This is a partial copy of the A Proofs, which
Along with the
A perfect copy of the A Proofs exists—WMR's copy. It is in the library of Simon Nowell-Smith (the copy sold at Christie's on 29 July 1871; lot 456).
The duplicate proof pages in this document show that DGR called for revisions of the proof. The brief period separating the printing of the A and the A2 proofs thus shows clearly DGR's use of the printing process as a vehicle in his composition process. Furthermore, the handwritten signature and pagination on Q1 strongly suggests that DGR scarcely distinguished the A from the A2 proofs, and that he used both in his dealings with his printers, in repaginating and reorganizing his evolving book.
As with the
Further out” toward the left text margin.
* During the excavations, the Tiyari workmen held their ser-
vices in
the shadow of the great bulls(Layard's
Nineveh)Layard's “
)
poem was written when
the sculptures were first brought to
England.
* During the excavations, the Tiyari workmen held their
ser-
vices in the shadow of the great bulls (Layard's
poem was written when the
sculptures were first brought to
England.
Further out” toward the left text margin.
* 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.
* 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.
A” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs.
A” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs.
A” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs.
A” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs.
A” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs.
A” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs.
A” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs.
cameis heavily underlined
A” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs.
A” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs.
A” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs.
A” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs.
A” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs.
A2?” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs. Also, the printed page number is crossed out and the number 87 hand written in; that pagination corresponds to the A2 proofs.
A2?” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs. Also, the printed page number is crossed out and the number 90 hand written in; that pagination corresponds to the A2 proofs.
A2?” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs. Also, the printed page number is crossed out and the number 91 hand written in; that pagination corresponds to the A2 proofs.
A” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs. Also, the printed page number is crossed out and the number 97 hand written in; that pagination corresponds to the A2 proofs.
A2?” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs. Also, the printed page number is crossed out and the number 103 hand written in; that pagination corresponds to the A2 proofs.
A” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs. Also, the printed page number is crossed out and the number 7 hand written in (indicating page 107). The 7 is then changed to an 8, and that pagination corresponds to the A2 proofs.
A” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs. Also, the printed page number is crossed out and the number 114 hand written in; that pagination corresponds to the A2 proofs.
A” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs.
A?” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs.
B” in the upper left corner.
A” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs.
A” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs.
A” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs.
A” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs.
before she
becomes the mother of Christ.
She sits by her mother and copies
in
embroidery a lily which an angel
is watering.
A?” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs.
A” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs.
A” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs.
A?” in the upper left corner, presumably to indicate this set of proofs.
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
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
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
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,
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.
This is the privately
printed vol. of 1869—Each
leaf
contains some
correction by Gabriel.
I have put it in order of
numbered pages as far as I
found possible:
but there are
so many repetitions of the
same page printed
with some
different form that I cd not
succeed
in doing anything
beyond a mere approximation.
The flowered paper used in the binding
appears to have been brought by my
father
in 1824 from Malta—perhaps from Naples.
W. M. Rossetti.