4787
1904
ROBA
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
Death, why hast thou made life so hard to bear.
Taking my lady fience ? Hast thou no ivhit
Of shame? Theyoungest flower and the most fair
Thou hast plucked away, andtheworldwanteth it,
If ode ft Death, hast thou no pitying ?
Our 'warm love's very spring
Thou stopp^st, andendest what was holy and meet;
And of my gladdening
Matfst a most woful thing,
A nd in my heart dost bid the bird not sing
That sang so sweet.
Had I my will, beloved, I would say
To God, unto whose bidding all things bow,
That we wert still together night and day '.
Yet be it done as his behests allow.
1 do remember that while she remained
With me, she often called me her sweet friend :
But does not now,
Because God drew her tmvards Him, in the end.
Lady, that peace which none but He can send
Be thine. Even so.
GIACOMINO PUGLIBSI
(D. G. Rossetti)
MAURICE HEWLETT
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
(HOW SANDRO BOTTICELLI SAW
SIMONETTA IN THE SPRING)
PORTLAND MAINE
THOMAS B MOSHER
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FOREWORD
FOREWORD
LATE in the fall of 1895,
possibly too late for many
readers here, a little book came
out in London that had for title,
Earthwork out of Tuscany: being
Impressions and Translations of
Maurice Hewlett.
It may be said at once: this
Earthwork gave us a very lasting
delight. For in the episode of
Sandro Botticelli and La Bella
Simonetta, we came upon a veri-
table little masterpiece in prose.
How slightly tinged by realism
was the story ! Presumably there
is no basis of fact in the meeting
of the great artist and this fair
child-woman of the Renaissance.
Tradition affirms somewhat of one
exquisite figure dominant in Botti-
celli's portraiture; 1 likewise there
i. See an illustrated article of great
interest by Teresina Peck entitled "A
Favorite of the Florentines" in The
Lamp (N. Y.), for April, 1904.
vii
.FOREWORD
remain Lorenzo's words concern-
ing the beloved of Giuliano de
Medici. 1 Moreover Poliziano and
the courtly crew of poets strewed
her youthful hearse with laments
of no enduring verity, gone, all
of it, and they fallen forever silent.
She indeed remains, the beautiful
Simonetta Vespucci; for 'tis the
glory of Art that nothing it touches
is disannulled or lost. She lives,
even as the immortal women of
Boccaccio live, though heart and
brain alike are dust. And thus for
ages dead and ages yet to come,
Botticelli raised up a woman's
fading flower-like face, and this
we see to-day in his solemn vision
of a fadeless Spring.
T. B. M.
i. Which Mr. Hewlett has turned into
English in his Earthnvork. See Note at
the end of this volume.
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
PROEM
You, tall Ligurian Simonetta,
loved of Sandro, mourned
by Giuliano and, for a season, by
his twisted brother and lord, have
I done well to utter but one side
of your wild humour? The side
a man would take, struck, as your
Sandro was, by a nympholepsy, or,
as Lorenzo was, by the rhymer's
appetite for wherewithal to son-
netteer? If I read your story, it
was never pique or a young girl's
petulance drove you to Phryne's
one justifiable act of self-assertion.
It was honesty, Madonna, or I
have read your grey eyes in vain ;
it was enthusiasm that flame of
our fire so sacred that though it
play the incendiary there shall be
no crime or where would be
now the " Vas d'elezione"? nor
though it reveal a bystander's grin,
PROEM
any shame at all. I shall live to
tell that story of thine, Lady
Simonetta, to thy honour and my
own respect ; for, as the poet says,
" There is no holier flame
Than flutters torch-wise in a stripling
heart,
Revealing mystery all about, and light
Blinding, white, rapturovs a fire from
Heaven
To ask the clay of us, and wing the God
A rmed for the freeing of a world in
chains."
I have seen all memorials of
you left behind to be pondered by
your Dante, Sandro the painting
poet, the proud clearness of you
at the marriage feast of Nastagio
degli Onesti; the melting of the
sorrow that wells from you in a
tide, where you hold the book of
your overmastering honour and
read Magnificat Anima Mea with a
sob in your throat ; your acquaint-
ance, too, with that grief which
was your own hardening; your
sojourn, wan and woebegone as
PROEM
would become the wife of Moses
(maker of jealous gods) ; all these
guises of you, as well as the pre-
sentments of your innocent youth,
I have seen and adored. But I
have ever loved you most where
you stand a wistful Venus Ana-
dyomene " Una donzella non con
uman volto" ; for I know your
heart, Madonna, and see on the
sharp edge of your threatened life,
Ardour look back to maiden Se-
clusion, and on (with a pang of
foreboding) to mockery and evil
judgment. Never fear but I brave
your story out to the world ere
many days. And if any, with pro-
fane leer and tongue in the cheek,
take your sorrow for reproach or
your pitifulness for a shame, let
them receive the lash of the whip
from one who will trouble to wield
it : non ragioniam di lor.
MAURICE HEWLETT.
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
HOW SANDRO BOTTICELLI SAW SIMON-
ETTA IN THE SPRING
Up at Fiesole, among the olives
and chesnuts which cloud
the steeps, the magnificent Lorenzo
was entertaining his guests on a
morning in April. The olives were
just whitening to silver; they
stretched in a trembling sea down
the slope. Beyond lay Florence,
misty and golden ; and round about
were the mossy hills, cut sharp and
definite against a grey-bue sky,
printed with starry buildings and
sober ranks of cypress. The sun
catching the mosaics of San
Miniato and the brazen cross on
the fa9ade, made them shine like
sword-blades in the quiver of the
heat between. For the valley was
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
just a lake of hot air, hot and
murky "fever weather," said the
people in the streets with a glar-
ing summer sun let in between two
long spells of fog. 'Twas unnat-
ural at that season, via; but the
blessed Saints sent the weather
and one could only be careful what
one was about at sun-down.
Up at the Villa, with brisk
morning airs rustling overhead, in
the cool shades of trees and lawns,
it was pleasant to lie still, watching
these things, while a silky young
exquisite sang to his lute a not too
audacious ballad about Selvaggia,
or Becchina and the saucy Prior of
Sant' Onofrio. He sang well too,
that dark-eyed boy; the girl at
whose feet he was crouched was
laughing and blushing at once ;
and, being very fair, she blushed
hotly. She dared not raise her
eyes to look into his, and he knew
it and was quietly measuring his
strength it was quite a comedy I
At each wanton refrain he lowered
8
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
his voice to a whisper and bent a lit-
tle forward. And the girl's laughter
became hysterical ; she was shaking
with the effort to control herself.
At last she looked up with a sort
of sob in her breath and saw his
mocking smile and the gleam of the
wild beast in his eyes. She grew
white, rose hastily and turned away
to join a group of ladies sitting
apart. A man with a heavy, rather
sullen face and a bush of yellow
hair falling over his forehead in a
wave, was standing aside watching
all this. He folded his arms and
scowled under his big brows ; and
when the girl moved away his eyes
followed her.
The lad ended his song in a
broad sarcasm amid bursts of
laughter and applause. The Mag-
nificent, sitting in his carved chair,
nursed his sallow face -and smiled
approval. " My brother boasts his
invulnerability," he said, turning
to his neighbour, "let him look
to it, Messer Cupido will have him
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
yet. Already, we can see, he has
been let into some of the secrets
of the bower." The man bowed
and smiled deferentially. " Signor
Giuliano has all the qualities to
win the love of ladies, and to retain
it. Doubtless he awaits his des-
tiny. The Wise Man has said
that " Beauty. . . ." The young
poet enlarged on his text with
some fire in his thin cheeks, while
the company kept very silent. It
was much to their liking; even
Giuliano was absorbed ; he sat on
the ground clasping one knee
between his hands, smiling up-
wards into vacancy, as a man
does whose imagination is touched.
Lorenzo nursed his sallow face
and beat time to the orator's
cadances with his foot; he, too,
was abstracted and smiling. At
the end he spoke; "Our Marsilio
himself has never said nobler
words, my Agnolo. The mantle of
the Attic prophet has descended
indeed upon this Florence. And
10
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
Beauty, as thou sayest, is from
heaven. But where shall it be
found here below, and how dis-
cerned ? " The man of the heavy
jowl was standing with folded arms,
looking from under his brows at
the group of girls. Lorenzo saw
everything ; he noticed him. " Our
Sandro will tell us it is yonder.
The Star of Genoa shines over
Florence and our poor little con-
stellations are gone out. Ecco, my
Sandro, gravest and hardiest of
painters, go summon Madonna
Simonetta and her handmaidens
to our Symposium. Agnolo will
speak further to us of this sover-
eignty of Beauty."
The painter bowed his head and
moved away.
A green alley vaulted with thick
ilex and myrtle formed a tapering
vista where the shadows lay misty
blue, and pale shafts of light
pierced through fitfully. At the far
end it ran out into an open space
and a splash of sunshine. A mar-
ii
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
ble Ganymede with lifted arms
rose in the middle like a white
flame. The girls were there, in-
tent upon some commerce of their
own, flashing hither and thither
over the grass in a flutter of saffron
and green and crimson. Simonetta
Sandro could see was a little
apart, a very tall, isolated figure,
clear and cold in a recess of shade,
standing easily, resting on one hip
with her hands behind her. A
soft, straight robe of white clipped
her close from shoulder to heel;
the lines of her figure were thrust
forward by her poise. His eye
followed the swell of her bosom,
very gentle and girlish, and the
long folds of her dress falling
thence to her knee. While she
stood there, proud and remote, a
chance beam of the sun shone on
her head so that it seemed to burn.
" Heaven salutes the Queen of
Heaven, Venus Urania ! " With
an odd impulse he stopped, crossed
himself, and then hurried on.
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
He told his errand to her; hav-
ing no eyes for the others.
"Signorina I am to acquaint
her Serenity that the divine poet
Messer Agnolo is to speak of the
sovereign power of beauty; of the
Heavenly Beauty whereof Plato
taught, as it is believed."
Simonetta arched a slim neck
and looked down at the obsequious
speaker, or at least he thought so.
And he saw how fair she was, a
creature how delicate and gracious,
with grey eyes frank and wide, and
full red lips where a smile (nervous
and a little wistful, he judged,
rather than defiant) seemed always
to hover. Such clear-cut, high
beauty made him ashamed; but
her colouring (for he was a painter)
made his heart beat. She was no
ice-bound shadow of deity then !
but flesh and blood; a girl a
child, of timid, soft contours, of
warm roses and blue veins laced
in a pearly skin. And she was
crowned with a heavy wealth of
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
red-gold hair, twisted in great coils,
bound about with pearls, and
smouldering like molten metal
where it fell rippling along her
neck. She dazzled him, so that he
could not face her or look further.
His eyes dropped. He stood be-
fore her moody, disconcerted.
The girls, who had dissolved
their company at his approach,
listened to what he had to say
linked in knots of twos and threes.
They needed no excuses to return ;
some were philosophers in their
way, philosophers and poetesses;
some had left their lovers in the
ring round Lorenzo. So they went
down the green alley still locked
by the arms, by the waist or
shoulders. They did not wait for
Simonetta. She was a Genoese,
and proud as the snow. Why did
Giuliano love her? Did he love
her, indeed? He was bewitched
then, for she was cold, and a
brazen creature in spite of it.
How dare she bare her neck so !
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
Oh! 'twas Genoese. "Uomini
senza fede e donne senza ver-
gogna," they quoted as they ran.
And Simonetta walked alone
down the way with her head high ;
but Sandro stepped behind, at
the edge of her trailing white
robe. . . .
. . . The poet was leaning
against an ancient alabaster vase,
soil-stained, yellow with age and
its long sojourn in the loam, but
with traces of its carved garlands
clinging to it still. He fingered it
lovingly as he talked. His oration
was concluding, and his voice rose
high and tremulous; there were
sparks in his hollow eyes. . . .
" And as this sovereign Beauty is
queen of herself, so she is subject
to none other, owns to no con-
straining custom, fears no reproach
of man. What she wills, that has
the force of a law. Being Beauty,
her deeds are lovely and worship-
ful. Therefore Phryne, whom
men, groping in darkness and the
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
dull ways of earth, dubbed courte-
san, shone in a Court of Law
before the assembled nobles of
Athens, naked and undismayed in
the blaze of her fairness. And
Athens discerned the goddess and
trembled. Yes, and more; even
as Aphrodite, whose darling she
was, arose pure from the foam, so
she too came up out of the sea
in the presence of a host, and
the Athenians, seeing no shame,
thought none, but, rather, rever-
enced her the more. For what
shame is it that the body of one
so radiant in clear perfections
should be revealed? Is then the
garment of the soul, her very
mould and image, so shameful?
Shall we seek to know her essence
by the garment of a garment, or
hope to behold that which really
is in the shadows we cast upon
shadows? Shame is of the brute
dullard who thinks shame. The
evil ever sees Evil glaring at him.
Plato, the golden-mouthed, with
16
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
the soul of pure fire, has said the
truth of this matter in his De
Republica, the fifth book, where
he speaks of young maids sharing
the exercise of the Palaestra, yea,
and the Olympic contests even !
For he says, ' Let the wives of our
wardens bare themselves, for their
virtue will be a robe ; and let them
share the toils of war and defend
their country. And for the man
who laughs at naked women exer-
cising their bodies for high reasons,
his laughter is a fruit of unripe
wisdom, and he himself knows not
what he is about ; for that is ever
the best of sayings that the useful
is the noble and the hurtful the
base.' . . ."
There was a pause. The name
of Plato had had a strange effect
upon the company. You would
have said they had suddenly en-
tered a church and had felt all
lighter interests sink under the
weight of the dim, echoing nave.
After a few moments the poet
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
spoke again in a quieter tone, but
his voice had lost none of the
unction which had enriched it.
. . . " Beauty is queen : by the
virtue of Deity, whose image she
is, she reigns, lifts up, fires. Let
us beware how we tempt Deity
lest we perish ourselves. Actaeon
died when he gazed unbidden upon
the pure body of Artemis; but
Artemis herself rayed her splen-
dour upon Endymion, and Endy-
mion is among the immortals. We
fall when we rashly confront
Beauty, but that Beauty who
comes unawares may nerve our
souls to wing to heaven." He
ended on a resonant note, and
then, still looking out over the
valley, sank into his seat. Lorenzo,
with a fine humility, got up and
kissed his thin hand. Giuliano
looked at Simonetta, trying to
recall her gaze, but she remained
standing in her place, seeing
nothing of her companions. She
was thinking of something, frown-
18
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
ing a little and biting her lip, her
hands were before her; her slim
fingers twisted and locked them-
selves nervously, like a tangle of
snakes. Then she tossed her head,
as a young horse might, and looked
at Giuliano suddenly, full in the
eyes. He rose to meet her with
a deprecating smile, cap in hand
but she walked past him, almost
brushing him with her gown, but
never flinching her full gaze,
threaded her way through the
group to the back, behind the poet,
where Sandro was. He had seen
her coming, indeed he had watched
her furtively throughout the ora-
tion, but her near presence discon-
certed him again and he looked
down. She was strongly excited
with her quick resolution; her
colour had risen and her voice
faltered when she began to speak.
She spoke eagerly, running her
words together.
"Ecco, Messer Sandro," she
whispered blushing. "You have
19
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
heard these sayings. . . . Who
is there in Florence like me?"
" There is no one," said Sandro
simply.
"I will be your Lady Venus,"
she went on breathlessly. "You
shall paint me, rising from the sea-
foam. . . . The Genoese love
the sea." She was still eager and
defiant; her bosom rose and fell
unchecked.
" The Signorina is mocking me ;
it is impossible; the Signorina
knows it."
"Eh, Madonna! is it so shame-
ful to be fair Star of the Sea as
your poets sing at evening? Do
you mean that I dare not do it ?
Listen then, Signor Pittore; to-
morrow morning at mass-time you
will come to the Villa Vespucci
with your brushes and pans and
you will ask for Monna Simonetta.
Then you will see. Leave it now ;
it is settled." And she walked
away with her head high and the
same superb smile on her red lips.
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
Mockery ! She was in dead earn-
est ; all her child's feelings were in
hot revolt. These women who had
whispered to each other, sniggered
at her dress, her white neck and
her free carriage; Giuliano who
had presumed so upon her candour
these prying, censorious Flor-
entines she would strike them
dumb with her amazing loveliness.
They sang her a goddess that she
might be flattered and suffer their
company : she would show herself
a goddess indeed the star of
her shining Genoa, where men
were brave and silent and maid-
ens frank like the sea. Yes, and
then she would withdraw herself
suddenly and leave them forlorn
and dismayed.
As for Sandro, he stood where
she had left him, peering after her
with a mist in his eyes. He seemed
to be looking over the hill-side,
over the city glowing afar off gold
and purple in the hot air, to Mont'
Oliveto, and the heights, where a
21
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
line of black cypresses stood about
a low white building. At one
angle of the building was a little
turret with a belvedere of round
arches. The tallest cypress just
topped the windows. There his
eyes seemed to rest.
n
II
At mass-time Sandro, folded in
his shabby green cloak, stepped
into the sun on the Ponte Vecchio.
The morning mists were rolling
back under the heat; you began
to see the yellow line of houses
stretching along the turbid river
on the far side, and frowning down
upon it with blank, mud-stained
faces. Above, through steaming
air, the sky showed faintly blue
and a campanile to the right
loomed pale and uncertain like a
ghost. The sound of innumerable
bells floated over the still city.
Hardly a soul was abroad; here
and there a couple of dusty peas-
ants were trudging in with baskets
of eggs and jars of milk and oil ;
A boat passed down to the fishing,
and the oar knocked sleepily in
the rowlock as she cleared the
bridge. And above, on the heights
23
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
of Mont' Oliveto, the tapering
forms of cypresses were faintly
outlined straight bars of shadow
and the level ridge of a roof
ran lightly back into the soft
shroud.
Sandro could mark these things
as he stepped resolutely on to the
bridge, crossed it, and went up a
narrow street among the sleeping
houses. The day held golden
promise; it was the day of his
life I Meantime the mist clung to
him and nipped him; what had
fate in store? What was to be
the issue? In the Piazza Santo
Spirito, grey and hollow-sounding
in the chilly silences, his own foot-
steps echoed solemnly as he passed
by the door of the great ragged
church. Through the heavy dark-
ness within lights flickered faintly
and went; service was not begun.
A drab crew of cripples lounged
on the steps yawning and shiver-
ing, and two country girls were
strolling to the mass with brown
24
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
arms round each other's waists.
When Sandro's footfall clattered
on the stones they stopped by the
door looking after him and laughed
to see his dull face and muffled
figure. In the street beyond he
heard a bell jingling, hasty, inces-
sant; and soon a white-robed
procession swept by him, fluttering
vestments, tapers, and the Host
under a canopy, silk and gold.
Sandro snatched at his cap and
dropped on his knees in the road,
crouching low and muttering under
his breath as the vision went past.
He remained kneeling for a mo-
ment after it had gone, then
crossed himself forehead, breast,
lip and hurried forward. . . .
He stepped under the archway
into the Court. There was a
youth with a cropped head and
swarthy neck lounging there teasing
a spaniel. As the steps sounded
on the flags he looked up ; the old
green cloak and clumsy shoes of
the visitor did not interest him;
2 5
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
he turned his back and went on
with his game. Sandro accosted
him Was the Signorina at the
house? The boy went on with
his game. " Eh, Diavolo ? I know
nothing at all," he said.
Sandro raised his voice till it
rang round the courtyard. " You
will go at once and inquire. You
will say to the Signorina that
Sandro di Mariano Filipepi the
Florentine painter is here by her
orders ; that he waits her pleasure
below."
The boy had got up; he and
Sandro eyed each other for a little
space. Sandro was the taller and
had the glance of a hawk. So the
porter went. . . .
. . . Presently with throbbing
brows he stood on the threshold
of Simonetta's chamber. It was
the turret room of the villa and
its four arched windows looked
through a leafy tracery over
towards Florence. Sandro could
see down below him in the haze
26
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
the glitter of the Arno and the
dusky dome of Brunelleschi cleave
the sward of the hills like a great
burnished bowl In the room
itself there was tapestry, the
Clemency of Scipio, with courtiers
in golden cuirasses and tall plumes,
and peacocks and huge Flemish
horses a rich profusion of crim-
son and blue drapery and stout
limbed soldiery. On a bracket,
above a green silk curtain, was a
silver statuette of Madonna and
the Bambino Gesu, with a red
lamp nickering feebly before. By
the windows a low divan heaped
with velvet cushions and skins.
But for a coffer and a prayer desk
and a curtained recess which en-
shrined Simonetta's bed, the room
looked wind-swept and bare.
When he entered Simonetta was
standing by the window leaning
her hand against the ledge for
support. She was draped from
top to toe in a rose-coloured man-
tle which shrouded her head like
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
a nun's wimple and then fell in
heavy folds to the ground. She
flushed as he came in, but saluted
him with a grave inclination.
Neither spoke. The silent greet-
ing, the full consciousness in each
of their parts, gave a curious
religious solemnity to the scene
like some familiar but stately
Church mystery. Sandro busied
himself mechanically with his prep-
arations he was a lover and his
pulse was chaotic, but he had
come to paint and when these
were done, on tip-toe, as it were,
he looked timidly about him round
the room, seeking where to pose
her. Then he motioned her with
the same reverential, preoccupied
air, silent still, to a place under
the silver Madonna. . . .
. . . There was a momentary
quiver of withdrawal. Simonetta
blushed vividly and drooped her
eyes down to her little bare foot
peeping out below the lines of the
rosy cloak. The cloak's warmth
28
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
shone on her smooth skin and
rayed over her cheeks. In her
flowery loveliness she looked
diaphanous, ethereal ; and yet you
could see what a child she was,
with her bright audacity, her
ardour and her wilfulness flushing
and paling about her like the
dawn. There she stood trembling
on the brink. . . .
Suddenly all her waywardness
shot into her eyes; she lifted her
arms and the cloak fell back like
the shard of a young flower ; then,
delicate and palpitating as a silver
reed, she stood up in the soft light
of the morning, and the sun, slant-
ing in between the golden leaves
and tendrils, kissed her neck and
shrinking shoulder.
Sandro stood facing her, moody
and troubled, fingering his brushes
and bits of charcoal; his shaggy
brows were knit, he seemed to be
breathing hard. He collected him-
self with an effort and looked up
at her as she stood before him
29
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
shrinking, awe-struck, panting at
the thing she had done. Their
eyes met, and the girl's distress
increased ; she raised her hand to
cover her bosom ; her breath came
in short gasps from parted lips,
but her wide eyes still looked fix-
edly into his, with such blank
panic that a sudden movement
might really have killed her. He
saw it all ; she ! there at his mercy.
Tears swam and he trembled. Ah !
the gracious lady I what divine
condescension ! what ineffable
courtesy! But the artist in him
was awakened almost at the same
moment; his looks wandered in
spite of her piteous candour and
his own nothingness. Sandro the
poet would have fallen on his face
with an " Exi a me, nam peccator
sum." Sandro the painter was
different no mercy there. He
made a snatch at a carbon and
raised his other hand with a kind of
command "Holy Virgin! what
a line ! Stay as you are, I implore
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
you : swerve not one hair's breadth
and I have you for ever! " There
was conquest in his voice.
So Simonetta stood very still,
hiding her bosom with her hand,
but never took her watch off the
enemy. As he ran blindly about
doing a hundred urgent indispen-
sable things, noting the lights,
the line she made, how her arm
cut across the folds of the curtain
she dogged him with staring,
fascinated eyes, just as a hare,
crouching in her form, watches
a terrier hunting round her and
waits for the end.
But the enemy was disarmed.
Sandro the passionate, the lover,
the brooding devotee was gone;
so was la bella Simonetta the
beloved, the be-hymned. Instead,
here was a fretful painter, dashing
lines and broad smudges of shade
on his paper, while before him
rose an exquisite, slender, swaying
form, glistening carnation and
silver, and, over all, the madden-
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
ing glow of red-gold hair. Could
he but catch those velvet shadows,
those delicate, glossy, reflected-
lights ! Body of Bacch us ! How
could he put them in I What a
picture she wasl Look at the
sun on her shoulder! and her hair
Christ ! how it burned ! It was
a curious moment. The girl who
had never understood or cared to
understand this humble lover,
guessed now that he was lost in
the artist. She felt that she was
simply an effect and she resented it
as a crowning insult. Her colour
rose again, her red lips gathered
into a pout. If Sandro had but
known, she was his at that instant.
He had but to drop the painter,
throw down his brushes, set his
heart and hot eyes bare to open
his arms and she would have fled
into them and nestled there ; so
fierce was her instinct just then to
be loved, she, who had always
been loved! But Sandro knew
nothing and cared nothing. He
32
QUATTROCKNTISTERIA
was absorbed in the gracious lines
of her body, the lithe long neck,
the drooping shoulder, the tender-
ness of her youth; and then the
grand open curve of the hip and
thigh on which she was poised.
He drew them in with a free hand
in great sweeping lines, eagerly,
almost angrily; once or twice he
broke his carbon and body of a
dog! he snatched at another.
This lasted a few minutes only :
even Simonetta, with all her maiden
tremors still feverishly acute, hardly
noticed the flight of time ; she was
so hot with the feeling of her wrongs,
the slight upon her victorious fair-
ness. Did she not know how fair
she was ? She was getting very
angry ; she had been made a fool
of. All Florence would come and
gape at the picture and mock her
in the streets with bad names and
coarse gestures as she rode by.
She looked at Sandro. Santa
Maria! how hot he was! His
hair was drooping over his eyes!
33
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
He tossed it back every second!
And his mouth was open, one
could see his tongue working!
Why had she not noticed that
great mouth before? 'Twas the
biggest in all Florence. O! why
had he come? She was fright-
ened, remorseful, a child again,
with a trembling pathetic mouth
and shrinking limbs. And then
her heart began to beat under her
slim fingers. She pressed them
down into her flesh to stay those
great masterful throbs. A tear
gathered in her eye; larger and
larger it grew, and then fell. A
shining drop rested on the round
of her cheek and rolled slowly
down her chin to her protecting
hand, and lay there half hidden,
shining like a rain-drop between
two curving petals of a rose.
It was just at that moment the
painter looked up from his work
and shook his bush of hair back.
Something in his sketch had dis-
pleased him ; he looked up frown-
34
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
ing, with a brush between his
teeth. When he saw the tear-
stained, distressful, beautiful face
it had a strange effect upon him.
He dropped nerveless like a
wounded man, to his knees, and
covered his eyes with his hands.
"Ah Madonna! for the pity of
heaven forgive me! forgive me! I
have sinned, I have done thee
fearful wrong; I, who still dare to
love thee." He uncovered his face
and looked up radiant: his own
words had inspired him. "Yes,"
he went on, with a steadfast smile,
" I, Sandro, the painter, the poor
devil of a painter, have seen thee
and I dare to love ! " His triumph
was short-lived. Simonetta had
grown deadly white, her eyes
burned, she had forgotten herself.
She was tall and slender as a
lily, and she rose, shaking, to her
height.
"Thou presumest strangely," she
said, in a slow still voice, " Go !
Go in peace ! "
35
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
She was conqueror. In her
calm scorn, she was like a young
immortal, some cold victorious
Cynthia whose chastity had been
flouted. Sandro was pale too : he
said nothing and did not look at
her again. She stood quivering
with excitement, watching him
with the same intent alertness
as he rolled up his paper and
crammed his brushes and pencils
into the breast of his jacket. She
watched him still as he backed
out of the room and disappeared
through the curtains of the arch-
way. She listened to his footsteps
along the corrider, down the stair.
She was alone in the silence of the
sunny room. Her first thought
was for her cloak; she snatched
it up and veiled herself shivering
as she looked fearfully round the
walls. And then she flung herself
on the piled cushions before the
window and sobbed piteously like
an abandoned child.
The sun slanted in between
36
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
the golden leaves and tendrils
and played in the tangle of her
hair.
Ill
At ten o'clock on the morning
of April the twenty-sixth, a great
bell began to toll : two beats heavy
and slow, and then silence, while
the air echoed the reverberation,
moaning. Sandro, in shirt and
breeches, with bare feet spread
broad, was at work in his garret
on the old bridge. He stayed his
hand as the strong tone struck,
bent his head and said a prayer:
"Miserere ei Domine; requiem
eternam dona, Domine ; " the
words came out of due order as
if he was very conscious of their
import. Then he went on. And
the great bell went on; two beats
together, and then silence. It
seemed to gather solemnity and
a heavier message as he painted.
Through the open window a keen
draught of air blew in with dust
and a scrap of shaving from the
38
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
Lung' Arno down below ; it circled
round his workshop, fluttering the
sketches and rags pinned to the
walls. He looked out on a bleak
landscape San Miniato in heavy
shade, and the white houses by
the river staring like dead faces.
A strong breeze was abroad; it
whipped the brown water and
raised little curling billows, ragged
and white at the edges, and tossed
about snaps of surf. It was cold.
Sandro shivered as he shut to the
casement; and the stiffening gale
rattled at it fitfully. Once again
it thrust it open, bringing wild
work among the litter in the room.
He made fast with the rain driving
in his face. And above the howling
of the squall he heard the sound of
the great bell, steady and unmoved
as if too full of its message to be
put aside. Yet it was coming to
him athwart the wind.
Sandro stood at his casement
and looked at the weather beat-
ing rain and yeasty water. He
39
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
counted, rather nervously, the
pulses between each pair of the
bell's deep tones. He was impres-
sionable to circumstances, and the
coincidence of storm and passing-
bell awed him. . . . "Either
the God of Nature suffers or the
fabric of the world is breaking;"
he remembered a scrap of talk
wafted towards him (as he stood
in attendance) from some human-
ist at Lorenzo's table only yester-
day, above the light laughter and
snatches of song. That breakfast
party at the Camaldoli yesterday !
What a contrast the even spring
weather with the sun in a cloudless
sky, and now this icy dead morning
with its battle of wind and bell, fight-
ing, he thought, over the failing
breath of some strong man. Man !
God, more like. "The God of
Nature suffers," he murmured as
he turned to his work. . . .
Simonetta had not been there
yesterday. He had not seen her,
indeed, since that nameless day
40
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
when she had first transported
him with the radiance of her bare
beauty and then struck him down
with a level gaze from steel-cold
eyes. And he had deserved it, he
had she had said "presumed
strangely." Three more words only
had she uttered and he had slunk
out from her presence like a dog,
What a goddess ! Venus Urania !
So she, too, might have ravished
a worshipper as he prayed, and,
after, slain him for a careless word.
Cruel? No, but a Goddess.
Beauty had no laws; she was
above them. Agnolo himself had
said it, from Plato. . . . Holy
Michael! What a blast! Black
and desperate weather. . . .
" Either the God of Nature suffers."
. . . God shield all Christian
souls on such a day! . . .
One came and told him Simon-
etta Vespucci was dead. Some
fever had torn at her and raced
through all her limbs, licking up
her life as it passed. No one had
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
known of it it was so swift!
But there had just been time to
fetch a priest; Fra Matteo, they
said, from the Carmine, had shrived
her ('twas a bootless task, God
knew, for the child had babbled
so, her wits wandered, look you),
and then he had performed the
last office. One had fled to tell
the Medici. Giuliano was wild
with grief; 'twas as if he had
killed her instead of the Spring-
ague but then, people said he
loved her well! And our Lorenzo
had bid them swing the great bell
of the Duomo Sandro had heard
it perhaps ? and there was to be
a public procession, and a Requiem
sung at Santa Croce before they
took her back to Genoa to lie with
her fathers. Eh ! Bacchus ! She
was fair and Giuliano had loved her
well. 'Twas natural enough then.
So the gossip ran out to tell his
news to more attentive ears, and
Sandro stood in his place, intoning
softly "Te Deum Laudamus."
42
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
He understood it all. There
had been a dark and awful strife
earth shuddering as the black
shadow of death swept by.
Through tears now the sun
beamed broad over the gentle
city where she lay lapped in her
mossy hills. "Lux eterna lucet
ei," he said with a steady smile;
"atque lucebit," he added after a
pause. He had been painting that
day an agonizing Christ, red and lan-
guid, crowned with thorns. Some
of his own torment seems to have
entered it, for, looking at it now,
we see, first of all, wild eyeballs
staring with the mad earnestness,
the purposeless intensity of one
seized or "possessed." He put
the panel away and looked about
for something else, the sketch he
had made of Simonetta on that
last day. When he had found it,
he rolled it straight and set it on
his easel. It was not the first
charcoal study he had made from
life, but a brush drawing on dark
43
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
paper, done in sepia-wash and the
lights in white lead. He stood
looking into it with his hands
clasped. About half a braccia
high, faint and shadowy in the
pale tint he had used, he saw her
there victim rather than Goddess.
Standing timidly and wistfully,
shrinking rather, veiling herself,
maiden-like, with her hands and
hair, with lips trembling and dewy
eyes, she seemed to him now an
immortal who must needs suffer
for some great end ; live and suffer
and die ; live again, and suffer and
die. It was a doom perpetual like
Demeter's, to bear, to nurture, to
lose and to find her Persephone.
She had stood there immaculate
and apprehensive, a wistful victim.
Three days before he had seen
her thus; and now she was dead.
He would see her no more.
Ah 1 Yes, once more he would
see her. . . .
They carried dead Simonetta
44
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
through the streets of Florence
with her pale face uncovered and
a crown of myrtle in her hair.
People thronging there held their
breath, or wept to see such still
loveliness ; and her poor parted
lips wore a patient little smile, and
her eyelids were pale violet and
lay heavy to her cheek. White,
like a bride, with a nosegay of
orange-blossom and syringa at her
throat, she lay there on her bed
with lightly folded hands and the
strange aloofness and preoccupa-
tion all the dead have. Only her
hair burned about her like a molten
copper; and the wreath of myrtle
leaves ran forward to her brows
and leapt beyond them into a
tongue.
The great procession swept for-
ward; black brothers of Miseri-
cordia shrouded and awful, bore
the bed or stalked before it with
torches that guttered and flared
sootily in the dancing light of day.
They held the pick of Florence,
45
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
those scowling shrouds Giuliano
and Lorenzo, Pazzi, Tornabuoni,
Soderini or Pulci ; and behind, old
Cattaneo, battered with storms,
walked heavily, swinging his long
arms and looking into the day's
face as if he would try another
fall with Death yet. Priests and
acolytes, tapers, banners, vest-
ments and a great silver Crucifix,
they drifted by, chanting the dirge
for Simonetta; and she, as if for
a sacrifice, lifted up on her silken
bed, lay couched like a white flower
edged colour of flame. . . .
. . . Santa Croce, the great
church, stretched forward beyond
her into distances of grey mist and
cold spaces of light. Its bare
vastness was damp like a vault.
And she lay in the midst listless,
heavy-lidded, apart, with the half-
smile, as it seemed, of some secret
mirth. Round her the great candles
smoked and flickered, and mass
was sung at the High Altar for
her soul's repose. Sandro stood
46
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
alone facing the shining altar but
looking fixedly at Simonetta on
her couch. He was white and
dry parched lips and eyes that
ached and smarted. Was this the
end? Was it possible, my God!
that the transparent, unearthly
thing lying there so prone and
pale was dead ? Had such loveli-
ness aught to do with life or
death? Ah! sweet lady, dear
heart, how tired she was, how
deadly tired! From where he
stood he could see with intoler-
able anguish the sombre rings
round her eyes and the violet
shadows on the lids, her folded
hands and the straight, meek line
to her feet. And her poor wan
face with its wistful, pitiful little
smile was turned half aside on
the delicate throat, as if in a last
appeal: "Leave me now, O
Florentines, to my rest. I have
given you all I had : ask no more.
I was a young girl, a child; too
young for your eager strivings.
47
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
You have killed me with your
play; let me be now, let me
sleep ! " Poor child I Poor child 1
Sandro was on his knees with his
face pressed against the pulpit and
tears running through his fingers
as he prayed. . . .
As he had seen her, so he
painted. As at the beginning of
life in a cold world, passively
meeting the long trouble of it,
he painted her a rapt Presence
floating evenly to our earth. A
grey, translucent sea laps silently
upon a little creek and, in the
hush of a still dawn, the myrtles
and sedges on the water's brim
are quiet. It is a dream in half
tones that he gives us, grey and
green and steely blue; and just
that, and some homely magic of
his own, hint the commerce of
another world with man's dis-
carded domain. Men and women
are asleep, and as in an early walk
you may startle the hares at their
play, or see the creatures of the
48
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
darkness owls and night hawks
and heavy moths flit with fan-
tastic purpose over the familiar
scene, so here it comes upon you
suddenly that you have surprised
Nature's self at her mysteries;
you are let into the secret; you
have caught the spirit of the April
woodland as she glides over the
pasture to the copse. And that,
indeed, was Sandro's fortune. He
caught her in just such a propi-
tious hour. He saw the sweet
wild thing, pure and undefined by
touch of earth; caught her in that
pregnant pause of time ere she
had lighted. Another moment
and a buxom nymph of the grove
would fold her in a rosy mantle,
coloured as the earliest wood-
anemones are. She would vanish,
we know, into the daffodils or a
bank of violets. And you might
tell her presence there, or in the
rustle of the myrtles, or coo of
doves mating in the pines; you
might feel her genius in the scent
49
QUATTROCENTISTERIA
of the earth or the kiss of the
West wind; but you could only
see her in mid-April, and you
should look for her over the sea.
She always comes with the first
warmth of the year.
But daily, before he painted,
Sandro knelt in a dark chapel in
Santa Croce, while a blue-chinned
priest said mass for the repose of
Simonetta's soul.
NOTE
NOTE
PER6, what gentlemen they were,
these " ingegni fiorentini,"
these Tuscan wits ! What innate
breeding and reticence! What
punctilious loyalty to the little
observances of literature, of wall-
decoration, call it, in the most
licentiously minded of them!
Lorenzo Magnifico was a rake
and could write lewdly enough,
as we all know. Yet, when he
chose, that is when Art bade him,
how unerringly he chose the right
momentum. His too was "la
mente che non erra." I found
this of his the other day, and must
needs close up my notes with it.
The very notion of it was, in his
time, a convention; a series of
sonnets bound together by an
argument ; a Vila nova without its
overmastering occasion. Simon-
53
NOTE
etta was dead ; i whereupon " tutti i
fiorentini ingegni, come si conviene
in si pubblica jattura, diversamente
ed avversamente si dolsono, chi in
versi, chi in prosa." The poor
dead lady was, in fact, a butt for
these sharpshooters. Yet hear
Lorenzo.
" Died, as we have declared, in
our city a certain lady, whereby
all people alike in Florence were
moved to compassion. And this
is no marvel, seeing that with all
earthly beauty and courtesy she
was adorned as, before her day, no
other under heaven could have
been. Among her other excellent
parts, she had a carriage so sweet
and winsome that whosoever
should have any commerce or
i. The actual Simonetta Cattaneo was
bom in Genoa A. D. 1454, and, a young
wife at the age of sixteen, came with her
boy husband, Marco Vespucci, to Florence,
where she died on April 26, 1476. Her
lover, Giuliano de' Medici, was assassi-
nated two years later on the anniversary of
her death.
54
NOTE
friendly dealing with her, straight-
way fell to believe himself enam-
oured of her. Ladies also, and
all youth of her degree, not only
suffered no harbourage to unkindly
thought upon this her eminence
over all the rest, nor grudged it
her at all, but stoutly upheld and
took pleasure in her loveliness and
gracious bearing ; and this so hon-
estly that you would have found it
hard to be believed so many men
without jealousy could have loved
her, or so many ladies without envy
give her place. So, the more her
life by its comely ordering had
endeared her to mankind, pity
also for her death, for the flower
of her youth, and for a beauteous-
ness which in death, it may be,
showed the more resplendently than
in life, did breed in the heart the
smarting of great desire. There-
fore she was carried uncovered
on the bier from her dwelling to
the place of burial, and moved all
men, thronging there to see her, to
55
NOTE
abundant shedding of tears. And
in some, who before had not been
aware of her, after pity grew great
marvel for that she, in death, had
overcome that loveliness which
had seemed insuperable while she
yet lived. Among which people,
who before had not known her,
there grew a bitterness and, as it
were, ground of reproach, that
they had not been acquainted
with so fair a thing before that
hour when they must be shut off
from it for ever; to know her thus
and have perpetual grief of her.
But truly in her was made mani-
fest that which our Petrarch had
spoken when he said,
' Death showed him lovely in her lovely
face.' "
This is to write like a gentleman
and an artist, with ear attuned to
the subtlest fall and cadence, with
scrupulous weighing of words that
their true outline shall hold clear
and sharp. It is intarsiatura,
skilful and clean at the edges.
56
NOTE
He goes on to play with his ham-
mered thought, always as delicately
and precisely as before.
" Falling, therefore, such an one
to death, all the wits of Florence
as is seemly in so public a calamity,
lamented severally and mutually,
some in rhyme, some in prose,
the ruefulness of it; and bound
themselves to exalt her excellence
each after the contriving of his
mind: in which company I, too,
must needs be; I, too, mingle
ryhmes with tears. So I did
in the sonnets below rehearsed
whereof the first began thus:
' O limpid shining star that to thy beam.'
" Night has fallen : together we
walked, a dear friend and I,
together talking of our common
sorrow: and so speaking, the
night being wondrous clear, I
lifted my eyes to a star of exceed-
ing brilliancy, which appeared in
the west, of such assured splendour
as not alone to excel other stars,
57
NOTE
but so eagerly to shine that it threw
in shadow all the lights of heaven
about it. Whereof having great
marvel, I turned to my friend, say-
ing 'We ought not to wonder
at this sight, seeing that the soul
of that most gentle lady is of a
truth either re-informed in this,
a new star, or conjoined to shine
with it. Wherefore there is no
marvel in such exceeding bright-
ness; and we who took comfort
in her living delights, may even
now be appeased by her appear-
ance in a limpid star. And if our
vision for such a light is tender
and fragile, we should beseech her
shade, that is the god in her, to
make us bolder by withholding
some part of her beam that we
sometimes look upon her, nor sear
our eyes. But, to say sooth, this
is no overboldness in her, endowed
as she was with all the power of
her beauty, that she should strive
to shine more excellently than all
the other stars, or even yet more
NOTE
proudly than Phoebus himself,
asking of him his very chariot, that
she, rather, may rule our day.
Which thing, if you allow it with-
out presumption in our star, how
vilely shows the impertinence of
Death to have laid hands upon
such loveliness and authority as
hers.' And since these my reason-
ings seemed of the stuff proper
for a sonnet, I took leave of my
friend and composed that one
which follows; speaking in it of
the above mentioned star."
(From Earthwork out of Tuscany.}
Mr. Hewlett then goes on to
say: "The Sonnet is in the right
Petrarchian vein, adroit and shal-
low as you please." On the other
hand Symonds (Renaissance in
Italy, iv:327), translates it in full,
and declares that "from that
moment Lorenzo began to write
poems", and making due allow-
ance for the times and the man,
we are disposed to concur in this
decision.
59
NOTE
" O lucid star, that with transcendent light
Quench est of all those neighbouring
stars the gleam,
Why thus beyond thine usage dost thou
stream,
Why art thou fain with Phcebus still to
fight?
Haply those 'beauteous eyes, which from
our sight
Death stole, who now doth vaunt him-
self supreme,
Thou hast assumed : clad with their
glorious beam,
Well may'st thou claim the sun-god's
chariot bright.
Listen, new star, new regent of the day,
Who with unwonted radiance gilds our
heaven,
O listen, goddess, to the prayers we
pray!
Let so much splendour from thy sphere
be riven
That to these eyes, which fain would
weep alway,
Unblinded, thy glad sight may yet be
given ! "
4880
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