This is a complete copy of the A Proofs, which
Along with the Correspondence
Lines 50-57 of
The Ashley Library
The Trial Book Fallacy
[Most of these poems were written between 1847 and 1853; and
are here printed, if not without revision, yet generally much in their original
state. They are a few among a good many then written, but of the others I have
now no complete copies. The 'Sonnets and Songs' are chiefly more recent work.]
D. G. R. 1869.
‘Burden. Heavy calamity; The chorus of a song.’ —Dictionary.
*During the excavations, the Tiyari workmen held their ser-
vices in
the shadow of the great bulls (Layard's
). This
* This hymn was written as a prologue to a series of designs.
Art
still identifies herself with all faiths for her own purposes:
and
the emotional influence here employed demands above all an
inner standing-point.
Before any knowledge of painting was brought to
Florence, there
were already painters in Lucca, and Pisa,
and Arezzo, who feared God and
loved the art. The
workmen from Greece, whose trade it was to sell their
own
works in Italy and teach Italians to imitate them, had
already
found, in rivals of the soil, a skill that could forestall
their lessons
and cheapen their crucifixes and addolorate,
more
years than is supposed before the art came at all into
Florence. The
pre-eminence to which Cimabue was raised
at once by his contemporaries,
and which he still retains to
a wide extent even in the modern mind, is
to be accounted
for, partly by the circumstances under which he arose,
and
partly by that extraordinary purpose of fortune
born with the
lives of some few, and through which it is not a little
thing
for any who went before, if they are even remembered as
the
shadows of the coming of such an one, and the voices
which prepared his
way in the wilderness. It is thus, almost
exclusively, that the painters of whom I speak are now
known. They
have left little, and but little heed is taken of
that which men hold to
have been surpassed; it is gone like
time gone,—a track of
dust and dead leaves that merely led
to the fountain.
Nevertheless, of very late years and in very rare in-
stances, some
signs of a better understanding have become
manifest. A case in point is
that of the triptych and two
cruciform pictures at Dresden, by Chiaro di
Messer Bello
dell' Erma, to which the eloquent pamphlet of Dr.
Aemmster
has at length succeeded in attracting the students.
There
is another still more solemn and beautiful work, now proved
to
be by the same hand, in the Pitti gallery at Florence.
It is the one to
which my narrative will relate.
This Chiaro dell' Erma was a young man of very
honorable family in
Arezzo; where, conceiving art almost,
for himself, and loving it deeply,
he endeavoured from
early boyhood towards the imitation of any objects
offered
in nature. The extreme longing after a visible embodiment
of
his thoughts strengthened as his years increased, more
even than his
sinews or the blood of his life; until he would
feel faint in sunsets
and at the sight of stately persons.
When he had lived nineteen years,
he heard of the famous
Giunta Pisano; and, feeling much of admiration,
with per-
haps a little of that envy which youth always feels until
it
has learned to measure success by time and opportunity, he
determined that he would seek out Giunta, and, if possible,
become
his pupil.
Having arrived in Pisa, he clothed himself in humble
apparel, being
unwilling that any other thing than the desire
he had for knowledge
should be his plea with the great
painter; and then, leaving his baggage
at a house of enter-
tainment, he took his way along the street, asking
whom he
met for the lodging of Giunta. It soon chanced that one
of
that city, conceiving him to be a stranger and poor, took
him
into his house and refreshed him; afterwards directing
him on his way.
When he was brought to speech of Giunta, he said
merely that he was
a student, and that nothing in the world
was so much at his heart as to
become that which he had
heard told of him with whom he was speaking. He
was
received with courtesy and consideration, and soon stood
among
the works of the famous artist. But the forms he saw
there were lifeless
and incomplete; and a sudden exultation
possessed him as he said within
himself, ‘I am the master
of this man.’ The blood
came at first into his face, but the
next moment he was quite pale and
fell to trembling. He
was able, however to conceal his emotion; speaking
very
little to Giunta, but when he took his leave, thanking him
respectfully.
After this, Chiaro's first resolve was, that he would work
out
thoroughly some one of his thoughts, and let the world
know him. But the
lesson which he had now learned, of
how small a greatness might win
fame, and how little there
was to strive against, served to make him
torpid, and ren-
dered his exertions less continual. Also Pisa was a larger
and more
luxurious city than Arezzo; and when, in his
walks, he saw the great
gardens laid out for pleasure, and
the beautiful women who passed to and
fro, and heard the
music that was in the groves of the city at evening,
he was
taken with wonder that he had never claimed his share of
the
inheritance of those years in which his youth was cast.
And women loved
Chiaro; for, in despite of the burthen of
study, he was well-favoured
and very manly in his walking;
and, seeing his face in front, there was
a glory upon it, as
upon the face of one who feels a light round his hair.
So he put thought from him, and partook of his life.
But, one
night, being in a certain company of ladies, a
gentleman that was there
with him began to speak of the
paintings of a youth named Bonaventura,
which he had seen
in Lucca; adding that Giunta Pisano might now look for
a
rival. When Chiaro heard this, the lamps shook before
him, and the
music beat in his ears. He rose up, alleging
a sudden sickness, and went
out of that house with his teeth
set. And, being again within his room,
he wrote up over
the door the name of Bonaventura, that it might stop
him
when he would go out.
He now took to work diligently, not returning to Arezzo,
but
remaining in Pisa, that no day more might be lost; only
living entirely
to himself. Sometimes, after nightfall, he
would walk abroad in the most
solitary places he could find;
hardly feeling the ground under him,
because of the thoughts
of the day which held him in fever.
The lodging Chiaro had chosen was in a house that
looked upon gardens fast by the Church of San Petronio. It
was
here, and at this time, that he painted the Dresden
pictures; as also,
in all likelihood, the one—inferior in
merit, but certainly
his—which is now at Munich. For the
most part he was calm and
regular in his manner of study;
though often he would remain at work
through the whole of
a day, not resting once so long as the light
lasted; flushed,
and with the hair from his face. Or, at times, when
he
could not paint, he would sit for hours in thought of all
the
greatness the world had known from of old; until he was
weak with
yearning, like one who gazes upon a path of
stars.
He continued in this patient endeavour for about three
years, at
the end of which his name was spoken throughout
all Tuscany. As his fame
waxed, he began to be employed,
besides easel-pictures, upon
wall-paintings; but I believe
that no traces remain to us of any of
these latter. He
is said to have painted in the Duomo; and
D'Agincourt
mentions having seen some portions of a picture by
him
which originally had its place above the high altar in
the
Church of the Certosa; but which, at the time he saw it,
being
very dilapidated, had been hewn out of the wall, and
was preserved in
the stores of the convent. Before the
period of Dr. Aemmster's
researches, however, it had been
entirely destroyed.
Chiaro was now famous. It was for the race of fame
that he had
girded up his loins; and he had not paused
until fame was reached; yet
now, in taking breath, he found
that the weight was still at his heart.
The years of his
labour had fallen from him, and his life was still in its
first
painful desire.
With all that Chiaro had done during these three years,
and even
before with the studies of his early youth, there
had always been a
feeling of worship and service. It was
the peace-offering that he made
to God and to his own soul
for the eager selfishness of his aim. There
was earth, indeed,
upon the hem of his raiment; but this was of the heaven,
heavenly. He had seasons when he
could endure to think
of no other feature of his hope than this.
Sometimes it had
even seemed to him to behold that day when his
mistress
—his mystical lady (now hardly in her ninth year,
but whose
smile at meeting had already lighted on his
soul,)—even
she, his own gracious Italian
Art—should pass, through the
sun that never sets, into the
circle of the shadow of the tree
of life, and be seen of God and found
good: and then it had
seemed to him that he, with many who, since his
coming,
had joined the band of whom he was one (for, in his
dream,
the body he had worn on earth had been dead an
hundred
years), were permitted to gather round the blessed
maiden,
and to worship with her through all ages and ages of
ages,
saying, Holy, holy, holy. This thing he had seen with the
eyes
of his spirit; and in this thing had trusted, believing
that it would
surely come to pass.
But now, (being at length led to inquire closely into
himself,)
even as, in the pursuit of fame, the unrest abiding
after attainment had
proved to him that he had misinterpreted
the craving of his own
spirit—so also, now that he would
willingly have fallen back
on devotion, he became aware
that much of that reverence which he had mistaken for faith
had
been no more than the worship of beauty. Therefore,
after certain days
passed in perplexity, Chiaro said within
himself, ‘My life
and my will are yet before me: I will
take another aim to my life.’
From that moment Chiaro set a watch on his soul, and
put his hand
to no other works but only to such as had for
their end the presentment
of some moral greatness that
should influence the beholder: and to this
end, he multiplied
abstractions, and forgot the beauty and passion of
the world.
So the people ceased to throng about his pictures as
hereto-
fore; and, when they were carried through town and town
to
their destination, they were no longer delayed by the
crowds eager to
gaze and admire: and no prayers or offer-
ings were brought to them on
their path, as to his Madonnas,
and his Saints, and his Holy Children,
wrought for the sake
of the life he saw in the faces that he loved. Only
the critical
audience remained to him; and these, in default of
more
worthy matter, would have turned their scrutiny on a puppet
or
a mantle. Meanwhile, he had no more of fever upon
him; but was calm and
pale each day in all that he did
and in his goings in and out. The works
he produced
at this time have perished—in all likelihood, not
unjustly.
It is said (and we may easily believe it), that,
though
more laboured than his former pictures, they were cold
and
unemphatic; bearing marked out upon them, the
measure of that boundary
to which they were made to
conform.
And the weight was still close at Chiaro's heart: but he
held in his breath, never resting (for he was afraid), and
would
not know it.
Now it happened, within these days, that there fell a
great feast
in Pisa, for holy matters: and each man left his
occupation; and all the
guilds and companies of the city
were got together for games and
rejoicings. And there were
scarcely any that stayed in the houses,
except ladies who
lay or sat along their balconies between open windows
which
let the breeze beat through the rooms and over the
spread
tables from end to end. And the golden cloths that their
arms
lay upon drew all eyes upward to see their beauty;
and the day was long;
and every hour of the day was bright
with the sun.
So Chiaro's model, when he awoke that morning on the
hot pavement
of the Piazza Nunziata, and saw the hurry of
people that passed him, got
up and went along with them;
and Chiaro waited for him in vain.
For the whole of that morning, the music was in Chiaro's
room from
the Church close at hand; and he could hear
the sounds that the crowd
made in the streets; hushed only
at long intervals while the processions
for the feast-day
chanted in going under his windows. Also, more than
once,
there was a high clamour from the meeting of factious
persons:
for the ladies of both leagues were looking down;
and he who encountered
his enemy could not choose but
draw upon him. Chiaro waited a long time
idle; and then
knew that his model was gone elsewhere. When at
his
work, he was blind and deaf to all else; but he feared
sloth:
for then his stealthy thoughts would begin to beat
round and round him, seeking a point for attack. He now
rose,
therefore, and went to the window. It was within a
short space of noon;
and underneath him a throng of people
was coming out through the porch
of San Petronio.
The two greatest houses of the feud in Pisa had filled
the church
for that mass. The first to leave had been the
Gherghiotti; who,
stopping on the threshold, had fallen
back in ranks along each side of
the archway: so that now,
in passing outward, the Marotoli had to walk
between two
files of men whom they hated, and whose fathers had
hated
theirs. All the chiefs were there and their whole
adherence;
and each knew the name of each. Every man of the
Maro-
toli, as he came forth and saw his foes, laid back his
hood
and gazed about him, to show the badge upon the close cap
that
held his hair. And of the Gherghiotti there were some
who tightened
their girdles; and some shrilled and threw
up their wrists scornfully,
as who flies a falcon; for that was
the crest of their house.
On the walls within the entry were a number of tall,
narrow
pictures, presenting a moral allegory of Peace, which
Chiaro had painted
that year for the Church. The Gher-
ghiotti stood with their backs to
these frescoes; and among
them Golzo Ninuccio, the youngest noble of the
faction,
called by the people Golaghiotta, for his debased life.
This
youth had remained for some while talking listlessly to
his
fellows, though with his sleepy sunken eyes fixed on them
who
passed: but now, seeing that no man jostled another,
he drew the long
silver shoe off his foot and struck the dust
out of it on the cloak of
him who was going by, asking him
how far the tides rose at Viderza. And he said so because
it was
three months since, at that place, the Gherghiotti had
beaten the
Marotoli to the sands, and held them there while
the sea came in;
whereby many had been drowned. And,
when he had spoken, at once the
whole archway was daz-
zling with the light of confused swords; and they
who had
left turned back; and they who were still behind made
haste
to come forth: and there was so much blood cast up
the walls on a
sudden, that it ran in long streams down
Chiaro's paintings.
Chiaro turned himself from the window; for the light
felt dry
between his lids, and he could not look. He sat
down, and heard the
noise of contention driven out of the
church-porch and a great way
through the streets; and soon
there was a deep murmur that heaved and
waxed from the
other side of the city, where those of both parties
were
gathering to join in the tumult.
Chiaro sat with his face in his open hands. Once again
he had
wished to set his foot on a place that looked green
and fertile; and
once again it seemed to him that the thin
rank mask was about to spread
away, and that this time the
chill of the water must leave leprosy in
his flesh. The light
still swam in his head, and bewildered him at
first; but
when he knew his thoughts, they were these:—
‘Fame failed me: faith failed me: and now this
also,—
the hope that I nourished in this my generation of
men,—
shall pass from me, and leave my feet and my
hands
groping. Yet because of this are my feet become slow and
my
hands thin. I am as one who, through the whole night,
holding his way diligently, hath smitten the steel unto the
flint,
to lead some whom he knew darkling; who hath kept
his eyes always on the
sparks that himself made, lest they
should fail; and who, towards dawn,
turning to bid them
that he had guided God speed, sees the wet grass
untrodden
except of his own feet. I am as the last hour of the
day,
whose chimes are a perfect number; whom the next fol-
loweth
not, nor light ensueth from him; but in the same
darkness is the old
order begun afresh. Men say, “This is
not God nor man; he is
not as we are, neither above us:
let him sit beneath us, for we are
many.” Where I write
Peace, in that spot is the drawing of
swords, and there men's
footprints are red. When I would sow, another
harvest is
ripe. Nay, it is much worse with me than thus much. Am
I
not as a cloth drawn before the light, that the looker may
not be
blinded; but which sheweth thereby the grain of its
own coarseness; so
that the light seems defiled, and men
say, “We will not walk
by it.” Wherefore through me they
shall be doubly accursed,
seeing that through me they reject
the light. May one be a devil and not
know it?’
As Chiaro was in these thoughts, the fever encroached
slowly on
his veins, till he could sit no longer and would
have risen; but
suddenly he found awe within him, and
held his head bowed, without
stirring. The warmth of the
air was not shaken; but there seemed a pulse
in the light,
and a living freshness, like rain. The silence was a
painful
music, that made the blood ache in his temples; and
he
lifted his face and his deep eyes.
A woman was present in his room, clad to the hands
and feet with a green and grey raiment, fashioned to that
time. It
seemed that the first thoughts he had ever known
were given him as at
first from her eyes, and he knew her
hair to be the golden veil through
which he beheld his
dreams. Though her hands were joined, her face was
not
lifted, but set forward; and though the gaze was austere,
yet
her mouth was supreme in gentleness. And as he looked,
Chiaro's
spirit appeared abashed of its own intimate
presence, and his lips shook
with the thrill of tears; it
seemed such a bitter while till the spirit
might be indeed
alone.
She did not move closer towards him, but he felt her to
be as much
with him as his breath. He was like one who,
scaling a great steepness,
hears his own voice echoed in
some place much higher than he can see,
and the name of
which is not known to him. As the woman stood,
her
speech was with Chiaro: not, as it were, from her mouth or
in
his ears; but distinctly between them.
‘I am an image, Chiaro, of thine own soul within
thee.
See me, and know me as I am. Thou sayest that fame has
failed
thee, and faith failed thee; but because at least thou
hast not laid thy
life unto riches, therefore, though thus late,
I am suffered to come
into thy knowledge. Fame sufficed
not, for that thou didst seek fame:
seek thine own con-
science (not thy mind's conscience, but thine
heart's), and
all shall approve and suffice. For Fame, in noble soils,
is a
fruit of the Spring: but not therefore should it be
said:
“Lo! my garden that I planted is barren: the crocus
is
here, but the lily is dead in the dry ground, and shall not
lift the earth that covers it: therefore I will fling my
garden
together, and give it unto the builders.” Take heed
rather
that thou trouble not the wise secret earth; for in the
mould
that thou throwest up shall the first tender growth lie
to
waste; which else had been made strong in its season.
Yea, and
even if the year fall past in all its months, and the
soil be indeed, to
thee, peevish and incapable, and though
thou indeed gather all thy
harvest, and it suffice for others,
and thou remain vexed with
emptiness; and others drink of
thy streams, and the drouth rasp thy
throat;—let it be
enough that these have found the feast
good, and thanked
the giver: remembering that, when the winter is
striven
through, there is another year, whose wind is meek,
and
whose sun fulfilleth all.’
While he heard, Chiaro went slowly on his knees. It
was not to her
that spoke, for the speech seemed within
him and his own. The air
brooded in sunshine, and though
the turmoil was great outside, the air
within was at peace.
But when he looked in her eyes, he wept. And she
came
to him, and cast her hair over him, and took her hands
about
his forehead, and spoke again:—
‘Thou hast said,’ she continued, gently,
‘that faith failed
thee. This cannot be. Either thou hadst it
not, or thou
hast it. But who bade thee strike the point betwixt
love
and faith? Wouldst thou sift the warm breeze from the
sun that
quickens it? Who bade thee turn upon God and
say: “Behold, my
offering is of earth, and not worthy: thy
fire comes not upon it;
therefore, though I slay not my
brother whom thou acceptest, I will
depart before thou
smite me.” Why shouldst thou rise up and tell God He
is
not content? Had He, of his warrant, certified so to thee?
Be not
nice to seek out division; but possess thy love in
sufficiency:
assuredly this is faith, for the heart must believe
first. What He hath
set in thine heart to do, that do thou;
and even though thou do it
without thought of Him, it shall
be well done; it is this sacrifice that
He asketh of thee, and
his flame is upon it for a sign. Think not of
Him; but
of his love and thy love. For God is no morbid exactor:
He
hath no hand to bow beneath, nor a foot, that thou
shouldst kiss it.’
And Chiaro held silence, and wept into her hair which
covered his
face; and the salt tears that he shed ran through
her hair upon his
lips; and he tasted the bitterness of
shame.
Then the fair woman, that was his soul, spoke again to
him, saying:—
‘And for this thy last purpose, and for those
unprofit-
able truths of thy teaching,—thine heart hath
already put
them away, and it needs not that I lay my bidding
upon
thee. How is it that thou, a man, wouldst say coldly to
the
mind what God hath said to the heart warmly? Thy will
was honest
and wholesome; but look well lest this also be
folly,—to say,
“I, in doing this, do strengthen God among
men.”
When at any time hath He cried unto thee, saying,
“My son,
lend me thy shoulder, for I fall?” Deemest thou
that the men
who enter God's temple in malice, to the
provoking of blood and neither
for his love nor for his
wrath will abate their
purpose,—shall afterwards stand with
thee in the porch, midway between Him and themselves, to
give ear
unto thy thin voice, which merely the fall of their
visors can drown,
and to see thy hands, stretched feebly,
tremble among their swords? Give
thou to God no more
than He asketh of thee; but to man also, that which
is man's.
In all that thou doest, work from thine own heart, simply;
for
his heart is as thine, when thine is wise and humble; and
he
shall have understanding of thee. One drop of rain is
as another, and
the sun's prism in all: and shalt thou not
be as he, whose lives are the
breath of One? Only by
making thyself his equal can he learn to hold
communion
with thee, and at last own thee above him. Not till
thou
lean over the water shalt thou see thine image therein:
stand
erect, and it shall slope from thy feet and be lost.
Know that there is
but this means whereby thou mayest
serve God with man:—Set
thine hand and thy soul to
serve man with God.’
And when she that spoke had said these words within
Chiaro's
spirit, she left his side quietly, and stood up as he
had first seen
her: with her fingers laid together, and her
eyes steadfast, and with
the breadth of her long dress
covering her feet on the floor. And,
speaking again, she
said:—
‘Chiaro, servant of God, take now thine Art unto
thee,
and paint me thus, as I am, to know me: weak, as I am,
and in
the weeds of this time; only with eyes which seek
out labour, and with a
faith, not learned, yet jealous of
prayer. Do this; so shall thy soul
stand before thee always,
and perplex thee no more.’
And Chiaro did as she bade him. While he worked,
his face grew
solemn with knowledge: and before the
shadows had turned, his work was
done. Having finished,
he lay back where he sat, and was asleep
immediately: for
the growth of that strong sunset was heavy about him,
and
he felt weak and haggard; like one just come out of a
dusk,
hollow country, bewildered with echoes, where he had
lost
himself, and who has not slept for many days and nights.
And
when she saw him lie back, the beautiful woman came
to him, and sat at
his head, gazing, and quieted his sleep
with her voice.
The tumult of the factions had endured all that day
through all
Pisa, though Chiaro had not heard it: and the
last service of that feast
was a mass sung at midnight from
the windows of all the churches for the
many dead who lay
about the city, and who had to be buried before
morning,
because of the extreme heats.
In the spring of 1847, I was at Florence. Such as were
there at
the same time with myself—those, at least, to
whom Art is
something,— will certainly recollect how many
rooms of the
Pitti Gallery were closed through that season,
in order that some of the
pictures they contained might be
examined and repaired without the
necessity of removal.
The hall, the staircases, and the vast central
suite of apart-
ments, were the only accessible portions; and in these
such
paintings as they could admit from the sealed penetralia
were profanely huddled together, without respect of dates,
schools,
or persons.
I fear that, through this interdict, I may have missed
seeing many
of the best pictures. I do not mean only the
most
talked of: for these, as they were restored, generally
found their way
somehow into the open rooms, owing to the
clamours raised by the
students; and I remember how old
Ercoli's, the curator's, spectacles
used to be mirrored in the
the reclaimed surface, as he leaned mysteriously
over these
works with some of the visitors, to scrutinize and elucidate.
One picture that I saw that spring, I shall not easily
forget. It
was among those, I believe, brought from the
other rooms, and had been
hung, obviously out of all
chronology, immediately beneath that head by
Raphael so
long known as the ‘Berrettino,’ and now
said to be the
portrait of Cecco Ciulli.
The picture I speak of is a small one, and represents
merely the
figure of a woman, clad to the hands and feet
with a green and grey
raiment, chaste and early in its
fashion, but exceedingly simple. She is
standing: her
hands are held together lightly, and her eyes set earnestly
open.
The face and hands in this picture, though wrought * I should here say, that in the latest catalogues (owing, as
in
with great
delicacy, had the appearance of being painted
at once, in a single
sitting: the drapery is unfinished. As
soon as I saw the figure, it drew
an awe upon me, like
water in shadow. I shall not attempt to describe it
more
than I have already done; for the most absorbing wonder
of it
was its literality. You knew that figure, when painted,
cases before mentioned, to the zeal and enthusiasm of Dr.
Aemmster),
this, and several other pictures, have been more
competently entered.
The work in question is now placed in the
Sala Sessagona, a room
I did not
see—under the number 161. It is described as
author appended.
had been seen; yet it was not a thing to be seen of men.
This
language will appear ridiculous to such as have never
looked on the
work; and it may be even to some among
those who have. On examining it
closely, I perceived in
one corner of the canvass the words Manus Animam pinxit
and the date 1239.
I turned to my Catalogue, but that was useless, for the
pictures
were all displaced. I then stepped up to the
Cavaliere Ercoli, who was
in the room at the moment,
and asked him regarding the subject and
authorship of the
painting. He treated the matter, I thought,
somewhat
slightingly, and said that he could show me the
reference
in the Catalogue, which he had compiled. This, when
found,
was not of much value, as it merely said,
have prolonged my
inquiry, in the hope that it might some-
how lead to some result; but I
had disturbed the curator
from certain yards of Guido, and he was not
communicative.
I went back therefore, and stood before the picture till
it
grew dusk.
The next day I was there again; but this time a circle
of students
was round the spot, all copying the ‘Berrettino.’
I contrived, however, to find a place whence I could see my
picture, and where I seemed to be in nobody's way. For
some minutes
I remained undisturbed; and then I heard,
in an English voice:
‘Might I beg of you, sir, to stand a
little more to this
side, as you interrupt my view.’
I felt vexed, for, standing where he asked me, a glare
struck on
the picture from the windows, and I could not see
it. However, the
request was reasonably made, and from a
countryman; so I complied, and
turning away, stood by
his easel. I knew it was not worth while; yet I
referred in
some way to the work underneath the one he was
copying.
He did not laugh, but he smiled as we do in
England:
‘Very odd, is it
not?’ said he.
The other students near us were all continental; and
seeing an
Englishman select an Englishman to speak with,
conceived, I suppose,
that he could understand no language
but his own. They had evidently
been noticing the interest
which the little picture appeared to excite
in me.
One of them, an Italian, said something to another who
stood next
to him. He spoke with a Genoese accent, and
I lost the sense in the
villanous dialect.
plied the other, lifting his eyebrows
towards the figure;
alle nebbie di là. Li fa pensare
alla patria,
There was a general laugh. My compatriot was evi-
dently a novice in the language, and did not take in what
was said.
I remained silent, being amused.
to a student, whose birthplace was
unmistakable, even had
he been addressed in any other language:
genre-là?’
easel, and looking at me and at the
figure, quite politely,
though with an evident reservation:
c'est une
spécialité dont je me fiche pas mal. Je tiens
que
quand on ne comprend pas une chose, c'est qu' elle
ne
signifie rien.’
My reader thinks possibly that the French student was
right.
London: Strangeways and Walden, Printers, 28 Castle St.,
Leicester Sq.