The poise and car-
riage of her head was admirably free and noble, and the more
effective that their freedom was at monients discreetly corrected
by a little sanctimonious droop, which harmonized admirably with
the level gaze of her dark and quiet eye.
riage of her head was admirably free and noble, and the more
effective that their freedom was at monients discreetly corrected
by a little sanctimonious droop, which harmonized admirably with
the level gaze of her dark and quiet eye.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v14 - Ibn to Juv
Think of the
chance for flesh in the little naked, nestling child, irradiating
divinity; of the chance for drapery in the chaste and ample gar-
ment of the mother! Think of the great story you compress into
that simple theme! Think, above all, of the mother's face and
its ineffable suggestiveness; of the mingled burden of joy and
## p. 8085 (#285) ###########################################
HENRY JAMES
8085
trouble, the tenderness turned to worship, and the worship turned
to far-seeing pity! Then look at it all in perfect line and lovely
color, breathing truth and beauty and mastery!
« Anch' io son pittore! ) » * I cried. «Unless I'm mistaken,
you've a masterpiece on the stocks. If you put all that in,
you'll do more than Raphael himself did. Let me know when
your picture is finished, and wherever in the wide world I may
be, I'll post back to Florence and make my bow to— the Madonna
of the future ! ”
He blushed vividly and gave a heavy sigh, half of protest,
half of resignation. "I don't often mention my picture, in so
many words.
I detest this modern custom of premature publicity.
A great work needs silence, privacy, mystery even.
And then,
do you know, people are so cruel, so frivolous, so unable to
imagine a man's wishing to paint a Madonna at this time of
day, that I've been laughed at — laughed at, sir! ” And his blush
deepened to crimson. “I don't know what has prompted me to
be so frank and trustful with you. You look as if you wouldn't
laugh at me. My dear young man,” — and he laid his hand on
my arm, -"I'm worthy of respect. Whatever my talents may
be, I'm honest. There's nothing grotesque in a pure ambition,
or in a life devoted to it ! »
There was something so sternly sincere in his look and tone,
that further questions seemed impertinent. I had repeated oppor-
tunity to ask them, however; for after this we spent much time
together. Daily, for a fortnight, we met by appointment, to see
the sights. He knew the city so well, he had strolled and lounged
so often through its streets and churches and galleries, he was so
deeply versed in its greater and lesser memories, so imbued with
the local genius, that he was an altogether ideal valet de place ;
and I was glad enough to leave my Murray at home, and gather
facts and opinions alike from his gossiping commentary. He
talked of Florence like a lover, and admitted that it was a very
old affair; he had lost his heart to her at first sight. "It's the
fashion to talk of all cities as feminine,” he said; "but as a rule,
it's a monstrous mistake. Is Florence of the same sex as New
York, as Chicago ? She's the sole true woman of them all; one
feels towards her as a lad in his teens feels to some beautiful
older woman with a history. It's a sort of aspiring gallantry
'
* "I am a painter also,) — Correggio's famous remark on inspecting a col-
lection of paintings.
((
(
## p. 8086 (#286) ###########################################
8086
HENRY JAMES
she creates. ” This disinterested passion seemed to stand my
friend in stead of the common social ties; he led a lonely life,
apparently, and cared for nothing but his work. I was duly flat-
tered by his having taken my frivolous self into his favor, and
by his generous sacrifice of precious hours, as they must have
been, to my society. We spent many of these hours among
those early paintings in which Florence is so rich, returning
ever and anon with restless sympathies to wonder whether these
tender blossoms of art had not a vital fragrance and savor more
precious than the full-fruited knowledge of the later works. We
lingered often in the sepulchral chapel of San Lorenzo, and
watched Michael Angelo's dim-visaged warrior sitting there like
some awful Genius of Doubt and brooding behind his eternal
mask upon the mysteries of life. We stood more than once in
the little convent chambers where Fra Angelico wrought as if an
angel indeed had held his hand, and gathered that sense of scat-
tered dews and early bird-notes which makes an hour among his
relics seem like a morning stroll in some monkish garden. We
did all this and much more, - wandered into dark chapels, damp
courts, and dusty palace-rooms, in quest of lingering hints of
fresco and lurking treasures of carving.
I was more and more impressed with my companion's prodi-
gious singleness of purpose. Everything was a pretext for some
wildly idealistic rhapsody or revery. Nothing could be seen or
said that did not end sooner or later in a glowing discourse on
the true, the beautiful, and the good. If my friend was not a
genius, he was certainly a monomaniac; and I found as great a
fascination in watching the odd lights and shades of his character
as if he had been a creature from another planet. He seemed
indeed to know very little of this one, and lived and moved
altogether in his own little province of art. A creature more
unsullied by the world it is impossible to conceive; and I often
thought it a flaw in his artistic character that he hadn't a harm-
less vice or two. It amused me vastly at times to think that
he was of our shrewd Yankee race; but after all, there could be
no better token of his American origin than this high asthetic
fever. The very heat of his devotion was a sign of conversion:
those born to European opportunity manage better to reconcile
enthusiasm with comfort. He had, moreover, all our native mis-
trust for intellectual discretion and our native relish for sonorous
superlatives. As a critic he was vastly more generous than just;
## p. 8087 (#287) ###########################################
HENRY JAMES
8087
(
and his mildest terms of approbation were “stupendous,” “tran-
«
scendent,” and “incomparable. ” The small-change of admiration
seemed to him no coin for a gentleman to handle; and yet, frank
as he was intellectually, he was personally altogether a mystery
His professions somehow were all half-professions; and his allus-
ions to his work and circumstances left something dimly ambigu-
ous in the background. He was modest and proud, and never
spoke of his domestic matters. He was evidently poor; yet he
must have had some slender independence, since he could afford
to make so merry over the fact that his culture of ideal beauty
had never brought him a penny. His poverty, I suppose, was
his motive for neither inviting me to his lodging nor mention-
ing its whereabouts. We met either in some public place or at
my hotel, where I entertained him as freely as I might without
appearing to be prompted by charity. He seemed always hungry,
which was his nearest approach to a "redeeming vice. ” I made
a point of asking no impertinent questions; but each time we
met I ventured to make some respectful allusion to the magnum
opus,-- to inquire, as it were, as to its health and progress.
"We're getting on, with the Lord's help,” he would say with a
grave smile.
“We're doing well. You see I have the grand ad-
vantage that I lose no time. These hours I spend with you are
pure profit. They're suggestive! Just as the truly religious soul
is always at worship, the genuine artist is always in labor. He
takes his property wherever he finds it, and learns some precious
secret from every object that stands up in the light. If you but
knew the rapture of observation! I gather with every glance
some hint for light, for color or relief! When I get home, I
pour out my treasures into the lap of my Madonna. Oh, I'm not
idle! Nulla dies sine linca. »
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 con-
versation had mainly an æsthetic flavor, for Mrs. Coventry was
famously “artistic. ” Her apartment was a sort of Pitti Palace
au petit pied. She possessed early masters ” by the dozen,-a
"
cluster of Peruginos in her dining-room, a Giotto in her boudoir,
an Andrea del Sarto over her parlor chimney-piece. Backed by
these treasures, and by innumerable bronzes, mosaics, majolica
## p. 8088 (#288) ###########################################
8088
HENRY JAMES
>
(
dishes, and little worm-eaten diptychs showing angular saints on
gilded panels, 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 remark-
able man Mr. Theobald.
«Know him! ” she exclaimed; “know poor Theobald! A11
Florence knows him, — his flame-colored locks, his black-velvet
coat, his interminable harangues on the beautiful, and his won-
drous 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 poor dear America was to have the credit of him. Hadn't
he the very hair of Raphael Aowing down on his shoulders ?
The hair, alas, but not the head! We swallowed him whole, how-
ever; 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,— mys-
terious 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
At the first hint that we were tired of waiting and that we
us.
## p. 8089 (#289) ###########################################
HENRY JAMES
8089
should like the show to begin, he was off in a huff. Great work
requires time, contemplation, privacy, mystery! Oye 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 âme inécon-
nue, and washed his hands of us from that hour! No, I believe
he does me the honor to consider me the head and front of the
conspiracy formed to nip his glory in the bud, - a bud that has
taken twenty years to blossom. Ask him
Ask him if he knows me, and
he'll tell you I'm a horribly ugly old woman who has vowed his
destruction because he wouldn'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's still in labor; I've 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 sub-
limity 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 résumé of all the other
Madonnas of the Italian school, -- like that antique Venus who
borrowed a
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 buttonhole for five minutes. I suppose he
wants to get an order for it, and he's not to blame; for Heaven
knows how he lives. — I see by your blush,” my hostess frankly
continued, “that you have been honored 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've 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's, a mere mass of
incoherent scratches and daubs, a jumble of dead paint! ”
nose
(
## p. 8090 (#290) ###########################################
8090
HENRY JAMES
((
)
(
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 a clever woman, and
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 whist,-
but 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 hand teacups in that horrible men-
dacious little parlor 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
you're 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 over-
look the city, from whose gate you are guided to it by a stony
and cypress-bordered walk, which seems a most 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 façade, seamed and cracked
with time and wind-sown with a tender fora of its own, down to
the full domes and slender towers of Florence, and over to the
blue sweep of the wide-
mouthed cup of mountains into whose
hollow the little treasure-city has been dropped. I had proposed,
as a diversion from the painful memories evoked by Mrs. Coven-
try's name, that Theobald should go with me the next evening
to the opera, where some rarely played work was to be given.
* 1869.
## p. 8091 (#291) ###########################################
HENRY JAMES
8091
)
He declined, as I had half expected; for I had observed that he
ilarly kept his evenings in reserve, and never alluded to his
manner of passing them. « You have reminded me before,” I
said smiling, "of that charming speech of the Florentine painter
in Alfred de Musset's 'Lorenzaccio':-'I do no harm to any one.
I pass my days in my studio. On Sunday I go to the Annun-
ziata, or to Santa Maria: the monks think I have a voice; they
dress me in a white gown and a red cap, and I take a share in
the choruses; sometimes I do a little solo: these are the only
times I go into public. In the evening I visit my sweetheart; ;
when the night is fine, we pass it on her balcony. I don't know
whether you have a sweetheart, or whether she has a balcony.
But if you're so happy, it's certainly better than trying to find a
charm in a third-rate prima donna. "
He made no immediate response, but at last he turned to me
solemnly. «Can you look upon a beautiful woman with reverent
>
eyes?
>
"Really,” I said, "I don't pretend to be sheepish, but I
should be sorry to think I was impudent. ” And I asked him
what in the world he meant. When at last I had assured him
that I could undertake to temper admiration with respect, he
informed me, with an air of religious mystery, that it was in
his power to introduce me to the most beautiful woman in Italy.
"A beauty with a soul! »
« Upon my word,” I cried, "you're extremely fortunate. I
shall rejoice to witness the conjunction. ”
« This woman's beauty,” he answered, “is a lesson, a morality,
a poem! It's my daily study. ”
Of course, after this, I lost no time in reminding him of what,
before we parted, had taken the shape of a promise. I feel
somehow,” he had said, “as if it were a sort of violation of that
privacy in which I have always contemplated her beauty. This
is friendship, my friend. No hint of her existence has ever fallen
from my lips. But with too great a familiarity we are apt to
lose a sense of the real value of things, and you perhaps will
throw some new light upon it and offer a fresher interpretation. ”
We went accordingly by appointment to a certain ancient house
in the heart of Florence, - the precinct of the Mercato Vecchio,-
and climbed a dark steep staircase to the very summit of the
edifice. Theobald's beauty seemed as jealously exalted above
the line of common vision as the Belle aux Cheveux d'Or in her
(
## p. 8092 (#292) ###########################################
8092
HENRY JAMES
tower-top. He passed without knocking into the dark vestibule
of a small apartment, and flinging open an inner door, ushered
,
me into a small saloon. The room seemed mean and sombre,
though I caught a glimpse of white curtains swaying gently at
an open window. At a table, near a lamp, sat a woman dressed
in black, working at a piece of embroidery. As Theobald
entered, she looked up calmly, with a smile; but seeing me,
she made a movement of surprise, and rose with a kind of
stately grace. Theobald stepped forward, took her hand and
kissed it, with an indescribable air of immemorial usage. As
he bent his head, she looked at me askance, and I thought she
blushed.
“Behold the Serafina! ” said Theobald frankly, waving me
forward. « This is a friend, and a lover of the arts,” he added,
introducing me. I received a smile, a courtesy, and a request to
be seated.
The most beautiful woman in Italy was a person of a gener-
ous Italian type, and of a great simplicity of demeanor. Seated
again at her lamp, with her embroidery, she seemed to have
nothing whatever to say. Theobald, bending towards her in a
sort of Platonic ecstasy, asked her a dozen paternally tender ques-
tions as to her health, her state of mind, her occupations, and
the progress of her embroidery, which he examined minutely and
summoned me to admire. It was some portion of an ecclesiasti-
cal vestment,- yellow satin wrought with an elaborate design of
silver and gold. She made answer in a full, rich voice, but with
a brevity which I hesitated whether to attribute to native reserve
or to the profane constraint of my presence. She had been that
morning to confession; she had also been to market, and had
bought a chicken for dinner. She felt very happy; she had
nothing to complain of, except that the people for whom she was
making her vestment, and who furnished her materials, should
be willing to put such rotten silver thread into the garment, as
one might say, of the Lord. From time to time, as she took
her slow stitches, she raised her eyes and covered me with a
glance which seemed at first to denote a placid curiosity; but in
which, as I saw it repeated, I thought I perceived the dim glim-
mer of an attempt to establish an understanding with me at the
expense of our companion. Meanwhile, as mindful as possible
of Theobald's injunction of reverence, I considered the lady's
personal claims to the fine compliment he had paid her.
## p. 8093 (#293) ###########################################
HENRY JAMES
8093
That she was indeed a beautiful woman I perceived, after
recovering from the surprise of finding her without the freshness
of youth. Her beauty was of a sort which in losing youth loses
little of its essential charm, expressed for the most part as it
was in form and structure, and as Theobald would have said,
in "composition. ” She was broad and ample, low-browed and
large-eyed, dark and pale. Her thick brown hair hung low beside
her cheek and ear, and seemed to drape her head with a covering
as chaste and formal as the veil of a nun.
The poise and car-
riage of her head was admirably free and noble, and the more
effective that their freedom was at monients discreetly corrected
by a little sanctimonious droop, which harmonized admirably with
the level gaze of her dark and quiet eye. A strong, serene phys-
ical nature, and the placid temper which comes of no nerves and
no troubles, seemed this lady's comfortable portion.
She was
dressed in plain dull black, save for a sort of dark-blue kerchief
which was folded across her bosom and exposed a glimpse of
her massive throat. Over this kerchief was suspended a little
silver cross. I admired her greatly, and yet with a large reserve.
A certain mild intellectual apathy belonged properly to her type
of beauty, and had always seemed to round and enrich it; but
this bourgeoise Egeria, if I viewed her right, betrayed a rather
vulgar stagnation of mind. There might have been once a dim
spiritual light in her face; but it had long since begun to wane.
And furthermore, in plain prose, she was growing stout. My dis-
appointment amounted very nearly to complete disenchantment
when Theobald, as if to facilitate my covert inspection, declaring
that the lamp was very dim and that she would ruin her eyes
without more light, rose and fetched a couple of candles from
the mantelpiece, which he placed lighted on the table. In this
brighter illumination I perceived that our hostess was decidedly
an elderly woman. She neither haggard nor
gray: she was simply coarse. The soul” which Theobald had
promised seemed scarcely worth making such a point of; it was
no deeper mystery than a sort of matronly mildness of lip and
brow. I would have been ready even to declare that that sanc-
tified bend of the head was nothing more than the trick of a
person constantly working at embroidery. It occurred to me even
that it was a trick of a less innocent sort; for in spite of the
mellow quietude of her wits, this stately needlewoman dropped
a hint that she took the situation rather less au sérieux than her
was
worn
nor
## p. 8094 (#294) ###########################################
8094
HENRY JAMES
friend. When he rose to light the candles, she looked across at
me with a quick, intelligent smile, and tapped her forehead with
her forefinger; then, as from a sudden feeling of compassionate
loyalty to poor Theobald I preserved a blank face, she gave a
little shrug and resumed her work.
What was the relation of this singular couple? Was he the
most ardent of friends, or the most reverent of lovers ? Did she
regard him as an eccentric youth whose benevolent admiration of
her beauty she was not ill pleased to humor, at this small cost
of having him climb into her little parlor and gossip of summer
nights? With her decent and sombre dress, her simple gravity,
and that fine piece of priestly needlework, she looked like some
pious lay member of a sisterhood, living by special permission out-
side her convent walls. Or was she maintained here aloft by her
friend in comfortable leisure, so that he might have before him
the perfect eternal type, uncorrupted and untarnished by the strug-
gle for existence? Her shapely hands, I observed, were very fair
and white; they lacked the traces of what is called "honest toil. ”
"And the pictures, how do they come on ? " she asked of Theo-
bald after a long pause.
"Finely, finely! I have here a friend whose sympathy and
encouragement give me new faith and ardor. ”
Our hostess turned to me; gazed at me a moment rather
inscrutably; and then, tapping her forehead with the gesture she
had used a minute before, “He has a magnificent genius! ” she
said with perfect gravity.
“I am inclined to think so, ” I answered with a smile.
“Eh, why do you smile ? ” she cried. "If you doubt it, you
must see the bambino ! ” And she took the lamp and conducted
me to the other side of the room, where on the wall, in a plain
black frame, hung a large drawing in red chalk. Beneath it was
festooned a little bowl for holy water. The drawing represented
a very young child, entirely naked, half nestling back against his
mother's gown, but with his two little arms outstretched, as if
in the act of benediction. It was executed with singular free-
dom and power, and yet seemed vivid with the sacred bloom of
infancy. A sort of dimpled elegance and grace, mingled with its
boldness, recalled the touch of Correggio. “That's what he can
do! ” said my hostess. "It's the blessed little boy whom I lost.
It's his very image, and the Signor Teobaldo gave it me as a
gift. He has given me many things beside ! »
((
a
## p. 8095 (#295) ###########################################
HENRY JAMES
8095
I looked at the picture for some time, and admired it vastly.
Turning back to Theobald, I assured him that if it were hung
among the drawings in the Uffizi and labeled with a glorious
name, it would hold its own. My praise seemed to give him
extreme pleasure; he pressed my hands, and his eyes filled with
tears. It moved him apparently with the desire to expatiate on
the history of the drawing; for he rose and made his adieux to
our companion, kissing her hand with the same mild ardor as
before. It occurred to me that the offer of a similar piece of
gallantry on my own part might help me to know what manner
of woman she was, When she perceived my intention, she with-
drew her hand, dropped her eyes solemnly, and made me a severe
courtesy. Theobald took my arm and led me rapidly into the
street.
“And what do you think of the divine Serafina ? ” he cried
with fervor.
“It's certainly good solid beauty! ” I answered.
He eyed me an instant askance, and then seemed hurried
along by the current of remembrance. « You should have seen
the mother and the child together, seen them as I first saw them,
-the mother with her head draped in a shawl, a divine trouble
in her face, and the bambino pressed to her bosom. You would
have said, I think, that Raphael had found his match in common
chance. I was coming in, one summer night, from a long walk
in the country, when I met this apparition at the city gate. The
woman held out her hand. I hardly knew whether to say, What
do you want? ) or to fall down and worship. She asked for a
little money. I saw that she was beautiful and pale. She might
have stepped out of the stable of Bethlehem! I gave her money
and helped her on her way into the town. I had guessed her
story. She too was a maiden mother, and she had been turned
out into the world in her shame. I felt in all my pulses that
here was my subject marvelously realized. I felt like one of the
old convent artists who had had a vision. I rescued the poor
creatures, cherished them, watched them as I would have done
some precious work of art, some lovely fragment of fresco dis-
covered in a moldering cloister. In a month as if to deepen
and consecrate the pathos of it all — the poor little child died.
When she felt that he was going, she held him up to me for ten
minutes, and I made that sketch. You saw a feverish haste in
it, I suppose: I wanted to spare the poor little mortal the pain
## p. 8096 (#296) ###########################################
8096
HENRY JAMES
of his position. After that, I doubly valued the mother. She is
the simplest, sweetest, most natural creature that ever bloomed
in this brave old land of Italy. She lives in the memory of her
child, in her gratitude for the scanty kindness I have been able
to show her, and in her simple religion! She's not even con-
scious of her beauty; my admiration has never made her vain.
Heaven knows I've made no secret of it. You must have
observed the singular transparency of her expression, the lovely
modesty of her glance. And was there ever such a truly vir-
ginal brow, such a natural classic elegance in the wave of the
hair and the arch of the forehead ? I've studied her; I may say
I know her. I've absorbed her little by little; my mind is
stamped and imbued, and I have determined now to clinch the
impression: I shall at last invite her to sit for me! ”
« (At last '—'at last'? ” I repeated in much amazement. Do
you mean that she has never done so yet ? ”
"I've not really had -a- a sitting,” said Theobald, speaking
very slowly. "I've taken notes, you know; I've got my grand
fundamental impression. That's the great thing! But I've not
actually had her as a model, posed and draped and lighted, before
my easel. ”
(
»
«Are you
What had become for the moment of my perception and my
tact, I am at a loss to say; in their absence I was unable to
repress headlong exclamation. I was destined to regret it. We
had stopped at a turning, beneath a lamp. "My poor friend,” I
exclaimed, laying my hand on his shoulder, "you've dawdled!
She's an old, old woman for a Madonna! ”
It was as if I had brutally struck him; I shall never forget
the long, slow, almost ghastly look of pain with which he
,
answered me. “Dawdled — old, old! ” he stammered.
joking ? ”
“Why, my dear fellow, I suppose you don't take the woman
for twenty ? ”
He drew a long breath and leaned against a house, looking at
me with questioning, protesting, reproachful eyes; at last, starting
forward and grasping my arm - "Answer me solemnly: does she
seem to you truly old ? Is she wrinkled, is she faded, am I
blind ? »
Then at last I understood the immensity of his illusion;
how one by one the noiseless years had ebbed away, and left
him brooding in charmed inaction, forever preparing for a work
## p. 8097 (#297) ###########################################
HENRY JAMES
8097
>
(
>
« Old
forever deferred. It seemed to me almost a kindness now to
tell him the plain truth. “I should be sorry to say you're blind,”
I answered, but I think you're deceived. You've lost time in
effortless contemplation. Your friend was once young and fresh
and virginal; but I protest that was some years ago. Still, she
has de beaux restes ! By all means make her sit for you! " I
broke down: his face was too horribly reproachful.
He took off his hat and stood passing his handkerchief me-
chanically over his forehead. “De beaux restes ? I thank you for
sparing me the plain English. I must make up my Madonna out
of de beaux restes! What a masterpiece she'll be! Old-old !
Old — old! ” he murmured.
“Never mind her age,” I cried, revolted at what I had done,
never mind my impression of her! You have your memory,
your notes, your genius. Finish your picture in a month. I pro-
claim it beforehand a masterpiece, and I hereby offer you for it
any sum you may choose to ask. ”
He stared, but he seemed scarcely to understand me.
- old! ” he kept stupidly repeating. "If she is old, what am I?
.
If her beauty has faded, where - where is my strength ? Has life
been a dream ? Have I worshiped too long, - have I loved too
well ? » The charm, in truth, was broken. That the chord of
illusion should have snapped at my light, accidental touch showed
how it had been weakened by excessive tension. The poor fellow's
sense of wasted time, of vanished opportunity, seemed to roll in
upon his soul in waves of darkness. He suddenly dropped his
head and burst into tears.
I led him homeward with all possible tenderness; but I at-
tempted neither to check his grief, to restore his equanimity, nor
to unsay the hard truth. When we reached my hotel I tried to
induce him to come in. « We'll drink a glass of wine," I said,
smiling, “to the completion of the Madonna. "
With a violent effort he held up his head, mused for a
moment with a formidably sombre frown, and then giving me
his hand, I'll finish it,” he cried, in a month! No, in a fort-
night! After all, I have it here ! ” and he tapped his forehead.
“Of course she's old! She can afford to have it said of her
a woman who has made twenty years pass like a twelvemonth!
Old-old! Why, sir, she shall be eternal! »
I wished to see him safely to his own door; but he waved me
back and walked away with an air of resolution, whistling and
XIV-507
## p. 8098 (#298) ###########################################
8098
HENRY JAMES
swinging his cane. I waited a moment, and then followed him
at a distance, and saw him proceed to cross the Santa Trinità
Bridge. When he reached the middle he suddenly paused, as if
his strength had deserted him, and leaned upon the parapet gaz-
ing over into the river. I was careful to keep him in sight; I
confess that I passed ten very nervous minutes. He recovered
himself at last, and went his way, slowly and with hanging head.
That I should have really startled poor Theobald into a bolder
use of his long-garnered stores of knowledge and taste, into the
vulgar effort and hazard of production, seemed at first reason
enough for his continued silence and absence; but as day fol-
lowed day without his either calling or sending me a line, and
without my meeting him in his customary haunts,-in the gal-
leries, in the chapel at San Lorenzo, or strolling between the
Arno-side and the great hedge screen of verdure which, along
the drive of the Cascine, throws the fair occupants of barouche
and phaeton into such becoming relief,- as for more than a week
I got neither tidings nor sight of him, I began to fear that I had
fatally offended him; and that instead of giving wholesome im-
petus to his talent, I had brutally paralyzed it. I had a wretched
I
suspicion that I had made him ill. My stay at Florence was
drawing to a close; and it was important that before resuming
my journey I should assure myself of the truth. Theobald to
the last had kept his lodging a mystery, and I was altogether at
a loss where to look for him. The simplest course was to make
inquiry of the beauty of the Mercato Vecchio; and I confess that
unsatisfied curiosity as to the lady herself counseled it as well.
Perhaps I had done her injustice, and she was as immortally
fresh and fair as he conceived her. I was at any rate anxious
to behold once more the ripe enchantress who had made twenty
years pass as a twelvemonth. I repaired accordingly one morn-
ing to her abode, climbed the interminable staircase, and reached
her door. It stood ajar; and as I hesitated whether to enter, a
little serving-maid came clattering out with an empty kettle, as
if she had just performed some savory errand. The inner door
too was open; so I crossed the little vestibule and entered the
room in which I had formerly been received. It had not its
evening aspect. The table, or one end of it, was spread for a
late breakfast; and before it sat a gentleman -- an individual
at least of the male sex - dealing justice upon a beefsteak and
onions and a bottle of wine. At his elbow, in friendly proximity,
## p. 8099 (#299) ###########################################
HENRY JAMES
8099
was placed the lady of the house. Her attitude as I entered was
not that of an enchantress. With one hand she held in her lap
a plate of smoking macaroni; with the other she had lifted high
in air one of the pendulous filaments of this succulent compound,
and was in the act of slipping it gently down her throat. On the
uncovered end of the table, facing her companion, were ranged
half a dozen small statuettes, of some snuff-colored substance re-
sembling terra-cotta. He, brandishing his knife with ardor, was
apparently descanting on their merits.
Evidently I darkened the door. My hostess dropped her mac-
aroni — into her mouth, and rose hastily with a harsh exclama-
tion and a flushed face. I immediately perceived that the Signora
Serafina's secret was even better worth knowing than I had sup-
posed, and that the way to learn it was to take it for granted.
I summoned my best Italian, I smiled and bowed and apologized
for my intrusion; and in a moment, whether or no I had dispelled
the lady's irritation, I had at least stimulated her prudence. I
was welcome, she said; I must take a seat. This was another
friend of hers also an artist, she declared with a smile which
was almost amiable. Her companion wiped his mustache and
bowed with great civility. I saw at a glance that he was equal
to the situation. He was presumably the author of the statuettes
on the table, and he knew a money-spending forestiere when he
He was a small, wiry man, with a clever, impudent,
tossed-up nose, a sharp little black eye, and waxed ends to his
mustache. On the side of his head he wore jauntily a little crim-
son velvet smoking-cap, and I observed that his feet were incased
in brilliant slippers. On Serafina’s remarking with dignity that
I was the friend of Mr. Theobald, he broke out into that fantastic
French of which Italians are so insistently lavish, and declared
with fervor that Mr. Theobald was a magnificent genius.
"I'm sure I don't know," I answered with a shrug. "If you're
in a position to affirm it, you have the advantage of me. I've
seen nothing from his hand but the bambino yonder, which cer-
tainly is fine. ”
He declared that the bambino was a masterpiece, a pure Cor-
reggio. It was only a pity, he added with a knowing laugh, that
the sketch had not been made on some good bit of honeycombed
old panel.
The stately Serafina hereupon protested that Mr.
Theobald was the soul of honor, and that he would never lend
himself to a deceit. “I'm not a judge of genius,” she said, “and
saw one.
## p. 8100 (#300) ###########################################
8100
HENRY JAMES
»
I know nothing of pictures. I'm but a poor simple widow; but
I know that the Signor Teobaldo has the heart of an angel and
the virtue of a saint. —He's my benefactor,” she added senten-
tiously. The after-glow of the somewhat sinister flush with which
she had greeted me still lingered in her cheek, and perhaps did
not favor her beauty: I could not but fancy it a wise custom of
Theobald's to visit her only by candlelight. She was coarse, and
her poor adorer was a poet.
"I have the greatest esteem for him,” I said: “it is for this
reason that I have been uneasy at not seeing him for ten days.
Have you seen him ? Is he perhaps ill ? ”
“111! Heaven forbid !
chance for flesh in the little naked, nestling child, irradiating
divinity; of the chance for drapery in the chaste and ample gar-
ment of the mother! Think of the great story you compress into
that simple theme! Think, above all, of the mother's face and
its ineffable suggestiveness; of the mingled burden of joy and
## p. 8085 (#285) ###########################################
HENRY JAMES
8085
trouble, the tenderness turned to worship, and the worship turned
to far-seeing pity! Then look at it all in perfect line and lovely
color, breathing truth and beauty and mastery!
« Anch' io son pittore! ) » * I cried. «Unless I'm mistaken,
you've a masterpiece on the stocks. If you put all that in,
you'll do more than Raphael himself did. Let me know when
your picture is finished, and wherever in the wide world I may
be, I'll post back to Florence and make my bow to— the Madonna
of the future ! ”
He blushed vividly and gave a heavy sigh, half of protest,
half of resignation. "I don't often mention my picture, in so
many words.
I detest this modern custom of premature publicity.
A great work needs silence, privacy, mystery even.
And then,
do you know, people are so cruel, so frivolous, so unable to
imagine a man's wishing to paint a Madonna at this time of
day, that I've been laughed at — laughed at, sir! ” And his blush
deepened to crimson. “I don't know what has prompted me to
be so frank and trustful with you. You look as if you wouldn't
laugh at me. My dear young man,” — and he laid his hand on
my arm, -"I'm worthy of respect. Whatever my talents may
be, I'm honest. There's nothing grotesque in a pure ambition,
or in a life devoted to it ! »
There was something so sternly sincere in his look and tone,
that further questions seemed impertinent. I had repeated oppor-
tunity to ask them, however; for after this we spent much time
together. Daily, for a fortnight, we met by appointment, to see
the sights. He knew the city so well, he had strolled and lounged
so often through its streets and churches and galleries, he was so
deeply versed in its greater and lesser memories, so imbued with
the local genius, that he was an altogether ideal valet de place ;
and I was glad enough to leave my Murray at home, and gather
facts and opinions alike from his gossiping commentary. He
talked of Florence like a lover, and admitted that it was a very
old affair; he had lost his heart to her at first sight. "It's the
fashion to talk of all cities as feminine,” he said; "but as a rule,
it's a monstrous mistake. Is Florence of the same sex as New
York, as Chicago ? She's the sole true woman of them all; one
feels towards her as a lad in his teens feels to some beautiful
older woman with a history. It's a sort of aspiring gallantry
'
* "I am a painter also,) — Correggio's famous remark on inspecting a col-
lection of paintings.
((
(
## p. 8086 (#286) ###########################################
8086
HENRY JAMES
she creates. ” This disinterested passion seemed to stand my
friend in stead of the common social ties; he led a lonely life,
apparently, and cared for nothing but his work. I was duly flat-
tered by his having taken my frivolous self into his favor, and
by his generous sacrifice of precious hours, as they must have
been, to my society. We spent many of these hours among
those early paintings in which Florence is so rich, returning
ever and anon with restless sympathies to wonder whether these
tender blossoms of art had not a vital fragrance and savor more
precious than the full-fruited knowledge of the later works. We
lingered often in the sepulchral chapel of San Lorenzo, and
watched Michael Angelo's dim-visaged warrior sitting there like
some awful Genius of Doubt and brooding behind his eternal
mask upon the mysteries of life. We stood more than once in
the little convent chambers where Fra Angelico wrought as if an
angel indeed had held his hand, and gathered that sense of scat-
tered dews and early bird-notes which makes an hour among his
relics seem like a morning stroll in some monkish garden. We
did all this and much more, - wandered into dark chapels, damp
courts, and dusty palace-rooms, in quest of lingering hints of
fresco and lurking treasures of carving.
I was more and more impressed with my companion's prodi-
gious singleness of purpose. Everything was a pretext for some
wildly idealistic rhapsody or revery. Nothing could be seen or
said that did not end sooner or later in a glowing discourse on
the true, the beautiful, and the good. If my friend was not a
genius, he was certainly a monomaniac; and I found as great a
fascination in watching the odd lights and shades of his character
as if he had been a creature from another planet. He seemed
indeed to know very little of this one, and lived and moved
altogether in his own little province of art. A creature more
unsullied by the world it is impossible to conceive; and I often
thought it a flaw in his artistic character that he hadn't a harm-
less vice or two. It amused me vastly at times to think that
he was of our shrewd Yankee race; but after all, there could be
no better token of his American origin than this high asthetic
fever. The very heat of his devotion was a sign of conversion:
those born to European opportunity manage better to reconcile
enthusiasm with comfort. He had, moreover, all our native mis-
trust for intellectual discretion and our native relish for sonorous
superlatives. As a critic he was vastly more generous than just;
## p. 8087 (#287) ###########################################
HENRY JAMES
8087
(
and his mildest terms of approbation were “stupendous,” “tran-
«
scendent,” and “incomparable. ” The small-change of admiration
seemed to him no coin for a gentleman to handle; and yet, frank
as he was intellectually, he was personally altogether a mystery
His professions somehow were all half-professions; and his allus-
ions to his work and circumstances left something dimly ambigu-
ous in the background. He was modest and proud, and never
spoke of his domestic matters. He was evidently poor; yet he
must have had some slender independence, since he could afford
to make so merry over the fact that his culture of ideal beauty
had never brought him a penny. His poverty, I suppose, was
his motive for neither inviting me to his lodging nor mention-
ing its whereabouts. We met either in some public place or at
my hotel, where I entertained him as freely as I might without
appearing to be prompted by charity. He seemed always hungry,
which was his nearest approach to a "redeeming vice. ” I made
a point of asking no impertinent questions; but each time we
met I ventured to make some respectful allusion to the magnum
opus,-- to inquire, as it were, as to its health and progress.
"We're getting on, with the Lord's help,” he would say with a
grave smile.
“We're doing well. You see I have the grand ad-
vantage that I lose no time. These hours I spend with you are
pure profit. They're suggestive! Just as the truly religious soul
is always at worship, the genuine artist is always in labor. He
takes his property wherever he finds it, and learns some precious
secret from every object that stands up in the light. If you but
knew the rapture of observation! I gather with every glance
some hint for light, for color or relief! When I get home, I
pour out my treasures into the lap of my Madonna. Oh, I'm not
idle! Nulla dies sine linca. »
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 con-
versation had mainly an æsthetic flavor, for Mrs. Coventry was
famously “artistic. ” Her apartment was a sort of Pitti Palace
au petit pied. She possessed early masters ” by the dozen,-a
"
cluster of Peruginos in her dining-room, a Giotto in her boudoir,
an Andrea del Sarto over her parlor chimney-piece. Backed by
these treasures, and by innumerable bronzes, mosaics, majolica
## p. 8088 (#288) ###########################################
8088
HENRY JAMES
>
(
dishes, and little worm-eaten diptychs showing angular saints on
gilded panels, 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 remark-
able man Mr. Theobald.
«Know him! ” she exclaimed; “know poor Theobald! A11
Florence knows him, — his flame-colored locks, his black-velvet
coat, his interminable harangues on the beautiful, and his won-
drous 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 poor dear America was to have the credit of him. Hadn't
he the very hair of Raphael Aowing down on his shoulders ?
The hair, alas, but not the head! We swallowed him whole, how-
ever; 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,— mys-
terious 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
At the first hint that we were tired of waiting and that we
us.
## p. 8089 (#289) ###########################################
HENRY JAMES
8089
should like the show to begin, he was off in a huff. Great work
requires time, contemplation, privacy, mystery! Oye 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 âme inécon-
nue, and washed his hands of us from that hour! No, I believe
he does me the honor to consider me the head and front of the
conspiracy formed to nip his glory in the bud, - a bud that has
taken twenty years to blossom. Ask him
Ask him if he knows me, and
he'll tell you I'm a horribly ugly old woman who has vowed his
destruction because he wouldn'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's still in labor; I've 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 sub-
limity 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 résumé of all the other
Madonnas of the Italian school, -- like that antique Venus who
borrowed a
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 buttonhole for five minutes. I suppose he
wants to get an order for it, and he's not to blame; for Heaven
knows how he lives. — I see by your blush,” my hostess frankly
continued, “that you have been honored 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've 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's, a mere mass of
incoherent scratches and daubs, a jumble of dead paint! ”
nose
(
## p. 8090 (#290) ###########################################
8090
HENRY JAMES
((
)
(
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 a clever woman, and
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 whist,-
but 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 hand teacups in that horrible men-
dacious little parlor 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
you're 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 over-
look the city, from whose gate you are guided to it by a stony
and cypress-bordered walk, which seems a most 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 façade, seamed and cracked
with time and wind-sown with a tender fora of its own, down to
the full domes and slender towers of Florence, and over to the
blue sweep of the wide-
mouthed cup of mountains into whose
hollow the little treasure-city has been dropped. I had proposed,
as a diversion from the painful memories evoked by Mrs. Coven-
try's name, that Theobald should go with me the next evening
to the opera, where some rarely played work was to be given.
* 1869.
## p. 8091 (#291) ###########################################
HENRY JAMES
8091
)
He declined, as I had half expected; for I had observed that he
ilarly kept his evenings in reserve, and never alluded to his
manner of passing them. « You have reminded me before,” I
said smiling, "of that charming speech of the Florentine painter
in Alfred de Musset's 'Lorenzaccio':-'I do no harm to any one.
I pass my days in my studio. On Sunday I go to the Annun-
ziata, or to Santa Maria: the monks think I have a voice; they
dress me in a white gown and a red cap, and I take a share in
the choruses; sometimes I do a little solo: these are the only
times I go into public. In the evening I visit my sweetheart; ;
when the night is fine, we pass it on her balcony. I don't know
whether you have a sweetheart, or whether she has a balcony.
But if you're so happy, it's certainly better than trying to find a
charm in a third-rate prima donna. "
He made no immediate response, but at last he turned to me
solemnly. «Can you look upon a beautiful woman with reverent
>
eyes?
>
"Really,” I said, "I don't pretend to be sheepish, but I
should be sorry to think I was impudent. ” And I asked him
what in the world he meant. When at last I had assured him
that I could undertake to temper admiration with respect, he
informed me, with an air of religious mystery, that it was in
his power to introduce me to the most beautiful woman in Italy.
"A beauty with a soul! »
« Upon my word,” I cried, "you're extremely fortunate. I
shall rejoice to witness the conjunction. ”
« This woman's beauty,” he answered, “is a lesson, a morality,
a poem! It's my daily study. ”
Of course, after this, I lost no time in reminding him of what,
before we parted, had taken the shape of a promise. I feel
somehow,” he had said, “as if it were a sort of violation of that
privacy in which I have always contemplated her beauty. This
is friendship, my friend. No hint of her existence has ever fallen
from my lips. But with too great a familiarity we are apt to
lose a sense of the real value of things, and you perhaps will
throw some new light upon it and offer a fresher interpretation. ”
We went accordingly by appointment to a certain ancient house
in the heart of Florence, - the precinct of the Mercato Vecchio,-
and climbed a dark steep staircase to the very summit of the
edifice. Theobald's beauty seemed as jealously exalted above
the line of common vision as the Belle aux Cheveux d'Or in her
(
## p. 8092 (#292) ###########################################
8092
HENRY JAMES
tower-top. He passed without knocking into the dark vestibule
of a small apartment, and flinging open an inner door, ushered
,
me into a small saloon. The room seemed mean and sombre,
though I caught a glimpse of white curtains swaying gently at
an open window. At a table, near a lamp, sat a woman dressed
in black, working at a piece of embroidery. As Theobald
entered, she looked up calmly, with a smile; but seeing me,
she made a movement of surprise, and rose with a kind of
stately grace. Theobald stepped forward, took her hand and
kissed it, with an indescribable air of immemorial usage. As
he bent his head, she looked at me askance, and I thought she
blushed.
“Behold the Serafina! ” said Theobald frankly, waving me
forward. « This is a friend, and a lover of the arts,” he added,
introducing me. I received a smile, a courtesy, and a request to
be seated.
The most beautiful woman in Italy was a person of a gener-
ous Italian type, and of a great simplicity of demeanor. Seated
again at her lamp, with her embroidery, she seemed to have
nothing whatever to say. Theobald, bending towards her in a
sort of Platonic ecstasy, asked her a dozen paternally tender ques-
tions as to her health, her state of mind, her occupations, and
the progress of her embroidery, which he examined minutely and
summoned me to admire. It was some portion of an ecclesiasti-
cal vestment,- yellow satin wrought with an elaborate design of
silver and gold. She made answer in a full, rich voice, but with
a brevity which I hesitated whether to attribute to native reserve
or to the profane constraint of my presence. She had been that
morning to confession; she had also been to market, and had
bought a chicken for dinner. She felt very happy; she had
nothing to complain of, except that the people for whom she was
making her vestment, and who furnished her materials, should
be willing to put such rotten silver thread into the garment, as
one might say, of the Lord. From time to time, as she took
her slow stitches, she raised her eyes and covered me with a
glance which seemed at first to denote a placid curiosity; but in
which, as I saw it repeated, I thought I perceived the dim glim-
mer of an attempt to establish an understanding with me at the
expense of our companion. Meanwhile, as mindful as possible
of Theobald's injunction of reverence, I considered the lady's
personal claims to the fine compliment he had paid her.
## p. 8093 (#293) ###########################################
HENRY JAMES
8093
That she was indeed a beautiful woman I perceived, after
recovering from the surprise of finding her without the freshness
of youth. Her beauty was of a sort which in losing youth loses
little of its essential charm, expressed for the most part as it
was in form and structure, and as Theobald would have said,
in "composition. ” She was broad and ample, low-browed and
large-eyed, dark and pale. Her thick brown hair hung low beside
her cheek and ear, and seemed to drape her head with a covering
as chaste and formal as the veil of a nun.
The poise and car-
riage of her head was admirably free and noble, and the more
effective that their freedom was at monients discreetly corrected
by a little sanctimonious droop, which harmonized admirably with
the level gaze of her dark and quiet eye. A strong, serene phys-
ical nature, and the placid temper which comes of no nerves and
no troubles, seemed this lady's comfortable portion.
She was
dressed in plain dull black, save for a sort of dark-blue kerchief
which was folded across her bosom and exposed a glimpse of
her massive throat. Over this kerchief was suspended a little
silver cross. I admired her greatly, and yet with a large reserve.
A certain mild intellectual apathy belonged properly to her type
of beauty, and had always seemed to round and enrich it; but
this bourgeoise Egeria, if I viewed her right, betrayed a rather
vulgar stagnation of mind. There might have been once a dim
spiritual light in her face; but it had long since begun to wane.
And furthermore, in plain prose, she was growing stout. My dis-
appointment amounted very nearly to complete disenchantment
when Theobald, as if to facilitate my covert inspection, declaring
that the lamp was very dim and that she would ruin her eyes
without more light, rose and fetched a couple of candles from
the mantelpiece, which he placed lighted on the table. In this
brighter illumination I perceived that our hostess was decidedly
an elderly woman. She neither haggard nor
gray: she was simply coarse. The soul” which Theobald had
promised seemed scarcely worth making such a point of; it was
no deeper mystery than a sort of matronly mildness of lip and
brow. I would have been ready even to declare that that sanc-
tified bend of the head was nothing more than the trick of a
person constantly working at embroidery. It occurred to me even
that it was a trick of a less innocent sort; for in spite of the
mellow quietude of her wits, this stately needlewoman dropped
a hint that she took the situation rather less au sérieux than her
was
worn
nor
## p. 8094 (#294) ###########################################
8094
HENRY JAMES
friend. When he rose to light the candles, she looked across at
me with a quick, intelligent smile, and tapped her forehead with
her forefinger; then, as from a sudden feeling of compassionate
loyalty to poor Theobald I preserved a blank face, she gave a
little shrug and resumed her work.
What was the relation of this singular couple? Was he the
most ardent of friends, or the most reverent of lovers ? Did she
regard him as an eccentric youth whose benevolent admiration of
her beauty she was not ill pleased to humor, at this small cost
of having him climb into her little parlor and gossip of summer
nights? With her decent and sombre dress, her simple gravity,
and that fine piece of priestly needlework, she looked like some
pious lay member of a sisterhood, living by special permission out-
side her convent walls. Or was she maintained here aloft by her
friend in comfortable leisure, so that he might have before him
the perfect eternal type, uncorrupted and untarnished by the strug-
gle for existence? Her shapely hands, I observed, were very fair
and white; they lacked the traces of what is called "honest toil. ”
"And the pictures, how do they come on ? " she asked of Theo-
bald after a long pause.
"Finely, finely! I have here a friend whose sympathy and
encouragement give me new faith and ardor. ”
Our hostess turned to me; gazed at me a moment rather
inscrutably; and then, tapping her forehead with the gesture she
had used a minute before, “He has a magnificent genius! ” she
said with perfect gravity.
“I am inclined to think so, ” I answered with a smile.
“Eh, why do you smile ? ” she cried. "If you doubt it, you
must see the bambino ! ” And she took the lamp and conducted
me to the other side of the room, where on the wall, in a plain
black frame, hung a large drawing in red chalk. Beneath it was
festooned a little bowl for holy water. The drawing represented
a very young child, entirely naked, half nestling back against his
mother's gown, but with his two little arms outstretched, as if
in the act of benediction. It was executed with singular free-
dom and power, and yet seemed vivid with the sacred bloom of
infancy. A sort of dimpled elegance and grace, mingled with its
boldness, recalled the touch of Correggio. “That's what he can
do! ” said my hostess. "It's the blessed little boy whom I lost.
It's his very image, and the Signor Teobaldo gave it me as a
gift. He has given me many things beside ! »
((
a
## p. 8095 (#295) ###########################################
HENRY JAMES
8095
I looked at the picture for some time, and admired it vastly.
Turning back to Theobald, I assured him that if it were hung
among the drawings in the Uffizi and labeled with a glorious
name, it would hold its own. My praise seemed to give him
extreme pleasure; he pressed my hands, and his eyes filled with
tears. It moved him apparently with the desire to expatiate on
the history of the drawing; for he rose and made his adieux to
our companion, kissing her hand with the same mild ardor as
before. It occurred to me that the offer of a similar piece of
gallantry on my own part might help me to know what manner
of woman she was, When she perceived my intention, she with-
drew her hand, dropped her eyes solemnly, and made me a severe
courtesy. Theobald took my arm and led me rapidly into the
street.
“And what do you think of the divine Serafina ? ” he cried
with fervor.
“It's certainly good solid beauty! ” I answered.
He eyed me an instant askance, and then seemed hurried
along by the current of remembrance. « You should have seen
the mother and the child together, seen them as I first saw them,
-the mother with her head draped in a shawl, a divine trouble
in her face, and the bambino pressed to her bosom. You would
have said, I think, that Raphael had found his match in common
chance. I was coming in, one summer night, from a long walk
in the country, when I met this apparition at the city gate. The
woman held out her hand. I hardly knew whether to say, What
do you want? ) or to fall down and worship. She asked for a
little money. I saw that she was beautiful and pale. She might
have stepped out of the stable of Bethlehem! I gave her money
and helped her on her way into the town. I had guessed her
story. She too was a maiden mother, and she had been turned
out into the world in her shame. I felt in all my pulses that
here was my subject marvelously realized. I felt like one of the
old convent artists who had had a vision. I rescued the poor
creatures, cherished them, watched them as I would have done
some precious work of art, some lovely fragment of fresco dis-
covered in a moldering cloister. In a month as if to deepen
and consecrate the pathos of it all — the poor little child died.
When she felt that he was going, she held him up to me for ten
minutes, and I made that sketch. You saw a feverish haste in
it, I suppose: I wanted to spare the poor little mortal the pain
## p. 8096 (#296) ###########################################
8096
HENRY JAMES
of his position. After that, I doubly valued the mother. She is
the simplest, sweetest, most natural creature that ever bloomed
in this brave old land of Italy. She lives in the memory of her
child, in her gratitude for the scanty kindness I have been able
to show her, and in her simple religion! She's not even con-
scious of her beauty; my admiration has never made her vain.
Heaven knows I've made no secret of it. You must have
observed the singular transparency of her expression, the lovely
modesty of her glance. And was there ever such a truly vir-
ginal brow, such a natural classic elegance in the wave of the
hair and the arch of the forehead ? I've studied her; I may say
I know her. I've absorbed her little by little; my mind is
stamped and imbued, and I have determined now to clinch the
impression: I shall at last invite her to sit for me! ”
« (At last '—'at last'? ” I repeated in much amazement. Do
you mean that she has never done so yet ? ”
"I've not really had -a- a sitting,” said Theobald, speaking
very slowly. "I've taken notes, you know; I've got my grand
fundamental impression. That's the great thing! But I've not
actually had her as a model, posed and draped and lighted, before
my easel. ”
(
»
«Are you
What had become for the moment of my perception and my
tact, I am at a loss to say; in their absence I was unable to
repress headlong exclamation. I was destined to regret it. We
had stopped at a turning, beneath a lamp. "My poor friend,” I
exclaimed, laying my hand on his shoulder, "you've dawdled!
She's an old, old woman for a Madonna! ”
It was as if I had brutally struck him; I shall never forget
the long, slow, almost ghastly look of pain with which he
,
answered me. “Dawdled — old, old! ” he stammered.
joking ? ”
“Why, my dear fellow, I suppose you don't take the woman
for twenty ? ”
He drew a long breath and leaned against a house, looking at
me with questioning, protesting, reproachful eyes; at last, starting
forward and grasping my arm - "Answer me solemnly: does she
seem to you truly old ? Is she wrinkled, is she faded, am I
blind ? »
Then at last I understood the immensity of his illusion;
how one by one the noiseless years had ebbed away, and left
him brooding in charmed inaction, forever preparing for a work
## p. 8097 (#297) ###########################################
HENRY JAMES
8097
>
(
>
« Old
forever deferred. It seemed to me almost a kindness now to
tell him the plain truth. “I should be sorry to say you're blind,”
I answered, but I think you're deceived. You've lost time in
effortless contemplation. Your friend was once young and fresh
and virginal; but I protest that was some years ago. Still, she
has de beaux restes ! By all means make her sit for you! " I
broke down: his face was too horribly reproachful.
He took off his hat and stood passing his handkerchief me-
chanically over his forehead. “De beaux restes ? I thank you for
sparing me the plain English. I must make up my Madonna out
of de beaux restes! What a masterpiece she'll be! Old-old !
Old — old! ” he murmured.
“Never mind her age,” I cried, revolted at what I had done,
never mind my impression of her! You have your memory,
your notes, your genius. Finish your picture in a month. I pro-
claim it beforehand a masterpiece, and I hereby offer you for it
any sum you may choose to ask. ”
He stared, but he seemed scarcely to understand me.
- old! ” he kept stupidly repeating. "If she is old, what am I?
.
If her beauty has faded, where - where is my strength ? Has life
been a dream ? Have I worshiped too long, - have I loved too
well ? » The charm, in truth, was broken. That the chord of
illusion should have snapped at my light, accidental touch showed
how it had been weakened by excessive tension. The poor fellow's
sense of wasted time, of vanished opportunity, seemed to roll in
upon his soul in waves of darkness. He suddenly dropped his
head and burst into tears.
I led him homeward with all possible tenderness; but I at-
tempted neither to check his grief, to restore his equanimity, nor
to unsay the hard truth. When we reached my hotel I tried to
induce him to come in. « We'll drink a glass of wine," I said,
smiling, “to the completion of the Madonna. "
With a violent effort he held up his head, mused for a
moment with a formidably sombre frown, and then giving me
his hand, I'll finish it,” he cried, in a month! No, in a fort-
night! After all, I have it here ! ” and he tapped his forehead.
“Of course she's old! She can afford to have it said of her
a woman who has made twenty years pass like a twelvemonth!
Old-old! Why, sir, she shall be eternal! »
I wished to see him safely to his own door; but he waved me
back and walked away with an air of resolution, whistling and
XIV-507
## p. 8098 (#298) ###########################################
8098
HENRY JAMES
swinging his cane. I waited a moment, and then followed him
at a distance, and saw him proceed to cross the Santa Trinità
Bridge. When he reached the middle he suddenly paused, as if
his strength had deserted him, and leaned upon the parapet gaz-
ing over into the river. I was careful to keep him in sight; I
confess that I passed ten very nervous minutes. He recovered
himself at last, and went his way, slowly and with hanging head.
That I should have really startled poor Theobald into a bolder
use of his long-garnered stores of knowledge and taste, into the
vulgar effort and hazard of production, seemed at first reason
enough for his continued silence and absence; but as day fol-
lowed day without his either calling or sending me a line, and
without my meeting him in his customary haunts,-in the gal-
leries, in the chapel at San Lorenzo, or strolling between the
Arno-side and the great hedge screen of verdure which, along
the drive of the Cascine, throws the fair occupants of barouche
and phaeton into such becoming relief,- as for more than a week
I got neither tidings nor sight of him, I began to fear that I had
fatally offended him; and that instead of giving wholesome im-
petus to his talent, I had brutally paralyzed it. I had a wretched
I
suspicion that I had made him ill. My stay at Florence was
drawing to a close; and it was important that before resuming
my journey I should assure myself of the truth. Theobald to
the last had kept his lodging a mystery, and I was altogether at
a loss where to look for him. The simplest course was to make
inquiry of the beauty of the Mercato Vecchio; and I confess that
unsatisfied curiosity as to the lady herself counseled it as well.
Perhaps I had done her injustice, and she was as immortally
fresh and fair as he conceived her. I was at any rate anxious
to behold once more the ripe enchantress who had made twenty
years pass as a twelvemonth. I repaired accordingly one morn-
ing to her abode, climbed the interminable staircase, and reached
her door. It stood ajar; and as I hesitated whether to enter, a
little serving-maid came clattering out with an empty kettle, as
if she had just performed some savory errand. The inner door
too was open; so I crossed the little vestibule and entered the
room in which I had formerly been received. It had not its
evening aspect. The table, or one end of it, was spread for a
late breakfast; and before it sat a gentleman -- an individual
at least of the male sex - dealing justice upon a beefsteak and
onions and a bottle of wine. At his elbow, in friendly proximity,
## p. 8099 (#299) ###########################################
HENRY JAMES
8099
was placed the lady of the house. Her attitude as I entered was
not that of an enchantress. With one hand she held in her lap
a plate of smoking macaroni; with the other she had lifted high
in air one of the pendulous filaments of this succulent compound,
and was in the act of slipping it gently down her throat. On the
uncovered end of the table, facing her companion, were ranged
half a dozen small statuettes, of some snuff-colored substance re-
sembling terra-cotta. He, brandishing his knife with ardor, was
apparently descanting on their merits.
Evidently I darkened the door. My hostess dropped her mac-
aroni — into her mouth, and rose hastily with a harsh exclama-
tion and a flushed face. I immediately perceived that the Signora
Serafina's secret was even better worth knowing than I had sup-
posed, and that the way to learn it was to take it for granted.
I summoned my best Italian, I smiled and bowed and apologized
for my intrusion; and in a moment, whether or no I had dispelled
the lady's irritation, I had at least stimulated her prudence. I
was welcome, she said; I must take a seat. This was another
friend of hers also an artist, she declared with a smile which
was almost amiable. Her companion wiped his mustache and
bowed with great civility. I saw at a glance that he was equal
to the situation. He was presumably the author of the statuettes
on the table, and he knew a money-spending forestiere when he
He was a small, wiry man, with a clever, impudent,
tossed-up nose, a sharp little black eye, and waxed ends to his
mustache. On the side of his head he wore jauntily a little crim-
son velvet smoking-cap, and I observed that his feet were incased
in brilliant slippers. On Serafina’s remarking with dignity that
I was the friend of Mr. Theobald, he broke out into that fantastic
French of which Italians are so insistently lavish, and declared
with fervor that Mr. Theobald was a magnificent genius.
"I'm sure I don't know," I answered with a shrug. "If you're
in a position to affirm it, you have the advantage of me. I've
seen nothing from his hand but the bambino yonder, which cer-
tainly is fine. ”
He declared that the bambino was a masterpiece, a pure Cor-
reggio. It was only a pity, he added with a knowing laugh, that
the sketch had not been made on some good bit of honeycombed
old panel.
The stately Serafina hereupon protested that Mr.
Theobald was the soul of honor, and that he would never lend
himself to a deceit. “I'm not a judge of genius,” she said, “and
saw one.
## p. 8100 (#300) ###########################################
8100
HENRY JAMES
»
I know nothing of pictures. I'm but a poor simple widow; but
I know that the Signor Teobaldo has the heart of an angel and
the virtue of a saint. —He's my benefactor,” she added senten-
tiously. The after-glow of the somewhat sinister flush with which
she had greeted me still lingered in her cheek, and perhaps did
not favor her beauty: I could not but fancy it a wise custom of
Theobald's to visit her only by candlelight. She was coarse, and
her poor adorer was a poet.
"I have the greatest esteem for him,” I said: “it is for this
reason that I have been uneasy at not seeing him for ten days.
Have you seen him ? Is he perhaps ill ? ”
“111! Heaven forbid !
