the madonna of the future-第5章

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get　home；　I　pour　out　my　treasures　into　the　lap　of　toy　Madonna。　　Oh；　I

am　not　idle！　　Nulla　dies　sine　linea。〃



I　was　introduced　in　Florence　to　an　American　lady　whose　drawing…room

had　long　formed　an　attractive　place　of　reunion　for　the　foreign

residents。　　She　lived　on　a　fourth　floor；　and　she　was　not　rich；　but

she　offered　her　visitors　very　good　tea；　little　cakes　at　option；　and

conversation　not　quite　to　match。　　Her　conversation　had　mainly　an

aesthetic　flavour；　for　Mrs。　Coventry　was　famously　''artistic。〃　　Her

apartment　was　a　sort　of　Pitti　Palace　au　petit　pied。　　She　possessed

〃early　masters〃　by　the　dozena　cluster　of　Peruginos　in　her　dining…

room；　a　Giotto　in　her　boudoir；　an　Andrea　del　Sarto　over　her　drawing…

room　chimney…piece。　　Surrounded　by　these　treasures；　and　by

innumerable　bronzes；　mosaics；　majolica　dishes；　and　little　worm…eaten

diptychs　covered　with　angular　saints　on　gilded　backgrounds；　our

hostess　enjoyed　the　dignity　of　a　sort　of　high…priestess　of　the　arts。

She　always　wore　on　her　bosom　a　huge　miniature　copy　of　the　Madonna

della　Seggiola。　　Gaining　her　ear　quietly　one　evening；　I　asked　her

whether　she　knew　that　remarkable　man；　Mr。　Theobald。



〃Know　him！〃　she　exclaimed；　〃know　poor　Theobald！　　All　Florence　knows

him；　his　flame…coloured　locks；　his　black　velvet　coat；　his

interminable　harangues　on　the　beautiful；　and　his　wondrous　Madonna

that　mortal　eye　has　never　seen；　and　that　mortal　patience　has　quite

given　up　expecting。〃



〃Really；〃　I　cried；　〃you　don't　believe　in　his　Madonna？〃



〃My　dear　ingenuous　youth；〃　rejoined　my　shrewd　friend；　〃has　he　made　a

convert　of　you？　　Well；　we　all　believed　in　him　once；　he　came　down　upon

Florence　and　took　the　town　by　storm。　　Another　Raphael；　at　the　very

least；　had　been　born　among　men；　and　the　poor　dear　United　States　were

to　have　the　credit　of　him。　　Hadn't　he　the　very　hair　of　Raphael

flowing　down　on　his　shoulders？　　The　hair；　alas；　but　not　the　head！　　We

swallowed　him　whole；　however；　we　hung　upon　his　lips　and　proclaimed

his　genius　on　the　house…tops。　　The　women　were　all　dying　to　sit　to　him

for　their　portraits　and　be　made　immortal；　like　Leonardo's　Joconde。

We　decided　that　his　manner　was　a　good　deal　like　Leonardo's

mysterious；　and　inscrutable；　and　fascinating。　　Mysterious　it

certainly　was；　mystery　was　the　beginning　and　the　end　of　it。　　The

months　passed　by；　and　the　miracle　hung　fire；　our　master　never

produced　his　masterpiece。　　He　passed　hours　in　the　galleries　and

churches；　posturing；　musing；　and　gazing；　he　talked　more　than　ever

about　the　beautiful；　but　he　never　put　brush　to　canvas。　　We　had　all

subscribed；　as　it　were；　to　the　great　performance；　but　as　it　never

came　off　people　began　to　ask　for　their　money　again。　　I　was　one　of　the

last　of　the　faithful；　I　carried　devotion　so　far　as　to　sit　to　him　for

my　head。　　If　you　could　have　seen　the　horrible　creature　he　made　of　me；

you　would　admit　that　even　a　woman　with　no　more　vanity　than　will　tie

her　bonnet　straight　must　have　cooled　off　then。　　The　man　didn't　know

the　very　alphabet　of　drawing！　　His　strong　point；　he　intimated；　was

his　sentiment；　but　is　it　a　consolation；　when　one　has　been　painted　a

fright；　to　know　it　has　been　done　with　peculiar　gusto？　　One　by　one；　I

confess；　we　fell　away　from　the　faith；　and　Mr。　Theobald　didn't　lift

his　little　finger　to　preserve　us。　　At　the　first　hint　that　we　were

tired　of　waiting；　and　that　we　should　like　the　show　to　begin；　he　was

off　in　a　huff。　　'Great　work　requires　time；　contemplation；　privacy；

mystery！　　O　ye　of　little　faith！'　　We　answered　that　we　didn't　insist

on　a　great　work；　that　the　five…act　tragedy　might　come　at　his

convenience；　that　we　merely　asked　for　something　to　keep　us　from

yawning；　some　inexpensive　little　lever　de　rideau。　　Hereupon　the　poor

man　took　his　stand　as　a　genius　misconceived　and　persecuted；　an　ame

meconnue；　and　washed　his　hands　of　us　from　that　hour！　　No；　I　believe

he　does　me　the　honour　to　consider　me　the　head　and　front　of　the

conspiracy　formed　to　nip　his　glory　in　the　buda　bud　that　has　taken

twenty　years　to　blossom。　　Ask　him　if　he　knows　me；　and　he　will　tell

you　I　am　a　horribly　ugly　old　woman；　who　has　vowed　his　destruction

because　he　won't　paint　her　portrait　as　a　pendant　to　Titian's　Flora。

I　fancy　that　since　then　he　has　had　none　but　chance　followers；

innocent　strangers　like　yourself；　who　have　taken　him　at　his　word。

The　mountain　is　still　in　labour；　I　have　not　heard　that　the　mouse　has

been　born。　　I　pass　him　once　in　a　while　in　the　galleries；　and　he　fixes

his　great　dark　eyes　on　me　with　a　sublimity　of　indifference；　as　if　I

were　a　bad　copy　of　a　Sassoferrato！　　It　is　a　long　time　ago　now　that　I

heard　that　he　was　making　studies　for　a　Madonna　who　was　to　be　a　resume

of　all　the　other　Madonnas　of　the　Italian　schoollike　that　antique

Venus　who　borrowed　a　nose　from　one　great　image　and　an　ankle　from

another。　　It's　certainly　a　masterly　idea。　　The　parts　may　be　fine；　but

when　I　think　of　my　unhappy　portrait　I　tremble　for　the　whole。　　He　has

communicated　this　striking　idea　under　the　pledge　of　solemn　secrecy　to

fifty　chosen　spirits；　to　every　one　he　has　ever　been　able　to　button…

hole　for　five　minutes。　　I　suppose　he　wants　to　get　an　order　for　it；

and　he　is　not　to　blame；　for　Heaven　knows　how　he　lives。　　I　see　by　your

blush；〃　my　hostess　frankly　continued；　〃that　you　have　been　honoured

with　his　confidence。　　You　needn't　be　ashamed；　my　dear　young　man；　a

man　of　your　age　is　none　the　worse　for　a　certain　generous　credulity。

Only　allow　me　to　give　you　a　word　of　advice：　　keep　your　credulity　out

of　your　pockets！　　Don't　pay　for　the　picture　till　it's　delivered。　　You

have　not　been　treated　to　a　peep　at　it；　I　imagine！　　No　more　have　your

fifty　predecessors　in　the　faith。　　There　are　people　who　doubt　whether

there　is　any　picture　to　be　seen。　　I　fancy；　myself；　that　if　one　were

to　get　into　his　studio；　one　would　find　something　very　like　the

picture　in　that　tale　of　Balzac'sa　mere　mass　of　incoherent　scratches

and　daubs；　a　jumble　of　dead　paint！〃



I　listened　to　this　pungent　recital　in　silent　wonder。　　It　had　a

painfully　plausible　sound；　and　was　not　inconsistent　with　certain　shy

suspicions　of　my　own。　　My　hostess　was　not　only　a　clever　woman；　but

presumably　a　generous　one。　　I　determined　to　let　my　judgment　wait　upon

events。　　Possibly　she　was　right；　but　if　she　was　wrong；　she　was

cruelly　wrong！　　Her　version　of　my　friend's　eccentricities　made　me

impatient　to　see　him　again　and　examine　him　in　the　light　of　public

opinion。　　On　our　next　meeting　I　immediately　asked　him　if　he　knew　Mrs。

Coventry。　　He　laid　his　hand　on　my　arm　and　gave　me　a　sad　smile。　　〃Has

she　taxed　YOUR　gallantry　at　last？〃　he　asked。　　〃She's　a　foolish　woman。

She's　frivolous　and　heartless；　and　she　pretends　to　be　serious　and

kind。　　She　prattles　about　Giotto's　second　manner　and　Vittoria

Colonna's　liaison　with　'Michael'one　would　think　that　Michael　lived

across　the　way　and　was　expected　in　to　take　a　hand　at　whistbut　she

knows　as　little　about　art；　and　about　the　conditions　of　production；　as

I　know　about　Buddhism。　　She　profanes　sacred　words；〃　he　added　more

vehemently；　after　a　pause。　　〃She　cares　for　you　only　as　some　one　to

band　teacups　in　that　horrible　mendacious　little　parlour　of　hers；　with

its　trumpery　Peruginos！　　If　you　can't　dash　off　a　new　picture　every

three　days；　and　let　her　hand　it　round　among　her　guests；　she　tells

them　in　plain　English　that　you　are　an　impostor！〃



This　attempt　of　mine　to　test　Mrs。　Coventry's　accuracy　was　made　in　the

course　of　a　late　afternoon　walk　to　the　quiet　old　church　of　San

Miniato；　on　one　of　the　hill…tops　which　directly　overlook　the　city；

from　whose　gates　you　are　guided　to　it　by　a　stony　and　cypress…bordered

walk；　which　seems　a　very　fitting　avenue　to　a　shrine。　　No　spot　is　more

propitious　to　lingering　repose　than　the　broad　terrace　in　front　of　the

church；　where；　lounging　against　the　parapet；　you　may　glance　in　slow

alternation　from　the　black　and　yellow　marbles　of　the　church　facade；

seamed　and　cracked　with　time　and　wind…sown　with　a　tender　flora　of　its

own；　down　to　t