Before any knowledge of painting was brought toFlorence, there were already painters in Lucca, and Pisa,and Arezzo, who feared God and loved the art. Theworkmen from Greece, whose trade it was to sell their ownworks in Italy and teach Italians to imitate them, hadalready found in rivals of the soil a skill that couldforestall their lessons and cheapen their labours, moreyears than is supposed before the art came at all intoFlorence. The pre-eminence to which Cimabue was raisedat once by his contemporaries, and which he still retains toa wide extent even in the modern mind, is to be accountedfor, partly by the circumstances under which he arose, andpartly by that extraordinary purpose of fortune born with thelives of some few, and through which it is not a little thingfor any who went before, if they are even remembered asthe shadows of the coming of such an one, and the voiceswhich prepared his way in the wilderness. It is thus, almost exclusively, that the painters of whom I speak are nowknown. They have left little, and but little heed is taken ofthat which men hold to have been surpassed; it is gone liketime gone,—a track of dust and dead leaves that merely ledto the fountain.

Nevertheless, of very late years and in very rare in-stances, some signs of a better understanding have becomemanifest. A case in point is that of the triptych and twocruciform pictures at Dresden, by Chiaro di Messer Bellodell' Erma, to which the eloquent pamphlet of Dr. Aemmsterhas at length succeeded in attracting the students. Thereis another still more solemn and beautiful work, now provedto 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 veryhonorable family in Arezzo; where, conceiving art almostfor himself, and loving it deeply, he endeavoured fromearly boyhood towards the imitation of any objects offeredin nature. The extreme longing after a visible embodimentof his thoughts strengthened as his years increased, moreeven than his sinews or the blood of his life; until he wouldfeel faint in sunsets and at the sight of stately persons.When he had lived nineteen years, he heard of the famousGiunta Pisano; and, feeling much of admiration, with per-haps a little of that envy which youth always feels until ithas 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 humbleapparel, being unwilling that any other thing than the desirehe had for knowledge should be his plea with the greatpainter; and then, leaving his baggage at a house of enter-tainment, he took his way along the street, asking whom hemet for the lodging of Giunta. It soon chanced that one ofthat city, conceiving him to be a stranger and poor, tookhim into his house and refreshed him; afterwards directinghim on his way.

When he was brought to speech of Giunta, he saidmerely that he was a student, and that nothing in the worldwas so much at his heart as to become that which he hadheard told of him with whom he was speaking. He wasreceived with courtesy and consideration, and soon stoodamong the works of the famous artist. But the forms he sawthere were lifeless and incomplete; and a sudden exultationpossessed him as he said within himself, ‘I am the masterof this man.’ The blood came at first into his face, but thenext moment he was quite pale and fell to trembling. Hewas able, however to conceal his emotion; speaking verylittle to Giunta, but when he took his leave, thanking himrespectfully.

After this, Chiaro's first resolve was, that he would workout thoroughly some one of his thoughts, and let the worldknow him. But the lesson which he had now learned, ofhow small a greatness might win fame, and how little therewas to strive against, served to make him torpid, and ren- dered his exertions less continual. Also Pisa was a largerand more luxurious city than Arezzo; and when, in hiswalks, he saw the great gardens laid out for pleasure, andthe beautiful women who passed to and fro, and heard themusic that was in the groves of the city at evening, he wastaken with wonder that he had never claimed his share ofthe inheritance of those years in which his youth was cast.And women loved Chiaro; for, in despite of the burthen ofstudy, he was well-favoured and very manly in his walking;and, seeing his face in front, there was a glory upon it, asupon 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, agentleman that was there with him began to speak of thepaintings of a youth named Bonaventura, which he had seenin Lucca; adding that Giunta Pisano might now look for arival. When Chiaro heard this, the lamps shook beforehim and the music beat in his ears. He rose up, alleginga sudden sickness, and went out of that house with his teethset. And, being again within his room, he wrote up overthe door the name of Bonaventura, that it might stop himwhen 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; onlyliving entirely to himself. Sometimes, after nightfall, hewould walk abroad in the most solitary places he could find;hardly feeling the ground under him, because of the thoughtsof 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. Itwas here, and at this time, that he painted the Dresdenpictures; as also, in all likelihood, the one—inferior inmerit, but certainly his—which is now at Munich. For themost part he was calm and regular in his manner of study;though often he would remain at work through the whole ofa day, not resting once so long as the light lasted; flushed,and with the hair from his face. Or, at times, when hecould not paint, he would sit for hours in thought of all thegreatness the world had known from of old; until he wasweak with yearning, like one who gazes upon a path ofstars.

He continued in this patient endeavour for about threeyears, at the end of which his name was spoken throughoutall Tuscany. As his fame waxed, he began to be employed,besides easel-pictures, upon wall-paintings; but I believethat no traces remain to us of any of these latter. Heis said to have painted in the Duomo; and D'Agincourtmentions having seen some portions of a picture by himwhich originally had its place above the high altar in theChurch of the Certosa; but which, at the time he saw it,being very dilapidated, had been hewn out of the wall, andwas preserved in the stores of the convent. Before theperiod of Dr. Aemmster's researches, however, it had beenentirely destroyed.

Chiaro was now famous. It was for the race of famethat he had girded up his loins; and he had not pauseduntil fame was reached; yet now, in taking breath, he foundthat the weight was still at his heart. The years of his labour had fallen from him, and his life was still in its firstpainful desire.

With all that Chiaro had done during these three years,and even before with the studies of his early youth, therehad always been a feeling of worship and service. It wasthe peace-offering that he made to God and to his own soulfor 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 thinkof no other feature of his hope than this. Sometimes it hadeven seemed to him to behold that day when his mistress—his mystical lady (now hardly in her ninth year, but whosesmile at meeting had already lighted on his soul,)—evenshe, his own gracious Italian Art—should pass, through thesun that never sets, into the shadow of the tree of life,and be seen of God and found good: and then it hadseemed 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 hundredyears), 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 theeyes of his spirit; and in this thing had trusted, believingthat it would surely come to pass.

But now, (being at length led to inquire closely intohimself,) even as, in the pursuit of fame, the unrest abidingafter attainment had proved to him that he had misinterpretedthe craving of his own spirit—so also, now that he wouldwillingly have fallen back on devotion, he became aware A2 that much of that reverence which he had mistaken for faithhad been no more than the worship of beauty. Therefore,after certain days passed in perplexity, Chiaro said withinhimself, ‘My life and my will are yet before me: I willtake another aim to my life.’

From that moment Chiaro set a watch on his soul, andput his hand to no other works but only to such as had fortheir end the presentment of some moral greatness thatshould influence the beholder: and to this end, he multipliedabstractions, 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 townto their destination, they were no longer delayed by thecrowds 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 sakeof the life he saw in the faces that he loved. Only the criticalaudience remained to him; and these, in default of moreworthy matter, would have turned their scrutiny on a puppetor a mantle. Meanwhile, he had no more of fever uponhim; but was calm and pale each day in all that he didand in his goings in and out. The works he producedat this time have perished—in all likelihood, not unjustly.It is said (and we may easily believe it), that, thoughmore laboured than his former pictures, they were coldand unemphatic; bearing marked out upon them themeasure of that boundary to which they were made toconform.

And the weight was still close at Chiaro's heart: but he held in his breath, never resting (for he was afraid), andwould not know it.

Now it happened, within these days, that there fell agreat feast in Pisa, for holy matters: and each man left hisoccupation; and all the guilds and companies of the citywere got together for games and rejoicings. And there werescarcely any that stayed in the houses, except ladies wholay or sat along their balconies between open windows whichlet the breeze beat through the rooms and over the spreadtables from end to end. And the golden cloths that theirarms lay upon drew all eyes upward to see their beauty;and the day was long; and every hour of the day was brightwith the sun.

So Chiaro's model, when he awoke that morning on thehot pavement of the Piazza Nunziata, and saw the hurry ofpeople 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'sroom from the Church close at hand; and he could hearthe sounds that the crowd made in the streets; hushed onlyat long intervals while the processions for the feast-daychanted in going under his windows. Also, more than once,there was a high clamour from the meeting of factiouspersons: for the ladies of both leagues were looking down;and he who encountered his enemy could not choose butdraw upon him. Chiaro waited a long time idle; and thenknew that his model was gone elsewhere. When at hiswork, he was blind and deaf to all else; but he fearedsloth: for then his stealthy thoughts would begin to beat round and round him, seeking a point for attack. He nowrose, therefore, and went to the window. It was within ashort space of noon; and underneath him a throng of peoplewas coming out through the porch of San Petronio.

The two greatest houses of the feud in Pisa had filledthe church for that mass. The first to leave had been theGherghiotti; who, stopping on the threshold, had fallenback in ranks along each side of the archway: so that now,in passing outward, the Marotoli had to walk between twofiles of men whom they hated, and whose fathers had hatedtheirs. 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 hoodand gazed about him, to show the badge upon the close capthat held his hair. And of the Gherghiotti there were somewho tightened their girdles; and some shrilled and threwup their wrists scornfully, as who flies a falcon; for that wasthe crest of their house.

On the walls within the entry were a number of tallnarrow pictures, presenting a moral allegory of Peace, whichChiaro had painted that year for the Church. The Gher-ghiotti stood with their backs to these frescoes; and amongthem Golzo Ninuccio, the youngest noble of the faction,called by the people Golaghiotta, for his debased life. Thisyouth had remained for some while talking listlessly to hisfellows, though with his sleepy sunken eyes fixed on themwho passed: but now, seeing that no man jostled another,he drew the long silver shoe off his foot and struck the dustout of it on the cloak of him who was going by, asking him how far the tides rose at Viderza. And he said so becauseit was three months since, at that place, the Gherghiotti hadbeaten the Marotoli to the sands, and held them there whilethe 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 hadleft turned back; and they who were still behind madehaste to come forth: and there was so much blood cast upthe walls on a sudden, that it ran in long streams downChiaro's paintings.

Chiaro turned himself from the window; for the lightfelt dry between his lids, and he could not look. He satdown, and heard the noise of contention driven out of thechurch-porch and a great way through the streets; and soonthere was a deep murmur that heaved and waxed from theother side of the city, where those of both parties weregathering to join in the tumult.

Chiaro sat with his face in his open hands. Once againhe had wished to set his foot on a place that looked greenand fertile; and once again it seemed to him that the thinrank mask was about to spread away, and that this time thechill of the water must leave leprosy in his flesh. The lightstill swam in his head, and bewildered him at first; butwhen 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 handsgroping. Yet because of this are my feet become slow andmy hands thin. I am as one who, through the whole night, holding his way diligently, hath smitten the steel unto theflint, to lead some whom he knew darkling; who hath kepthis eyes always on the sparks that himself made, lest theyshould fail; and who, towards dawn, turning to bid themthat he had guided God speed, sees the wet grass untroddenexcept 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 samedarkness is the old order begun afresh. Men say, “This isnot God nor man; he is not as we are, neither above us:let him sit beneath us, for we are many.” Where I writePeace, in that spot is the drawing of swords, and there men'sfootprints are red. When I would sow, another harvest isripe. Nay, it is much worse with me than thus much. AmI not as a cloth drawn before the light, that the looker maynot be blinded; but which sheweth thereby the grain of itsown coarseness; so that the light seems defiled, and mensay, “We will not walk by it.” Wherefore through me theyshall be doubly accursed, seeing that through me they rejectthe light. May one be a devil and not know it?’

As Chiaro was in these thoughts, the fever encroachedslowly on his veins, till he could sit no longer and wouldhave risen; but suddenly he found awe within him, andheld his head bowed, without stirring. The warmth of theair was not shaken; but there seemed a pulse in the light,and a living freshness, like rain. The silence was a painfulmusic, that made the blood ache in his temples; and helifted 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 thattime. It seemed that the first thoughts he had ever knownwere given him as at first from her eyes, and he knew herhair to be the golden veil through which he beheld hisdreams. Though her hands were joined, her face was notlifted, but set forward; and though the gaze was austere, yether mouth was supreme in gentleness. And as he looked,Chiaro's spirit appeared abashed of its own intimatepresence, and his lips shook with the thrill of tears; itseemed such a bitter while till the spirit might be indeedalone.

She did not move closer towards him, but he felt her tobe as much with him as his breath. He was like one who,scaling a great steepness, hears his own voice echoed insome place much higher than he can see, and the name ofwhich is not known to him. As the woman stood, herspeech was with Chiaro: not, as it were, from her mouth orin 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 hasfailed thee, and faith failed thee; but because at least thouhast not laid thy life unto riches, therefore, though thus late,I am suffered to come into thy knowledge. Fame sufficednot, for that thou didst seek fame: seek thine own con-science (not thy mind's conscience, but thine heart's), andall shall approve and suffice. For Fame, in noble soils, is afruit of the Spring: but not therefore should it be said:“Lo! my garden that I planted is barren: the crocus ishere, but the lily is dead in the dry ground, and shall not There appears to be a missing period at the end of the final sentence in paragraph 27. In that location, between the 'l' and close quote, is a small blot, as if from a broken or misaligned piece of type. lift the earth that covers it: therefore I will fling my gardentogether, and give it unto the builders.” Take heed ratherthat thou trouble not the wise secret earth; for in the mouldthat thou throwest up shall the first tender growth lie towaste; which else had been made strong in its season.Yea, and even if the year fall past in all its months, and thesoil be indeed, to thee, peevish and incapable, and thoughthou indeed gather all thy harvest, and it suffice for others,and thou remain vexed with emptiness; and others drink ofthy streams, and the drouth rasp thy throat;—let it beenough that these have found the feast good, and thankedthe giver: remembering that, when the winter is striventhrough, there is another year, whose wind is meek, andwhose sun fulfilleth all’

While he heard, Chiaro went slowly on his knees. Itwas not to her that spoke, for the speech seemed withinhim and his own. The air brooded in sunshine, and thoughthe turmoil was great outside, the air within was at peace.But when he looked in her eyes, he wept. And she cameto him, and cast her hair over him, and took her handsabout his forehead, and spoke again:—

‘Thou hast said,’ she continued, gently, ‘that faith failedthee. This cannot be. Either thou hadst it not, or thouhast it. But who bade thee strike the point betwixt loveand faith? Wouldst thou sift the warm breeze from thesun that quickens it? Who bade thee turn upon God andsay: “Behold, my offering is of earth, and not worthy: thyfire comes not upon it: therefore, though I slay not mybrother whom thou acceptest, I will depart before thou smite me.” Why shouldst thou rise up and tell God He isnot content? Had He, of his warrant, certified so to thee?Be not nice to seek out division; but possess thy love insufficiency: assuredly this is faith, for the heart must believefirst. What He hath set in thine heart to do, that do thou;and even though thou do it without thought of Him, it shallbe well done; it is this sacrifice that He asketh of thee, andhis flame is upon it for a sign. Think not of Him; butof his love and thy love. For God is no morbid exactor:He hath no hand to bow beneath, nor a foot, that thoushouldst kiss it.’

And Chiaro held silence, and wept into her hair whichcovered his face; and the salt tears that he shed ran throughher hair upon his lips; and he tasted the bitterness ofshame.

Then the fair woman, that was his soul, spoke again tohim, saying:—

‘And for this thy last purpose, and for those unprofit-able truths of thy teaching,—thine heart hath already putthem away, and it needs not that I lay my bidding uponthee. How is it that thou, a man, wouldst say coldly to themind what God hath said to the heart warmly? Thy willwas honest and wholesome; but look well lest this also befolly,—to say, “I, in doing this, do strengthen God amongmen.” When at any time hath He cried unto thee, saying,“My son, lend me thy shoulder, for I fall?” Deemest thouthat the men who enter God's temple in malice, to theprovoking of blood and neither for his love nor for hiswrath will abate their purpose,—shall afterwards stand with thee in the porch, midway between Him and themselves, togive ear unto thy thin voice, which merely the fall of theirvisors can drown, and to see thy hands, stretched feebly,tremble among their swords? Give thou to God no morethan He asketh of thee; but to man also, that which is man's.In all that thou doest, work from thine own heart, simply; forhis heart is as thine, when thine is wise and humble; andhe shall have understanding of thee. One drop of rain isas another, and the sun's prism in all: and shalt thou notbe as he, whose lives are the breath of One? Only bymaking thyself his equal can he learn to hold communionwith thee, and at last own thee above him. Not till thoulean 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 mayestserve God with man:—Set thine hand and thy soul toserve man with God.’

And when she that spoke had said these words withinChiaro's spirit, she left his side quietly, and stood up as hehad first seen her: with her fingers laid together, and hereyes steadfast, and with the breadth of her long dresscovering her feet on the floor. And, speaking again, shesaid:—

‘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 seekout labour, and with a faith, not learned, yet jealous ofprayer. Do this; so shall thy soul stand before thee always,and perplex thee no more.’