the madonna of the future-第2章

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melancholy　but　all…respectful　head…shake　to　his　American　origin。



〃We　are　the　disinherited　of　Art！〃　he　cried。　　〃We　are　condemned　to　be

superficial！　　We　are　excluded　from　the　magic　circle。　　The　soil　of

American　perception　is　a　poor　little　barren　artificial　deposit。　　Yes！

we　are　wedded　to　imperfection。　　An　American；　to　excel；　has　just　ten

times　as　much　to　learn　as　a　European。　　We　lack　the　deeper　sense。　　We

have　neither　taste；　nor　tact；　nor　power。　　How　should　we　have　them？

Our　crude　and　garish　climate；　our　silent　past；　our　deafening　present；

the　constant　pressure　about　us　of　unlovely　circumstance；　are　as　void

of　all　that　nourishes　and　prompts　and　inspires　the　artist；　as　my　sad

heart　is　void　of　bitterness　in　saying　so！　　We　poor　aspirants　must

live　in　perpetual　exile。〃



〃You　seem　fairly　at　home　in　exile；〃　I　answered；　〃and　Florence　seems

to　me　a　very　pretty　Siberia。　　But　do　you　know　my　own　thought？

Nothing　is　so　idle　as　to　talk　about　our　want　of　a　nutritive　soil；　of

opportunity；　of　inspiration；　and　all　the　rest　of　it。　　The　worthy　part

is　to　do　something　fine！　　There　is　no　law　in　our　glorious

Constitution　against　that。　　Invent；　create；　achieve！　　No　matter　if

you　have　to　study　fifty　times　as　much　as　one　of　these！　　What　else　are

you　an　artist　for？　　Be　you　our　Moses；〃　I　added；　laughing；　and　laying

my　hand　on　his　shoulder；　〃and　lead　us　out　of　the　house　of　bondage！〃



〃Golden　wordsgolden　words；　young　man！〃　he　cried；　with　a　tender

smile。　　〃'Invent；　create；　achieve！'　　Yes；　that's　our　business；　I　know

it　well。　　Don't　take　me；　in　Heaven's　name；　for　one　of　your　barren

complainersimpotent　cynics　who　have　neither　talent　nor　faith！　　I　am

at　work！〃and　he　glanced　about　him　and　lowered　his　voice　as　if　this

were　a　quite　peculiar　secret〃I'm　at　work　night　and　day。　　I　have

undertaken　a　CREATION！　　I　am　no　Moses；　I　am　only　a　poor　patient

artist；　but　it　would　be　a　fine　thing　if　I　were　to　cause　some　slender

stream　of　beauty　to　flow　in　our　thirsty　land！　　Don't　think　me　a

monster　of　conceit；〃　he　went　on；　as　he　saw　me　smile　at　the　avidity

with　which　he　adopted　my　illustration；　〃I　confess　that　I　am　in　one　of

those　moods　when　great　things　seem　possible！　　This　is　one　of　my

nervous　nightsI　dream　waking！　　When　the　south　wind　blows　over

Florence　at　midnight　it　seems　to　coax　the　soul　from　all　the　fair

things　locked　away　in　her　churches　and　galleries；　it　comes　into　my

own　little　studio　with　the　moonlight；　and　sets　my　heart　beating　too

deeply　for　rest。　　You　see　I　am　always　adding　a　thought　to　my


conception！　　This　evening　I　felt　that　I　couldn't　sleep　unless　I　had

communed　with　the　genius　of　Buonarotti！〃



He　seemed　deeply　versed　in　local　history　and　tradition；　and　he

expatiated　con　amore　on　the　charms　of　Florence。　　I　gathered　that　he

was　an　old　resident；　and　that　he　had　taken　the　lovely　city　into　his

heart。　　〃I　owe　her　everything；〃　he　declared。　　〃It's　only　since　I　came

here　that　I　have　really　lived；　intellectually。　　One　by　one；　all

profane　desires；　all　mere　worldly　aims；　have　dropped　away　from　me；

and　left　me　nothing　but　my　pencil；　my　little　note…book〃　（and　he

tapped　his　breast…pocket）；　〃and　the　worship　of　the　pure　masters

those　who　were　pure　because　they　were　innocent；　and　those　who　were

pure　because　they　were　strong！〃



〃And　have　you　been　very　productive　all　this　time？〃　I　asked

sympathetically。



He　was　silent　a　while　before　replying。　　〃Not　in　the　vulgar　sense！〃　he

said　at　last。　　〃I　have　chosen　never　to　manifest　myself　by

imperfection。　　The　good　in　every　performance　I　have　re…absorbed　into

the　generative　force　of　new　creations；　the　badthere　is　always

plenty　of　thatI　have　religiously　destroyed。　　I　may　say；　with　some

satisfaction；　that　I　have　not　added　a　mite　to　the　rubbish　of　the

world。　　As　a　proof　of　my　conscientiousness　and　he　stopped　short；　and

eyed　me　with　extraordinary　candour；　as　if　the　proof　were　to　be

overwhelming〃I　have　never　sold　a　picture！　　'At　least　no　merchant

traffics　in　my　heart！'　　Do　you　remember　that　divine　line　in　Browning？

My　little　studio　has　never　been　profaned　by　superficial；　feverish；

mercenary　work。　　It's　a　temple　of　labour；　but　of　leisure！　　Art　is

long。　　If　we　work　for　ourselves；　of　course　we　must　hurry。　　If　we　work

for　her；　we　must　often　pause。　　She　can　wait！〃



This　had　brought　us　to　my　hotel　door；　somewhat　to　my　relief；　I

confess；　for　I　had　begun　to　feel　unequal　to　the　society　of　a　genius

of　this　heroic　strain。　　I　left　him；　however；　not　without　expressing　a

friendly　hope　that　we　should　meet　again。　　The　next　morning　my

curiosity　had　not　abated；　I　was　anxious　to　see　him　by　common

daylight。　　I　counted　upon　meeting　him　in　one　of　the　many　pictorial

haunts　of　Florence；　and　I　was　gratified　without　delay。　　I　found　him

in　the　course　of　the　morning　in　the　Tribune　of　the　Uffizithat

little　treasure…chamber　of　world…famous　things。　　He　had　turned　his

back　on　the　Venus　de'　Medici；　and　with　his　arms　resting　on　the　rail…

mug　which　protects　the　pictures；　and　his　head　buried　in　his　hands；　he

was　lost　in　the　contemplation　of　that　superb　triptych　of　Andrea

Mantegnaa　work　which　has　neither　the　material　splendour　nor　the

commanding　force　of　some　of　its　neighbours；　but　which；　glowing　there

with　the　loveliness　of　patient　labour；　suits　possibly　a　more　constant

need　of　the　soul。　　I　looked　at　the　picture　for　some　time　over　his

shoulder；　at　last；　with　a　heavy　sigh；　he　turned　away　and　our　eyes

met。　　As　he　recognised　me　a　deep　blush　rose　to　his　face；　he　fancied；

perhaps；　that　he　had　made　a　fool　of　himself　overnight。　　But　I　offered

him　my　hand　with　a　friendliness　which　assured　him　I　was　not　a

scoffer。　　I　knew　him　by　his　ardent　chevelure；　otherwise　he　was　much

altered。　　His　midnight　mood　was　over；　and　he　looked　as　haggard　as　an

actor　by　daylight。　　He　was　far　older　than　I　had　supposed；　and　he　had

less　bravery　of　costume　and　gesture。　　He　seemed　the　quiet；　poor；

patient　artist　he　had　proclaimed　himself；　and　the　fact　that　he　had

never　sold　a　picture　was　more　obvious　than　glorious。　　His　velvet　coat

was　threadbare；　and　his　short　slouched　hat；　of　an　antique　pattern；

revealed　a　rustiness　which　marked　it　an　〃original；〃　and　not　one　of

the　picturesque　reproductions　which　brethren　of　his　craft　affect。

His　eye　was　mild　and　heavy；　and　his　expression　singularly　gentle　and

acquiescent；　the　more　so　for　a　certain　pallid　leanness　of　visage；

which　I　hardly　knew　whether　to　refer　to　the　consuming　fire　of　genius

or　to　a　meagre　diet。　　A　very　little　talk；　however；　cleared　his　brow

and　brought　back　his　eloquence。



〃And　this　is　your　first　visit　to　these　enchanted　halls？〃　he　cried。

〃Happy；　thrice　happy　youth！〃　And　taking　me　by　the　arm；　he　prepared　to

lead　me　to　each　of　the　pre…eminent　works　in　turn　and　show　me　the

cream　of　the　gallery。　　But　before　we　left　the　Mantegna　he　pressed　my

arm　and　gave　it　a　loving　look。　　〃HE　was　not　in　a　hurry；〃　he　murmured。

〃He　knew　nothing　of　〃raw　Haste；　half…sister　to　Delay！〃　　How　sound　a

critic　my　friend　was　I　am　unable　to　say；　but　he　was　an　extremely

amusing　one；　overflowing　with　opinions；　theories；　and　sympathies；

with　disquisition　and　gossip　and　anecdote。　　He　was　a　shade　too

sentimental　for　my　own　sympathies；　and　I　fancied　he　was　rather　too

fond　of　superfine　discriminations　and　of　discovering　subtle

intentions　in　shallow　places。　　At　moments；　too；　he　plunged　into　the

sea　of　metaphysics；　and　floundered　a　while　in　waters　too　deep　for

intellectual　security。　　But　his　abounding　knowledge　and　happy

judgment　told　a　touching　story　of　long　attentive　hours　in　this

worshipful　company；　there　was　a　reproach　to　my　wasteful　saunterings

in　so　devoted　a　culture　of　opportunity。　　〃There　are　two　moods；〃　I

remember　his　saying；　〃in　which　we　may　walk　through　galleriesthe

critical　and　the　ideal。　　They　seize　us　at　their　pleasure；　and　we　can

never　tell　which　is　to　take　its　turn。　　The　critical　mood；　oddly；　is

the　genial　one；　the　friendly；　the　condescending。　　It　relishes　the

pretty　trivialities　of　art；　its　vulgar　cleverness；　i