This is copy two of the Princeton/Troxell collection's unique pair of copies of the Penkill Proofs, so called because they were completed and sent to DGR on 18 August 1869, two days after he arrived at Alice Boyd's home Penkill Castle, in Ayrshire. He stayed at Penkill until 20 September.
These proofs were being set in type in July, as DGR's letters to Jane Morris
of 21 and 30 July 1869 show (see
<xref doc="a.1-1870.raw">Poems</xref>
. They comprise Lewis's second Proof State (see
The Trial Book
Fallacy
, 186
Various poems in the later part of these proofs have been numbered in pencil by DGR. These numbers correspond to a sequence of pages he projected for the ordering of the printing of the poems in the next stage of the revision process, as DGR's note at the beginning of “
This copy of the Penkill Proofs has more corrections of accidentals than the other copy. Both carry numerous notes to the printer about typeface and page design. This second copy has a few scraps of manuscript additions added to the proofs on separate leaves.
These proofs were being set from texts that DGR supplied to his printers
(Strangeways and Walden) before he left London on 17 August 1869 for a
sojourn at Penkill Castle in Scotland (see
The printing process stretched between approximately 18 July and 18 August 1869. On 7 August DGR wrote to his publisher Ellis, who was overseeing the printing process, that the poems should each begin on a separate recto page, except for the longer poems. These he allowed to be printed on both sides of the page, though each new poem was to begin on a separate recto. As a consequence, poems that ran only one page or less all have blank versos. It has been suggested that this method of printing would allow DGR greater flexibility in shifting his poems about, as he experimented with the ordering of the different works. But it is not at all clear that such a procedure would have any significant impact on the printing process, at least for the printers who were preparing the works. On the other hand, such a format may well have facilitated the revision process DGR would be executing on the proofs.
The texts missing from this proof can be reconstructed from various
documents. Most important is DGR's manuscript list (partial) of some of the
poems he wanted printed in this first set of proofs. The list is contained
in the notebook of materials in the Troxell Collection at Princeton headed
MS Poetry 1869-71
A
Most of these poems were written between 1847
and 1853. They
revision, yet
are some
the
rest of which I cannot print, having
plete copies. Many of the Sonnets and some of
the short pieces are
D. G. R.
POEMS” on a separate half-title.
‘Burden. Heavy calamity; The chorus of a
song.’—Dictionary.
* Mr. Layard's
in
the shadow of the great bulls. Layard's “
)
written when the sculptures were first brought
to England.
*This hymn was written as a prologue to a series of designs.
Art
still identifies herself with classic
and the emotional
influence here employed demands above all an
inner standing-point.
Stet” beside lines 36-44, where he had made some changes of capitals to lower case.
new paragraph” after line 50, and marks “
Stet” beside line 72 , where he had changed a capital to lower case.
Stet” to restore several upper case readings; and he calls for a “
new paragraph” after line 87.
Stet” to cancel the lower case correction.
Stet” beside line 101 to restore the reading “
curse. ”
L. Primer.”
L. Primer.”
L. Primer.”
and” in line 5 is repeated.
The House of Life.”
Towards a work to be called.”
This leaf was removed by DGR, who intended to delete from the collection the poem that was printed here: “
break” at the ‘—’ in line 9.
* An old custom
purpose of fortune” into roman type; then deleted
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
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
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 try
i
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
the one to which my narrative will relate.
This Chiaro dell' Erma was a young man of very honor-
able family
in Arezzo; where, as it
were, 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 shown into
the study
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 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
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
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 Rocco
was here, and at this time, that he painted the Dresden
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
paintings in fresco
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 fresco
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;
and s
, in
the ecstasy of prayer, it had even seemed to him to
behold
that day when his mistress—his mystical lady (now
hardly
in her ninth year, but whose solemn smile at meeting
had
already lighted on his soullike the dove of the Trinity,)—
even she, his own gracious and holy Italian a
with her
virginal bosom, and her unfathomable eyes, and the thread
of sunlight round her brows—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
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 impress
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
unem-
phatic; bearing marked out upon them , as they must
certainly have done, 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:, as it were 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 Rocco
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 frescoes,
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
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
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
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 vext
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 so. 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: T
fire comes not upon it; therefore, though I slay not myT
T
smite me.” Why shouldst thou rise up and tell
God He is
not content? Had He, of H
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
H
of H
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 H
H
each man's stet
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
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,
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
F
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 missedthe
” has been
printed twice, at the end of line 5 and beginning of line 6.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 mirrov
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
with great
delicacy, have 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,
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
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, ‘
d'autore incerto
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 * I should here say, that in the
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, for the year just over
(owing, as in 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
‘Figura
mistica di Chiaro dell' Erma,’ and
there is a brief notice of the
author appended.
little more to this side, as you interrupt my view.’
I felt vext
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,
E
‘
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.
‘
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.