walls of the +church and convent, and make them as famous as the convent of San Marco +had been made famous by its angelical painter. + +Then one day he called Filippo to him. + +'My son,' he said, 'you have learned well, and it is time now to turn +your work to some account. Go into the cloister where the walls have +been but newly whitewashed, and let us see what kind of pictures thou +canst paint.' + +With burning cheeks and shining eyes, Filippo began his work. Day after +day he stood on the scaffolding, with his brown robe pinned back and +his bare arm moving swiftly as he drew figure after figure on the +smooth white wall. + +He did not pause to think what he would draw, the figures seemed to +grow like magic under his touch. There were the monks in their brown +and white robes, fat and laughing, or lean and anxious-minded. There +were the people who came to say their prayers in church, little +children clinging to their mothers' skirts, beggars and rich folks, +even the stray dog that sometimes wandered in. Yes, and the pretty +girls who laughed and talked in whispers. He drew them all, just as he +had often seen them. Then, when the last piece of wall was covered, he +stopped his work. + +The news soon spread through all the convent that Brother Filippo had +finished his picture, and all the monks came hurrying to see. The +scaffolding was taken down, and then they all stood round, gazing with +round eyes and open mouths. They had never seen anything like it +before, and at first there was silence except for one long drawn 'ah-h.' + +Then one by one they began to laugh and talk, and point with eager, +excited fingers. 'Look,' cried one, 'there is Brother Giovanni; I would +know his smile among a hundred.' + +'There is that beggar who comes each day to ask for soup,' cried +another. + +'And there is his dog,' shouted a third. + +'Look at the maid who kneels in front,' said Fra Diamante in a hushed +voice, 'is she not as fair as any saint?' + +Then suddenly there was silence, and the brothers looked ashamed of the +noise they had been making, as the prior himself looked down on them +from the steps above. + +'What is all this?' he asked. And his voice sounded grave and +displeased as he looked from the wall to the crowd of eager monks. Then +he turned to Filippo. 'Are these the pictures I ordered thee to paint?' +he asked. 'Is this the kind of painting to do honour to God and to our +Church? Will these mere human figures help men to remember the saints, +teach them to look up to heaven, or help them with their prayers? +Quick, rub them out, and paint your pictures for heaven and not for +earth.' + +Filippo hung his head, the crowd of admiring monks swiftly disappeared, +and he was left to begin his work all over again. + +It was so difficult for Filippo to keep his thoughts fixed on heaven, +and not to think of earth. He did so love the merry world, and his +fingers, those same ten brown rascals which had got him into trouble +when he was a child, always longed to draw just the faces that he saw +every day. The pretty face of the little maid kneeling at her prayers +was so real and so delightful, and the Madonna and angels seemed so +solemn and far off. + +Still no one would have pictures which did not tell of saints and +angels, so he must paint the best he could. After all, it was easy to +put on wings and golden haloes until the earthly things took on a +heavenly look. + +But the convent life grew daily more and more wearisome now to Filippo. +The world, which he had been so willing to give up for a piece of good +white bread when he was eight years old, now seemed full of all the +things he loved best. + +The more he thought of it, the more he longed to see other places +outside the convent walls, and other faces besides the monks and the +people who came to church. + +And so one dark night, when all the brothers were asleep and the bells +had just rung the midnight hour, Fra Filippo stole out of his cell, +unlocked the convent door, and ran swiftly out into the quiet street. + +How good it felt to be free! The very street itself seemed like an old +friend, welcoming him with open arms. On and on he ran until he came to +the city gates of San Frediano, there to wait until he could slip +through unnoticed when the gates were opened at the dawn of day. Then +on again until Florence and the convent were left behind and the whole +world lay before him. + +There was no difficulty about living, for the people gave him food and +money, and good-natured countrymen would stop their carts and offer him +a lift along the straight white dusty roads. So by and by he reached +Ancona and saw for the first time the sea. + +Filippo gazed and gazed, forgetting everything else as he drank in the +beauty of that great stretch of quivering blue, while in his ears +sounded words which he had almost forgotten--words which had fallen on +heedless ears at matins or vespers--and which never had held any +meaning for him before: 'And before the throne was a sea of glass, like +unto crystal.' + +He stood still for a few minutes and then the heavenly vision faded, +and like any other boy he forgot all about beauty and colour, and only +longed to be out in a boat enjoying the strange new delight. + +Very lucky he thought himself when he reached the shore to find a boat +just putting of, and to hear himself invited to jump in by the boys who +were going for a sail. + +Away they went, further and further from the shore, laughing and +talking. The boys were so busy telling wonderful sea-tales to the young +stranger that they did not notice how far they had gone. Then suddenly +they looked ahead and sat speechless with fear. + +A great Moorish galley was bearing down upon them, its rows of oars +flashed in the sunlight, and its great painted sails towered above +their heads. It was no use trying to escape. Those strong rowers easily +overtook them, and in a few minutes Filippo and his companions were +hoisted up on board the galley. + +It was all so sudden that it seemed like a dream. But the chains were +very real that were fastened round their wrists and ankles, and the +dark cruel faces of the Moors as they looked on smiling at their misery +were certainly no dream. + +Then followed long days of misery when the new slaves toiled at the +oars under the blazing sun, and nights of cold and weariness. Many a +time did Filippo long for the quiet convent, the kindly brothers, and +the long peaceful days. Many a time did he long to hear the bells +calling him to prayer, which had once only filled him with restless +impatience. + +But at last the galley reached the coast of Barbary, and the slaves +were unchained from the oars and taken ashore. In all his misery +Filippo's keen eyes still watched with interest the people around him, +and he was never tired of studying the swarthy faces and curious +garments of the Moorish pirates. + +Then one day when he happened to be near a smooth white wall, he took a +charred stick from a fire which was built close by, and began to draw +the figure of his master. + +What a delight it was to draw those rapid strokes and feel the likeness +grow beneath his fingers! He was so much interested that he did not +notice the crowd that gathered gradually round him, but he worked +steadily on until the figure was finished. + +Just as the band of monks had stood silent round his first picture in +the cloister of the Carmine, so these dark Moors stood still in wonder +and amazement gazing upon the bold black figure sketched upon the +smooth white wall. + +No one had ever seen such a thing in that land before, and it seemed to +them that this man must be a dealer in magic. They whispered together, +and one went off hurriedly to fetch the captain. + +The master, when he came, was as astonished as the men. He could +scarcely believe his eyes when he saw a second self drawn upon the +wall, more like than his own shadow. This indeed must be no common man; +and he ordered that Filippo's chains should be immediately struck off, +and that he should be treated with respect and honour. + +Nothing now was too good for this man of magic, and before long Filippo +was put on board a ship and carried safely back to Italy. They put him +ashore at Naples, and for some little time Filippo stayed there +painting pictures for the king; but his heart was in his own beloved +town, and very soon he returned to Florence. + +Perhaps he did not deserve a welcome, but every one was only too +delighted to think that the runaway had really returned. Even the +prior, though he shook his head, was glad to welcome back the brother +whose painting had already brought fame and honour to the convent. + +But in spite of all the troubles Filippo had gone through, he still +dearly loved the merry world and all its pleasures. For a long time he +would paint his saints and angels with all due diligence, and then he +would dash down brushes and pencils, leave his paints scattered around, +and of he would go for a holiday. Then the work would come to a +stand-still, and people must just wait until Filippo should feel +inclined to begin again. + +The great Cosimo de Medici, who was always the friend of painters, +desired above all things that Fra Filippo should paint a picture for +him. And what is more, having heard so many tales about the idle ways +of this same brother, he was determined that the picture should be +painted without any interruptions. + +'Fra Filippo shall take no holidays while at work for me,' he said, as +he talked the matter over with the prior. + +'That may not be so easy as thou thinkest,' said the prior, for he knew +Filippo better than did this great Cosimo. + +But Cosimo did not see any difficulty in the matter whatever. High in +his palace he prepared a room for the painter, and placed there +everything he could need. No comfort was lacking, and when Filippo came +he was treated as an honoured guest, except for one thing. Whenever the +heavy door of his room swung to, there was a grating sound heard, and +the key in the lock was turned from outside. So Filippo was really a +captive in his handsome prison. + +That was all very well for a few days. Filippo laughed as he painted +away, and laid on the tender blue of the Virgin's robe, and painted +into her eyes the solemn look which he had so often seen on the face of +some poor peasant woman as she knelt at prayer. But after a while he +grew restless and weary of his work. + +'Plague take this great man and his fine manners,' he cried. 'Does he +think he can catch a lark and train it to sing in a cage at his +bidding? I am weary of saints and angels. I must out to breathe the +fresh sweet air of heaven.' + +But the key was always turned in the lock and the door was strong. +There was the window, but it was high above the street, and the grey +walls, built of huge square stones, might well have been intended to +enclose a prison rather than a palace. + +It was a dark night, and the air felt hot as Filippo leaned out of the +window. Scarce a breath stirred the still air, and every sound could be +heard distinctly. Far below in the street he could hear the tread of +the people's feet, and catch the words of a merry song as a company of +boys and girls danced merrily along. + + 'Flower of the rose, + If I've been happy, what matter who knows,' + +they sang. + +It was all too tempting; out he must get. Filippo looked round his +room, and his eye rested on the bed. With a shout of triumphant delight +he ran towards it. First he seized the quilt and tore it into strips, +then the blankets, then the sheets. + +'Whoever saw a grander rope?' he chuckled to himself as he knotted the +ends together. + +Quick as thought he tied it to the iron bar that ran across his window, +and, squeezing out, he began to climb down, hand over hand, dangling +and swinging to and fro. The rope was stout and good, and now he could +steady himself by catching his toes in the great iron rings fastened +into the wall, until at last he dropped breathless into the street +below. + +Next day, when Cosimo came to see how the painting went on, he saw +indeed the pictures and the brushes, but no painter was there. Quickly +he stepped to the open window, and there he saw the dangling rope of +sheets, and guessed at once how the bird had flown. + +Through the streets they searched for the missing painter, and before +long he was found and brought back. Filippo tried to look penitent, but +his eyes were dancing with merriment, and Cosimo must needs laugh too. + +'After all,' said Filippo, 'my talent is not like a beast of burden, to +be driven and beaten into doing its work. It is rather like one of +those heavenly visitors whom we willingly entertain when they deign to +visit us, but whom we can never force either to come or go at will.' + +'Thou art right, friend painter,' answered the great man. 'And when I +think how thou and thy talent might have taken wings together, had not +the rope held good, I vow I will never seek to keep thee in against thy +will again.' + +'Then will I work all the more willingly,' answered Filippo. + +So with doors open, and freedom to come and go, Filippo no longer +wished to escape, but worked with all his heart. The beautiful Madonna +and angel were soon finished, and besides he painted a wonderful +picture of seven saints with St. John sitting in their midst. + +From far and near came requests that Fra Filippo Lippi should paint +pictures for different churches and convents. He would much rather have +painted the scenes and the people he saw every day, but he remembered +the prior's lecture, and still painted only the stories of saints and +holy people--the gentle Madonna with her scarlet book of prayers, the +dove fluttering near, and the angel messenger with shining wings +bearing the lily branch. True, the saints would sometimes look out of +his pictures with the faces of some of his friends, but no one seemed +to notice that. On the whole his was a happy life, and he was always +ready to paint for any one that should ask him. + +Many people now were proud to know the famous young painter, but his +old companion Fra Diamante was still the friend he loved best. Whenever +it was possible they still would work together; so, great was their +delight when one day an order came from Prato that they should both go +there to paint the walls of San Stefano. + +'Good-bye to old Florence for a while,' cried Filippo as they set out +merrily together. He looked back as he spoke at the spires and sunbaked +roofs, the white marble facade of San Miniato, and the dark cypresses +standing clear against the pure warm sky of early spring. 'I am weary +of your great men and all your pomp and splendour. Something tells me +we shall have a golden time among the good folk of Prato.' + +Perhaps it was the springtime that made Filippo so joyous that morning +as he rode along the dusty white road. + +Spring had come with a glad rush, as she ever comes in Italy, +scattering on every side her flowers and favours. From under the dead +brown leaves of autumn, violets pushed their heads and perfumed all the +air. Under the grey olives the sprouting corn spread its tender green, +and the scarlet and purple of the anemones waved spring's banner far +and near. It was good to be alive on such a day. + +Arrived at Prato, the two painters, with a favourite pupil called +Botticelli, worked together diligently, and covered wall after wall +with their frescoes. It seemed as if they would never be done, for each +church and convent had work awaiting them. + +'Truly,' said Filippo one day when he was putting the last touches to a +portrait of Fra Diamante, whom he had painted into his picture of the +death of St. Stephen, 'I will undertake no more work for a while. It is +full time we had a holiday together.' + +But even as he spoke a message was brought to him from the good abbess +of the convent of Santa Margherita, begging him to come and paint an +altarpiece for the sisters' chapel. + +'Ah, well, what must be, must be,' he said to Fra Diamante, who stood +smiling by. 'I will do what I can to please these holy women, but after +that--no more.' + +The staid and sober abbess met him at the convent door, and silently +led him through the sunny garden, bright with flowers, where the +lizards darted to right and left as they walked past the fountain and +entered the dim, cool chapel. In a low, sweet voice she told him what +they would have him paint, and showed him the space above the high +altar where the picture was to be placed. + +'Our great desire is that thou shouldst paint for us the Holy Virgin +with the Blessed Child on the night of the Nativity,' she said. + +The painter seemed to listen, but his attention wandered, and all the +time he wished himself back in the sunny garden, where he had seen a +fair young face looking through the pink sprays of almond blossoms, +while the music of the vesper hymn sounded sweet and clear in his ears. + +'I will begin to-morrow,' he said with a start when the low voice of +the abbess stopped. 'I will paint the Madonna and Babe as thou +desirest.' + +So next day the work began. And each time the abbess noiselessly +entered the room where the painter was at work and watched the picture +grow beneath his hand, she felt more and more sure that she had done +right in asking this painter to decorate their beloved chapel. + +True, it was said by many that the young artist was but a worldly +minded man, not like the blessed Fra Angelico, the heavenly painter of +San Marco; but his work was truly wonderful, and his handsome face +looked good, even if a somewhat merry smile was ever wont to lurk about +his mouth and in his eyes. + +Then came a morning when the abbess found Filippo standing idle, with a +discontented look upon his face. He was gazing at the unfinished +picture, and for a while he did not see that any one had entered the +room. + +'Is aught amiss?' asked the gentle voice at his side, and Filippo +turned and saw the abbess. + +'Something indeed seems amiss with my five fingers,' said Filippo, with +his quick bright smile. 'Time after time have I tried to paint the face +of the Madonna, and each time I must needs paint it out again.' + +Then a happy thought came into his mind. + +'I have seen a face sometimes as I passed through the convent garden +which is exactly what I want,' he cried. 'If thou wouldst but let the +maiden sit where I can see her for a few hours each day, I can promise +thee that the Madonna will be finished as thou wouldst wish.' + +The abbess stood in deep thought for a few minutes, for she was puzzled +to know what she should do. + +'It is the child Lucrezia,' she thought to herself. 'She who was sent +here by her father, the noble Buti of Florence. She is but a novice +still, and there can be no harm in allowing her to lend her fair face +as a model for Our Lady.' + +So she told Filippo it should be as he wished. + +It was dull in the convent, and Lucrezia was only too pleased to spend +some hours every morning, idly sitting in the great chair, while the +young painter talked to her and told her stories while he painted. She +counted the hours until it was time to go back, and grew happier each +day as the Madonna's face grew more and more beautiful. + +Surely there was no one so good or so handsome as this wonderful +artist. Lucrezia could not bear to think how dull her life would be +when he was gone. Then one day, when it happened that the abbess was +called away and they were alone, Filippo told Lucrezia that he loved +her and could not live without her; and although she was frightened at +first, she soon grew happy, and told him that she was ready to go with +him wherever he wished. But what would the good nuns think of it? Would +they ever let her go? No; they must think of some other plan. + +To-morrow was the great festa of Prato, when all the nuns walked in +procession to see the holy centola, or girdle, which the Madonna had +given to St. Thomas. Lucrezia must take care to walk on the outside of +the procession, and to watch for a touch upon the arm as she passed. + +The festa day dawned bright and clear, and all Prato was early astir. +Procession after procession wound its way to the church where the relic +was to be shown, and the crowd grew denser every moment. Presently came +the nuns of Santa Margherita. A figure in the crowd pressed nearer. +Lucrezia felt a touch upon her arm, and a strong hand clasped hers. The +crowd swayed to and fro, and in an instant the two figures disappeared. +No one noticed that the young novice was gone, and before the nuns +thought of looking for their charge Lucrezia was on her way to +Florence, her horse led by the painter whom she loved, while his good +friend Fra Diamante rode beside her. + +Then the storm burst. Lucrezia's father was furious, the good nuns were +dismayed, and every one shook their heads over this last adventure of +the Florentine painter. + +But luckily for Filippo, the great Cosimo still stood his friend and +helped him through it all. He it was who begged the Pope to allow Fra +Filippo to marry Lucrezia (for monks, of course, were never allowed to +marry), and the Pope, too, was kind and granted the request, so that +all went well. + +Now indeed was Lucrezia as happy as the day was long, and when the +spring returned once more to Florence, a baby Filippo came with the +violets and lilies. + +'How wilt thou know us apart if thou callest him Filippo?' asked the +proud father. + +'Ah, he is such a little one, dear heart,' Lucrezia answered gaily. 'We +will call him Filippino, and then there can be no mistake.' + +There was no more need now to seek for pleasures out of doors. Filippo +painted his pictures and lived his happy home life without seeking any +more adventures. His Madonnas grew ever more beautiful, for they were +all touched with the beauty that shone from Lucrezia's fair face, and +the Infant Christ had ever the smile and the curly golden hair of the +baby Filippino. + +And by and by a little daughter came to gladden their hearts, and then +indeed their cup of joy was full. + +'What name shall we give the little maid?' said Filippo. + +'Methought thou wouldst have it Lucrezia,' answered the mother. + +'There is but one Lucrezia in all the world for me,' he said. 'None +other but thee shall bear that name.' + +As they talked a knock sounded at the door, and presently the favourite +pupil, Sandro, looked in. There was a shout of joy from little +Filippino, and the young man lifted the child in his arms and smiled +with the look of one who loves children. + +'Come, Sandro, and see the little new flower,' said Filippo. 'Is she +not as fair as the roses which thou dost so love to paint?' + +Then, as the young man looked with interest at the tiny face, Filippo +clapped him on the shoulder. + +'I have it!' he cried. 'She shall be called after thee, Alessandra. +Some day she will be proud to think that she bears thy name.' + +For already Filippo knew that this pupil of his would ere long wake the +world to new wonder. + +The only clouds that hid the sunshine of Lucrezia's life was when +Filippo was obliged to leave her for a while and paint his pictures in +other towns. She always grew sad when his work in Florence drew to a +close, for she never knew where his next work might lie. + +'Well,' said Filippo one night as he returned home and caught up little +Filippino in his arms, 'the picture for the nuns of San Ambrogio is +finished at last! Truly they have saints and angels enough this +time--rows upon rows of sweet faces and white lilies. And the sweetest +face of all is thine, Saint Lucy, kneeling in front with thy hand +beneath the chin of this young cherub.' + +'Is it indeed finished so soon?' asked Lucrezia, a wistful note +creeping into her voice. + +'Ay, and to-morrow I must away to Spoleto to begin my work at the +Chapel of Our Lady. But look not so sad, dear heart; before three +months are past, by the time the grapes are gathered, I will return.' + +But it was sad work parting, though it might only be for three months, +and even her little son could not make his mother smile, though he drew +wonderful pictures for her of birds and beasts, and told her he meant +to be a great painter like his father when he grew up. + +Next day Filippo started, and with him went his good friend Fra +Diamante. + +'Fare thee well, Filippo. Take good care of him, friend Diamante,' +cried Lucrezia; and she stood watching until their figures disappeared +at the end of the long white road, and then went inside to wait +patiently for their return. + +The summer days passed slowly by. The cheeks of the peaches grew soft +and pink under the kiss of the sun, the figs showed ripe and purple +beneath the green leaves, and the grapes hung in great transparent +clusters of purple and gold from the vines that swung between the +poplar-trees. Then came the merry days of vintage, and the juice was +pressed out of the ripe grapes. + +'Now he will come back,' said Lucrezia, 'for he said "by the time the +grapes are gathered I will return."' + +The days went slowly by, and every evening she stood in the loggia and +gazed across the hills. Then she would point out the long white road to +little Filippino. + +'Thy father will come along that road ere long,' she said, and joy sang +in her voice. + +Then one evening as she watched as usual her heart beat quickly. Surely +that figure riding so slowly along was Fra Diamante? But where was +Filippo, and why did his friend ride so slowly? + +When he came near and entered the house she looked into his face, and +all the joy faded from her eyes. + +'You need not tell me,' she cried; 'I know that Filippo is dead.' + +It was but too true. The faithful friend had brought the sad news +himself. No one could tell how Filippo had died. A few short hours of +pain and then all was over. Some talked of poison. But who could tell? + +There had just been time to send his farewell to Lucrezia, and to pray +his friend to take charge of little Filippino. + +So, as she listened, joy died out of Lucrezia's life. Spring might come +again, and summer sunshine make others glad, but for her it would be +ever cold, bleak winter. For never more should her heart grow warm in +the sunshine of Filippo's smile--that sunshine which had made every one +love him, in spite of his faults, ever since he ran about the streets, +a little ragged boy, in the old city of Florence. + + + +SANDRO BOTTICELLI + +We must now go back to the days when Fra Filippo Lippi painted his +pictures and so brought fame to the Carmine Convent. + +There was at that time in Florence a good citizen called Mariano +Filipepi, an honest, well-to-do man, who had several sons. These sons +were all taught carefully and well trained to do each the work he +chose. But the fourth son, Alessandro, or Sandro as he was called, was +a great trial to his father. He would settle to no trade or calling. +Restless and uncertain, he turned from one thing to another. At one +time he would work with all his might, and then again become as idle +and fitful as the summer breeze. He could learn well and quickly when +he chose, but then there were so few things that he did choose to +learn. Music he loved, and he knew every song of the birds, and +anything connected with flowers was a special joy to him. No one knew +better than he how the different kinds of roses grew, and how the +lilies hung upon their stalks. + +'And what, I should like to know, is going to be the use of all this,' +the good father would say impatiently, 'as long as thou takest no pains +to read and write and do thy sums? What am I to do with such a boy, I +wonder?' + +Then in despair the poor man decided to send Sandro to a neighbour's +workshop, to see if perhaps his hands would work better than his head. + +The name of this neighbour was Botticelli, and he was a goldsmith, and +a very excellent master of his art. He agreed to receive Sandro as his +pupil, so it happened that the boy was called by his master's name, and +was known ever after as Sandro Botticelli. + +Sandro worked for some time with his master, and quickly learned to +draw designs for the goldsmith's work. + +In those days painters and goldsmiths worked a great deal together, and +Sandro often saw designs for pictures and listened to the talk of the +artists who came to his master's shop. Gradually, as he looked and +listened, his mind was made up. He would become a painter. All his +restless longings and day dreams turned to this. All the music that +floated in the air as he listened to the birds' song, the gentle +dancing motion of the wind among the trees, all the colours of the +flowers, and the graceful twinings of the rose-stems--all these he +would catch and weave into his pictures. Yes, he would learn to paint +music and motion, and then he would be happy. + +'So now thou wilt become a painter,' said his father, with a hopeless +sigh. + +Truly this boy was more trouble than all the rest put together. Here he +had just settled down to learn how to become a good goldsmith, and now +he wished to try his hand at something else. Well, it was no use saying +'no.' The boy could never be made to do anything but what he wished. +There was the Carmelite monk Fra Filippo Lippi, of whom all, men were +talking. It was said he was the greatest painter in Florence. The boy +should have the best teaching it was possible to give him, and perhaps +this time he would stick to his work. + +So Sandro was sent as a pupil to Fra Filippo, and he soon became a +great favourite with the happy, sunny-tempered master. The quick eye of +the painter soon saw that this was no ordinary pupil. There was +something about Sandro's drawing that was different to anything that +Filippo had ever seen before. His figures seemed to move, and one +almost heard the wind rustling in their flowing drapery. Instead of +walking, they seemed to be dancing lightly along with a swaying motion +as if to the rhythm of music. The very rose-leaves the boy loved to +paint, seemed to flutter down to the sound of a fairy song. Filippo was +proud of his pupil. + +'The world will one day hear more of my Sandro Botticelli,' he said; +and, young though the boy was, he often took him to different places to +help him in his work. + +So it happened that, in that wonderful spring of Filippo's life, Sandro +too was at Prato, and worked there with Fra Diamante. And in after +years when the master's little daughter was born, she was named +Alessandra, after the favourite pupil, to whom was also left the +training of little Filippino. + +Now, indeed, Sandros good old father had no further cause to complain. +The boy had found the work he was most fitted for, and his name soon +became famous in Florence. + +It was the reign of gaiety and pleasure in the city of Florence at that +time. Lorenzo the Magnificent, the son of Cosimo de Medici, was ruler +now, and his court was the centre of all that was most splendid and +beautiful. Rich dresses, dainty food, music, gay revels, everything +that could give pleasure, whether good or bad, was there. + +Lorenzo, like his father, was always glad to discover a new painter, +and Botticelli soon became a great favourite at court. + +But pictures of saints and angels were somewhat out of fashion at that +time, for people did not care to be reminded of anything but earthly +pleasures. So Botticelli chose his subjects to please the court, and +for a while ceased to paint his sad-eyed Madonnas. + +What mattered to him what his subject was? Let him but paint his +dancing figures, tripping along in their light flowing garments, +keeping time to the music of his thoughts, and the subject might be one +of the old Greek tales or any other story that served his purpose. + +All the gay court dresses, the rich quaint robes of the fair ladies, +helped to train the young painter's fancy for flowing draperies and +wonderful veils of filmy transparent gauze. + +There was one fair lady especially whom Sandro loved to paint--the +beautiful Simonetta, as she is still called. + +First he painted her as Venus, who was born of the sea foam. In his +picture she floats to the shore standing in a shell, her golden hair +wrapped round her. The winds behind blow her onward and scatter pink +and red roses through the air. On the shore stands Spring, who holds +out a mantle, flowers nestling in its folds, ready to enwrap the +goddess when the winds shall have wafted her to land. + +Then again we see her in his wonderful picture of 'Spring,' and in +another called 'Mars and Venus.' She was too great a lady to stoop to +the humble painter, and he perhaps only looked up to her as a star +shining in heaven, far out of the reach of his love. But he never +ceased to worship her from afar. He never married or cared for any +other fair face, just as the great poet Dante, whom Botticelli admired +so much, dreamed only of his one love, Beatrice. + +But Sandro did not go sadly through life sighing for what could never +be his. He was kindly and good-natured, full of jokes, and ready to +make merry with his pupils in the workshop. + +It once happened that one of these pupils, Biagio by name, had made a +copy of one of Sandro's pictures, a beautiful Madonna surrounded by +eight angels. This he was very anxious to sell, and the master kindly +promised to help him, and in the end arranged the matter with a citizen +of Florence, who offered to buy it for six gold pieces. + +'Well, Biagio,' said Sandro, when his pupil came into the studio next +morning, 'I have sold thy picture. Let us now hang it up in a good +light that the man who wishes to buy it may see it at its best. Then +will he pay thee the money.' + +Biagio was overjoyed. + +'Oh, master,' he cried, 'how well thou hast done.' + +Then with hands which trembled with excitement the pupil arranged the +picture in the best light, and went to fetch the purchaser. + +Now meanwhile Botticelli and his other pupils had made eight caps of +scarlet pasteboard such as the citizens of Florence then wore, and +these they fastened with wax on to the heads of the eight angels in the +picture. + +Presently Biagio came back panting with joyful excitement, and brought +with him the citizen, who knew already of the joke. The poor boy looked +at his picture and then rubbed his eyes. What had happened? Where were +his angels? The picture must be bewitched, for instead of his angels he +saw only eight citizens in scarlet caps. + +He looked wildly around, and then at the face of the man who had +promised to buy the picture. Of course he would refuse to take such a +thing. + +But, to his surprise, the citizen looked well pleased, and even praised +the work. + +'It is well worth the money,' he said; 'and if thou wilt return with me +to my house, I will pay thee the six gold pieces.' + +Biagio scarcely knew what to do. He was so puzzled and bewildered he +felt as if this must be a bad dream. + +As soon as he could, he rushed back to the studio to look again at that +picture, and then he found that the red-capped citizens had +disappeared, and his eight angels were there instead. This of course +was not surprising, as Sandro and his pupils had quickly removed the +wax and taken off the scarlet caps. + +'Master, master,' cried the astonished pupil, 'tell me if I am +dreaming, or if I have lost my wits? When I came in just now, these +angels were Florentine citizens with red caps on their heads, and now +they are angels once more. What may this mean?' + +'I think, Biagio, that this money must have turned thy brain round,' +said Botticelli gravely. 'If the angels had looked as thou sayest, dost +thou think the citizen would have bought the picture?' + +'That is true,' said Biagio, shaking his head solemnly; 'and yet I +swear I never saw anything more clearly.' + +And the poor boy, for many a long day, was afraid to trust his own +eyes, since they had so basely deceived him. + +But the next thing that happened at the studio did not seem like a joke +to the master, for a weaver of cloth came to live close by, and his +looms made such a noise and such a shaking that Sandro was deafened, +and the house shook so greatly that it was impossible to paint. + +But though Botticelli went to the weaver and explained all this most +courteously, the man answered roughly, 'Can I not do what I like with +my own house?' So Sandro was angry, and went away and immediately +ordered a great square of stone to be brought, so big that it filled a +waggon. This he had placed on the top of his wall nearest to the +weaver's house, in such a way that the least shake would bring it +crashing down into the enemy's workshop. + +When the weaver saw this he was terrified, and came round at once to +the studio. + +'Take down that great stone at once,' he shouted. 'Do you not see that +it would crush me and my workshop if it fell?' + +'Not at all,' said Botticelli. 'Why should I take it down? Can I not do +as I like with my own house?' + +And this taught the weaver a lesson, so that he made less noise and +shaking, and Sandro had the best of the joke after all. + +There were no idle days of dreaming now for Sandro. As soon as one +picture was finished another was wanted. Money flowed in, and his purse +was always full of gold, though he emptied it almost as fast as it was +filled. His work for the Pope at Rome alone was so well paid that the +money should have lasted him for many a long day, but in his usual +careless way he spent it all before he returned to Florence. + +Perhaps it was the gay life at Lorenzo's splendid court that had taught +him to spend money so carelessly, and to have no thought but to eat, +drink, and be merry. But very soon a change began to steal over his +life. + +There was one man in Florence who looked with sad condemning eyes on +all the pleasure-loving crowd that thronged the court of Lorenzo the +Magnificent. In the peaceful convent of San Marco, whose walls the +angel-painter had covered with pictures 'like windows into heaven,' the +stern monk Savonarola was grieving over the sin and vanity that went on +around him. He loved Florence with all his heart, and he could not bear +the thought that she was forgetting, in the whirl of pleasure, all that +was good and pure and worth the winning. + +Then, like a battle-cry, his voice sounded through the city, and roused +the people from their foolish dreams of ease and pleasure. Every one +flocked to the great cathedral to hear Savonarola preach, and Sandro +Botticelli left for a while his studio and his painting and became a +follower of the great preacher. Never again did he paint those pictures +of earthly subjects which had so delighted Lorenzo. When he once more +returned to his work, it was to paint his sad-eyed Madonnas; and the +music which still floated through his visions was now like the song of +angels. + +The boys of Florence especially had grown wild and rough during the +reign of pleasure, and they were the terror of the city during carnival +time. They would carry long poles, or 'stili,' and bar the streets +across, demanding money before they would let the people pass. This +money they spent on drinking and feasting, and at night they set up +great trees in the squares or wider streets and lighted huge bonfires +around them. Then would begin a terrible fight with stones, and many of +the boys were hurt, and some even killed. + +No one had been able to put a stop to this until Savonarola made up his +mind that it should cease. Then, as if by magic, all was changed. + +Instead of the rough game of 'stili,' there were altars put up at the +corners of the streets, and the boys begged money of the passers-by, +not for their feasts, but for the poor. + +'You shall not miss your bonfire,' said Savonarola; 'but instead of a +tree you shall burn up vain and useless things, and so purify the city.' + +So the children went round and collected all the 'vanities,' as they +were called--wigs and masks and carnival dresses, foolish songs, bad +books, and evil pictures; all were heaped high and then lighted to make +one great bonfire. + +Some people think that perhaps Sandro threw into the Bonfire of +Vanities some of his own beautiful pictures, but that we cannot tell. + +Then came the sad time when the people, who at one time would have made +Savonarola their king, turned against him, in the same fickle way that +crowds will ever turn. And then the great preacher, who had spent his +life trying to help and teach them, and to do them good, was burned in +the great square of that city which he had loved so dearly. + +After this it was long before Botticelli cared to paint again. He was +old and weary now, poor and sad, sick of that world which had treated +with such cruelty the master whom he loved. + +One last picture he painted to show the triumph of good over evil. Not +with the sword or the might of great power is the triumph won, says +Sandro to us by this picture, but by the little hand of the Christ +Child, conquering by love and drawing all men to Him. This Adoration of +the Magi is in our own National Gallery in London, and is the only +painting which Botticelli ever signed. + +'I, Alessandro, painted this picture during the troubles of Italy ... +when the devil was let loose for the space of three and a half years. +Afterwards shall he be chained, and we shall see him trodden down as in +this picture.' + +It is evident that Botticelli meant by this those sad years of struggle +against evil which ended in the martyrdom of the great preacher, and he +has placed Savonarola among the crowd of worshippers drawn to His feet +by the Infant Christ. + +It is sad to think of those last days when Sandro was too old and too +weary to paint. He who had loved to make his figures move with dancing +feet, was now obliged to walk with crutches. The roses and lilies of +spring were faded now, and instead of the music of his youth he heard +only the sound of harsh, ungrateful voices, in the flowerless days of +poverty and old age. + +There is always something sad too about his pictures, but through the +sadness, if we listen, we may hear the angel-song, and understand it +better if we have in our minds the prayer which Botticelli left for us. + +'Oh, King of Wings and Lord of Lords, who alone rulest always in +eternity, and who correctest all our wanderings, giver of melody to the +choir of angels, listen Thou a little to our bitter grief, and come and +rule us, oh Thou highest King, with Thy love which is so sweet.' + + + +DOMENICO GHIRLANDAIO + +Ghirlandaio! what a difficult name that sounds to our English ears. But +it has a very simple meaning, and when you understand it the difficulty +will vanish. + +It all happened in this way. Domenico's father was a goldsmith, one of +the cleverest goldsmiths in Florence, and he was specially famous for +making garlands or wreaths of gold and silver. It was the fashion then +for the young maidens of Florence to wear these garlands, or +'ghirlande' as they were called, on their heads, and because this +goldsmith made them better than any one else they gave him the name of +Ghirlandaio, which means 'maker of garlands,' and that became the +family name. + +When the time came for the boy Domenico to learn a trade, he was sent, +of course, to his father's workshop. He learned so quickly, and worked +with such strong, clever fingers, that his father was delighted. + +'The boy will make the finest goldsmith of his day,' he said proudly, +as he watched him twisting the delicate golden wire and working out his +designs in beaten silver. + +So he was set to make the garlands, and for a while he was contented +and happy. It was such exquisite work to twine into shape the graceful +golden leaves, with here and there a silver lily or a jewelled rose, +and to dream of the fair head on which the garland would rest. + +But the making of garlands did not satisfy Domenico for long, and like +Botticelli he soon began to dream of becoming a painter. + +You must remember that in those days goldsmiths and painters had much +in common, and often worked together. The goldsmith made his picture +with gold and silver and jewels, while the painter drew his with +colours, but they were both artists. + +So as the young Ghirlandaio watched these men draw their great designs +and listened to their talk, he began to feel that the goldsmith's work +was cramped and narrow, and he longed for a larger, grander work. Day +by day the garlands were more and more neglected, and every spare +moment was spent drawing the faces of those who came to the shop, or +even those of the passers-by. + +But although, ere long, Ghirlandaio left his father's shop and learned +to make pictures with colours, instead of with gold, silver, and +jewels, still the training he had received in his goldsmith's work +showed to the end in all his pictures. He painted the smallest things +with extreme care, and was never tired of spreading them over with +delicate ornaments and decorations. It is a great deal the outward show +with Ghirlandaio, and not so much the inward soul, that we find in his +pictures, though he had a wonderful gift of painting portraits. + +These portraits painted by the young Ghirlandaio seemed very wonderful +to the admiring Florentines. From all his pictures looked out faces +which they knew and recognised immediately. There, in a group of +saints, or in a crowd of figures around the Infant Christ, they saw the +well-known faces of Florentine nobles, the great ladies from the +palaces, ay, and even the men of the market-place, and the poor peasant +women who sold eggs and vegetables in the streets. Once he painted an +old bishop with a pair of spectacles resting on his nose. It was the +first time that spectacles had ever been put into a picture. + +Then off he must go to Rome, like every one else, to add his share to +the famous frescoes of the Vatican. But it was in Florence that most of +his work was done. + +In the church of Santa Maria Novella there was a great chapel which +belonged to the Ricci family. It had once been covered by beautiful +frescoes, but now it was spoilt by damp and the rain that came through +the leaking roof. The noble family, to whom the chapel belonged, were +poor and could not afford to have the chapel repainted, but neither +would they allow any one else to decorate it, lest it should pass out +of their hands. + +Now another noble family, called the Tournabuoni, when they heard of +the fame of the new painter, greatly desired to have a chapel painted +by him in order to do honour to their name and family. + +Accordingly they went to the Ricci family and offered to have the whole +chapel painted and to pay the artist themselves. Moreover, they said +that the arms or crest of the Ricci family should be painted in the +most honourable part of the chapel, that all might see that the chapel +still belonged to them. + +To this the Ricci family gladly agreed, and Ghirlandaio was set to work +to cover the walls with his frescoes. + +'I will give thee twelve hundred gold pieces when it is done,' said +Giovanni Tournabuoni, 'and if I like it well, then shalt thou have two +hundred more.' + +Here was good pay indeed. Ghirlandaio set to work with all speed, and +day by day the frescoes grew. For four years he worked hard, from +morning until night, until at last the walls were covered. + +One of the subjects which he chose for these frescoes was the story of +the Life of the Virgin, so often painted by Florentine artists. This +story I will tell you now, that your eyes may take greater pleasure in +the pictures when you see them. + +The Bible story of the Virgin Mary begins when the Angel Gabriel came +to tell her of the birth of the Baby Jesus, but there are many stories +or legends about her before that time, and this is one which the +Italians specially loved to paint. + +Among the blue hills of Galilee, in the little town of Nazareth, there +lived a man and his wife whose names were Joachim and Anna. Though they +were rich and had many flocks of sheep which fed in the rich pastures +around, still there was one thing which God had not given them and +which they longed for more than all beside. They had no child. They had +hoped that God would send one, but now they were both growing old, and +hope began to fade. + +Joachim was a very good man, and gave a third of all that he had as an +offering to the temple; but one sad day when he took his gift, the high +priest at the altar refused to take it. + +'God has shown that He will have nought of thee,' said the priest, +'since thou hast no child to come after thee.' + +Filled with shame and grief Joachim would not go home to his wife, but +instead he wandered out into the far-of fields where his shepherds were +feeding the flocks, and there he stayed forty days. With bowed head and +sad eyes when he was alone, he knelt and prayed that God would tell him +what he had done to deserve this disgrace. + +And as he prayed God sent an angel to comfort him. + +The angel placed his hand upon the bowed head of the poor old man, and +told him to be of good cheer and to return home at once to his wife. + +'For God will even now send thee a child,' said the angel. + +So with a thankful heart which never doubted the angel's word, Joachim +turned his face homewards. + +Meanwhile, at home, Anna had been sorrowing alone. That same day she +had gone into the garden, and, as she wandered among the flowers, she +wept bitterly and prayed that God would send her comfort. Then there +appeared to her also an angel, who told her that God had heard her +prayer and would send her the child she longed for. + +'Go now,' the angel added, 'and meet thy husband Joachim, who is even +now returning to thee, and thou shall find him at the entrance to the +Golden Gate.' + +So the husband and wife did as the angel bade them, and met together at +the Golden Gate. And the Angel of Promise hovered above them, and laid +a hand in blessing upon both their heads. + +There was no need for speech. As Joachim and Anna looked into each +other's eyes and read there the solemn joy of the angel's message, +their hearts were filled with peace and comfort. + +And before long the angel's promise was fulfilled, and a little +daughter was born to Anna and Joachim. In their joy and thankfulness +they said she should not be as other children, but should serve in the +temple as little Samuel had done. The name they gave the child was +Mary, not knowing even then that she was to be the mother of our Lord. + +The little maid was but three years old when her parents took her to +present her in the temple. She was such a little child that they almost +feared she might be frightened to go up the steps to the great temple +and meet the high priest alone. So they asked if she might go in +company with the other children who were also on their way to the +temple. But when the little band arrived at the temple steps, Mary +stepped forward and began to climb up, step by step, alone, while the +other children and her parents watched wondering from below. Straight +up to the temple gates she climbed, and stood with little head bent low +to receive the blessing of the great high priest. + +So the child was left there to be taught to serve God and to learn how +to embroider the purple and fine linen for the priests' vestments. +Never before had such exquisite embroidery been done as that which +Mary's fingers so delicately stitched, for her work was aided by angel +hands. Sleeping or waking, the blessed angels never left her. + +When it was time that the maiden should be married, so many suitors +came to seek her that it was difficult to know which to choose. To +decide the matter they were all told to bring their staves or wands and +leave them in the temple all night, that God might show by a sign who +was the most worthy to be the guardian of the pure young maid. + +Now among the suitors was a poor carpenter of Nazareth called Joseph, +who was much older and much poorer than any of the other suitors. They +thought it was foolish of him to bring his staff, nevertheless it was +placed in the temple with the others. + +But when the morning came and the priest went into the temple, behold, +Joseph's staff had budded into leaves and flowers, and from among the +blossoms there flew out a dove as white as snow. + +So it was known that Joseph was to take charge of the young maid, and +all the rest of the suitors seized their staves and broke them across +their knees in rage and disappointment. + +Then the story goes on to the birth of our Saviour as it is told to you +in the Bible. + +It was this story which Ghirlandaio painted on the walls of the chapel, +as well as the history of John the Baptist. Then, as Giovanni directed, +he painted the arms of the Tournabuoni on various shields all over the +chapel, and only in the tabernacle of the sacrament on the high altar +he painted a tiny coat of arms of the Ricci family. + +The chapel was finished at last and every one flocked to see it, but +first of all came the Ricci, the owners of the chapel. + +They looked high and low, but nowhere could they see the arms of their +family. Instead, on all sides, they saw the arms of the Tournabuoni. In +a great rage they hurried to the Council and demanded that Giovanni +Tournabuoni should be punished. But when the facts were explained, and +it was shown that the Ricci arms had indeed been placed in the most +honourable part, they were obliged to be content, though they vowed +vengeance against the Tournabuoni. Neither did Ghirlandaio get his +extra two hundred gold pieces, for although Giovanni was delighted with +the frescoes he never paid the price he had promised. + +To the end of his days Ghirlandaio loved nothing so much as to work +from morning till night. Nothing was too small or mean for him to do. +He would even paint the hoops for women's baskets rather than send any +work away from his shop. + +'Oh,' he cried, one day, 'how I wish I could paint all the walls around +Florence with my stories.' + +But there was no time to do all that. He was only forty-four years old +when Death came and bade him lay down his brushes and pencil, for his +work was done. + +Beneath his own frescoes they laid him to rest in the church of Santa +Maria Novella. And although we sometimes miss the soul in his pictures +and weary of the gay outward decoration of goldsmith's work, yet there +is something there which makes us love the grand show of fair ladies +and strong men in the carefully finished work of this Florentine 'Maker +of Garlands.' + + + +FILIPPINO LIPPI + +The little curly-haired Filippino, left in the charge of good Fra +Diamante, soon showed that he meant to be a painter like his father. +When, as a little boy, he drew his pictures and showed them proudly to +his mother, he told her that he, too, would learn some day to be a +great artist. And she, half smiling, would pat his curly head and tell +him that he could at least try his best. + +Then, after that sad day when Lucrezia heard of Filippo's death, and +the happy little home was broken up, Fra Diamante began in earnest to +train the boy who had been left under his care. He had plenty of money, +for Filippo had been well paid for the work at Spoleto, and so it was +decided that the boy should be placed in some studio where he could be +taught all that was necessary. + +There was no fear of Filippino ever wandering about the Florentine +streets cold and hungry as his father had done. And his training was +very different too. Instead of the convent and the kind monks, he was +placed under the care of a great painter, and worked in the master's +studio with other boys as well off as himself. + +The name of Filippino's master was Sandro Botticelli, a Florentine +artist, who had been one of Filippo's pupils and had worked with him in +Prato. Fra Diamante knew that he was the greatest artist now in +Florence, and that he would be able to teach the child better than any +one else. + +Filippino was a good, industrious boy, and had none of the faults which +had so often led his father into so much mischief and so many strange +adventures. His boyhood passed quietly by and he learned all that his +master could teach him, and then began to paint his own pictures. + +Strangely enough, his first work was to paint the walls of the Carmille +Chapel--that same chapel where Filippo and Diamante had learned their +lessons, and had gazed with such awe and reverence on Masaccio's work. + +The great painter, Ugly Tom, was dead, and there were still parts of +the chapel unfinished, so Filippino was invited to fill the empty +spaces with his work. No need for the new prior to warn this young +painter against the sin of painting earthly pictures. The frescoes +which daily grew beneath Filippino's hands were saintly and beautiful. +The tall angel in flowing white robes who so gently leads St. Peter out +of the prison door, shines with a pure fair light that speaks of +Heaven. The sleeping soldier looks in contrast all the more dull and +heavy, while St. Peter turns his eyes towards his gentle guide and +folds his hands in reverence, wrapped in the soft reflected light of +that fair face. And on the opposite wall, the sad face of St. Peter +looks out through the prison bars, while a brother saint stands +outside, and with uplifted hand speaks comforting words to the poor +prisoner. + +By slow degrees the chapel walls were finished, and after that there +was much work ready for the young painter's hand. It is said that he +was very fond of studying old Roman ornaments and painted them into his +pictures whenever it was possible, and became very famous for this kind +of work. But it is the beauty of his Madonnas and angels that makes us +love his pictures, and we like to think that the memory of his gentle +mother taught him how to paint those lovely faces. + +Perhaps of all his pictures the most beautiful is one in the church of +the Badia in Florence. It tells the story of the blessed St. Bernard, +and shows the saint in his desert home, as he sat among the rocks +writing the history of the Madonna. He had not been able to write that +day; perhaps he felt dull, and none of his books, scattered around, +were of any help. Then, as he sat lost in thought, with his pen in his +hand, the Virgin herself stood before him, an angel on either side, and +little angel faces pressed close behind her. Laying a gentle hand upon +his book, she seems to tell St. Bernard all those golden words which +his poor earthly pen had not been able yet to write. + +It used to be the custom long ago in Italy to place in the streets +sacred pictures or figures, that passers-by might be reminded of holy +things and say a prayer in passing. And still in many towns you will +find in some old dusty corner a beautiful picture, painted by a master +hand. A gleam of colour will catch your eye, and looking up you see a +picture or little shrine of exquisite blue-and-white glazed pottery, +where the Madonna kneels and worships the Infant Christ lying amongst +the lilies at her feet. The old battered lamp which hangs in front of +these shrines is still kept lighted by some faithful hand, and in +spring-time the children will often come and lay little bunches of +wild-flowers on the ledge below. + +'It is for the Jesu Bambino,' they will say, and their little faces +grow solemn and reverent as they kneel and say a prayer. Then off again +they go to their play. + +In a little side-street of Prato, not far from the convent where +Filippino's father first saw Lucrezia's lovely face in the sunny +garden, there is one of these wayside shrines. It is painted by +Filippino, and is one of his most beautiful pictures. The sweet face of +the Madonna looks down upon the busy street below, and the Holy Child +lifts His little hand in blessing, amid the saints which stand on +either side. + +The glass that covers the picture is thick with dust, and few who pass +ever stop to look up. The world is all too busy nowadays. The hurrying +feet pass by, the unseeing eyes grow more and more careless. But +Filippino's beautiful Madonna looks on with calm, sad eyes, and the +Christ Child, surrounded by the cloud of little angel faces, still +holds in His uplifted hand a blessing for those who seek it. + +Like all the great Florentine artists, Filippino, as soon as he grew +famous, was invited to Rome, and he painted many pictures there. On his +way he stopped for a while at Spoleto, and there he designed a +beautiful marble monument for his father's tomb. + +Unlike that father, Filippino was never fond of travel or adventure, +and was always glad to return to Florence and live his quiet life +there. Not even an invitation from the King of Hungary could tempt him +to leave home. + +It was in the great church of Santa Maria Novella in Florence that +Filippino painted his last frescoes. They are very real and lifelike, +as one of the great painter's pupils once learned to his cost. +Filippino had, of course, many pupils who worked under him. They ground +his colours and watched him work, and would sometimes be allowed to +prepare the less important parts of the picture. + +Now it happened that one day when the master had finished his work and +had left the chapel, that one of the pupils lingered behind. His sharp +eye had caught sight of a netted purse which lay in a dark corner, +dropped there by some careless visitor, or perhaps by the master +himself. The boy darted back and caught up the treasure; but at that +moment the master turned back to fetch something he had forgotten. The +boy looked quickly round. Where could he hide his prize? In a moment +his eye fell on a hole in the wall, underneath a step which Filippino +had been painting in the fresco. That was the very place, and he ran +forward to thrust the purse inside. But, alas! the hole was only a +painted one, and the boy was fairly caught, and was obliged with shame +and confusion to give up his prize. + +Scarcely were these frescoes finished when Filippino was seized with a +terrible fever, and he died almost as suddenly as his father had done. + +In those days when there was a funeral of a prince in Florence, the +Florentines used to shut their shops, and this was considered a great +mark of respect, and was paid only to those of royal blood. But on the +day that Filippino's funeral passed along the Via dei Servi, every shop +there was closed and all Florence mourned for him. + +'Some men,' they said, 'are born princes, and some raise themselves by +their talents to be kings among men. Our Filippino was a prince in Art, +and so do we do honour to his title.' + + + +PIETRO PERUGINO + +It was early morning, and the rays of the rising sun had scarcely yet +caught the roofs of the city of Perugia, when along the winding road +which led across the plain a man and a boy walked with steady, +purposelike steps towards the town which crowned the hill in front. + +The man was poorly dressed in the common rough clothes of an Umbrian +peasant. Hard work and poverty had bent his shoulders and drawn stern +lines upon his face, but there was a dignity about him which marked him +as something above the common working man. + +The little boy who trotted barefoot along by the side of his father had +a sweet, serious little face, but he looked tired and hungry, and +scarcely fit for such a long rough walk. They had started from their +home at Castello delle Pieve very early that morning, and the piece of +black bread which had served them for breakfast had been but small. +Away in front stretched that long, white, never-ending road; and the +little dusty feet that pattered so bravely along had to take hurried +runs now and again to keep up with the long strides of the man, while +the wistful eyes, which were fixed on that distant town, seemed to +wonder if they would really ever reach their journey's end. + +'Art tired already, Pietro?' asked the father at length, hearing a +panting little sigh at his side. 'Why, we are not yet half-way there! +Thou must step bravely out and be a man, for to-day thou shalt begin to +work for thy living, and no longer live the life of an idle child.' + +The boy squared his shoulders, and his eyes shone. + +'It is not I who am tired, my father,' he said. 'It is only that my +legs cannot take such good long steps as thine; and walk as we will the +road ever seems to unwind itself further and further in front, like the +magic white thread which has no end.' + +The father laughed, and patted the child's head kindly. + +'The end will come ere long,' he said. 'See where the mist lies at the +foot of the hill; there we will begin to climb among the olive-trees +and leave the dusty road. I know a quicker way by which we may reach +the city. We will climb over the great stones that mark the track of +the stream, and before the sun grows too hot we will have reached the +city gates.' + +It was a great relief to the little hot, tired feet to feel the cool +grass beneath them, and to leave the dusty road. The boy almost forgot +his tiredness as he scrambled from stone to stone, and filled his hands +with the violets which grew thickly on the banks, scenting the morning +air with their sweetness. And when at last they came out once more upon +the great white road before the city gates, there was so much to gaze +upon and wonder at, that there was no room for thoughts of weariness or +hunger. + +There stood the herds of great white oxen, patiently waiting to pass +in. Pietro wondered if their huge wide horns would not reach from side +to side of the narrow street within the gates. There the shepherd-boys +played sweet airs upon their pipes as they walked before their flocks, +and led the silly frightened sheep out of the way of passing carts. +Women with bright-coloured handkerchiefs tied over their heads crowded +round, carrying baskets of fruit and vegetables from the country round. +Carts full of scarlet and yellow pumpkins were driven noisily along. +Whips cracked, people shouted and talked as much with their hands as +with their lips, and all were eager to pass through the great Etruscan +gateway, which stood grim and tall against the blue of the summer sky. +Much good service had that gateway seen, and it was as strong as when +it had been first built hundreds of years before, and was still able to +shut out an army of enemies, if Perugia had need to defend herself. + +Pietro and his father quickly threaded their way through the crowd, and +passed through the gateway into the steep narrow street beyond. It was +cool and quiet here. The sun was shut out by the tall houses, and the +shadows lay so deep that one might have thought it was the hour of +twilight, but for the peep of bright blue sky which showed between the +overhanging eaves above. Presently they reached the great square +market-place, where all again was sunshine and bustle, with people +shouting and selling their wares, which they spread out on the ground +up to the very steps of the cathedral and all along in front of the +Palazzo Publico. Here the man stopped, and asked one of the passers-by +if he could direct him to the shop of Niccolo the painter. + +'Yonder he dwells,' answered the citizen, and pointed to a humble shop +at the corner of the market-place. 'Hast thou brought the child to be a +model?' + +Pietro held his head up proudly, and answered quickly for himself. + +'I am no longer a child,' he said; 'and I have come to work and not to +sit idle.' + +The man laughed and went his way, while father and son hurried on +towards the little shop and entered the door. + +The old painter was busy, and they had to wait a while until he could +leave his work and come to see what they might want. + +'This is the boy of whom I spoke,' said the father as he pushed Pietro +forward by his shoulder. 'He is not well grown, but he is strong, and +has learnt to endure hardness. I promise thee that he will serve thee +well if thou wilt take him as thy servant.' + +The painter smiled down at the little eager face which was waiting so +anxiously for his answer. + +'What canst thou do?' he asked the boy. + +'Everything,' answered Pietro promptly. 'I can sweep out thy shop and +cook thy dinner. I will learn to grind thy colours and wash thy +brushes, and do a man's work.' + +'In faith,' laughed the painter, 'if thou canst do everything, being +yet so young, thou wilt soon be the greatest man in Perugia, and bring +great fame to this fair city. Then will we call thee no longer Pietro +Vanucci, but thou shalt take the city's name, and we will call thee +Perugino.' + +The master spoke in jest, but as time went on and he watched the boy at +work, he marvelled at the quickness with which the child learned to +perform his new duties, and began to think the jest might one day turn +to earnest. + +From early morning until sundown Pietro was never idle, and when the +rough work was done he would stand and watch the master as he painted, +and listen breathless to the tales which Niccolo loved to tell. + +'There is nothing so great in all the world as the art of painting,' +the master would say. 'It is the ladder that leads up to heaven, the +window which lets light into the soul. A painter need never be lonely +or poor. He can create the faces he loves, while all the riches of +light and colour and beauty are always his. If thou hast it in thee to +be a painter, my little Perugino, I can wish thee no greater fortune.' + +Then when the day's work was done and the short spell of twilight drew +near, the boy would leave the shop and run swiftly down the narrow +street until he came to the grim old city gates. Once outside, under +the wide blue sky in the free open air of the country, he drew a long, +long breath of pleasure, and quickly found a hidden corner in the cleft +of the hoary trunk of an olive-tree, where no passer-by could see him. +There he sat, his chin resting on his hands, gazing and gazing out over +the plain below, drinking in the beauty with his hungry eyes. + +How he loved that great open space of sweet fresh air, in the calm pure +light of the evening hour. That white light, which seemed to belong +more to heaven than to earth, shone on everything around. Away in the +distance the purple hills faded into the sunset sky. At his feet the +plain stretched away, away until it met the mountains, here and there +lifting itself in some little hill crowned by a lonely town whose roofs +just caught the rays of the setting sun. The evening mist lay like a +gossamer veil upon the low-lying lands, and between the little towns +the long straight road could be seen, winding like a white ribbon +through the grey and silver, and marked here and there by a dark +cypress-tree or a tall poplar. And always there would be a glint of +blue, where a stream or river caught the reflection of the sky and held +it lovingly there, like a mirror among the rocks. + +But Pietro did not have much time for idle dreaming. His was not an +easy life, for Niccolo made but little money with his painting, and the +boy had to do all the work of the house besides attending to the shop. +But all the time he was sweeping and dusting he looked forward to the +happy days to come when he might paint pictures and become a famous +artist. + +Whenever a visitor came to the shop, Pietro would listen eagerly to his +talk and try to learn something of the great world of Art. Sometimes he +would even venture to ask questions, if the stranger happened to be one +who had travelled from afar. + +'Where are the most beautiful pictures to be found?' he asked one day +when a Florentine painter had come to the little shop and had been +describing the glories he had seen in other cities. 'And where is it +that the greatest painters dwell?' + +'That is an easy question to answer, my boy,' said the painter. 'All +that is fairest is to be found in Florence, the most beautiful city in +all the world, the City of Flowers. There one may find the best of +everything, but above all, the most beautiful pictures and the greatest +of painters. For no one there can bear to do only the second best, and +a man must attain to the very highest before the Florentines will call +him great. The walls of the churches and monasteries are covered with +pictures of saints and angels, and their beauty no words can describe.' + +'I too will go to Florence, said Pietro to himself, and every day he +longed more and more to see that wonderful city. + +It was no use to wait until he should have saved enough money to take +him there. He scarcely earned enough to live on from day to day. So at +last, poor as he was, he started off early one morning and said +good-bye to his old master and the hard work of the little shop in +Perugia. On he went down the same long white road which had seemed so +endless to him that day when, as a little child, he first came to +Perugia. Even now, when he was a strong young man, the way seemed long +and weary across that great plain, and he was often foot-sore and +discouraged. Day after day he travelled on, past the great lake which +lay like a sapphire in the bosom of the plain, past many towns and +little villages, until at last he came in sight of the City of Flowers. + +It was a wonderful moment to Perugino, and he held his breath as he +looked. He had passed the brow of the hill, and stood beside a little +stream bordered by a row of tall, straight poplars which showed silvery +white against the blue sky. Beyond, nestling at the foot of the +encircling hills, lay the city of his dreams. Towers and palaces, a +crowding together of pale red sunbaked roofs, with the great dome of +the cathedral in the midst, and the silver thread of the Arno winding +its way between--all this he saw, but he saw more than this. For it +seemed to him that the Spirit of Beauty hovered above the fair city, +and he almost heard the rustle of her wings and caught a glimpse of her +rainbow-tinted robe in the light of the evening sky. + +Poor Pietro! Here was the world he longed to conquer, but he was only a +poor country boy, and how was he to begin to climb that golden ladder +of Art which led men to fame and glory? + +Well, he could work, and that was always a beginning. The struggle was +hard, and for many a month he often went hungry and had not even a bed +to lie on at night, but curled himself up on a hard wooden chest. Then +good fortune began to smile upon him. + +The Florentine artists to whose studios he went began to notice the +hardworking boy, and when they looked at his work, with all its faults +and want of finish, they saw in it that divine something called genius +which no one can mistake. + +Then the doors of another world seemed to open to Pietro. All day long +he could now work at his beloved painting and learn fresh wonders as he +watched the great men use the brush and pencil. In the studio of the +painter Verocchio he met the men of whose fame he had so often heard, +and whose work he looked upon with awe and reverence. + +There was the good-tempered monk of the Carmine, Fra Filipo Lippi, the +young Botticelli, and a youth just his own age whom they called +Leonardo da Vinci, of whom it was whispered already that he would some +day be the greatest master of the age. + +These were golden days for Perugino, as he was called, for the name of +the city where he had come from was always now given to him. The +pictures he had longed to paint grew beneath his hand, and upon his +canvas began to dawn the solemn dignity and open-air spaciousness of +those evening visions he had seen when he gazed across the Umbrian +Plain. There was no noise of battle, no human passion in his pictures. +His saints stood quiet and solemn, single figures with just a thread of +interest binding them together, and always beyond was the great wide +open world, with the white light shining in the sky, the blue thread of +the river, and the single trees pointing upwards--dark, solemn cypress, +or feathery larch or poplar. + +There was much for the young painter still to learn, and perhaps he +learned most from the silent teaching of that little dark chapel of the +Carmine, where Masaccio taught more wonderful lessons by his frescoes +than any living artist could teach. + +Then came the crowning honour when Perugino received an invitation from +the Pope to go to Rome and paint the walls of the Sistine Chapel. Hence +forth it was a different kind of life for the young painter. No need to +wonder where he would get his next meal, no hard rough wooden chest on +which to rest his weary limbs when the day's work was done. Now he was +royally entertained and softly lodged, and men counted it an honour to +be in his company. + +But though he loved Florence and was proud to do his painting in Rome, +his heart ever drew him back to the city on the hill whose name he bore. + +Again he travelled along the winding road, and his heart beat fast as +he drew nearer and saw the familiar towers and roofs of Perugia. How +well he remembered that long-ago day when the cool touch of the grass +was so grateful to his little tired dusty feet! He stooped again to +fill his hands with the sweet violets, and thought them sweeter than +all the fame and fair show of the gay cities. + +And as he passed through the ancient gateway and threaded his way up +the narrow street towards the little shop, he seemed to see once more +the kindly smile of his old master and to hear him say, 'Thou wilt soon +be the greatest man in Perugia, and we will call thee no longer Pietro +Vanucci, but Perugino.' + +So it had come to pass. Here he was. No longer a little ragged, hungry +boy, but a man whom all delighted to honour. Truly this was a world of +changes! + +A bigger studio was needed than the little old shop, for now he had +more pictures to paint than he well knew how to finish. Then, too, he +had many pupils, for all were eager to enter the studio of the great +master. There it was that one morning a new pupil was brought to him, a +boy of twelve, whose guardians begged that Perugino would teach and +train him. + +Perugino looked with interest at the child. Seldom had he seen such a +beautiful oval face, framed by such soft brown curls--a face so pure +and lovable that even at first sight it drew out love from the hearts +of those who looked at him. + +'His father was also a painter,' said the guardian, 'and Raphael, here, +has caught the trick of using his pencil and brush, so we would have +him learn of the greatest master in the land.' + +After some talk, the boy was left in the studio at Perugia, and day by +day Perugino grew to love him more. It was not only that little Raphael +was clever and skilful, though that alone often made the master marvel. + +'He is my pupil now, but some day he will be my master, and I shall +learn of him,' Perugino would often say as he watched the boy at work. +But more than all, the pure sweet nature and the polished gentleness of +his manners charmed the heart of the master, and he loved to have the +boy always near him, and to teach him was his greatest pleasure. + +Those quiet days in the Perugia studio never lasted very long. From all +quarters came calls to Perugino, and, much as he loved work, he could +not finish all that was wanted. + +It happened once when he was in Florence that a certain prior begged +him to come and fresco the walls of his convent. This prior was very +famous for making a most beautiful and expensive blue colour which he +was anxious should be used in the painting of the convent walls. He was +a mean, suspicious man, and would not trust Perugino with the precious +blue colour, but always held it in his own hands and grudgingly doled +it out in small quantities, torn between the desire to have the colour +on his walls and his dislike to parting with anything so precious. + +As Perugino noted this, he grew angry and determined to punish the +prior's meanness. The next time therefore that there was a blue sky to +be painted, he put at his side a large bowl of fresh water, and then +called on the prior to put out a small quantity of the blue colour in a +little vase. Each time he dipped his brush into the vase, Perugino +washed it out with a swirl in the bowl at his side, so that most of the +colour was left in the water, and very little was put on to the picture. + +'I pray thee fill the vase again with blue,' he said carelessly when +the colour was all gone. The prior groaned aloud, and turned grudgingly +to his little bag. + +'Oh what a quantity of blue is swallowed up by this plaster!' he said, +as he gazed at the white wall, which scarcely showed a trace of the +precious colour. + +'Yes,' said Perugino cheerfully, 'thou canst see thyself how it goes.' + +Then afterwards, when the prior had sadly gone off with his little +empty bag, Perugino carefully poured the water from the bowl and +gathered together the grains of colour which had sunk to the bottom. + +'Here is something that belongs to thee,' he said sternly to the +astonished prior. 'I would have thee learn to trust honest men and not +treat them as thieves. For with all thy suspicious care, it was easy to +rob thee if I had had a mind.' + +During all these years in which Perugino had worked so diligently, the +art of painting had been growing rapidly. Many of the new artists shook +off the old rules and ideas, and began to paint in quite a new way. +There was one man especially, called Michelangelo, whose story you will +hear later on, who arose like a giant, and with his new way and greater +knowledge swept everything before him. + +Perugino was jealous of all these new ideas, and clung more closely +than ever to his old ideals, his quiet, dignified saints, and spacious +landscapes. He talked openly of his dislike of the new style, and once +he had a serious quarrel with the great Michelangelo. + +There was a gathering of painters in Perugino's studio that day. +Filippino Lippi, Botticelli, Ghirlandaio, and Leonardo were there, and +in the background the pupil Raphael was listening to the talk. + +'What dost thou think of this new style of painting?' asked Botticelli. +'To me it seems but strange and unpleasing. Music and motion are +delightful, but this violent twisting of limbs to show the muscles +offends my taste.' + +'Yet it is most marvellously skilful,' said the young Leonardo +thoughtfully. + +'But totally unfit for the proper picturing of saints and the blessed +Madonna,' said Filippino, shaking his curly head. + +'I never trouble myself about it,' said Ghirlandaio. 'Life is too short +to attend to other men's work. It takes all my care and attention to +look after mine own. But see, here comes the great Michelangelo himself +to listen to our criticism.' + +The curious, rugged face of the great artist looked good-naturedly on +the company, but his strong knotted hands waved aside their greetings. + +'So you were busy as usual finding fault with my work,' he said. 'Come, +friend Perugino, tell me what thou hast found to grumble at.' + +'I like not thy methods, and that I tell thee frankly,' answered +Perugino, an angry light shining in his eyes. 'It is such work as thine +that drags the art of painting down from the heights of heavenly things +to the low taste of earth. It robs it of all dignity and restfulness, +and destroys the precious traditions handed down to us since the days +of Giotto.' + +The face of Michelangelo grew angry and scornful as he listened to this. + +'Thou art but a dolt and a blockhead in Art,' he said. 'Thou wilt soon +see that the day of thy saints and Madonnas is past, and wilt cease to +paint them over and over again in the same manner, as a child doth his +lesson in a copy book.' + +Then he turned and went out of the studio before any one had time to +answer him. + +Perugino was furiously angry and would not listen to reason, but must +needs go before the great Council and demand that they should punish +Michelangelo for his hard words. This of course the Council refused to +do, and Perugino left Florence for Perugia, angry and sore at heart. + +It seemed hard, after all his struggles and great successes, that as he +grew old people should begin to tire of his work, which they had once +thought so perfect. + +But if the outside world was sometimes disappointing, he had always his +home to turn to, and his beautiful wife Chiare. He had married her in +his beloved Perugia, and she meant all the joy of life to him. He was +so proud of her beauty that he would buy her the richest dresses and +most costly jewels, and with his own hands would deck her with them. +Her brown eyes were like the depths of some quiet pool, her fair face +and the wonderful soul that shone there were to him the most perfect +picture in the world. + +'I will paint thee once, that the world may be the richer,' said +Perugino, 'but only once, for thy beauty is too rare for common use. +And I will paint thee not as an earthly beauty, but thou shalt be the +angel in the story of Tobias which thou knowest.' + +So he painted her as he said. And in our own National Gallery we still +have the picture, and we may see her there as the beautiful angel who +leads the little boy Tobias by the hand. + +Up to the very last years of his life, Perugino painted as diligently +as he had ever done, but the peaceful days of Perugia had long since +given place to war and tumult, both within and without the city. Then +too a terrible plague swept over the countryside, and people died by +thousands. + +To the hospital of Fartignano, close to Perugia, they carried Perugino +when the deadly plague seized him, and there he died. There was no time +to think of grand funerals; the people were buried as quickly as +possible, in whatever place lay closest at hand. + +So it came to pass that Perugino was laid to rest in an open field +under an oak-tree close by. Later on his sons wished to have him buried +in holy ground, and some say that this was done, but nothing is known +for certain. Perhaps if he could have chosen, he would have been glad +to think that his body should rest under the shelter of the trees he +loved to paint, in that waste openness of space which had always been +his vision of beauty, since, as a little boy, he gazed across the +Umbrian Plain, and the wonder of it sank into his soul. + + + +LEONARDO DA VINCI + +On the sunny slopes of Monte Albano, between Florence and Pisa, the +little town of Vinci lay high among the rocks that crowned the steep +hillside. It was but a little town. Only a few houses crowded together +round an old castle in the midst, and it looked from a distance like a +swallow's nest clinging to the bare steep rocks. + +Here in the year 1452 Leonardo, son of Ser Piero da Vinci, was born. It +was in the age when people told fortunes by the stars, and when a baby +was born they would eagerly look up and decide whether it was a lucky +or unlucky star which shone upon the child. Surely if it had been +possible in this way to tell what fortune awaited the little Leonardo, +a strange new star must have shone that night, brighter than the others +and unlike the rest in the dazzling light of its strength and beauty. + +Leonardo was always a strange child. Even his beauty was not like that +of other children. He had the most wonderful waving hair, falling in +regular ripples, like the waters of a fountain, the colour of bright +gold, and soft as spun silk. His eyes were blue and clear, with a +mysterious light in them, not the warm light of a sunny sky, but rather +the blue that glints in the iceberg. They were merry eyes too, when he +laughed, but underneath was always that strange cold look. There was a +charm about his smile which no one could resist, and he was a favourite +with all. Yet people shook their heads sometimes as they looked at him, +and they talked in whispers of the old witch who had lent her goat to +nourish the little Leonardo when he was a baby. The woman was a dealer +in black magic, and who knew but that the child might be a changeling? + +It was the old grandmother, Mona Lena, who brought Leonardo up and +spoilt him not a little. His father, Ser Piero, was a lawyer, and spent +most of his time in Florence, but when he returned to the old castle of +Vinci, he began to give Leonardo lessons and tried to find out what the +boy was fit for. But Leonardo hated those lessons and would not learn, +so when he was seven years old he was sent to school. + +This did not answer any better. The rough play of the boys was not to +his liking. When he saw them drag the wings off butterflies, or torture +any animal that fell into their hands, his face grew white with pain, +and he would take no share in their games. The Latin grammar, too, was +a terrible task, while the many things he longed to know no one taught +him. + +So it happened that many a time, instead of going to school, he would +slip away and escape up into the hills, as happy as a little wild goat. +Here was all the sweet fresh air of heaven, instead of the stuffy +schoolroom. Here were no cruel, clumsy boys, but all the wild creatures +that he loved. Here he could learn the real things his heart was hungry +to know, not merely words which meant nothing and led to nowhere. + +For hours he would lie perfectly still with his heels in the air and +his chin resting in his hands, as he watched a spider weaving its web, +breathless with interest to see how the delicate threads were turned in +and out. The gaily painted butterflies, the fat buzzing bees, the +little sharp-tongued green lizards, he loved to watch them all, but +above everything he loved the birds. Oh, if only he too had wings to +dart like the swallows, and swoop and sail and dart again! What was the +secret power in their wings? Surely by watching he might learn it. +Sometimes it seemed as if his heart would burst with the longing to +learn that secret. It was always the hidden reason of things that he +desired to know. Much as he loved the flowers he must pull their petals +of, one by one, to see how each was joined, to wonder at the dusty +pollen, and touch the honey-covered stamens. Then when the sun began to +sink he would turn sadly homewards, very hungry, with torn clothes and +tired feet, but with a store of sunshine in his heart. + +His grandmother shook her head when Leonardo appeared after one of his +days of wandering. + +'I know thou shouldst be whipped for playing truant,' she said; 'and I +should also punish thee for tearing thy clothes.' + +'Ah! but thou wilt not whip me,' answered Leonardo, smiling at her with +his curious quiet smile, for he had full confidence in her love. + +'Well, I love to see thee happy, and I will not punish thee this time,' +said his grandmother; 'but if these tales reach thy father's ears, he +will not be so tender as I am towards thee.' + +And, sure enough, the very next time that a complaint was made from the +school, his father happened to be at home, and then the storm burst. + +'Next time I will flog thee,' said Ser Piero sternly, with rising anger +at the careless air of the boy. 'Meanwhile we will see what a little +imprisonment will do towards making thee a better child.' + +Then he took the boy by the shoulders and led him to a little dark +cupboard under the stairs, and there shut him up for three whole days. + +There was no kicking or beating at the locked door. Leonardo sat +quietly there in the dark, thinking his own thoughts, and wondering why +there seemed so little justice in the world. But soon even that wonder +passed away, and as usual when he was alone he began to dream dreams of +the time when he should have learned the swallows' secrets and should +have wings like theirs. + +But if there were complaints about Leonardo's dislike of the boys and +the Latin grammar, there would be none about the lessons he chose to +learn. Indeed, some of the masters began to dread the boy's eager +questions, which were sometimes more than they could answer. Scarcely +had he begun the study of arithmetic than he made such rapid progress, +and wanted to puzzle out so many problems, that the masters were +amazed. His mind seemed always eagerly asking for more light, and was +never satisfied. + +But it was out on the hillside that he spent his happiest hours. He +loved every crawling, creeping, or flying thing, however ugly. Curious +beasts which might have frightened another child were to him charming +and interesting. There as he listened to the carolling of the birds and +bent his head to catch the murmured song of the mountain-streams, the +love of music began to steal into his heart. + +He did not rest then until he managed to get a lute and learned how to +play upon it. And when he had mastered the notes and learned the rules +of music, he began to play airs which no one had ever heard before, and +to sing such strange sweet songs that the golden notes flowed out as +fresh and clear as the song of a lark in the early morning of spring. + +'The child is a changeling,' said some, as they saw Leonardo tenderly +lift a crushed lizard in his hand, or watched him play with a spotted +snake or great hairy spider. + +'A changeling perhaps,' said others, 'but one that hath the voice of an +angel.' For every one stopped to listen when the boy's voice was heard +singing through the streets of the little town. + +He was a puzzle to every one, and yet a delight to all, even when they +understood him least. + +So time went on, and when Leonardo was thirteen his father took him +away to Florence that he might begin to be trained for some special +work. But what work? Ah! that was the rub. The boy could do so many +things well that it was difficult to fix on one. + +At that time there was living in Florence an old man who knew a great +deal about the stars, and who made wonderful calculations about them. +He was a famous astronomer, but he cared not at all for honour or fame, +but lived a simple quiet life by himself and would not mix with the gay +world. + +Few visitors ever came to see him, for it was known that he would +receive no one, and so it was a great surprise to old Toscanelli when +one night a gentle knock sounded at his door, and a boy walked quietly +in and stood before him. + +Hastily the old man looked up, and his first thought was to ask the +child how he dared enter without leave, and then ask him to be gone, +but as he looked at the fair face he felt the charm of the curious +smile, and the light in the blue eyes, and instead he laid his hand +upon the boy's golden head and said: 'What dost thou seek, my son?' + +'I would learn all that thou canst teach me,' said Leonardo, for it was +he. + +The old man smiled. + +'Behold the boundless self-confidence of youth!' he said. + +But as they talked together, and the boy asked his many eager +questions, a great wonder awoke in the astronomer's mind, and his eyes +shone with interest. This child-mind held depths of understanding such +as he had never met with among his learned friends. Day after day the +old man and the boy bent eagerly together over their problems, and when +night fell Toscanelli would take the child up with him to his lonely +tower above Florence, and teach him to know the stars and to understand +many things. + +'This is all very well,' said Ser Piero, 'but the boy must do more than +mere star-gazing. He must earn a living for himself, and methinks we +might make a painter of him.' + +That very day, therefore, he gathered together some of Leonardo's +drawings which lay carelessly scattered about, and took them to the +studio of Verocchio the painter, who lived close by the Ponte Vecchio. + +'Dost thou think thou canst make aught of the boy?' he asked, spreading +out the drawings before Verocchio. + +The painter's quick eyes examined the work with deep interest. + +'Send him to me at once,' he said. 'This is indeed marvellous talent.' + +So Leonardo entered the studio as a pupil, and learned all that could +be taught him with the same quickness with which he learned anything +that he cared to know. + +Every one who saw his work declared that he would be the wonder of the +age, but Verocchio shook his head. + +'He is too wonderful,' he said. 'He aims at too great perfection. He +wants to know everything and do everything, and life is too short for +that. He finishes nothing, because he is ever starting to do something +else.' + +Verocchio's words were true; the boy seldom worked long at one thing. +His hands were never idle, and often, instead of painting, he would +carve out tiny windmills and curious toys which worked with pulleys and +ropes, or made exquisite little clay models of horses and all the other +animals that he loved. But he never forgot the longing that had filled +his heart when he was a child--the desire to learn the secret of flying. + +For days he would sit idle and think of nothing but soaring wings, then +he would rouse himself and begin to make some strange machine which he +thought might hold the secret that he sought. + +'A waste of time,' growled Verocchio. 'See here, thou wouldst be better +employed if thou shouldst set to work and help me finish this picture +of the Baptism for the good monks of Vallambrosa. Let me see how thou +canst paint in the kneeling figure of the angel at the side.' + +For a while the boy stood motionless before the picture as if he was +looking at something far away. Then he seized the brushes with his left +hand and began to paint with quick certain sweep. He never stopped to +think, but worked as if the angel were already there, and he were but +brushing away the veil that hid it from the light. + +Then, when it was done, the master came and looked silently on. For a +moment a quick stab of jealousy ran through his heart. Year after year +had he worked and striven to reach his ideal. Long days of toil and +weary nights had he spent, winning each step upwards by sheer hard +work. And here was this boy without an effort able to rise far above +him. All the knowledge which the master had groped after, had been +grasped at once by the wonderful mind of the pupil. But the envious +feeling passed quickly away, and Verocchio laid his hand upon +Leonardo's shoulder. + +'I have found my master,' he said quietly, 'and I will paint no more.' + +Leonardo scarcely seemed to hear; he was thinking of something else +now, and he seldom noticed if people praised or blamed him. His +thoughts had fixed themselves upon something he had seen that morning +which had troubled him. On the way to the studio he had passed a tiny +shop in a narrow street where a seller of birds was busy hanging his +cages up on the nails fastened to the outside wall. + +The thought of those poor little prisoners beating their wings against +the cruel bars and breaking their hearts with longing for their wild +free life, had haunted him all day, and now he could bear it no longer. +He seized his cap and hurried off, all forgetful of his kneeling angel +and the master's praise. + +He reached the little shop and called to the man within. + +'How much wilt thou take for thy birds?' he cried, and pointed to the +little wooden cages that hung against the wall. + +'Plague on them,' answered the man, 'they will often die before I can +make a sale by them. Thou canst have them all for one silver piece.' + +In a moment Leonardo had paid the money and had turned towards the row +of little cages. One by one he opened the doors and set the prisoners +free, and those that were too frightened or timid to fly away, he +gently drew out with his hand, and sent them gaily whirling up above +his head into the blue sky. + +The man looked with blank astonishment at the empty cages, and wondered +if the handsome young man was mad. But Leonardo paid no heed to him, +but stood gazing up until every one of the birds had disappeared. + +'Happy things,' he said, with a sigh. 'Will you ever teach me the +secret of your wings, I wonder?' + +It was with great pleasure that Ser Piero heard of his son's success at +Verocchio's studio, and he began to have hopes that the boy would make +a name for himself after all. It happened just then that he was on a +visit to his castle at Vinci, and one morning a peasant who lived on +the estate came to ask a great favour of him. + +He had bought a rough wooden shield which he was very anxious should +have a design painted on it in Florence, and he begged Ser Piero to see +that it was done. The peasant was a faithful servant, and very useful +in supplying the castle with fish and game, so Ser Piero was pleased to +grant him his request. + +'Leonardo shall try his hand upon it. It is time he became useful to +me,' said Ser Piero to himself. So on his return to Florence he took +the shield to his son. + +It was a rough, badly-shaped shield, so Leonardo held it to the fire +and began to straighten it. For though his hands looked delicate and +beautifully formed, they were as strong as steel, and he could bend +bars of iron without an effort. Then he sent the shield to a turner to +be smoothed and rounded, and when it was ready he sat down to think +what he should paint upon it, for he loved to draw strange monsters. + +'I will make it as terrifying as the head of Medusa,' he said at last, +highly delighted with the plan that had come into his head. + +Then he went out and collected together all the strangest animals he +could find--lizards, hedgehogs, newts, snakes, dragon-flies, locusts, +bats, and glow-worms. These he took into his own room, which no one was +allowed to enter, and began to paint from them a curious monster, +partly a lizard and partly a bat, with something of each of the other +animals added to it. + +When it was ready Leonardo hung the shield in a good light against a +dark curtain, so that the painted monster stood out in brilliant +contrast, and looked as if its twisted curling limbs were full of life. + +A knock sounded at the door, and Ser Piero's voice was heard outside +asking if the shield was finished. + +'Come in,' cried Leonardo, and Ser Piero entered. + +He cast one look at the monster hanging there and then uttered a cry +and turned to flee, but Leonardo caught hold of his cloak and +laughingly told him to look closer. + +'If I have really succeeded in frightening thee,' he said, 'I have +indeed done all I could desire.' + +His father could scarcely believe that it was nothing but a painting, +and he was so proud of the work that he would not part with it, but +gave the peasant of Vinci another shield instead. + +Leonardo then began a drawing for a curtain which was to be woven in +silk and gold and given as a present from the Florentines to the King +of Portugal, and he also began a large picture of the Adoration of the +Shepherds which was never finished. + +The young painter grew restless after a while, and felt the life of the +studio narrow and cramped. He longed to leave Florence and find work in +some new place. + +He was not a favourite at the court of Lorenzo the Magnificent as +Filippino Lippi and Botticelli were. Lorenzo liked those who would +flatter him and do as they were bid, while Leonardo took his own way in +everything and never said what he did not mean. + +But it happened that just then Lorenzo wished to send a present to +Ludovico Sforza, the Duke of Milan, and the gift he chose was a +marvellous musical instrument which Leonardo had just finished. + +It was a silver lute, made in the form of a horse's head, the most +curious and beautiful thing ever seen. Lorenzo was charmed with it. + +'Thou shalt take it thyself, as my messenger,' he said to Leonardo. 'I +doubt if another can be found who can play upon it as thou dost.' + +So Leonardo set out for Milan, and was glad to shake himself free from +the narrow life of the Florentine studio. + +Before starting, however, he had written a letter to the Duke setting +down in simple order all the things he could do, and telling of what +use he could be in times of war and in days of peace. + +There seemed nothing that he could not do. He could make bridges, blow +up castles, dig canals, invent a new kind of cannon, build warships, +and make underground passages. In days of peace he could design and +build houses, make beautiful statues and paint pictures 'as well as any +man, be he who he may.' + +The letter was written in curious writing from right to left like +Hebrew or Arabic. This was how Leonardo always wrote, using his left +hand, so that it could only be read by holding the writing up to a +mirror. + +The Duke was half amazed and half amused when the letter reached him. + +'Either these are the words of a fool, or of a man of genius,' said the +Duke. And when he had once seen and spoken to Leonardo he saw at once +which of the two he deserved to be called. + +Every one at the court was charmed with the artist's beautiful face and +graceful manners. His music alone, as he swept the strings of the +silver lute and sang to it his own songs, would have brought him fame, +but the Duke quickly saw that this was no mere minstrel. + +It was soon arranged therefore that Leonardo should take up his abode +at the court of Milan and receive a yearly pension from the Duke. + +Sometimes the pension was paid, and sometimes it was forgotten, but +Leonardo never troubled about money matters. Somehow or other he must +have all that he wanted, and everything must be fair and dainty. His +clothes were always rich and costly, but never bright-coloured or +gaudy. There was no plume or jewelled brooch in his black velvet +beretto or cap, and the only touch of colour was his golden hair, and +the mantle of dark red cloth which he wore in the fashion of the +Florentines, thrown across his shoulder. Above all, he must always have +horses in his stables, for he loved them more than human beings. + +Many were the plans and projects which the Duke entrusted to Leonardo's +care, but of all that he did, two great works stand out as greater than +all the rest. One was the painting of the Last Supper on the walls of +the refectory of Santa Maria delle Grazie, and the other the making of +a model of a great equestrian statue, a bronze horse with the figure of +the Duke upon its back. + +'Year after year Leonardo worked at that wonderful fresco of the Last +Supper. Sometimes for weeks or months he never touched it, but he +always returned to it again. Then for days he would work from morning +till night, scarcely taking time to eat, and able to think of nothing +else, until suddenly he would put down his brushes and stand silently +for a long, long time before the picture. It seemed as if he was +wasting the precious hours doing nothing, but in truth he worked more +diligently with his brain when his hands were idle. + +Often too when he worked at the model for the great bronze horse, he +would suddenly stop, and walk quickly through the streets until he came +to the refectory, and there, catching up his brushes, he would paint in +one or perhaps two strokes, and then return to his modelling. + +Besides all this Leonardo was busy with other plans for the Duke's +amusement, and no court fete was counted successful without his help. +Nothing seemed too difficult for him to contrive, and what he did was +always new and strange and wonderful. + +Once when the King of France came as a guest to Milan, Leonardo +prepared a curious model of a lion, which by some inside machinery was +able to walk forward several steps to meet the King, and then open wide +its huge jaws and display inside a bed of sweet-scented lilies, the +emblem of France, to do honour to her King. But while working at other +things Leonardo never forgot his longing to learn the secret art of +flying. Every now and then a new idea would come into his head, and he +would lay aside all other work until he had made the new machine which +might perhaps act as the wings of a bird. Each fresh disappointment +only made him more keen to try again. + +'I know we shall some day have wings,' he said to his pupils, who +sometimes wondered at the strange work of the master's hands. 'It is +only a question of knowing how to make them. I remember once when I was +a baby lying in my cradle, I fancied a bird flew to me, opened my lips +and rubbed its feathers over them. So it seems to be my fate all my +life to talk of wings.' + +Very slowly the great fresco of the Last Supper grew under the master's +hand until it was nearly finished. The statue, too, was almost +completed, and then evil days fell upon Milan. The Duke was obliged to +flee before the French soldiers, who forced their way into the town and +took possession of it. Before any one could prevent it, the soldiers +began to shoot their arrows at the great statue, which they used as a +target, and in a few hours the work of sixteen years was utterly +destroyed. It is sadder still to tell the fate of Leonardo's fresco, +the greatest picture perhaps that ever was painted. Dampness lurked in +the wall and began to dim and blur the colours. The careless monks cut +a door through the very centre of the picture, and, later on, when +Napoleon's soldiers entered Milan, they used the refectory as a stable, +and amused themselves by throwing stones at what remained of it. But +though little of it is left now to be seen, there is still enough to +make us stand in awe and reverence before the genius of the great +master. + +Not far from Milan there lived a friend of Leonardo's, whom the master +loved to visit. This Girolamo Melzi had a son called Francesco, a +little motherless boy, who adored the great painter with all his heart. + +Together Leonardo and the child used to wander out to search for +curious animals and rare flowers, and as they watched the spiders weave +their webs and pulled the flowers to pieces to find out their secrets, +the boy listened with wide wondering eyes to all the tales which the +painter told him. And at night Leonardo wrapped the little one close +inside his warm cloak and carried him out to see the stars--those same +stars which old Toscanelli had taught him to love long ago in Florence. +Then when the day of parting came the child clung round the master's +neck and would not let him go. + +'Take me with thee,' he cried, 'do not leave me behind all alone.' + +'I cannot take thee now, little one,' said Leonardo gently. 'Thou art +still too small, but later on thou shalt come to me and be my pupil. +This I promise thee.' + +It was but a weary wandering life that awaited Leonardo after he was +forced to leave his home in Milan. It seemed as if it was his fate to +begin many things but to finish nothing. For a while he lived in Rome, +but he did little real work there. + +For several years he lived in Florence and began to paint a huge +battle-picture. There too he painted the famous portrait of Mona Lisa, +which is now in Paris. Of all portraits that have ever been painted +this is counted the most wonderful and perfect piece of work, although +Leonardo himself called it unfinished. + +By this time the master had fallen on evil days. All his pupils were +gone, and his friends seemed to have forgotten him. He was sitting +before the fire one stormy night, lonely and sad, when the door opened +and a tall handsome lad came in. + +'Master!' he cried, and kneeling down he kissed the old man's hands. +'Dost thou not know me? I am thy little Francesco, come to claim thy +promise that I should one day be thy servant and pupil. + +Leonardo laid his hand upon the boy's fair head and looked into his +face. + +'I am growing old,' he said, 'and I can no longer do for thee what I +might once have done. I am but a poor wanderer now. Dost thou indeed +wish to cast in thy lot with mine?' + +'I care only to be near thee,' said the boy. 'I will go with thee to +the ends of the earth.' + +So when, soon after, Leonardo received an invitation from the new King +of France, he took the boy with him, and together they made their home +in the little chateau of Claux near the town of Amboise. + +The master's hair was silvered now, and his long beard was as white as +snow. His keen blue eyes looked weary and tired of life, and care had +drawn many deep lines on his beautiful face. Sad thoughts were always +his company. The one word 'failure' seemed to be written across his +life. What had he done? He had begun many things and had finished but +few. His great fresco was even now fading away and becoming dim and +blurred. His model for the marvellous horse was destroyed. A few +pictures remained, but these had never quite reached his ideal. The +crowd who had once hailed him as the greatest of all artists, could now +only talk of Michelangelo and the young Raphael. Michelangelo himself +had once scornfully told him he was a failure and could finish nothing. + +He was glad to leave Italy and all its memories behind, and he hoped to +begin work again in his quiet little French home. But Death was drawing +near, and before many years had passed he grew too weak to hold a brush +or pencil. + +It was in the springtime of the year that the end came. Francesco had +opened the window and gently lifted the master in his strong young +arms, that he might look once more on the outside world which he loved +so dearly. The trees were putting on their dainty dress of tender +green, white clouds swept across the blue sky, and April sunshine +flooded the room. + +As he looked out, the master's tired eyes woke into life. + +'Look!' he cried, 'the swallows have come back! Oh that they would lend +me their wings that I might fly away and be at rest!' + +The swallows darted and circled about in the clear spring air, busy +with their building plans, but Francesco thought he heard the rustle of +other wings, as the master's soul, freed from the tired body, was at +last borne upwards higher than any earthly wings could soar. + + + +RAPHAEL + +Among the marvellous tales of the Arabian Nights, there is a story told +of a band of robbers who, by whispering certain magic words, were able +to open the door of a secret cave where treasures of gold and silver +and precious jewels lay hid. Now, although the day of such delightful +marvels is past and gone, yet there still remains a certain magic in +some names which is able to open the secret doors of the hidden haunts +of beauty and delight. + +For most people the very name of 'Raphael' is like the 'Open Sesame' of +the robber chief in the old story. In a moment a door seems to open out +of the commonplace everyday world, and through it they see a stretch of +fair sweet country. There their eyes rest upon gentle, dark-eyed +Madonnas, who smile down lovingly upon the heavenly Child, playing at +her side or resting in her arms. The little St. John is also there, +companion of the Infant Christ; rosy, round-limbed children both, half +human and half divine. And standing in the background are a crowd of +grave, quiet figures, each one alive with interest, while over all +there is a glow of intense vivid colour. + +We know but little of the everyday life of this great artist. When we +hear his name, it is of his different pictures that we think at once, +for they are world-famous. We almost forget the man as we gaze at his +work. + +It was in the little village of Urbino, in Umbria, that Raphael was +born. His father was a painter called Giovanni Santi, and from him +Raphael inherited his love of Art. His mother, Magia, was a sweet, +gracious woman, and the little Raphael was like her in character and +beauty. It seemed as if the boy had received every good gift that +Nature could bestow. He had a lovely oval face, and soft dark eyes that +shone with a beauty that was more of heaven than earth, and told of a +soul which was as pure and lovely as his face. Above all, he had the +gift of making every one love him, so that his should have been a happy +sunshiny life. + +But no one can ever escape trouble, and when Raphael was only eight +years old, the first cloud overspread his sky. His mother died, and +soon after his father married again. + +The new mother was very young, and did not care much for children, but +Raphael did not mind that as long as he could be with his father. But +three years later a blacker cloud arose and blotted out the sunshine +from his life, for his father too died, and left him all alone. + +The boy had loved his father dearly, and it had been his great delight +to be with him in the studio, to learn to grind and mix the colours and +watch those wonderful pictures grow from day to day. + +But now all was changed. The quiet studio rang with angry voices, and +the peaceful home was the scene of continual quarrelling. Who was to +have the money, and how were the Santi estates to be divided? +Stepmother and uncle wrangled from morning until night, and no one gave +a thought to the child Raphael. It was only the money that mattered. + +Then when it seemed that the boy's training was going to be totally +neglected, kindly help arrived. Simone di Ciarla, brother of Raphael's +own mother, came to look after his little nephew, and ere long carried +him off from the noisy, quarrelsome household, and took him to Perugia. + +'Thou shalt have the best teaching in all Italy,' said Simone as they +walked through the streets of the town. 'The great master to whose +studio we go, can hold his own even among the artists of Florence. See +that thou art diligent to learn all that he can teach thee, so that +thou mayest become as great a painter as thy father.' + +'Am I to be the pupil of the great Perugino?' asked Raphael, his eyes +shining with pleasure. 'I have often heard my father speak of his +marvellous pictures.' + +'We will see if he can take thee,' answered his uncle. + +The boy's heart sunk. What if the master refused to take him as a +pupil? Must he return to idleness and the place which was no longer +home? + +But soon his fears were set at rest. Perugino, like every one else, +felt the charm of that beautiful face and gentle manner, and when he +had seen some drawings which the boy had done, he agreed readily that +Raphael should enter the studio and become his pupil. + +Perugia had been passing through evil times just before this. The two +great parties of the Oddi and Baglioni families were always at war +together. Whichever of them happened to be the stronger held the city +and drove out the other party, so that the fighting never ceased either +inside or outside the gates. The peaceful country round about had been +laid waste and desolate. The peasants did not dare go out to till their +fields or prune their olive-trees. Mothers were afraid to let their +little ones out of their sight, for hungry wolves and other wild beasts +prowled about the deserted countryside. + +Then came a day when the outside party managed to creep silently into +the city, and the most terrible fight of all began. So long and +fiercely did the battle rage that almost all the Oddi were killed. Then +for a time there was peace in Perugia and all the country round. + +So it happened that as soon as the people of Perugia had time to think +of other things besides fighting, they began to wish that their town +might be put in order, and that the buildings which had been injured +during the struggles might be restored. + +This was a good opportunity for peaceful men like Perugino, for there +was much work to be done, and both he and his pupils were kept busy +from morning till night. + +Of all his pupils, Perugino loved the young Raphael best. He saw at +once that this was no ordinary boy. + +'He is my pupil now, but soon he will be my master,' he used to say as +he watched the boy at work. + +So he taught him with all possible carefulness, and was never tired of +giving him good advice. + +'Learn first of all to draw,' he would say, when Raphael looked with +longing eyes at the colours and brushes of the master. 'Draw everything +you see, no matter what it is, but always draw and draw again. The rest +will follow; but if the knowledge of drawing be lacking, nothing will +afterwards succeed. Keep always at hand a sketch-book, and draw therein +carefully every manner of thing that meets thy eye.' + +Raphael never forgot the good advice of his master. He was never +without a sketch-book, and his drawings now are almost as interesting +as his great pictures, for they show the first thought that came into +his mind, before the picture was composed. + +So the years passed on, and Raphael learned all that the master could +teach him. At first his pictures were so like Perugino's, that it was +difficult to know whether they were the work of the master or the pupil. + +But the quiet days at Perugia soon came to an end, and Perugino went +back to Florence. For some time Raphael worked at different places near +Perugia, and then followed his master to the City of Flowers, where +every artist longed to go. Though he was still but a young man, the +world had already begun to notice his work, and Florence gladly +welcomed a new artist. + +It was just at that time that Leonardo da Vinci's fame was at its +height, and when Raphael was shown some of the great man's work, he was +filled with awe and wonder. The genius of Leonardo held him spellbound. + +'It is what I have dreamed of in my dreams,' he said. 'Oh that I might +learn his secret!' + +Little by little the new ideas sunk into his heart, and the pictures he +began to paint were no longer like those of his old master Perugino, +but seemed to breathe some new spirit. + +It was always so with Raphael. He seemed to be able to gather the best +from every one, just as the bee goes from flower to flower and gathers +its sweetness into one golden honeycomb. Only the genius of Raphael +made all that he touched his very own, and the spirit of his pictures +is unlike that of any other master. + +For many years after this he lived in Rome, where now his greatest +frescoes may be seen--frescoes so varied and wonderful that many books +have been written about them. + +There he first met Margarita, the young maiden whom he loved all his +life. It is her face which looks down upon us from the picture of the +Sistine Madonna, perhaps the most famous Madonna that ever was painted. +The little room in the Dresden Gallery where this picture now hangs +seems almost like a holy place, for surely there is something divine in +that fair face. There she stands, the Queen of Heaven, holding in her +arms the Infant Christ, with such a strange look of majesty and sadness +in her eyes as makes us realise that she was indeed fit to be the +Mother of our Lord. + +But the picture which all children love best is one in Florence called +'The Madonna of the Goldfinch.' + +It is a picture of the Holy Family, the Infant Jesus, His mother, and +the little St. John. The Christ Child is a dear little curly-headed +baby, and He stands at His mother's knee with one little bare foot +resting on hers. His hand is stretched out protectingly over a yellow +goldfinch which St. John, a sturdy little figure clad in goatskins, has +just brought to Him. The baby face is full of tender love and care for +the little fluttering prisoner, and His curved hand is held over its +head to protect it. + +'Do not hurt My bird,' He seems to say to the eager St. John, 'for it +belongs to Me and to My Father.' + +These are only two of the many pictures which Raphael painted. It is +wonderful to think how much work he did in his short life, for he died +when he was only thirty-seven. He had been at work at St. Peter's, +giving directions about some alterations, and there he was seized by a +severe chill, and in a few days the news spread like wildfire through +the country that Raphael was dead. + +It seemed almost as if it could not be true. He had been so full of +life and health, so eager for work, such a living power among men. + +But there he lay, beautiful in death as he had been in life, and over +his head was hung the picture of the 'Transfiguration,' on which he had +been at work, its colours yet wet, never to be finished by that still +hand. + +All Rome flocked to his funeral, and high and low mourned his loss. But +he left behind him a fame which can never die, a name which through all +these four hundred years has never lost the magic of its greatness. + + + +MICHELANGELO + +Sometimes in a crowd of people one sees a tall man, who stands head and +shoulders higher than any one else, and who can look far over the heads +of ordinary-sized mortals. + +'What a giant!' we exclaim, as we gaze up and see him towering above us. + +So among the crowd of painters travelling along the road to Fame we see +above the rest a giant, a greater and more powerful genius than any +that came before or after him. When we hear the name of Michelangelo we +picture to ourselves a great rugged, powerful giant, a veritable son of +thunder, who, like the Titans of old, bent every force of Nature to his +will. + +This Michelangelo was born at Caprese among the mountains of Casentino. +His father, Lodovico Buonarroti, was podesta or mayor of Caprese, and +came of a very ancient and honourable family, which had often +distinguished itself in the service of Florence. + +Now the day on which the baby was born happened to be not only a +Sunday, but also a morning when the stars were especially favourable. +So the wise men declared that some heavenly virtue was sure to belong +to a child born at that particular time, and without hesitation +Lodovico determined to call his little son Michael Angelo, after the +archangel Michael. Surely that was a name splendid enough to adorn any +great career. + +It happened just then that Lodovico's year of office ended, and so he +returned with his wife and child to Florence. He had a property at +Settignano, a little village just outside the city, and there he +settled down. + +Most of the people of the village were stone-cutters, and it was to the +wife of one of these labourers that little Michelangelo was sent to be +nursed. So in after years the great master often said that if his mind +was worth anything, he owed it to the clear pure mountain air in which +he was born, just as he owed his love of carving stone to the +unconscious influence of his nurse, the stone-cutter's wife. + +As the boy grew up he clearly showed in what direction his interest +lay. At school he was something of a dunce at his lessons, but let him +but have a pencil and paper and his mind was wide awake at once. Every +spare moment he spent making sketches on the walls of his father's +house. + +But Lodovico would not hear of the boy becoming an artist. There were +many children to provide for, and the family was not rich. It would be +much more fitting that Michelangelo should go into the silk and woollen +business and learn to make money. + +But it was all in vain to try to make the boy see the wisdom of all +this. Scold as they might, he cared for nothing but his pencil, and +even after he was severely beaten he would creep back to his beloved +work. How he envied his friend Francesco who worked in the shop of +Master Ghirlandaio! It was a joy even to sit and listen to the tales of +the studio, and it was a happy day when Francesco brought some of the +master's drawings to show to his eager friend. + +Little by little Lodovico began to see that there was nothing for it +but to give way to the boy's wishes, and so at last, when he was +fourteen years old, Michelangelo was sent to study as a pupil in the +studio of Master Ghirlandaio. + +It was just at the time when Ghirlandaio was painting the frescoes of +the chapel in Santa Maria Novella, and Michelangelo learned many +lessons as he watched the master at work, or even helped with the less +important parts. + +But it was like placing an eagle in a hawk's nest. The young eagle +quickly learned to soar far higher than the hawk could do, and ere long +began to 'sweep the skies alone.' + +It was not pleasant for the great Florentine master, whose work all men +admired, to have his drawings corrected by a young lad, and perhaps +Michelangelo was not as humble as he should have been. In the strength +of his great knowledge he would sometimes say sharp and scornful +things, and perhaps he forgot the respect due from pupil to master. + +Be that as it may, he left Ghirlandaio's studio when he was sixteen +years old, and never had another master. Thenceforward he worked out +his own ideas in his giant strength, and was the pupil of none. + +The boy Francesco was still his friend, and together they went to study +in the gardens of San Marco, where Lorenzo the Magnificent had +collected many statues and works of art. Here was a new field for +Michelangelo. Without needing a lesson he began to copy the statues in +terra-cotta, and so clever was his work that Lorenzo was delighted with +it. + +'See, now, what thou canst do with marble,' he said. 'Terra-cotta is +but poor stuff to work in.' + +Michelangelo had never handled a chisel before, but he chipped and cut +away the marble so marvellously that life seemed to spring out of the +stone. There was a marble head of an old faun in the garden, and this +Michelangelo set himself to copy. Such a wonderful copy did he make +that Lorenzo was amazed. It was even better than the original, for the +boy had introduced ideas of his own and had made the laughing mouth a +little open to show the teeth and the tongue of the faun. Lorenzo +noticed this, and turned with a smile to the young artist. + +'Thou shouldst have remembered that old folks never keep all their +teeth, but that some of them are always wanting,' he said. + +Of course Lorenzo meant this as a joke, but Michelangelo immediately +took his hammer and struck out several of the teeth, and this too +pleased Lorenzo greatly. + +There was nothing that the Magnificent ruler loved so much as genius, +so Michelangelo was received into the palace and made the companion of +Lorenzo's sons. Not only did good fortune thus smile upon the young +artist, but to his great astonishment Lodovico too found that benefits +were showered upon him, all for the sake of his famous young son. + +These years of peace, and calm, steady work had the greatest effect on +Michelangelo's work, and he learned much from the clever, brilliant men +who thronged Lorenzo's court. Then, too, he first listened to that +ringing voice which strove to raise Florence to a sense of her sins, +when Savonarola preached his great sermons in the Duomo. That teaching +sank deep into the heart of Michelangelo, and years afterwards he left +on the walls of the Sistine Chapel a living echo of those thundering +words. + +Like all the other artists, he would often go to study Masaccio's +frescoes in the little chapel of the Carmine. There was quite a band of +young artists working there, and very soon they began to look with +envious feelings at Michelangelo's drawings, and their jealousy grew as +his fame increased. At last, one day, a youth called Torriggiano could +bear it no longer, and began to make scornful remarks, and worked +himself up into such a rage that he aimed a blow at Michelangelo with +his fist, which not only broke his nose but crushed it in such a way +that he was marked for life. He had had a rough, rugged look before +this, but now the crooked nose gave him almost a savage expression +which he never lost. + +Changes followed fast after this time of quiet. Lorenzo the Magnificent +died, and his son, the weak Piero de Medici, tried to take his place as +ruler of Florence. For a time Michelangelo continued to live at the +court of Piero, but it was not encouraging to work for a master whose +foolish taste demanded statues to be made out of snow, which, of +course, melted at the first breath of spring. + +Michelangelo never forgot all that he owed to Lorenzo, and he loved the +Medici family, but his sense of justice made him unable to take their +part when trouble arose between them and the Florentine people. So when +the struggle began he left Florence and went first to Venice and then +to Bologna. From afar he heard how the weak Piero had been driven out +of the city, but more bitter still was his grief when the news came +that the solemn warning voice of the great preacher Savonarola was +silenced for ever. + +Then a great longing to see his beloved city again filled his heart, +and he returned to Florence. + +Botticelli was a sad, broken-down old man now, and Ghirlandaio was also +growing old, but Florence was still rich in great artists. Leonardo da +Vinci, Perugino, and Filippino Lippi were all there, and men talked of +the coming of an even greater genius, the young Raphael of Urbino. + +There happened just then to be at the works of the Cathedral of St. +Mary of the Flowers a huge block of marble which no one knew how to +use. Leonardo da Vinci had been invited to carve a statue out of it, +but he had refused to try, saying he could do nothing with it. But when +the marble was offered to Michelangelo his eye kindled and he stood for +a long time silent before the great white block. Through the outer +walls of stone he seemed to see the figure imprisoned in the marble, +and his giant strength and giant mind longed to go to work to set that +figure free. + +And when the last covering of marble was chipped and cut away there +stood out a magnificent figure of the young David. Perhaps he is too +strong and powerful for our idea of the gentle shepherd-lad, but he is +a wonderful figure, and Goliath might well have trembled to meet such a +young giant. + +People flocked to see the great statue, and many were the discussions +as to where it should be placed. Artists were never tired of giving +their opinion, and even of criticising the work. 'It seems to me,' said +one, 'that the nose is surely much too large for the face. Could you +not alter that?' + +Michelangelo said nothing, but he mounted the scaffolding and pretended +to chip away at the nose with his chisel. Meanwhile he let drop some +marble chips and dust upon the head of the critic beneath. Then he came +down. + +'Is that better?' he asked gravely. + +'Admirable!' answered the artist. 'You have given it life.' + +Michelangelo smiled to himself. How wise people thought themselves when +they often knew nothing about what they were talking! But the critic +was satisfied, and did not notice the smile. + +It would fill a book to tell of all the work which Michelangelo did; +but although he began so much, a great deal of it was left unfinished. +If he had lived in quieter times, his work would have been more +complete; but one after another his patrons died, or changed their +minds, and set him to work at something else before he had finished +what he was doing. + +The great tomb which Pope Julius had ordered him to make was never +finished, although Michelangelo drew out all the designs for it, and +for forty years was constantly trying to complete it. The Pope began to +think it was an evil omen to build his own tomb, so he made up his mind +that Michelangelo should instead set to work to fresco the ceiling of +the Sistine Chapel. In vain did the great sculptor repeat that he knew +but little of the art of painting. + +'Didst thou not learn to mix colours in the studio of Master +Ghirlandaio?' said Julius. 'Thou hast but to remember the lessons he +taught thee. And, besides, I have heard of a great drawing of a +battle-scene which thou didst make for the Florentines, and have seen +many drawings of thine, one especially: a terrible head of a furious +old man, shrieking in his rage, such as no other hand than thine could +have drawn. Is there aught that thou canst not do if thou hast but the +will?' + +And the Pope was right; for as soon as Michelangelo really made up his +mind to do the work, all difficulties seemed to vanish. + +It was no easy task he had undertaken. To stand upright and cover vast +walls with painting is difficult enough, but Michelangelo was obliged +to lie flat upon a scaffolding and paint the ceiling above him. Even to +look up at that ceiling for ten minutes makes the head and neck ache +with pain, and we wonder how such a piece of work could ever have been +done. + +No help would the master accept, and he had no pupils. Alone he worked, +and he could not bear to have any one near him looking on. In silence +and solitude he lay there painting those marvellous frescoes of the +story of the Creation to the time of Noah. Only Pope Julius himself +dared to disturb the master, and he alone climbed the scaffolding and +watched the work. + +'When wilt thou have finished?' was his constant cry. 'I long to show +thy work to the world.' + +'Patience, patience,' said Michelangelo. 'Nothing is ready yet.' + +'But when wilt thou make an end?' asked the impatient old man. + +'When I can,' answered the painter. + +Then the Pope lost his temper, for he was not accustomed to be answered +like this. + +'Dost thou want to be thrown head first from the scaffold?' he asked +angrily. 'I tell thee that will happen if the work is not finished at +once.' + +So, incomplete as they were, Michelangelo was obliged to uncover the +frescoes that all Rome might see them. It was many years before the +ceiling was finished or the final fresco of the Last Judgment painted +upon the end wall. + +Michelangelo lived to be a very old man, and his life was lonely and +solitary to the end. The one woman he loved, Vittoria Colonna, had +died, and with her death all brightness for him had faded. Although he +worked so much in Rome, it was always Florence that he loved. There it +was that he began the statues for the Chapel of the Medici, and there, +too, he helped to build the defences of San Miniato when the Medici +family made war upon the City of Flowers. + +So when the great man died in Rome it seemed but fit that his body +should be carried back to his beloved Florence. There it now rests in +the Church of Santa Croce, while his giant works, his great and +terrible thoughts breathed out into marble or flashed upon the walls of +the Sistine Chapel, live on for ever, filling the minds of men with a +great awe and wonder as they gaze upon them. + + + +ANDREA DEL SARTO + +Nowhere in Florence could a more honest man or a better worker be found +than Agnolo the tailor. True, there were once evil tales whispered +about him when he first opened his shop in the little street. It was +said that he was no Italian, but a foreigner who had been obliged to +flee from his own land because of a quarrel he had had with one of his +customers. People shook their heads and talked mysteriously of how the +tailor's scissors had been used as a deadly weapon in the fight. But +ere long these stories died away, and the tailor, with his wife +Constanza, lived a happy, busy life, and brought up their six children +carefully and well. + +Now out of those six children five were just the ordinary commonplace +little ones such as one would expect to meet in a tailor's household, +but the sixth was like the ugly duckling in the fairy tale--a little, +strange bird, unlike all the rest, who learned to swim far away and +soon left the old commonplace home behind him. + +The boy's name was Andrea. He was such a quick, sharp little boy that +he was sent very early to school, and had learned to read and write +before he was seven years old. As that was considered quite enough +education, his father then took him away from school and put him to +work with a goldsmith. + +It is early days to begin work at seven years old, but Andrea thought +it was quite as good as play. He was always perfectly happy if he could +have a pencil and paper, and his drawings and designs were really so +wonderfully good that his master grew to be quite proud of the child +and showed the work to all his customers. + +Next door to the goldsmith's shop there lived an old artist called +Barile, who began to take a great interest in little Andrea. Barile was +not a great painter, but still there was much that he could teach the +boy, and he was anxious to have him as a pupil. So it was arranged that +Andrea should enter the studio and learn to be an artist instead of a +goldsmith. + +For three years the boy worked steadily with his new master, but by +that time Barile saw that better teaching was needed than he could +give. So after much thought the old man went to the great Florentine +artist Piero di Cosimo, and asked him if he would agree to receive +Andrea as his pupil. 'You will find the boy no trouble,' he urged. 'He +has wonderful talent, and already he has learnt to mix his colours so +marvellously that to my mind there is no artist in Florence who knows +more about colour than little Andrea' Cosimo shook his head in +unbelief. The boy was but a child, and this praise seemed absurd. +However, the drawings were certainly extraordinary, and he was glad to +receive so clever a pupil. + +But little by little, as Cosimo watched the boy at work, his unbelief +vanished and his wonder grew, until he was as fond and proud of his +pupil as the old master had been. 'He handles his colours as if he had +had fifty years of experience,' he would say proudly, as he showed off +the boy's work to some new patron. + +And truly the knowledge of drawing and colouring seemed to come to the +boy without any effort. Not that he was idle or trusted to chance. He +was never tired of work, and his greatest joy on holidays was to go of +and study the drawings of the great Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci. +Often he would spend the whole day copying these drawings with the +greatest care, never tired of learning more and more. + +As Andrea grew older, all Florence began to take note of the young +painter--'Andrea del Sarto,' as he was called, or 'the tailor's +Andrew,' for sarto is the Italian word for tailor. + +What a splendid new star this was rising in the heaven of Art! Who +could tell how bright it would shine ere long? Perhaps the tailor's son +would yet eclipse the magic name of Raphael. His colour was perfect, +his drawing absolutely correct. They called him in their admiration +'the faultless painter.' But had he, indeed, the artist soul? That was +the question. For, perfect as his pictures were, they still lacked +something. Perhaps time would teach him to supply that want. + +Meanwhile there was plenty of work for the young artist, and when he +set up his own studio with another young painter, he was at once +invited to fresco the walls of the cloister of the Scalzo, or +bare-footed friars. + +This was the happiest time of all Andrea's life. The two friends worked +happily together, and spent many a merry day with their companions. +Every day Andrea learned to add more softness and delicacy to his +colouring until his pictures seemed verily to glow with life. Every day +he dreamed fresh dreams of the fame and honour that awaited him. And +when work was over, the two young painters would go off to meet their +friends and make merry over their supper as they told all the latest +jokes and wittiest stories, and forgot for a while the serious art of +painting pictures. + +There were twelve of these young men who met together, and each of them +was bound to bring some particular dish for the general supper. Every +one tried to think of something especially nice and uncommon, but no +one managed such surprising delicacies as Andrea. There was one special +dish which no one ever forgot. It was in the shape of a temple, with +its pillars made of sausages. The pavement was formed of little squares +of different coloured jelly, the tops of the pillars were cheese, and +the roof was of sugar, with a frieze of sweets running round it. Inside +the temple there was a choir of roast birds with their mouths wide +open, and the priests were two fat pigeons. It was the most splendid +supper-dish that ever was seen. + +Every one was fond of the clever young painter. He was so kind and +courteous to all, and so simple-hearted that it was impossible for the +others to feel jealous or to grudge him the fame and praise that was +showered upon him more and more as each fresh picture was finished. + +Then just when all gave promise of sunshine and happiness, a little +cloud rose in his blue sky, which grew and grew until it dimmed all the +glory of his life. + +In the Via di San Gallo, not very far from the street where Andrea and +his friend lodged, there lived a very beautiful woman called Lucrezia. +She was not a highborn lady, only the daughter of a working man, but +she was as proud and haughty as she was beautiful. Nought cared she for +things high and noble, she was only greedy of praise and filled with a +desire to have her own way in everything. Yet her lovely face seemed as +if it must be the mirror of a lovely soul, and when the young painter +Andrea first saw her his heart went out towards her. She was his +long-dreamed-of ideal of beauty and grace, the vision of loveliness +which he had been trying to grasp all his life. + +'What hath bewitched thee?' asked his friend as he watched Andrea +restlessly pacing up and down the studio, his brushes thrown aside and +his work left unfinished. 'Thou hast done little work for many weeks.' + +'I cannot paint,' answered Andrea, 'for I see only one face ever before +me, and it comes between me and my work.' + +'Thou art ruining all thy chances,' said the friend sadly, 'and the +face thou seest is not worth the sacrifice.' + +Andrea turned on his heel with an angry look and went out. All his +friends were against him now. No one had a good word for the beautiful +Lucrezia. But she was worth all the world to him, and he had made up +his mind to marry her. + +It was winter time, and the Christmas bells had but yesterday rung out +the tidings of the Holy Birthday when Andrea at last obtained his +heart's desire and made Lucrezia his wife. The joyful Christmastide +seemed a fit season in which to set the seal upon his great happiness, +and he thought himself the most fortunate of men. He had asked advice +of none, and had told no one what he meant to do, but the news of his +marriage was soon noised abroad. + +'Hast thou heard the news of young Andrea del Sarto?' asked the people +of Florence of one another. 'I fear he has dealt an evil blow at his +own chances of success.' + +One by one his friends left him, and many of his pupils deserted the +studio. Lucrezia's sharp tongue was unbearable, and she made mischief +among them all. Only Andrea remained blinded by her beauty, and thought +that now, with such a model always near him, he would paint as he had +never painted before. + +But little did Lucrezia care to help him with his work. His pictures +meant nothing to her except so far as they sold well and brought in +money for her to spend. Worst of all, she began to grudge the help that +he gave to his old father and mother, who now were poor and needed his +care. + +And yet, although Andrea saw all this, he still loved his beautiful +wife and cared only how he might please her. He scarcely painted a +picture that had not her face in it, for she was his ideal Madonna, +Queen of Heaven. + +But it was not so easy now to put his whole heart and soul into his +work. True, his hand drew as correctly as ever, and his colours were +even more beautiful, but often the soul seemed lacking. + +'Thou dost work but slowly,' the proud beauty would say, tired of +sitting still as his model. 'Why canst thou not paint quicker and sell +at higher prices? I have need of more gold, and the money seems to grow +scarcer week by week.' + +Andrea sighed. Truly the money vanished like magic, as Lucrezia's +jewels and dresses increased. + +'Dear heart, have a little patience,' he said. 'I can but do my best.' + +Then, as he looked at the angry discontented face of his wife, he laid +down his brushes and went to kneel beside her. + +'Lucrezia,' he said, 'there needs something besides mere drawing and +painting to make a picture. They call me "the faultless painter," and +it seemed once as if I might have reached as high or even higher than +the great Raphael. It needed but the soul put into my work, and if thou +couldst have helped me to reach my ideal, what would I not have shown +the world!' + +'I do not understand thee,' said Lucrezia petulantly, 'and this is +waste of time. Haste thee and get back to thy brushes and paints, and +see that thou drivest a better bargain with this last picture.' + +No, it was no use; she could never understand! Andrea knew that he must +look for no help from her, and that he must paint in spite of the +hindrances she placed in his way. Well, his work was still considered +most beautiful, and he must make the best of it. + +Orders for pictures came now from far and near, and before long some of +Andrea's work found its way into France; and when King Francis saw it +he was so anxious to have the painter at his court, that he sent a +royal invitation, begging Andrea to come at once to France and enter +the king's service. + +The invitation came when Andrea was feeling hopeless and dispirited. +Lucrezia gave him no peace, the money was all spent, and he was weary +of work. The thought of starting afresh in another country put new +courage into him. He made up his mind to go at once to the French +court. He would leave Lucrezia in some safe place and send her all the +money he could earn. + +How good it was to leave all his troubles behind, and to set off that +glad May day when all the world breathed of new life and new hope. +Perhaps the winter of his life was passed too, and only sunshine and +summer was in store. + +Andrea's welcome at the French court was most flattering. Nothing was +thought too good for the famous Florentine painter, and he was treated +like a prince. The king loaded him with gifts, and gave him costly +clothes and money for all his needs. A portrait of the infant Dauphin +was begun at once, for which Andrea received three hundred golden +pieces. + +Month after month passed happily by. Andrea painted many pictures, and +each one was more admired than the last. But his dream of happiness did +not last long. He was hard at work one day when a letter was brought to +him, sent by his wife Lucrezia. She could not live without him, so she +wrote. He must come home at once. If he delayed much longer he would +not find her alive. + +There could be, of course, but one answer to all this. Andrea loved his +wife too well to think of refusing her request, and the days of peace +and plenty must come to an end. Even as he read her letter he began to +long to see her again, and the thought of showing her all his gay +clothes and costly presents filled him with delight. + +But the king was very loth to let the painter go, and only at last +consented when Andrea promised most faithfully to return a few months +hence. + +'I cannot spare thee for longer,' said Francis; 'but I will let thee go +on condition that thou wilt buy for me certain works of art in Italy, +which I have long coveted, and bring them back with thee.' + +Then he entrusted to Andrea a large sum of money and bade him buy the +best pictures he could find, and afterwards return without fail. + +So Andrea journeyed back to Florence, and when he was once again with +his wife, his joy and delight in her were so great that he forgot all +his promises, forgot even the king's trust, and allowed Lucrezia to +squander all the money which was to have been spent on art treasures +for King Francis. + +Then returned the evil days of trouble and quarrelling. Added to that +the terrible feeling that he had betrayed his trust and broken his +word, made Andrea more unhappy than ever. He dared not return to +France, but took up again his work in Florence, always with the hope +that he might make enough money to repay the debt. + +Years went by and dark days fell upon the City of Flowers. She had made +a great struggle for liberty and had driven out the Medici, but they +were helped by enemies from without, and Florence was for many months +in a state of siege. There was constant fighting going on and little +time for peaceful work. + +Yet through all those troubled days Andrea worked steadily at his +painting, and paid but little heed to the fate of the city. The stir of +battle did not reach his quiet studio. There was enough strife at home; +no need to seek it outside. + +It was about this time that he painted a beautiful picture for the +Company of San Jacopo, which was used as a banner and carried in their +processions. Bad weather, wind, rain, and sunshine have spoiled some of +its beauty, but much of the loveliness still remains. It is specially a +children's picture, for Andrea painted the great saint bending over a +little child in a white robe who kneels at his feet, while another +little figure kneels close by. The boy has his hands folded together as +if in prayer, and the kind strong hand of the saint is placed lovingly +beneath the little chin. The other child is holding a book, and both +children press close against the robe of the protecting saint. + +But although Andrea could paint his pictures undisturbed while war was +raging around, there was one enemy waiting to enter Florence who +claimed attention and could not be ignored. When the triumphant troops +gained an entrance by treachery, they brought with them that deadly +scourge which was worse than any earthly enemy, the dreadful illness +called the plague. + +Perhaps Andrea had suffered for want of good food during the siege, +perhaps he was overworked and tired; but, whatever was the cause, he +was one of the first to be seized by that terrible disease. Alone he +fought the enemy, and alone he died. Lucrezia had left him as soon as +he fell ill, for she feared the deadly plague, and Andrea gladly let +her go, for he loved her to the last with the same great unselfish love. + +So passed away the faultless painter, and his was the last great name +engraved upon that golden record of Florentine Art which had made +Florence famous in the eyes of the world. Other artists came after him, +but Art was on the wane in the City of Flowers, and her glory was +slowly departing. + +We can trace no other great name upon her pages and so we close the +book, and our eyes turn towards the shores of the blue Adriatic, where +Venice, Queen of the Sea, was writing, year by year, another volume +filled with the names of her own Knights of Art. + + + +THE BELLINI + +Almost all the stories of the lives of the painters which we have been +listening to, until now, have clustered round Florence, the City of +Flowers. She was their great mother, and her sons loved her with a +deep, passionate love, thinking nothing too fair with which to deck her +beauty. Wherever they wandered she drew them back, for their very +heartstrings were wound around her, and each and all strove to give her +of their best. + +But now we come to the stories of men whose lives gather round a +different centre. Instead of the great mother-city beside the Arno, +with her strong towers and warlike citizens, the noise of battle ever +sounding in her streets, and her flowery fields encircling her on every +side, we have now Venice, Queen of the Sea. + +No warlike tread or tramp of angry crowds disturbs her fair streets, +for here are no pavements, only the cool green water which laps the +walls of her marble palaces, and gives back the sound of the dipping +oar and the soft echo of passing voices, as the gondolas glide along +her watery ways. Here are no grim grey towers of defence, but fairy +palaces of white and coloured marbles, which rise from the waters below +as if they had been built by the sea nymphs, who had fashioned them of +their own sea-shells and mother-of-pearl. + +There are no flowery meadows here, but instead the vast waters of the +lagoons, which reach out until they meet the blue arc of the sky or +touch the distant mountains which lie like a purple line upon the +horizon. Here and there tiny islands lie upon its bosom, so faint and +fairylike that they scarcely seem like solid land, reflected as they +are in the transparent water. + +But although Venice has no meadows decked with flowers and no wealth of +blossoming trees, everywhere on every side she shines with colour, this +wonderful sea-girt city. Her white marble palaces glow with a soft +amber light, the cool green water that reflects her beauty glitters in +rings of gold and blue, changing from colour to colour as each ripple +changes its form. At sunset, when the sun disappears over the edge of +the lagoon and leaves behind its trail of shining clouds, she is like a +dream-city rising from a sea of molten gold--a double city, for in the +pure gold is reflected each tower and spire, each palace and campanile, +in masses of pale yellow and quivering white light, with here and there +a burning touch of flame colour. She seems to have no connection with +the solid, ordinary cities of the world. There she lies in all her +beauty, silent and apart, like a white sea-bird floating upon the bosom +of the ocean. + +Venice had always seemed separate and distinct from the rest of the +world. Her cathedral of San Marco was never under the rule of Rome, and +her rulers, or doges, as they were called, governed the city as kings, +and did not trouble themselves with the affairs of other towns. Her +merchant princes sailed to far countries and brought home precious +spoils to add to her beauty. Everything was as rich and rare and +splendid as it was possible to make it, and she was unlike any other +city on earth. + +So the painters who lived and worked in this city of the sea had their +own special way of painting, which was different to that of the +Florentine school. + +From their babyhood these men had looked upon all this beauty of +colour, and the love of it had grown with their growth. The golden +light on the water, the pearly-grey and tinted marbles, the gay sails +of the galleys which swept the lagoons like painted butterflies, the +wide stretch of water ending in the mystery of the distant skyline--it +all sank into their hearts, and it was little wonder that they should +strive to paint colour above all things, and at last reach a perfection +such as no other school of painters has equalled. + +As with the Florentine artists, so with these Venetian painters, we +must leave many names unnoticed just now, and learn first to know those +which shine out clearest among the many bright stars of fame. + +In the beginning of the fifteenth century, four hundred years ago, when +Fra Filippo Lippi was painting in Florence, there lived in Venice a +certain Jacopo Bellini, who was a painter, and who had two sons called +Gentile and Giovanni. The father taught his boys with great care, and +gave them the best training he could, for he was anxious that his sons +should become great painters. He saw that they were both clever and +quick to learn, and he hoped great things of them. + +'Never do less than your very best,' he would say, as he taught the +boys how to draw and use their colours. 'See how the Tuscan artists +strive with one another, each desiring to do most honour to their city +of Florence. So, Gentile, I would have thee also strive to be great; +and thou, Giovanni, endeavour to be even greater than thy brother.' + +But though the boys were thus taught to try and outdo each other, still +they were always the best of friends, and there was never any unkind +rivalry between them. + +Gentile, the eldest, was fond of painting story pictures, which told +the history of Venice, and showed the magnificent doges, and nobles, +and people of the city, dressed in their rich robes. The Venetians +loved pictures which showed forth the glory of their city, and very +soon Gentile was invited to paint the walls of the Ducal Palace with +his historical pictures. + +Now Venice carried on a great trade with her ships, which sailed to +many foreign lands. These ships, loaded with merchandise, touched at +different ports, and the merchants sold their goods or took in exchange +other things which they brought back to Venice. It happened that one of +the ships which set sail for Turkey had on board among other things +several pictures painted by Giovanni Bellini. These were shown to the +Sultan of Turkey, who had never seen a picture before, and he was +amazed and delighted beyond words. His religion forbade the making of +pictures, but he paid no attention now to that law, but sent a +messenger to Venice praying that the painter Bellini might come to him +at once. + +The rulers of Venice were unwilling to spare Giovanni just then, but +they allowed Gentile to go, as his work at the Ducal Palace was +finished. + +So Gentile took his canvases and paints, and, setting sail in one of +the merchant ships, soon arrived at the court of the Grand Turk. + +He was received with every honour, and nothing was thought too good for +this wonderful painter, who could make pictures which looked like +living men. The Sultan loaded him with gifts and favours, and he lived +there like a royal prince. Each picture painted by Gentile was thought +more wonderful than the last. He painted a portrait of the Sultan, and +even one of himself, which was considered little short of magic. + +Thus a whole year passed by, and Gentile had a most delightful time and +was well contented, until one day something happened which disturbed +his peace. + +He had painted a picture of the dancing daughter of Herodias, with the +head of John the Baptist in her hand, and when it was finished he +brought it and presented it to the Sultan. + +As usual, the Sultan was charmed with the new picture; but he paused in +his praises of its beauty, and looked thoughtfully at the head of St. +John, and then frowned. + +'It seems to me,' he said, 'that there is something not quite right +about that head. I do not think a head which had just been cut off +would look exactly as that does in your picture.' + +Gentile answered courteously that he did not wish to contradict his +royal highness, but it seemed to him that the head was right. + +'We shall see,' said the Sultan calmly, and he turned carelessly to a +guard who stood close by and bade him cut of the head of one of the +slaves, that Bellini might see if his picture was really correctly +painted. + +This was more than Gentile could stand. + +'Who knows,' he said to himself, 'that the Sultan may not wish to see +next how my head would look cut off from my body!' + +So while his precious head was still safe upon his shoulders he thought +it wiser to slip quietly away and return to Venice by the very first +ship he could find. + +Meanwhile Giovanni had worked steadily on, and had far surpassed both +his father and his brother. Indeed, he had become the greatest painter +in Venice, the first of that wonderful Venetian school which learned to +paint such marvellous colour. + +With all the wealth of delicate shading spread out before his eyes, +with the ever-changing wonder of the opal-tinted sea meeting him on +every side, it was not strange that the love of colour sank into his +very heart. In his pictures we can see the golden glow which bathes the +marble palaces, the clear green of the water, the pure blues and +burning crimsons all as transparent as crystal, not mere paint but +living colour. + +Giovanni did not care to paint stories of Venice, with great crowds of +figures, as Gentile did. He loved best the Madonna and saints, single +figures full of quiet dignity. His saints are more human than those +which Fra Angelico painted, and yet they are not mere men and women, +but something higher and nobler. Instead of the angels swinging their +censers which the painter of San Marco so lovingly drew, Giovanni's +angels are little human boys, with grave sweet faces; happy children +with a look of heaven in their eyes, as they play on their little lutes +and mandolines. + +But besides the pictures of saints and angels, Giovanni had a wonderful +gift for painting portraits, and most of the great people of Venice +came to be painted by him. In our own National Gallery we have the +portrait of the Doge Loredan, which is one of those pictures which can +teach you many things when you have learned to look with seeing eyes. + +So the brothers worked together, but before long death carried off the +elder, and Giovanni was left alone. + +Though he was now very old, Giovanni worked harder than ever, and his +hand, instead of losing power, seemed to grow stronger and more and +more skilful. He was ninety years old when he died, and he worked +almost up to the last. + +The brothers were both buried in the church of SS. Giovanni e Paolo, in +the heart of Venice. There, in the dim quietness of the old church, +they lie at rest together, undisturbed by the voices of the passers-by +in the square outside, or the lapping of the water against the steps, +as the tides ebb and flow around their quiet resting-place. + + + +VITTORE CARPACCIO + +Like most of the other great painters, Giovanni Bellini had many pupils +working under him--boys who helped their master, and learned their +lessons by watching him work. Among these pupils was a boy called +Vittore Carpaccio, a sharp, clever lad, with keen bright eyes which +noticed everything. No one else learned so quickly or copied the +master's work so faithfully, and when in time he became himself a +famous painter, his work showed to the end traces of the master's +influence. + +He must have been a curious boy, this Vittore Carpaccio, for although +we know but little of his life, his pictures tell us many a tale about +him. + +In the olden days, when Venice was at the height of her glory, splendid +fetes were given in the city, and the gorgeous shows were a wonder to +behold. Early in the morning of these festa days, Carpaccio would steal +away in the dim light from the studio, before the others were astir. +Work was left behind, for who could work indoors on days like these? +There was a holiday feeling in the very air. Songs and laughter and the +echo of merry voices were heard on every side, and the city seemed one +vast playground, where all the grown-up children as well as the babies +were ready to spend a happy holiday. + +The little side-streets of Venice, cut up by canals, seem like a +veritable maze to those who do not know the city, but Carpaccio could +quickly thread his way from bridge to bridge, and by many a short cut +arrive at last at the great central water street of Venice, the Grand +Canal. Here it was easy to find a corner from which he could see the +gay pageant, and enjoy as good a view as any of those great people who +would presently come out upon the balconies of their marble palaces. + +The bridge of the Rialto, which throws its white span across the centre +of the canal, was Carpaccio's favourite perch, for from here he could +see the markets and the long row of marble palaces on either side. From +every window hung gay-coloured tapestry, Turkey carpets, silken +draperies, and delicate-tinted stuffs covered with Eastern +embroideries. The market was crowded with a throng of holiday-makers, a +garden of bright colours and from the balconies above richly dressed +ladies looked down, themselves a pageant of beauty, with their +wonderful golden hair and gleaming jewels, while green and crimson +parrots, fastened by golden chains to the marble balustrades, screamed +and flapped their wings, and delighted Carpaccio's keen eyes with their +vivid beauty. + +Then the procession of boats swept up the great waterway, and the blaze +of colour made the boy hold his breath in sheer delight. The painted +galleys, the rowers in their quaint dresses-half one colour and half +another--with jaunty feathered caps upon their floating curls, the +nobles and rulers in their crimson robes, the silken curtains of every +hue trailing their golden fringes in the cool green water, as the boats +glided past, all made up a picture which the boy never forgot. + +Then when it was all over, Carpaccio would climb down and make his way +back to the master's studio, and with the gay scene ever before his +eyes would try, day after day, to paint every detail just as he had +seen it. + +There is another thing which we learn about Carpaccio from his +pictures, and that is, that he must have loved to listen to old legends +and stories of the saints, and that he stored them up in his mind, just +as he treasured the remembrance of the gay processions and the flapping +wings of those crimson and green parrots. + +So, when he grew to be a man, and his fame began to spread, the first +great pictures he painted were of the story of St. Ursula, told in +loving detail, as only one who loved the story could do it. + +But though Carpaccio might paint pictures of these old stories, it was +always through the golden haze of Venice that he saw them. His St. +Ursula is a dainty Venetian lady, and the bedroom in which she dreams +her wonderful dream is just a room in one of the old marble palaces, +with a pot of pinks upon the window-sill, and her little high-heeled +Venetian shoes by the bedside. Whenever it was possible, Carpaccio +would paint in those scenes on which his eyes had rested since his +childhood--the painted galleys with their sails reflected in the clear +water, the dainty dresses of the Venetian ladies, their gay-coloured +parrots, pet dogs, and grinning monkeys. + +In an old church of Venice there are some pictures said to have been +painted by Carpaccio when he was a little boy only eight years old. +They are scenes taken from the Bible stories, and very funny scenes +they are too. But they show already what clever little hands and what a +thinking head the boy had, and how Venice was the background in his +mind for every story. For here is the meeting of the Queen of Sheba and +King Solomon, and instead of Jerusalem with all its glory, we see a +little wooden bridge, with King Solomon on one side and the Queen of +Sheba on the other, walking towards each other, as if they were both in +Venice crossing one of the little canals. + +There were many foreign sailors in Venice in those old days, who came +in the trading-ships from distant lands. Many of them were poor and +unable to earn money to buy food, and when they were ill there was no +one to look after them or help them. So some of the richer foreigners +founded a Brotherhood, where the poor sailors might be helped in time +of need. This Brotherhood chose St. George as their patron saint, and +when they had built a little chapel they invited Carpaccio to come and +paint the walls with pictures from the life of St. George and other +saints. + +Nothing could have suited Carpaccio better, and he began his work with +great delight, for he had still his child's love of stories, and he +would make them as gay and wonderful as possible. There we see St. +George thundering along on his war-horse, with flying hair, clad in +beautiful armour, the most perfect picture of a chivalrous knight. Then +comes the dragon breathing out flames and smoke, the most awesome +dragon that ever was seen; and there too is the picture of St. +Tryphonius taming the terrible basilisk. The little boy-saint has +folded his hands together, and looks upward in prayer, paying little +heed to the evil glare of the basilisk, who prances at his feet. A +crowd of gaily dressed courtiers stand whispering and watching behind +the marble steps, and here again in the background we have the canals +and bridges of Venice, the marble palaces and gay carpets hung from out +the windows. Everything is of the very best of its kind, and painted +with the greatest care, even to the design of the inlaid work on the +marble steps. + +As we pass from picture to picture, we wish we had known this +Carpaccio, for he must have been a splendid teller of stories; and how +he would have made us shiver with his dragons and his basilisks, and +laugh over the antics of his little boys and girls, his scarlet parrots +and green lizards. + +But although we cannot hear him tell his stories, he still speaks +through those wonderful old pictures which you will some day see when +you visit the fairyland of Italy, and pay your court to Venice, Queen +of the Sea. + + + +GIORGIONE + +As we look back upon the lives of the great painters we can see how +each one added some new knowledge to the history of Art, and unfolded +fresh beauties to the eyes of the world. Very gradually all this was +done, as a bud slowly unfolds its petals until the full-blown flower +shows forth its perfect beauty. But here and there among the painters +we find a man who stands apart from the rest, one who takes a new and +almost startling way of his own. He does not gradually add new truths +to the old ones, but makes an entirely new scheme of his own. Such a +man was Giorgione, whose story we tell to-day. + +It was at the same time as Leonardo da Vinci was the talk of the +Florentine world, that another great genius was at work in Venice, +setting his mark high above all who had gone before. Giorgio Barbarelli +was born at Castel Franco, a small town not far from Venice, and it was +to the great city of the sea that he was sent as soon as he was old +enough, there to be trained under the famous Bellini. He was a handsome +boy, tall and well-built, and with such a royal bearing that his +companions at once gave him the name of Giorgione, or George the Great. +And, as so often happened in those days, the nickname clung to him, so +that while his family name is almost forgotten he is still known as +Giorgione. + +There was much of the poet nature about Giorgione, and his love of +music was intense. He composed his own songs and sang them to his own +music upon the lute, and indeed it seemed as if there were few things +which this Great George could not do. But it was his painting that was +most wonderful, for his painted men and women seemed alive and real, +and he caught the very spirit of music in his pictures and there held +it fast. + +Giorgione early became known as a great artist, and when he was quite a +young man he was employed by the city of Venice to fresco the outside +walls of the new German Exchange. Wind and rain and the salt sea air +have entirely ruined these frescoes now, and there are but few of +Giorgione's pictures left to us, but that perhaps makes them all the +more precious in our eyes. + +Even his drawings are rare, and the one you see here is taken from a +bigger sketch in the Uffizi Gallery of Florence. It shows a man in +Venetian dress helping two women to mount one of the niches of a marble +palace in order to see some passing show, and to be out of the way of +the crowd. + +There is a picture now in the Venice Academy said to have been painted +by Giorgione, which would interest every boy and girl who loves old +stories. It tells the tale of an old Venetian legend, almost forgotten +now, but which used to be told with bated breath, and was believed to +be a matter of history. The story is this: + +On the 25th of February 1340 a terrible storm began to rage around +Venice, more terrible than any that had ever been felt before. For +three days the wild winds swept her waters and shrieked around her +palaces, churning up the sea into great waves and shaking the city to +her very foundations. Lightning and thunder never ceased, and the rain +poured down in a great sheet of grey water, until it seemed as if a +second flood had come to visit the world. Slowly but surely the waters +rose higher and higher, and Venice sunk lower and lower, and men said +that unless the storm soon ceased the city would be overwhelmed. No one +ventured out on the canals, and only an old fisherman who happened to +be in his boat was swept along by the canal of San Marco, and managed +with great difficulty to reach the steps. Very thankful to be safe on +land he tied his boat securely, and sat down to wait until the storm +should cease. As he sat there watching the lightning and hearing +nothing but the shriek of the tempest, some one touched his shoulder +and a stranger's voice sounded in his ear. + +'Good fisherman,' it said, 'wilt thou row me over to San Giorgio +Maggiore? I will pay thee well if thou wilt go.' + +The fisherman looked across the swirling waters to where the tall +bell-tower upon the distant island could just be seen through the +driving mist and rain. + +'How is it possible to row across to San Giorgio?' he asked. 'My little +boat could not live for five minutes in those raging waters.' + +But the stranger only insisted the more, and besought him to do his +best. + +So, as the fisherman was a hardy old man and had a bold, brave soul, he +loosed the boat and set off in all the storm. But, strangely enough, it +was not half so bad as he had feared, and before long the little boat +was moored safely by the steps of San Giorgio Maggiore. + +Here the stranger left the boat, but bade the fisherman wait his return. + +Presently he came back, and with him came a young man, tall and strong, +bearing himself with a knightly grace. + +'Row now to San Niccolo da Lido,' commanded the stranger. + +'How can I do that?' asked the fisherman in great fear. For San Niccolo +was far distant, and he was rowing with but one oar, which is the +custom in Venice. + +'Row boldly, for it shall be possible for thee, and thou shalt be well +paid,' replied the stranger calmly. + +So, seeing it was the will of God, the fisherman set out once more, +and, as they went, the waters spread themselves out smoothly before +them, until they reached the distant San Niccolo da Lido. + +Here an old man with a white beard was awaiting them, and when he too +had entered the boat, the fisherman was commanded to row out towards +the open sea. + +Now the tempest was raging more fiercely than ever, and lo! across the +wild waste of foaming waters an enormous black galley came bearing down +upon them. So fast did it approach that it seemed almost to fly upon +the wings of the wind, and as it came near the fisherman saw that it +was manned by fearful-looking black demons, and knew that they were on +their way to overwhelm the fair city of Venice. + +But as the galley came near the little boat, the three men stood +upright, and with outstretched arms made high above them the sign of +the cross, and commanded the demons to depart to the place from whence +they had come. + +In an instant the sea became calm, and with a horrible shriek the +demons in their black galley disappeared from view. + +Then the three men ordered the fisherman to return as he had come. So +the old man was landed at San Niccolo da Lido, the young knight at San +Giorgio Maggiore, and, last of all, the stranger landed at San Marco. + +Now when the fisherman found that his work was done, he thought it was +time that he should receive his payment. For, although he had seen the +great miracle, he had no mind to forgo his proper fare. + +'Thou art right,' said the stranger, when the fisherman made his +demand, 'and thou shalt indeed be well paid. Go now to the Doge and +tell him all thou hast seen; how Venice would have been destroyed by +the demons of the tempest, had it not been for me and my two +companions. I am St. Mark, the protector of your city; the brave young +knight is St. George, and the old man whom we took in last is St. +Nicholas. Tell the Doge that I bade him pay thee well for thy brave +service.' + +'But, and if I tell them this story, how will they believe that I speak +the truth?' asked the fisherman. + +Then St. Mark took a ring off his finger, and placed it in the +fisherman's rough palm. 'Thou shalt show them this ring as a proof,' he +said; 'and when they look in the treasury of San Marco, they will find +that it is missing from there.' + +And when he had finished saying this, St. Mark disappeared. + +Then the next day, as early as possible, the fisherman went to the Doge +and told his marvellous tale and showed the saint's ring. At first no +one could believe the wild story, but when they sent and searched in +St. Mark's treasury, lo! the ring was missing. Then they knew that it +must indeed have been St. Mark who had appeared to the old fisherman, +and had saved their beloved city from destruction. + +So a solemn thanksgiving service was sung in the great church of San +Marco, and the fisherman received his due reward. + +He was no longer obliged to work for his living, but received a pension +from the rulers of the city, so that he lived in comfort all the rest +of his days. + +In the picture we see the great black galley manned by the demons, +sweeping down upon the little boat, in which the three saints stand +upright. And not only are the demons on board their ship, but some are +riding on dolphins and curious-looking fish, and the little boat is +entirely surrounded by the terrible crew. + +We do not know much about Giorgione's life, but we do know that it was +a short and sad one, clouded over at the end by bitter sorrow. He had +loved a beautiful Venetian girl, and was just about to marry her when a +friend, whom he also loved, carried her off and left him robbed of love +and friendship. Nothing could comfort him for his loss, the light +seemed to have faded from his life, and soon life itself began to wane. +A very little while after and he closed his eyes upon all the beauty +and promise which had once filled his world. But though we have so few +of his pictures, those few alone are enough to show that it was more +than an idle jest which made his companions give him the nickname of +George the Great. + + + +TITIAN + +We have seen how most of the great painters loved to paint into their +pictures those scenes which they had known when they were boys, and +which to the end of their lives they remembered clearly and vividly. A +Giotto never forgets the look of his sheep on the bare hillside of +Vespignano, Fra Angelico paints his heavenly pictures with the colours +of spring flowers found on the slopes of Fiesole, Perugino delights in +the wide spaciousness of the Umbrian plains with the winding river and +solitary cypresses. + +So when we come to the great Venetian painter Titian we look first with +interest to see in what manner of a country he was born, and what were +the pictures which Nature mirrored in his mind when he was still a boy.' + +At the foot of the Alps, three days' journey from Venice, lies the +little town of Cadore on the Pieve, and here it was that Titian was +born. On every side rise great masses of rugged mountains towering up +to the sky, with jagged peaks and curious fantastic shapes. Clouds +float around their summits, and the mist will often wrap them in gloom +and give them a strange and awesome look. At the foot of the craggy +pass the mountain-torrent of the Pieve roars and tumbles on its way. +Far-reaching forests of trees, with weather-beaten gnarled old trunks, +stand firm against the mountain storms. Beneath their wide-spreading +boughs there is a gloom almost of twilight, showing peeps here and +there of deep purple distances beyond. + +Small wonder it was that Titian should love to paint mountains, and +that he should be the first to paint a purely landscape picture. He +lived those strange solemn mountains and the wild country round, the +deep gloom of the woods and the purple of the distance beyond. + +The boy's father, Gregorio Vecelli, was one of the nobles of Cadore, +but the family was not rich, and when Titian was ten years old he was +sent to an uncle in Venice to be taught some trade. He had always been +fond of painting, and it is said that when he was a very little boy he +was found trying to paint a picture with the juices of flowers. His +uncle, seeing that the boy had some talent, placed him in the studio of +Giovanni Bellini. + +But though Titian learned much from Bellini, it was not until he first +saw Giorgione's work that he dreamed of what it was possible to do with +colour. Thenceforward he began to paint with that marvellous richness +of colouring which has made his name famous all over the world. + +At first young Titian worked with Giorgione, and together they began to +fresco the walls of the Exchange above the Rialto bridge. But by and by +Giorgione grew jealous. Titian's work was praised too highly; it was +even thought to be the better of the two. So they parted company, for +Giorgione would work with him no more. + +Venice soon began to awake to the fact that in Titian she had another +great painter who was likely to bring fame and honour to the fair city. +He was invited to finish the frescoes in the Grand Council-chamber +which Bellini had begun, and to paint the portraits of the Doges, her +rulers. + +These portraits which Titian painted were so much admired that all the +great princes and nobles desired to have themselves painted by the +Venetian artist. The Emperor Charles V. himself when he stopped at +Bologna sent to Venice to fetch Titian, and so delighted was he with +his work that he made the painter a knight with a pension of two +hundred crowns. + +Fame and wealth awaited Titian wherever he went, and before long he was +invited to Rome that he might paint the portrait of the Pope. There it +was that he met Michelangelo, and that great master looked with much +interest at the work of the Venetian artist and praised it highly, for +the colouring was such as he had never seen equalled before. + +'It is most beautiful,' he said afterwards to a friend; 'but it is a +pity that in Venice they do not teach men how to draw as well as how to +colour. If this Titian drew as well as he painted, it would be +impossible to surpass him.' + +But ordinary eyes can find little fault with Titian's drawing, and his +portraits are thought to be the most wonderful that ever were painted. +The golden glow of Venice is cast like a magic spell over his pictures, +and in him the great Venetian school of colouring reaches its height. + +Besides painting portraits, Titian painted many other pictures which +are among the world's masterpieces. + +He must have had a special love for children, this famous old Venetian +painter. We can tell by his pictures how well he understood them and +how he loved to paint them. He would learn much by watching his own +little daughter Lavinia as she played about the old house in Venice. +His wife had died, and his eldest son was only a grief and +disappointment to his father, but the little daughter was the light of +his eyes. + +We seem to catch a glimpse of her face in his famous picture of the +little Virgin going up the steps to the temple. The little maid is all +alone, for she has left her companions behind, and the crowd stands +watching her from below, while the high priest waits for her above. One +hand is stretched out, and with the other she lifts her dress as she +climbs up the marble steps. She looks a very real child with her long +plait of golden hair and serious little face, and we cannot help +thinking that the painter's own little daughter must have been in his +mind when he painted the little Virgin. + +Titian lived to be a very old man, almost a hundred years old, and up +to the last he was always seen with the brush in his hand, painting +some new picture. So, when he passed away, he left behind a rich store +of beauty, which not only decked the walls of his beloved Venice, but +made the whole world richer and more beautiful. + + + +TINTORETTO + +It was between four and five hundred years ago that Venice sat most +proudly on her throne as Queen of the Sea. She had the greatest fleet +in all the Mediterranean. She bought and sold more than any other +nation. She had withstood the shock of battle and conquered all her +foes, and now she had time to deck herself with all the beauty which +art and wealth could produce. + +The merchants of Venice sailed to every port and carried with them +wonderful shiploads of goods, for which their city was famous--silks, +velvets, lace, and rich brocades. The secret of the marvellous Tyrian +dyes had been discovered by her people, and there were many dyers in +Venice who were specially famous for the purple dye of Tyre, which was +thought to be the most beautiful in all the world. Then too they had +learned the art of blowing glass into fairy-like forms, as delicate and +light as a bubble, catching in it every shade of colour, and twisting +it into a hundred exquisite shapes. Truly there had never been a richer +or more beautiful city than this Queen of the Sea. + +It was just when the glory of Venice was at its highest that Art too +reached its height, and Giorgione and Titian began to paint the walls +of her palaces and the altarpieces of her churches. + +In the very centre of the city where the poorer Venetians had their +houses, there lived about this time a man called Battista Robusti who +was a dyer, or 'tintore,' as he is called in Italy. It was his little +son Jacopo who afterwards became such a famous artist. His +grand-sounding name 'Tintoretto' means nothing but 'the little dyer,' +and it was given to him because of his father's trade. + +Tintoretto must have been brought up in the midst of gorgeous colours. +Not only did he see the wonderful changing tints of the outside world, +but in his father's workshop he must often have watched the rich +Venetian stuffs lifted from the dye vats, heavy with the crimson and +purple shades for which Venice was famous. Perhaps all this glowing +colour wearied his young eyes, for when he grew to be a man his +pictures show that he loved solemn and dark tones, though he could also +paint the most brilliant colours when he chose. + +Of course, the boy Tintoretto began by painting the walls of his +father's house, as soon as he was old enough to learn the use of dyes +and paints. Even if he had not had in him the artist soul, he could +scarcely have resisted the temptation to spread those lovely colours on +the smooth white walls. Any child would have done the same, but +Tintoretto's mischievous fingers already showed signs of talent, and +his father, instead of scolding him for wasting colours and spoiling +the walls, encouraged him to go on with his pictures. + +As the boy grew older, his great delight was to wander about the city +and watch the men at work building new palaces. But especially did he +linger near those walls which Titian and Giorgione were covering with +their wonderful frescoes. High on the scaffolding he would see the +painters at work, and as he watched the boy would build castles in the +air, and dream dreams of a time when he too would be a master-painter, +and be bidden by Venice to decorate her walls. + +To Tintoretto's mind Titian was the greatest man in all the world, and +to be taught by him the greatest honour that heart could wish. So it +was perhaps the happiest day in all his life when his father decided to +take him to Titian's studio and ask the master to receive him as a +pupil. + +But the happiness lasted but a very short time. Titian did not approve +of the boy's work, and refused to keep him in the studio; so poor, +disappointed Tintoretto went home again, and felt as if all sunshine +and hope had gone for ever from his life. It was a bitter +disappointment to his father and mother too, for they had set their +hearts on the boy becoming an artist. But in spite of all this, +Tintoretto did not lose heart or give up his dreams. He worked on by +himself in his own way, and Titian's paintings taught him many things +even though the master himself refused to help him. Then too he saw +some work of the great Michelangelo, and learned many a lesson from +that. Thenceforward his highest ideal was always 'the drawing of +Michelangelo and the colour of Titian. + +The young artist lived in a poor, bare room, and most of his money went +in the buying of little pieces of old sculpture or casts. He had a very +curious way of working the designs for his pictures. Instead of drawing +many sketches, he made little wax models of figures and arranged them +inside a cardboard or wooden box in which there was a hole to admit a +lighted candle. So, besides the grouping of the figures, he could also +arrange the light and shade. + +But, though he worked hard, fame was long in coming to Tintoretto. +People did not understand his way of painting. It was not after the +manner of any of the great artists, and they were rather afraid of his +bold, furious-looking work. + +Nevertheless Tintoretto worked steadily on, always hoping, and whenever +there was a chance of doing any work, even without receiving payment +for it, he seized it eagerly. + +It happened just then that the young Venetian artists had agreed to +have a show of their paintings, and had hired a room for the exhibition +in the Merceria, the busiest part of Venice. + +Tintoretto was very glad of the chance of showing his work, so he sent +in a portrait of himself and also one of his brother. As soon as these +pictures were seen people began to take more notice of the clever young +painter, and even Titian allowed that his work was good. His portraits +were always fresh and life-like, and he drew with a bold strong touch, +as you will see if you look at the drawing I have shown you--the head +of a Venetian boy, such as Tintoretto met daily among the fisher-folk +of Venice. + +From that time Fortune began to smile on Tintoretto. Little by little +work began to come in. He was asked to paint altarpieces for the +churches, and even at last, when his name became famous, he was invited +to work upon the walls of the Ducal Palace, the highest honour which a +Venetian painter could hope to win. + +The days of the poor, bare studio, and lonely, sad life were ended now. +Tintoretto had no longer to struggle with poverty and neglect. His +house was a beautiful palace looking over the lagoon towards Murano, +and he had married the daughter of a Venetian noble, and lived a happy, +contented life. Children's voices made gay music in his home, and the +pattering of little feet broke the silence of his studio. Fame had come +to him too. His work might be strange but it was very wonderful, and +Venice was proud of her new painter. His great stormy pictures had +earned for him the name off 'the furious painter,' and the world began +to acknowledge his greatness. + +But the real sunshine of his life was his little daughter Marietta. As +soon as she learned to walk she found her way to her father's studio, +and until she was fifteen years old she was always with him and helped +him as if she had been one of his pupils. She was dressed too as a boy, +and visitors to the studio never guessed that the clever, handsome boy +was really the painter's daughter. + +There were many great schools in Venice at that time, and there was +much work to be done in decorating their walls with paintings. A school +was not really a place of education, but a society of people who joined +themselves together in charity to nurse the sick, bury the dead, and +release any prisoners who had been taken captive. One of the greatest +of the schools was the 'Scuola de San Rocco,' and this was given into +the hands of Tintoretto, who covered the walls with his paintings, +leaving but little room for other artists. + +But it is in the Ducal Palace that the master's most famous work is +seen. There, covering the entire side of the great hall, hangs his +'Paradiso,' the largest oil painting in the world. + +At first it seems but a gloomy picture of Paradise. It is so vast, and +such hundreds of figures are crowded together, and the colour is dark +and sombre. There is none of that swinging of golden censers by +white-robed angels, none of the pure glad colouring of spring flowers +which makes us love the Paradise of Fra Angelico. + +But if we stand long enough before it a great awe steals over us, and +we forget to look for bright colours and gentle angel faces, for the +figures surging upwards are very real and human, and the Paradise into +which we gaze seems to reveal to our eyes the very place where we +ourselves shall stand one day. + +At the time when Tintoretto was painting his 'Paradiso,' his little +daughter Marietta had grown to be a woman, and her painting too had +become famous. She was invited to the courts of Germany and Spain to +paint the portraits of the King and Emperor, but she refused to leave +Venice and her beloved father. Even when she married Mario, the +jeweller, she did not go far from home, and Tintoretto grew every year +fonder and prouder of his clever and beautiful daughter. Not only could +she paint, but she played and sang most wonderfully, and became a great +favourite among the music-loving Venetians. + +But this happiness soon came to an end, for Marietta died suddenly in +the midst of her happy life. + +Nothing could comfort Tintoretto for the loss of his daughter. She was +buried in the church of Santa Maria dell' Orto, and there he ordered +another place to be prepared that he might be buried at her side. It +seemed, indeed, as if he could not live without her, for it was not +long before he passed away. The last great stormy picture of 'the +furious painter' was finished, and all Venice mourned as they laid him +to rest beside the daughter he had loved so well. + + + +PAUL VERONESE + +It was in the city of Verona that Paul Cagliari, the last of the great +painters of the Venetian school, was born. The name of that old city of +the Veneto makes us think at once of moonlight nights and fair Juliet +gazing from her balcony as she bids farewell to her dear Romeo. For it +was here that the two lovers lived their short lives which ended so +sadly. + +But Verona has other titles to fame besides being the scene of +Shakespeare's story, and one of her proudest boasts is that she gave +her name to the great Venetian artist Paolo Veronese, or Paul of +Verona, as we would say in English. + +There were many artists in Verona when Paolo was a boy. His own father +was a sculptor and his uncle a famous painter, so the child was +encouraged to begin work early. As soon as he showed that he had a +talent for painting, he was sent to his uncle's studio to be taught his +first lessons in drawing. + +Verona was not very far off from Venice, and Paolo was never tired of +listening to the tales told of that beautiful Queen of the Sea. He +loved to try and picture her magnificence, her marble palaces overlaid +with gold, her richly-dressed nobles, and, above all, the wonder of +those pictures which decked her walls. The very names of Giorgione and +Titian sounded like magic in his ears. They seemed to open out before +him a wonderful new Paradise, where stately men and women clad in the +richest robes moved about in a world of glowing colour. + +At last the day came when he was to see the city of his dreams, and +enter into that magic world of Art. What delight it was to study those +pictures hour by hour, and learn the secrets of the great masters. It +was the best teaching that heart could desire. + +No one in Venice took much notice of the quiet, hard-working young +painter, and he worked on steadily by himself for some years. But at +last his chance came, and he was commissioned to paint the ceiling of +the church of St. Sebastian; and when this was finished Venice +recognised his genius, and saw that here was another of her sons whom +she must delight to honour. + +These great pictures of Veronese were just the kind of work to charm +the rich Venetians, those merchant princes who delighted in costly +magnificence. Never before had any painter pictured such royal scenes +of grandeur. There were banqueting halls with marble balustrades just +like their own Venetian palaces. The guests that thronged these halls +were courtly gentlemen and high-born ladies arrayed in rich brocades +and dazzling jewels. Men-servants and maidservants, costly ornaments +and golden dishes were there, everything that heart could desire. + +True, there was not much room for religious feeling amid all this +grandeur, although the painter would call the pictures by some Bible +name and would paint in the figure of our Lord, or the Blessed Virgin, +among the gay crowd. But no one stopped to think about religion, and +what cared they if the guests at the 'Marriage Feast of Cana' were +dressed in the rich robes of Venetian nobles, and all was as different +as possible from the simple wedding-feast where Christ worked his first +miracle. + +So the fame of Paolo Veronese grew greater and greater, and he painted +more and more gorgeous pictures. But here and there we find a simpler +and more charming piece of his work, as when he painted the little St. +John with the skin thrown over his bare shoulder and the cross in his +hand. He is such a really childlike figure as he stands looking upward +and rests his little hand confidingly on the worn and wounded palm of +St. Francis, who stands beside him. + +Although the Venetian nobles found nothing wanting in the splendid +pictures which Veronese painted, the Church at last began to have +doubts as to whether they were fit as religious subjects to adorn her +walls. The Holy Office considered the question, and Veronese was +ordered to appear before the council. + +Was it, indeed, fit that court jesters, little negro boys, and even +cats and pet dogs should appear in pictures which were to decorate the +walls of a church? Veronese answered gravely that it was the effect of +the picture that mattered, and that the details need not be thought of. +So the complaint was dismissed. + +These pictures of Paolo Veronese were really great pieces of +decoration, very wonderful in their way, but showing already that Art +was sinking lower instead of rising higher. + +If the spirits of the old masters could have returned to gaze upon this +new work, what would their feelings have been? How the simple Giotto +would have shaken his head over this wealth of ornament which meant so +little, even while he marvelled at the clever work. How sorrowfully +would Fra Angelico have turned away from this perfection of worldly +vanity, and sighed to think that the art of painting was no longer a +golden chain to link men's souls to Heaven. Even the merry-hearted monk +Fra Filippo Lippi would scarce have approved of all this gorgeous +company. + +Art had indeed shaken off the binding rules of old tradition, and +Veronese was free to follow his own magnificent fancy. But who can say +if that freedom was indeed a gain? And it is with a sigh that we close +the record of Italian Art and turn our eyes, wearied with all its +splendour and the glare of the noonday sun, back to the early dawn, +when the soul of the painter looked through his pictures, and taught us +the simple lesson that work done for the glory of God was greater than +that done for the praise of men. + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Knights of Art, by Amy Steedman + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KNIGHTS OF ART *** + +***** This file should be named 529.txt or 529.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/529/ + +Produced by Charles Keller. 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