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diff --git a/old/knart10.txt b/old/knart10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c305331 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/knart10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6741 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Etext of Knights of the Art, by Amy Steedman + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + +Scanned by Charles Keller with +OmniPage Professional OCR software +donated by Caere Corporation, 1-800-535-7226. +Contact Mike Lough <Mikel@caere.com> + + + + +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 painst 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 GHlRLANDAIO + +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 +be 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 Botti- +celli, 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 nick- +name 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 Project Gutenberg's Etext of Knights of the Art, by Amy Steedman + diff --git a/old/knart10.zip b/old/knart10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..3cb594d --- /dev/null +++ b/old/knart10.zip |