No More Learning

But in a moment he came
down right end up, and with the air of a mature protector, took
my donkey by the rope, and off we went.
XIV-505


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8066
HELEN FISKE JACKSON
I never find myself forming part of a donkey, with a donkey-
man in rear, without being reminded of all the pictures I have
seen of the Flight into Egypt, and being impressed anew with
a sense of the terrible time that Holy Family must have had
trying to make haste on such a kind of animal: of all beasts, to
escape from a hostile monarch on! And one never pities Joseph
any more for having to go on foot: except for the name of the
thing, walking must always be easier.
If I say that we climbed up a steep hill to the Capuchin
church and convent, and then bore off to the right along the
shores of the Alban lake, and resolved to climb on till we
reached the Convent of Palazzuola, which is half-way up the side
of Monte Cavo, it does not mean anything to people who do not
know the Alban Lake and Monte Cavo. Yet how else can I tell
where we had our Maying? The donkey path from Albano up
to Palazzuola — and there is no other way of going up- zigzags
along the side of the hill, which is the south shore of the Alban
Lake. Almost to the last it is thickly wooded: looking at this
south shore from a distance, those who have been through the
path can trace its line faintly marked among the tree-tops, like
a fine thread indenting them; but strangers to it would never
dream that it was there. The path is narrow; only wide enough
for two donkeys to pass, if both behave well.
On the left hand you look down into the mystic lake, which
is always dark and troubled, no matter how blue the sky: never
did I see a smile or a placid look of rest on the Alban Lake.
Doubtless it is still linked with fates and oracles we do not
know. . On the right hand the hill stretches up, sometimes sharply
in cliffs, sometimes in gentle slopes with moist hollows full of
ivies and ferns; everywhere are flowers in clusters, beds, thickets.
It seemed paltry to think of putting a few into a basket, hope-
less to try to call the roll of their names. First come the vetches
scrambling in and out, hooking on to everything without dis-
crimination; surely a vetch is the most easily contented of plants:
it will hold by a grass stalk or an ilex trunk, or lie flat on the
roadside, and blossom away as fast as it can in each place. Yel-
low, and white, and crimson, and scarlet, and purple, and pink,
and pale green;-seven different vetches we brought home. Peri- .
winkle, matted and tangled, with flowers one inch and a half
in diameter (by measurement); violets in territories, and of all
shades of blue; Solomon's-seals of three different kinds; dark


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HELEN FISKE JACKSON
8067
blue bee-larkspur whose stems were two feet high; white honey-
suckle wreathing down from tall trees; feathery eupatoriums;
great arums, not growing like ours, on a slender stalk, but look-
ing like a huge cornucopia made out of yellow corn-husks, with
one end set in the ground; red catchfly and white; tiny pinks
not bigger than heads of pins; clovers of new sorts and sizes,-
one of a delicate yellow, a pink one in small flat heads, and an-
other growing in plumes or tassels two inches long, crimson at
base and shading up to white at top. One could not fancy this
munched in mouthfuls even by sacred cattle: it should be eaten
head by head like asparagus, nibbled slowly down to the luscious
color at the stem.
The holly was in blossom and the white thorn, and huge
bushes of yellow broom swung out across our path at every turn;
we thought they must light it up at night. Here and there were
communities of crimson cyclamens, that most bewildering of all
Italy's flowers. “Mad violets” the Italians call them, and there
is a pertinence in the name: they hang their heads and look
down as if no violet could be more shy, but all the while their
petals turn back like the ears of a vicious horse, and their whole
expression is of the most fascinating mixture of modesty and
mischief. Always with the cyclamens we found the forget-me-
nots, nodding above them in fringing canopies of blue; also the
little flower that the Italians call forget-me-not, which is the
tiniest of things, shaped like our forget-me-not, but of a pale
purple color.
Dandelions there were too, and buttercups, warm-
ing our hearts to see; we would not admit that they were any
more golden than under the colder sun where we had first picked
them. Upon the chickweed, however, we looked in speechless
wonder: chickweed it was, and no mistake,— but if the canary-
birds in America could only see it! One bud would be a break-
fast. One bud, do I say? I can fancy a thrifty Dicky eating
out a ragged hole in one side, like a robin from a cherry, and
leaving the rest for next day. The flowers are as wonderful as
the buds, whitening the ground and the hedges everywhere with
their shining white stars, as large as silver quarters of dollars
used to be.
Now I come with shamefacedness to speak of the flowers
whose names I did not know. What brutish people we are, even
those of us who think we love Nature well, to live our lives out
so ignorant of her good old families! We are quite sure to
>


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8068
HELEN FISKE JACKSON
know the names and generations of hundreds of insignificant men
and women, merely because they go to our church or live in our
street; and we should feel ourselves much humiliated if we were
not on what is called “speaking terms with the best people
wherever we go.
But we
are not ashamed to spend summer
after summer face to face with flowers and trees and stones, and
never so much as know them by name. I wonder they treat us
so well as they do, provide us with food and beauty so often,
poison us so seldom. It must be only out of the pity they feel,
being diviner than we.
The flowers which I did not know were many more than
those which I knew, and most of them I cannot describe. There
was a blue flower like a liverwort, only larger and lighter, and
with a finely notched green leaf; there was a tiny bell-shaped
flower, yellow, growing by twos and threes, and nodding perpet-
ually; there was a trumpet-shaped flower the size of a thimble,
which had scarlet and blue and purple all blended together in
fine lines and shadings; there was another trumpet-shaped flower,
quite small, which had its blue and purple and scarlet in sepa-
rate trumpets but on one stem; there was a tiny blue flower,
shaped like a verbena, but set at top of a cluster of shut buds
whose hairy calyxes were of a brilliant claret red; there was a
yellow flower, tube-shaped, slender, long, white at the brim and
brown at the base, and set by twos, in shelter of the joining of
its leaves to the stalk; there was a fine feathery white flower, in
branching heads, like our wild parsley, but larger petaled, and a
white star-shaped flower which ran riot everywhere; and besides
these, were so many others which I have no colors to paint,
that at night of this wonderful May-day, when we numbered its
lowers, there were fifty-two kinds.
As we came out of the woods upon the craggy precipices near
the convent, we found the rocks covered with purple and pink
thyme. The smell of it, crushed under the donkey's hoofs, was
delicious. Somebody was homesick enough to say that it was
like going across a New England kitchen the day before Thanks-
giving, and spilling the sweet marjoram.
The door of the cloister was wide open. Two monks were
standing just outside, absorbed in watching an artist who was
making a sketch of the old fountain. The temptation was too
strong for one member of our party: when nobody looked, she
sprang in and walked on, determined to have one look over the


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HELEN FISKE JACKSON
8069
parapet down into the lake. She found herself under old ilex-
trees, among dark box hedges, and the stone parapet many rods
ahead. A monk, weeding among the cabbages, lifted his head,
turned pale at sight of her, and looked instantly down at his
weeding again, doubtless crossing himself and praying to be kept
from temptation. She saw other monks hurrying to and fro at
end of the garden, evidently consulting what was to be done.
She knew no one of them would dare to come and speak to
a woman, so she pushed on for the parapet, and reached it.
Presently a workman, not a monk, came running breathlessly:
«Signorina, signorina, it is not permitted to enter here. ”
"I do not understand Italian,” said she, smiling and bow-
ing, and turning away and looking over the parapet. Down,
down, hundreds of feet below, lay the lake, black, troubled, un-
fathomed. A pebble could have been swung by a string from
this parapet far out into the lake. It was a sight not to be
forgotten. The workman gesticulated with increased alarm and
horror: “O dearest signorina, indeed it is impossible for you to
remain here. The holy fathers” at this moment the donkey-
man came hurrying in for dear life, with most obsequious and
deprecating gestures and words, beckoning the young lady out,
and explaining that it was all a mistake, that the signorina was
Inglese and did not understand a word of Italian -- for which
-
gratuitous lie I hope he may be forgiven. I am sure he enjoyed
the joke; at any rate, we did, and I shall always be glad that
one woman has been inside the closed cloister of Palazzuola, and
looked from its wall down into the lake.
We climbed round the convent on a narrow rocky path over-
hanging the lake, to see an old tomb «supposed to be that of
Cneius Cornelius Scipio Hispallus. ” We saw no reason to doubt
its being his. Then we climbed still farther up, into a field
where there was the most wonderful massing of flowers we had
yet seen: the whole field was literally a tangle of many-colored
vetches, clovers, chickweed, and buttercups. We stumbled and
caught our feet in the vetches, as one does in blackberry-vines;
but if we had fallen we should have fallen into the snowy arms
of the white narcissus, with which the whole field glistened like
a silver tent under the sun. Never have I seen any flower show
so solemnly beautiful, unless it might have been a great morning
opening I once saw of giant pond-lilies, in a pond on Block
Island.
But here there were in addition to the glittering white


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8070
HELEN FISKE JACKSON
disks, purple and pink and yellow orchids, looking, as orchids
always do, like imprisoned spirits just about to escape.
As we came down the mountain the sunset lights kindled the
whole Campagna into a flaming sea. The Mediterranean beyond
seemed, by some strange optical effect, to be turned up around
the horizon, like a golden rim holding the misty sea. The lake
looked darker and darker at every step of our descent. Mount
Soracte stood clear cut against the northern sky; and between
us and it went up the smoke of that enchantress, Rome, - the
great dome of St. Peter's looming and fading and looming and
fading again through the yellow mist, like a gigantic bubble, as
the power of the faith it represents has loomed and faded and
loomed through all the ages.
Copyright 1872, by Roberts Brothers.


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## p. 8071 (#271) ###########################################

8071
HENRY JAMES
(1843-)
A
ENRY JAMES has added much to American literature in a form
of fiction in which he was to some extent an innovator.
Still more important is his influence on younger men,
through the success with which he carried out his method. The
novel of delicate observation, of social details, free form, strong
emphasis, depending for its charm on subtlety of suggestion, is largely
his creation. This we may see by reading the novels written before
his time. We shall then realize better how new a note his was;
and then in the works of men ten or fifteen years younger we can
see clearly how much there is in their manner directly suggested by
him.
When he began, as a very young man, his first work clearly showed
his bent. His boyhood had been a preparation for detachment and
expression, but it had only emphasized tendencies existing in him
from the first. He was born in 1843, in New York city. Even in his
earliest years he showed an extraordinary love for refinement and
intellectual delicacy. He tells us himself that he used to sit on the
hearth-rug and study Punch, when the other boys were playing their
games. He wanted to know intimately the life which the pictures
of John Leech and the other illustrators suggested to him. They
interested him because it was with character they dealt, and because
their characteristics were intimacy, light irony, and fineness of detail.
When he was only eleven he was able to carry out his hope; and he
spent the next six years — among the most impressionable of a boy's
life - in Italy and England, making still stronger his taste for culture,
for art, for charming tradition of every kind, social and artistic. For
six years more his home was in Newport, and in his own family he
heard always brilliant conversation. His father, Henry James, was
an impassioned and eloquent writer on ethics and religion. William
James, the psychologist, was a brother; and the rest of the family
were all original and expressive talkers. During these years Henry
used often to lock himself in his room all day, taking his meals
there and refusing to be disturbed. At the end of several days he
would show the family a story,- a very bad one at first. When
he was about twenty they began to understand that he had talent.
His unremitting work was giving him the power of expressing more


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8072
HENRY JAMES
as a career.
adequately the things he saw. In 1862 he entered the Harvard Law
School, but studied little law, going instead to listen to lectures of
James Russell Lowell and devoting himself to the study of books.
His first successes in the magazines decided him to trust to literature
In 1869 he went abroad again, and since then has lived
there practically all the time, with Paris at first and then London as
his home, and Italy as his chief visiting-place. There is little to tell
of his life. It is a quiet study of people in society, of books, of art
and places; and the most important results of it are given in an
account of his work. His first novel showed only promise, not very
much skill. This was Watch and Ward, published in 1871. But
after some shorter studies he produced in 1875 (Roderick Hudson,' a
novel hardly inferior to his best later work. It combines forcible
character study with more sentiment than he ever allows himself in
his later books, and with the delicate play of intellectual acuteness
which we associate above all else with Mr. James's work. This book
made prominent at once the two motives which have been dominant
ever since. The first is the contrast between Americans and Euro-
peans. The second is the contrast between the artistic nature on the
one hand, and on the other the absolutely prosaic, inartistic, merely
human type of man. The earlier novels have more simplicity, more
rapid movement, more fun than the later ones. Another point of
Mr. James's art comes out clearly in this first long novel; namely, the
principle that the story should stop with abruptness and incomplete-
ness, like the tale of any man's life broken off without warning on a
certain day. Perhaps the fact that Mr. James has carried on the
story of the heroine of this novel in another, - the only instance of
that practice in his works, — shows an exceptional interest in her; and
he has certainly left no other creation so poetic as Christina Light.
After several more short stories, “The American appeared in 1877.
Besides retaining much of his early charm, this story gives us the
most careful picture of a genuine American which Mr. James has
drawn. Most of his books have Americans in them; but they are
Americans floating in European circles, who have become denational-
ized, or else the crude class set in contrast against the background
of foreign culture. Christopher Newman, however, is a man through
and through, with the native qualities in their most typical form.
Another American character, not less famous, Daisy Miller, is the
heroine of the story of the same name which appeared two years
later. The burlesque element is more marked there. The emphasis
is laid on crudities which are noticeable mainly because they are dif-
ferent from certain things in Europe. Still there is in the story also
something of the same depth of understanding that appears in the
analysis of Christopher Newman; and there is in the character of the


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HENRY JAMES
8073
heroine a power of pathos which Mr. James has not often shown. It
is clearly the most popular of his shorter stories. It was dramatized
four years later, but without success. In the mean time, in 1881,
appeared Washington Square,' a gentle and pleasing study, the scene
of which is laid in New York's old aristocratic neighborhood; and
“The Portrait of a Lady,' one of the most popular of the longer
novels, and containing some of the author's best drawn characters.
Until 1886 less important works appeared; and then came two
long novels, the much discussed Bostonians) and the less read but
more liked Princess Casamassima. ' (The Bostonians) was simple in
construction, with little plot, giving simply a long, careful picture of
three American types. It shows no liking for any one of the char-
acters depicted, but extreme subtlety, and probably as much accuracy
as could be obtained without sympathy. The Princess Casamassima'
is one of the great triumphs of Mr. James's art; and taken with
(Roderick Hudson, to which it is a sort of sequel, it probably gives
a more adequate idea of his art than any other work. In the earlier
story of Christina Light the artistic element and charm are at the
highest; in the later one, the grayer atmosphere is charged with a
power of substantial analysis and construction that he has never sur-
passed. It was in a review of this novel that Mr. Howells first
uttered his earnest appreciation of Mr. James's greatness, his ori-
ginality, and his influence on younger writers. "The Tragic Muse,'
which was published in 1890, is the most complicated of his stories,
the most difficult in structure, and in spite of its great length it is
successful to the end. One of his friends said on reading it, “I will
say it is your best novel if you promise never to do it again ;)
meaning that one step further in the direction of elaboration would
be fatal. The characters in this story are English, and Mr. James
makes them with hardly an exception more charming than he does
his Americans. The warning of his friend has been justified by Mr.
James's own books in the last half-dozen years. His strength has
been given mainly to an attempt to become more dramatic. Several
short comedies were written - and not acted. (The American was
presented without success; and other unsuccessful efforts in connec-
tion with the stage were made, which showed Mr. James's perception
of the fact that the drama must be quicker, more striking, than his
natural method. Toward that end he is working constantly. His
novel “The Other House,' published in 1896, is so condensed in treat-
ment as well as dramatic in plot that it might be put upon the stage
with little change. Few of his admirers ever expected to see a mur-
der in one of Mr. James's books; and yet this last novel, with a plot
that might well be called sensational, is one of his most finished
pieces of art.


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8074
HENRY JAMES
(
To one who believes that the group of long novels is the best
work that Mr. James has done, several reasons present themselves.
He writes a great deal, and many of his themes in the shorter stories
are simply episodes. The ideas over which he has thought longest,
which are large and deeply understood, are in the main saved for the
sustained novels. These seldom indulge in the episode: their march
is continuous, their effect cumulative. Every page is an integral part
of the whole. Of the stories, many of which have simple pictur-
esque motives, this is less true. Their workmanship is less severe.
Another reason for the superiority of the great romances is that
Mr. James's method of accumulation - of fine distinctions, delicate
shades, and few sharp strokes —is in itself less appropriate to the
short story.
Although it is in fiction that he is mainly known, as the subtlest
of American novelists, and the inventor to a large extent of the pres-
ent artistic society novel, yet he is also one of our first essayists.
Early in his literary career he published “Transatlantic Sketches';
and since then have appeared Portraits of Places,' French Poets
and Novelists,' the Biography of Hawthorne, Partial Portraits,
(A Little Tour in France,' and other volumes of essays. There are
few more stimulating guides to thought, few more sincere and just
appreciations, than can be found among his essays; for Mr. James is a
man whose education in life has come largely through books. He is
especially happy in his descriptions of the French masters who have
influenced him. -Turgénieff, Mérimée, De Maupassant, and others, -as
well as some Englishmen with whom he is in sympathy, notably Du
Maurier. A very subtle artist writing about the work of other artists,
he has made such interesting essays that some careful readers put
him even higher as a critic than as a novelist. In both kinds of work
he has taught the same lesson,- the love of the artistic, perfect
finish, — which has been carried by him at least as far as by any
other American prose writer.
The volume called from one of its components (A Passionate Pil-
grim, published in 1875, contains six of Mr. James's earlier sketches.
Among these, The Madonna of the Future, perhaps better than any
other, illustrates at once his artistic delicacy of touch, his sympa-
thetic insight into character, and lastly the powerful impression made
upon his imagination by the art treasures of Italy. This masterpiece
in miniature it is happily possible to present here entire.


## p. 8075 (#275) ###########################################

HENRY JAMES
8075
THE MADONNA OF THE FUTURE
From "A Passionate Pilgrim, and Other Tales. ? Copyright 1875, by James R.
Osgood & Co. Reprinted by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. , pub-
lishers, Boston.
W*
E HAD been talking about the masters who had achieved
but a single masterpiece,- the artists and poets who but
once in their lives had known the divine afflatus, and
touched the high level of the best. Our host had been showing
us a charming little cabinet picture by a painter whose name we
had never heard, and who after this one spasmodic bid for fame
had apparently relapsed into fatal mediocrity. There was some
discussion as to the frequency of this phenomenon; during which
I observed H— sat silent, finishing his cigar with a meditative
air, and looking at the picture which was being handed round
the table. "I don't know how common a case it is,” he said at
last, “but I've seen it. I've known a poor fellow who painted
his one masterpiece—and,” he added with a smile, he didn't
even paint that. He made his bid for fame and missed it. " We
all knew H—for a clever man who had seen much of men
and manners, and had a great stock of reminiscences.
Some one
immediately questioned him further; and while I was engrossed
with the raptures of my neighbor over the little picture, he was
induced to tell his tale. If I were to doubt whether it would
bear repeating, I should only have to remember how that charm-
ing woman our hostess, who had left the table, ventured back in
rustling rose color to pronounce our lingering a want of gallantry,
and finding us a listening circle had sunk into her chair in spite
of our cigars, and heard the story out so graciously that when
the catastrophe was reached, she glanced across at me and showed
me a tender tear in each of her beautiful eyes.
IT RELATES to my youth, and to Italy: two fine things! (H-
began). I had arrived late in the evening at Florence, and while
I finished my bottle of wine at supper, had fancied that, tired
traveler though I was, I might pay the city a finer compliment
than by going vulgarly to bed. A narrow passage wandered
darkly away out of the little square before my hotel, and looked
as if it bored into the heart of Florence. I followed it, and at
the end of ten minutes emerged upon a great piazza, filled only
with the mild autumn moonlight. Opposite rose the Palazzo


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8076
HENRY JAMES
a man
Vecchio like some huge civic fortress, with the great bell-tower
springing from its embattled verge like a mountain pine from
the edge of a cliff. At its base in its projected shadow gleamed
certain dim sculptures which I wonderingly approached.
One of
the images on the left of the palace door was a magnificent colos-
sus, shining through the dusky air like some embodied Defiance.
In a moment I recognized him as Michael Angelo's David.
turned with a certain relief from his sinister strength to a slen-
der figure in bronze, stationed beneath the high, light loggia
which opposes the free and elegant span of its arches to the dead
masonry of the palace: a figure supremely shapely and graceful;
gentle almost, in spite of his holding out with his light nervous
arm the snaky head of the slaughtered Gorgon. His name is
Perseus, and you may read his story, not in Greek mythology,
but in the memoirs of Bevenuto Cellini. Glancing from one of
these fine fellows to the other, I probably uttered some irre-
pressible commonplace of praise; for as if provoked by my voice,
rose from the steps of the loggia where he had been
sitting in the shadow, and addressed me in good English,-a
small slim personage, clad in a sort of black-velvet tunic (as it
seemed), and with a mass of auburn hair, which gleamed in the
moonlight, escaping from a little mediæval berretta, In a tone
of the most insinuating deference he asked me for my "impres-
sions. ” He seemed picturesque, fantastic, slightly unreal. Hover-
ing there in this consecrated neighborhood, he might have passed
for the genius of æsthetic hospitality,- if the genius of asthetic
hospitality were not commonly some shabby little custode, flour-
ishing a calico pocket-handkerchief, and openly resentful of the
divided franc. This fantasy was made none the less plausible
by the brilliant tirade with which he greeted my embarrassed
silence.
“I've known Florence long, sir, but I've never known her so
lovely as to-night. It's as if the ghosts of her past were abroad
in the empty streets. The present is sleeping; the past hovers
about us like a dream made visible. Fancy the old Florentines
strolling up in couples to pass judgment on the last performance
of Michael, of Benvenuto! We should come in for a precious
lesson if we might overhear what they say. The plainest
burgher of them in his cap and gown had a taste in the matter!
That was the prime of art, sir. The sun stood high in heaven,
and his broad and equal blaze made the darkest places bright


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HENRY JAMES
8077
C
and the dullest eyes clear. We live in the evening of time! We
grope in the gray dusk, carrying each our poor little taper of
selfish and painful wisdom, holding it up to the great models and
to the dim idea, and seeing nothing but overwhelming greatness
and dimness. The days of illumination are gone! But do you
know I fancy – I fancy” — and he grew suddenly almost familiar
in this visionary fervor — "I fancy the light of that time rests
upon us here for an hour!
I have never seen the David SO
grand, the Perseus so fair! Even the inferior productions of John
of Bologna and of Baccio Bandinelli seem to realize the artist's
dream. I feel as if the moonlit air were charged with the secrets
of the masters, and as if, standing here in religious contempla-
tion, we might - we might witness a revelation! ” Perceiving at
this moment, I suppose, my halting comprehension reflected in
my puzzled face, this interesting rhapsodist paused and blushed.
Then with a melancholy smile, “You think me a moonstruck
,
charlatan, I suppose. It's not my habit to hang about the piazza
and pounce upon innocent tourists. But to-night I confess I'm
under the charm. And then somehow I fancied you too were
an artist ! »
“I'm not an artist, I'm sorry to say, as you must understand
the term. But pray make no apologies. I am also under the
charm: your eloquent reflections have only deepened it. ”
"If you're not an artist, you're worthy to be one! ” he rejoined
with a bow. “A young man who arrives at Florence late in the
evening, and instead of going prosaically to bed, or hanging over
the travelers' book at his hotel, walks forth without loss of time
to pay his devoirs to the beautiful, is a young man after my own
heart! ”
The mystery was suddenly solved: my friend was an Ameri-
can! He must have been, to take the picturesque so prodigiously
to heart. «None the less so, I trust," I answered, "if the young
is a sordid New-Yorker. "
New-Yorkers,” he solemnly proclaimed, have been munifi-
cent patrons of art! ”
For a moment I was alarmed. Was this midnight revery
mere Yankee enterprise, and was he simply a desperate brother
of the brush who had posted himself here to extort an « order »
from a sauntering tourist ? But I was not called to defend my-
self. A great brazen note broke suddenly from the far-off sum-
mit of the bell-tower above us, and sounded the first stroke of
(
man
((


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8078
HENRY JAMES
C
midnight. My companion started, apologized for detaining me,
and prepared to retire. But he seemed to offer so lively a prom-
ise of further entertainment that I was indisposed to part with
him, and suggested that we should stroll homeward together. He
cordially assented, so we turned out of the Piazza, passed down
before the statued arcade of the Uffizi, and came out upon the
Arno.
What course we took I hardly remember; but we roamed
slowly about for an hour, my companion delivering by snatches a
sort of moon-touched æsthetic lecture. I listened in puzzled fas-
cination, and wondered who the deuce he was. He confessed
with a 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 force. How should we have them ? Our crude and
garish climate, our silent past, our deafening present, the con-
stant 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 Flor-
ence 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's no law in our
glorious Constitution against that. Invent, create, achieve! No
matter if you've 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 words — golden words, young man! ” he cried with
a tender smile. «Invent, create, achieve! ! Yes, that's our busi-
ness: I know it well. Don't take me in Heaven's name for one
of your barren complainers,- querulous cynics who have neither
talent nor faith! I'm 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've undertaken a creation! I'm no
>
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1
>
Moses; I'm 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 fantasy: "I confess that I'm in one of those moods
when great things seem possible! This is one of my nervous
nights-I 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 beat-
ing 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 Michael! ”
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
with amenity.
He was silent awhile before replying. “Not in the vulgar
sense! ” he said at last. “I have chosen never to manifest my-
self by imperfection. The good in every performance I have
reabsorbed into the generative force of new creations; the bad —
there's always plenty of that - I 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 candor,
as if the proof were to be overwhelming, — “I've never sold a
picture! At least no merchant traffics in my heart! ' Do you
remember the line in Browning? My little studio has never been
profaned by superficial, feverish, mercenary work. It's a temple
of labor, 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 ! »
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HENRY JAMES
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 æsthetic haunts of Florence, and I was gratified with-
out delay. I found him in the course of the morning in the
Tribune of the Uffizi, – that little treasure chamber of perfect
works. He had turned his back on the Venus de' Medici, and
with his arms resting on the railing which protects the pictures,
and his head buried in his hands, he was lost in the contempla-
tion of that superb triptych of Andrea Mantegna, - a work which
has neither the material splendor nor the commanding force of
some of its neighbors, but which, glowing there with the loveli-
ness of patient labor, 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
recognized me a deep blush rose to his face; he fancied perhaps
that he had made a fool of himself over-night. But I offered
him my hand with a frankness 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 hag-
gard as an actor by daylight. He was far older than I had
supposed, and he had less bravery of costume and gesture. He
seemed quite the 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 repro-
ductions 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
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## p. 8081 (#281) ###########################################

HENRY JAMES
80$i
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 amus-
ing 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 the shallow felicities of chance. At moments too
he plunged into the sea of metaphysics, and floundered awhile
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 oppor-
tunity. “There are two moods,” I remember his saying, “in
which we may walk through galleries, - the 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 trivi.
alities of art, its vulgar clevernesses, its conscious graces. It has
a kindly greeting for anything which looks as if, according to
his light, the painter had enjoyed doing it,- for the little Dutch
cabbages and kettles, for the taper fingers and breezy mantles of
late-coming Madonnas, for the little blue-hilled, pastoral, skeptical
Italian landscapes. Then there are the days of fierce, fastidious
longing, - solemn church feasts of the intellect,— when all vulgar
effort and all petty success is a weariness, and everything but
the best — the best of the best — disgusts. In these hours we are
relentless aristocrats of taste. We'll not take Michael for granted,
we'll not swallow Raphael whole! ”
The gallery of the Uffizi is not only rich in its possessions,
but peculiarly fortunate in that fine architectural accident, as one
may call it, which unites it - with the breadth of river and city
between them — to those princely chambers of the Pitti Palace.
The Louvre and the Vatican hardly give you such a sense of
sustained inclosure as those long passages projected over street
and stream to establish a sort of inviolate transition between the
two palaces of art. We passed along the gallery in which those
precious drawings by eminent hands hang chaste and gray above
the swirl and murmur of the yellow Arno, and reached the ducal
saloons of the Pitti. Ducal as they are, it must be confessed
XIV—506
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HENRY JAMES
that they are imperfect as show-rooms, and that with their deep-
set windows and their massive moldings it is rather a broken
light that reaches the pictured walls.
But here the masterpieces
hang thick, and you seem to see them in a luminous atmosphere
of their own. And the great saloons, with their superb dim
ceilings, their outer wall in splendid shadow, and the sombre
opposite glow of mellow canvas and dusky gilding, make, them-
selves, almost as fine a picture as the Titians and Raphaels they
imperfectly reveal. We lingered briefly before many a Raphael
and Titian; but I saw my friend was impatient, and I suffered
him at last to lead me directly to the goal of our journey,- the
most tenderly fair of Raphael's Virgins, the Madonna in the
Chair. Of all the fine pictures of the world, it seemed to me
this is the one with which criticism has least to do. None betrays
less effort; less of the mechanism of effect and of the irrepress-
ible discord between conception and result, which shows dimly
in so many consummate works. Graceful, human, near to our
sympathies as it is, it has nothing of manner, of method, nothing
almost of style; it blooms there in rounded softness, as instinct
with harmony as if it were an immediate exhalation of genius.
The figure melts away the spectator's mind into a sort of pas-
sionate tenderness, which he knows not whether he has given to
heavenly purity or to earthly charm. He is intoxicated with the
fragrance of the tenderest blossom of maternity that ever bloomed
on earth.
« That's what I call a fine picture,” said my companion, after
we had gazed awhile in silence. «I have a right to say so, for
I've copied it so often and so carefully that I could repeat it
now with my eyes shut. Other works are of Raphael: this is
Raphael himself. Others you can praise, you can qualify, you
can measure, explain, account for: this you can only love and
admire. I don't know in what seeming he walked among men
while this divine mood was upon him; but after it, surely, he
could do nothing but die: this world had nothing more to teach
him. Think of it awhile, my friend, and you'll admit that I'm
not raving. Think of his seeing that spotless image not for a
moment, for a day, in a happy dream, as a restless fever-fit, -
not as a poet in a five-minutes' frenzy, time to snatch his phrase
and scribble his immortal stanza, — but for days together, while
-
the slow labor of the brush went on, while the foul vapors of
life interposed, and the fancy ached with tension, fixed, radiant,


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HENRY JAMES
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»
((
distinct, as we see it now! What a master, certainly! But ah,
what a seer! ”
"Don't you imagine,” I answered, “that he had a model, and
that some pretty young woman — »
"As pretty a young woman as you please — it doesn't diminish
the miracle! He took his hint, of course, and the young woman
possibly sat smiling before his canvas. But meanwhile the
painter's idea had taken wings. No lovely human outline could
charm it to vulgar fact. He saw the fair form made perfect; he
rose to the vision without tremor, without effort of wing; he com-
muned with it face to face, and resolved into finer and lovelier
truth the purity which completes it as the perfume completes
the rose. That's what they call idealism: the word's vastly
abused, but the thing is good. It's my own creed, at any rate.
Lovely Madonna, model at once and muse, I call you to witness
that I too am an idealist! »
"An idealist, then," I said half jocosely, wishing to provoke
him to further utterance, “is a gentleman who says to Nature in
the person of a beautiful girl, 'Go to, you're all wrong! Your
fine is coarse, your bright is dim, your grace is gaucherie. This
is the way you should have done it! Isn't the chance against
him ? »
He turned upon me almost angrily, but perceiving the genial
flavor of my sarcasm, he smiled gravely. "Look at that picture,”
he said, “and cease your irreverent mockery! Idealism is that!
There's no explaining it; one musi feel the flame!
nothing to Nature, or to any beautiful girl, that they'll not both
forgive! It says to the fair woman, Accept me as your artist-
friend, lend me your beautiful face, trust me, help me, and your
eyes shall be half my masterpiece! No one so loves and re-
spects the rich realities of nature as the artist whose imagination
caresses and flatters them. He knows what a fact may hold
(whether Raphael knew, you may judge by his portrait behind
us there, of Tommaso Inghirami); but his fancy hovers about it
as Ariel above the sleeping prince. There is only one Raphael,
but an artist may still be an artist. As I said last night, the
days of illumination are gone: visions are rare; we have to look
long to see them. But in meditation we may still woo the ideal;
round it, smooth it, perfect it. The result the result – ” here
his voice faltered suddenly, and he fixed his eyes for a moment
on the picture; when they met my own again they were full of
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8084
HENRY JAMES
“It may
tears “the result may be less than this; but still it may be
good, it may be great! ” he cried with vehemence.
hang somewhere, in after years, in goodly company, and keep the
artist's memory warm.
Think of being known to mankind after
some such fashion as this ! of hanging here through the slow
centuries in the gaze of an altered world, living on and on in
the cunning of an eye and hand that are part of the dust of
ages, a delight and a law to remote generations; making beauty
a force, and purity an example!