KNIGHTS OF ART
STORIES OF THE ITALIAN PAINTERS
BY AMY STEEDMAN
AUTHOR OF `IN GOD'S GARDEN'
TO FRANCESCA
ABOUT THIS BOOK
What would we do without our picture-books,
I wonder? Before we knew how to read, before
even we could speak, we had learned to love them.
We shouted with pleasure when we turned the pages
and saw the spotted cow standing in the daisy-
sprinkled meadow, the foolish-looking old sheep with
her gambolling lambs, the wise dog with his friendly
eyes. They were all real friends to us.
Then a little later on, when we began to ask for
stories about the pictures, how we loved them more
and more. There was the little girl in the red cloak
talking to the great grey wolf with the wicked eyes;
the cottage with the bright pink roses climbing
round the lattice-window, out of which jumped a
little maid with golden hair, followed by the great
big bear, the middle-sized bear, and the tiny bear.
Truly those stories were a great joy to us, but we
would never have loved them quite so much if we
had not known their pictured faces as well.
Do you ever wonder how all these pictures came
to be made? They had a beginning, just as everything
else had, but the beginning goes so far back
that we can scarcely trace it.
Children have not always had picture-books to
look at. In the long-ago days such things were not
known. Thousands of years ago, far away in
Assyria, the Assyrian people learned to make
pictures and to carve them out in stone. In Egypt,
too, the Egyptians traced pictures upon the walls
of their temples and upon the painted mummy-
cases of the dead. Then the Greeks made still
more beautiful statues and pictures in marble, and
called them gods and goddesses, for all this was at
a time when the true God was forgotten.
Afterwards, when Christ had come and the people
had learned that the pictured gods were not real,
they began to think it wicked to make beautiful
pictures or carve marble statues. The few pictures
that were made were stiff and ugly, the figures were
not like real men and women, the animals and trees
were very strange-looking things. And instead of
making the sky blue as it really was, they made it
a chequered pattern of gold. After a time it seemed
as if the art of making pictures was going to die out
altogether.
Then came the time which is called `The Renaissance,'
a word which means being born again, or a
new awakening, when men began to draw real
pictures of real things and fill the world with images
of beauty.
Now it is the stories of the men of that time, who
put new life into Art, that I am going to tell you--
men who learned, step by step, to paint the most
beautiful pictures that the world possesses.
In telling these stories I have been helped by an
old book called The Lives of the Painters, by
Giorgio Vasari, who was himself a painter. He
took great delight in gathering together all the
stories about these artists and writing them down
with loving care, so that he shows us real living
men, and not merely great names by which the
famous pictures are known.
It did not make much difference to us when we
were little children whether our pictures were good
or bad, as long as the colours were bright and we
knew what they meant. But as we grow older and
wiser our eyes grow wiser too, and we learn to know
what is good and what is poor. Only, just as our
tongues must be trained to speak, our hands to
work, and our ears to love good music, so our eyes
must be taught to see what is beautiful, or we may
perhaps pass it carelessly by, and lose a great joy
which might be ours.
So now if you learn something about these great
artists and their wonderful pictures, it will help your
eyes to grow wise. And some day should you visit
sunny Italy, where these men lived and worked,
you will feel that they are quite old friends. Their
pictures will not only be a delight to your eyes, but
will teach your heart something deeper and more
wonderful than any words can explain.
AMY STEEDMAN
CONTENTS
GIOTTO, . . . BORN 1276, DIED 1337
FRA ANGELICO, . . '' 1387, '' 1466
MASACCIO, . . . '' 1401, '' 1428
FRA FILIPPO LIPPI,. . '' 1412, '' 1469
SANDRO BOTTICELLI,. . '' 1446, '' 1610
DOMENICO GHIRLANDAIO, '' 1449, '' 1494
FILIPPINO LIP . . '' 1467, '' 1604
PIETRO PERUGINO, . '' 1446, '' 1624
LEONARDO DA VINCI,. . '' 1462, '' 1619
RAPHAEL, . . . '' 1483, '' 1620
MICHELANGELO, . . '' 1476, '' 1664
ANDREA DEL SARTO, . '' 1487, '' 1631
GIOVANNI BELLINI, . '' 1426, '' 1616
VITTORE CARPACCIO,. . '' 1470? '' 1619
GIORGIONE, . . '' 1477? '' 1610
TITIAN, . . . '' 1477, '' 1676
TINTORETTO, . . '' 1662, '' 1637
PAUL VERONESE, . . '' 1628, '' 1688
LIST OF PICTURES
IN COLOUR
THE RELEASE OF ST. PETER. BY FILIPPO LIPPI,
`The tall angel in flowing white robes gently leads St. Peter
out of prison,'
Church of the Carmine, Florence.
THE VISIT OF THE MAGI. BY GIOTTO,
`The little Baby Jesus sitting on His Mother's knee,'
Academia, Florence.
THE MEETING OF ANNA AND JOACHIM. BY GIOTTO,
`Two homely figures outside the narrow gateway,'
Sta. Maria Novella, Florence.
THE ANNUNCIATION. BY FRA ANGELICO,
`The gentle Virgin bending before the Angel messenger,'
S. Marco, Florence.
THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. BY FRA ANGELICO,
`The Madonna in her robe of purest blue holding the Baby
close in her arms,'
Academia, Florence.
THE ANNUNCIATION. BY FILIPPO LIPPI,
`The Madonna with the dove fluttering near, and the Angel
messenger bearing the lily branch,'
Academia Florence.
THE NATIVITY. BY FILIPPO LIPPI,
`His Madonnas grew ever more beautiful,'
Academia, Florence.
THE ANGEL. BY BOTTICELLI,
TOBIAS AND THE ANGEL.
`His figures seemed to move as if to the rhythm of music,'
Academia, Florence.
ST. PETER IN PRISON. BY FILIPPO LIPPI,
`The sad face of St. Peter looks out through the prison
bars,'
Church of the Carmine, Florence.
TWO SAINTS. BY PERUGINO,
THE FRESCO OF THE CRUCIFIXION.
`Beyond was the blue thread of river and the single trees
pointing upwards,'
Sta. Maddalena de Pazzi, Florence.
TWO SAINTS. BY PERUGINO,
THE FRESCO OF THE CRUCIFIXION.
`Quiet dignified saints and spacious landscapes,'
Sta. Maddalena de Pazzi, Florence.
ST. JAMES. BY ANDREA DEL SARTO.
`The kind strong hand of the saint is placed lovingly
beneath the little chin,'
Uffizi Gallery, Florence.
CHERUB. BY GIOV. BELLINI,
`Giovanni's angels are little human boys with grave sweet
faces,'
Church of the Frari, Venice.
ST. TRYPHONIUS AND THE BASILISK. BY CARPACCIO,
`The little boy saint has folded his hands together and
looks upward in prayer,'
S. Giorgio Schiavari, Venice.
THE LITTLE VIRGIN. BY TITIAN,
`The little maid is all alone,'
Academia, Venice.
THE LITTLE ST. JOHN. BY VERONESE,
THE MADONNA ENTHRONED.
`The little St. John with the skin thrown over his bare
shoulder and the cross in his hand,'
Academia, Florence.
IN MONOCHROME
RELIEF IN MARBLE BY GIOTTO,
`The shepherd sitting under his tent, with the sheep in
front,'
Campanile, Florence.
DRAWING BY MASACCIO,
`His models were ordinary Florentine youths,'
Uffizi Gallery, Florence.
DRAWING BY GHIRLANDAIO,
`The men of the market-place,'
Uffizi Gallery, Florence.
DRAWING BY LEONARDO DA VINCI,
`He loved to draw strange monsters,'
Uffizi Gallery, Florence.
DRAWING BY RAPHAEL,
`Round-limbed rosy children, half human, half divine,'
Uffizi Gallery, Florence.
DRAWING BY MICHELANGELO,
`A terrible head of a furious old man,'
Uffizi Gallery, Florence.
DRAWING BY GIORGIONE,
`A man in Venetian dress helping two women to mount one
of the niches of a marble palace,'
Uffizi Gallery, Florence.
DRAWING BY TINTORETTO,
`The head of a Venetian boy, such as Tintoretto met daily
among the fisher-folk of Venice,'
Uffizi Gallery, Florence.
GIOTTO
It was more than six hundred years ago that a little
peasant baby was born in the small village of
Vespignano, not far from the beautiful city of Florence,
in Italy. The baby's father, an honest, hard-working
countryman, was called Bondone, and the name
he gave to his little son was Giotto.
Life was rough and hard in that country home,
but the peasant baby grew into a strong, hardy boy,
learning early what cold and hunger meant. The
hills which surrounded the village were grey and
bare, save where the silver of the olive-trees shone
in the sunlight, or the tender green of the shooting
corn made the valley beautiful in early spring. In
summer there was little shade from the blazing sun
as it rode high in the blue sky, and the grass which
grew among the grey rocks was often burnt and
brown. But, nevertheless, it was here that the
sheep of the village would be turned out to find
what food they could, tended and watched by one
of the village boys.
So it happened that when Giotto was ten years
old his father sent him to take care of the sheep
upon the hillside. Country boys had then no
schools to go to or lessons to learn, and Giotto spent
long happy days, in sunshine and rain, as he followed
the sheep from place to place, wherever they could
find grass enough to feed on. But Giotto did something
else besides watching his sheep. Indeed, he
sometimes forgot all about them, and many a search
he had to gather them all together again. For
there was one thing he loved doing better than
all beside, and that was to try to draw pictures of
all the things he saw around him.
It was no easy matter for the little shepherd lad.
He had no pencils or paper, and he had never, perhaps,
seen a picture in all his life. But all this
mattered little to him. Out there, under the blue
sky, his eyes made pictures for him out of the fleecy
white clouds as they slowly changed from one form
to another. He learned to know exactly the shape
of every flower and how it grew; he noticed how
the olive-trees laid their silver leaves against the
blue background of the sky that peeped in between,
and how his sheep looked as they stooped to eat, or
lay down in the shadow of a rock.
Nothing escaped his keen, watchful eyes, and then
with eager hands he would sharpen a piece of stone,
choose out the smoothest rock, and try to draw on
its flat surface all those wonderful shapes which had
filled his eyes with their beauty. Olive-trees, flowers,
birds and beasts were there, but especially his sheep,
for they were his friends and companions who were
always near him, and he could draw them in a
different way each time they moved.
Now it fell out that one day a great master painter
from Florence came riding through the valley and
over the hills where Giotto was feeding his sheep.
The name of the great master was Cimabue, and he
was the most wonderful artist in the world, so men
said. He had painted a picture which had made all
Florence rejoice. The Florentines had never seen
anything like it before, and yet it was but a strange-
looking portrait of the Madonna and Child, scarcely
like a real woman or a real baby at all. Still, it
seemed to them a perfect wonder, and Cimabue was
honoured as one of the city's greatest men.
The road was lonely as it wound along. There
was nothing to be seen but waves of grey hills on
every side, so the stranger rode on, scarcely lifting
his eyes as he went. Then suddenly he came upon
a flock of sheep nibbling the scanty sunburnt grass,
and a little brown-faced shepherd-boy gave him a
cheerful `Good-day, master.'
There was something so bright and merry in the
boy's smile that the great man stopped and began to
talk to him. Then his eye fell upon the smooth flat
rock over which the boy had been bending, and he
started with surprise.
`Who did that?' he asked quickly, and he pointed
to the outline of a sheep scratched upon the stone.
`It is the picture of one of my sheep there,'
answered the boy, hanging his head with a shame-
faced look. `I drew it with this,' and he held out
towards the stranger the sharp stone he had been
using.
`Who taught you to do this?' asked the master
as he looked more carefully at the lines drawn on
the rock.
The boy opened his eyes wide with astonishment
`Nobody taught me, master,' he said. `I only try
to draw the things that my eyes see.'
`How would you like to come with me to Florence
and learn to be a painter?' asked Cimabue, for he
saw that the boy had a wonderful power in his little
rough hands.
Giotto's cheeks flushed, and his eyes shone with
joy.
`Indeed, master, I would come most willingly,'
he cried, `if only my father will allow it.'
So back they went together to the village, but not
before Giotto had carefully put his sheep into the
fold, for he was never one to leave his work half
done.
Bondone was amazed to see his boy in company
with such a grand stranger, but he was still more
surprised when he heard of the stranger's offer. It
seemed a golden chance, and he gladly gave his
consent.
Why, of course, the boy should go to Florence if
the gracious master would take him and teach him
to become a painter. The home would be lonely
without the boy who was so full of fun and as bright
as a sunbeam. But such chances were not to be met
with every day, and he was more than willing to let
him go.
So the master set out, and the boy Giotto went
with him to Florence to begin his training.
The studio where Cimabue worked was not at
all like those artists' rooms which we now call
studios. It was much more like a workshop, and
the boys who went there to learn how to draw and
paint were taught first how to grind and prepare
the colours and then to mix them. They were not
allowed to touch a brush or pencil for a long time,
but only to watch their master at work, and learn
all that they could from what they saw him do.
So there the boy Giotto worked and watched, but
when his turn came to use the brush, to the amazement
of all, his pictures were quite unlike anything
which had ever been painted before in the workshop.
Instead of copying the stiff, unreal figures,
he drew real people, real animals, and all the
things which he had learned to know so well on
the grey hillside, when he watched his father's
sheep. Other artists had painted the Madonna and
Infant Christ, but Giotto painted a mother and a
baby.
And before long this worked such a wonderful
change that it seemed indeed as if the art of making
pictures had been born again. To us his work still
looks stiff and strange, but in it was the beginning
of all the beautiful pictures that belong to us now.
Giotto did not only paint pictures, he worked in
marble as well. To-day, if you walk through
Florence, the City of Flowers, you will still see its
fairest flower of all, the tall white campanile or bell-
tower, `Giotto's tower' as it is called. There it
stands in all its grace and loveliness like a tall white
lily against the blue sky, pointing ever upward, in
the grand old faith of the shepherd-boy. Day after
day it calls to prayer and to good works, as it has
done all these hundreds of years since Giotto
designed and helped to build it.
Some people call his pictures stiff and ugly, for
not every one has wise eyes to see their beauty, but
the loveliness of this tower can easily be seen by all.
`There the white doves circle round and round, and
rest in the sheltering niches of the delicately carved
arches; there at the call of its bell the black-robed
Brothers of Pity hurry past to their works of mercy.
There too the little children play, and sometimes
stop to stare at the marble pictures, set in the first
story of the tower, low enough to be seen from
the street. Their special favourite is perhaps the
picture of the shepherd sitting under his tent, with
the sheep in front, and with the funniest little dog
keeping watch at the side.
Giotto always had a great love for animals, and
whenever it was possible he would squeeze one into
a corner of his pictures. He was sixty years old
when he designed this wonderful tower and cut
some of the marble pictures with his own hand,
but you can see that the memory of those old days
when he ran barefoot about the hills and tended his
sheep was with him still. Just such another little
puppy must have often played with him in those
long-ago days before he became a great painter and
was still only a merry, brown-faced boy, making
pictures with a sharp stone upon the smooth rocks.
Up and down the narrow streets of Florence now,
the great painter would walk and watch the faces
of the people as they passed. And his eyes would
still make pictures of them and their busy life, just
as they used to do with the olive-trees, the sheep,
and the clouds.
In those days nobody cared to have pictures in
their houses, and only the walls of the churches
were painted. So the pictures, or frescoes, as they
were called, were of course all about sacred subjects,
either stories out of the Bible or of the lives of the
saints. And as there were few books, and the poor
people did not know how to read, these frescoed
walls were the only story-books they had.
What a joy those pictures of Giotto's must have
been, then, to those poor folk! They looked at the
little Baby Jesus sitting on His mother's knee,
wrapped in swaddling bands, just like one of their
own little ones, and it made Him seem a very real
baby. The wise men who talked together and
pointed to the shining star overhead looked just
like any of the great nobles of Florence. And
there at the back were the two horses looking on
with wise interested eyes, just as any of their own
horses might have done.
It seemed to make the story of Christmas a thing
which had really happened, instead of a far-away
tale which had little meaning for them. Heaven
and the Madonna were not so far off after all. And
it comforted them to think that the Madonna had
been a real woman like themselves, and that the
Jesu Bambino would stoop to bless them still, just
as He leaned forward to bless the wise men in the
picture.
How real too would seem the old story of the
meeting of Anna and Joachim at the Golden Gate,
when they could gaze upon the two homely figures
under the narrow gateway. No visionary saints
these, but just a simple husband and wife, meeting
each other with joy after a sad separation, and yet
with the touch of heavenly meaning shown by the
angel who hovers above and places a hand upon
each head.
It was not only in Florence that Giotto did his
work. His fame spread far and wide, and he went
from town to town eagerly welcomed by all. We
can trace his footsteps as he went, by those
wonderful old pictures which he spread with loving care
over the bare walls of the churches, lifting, as it
were, the curtain that hides Heaven from our view
and bringing some of its joys to earth.
Then, at Assisi, he covered the walls and ceiling
of the church with the wonderful frescoes of the
life of St. Francis; and the little round commonplace
Arena Chapel of Padua is made exquisite
inside by his pictures of the life of our Lord.
In the days when Giotto lived the towns of Italy
were continually quarrelling with one another, and
there was always fighting going on somewhere.
The cities were built with a wall all round them,
and the gates were shut each night to keep out
their enemies. But often the fighting was between
different families inside the city, and the grim old
palaces in the narrow streets were built tall and
strong that they might be the more easily defended.
In the midst of all this war and quarrelling Giotto
lived his quiet, peaceful life, the friend of every one
and the enemy of none. Rival towns sent for him
to paint their churches with his heavenly pictures,
and the people who hated Florence forgot that he
was a Florentine. He was just Giotto, and he
belonged to them all. His brush was the white flag of
truce which made men forget their strife and angry
passions, and turned their thoughts to holier things.
Even the great poet Dante did not scorn to be a
friend of the peasant painter, and we still have the
portrait which Giotto painted of him in an old fresco
at Florence. Later on, when the great poet was a
poor unhappy exile, Giotto met him again at Padua
and helped to cheer some of those sad grey days,
made so bitter by strife and injustice.
Now when Giotto was beginning to grow famous,
it happened that the Pope was anxious to have the
walls of the great Cathedral of St. Peter at Rome
decorated. So he sent messengers all over Italy to
find out who were the best painters, that he might
invite them to come and do the work.
The messengers went from town to town and
asked every artist for a specimen of his painting.
This was gladly given, for it was counted a great
honour to help to make St. Peter's beautiful.
By and by the messengers came to Giotto and
told him their errand. The Pope, they said, wished
to see one of his drawings to judge if he was fit for
the great work. Giotto, who was always most
courteous, `took a sheet of paper and a pencil
dipped in a red colour, then, resting his elbow on
his side, with one turn of the hand, he drew a circle
so perfect and exact that it was a marvel to behold.'
`Here is your drawing,' he said to the messenger,
with a smile, handing him the drawing.
`Am I to have nothing more than this?' asked
the man, staring at the red circle in astonishment
and disgust.
`That is enough and to spare,' answered Giotto.
`Send it with the rest.'
The messengers thought this must all be a joke.
`How foolish we shall look if we take only a
round O to show his Holiness,' they said.
But they could get nothing else from Giotto, so
they were obliged to be content and to send it with
the other drawings, taking care to explain just how
it was done.
The Pope and his advisers looked carefully over
all the drawings, and, when they came to that round
O, they knew that only a master-hand could have
made such a perfect circle without the help of a
compass. Without a moment's hesitation they
decided that Giotto was the man they wanted, and
they at once invited him to come to Rome to
decorate the cathedral walls. So when the story
was known the people became prouder than ever of
their great painter, and the round O of Giotto has
become a proverb to this day in Tuscany.
`Round as the O of Giotto, d' ye see;
Which means as well done as a thing can be.'
Later on, when Giotto was at Naples, he was
painting in the palace chapel one very hot day, when the
king came in to watch him at his work. It really
was almost too hot to move, and yet Giotto painted
away busily.
`Giotto,' said the king, `if I were in thy place I
would give up painting for a while and take my
rest, now that it is so hot.'
`And, indeed, so I would most certainly do,'
answered Giotto, `if I were in your place, your
Majesty.'
It was these quick answers and his merry smile
that charmed every one, and made the painter a
favourite with rich and poor alike.
There are a great many stories told of him, and they
all show what a sunny-tempered, kindly man he was.
It is said that one day he was standing in one of
the narrow streets of Florence talking very earnestly
to a friend, when a pig came running down the road
in a great hurry. It did not stop to look where it
was going, but ran right between the painter's legs
and knocked him flat on his back, putting an end to
his learned talk.
Giotto scrambled to his feet with a rueful smile,
and shook his finger at the pig which was fast
disappearing in the distance.
`Ah, well!' he said, `I suppose thou hadst as
much right to the road as I had. Besides, how
many gold pieces I have earned by the help of thy
bristles, and never have I given any of thy family
even a drop of soup in payment.'
Another time he went riding with a very learned
lawyer into the country to look after his property.
For when Bondone died, he left all his fields and his
farm to his painter son. Very soon a storm came on,
and the rain poured down as if it never meant to stop.
`Let us seek shelter in this farmhouse and borrow
a cloak,' suggested Giotto.
So they went in and borrowed two old cloaks
from the farmer, and wrapped themselves up from
head to foot. Then they mounted their horses and
rode back together to Florence.
Presently the lawyer turned to look at Giotto, and
immediately burst into a loud laugh. The rain was
running from the painter's cap, he was splashed with
mud, and the old cloak made him look like a very
forlorn beggar.
`Dost think if any one met thee now, they would
believe that thou art the best painter in the
world?' laughed the lawyer.
Giotto's eyes twinkled as he looked at the funny
figure riding beside him, for the lawyer was very
small, and had a crooked back, and rolled up in the
old cloak he looked like a bundle of rags.
`Yes!' he answered quickly, `any one would
certainly believe I was a great painter, if he could
but first persuade himself that thou dost know
thy A B C.'
In all these stories we catch glimpses of the good-
natured kindly painter, with his love of jokes, and
his own ready answers, and all the time we must
remember that he was filling the world with beauty,
which it still treasures to-day, helping to sow the
seeds of that great tree of Art which was to blossom
so gloriously in later years.
And when he had finished his earthly work it
was in his own cathedral, `St. Mary of the Flowers,'
that they laid him to rest, while the people mourned
him as a good friend as well as a great painter.
There he lies in the shadow of his lily tower, whose
slender grace and delicate-tinted marbles keep his
memory ever fresh in his beautiful city of Florence.
FRA ANGELICO
Nearly a hundred years had passed by since Giotto
lived and worked in Florence, and in the same hilly
country where he used to tend his sheep another
great painter was born.
Many other artists had come and gone, and had
added their golden links of beauty to the chain of
Art which bound these years together. Some day
you will learn to know all their names and what
they did. But now we will only single out, here
and there, a few of those names which are perhaps
greater than the rest. Just as on a clear night,
when we look up into the starlit sky, it would
bewilder us to try and remember all the stars, so
we learn first to know those that are most easily
recognised--the Plough, or the Great Bear, as they
shine with a clear steady light against the background
of a thousand lesser stars.
The name by which this second great painter is
known is Fra Angelico, but that was only the name
he earned in later years. His baby name was
Guido, and his home was in a village close to where
Giotto was born.
He was not a poor boy, and did not need to
work in the fields or tend the sheep on the hillside.
Indeed, he might have soon become rich and
famous, for his wonderful talent for painting would
have quickly brought him honours and wealth if he
had gone out into the world. But instead of this,
when he was a young man of twenty he made up
his mind to enter the convent at Fiesole, and to
become a monk of the Order of Saint Dominic.
Every brother, or frate, as he is called, who leaves
the world and enters the life of the convent is given
a new name, and his old name is never used again.
So young Guido was called Fra Giovanni, or
Brother John. But it is not by that name that
he is known best, but that of Fra Angelico, or the
angelic brother--a name which was given him afterwards
because of his pure and beautiful life, and the
heavenly pictures which he painted.
With all his great gifts in his hands, with all the
years of youth and pleasure stretching out green
and fair before him, he said good-bye to earthly
joys, and chose rather to serve his Master Christ in
the way he thought was right.
The monks of St. Dominic were the great
preachers of those days--men who tried to make
the world better by telling people what they ought
to do, and teaching them how to live honest and
good lives. But there are other ways of teaching
people besides preaching, and the young monk who
spent his time bending over the illuminated prayer-
book, seeing with his dreamy eyes visions of saints
and white-robed angels, was preparing to be a
greater teacher than them all. The words of the
preacher monks have passed away, and the world
pays little heed to them now, but the teaching of
Fra Angelico, the silent lessons of his wonderful
pictures, are as fresh and clear to-day as they were
in those far-off years.
Great trouble was in store for the monks of
the little convent at Fiesole, which Fra Angelico
and his brother Benedetto had entered. Fierce
struggles were going on in Italy between different
religious parties, and at one time the little band
of preaching monks were obliged to leave their
peaceful home at Fiesole to seek shelter in other
towns. But, as it turned out, this was good fortune
for the young painter-monk, for in those hill towns
of Umbria where the brothers sought refuge there
were pictures to be studied which delighted his
eyes with their beauty, and taught him many a
lesson which he could never have learned on the
quiet slopes of Fiesole.
The hill towns of Italy are very much the same
to-day as they were in those days. Long winding
roads lead upwards from the plain below to the
city gates, and there on the summit of the hill the
little town is built. The tall white houses cluster
close together, and the overhanging eaves seem
almost to meet across the narrow paved streets, and
always there is the great square, with the church
the centre of all.
It would be almost a day's journey to follow the
white road that leads down from Perugia across
the plain to the little hill town of Assisi, and many
a spring morning saw the painter-monk setting
out on the convent donkey before sunrise and
returning when the sun had set. He would thread
his way up between the olive-trees until he reached
the city gates, and pass into the little town without
hindrance. For the followers of St. Francis in their
brown robes would be glad to welcome a stranger
monk, though his black robe showed that he
belonged to a different order. Any one who came
to see the glory of their city, the church where
their saint lay, which Giotto had covered with his
wonderful pictures, was never refused admittance.
How often then must Fra Angelico have knelt
in the dim light of that lower church of Assisi,
learning his lesson on his knees, as was ever his
habit. Then home again he would wend his way,
his eyes filled with visions of those beautiful
pictures, and his hand longing for the pencil and brush,
that he might add new beauty to his own work from
what he had learned.
Several years passed by, and at last the brothers
were allowed to return to their convent home of
San Dominico at Fiesole, and there they lived
peaceably for a long time. We cannot tell exactly
what pictures our painter-monk painted during
those peaceful years, but we know he must have
been looking out with wise, seeing eyes, drinking in
all the beauty that was spread around him.
At his feet lay Florence, with its towers and
palaces, the Arno running through it like a silver
thread, and beyond, the purple of the Tuscan hills.
All around on the sheltered hillside were green
vines and fruit-trees, olives and cypresses, fields
flaming in spring with scarlet anemones or golden
with great yellow tulips, and hedges of rose-bushes
covered with clusters of pink blossoms. No wonder,
then, such beauty sunk into his heart, and we see
in his pictures the pure fresh colour of the spring
flowers, with no shadow of dark or evil things.
Soon the fame of the painter began to be whispered
outside the convent walls, and reached the ears of
Cosimo da Medici, one of the powerful rulers of
Florence. He offered the monks a new home, and,
when they were settled in the convent of San Marco
in Florence, he invited Fra Angelico to fresco the
walls.
One by one the heavenly pictures were painted
upon the walls of the cells and cloister of the new
home. How the brothers must have crowded round
to see each new fresco as it was finished, and how
anxious they would be to see which picture was to
be near their own particular bed. In all the
frescoes, whether he painted the gentle Virgin
bending before the angel messenger, or tried to
show the glory of the ascended Lord, the artist-
monk would always introduce one or more of the
convent's special saints, which made the brothers
feel that the pictures were their very own. Fra
Angelico had a kind word and smile for all the
brothers. He was never impatient, and no one
ever saw him angry, for he was as humble and
gentle as the saints whose pictures he loved to
paint.
It is told of him, too, that he never took a brush
or pencil in his hand without a prayer that his work
might be to the glory of God. Often when he
painted the sufferings of our Lord, the tears would
be seen running down his cheeks and almost blinding
his eyes.
There is an old legend which tells of a certain
monk who, when he was busily illuminating a page
of his missal, was called away to do some service
for the poor. He went unwillingly, the legend
says, for he longed to put the last touches to the
holy picture he was painting; but when he returned,
lo! he found his work finished by angel hands.
Often when we look at some of Fra Angelico's
pictures we are reminded of this legend, and feel
that he too might have been helped by those same
angel hands. Did they indeed touch his eyes that
he might catch glimpses of a Heaven where saints
were swinging their golden censers, and white-robed
angels danced in the flowery meadows of Paradise?
We cannot tell; but this we know, that no other
painter has ever shown us such a glory of heavenly
things.
Best of all, the angel-painter loved to paint
pictures of the life of our Lord; and in the picture
I have shown you, you will see the tender care with
which he has drawn the head of the Infant Jesus
with His little golden halo, the Madonna in her
robe of purest blue, holding the Baby close in her
arms, St. Joseph the guardian walking at the side,
and all around the flowers and trees which he loved
so well in the quiet home of Fiesole.
He did not care for fame or power, this dreamy
painter of angels, and when the Pope invited him to
Rome to paint the walls of a chapel there, he
thought no more of the glory and honour than if he
was but called upon to paint another cell at
San Marco.
But when the Pope had seen what this quiet monk
could do, he called the artist to him.
`A man who can paint such pictures,' he said,
`must be a good man, and one who will do well
whatever he undertakes. Will you, then, do other
work for me, and become my Archbishop at
Florence?' But the painter was startled and dismayed.
`I cannot teach or preach or govern men,' he
said, `I can but use my gift of painting for the
glory of God. Let me rather be as I am, for it is
safer to obey than to rule.'
But though he would not take this honour
himself, he told the Pope of a friend of his, a humble
brother, Fra Antonino, at the convent of San Marco,
who was well fitted to do the work. So the Pope
took the painter's advice, and the choice was so
wise and good, that to this day the Florentine people
talk lovingly of their good bishop Antonino.
It was while he was at work in Rome that Fra
Angelico died, so his body does not rest in his own
beloved Florence. But if his body lies in Rome,
his gentle spirit still seems to hover around the old
convent of San Marco, and there we learn to know
and love him best. Little wonder that in after
ages they looked upon him almost as a saint, and
gave him the title of `Beato,' or the blessed angel-
painter.
MASACCIO
It must have been about the same time when Fra
Angelico was covering the walls of San Marco with
his angel pictures, that a very different kind of
painter was working in the Carmine church in
Florence.
This was no gentle, refined monk, but just an
ordinary man of the world--an awkward, good-
natured person, who, as long as he had pictures
to paint, cared for little else. Why, he would even
forget to ask for payment when his work was done;
and as to taking care of his clothes, or trying to
keep himself tidy, that was a thing he never thought
of!
What trouble his mother must have had with
him when he was a boy! It was no use sending
him on an errand, he would forget it before he had
gone a hundred yards, and he was so careless and
untidy that it was enough to make any one lose
patience with him. But only let him have a pencil
and a smooth surface on which to draw, and he was
a different boy.
It is said that even now, in the little town of
Castello San Giovanni, some eighteen miles from
Florence, where Tommaso was born, there are still
some wonderfully good figures to be seen, drawn
by him when he was quite a little boy. Certainly
there was no carelessness and nothing untidy about
his work.
As the boy grew older all his longings would
turn towards Florence, the beautiful city where
there was everything to learn and to see, and so he
was sent to become a pupil in the studio of Masolino,
a great Florentine painter. But though his drawings
improved, his careless habits continued the
same.
`There goes Tommaso the painter,' the people
would say, watching the big awkward figure passing
through the streets on his way to work. `Truly
he pays but little heed to his appearance. Look
but at his untidy hair and the holes in his boots.'
`Ay, indeed!' another would answer; `and yet
it is said if only people paid him all they owed he
would have gold enough and to spare. But what
cares he so long as he has his paints and brushes?
``Masaccio'' would be a fitter name for him than
Tommaso.'
So the name Masaccio, or Ugly Tom, came to
be that by which the big awkward painter was
known. But no one thinks of the unkind meaning
of the nickname now, for Masaccio is honoured as
one of the great names in the history of Art.
This painter, careless of many things, cared with
all his heart and soul for the work he had chosen
to do. It seemed to him that painters had always
failed to make their pictures like living things.
The pictures they painted were flat, not round as
a figure should be, and very often the feet did not
look as if they were standing on the ground at all,
but pointed downwards as if they were hanging in
the air.
So he worked with light and shadow and careful
drawing until the figures he drew looked rounded
instead of flat, and their feet were planted firmly
on the ground. His models were taken from the
ordinary Florentine youths whom he saw daily in
the studio, but he drew them as no one had drawn
figures before. The buildings, too, he made to look
like real houses leading away into the distance, and
not just like a flat picture.
He painted many frescoes both in Florence and
Rome, this Ugly Tom, but at the time the people
did not pay him much honour, for they thought him
just a great awkward fellow with his head always
in the clouds. Perhaps if he had lived longer fame
and wealth would have come to him, but he died
when he was still a young man, and only a few
realised how great he was.
But in after years, one by one, all the great
artists would come to that little chapel of the
Carmine there to learn their first lessons from those
life-like figures. Especially they would stand before
the fresco which shows St. Peter baptizing a crowd
of people. And in that fresco they would study
more than all the figure of a boy who has just come
out of the water, shivering with cold, the most
natural figure that had ever been painted up to that
time.
All things must be learnt little by little, and
each new thing we know is a step onwards. So
this figure of the shivering boy marks a higher step
of the golden ladder of Art than any that had
been touched before. And this alone would have
made the name of Masaccio worthy to be placed
upon the list of world's great painters.
FRA FILIPPO LIPPI
It was winter time in Florence. The tramontana,
that keen wind which blows from over the snow
mountains, was sweeping down the narrow streets,
searching out every nook and corner with its icy
breath. Men flung their cloaks closer round them,
and pulled their hats down over their eyes, so that
only the tips of their noses were left uncovered for
the wind to freeze. Women held their scaldinoes,
little pots of hot charcoal, closer under their shawls,
and even the dogs had a sad, half-frozen look.
One and all longed for the warm winds of spring
and the summer heat they loved. It was bad
enough for those who had warm clothes and plenty
of polenta, but for the poor life was very hard those
cold wintry days.
In a doorway of a great house, in one of the narrow
streets, a little boy of eight was crouching behind
one of the stone pillars as he tried to keep out of
the grip of the tramontana. His little coat was
folded closely round him, but it was full of rents and
holes so that the thin body inside was scarcely
covered, and the child's blue lips trembled with the
cold, and his black eyes filled with tears.
It was not often that Filippo turned such a sad
little face to meet the world. Usually those black
eyes sparkled with fun and mischief, and the mouth
spread itself into a merry grin. But to-day, truly
things were worse than he ever remembered them
before, and he could remember fairly bad times, too,
if he tried.
Other children had their fathers and mothers who
gave them food and clothes, but he seemed to be
quite different, and never had had any one to care
for him. True, there was his aunt, old Mona
Lapaccia, who said he had once had a father and
mother like other boys, but she always added with
a mournful shake of her head that she alone had
endured all the trouble and worry of bringing him
up since he was two years old. `Ah,' she would
say, turning her eyes upwards, `the saints alone
know what I have endured with a great hungry
boy to feed and clothe.'
It seemed to Filippo that in that case the saints
must also know how very little he had to eat, and
how cold he was on these wintry days. But of
course they would be too grand to care about a
little boy.
In summer things were different. One could
roll merrily about in the sunshine all day long, and
at night sleep in some cool sheltering corner of the
street. And then, too, there was always a better
chance of picking up something to eat. Plenty of
fig skins and melon parings were flung carelessly out
into the street when fruit was plentiful, and people
would often throw away the remains of a bunch
of grapes. It was wonderful how quickly Filippo
learned to know people's faces, and to guess who
would finish to the last grape and who would throw
the smaller ones away. Some would even smile as
they caught his anxious, waiting eye fixed on the
fruit, and would cry `Catch' as they threw a goodly
bunch into those small brown hands that never let
anything slip through their fingers.
Oh, yes, summer was all right, but there was always
winter to face. To-day he was so very hungry, and
the lupin skins which he had collected for his breakfast
were all eaten long ago. He had hung about
the little open shops, sniffing up the delicious smell
of fried polenta, but no one had given him a morsel.
All he had got was a stern `be off' when he ventured
too close to the tempting food. If only this day
had been a festa, he might have done well enough.
For in the great processions when the priests and
people carried their lighted candles round the church,
he could always dart in and out with his little iron
scraper, lift the melted wax of the marble floor and
sell it over again to the candlemakers.
But there were no processions to-day, and there
remained only one thing to be done. He must go
home and see if Mona Lapaccia had anything to
spare. Perhaps the saints took notice when he was
hungry.
Down the street he ran, keeping close to the wall,
just as the dogs do when it rains. For the great
overhanging eaves of the houses act as a sheltering
umbrella. Then out into the broad street that runs
beside the river, where, even in winter, the sun shines
warmly if it shines anywhere.
Filippo paused at the corner of the Ponte alla
Carraja to watch the struggles of a poor mule which
was trying to pull a huge cartload of wood up the
steep incline of the bridge. It was so exciting that
for a moment he forgot how cold and hungry he was,
as he shouted and screamed directions with the rest
of the crowd, darted in and out in his eagerness to
help, and only got into every one's way.
That excitement over, Filippo felt in better spirits
and ran quickly across the bridge. He soon threaded
his way to a poor street that led towards one of the
city gates, where everything looked dirtier and more
cheerless than ever. He had not expected a welcome,
and he certainly did not get one, as, after climbing
the steep stairs, he cautiously pushed open the door
and peeped in.
His aunt's thin face looked dark and angry. Poor
soul, she had had no breakfast either, and there would
be no food that day unless her work was finished.
And here was this troublesome boy back again, when
she thought she had got rid of him for the day
`Away!' she shouted crossly. `What dost thou
mean by coming back so soon? Away, and seek thy
living in the streets.'
`It is too cold,' said the boy, creeping into the bare
room, `and I am hungry.'
`Hungry!' and poor Mona Lapaccia cast her eyes
upwards, as if she would ask the saints if they too
were not filled with surprise to hear this word. `And
when art thou anything else? It is ever the same
story with thee: eat, eat, eat. Now, the saints help
me, I have borne this burden long enough. I will
see if I cannot shift it on to other shoulders.'
She rose as she spoke, tied her yellow handkerchief
over her head and smoothed out her apron. Then
she caught Filippo by his shoulder and gave him a
good shake, just to teach him how wrong it was to
talk of being hungry, and pushing him in front of her
they went downstairs together.
`Where art thou going?' gasped the boy as she
dragged him swiftly along the street.
`Wait and thou shalt see,' she answered shortly;
`and do thou mind thy manners, else will I mind
them for thee.'
Filippo ran along a little quicker on hearing this
advice. He had but a dim notion of what minding
his manners might mean, but he guessed fairly well
what would happen if his aunt minded them. Ah!
here they were at the great square of the Carmine.
He had often crept into the church to get warm and
to see those wonderful pictures on the walls. Could
they be going there now?
But it was towards the convent door that Mona
Lapaccia bent her steps, and, when she had rung the
bell, she gave Filippo's shoulder a final shake, and
pulled his coat straight and smoothed his hair.
A fat, good-natured brother let them in, and led
them through the many passages into a room where
the prior sat finishing his midday meal.
Filippo's hungry eyes were immediately fixed on
a piece of bread which lay upon the table, and
the kindly prior smiled as he nodded his head
towards it.
Not another invitation did Filippo need; like a
bird he darted forward and snatched the piece of
good white bread, and holding it in both hands he
began to munch to his heart's content. How long
it was since he had tasted anything like this! It
was so delicious that for a few blissful moments he
forgot where he was, forgot his aunt and the great
man who was looking at him with such kind eyes.
But presently he heard his own name spoken
and then he looked up and remembered. `And
so, Filippo, thou wouldst become a monk?' the prior
was saying. `Let me see--how old art thou?'
`Eight years old, your reverence,' said Mona
Lapaccia before Filippo could answer. Which was
just as well, as his mouth was still very full.
`And it is thy desire to leave the world, and
enter our convent?' continued the prior. `Art
thou willing to give up all, that thou mayest
become a servant of God?'
The little dirty brown hands clutched the bread
in dismay. Did the kind man mean that he was to
give up his bread when he had scarcely eaten half
of it?
`No, no; eat thy bread, child,' said the prior, with
an understanding nod. `Thou art but a babe, but we
will make a good monk of thee yet.'
Then, indeed, began happy days for Filippo. No
more threadbare coats, but a warm little brown
serge robe, tied round the waist with a rope whose
ends grew daily shorter as the way round his waist
grew longer. No more lupin skins and whiffs of
fried polenta, but food enough and to spare; such
food as he had not dreamt of before, and always as
much as he could eat.
Filippo was as happy as the day was long. He
had always been a merry little soul even when life
had been hard and food scarce, and now he would
not have changed his lot with the saints in Paradise.
But the good brothers began to think it was time
Filippo should do something besides play and
eat.
`Let us see what the child is fit for,' they said.
So Filippo was called in to sit on the bench with
the boys and learn his A B C. That was dreadfully
dull work. He could never remember the names of
those queer signs. Their shapes he knew quite
well, and he could draw them carefully in his copy-
book, but their names were too much for him. And
as to the Latin which the good monks tried to
teach him, they might as well have tried to teach a
monkey.
All the brightness faded from Filippo's face the
moment a book was put before him, and he looked
so dull and stupid that the brothers were in despair.
Then for a little things seemed to improve. Filippo
suddenly lost his stupid look as he bent over the
pages, and his eyes were bright with interest.
`Aha!' said one brother nudging the other, `the
boy has found his brains at last.'
But great indeed was their wrath and disappointment
when they looked over his shoulder. Instead
of learning his lessons, Filippo had been making all
sorts of queer drawings round the margin of the
page. The A's and B's had noses and eyes, and
looked out with little grinning faces. The long
music notes had legs and arms and were dancing
about like little black imps. Everything was
scribbled over with the naughty little figures.
This was really too much, and Filippo must be
taken at once before the prior.
`What, in disgrace again?' asked the kindly old
man. `What has the child done now?'
`We can teach him nothing,' said the brother,
shaking a severe finger at Filippo, who hung his
head. `He cannot even learn his A B C. And
besides, he spoils his books, ay, and even the walls
and benches, by drawing such things as these upon
them.' And the indignant monk held out the book
where all those naughty figures were dancing over
the page.
The prior took the book and looked at it closely.
`What makes thee do these things?' he asked
the boy, who stood first on one foot and then on the
other, twisting his rope in his fingers.
At the sound of the kind voice, the boy looked
up, and his face broke into a smile.
`Indeed, I cannot help it, Father,' he said. `It is
the fault of these,' and he spread out his ten little
brown fingers.
The prior laughed.
`Well,' he said, `we will not turn thee out, though
they do say thou wilt never make a monk. Perhaps
we may teach these ten little rascals to do good
work, even if we cannot put learning into that
round head of thine.'
So instead of books and Latin lessons, the good
monks tried a different plan. Filippo was given as
a pupil to good Brother Anselmo, whose work it was
to draw the delicate pictures and letters for the
convent prayer-books.
This was a different kind of lesson, indeed.
Filippo's eyes shone with eagerness as he bent over
his work and tried to copy the beautiful lines and
curves which the master set for him.
There were other boys in the class as well, and
Filippo looked at their work with great admiration.
One boy especially, who was bigger than Filippo,
and who had a kind merry face, made such beautiful
copies that Filippo always tried to sit next him if
possible. Very soon the boys became great friends.
Diamante, as the elder boy was called, was
pleased to be admired so much by the little new
pupil; but as time went on, his pride in his own
work grew less as he saw with amazement how
quickly Filippo's little brown fingers learned to
draw straighter lines and more beautiful curves than
any he could manage. Brother Anselmo, too, would
watch the boy at work, and his saintly old face
beamed with pleasure as he looked.
`He will pass us all, and leave us far behind, this
child who is too stupid to learn his A B C,' he
would say, and his face shone with unselfish joy.
Then when the boys grew older, they were
allowed to go into the church and watch those
wonderful frescoes, which grew under the hand of
the great awkward painter, `Ugly Tom,' as he was
called.
Together Filippo and Diamante stood and watched
with awe, learning lessons there which the good
father had not been able to teach. Then they
would begin to put into practice what they had
learned, and try to copy in their own pictures the
work of the great master.
`Thou hast the knack of it, Filippo,' Diamante
would say as he looked with envy at the figures
Filippo drew so easily.
`Thy pictures are also good,' Filippo would
answer quickly, `and thou thyself art better than
any one else in the convent.'
There was no complaint now of Filippo's dullness.
He soon learned all that the painter-monks could
teach him, and as years passed on the prior would
rub his hands in delight to think that here was an
artist, one of themselves, who would soon be able to
paint the walls of the church and convent, and make
them as famous as the convent of San Marco had
been made famous by its angelical painter.
Then one day he called Filippo to him.
`My son,' he said, `you have learned well, and it is
time now to turn your work to some account. Go
into the cloister where the walls have been but
newly whitewashed, and let us see what kind of
pictures thou canst paint.'
With burning cheeks and shining eyes, Filippo
began his work. Day after day he stood on the
scaffolding, with his brown robe pinned back and
his bare arm moving swiftly as he drew figure after
figure on the smooth white wall.
He did not pause to think what he would draw,
the figures seemed to grow like magic under his
touch. There were the monks in their brown and
white robes, fat and laughing, or lean and anxious-
minded. There were the people who came to say
their prayers in church, little children clinging to
their mothers' skirts, beggars and rich folks, even
the stray dog that sometimes wandered in. Yes,
and the pretty girls who laughed and talked in
whispers. He drew them all, just as he had often
seen them. Then, when the last piece of wall was
covered, he stopped his work.
The news soon spread through all the convent
that Brother Filippo had finished his picture, and all
the monks came hurrying to see. The scaffolding
was taken down, and then they all stood round,
gazing with round eyes and open mouths. They
had never seen anything like it before, and at first
there was silence except for one long drawn `ah-h.'
Then one by one they began to laugh and talk,
and point with eager, excited fingers. `Look,'
cried one, `there is Brother Giovanni; I would know
his smile among a hundred.'
`There is that beggar who comes each day to ask
for soup,' cried another.
`And there is his dog,' shouted a third.
`Look at the maid who kneels in front,' said Fra
Diamante in a hushed voice, `is she not as fair as
any saint?'
Then suddenly there was silence, and the brothers
looked ashamed of the noise they had been making,
as the prior himself looked down on them from the
steps above.
`What is all this?' he asked. And his voice
sounded grave and displeased as he looked from the
wall to the crowd of eager monks. Then he turned
to Filippo. `Are these the pictures I ordered thee
to paint?' he asked. `Is this the kind of painting to
do honour to God and to our Church? Will these
mere human figures help men to remember the
saints, teach them to look up to heaven, or help
them with their prayers? Quick, rub them out,
and paint your pictures for heaven and not for
earth.'
Filippo hung his head, the crowd of admiring
monks swiftly disappeared, and he was left to begin
his work all over again.
It was so difficult for Filippo to keep his thoughts
fixed on heaven, and not to think of earth. He did
so love the merry world, and his fingers, those same
ten brown rascals which had got him into trouble
when he was a child, always longed to draw just
the faces that he saw every day. The pretty face
of the little maid kneeling at her prayers was so
real and so delightful, and the Madonna and angels
seemed so solemn and far off.
Still no one would have pictures which did not
tell of saints and angels, so he must paint the best
he could. After all, it was easy to put on wings and
golden haloes until the earthly things took on a
heavenly look.
But the convent life grew daily more and more
wearisome now to Filippo. The world, which he
had been so willing to give up for a piece of good
white bread when he was eight years old, now
seemed full of all the things he loved best.
The more he thought of it, the more he longed
to see other places outside the convent walls, and
other faces besides the monks and the people who
came to church.
And so one dark night, when all the brothers were
asleep and the bells had just rung the midnight
hour, Fra Filippo stole out of his cell, unlocked
the convent door, and ran swiftly out into the quiet
street.
How good it felt to be free! The very street
itself seemed like an old friend, welcoming him with
open arms. On and on he ran until he came to the
city gates of San Frediano, there to wait until he
could slip through unnoticed when the gates were
opened at the dawn of day. Then on again until
Florence and the convent were left behind and the
whole world lay before him.
There was no difficulty about living, for the
people gave him food and money, and good-natured
countrymen would stop their carts and offer him a
lift along the straight white dusty roads. So by
and by he reached Ancona and saw for the first
time the sea.
Filippo gazed and gazed, forgetting everything
else as he drank in the beauty of that great stretch
of quivering blue, while in his ears sounded words
which he had almost forgotten--words which had
fallen on heedless ears at matins or vespers--and
which never had held any meaning for him before:
`And before the throne was a sea of glass, like unto
crystal.'
He stood still for a few minutes and then the
heavenly vision faded, and like any other boy he
forgot all about beauty and colour, and only longed
to be out in a boat enjoying the strange new
delight.
Very lucky he thought himself when he reached
the shore to find a boat just putting of, and to hear
himself invited to jump in by the boys who were
going for a sail.
Away they went, further and further from the
shore, laughing and talking. The boys were so
busy telling wonderful sea-tales to the young
stranger that they did not notice how far they had
gone. Then suddenly they looked ahead and sat
speechless with fear.
A great Moorish galley was bearing down upon
them, its rows of oars flashed in the sunlight, and
its great painted sails towered above their heads. It
was no use trying to escape. Those strong rowers
easily overtook them, and in a few minutes Filippo
and his companions were hoisted up on board the
galley.
It was all so sudden that it seemed like a dream.
But the chains were very real that were fastened
round their wrists and ankles, and the dark cruel
faces of the Moors as they looked on smiling at
their misery were certainly no dream.
Then followed long days of misery when the new
slaves toiled at the oars under the blazing sun, and
nights of cold and weariness. Many a time did
Filippo long for the quiet convent, the kindly
brothers, and the long peaceful days. Many a time
did he long to hear the bells calling him to prayer,
which had once only filled him with restless
impatience.
But at last the galley reached the coast of Barbary,
and the slaves were unchained from the oars and
taken ashore. In all his misery Filippo's keen eyes
still watched with interest the people around him,
and he was never tired of studying the swarthy
faces and curious garments of the Moorish pirates.
Then one day when he happened to be near
a smooth white wall, he took a charred stick from
a fire which was built close by, and began to draw
the figure of his master.
What a delight it was to draw those rapid strokes
and feel the likeness grow beneath his fingers! He
was so much interested that he did not notice the
crowd that gathered gradually round him, but he
worked steadily on until the figure was finished.
Just as the band of monks had stood silent round
his first picture in the cloister of the Carmine, so
these dark Moors stood still in wonder and amazement
gazing upon the bold black figure sketched
upon the smooth white wall.
No one had ever seen such a thing in that land
before, and it seemed to them that this man must
be a dealer in magic. They whispered together, and
one went off hurriedly to fetch the captain.
The master, when he came, was as astonished as
the men. He could scarcely believe his eyes when
he saw a second self drawn upon the wall, more like
than his own shadow. This indeed must be no
common man; and he ordered that Filippo's chains
should be immediately struck off, and that he should
be treated with respect and honour.
Nothing now was too good for this man of magic,
and before long Filippo was put on board a ship
and carried safely back to Italy. They put him
ashore at Naples, and for some little time Filippo
stayed there painting pictures for the king; but his
heart was in his own beloved town, and very soon
he returned to Florence.
Perhaps he did not deserve a welcome, but every
one was only too delighted to think that the runaway
had really returned. Even the prior, though
he shook his head, was glad to welcome back the
brother whose painting had already brought fame
and honour to the convent.
But in spite of all the troubles Filippo had gone
through, he still dearly loved the merry world and
all its pleasures. For a long time he would paint
his saints and angels with all due diligence, and
then he would dash down brushes and pencils, leave
his paints scattered around, and of he would go for
a holiday. Then the work would come to a stand-
still, and people must just wait until Filippo should
feel inclined to begin again.
The great Cosimo de Medici, who was always the
friend of painters, desired above all things that
Fra Filippo should paint a picture for him. And
what is more, having heard so many tales about the
idle ways of this same brother, he was determined
that the picture should be painted without any
interruptions.
`Fra Filippo shall take no holidays while at work
for me,' he said, as he talked the matter over with
the prior.
`That may not be so easy as thou thinkest,' said
the prior, for he knew Filippo better than did this
great Cosimo.
But Cosimo did not see any difficulty in the
matter whatever. High in his palace he prepared
a room for the painter, and placed there everything
he could need. No comfort was lacking, and when
Filippo came he was treated as an honoured guest,
except for one thing. Whenever the heavy door
of his room swung to, there was a grating sound
heard, and the key in the lock was turned from
outside. So Filippo was really a captive in his
handsome prison.
That was all very well for a few days. Filippo
laughed as he painted away, and laid on the tender
blue of the Virgin's robe, and painted into her eyes
the solemn look which he had so often seen on the
face of some poor peasant woman as she knelt at
prayer. But after a while he grew restless and
weary of his work.
`Plague take this great man and his fine manners,'
he cried. `Does he think he can catch a lark and
train it to sing in a cage at his bidding? I am
weary of saints and angels. I must out to breathe
the fresh sweet air of heaven.'
But the key was always turned in the lock and
the door was strong. There was the window, but
it was high above the street, and the grey walls,
built of huge square stones, might well have been
intended to enclose a prison rather than a palace.
It was a dark night, and the air felt hot as Filippo
leaned out of the window. Scarce a breath stirred
the still air, and every sound could be heard
distinctly. Far below in the street he could hear the
tread of the people's feet, and catch the words of a
merry song as a company of boys and girls danced
merrily along.
`Flower of the rose,
If I've been happy, what matter who knows,'
they sang.
It was all too tempting; out he must get. Filippo
looked round his room, and his eye rested on the
bed. With a shout of triumphant delight he ran
towards it. First he seized the quilt and tore it
into strips, then the blankets, then the sheets.
`Whoever saw a grander rope?' he chuckled to
himself as he knotted the ends together.
Quick as thought he tied it to the iron bar that
ran across his window, and, squeezing out, he began
to climb down, hand over hand, dangling and
swinging to and fro. The rope was stout and good,
and now he could steady himself by catching his
toes in the great iron rings fastened into the wall,
until at last he dropped breathless into the street
below.
Next day, when Cosimo came to see how the
painting went on, he saw indeed the pictures and
the brushes, but no painter was there. Quickly he
stepped to the open window, and there he saw the
dangling rope of sheets, and guessed at once how
the bird had flown.
Through the streets they searched for the missing
painter, and before long he was found and brought
back. Filippo tried to look penitent, but his eyes
were dancing with merriment, and Cosimo must
needs laugh too.
`After all,' said Filippo, `my talent is not like a
beast of burden, to be driven and beaten into doing
its work. It is rather like one of those heavenly
visitors whom we willingly entertain when they
deign to visit us, but whom we can never force
either to come or go at will.'
`Thou art right, friend painter,' answered the
great man. `And when I think how thou and thy
talent might have taken wings together, had not
the rope held good, I vow I will never seek to keep
thee in against thy will again.'
`Then will I work all the more willingly,' answered
Filippo.
So with doors open, and freedom to come and go,
Filippo no longer wished to escape, but worked with
all his heart. The beautiful Madonna and angel
were soon finished, and besides he painted a
wonderful picture of seven saints with St. John sitting
in their midst.
From far and near came requests that Fra Filippo
Lippi should paint pictures for different churches
and convents. He would much rather have painted
the scenes and the people he saw every day, but he
remembered the prior's lecture, and still painted
only the stories of saints and holy people--the
gentle Madonna with her scarlet book of prayers,
the dove fluttering near, and the angel messenger
with shining wings bearing the lily branch. True,
the saints would sometimes look out of his pictures
with the faces of some of his friends, but no one
seemed to notice that. On the whole his was a
happy life, and he was always ready to paint for
any one that should ask him.
Many people now were proud to know the famous
young painter, but his old companion Fra Diamante
was still the friend he loved best. Whenever it was
possible they still would work together; so, great
was their delight when one day an order came from
Prato that they should both go there to paint the
walls of San Stefano.
`Good-bye to old Florence for a while,' cried
Filippo as they set out merrily together. He
looked back as he spoke at the spires and sunbaked
roofs, the white marble facade of San Miniato, and
the dark cypresses standing clear against the pure
warm sky of early spring. `I am weary of your
great men and all your pomp and splendour.
Something tells me we shall have a golden time
among the good folk of Prato.'
Perhaps it was the springtime that made Filippo
so joyous that morning as he rode along the dusty
white road.
Spring had come with a glad rush, as she ever
comes in Italy, scattering on every side her flowers
and favours. From under the dead brown leaves of
autumn, violets pushed their heads and perfumed all
the air. Under the grey olives the sprouting corn
spread its tender green, and the scarlet and purple
of the anemones waved spring's banner far and near.
It was good to be alive on such a day.
Arrived at Prato, the two painters, with a favourite
pupil called Botticelli, worked together diligently,
and covered wall after wall with their frescoes.
It seemed as if they would never be done, for
each church and convent had work awaiting them.
`Truly,' said Filippo one day when he was putting
the last touches to a portrait of Fra Diamante, whom
he had painted into his picture of the death of St.
Stephen, `I will undertake no more work for a while.
It is full time we had a holiday together.'
But even as he spoke a message was brought to
him from the good abbess of the convent of Santa
Margherita, begging him to come and paint an
altarpiece for the sisters' chapel.
`Ah, well, what must be, must be,' he said to
Fra Diamante, who stood smiling by. `I will do
what I can to please these holy women, but after
that--no more.'
The staid and sober abbess met him at the convent
door, and silently led him through the sunny
garden, bright with flowers, where the lizards darted
to right and left as they walked past the fountain
and entered the dim, cool chapel. In a low, sweet
voice she told him what they would have him paint,
and showed him the space above the high altar
where the picture was to be placed.
`Our great desire is that thou shouldst paint for
us the Holy Virgin with the Blessed Child on the
night of the Nativity,' she said.
The painter seemed to listen, but his attention
wandered, and all the time he wished himself back
in the sunny garden, where he had seen a fair
young face looking through the pink sprays of
almond blossoms, while the music of the vesper
hymn sounded sweet and clear in his ears.
`I will begin to-morrow,' he said with a start
when the low voice of the abbess stopped. `I will
paint the Madonna and Babe as thou desirest.'
So next day the work began. And each time
the abbess noiselessly entered the room where the
painter was at work and watched the picture grow
beneath his hand, she felt more and more sure that
she had done right in asking this painter to decorate
their beloved chapel.
True, it was said by many that the young artist
was but a worldly minded man, not like the blessed
Fra Angelico, the heavenly painter of San Marco;
but his work was truly wonderful, and his handsome
face looked good, even if a somewhat merry smile
was ever wont to lurk about his mouth and in his
eyes.
Then came a morning when the abbess found
Filippo standing idle, with a discontented look upon
his face. He was gazing at the unfinished picture,
and for a while he did not see that any one had
entered the room.
`Is aught amiss?' asked the gentle voice at his
side, and Filippo turned and saw the abbess.
`Something indeed seems amiss with my five
fingers,' said Filippo, with his quick bright smile.
`Time after time have I tried to paint the face of
the Madonna, and each time I must needs paint it
out again.'
Then a happy thought came into his mind.
`I have seen a face sometimes as I passed through
the convent garden which is exactly what I want,' he
cried. `If thou wouldst but let the maiden sit where
I can see her for a few hours each day, I can promise
thee that the Madonna will be finished as thou
wouldst wish.'
The abbess stood in deep thought for a few
minutes, for she was puzzled to know what she
should do.
`It is the child Lucrezia,' she thought to herself.
`She who was sent here by her father, the noble
Buti of Florence. She is but a novice still, and there
can be no harm in allowing her to lend her fair face
as a model for Our Lady.'
So she told Filippo it should be as he wished.
It was dull in the convent, and Lucrezia was only
too pleased to spend some hours every morning,
idly sitting in the great chair, while the young
painter talked to her and told her stories while he
painted. She counted the hours until it was time to
go back, and grew happier each day as the Madonna's
face grew more and more beautiful.
Surely there was no one so good or so handsome
as this wonderful artist. Lucrezia could not bear to
think how dull her life would be when he was gone.
Then one day, when it happened that the abbess
was called away and they were alone, Filippo told
Lucrezia that he loved her and could not live without
her; and although she was frightened at first, she
soon grew happy, and told him that she was ready to
go with him wherever he wished. But what would
the good nuns think of it? Would they ever let
her go? No; they must think of some other plan.
To-morrow was the great festa of Prato, when all
the nuns walked in procession to see the holy centola,
or girdle, which the Madonna had given to St. Thomas.
Lucrezia must take care to walk on the outside of
the procession, and to watch for a touch upon the
arm as she passed.
The festa day dawned bright and clear, and all
Prato was early astir. Procession after procession
wound its way to the church where the relic was to
be shown, and the crowd grew denser every moment.
Presently came the nuns of Santa Margherita. A
figure in the crowd pressed nearer. Lucrezia felt a
touch upon her arm, and a strong hand clasped hers.
The crowd swayed to and fro, and in an instant the
two figures disappeared. No one noticed that the
young novice was gone, and before the nuns thought
of looking for their charge Lucrezia was on her way
to Florence, her horse led by the painter whom she
loved, while his good friend Fra Diamante rode
beside her.
Then the storm burst. Lucrezia's father was
furious, the good nuns were dismayed, and every
one shook their heads over this last adventure of
the Florentine painter.
But luckily for Filippo, the great Cosimo still
stood his friend and helped him through it all. He
it was who begged the Pope to allow Fra Filippo to
marry Lucrezia (for monks, of course, were never
allowed to marry), and the Pope, too, was kind and
granted the request, so that all went well.
Now indeed was Lucrezia as happy as the day
was long, and when the spring returned once more
to Florence, a baby Filippo came with the violets
and lilies.
`How wilt thou know us apart if thou callest him
Filippo?' asked the proud father.
`Ah, he is such a little one, dear heart,' Lucrezia
answered gaily. `We will call him Filippino, and
then there can be no mistake.'
There was no more need now to seek for pleasures
out of doors. Filippo painted his pictures and lived
his happy home life without seeking any more
adventures. His Madonnas grew ever more beautiful,
for they were all touched with the beauty that
shone from Lucrezia's fair face, and the Infant Christ
had ever the smile and the curly golden hair of the
baby Filippino.
And by and by a little daughter came to gladden
their hearts, and then indeed their cup of joy was full.
`What name shall we give the little maid?' said
Filippo.
`Methought thou wouldst have it Lucrezia,'
answered the mother.
`There is but one Lucrezia in all the world for
me,' he said. `None other but thee shall bear that
name.'
As they talked a knock sounded at the door, and
presently the favourite pupil, Sandro, looked in.
There was a shout of joy from little Filippino, and
the young man lifted the child in his arms and
smiled with the look of one who loves children.
`Come, Sandro, and see the little new flower,' said
Filippo. `Is she not as fair as the roses which thou
dost so love to paint?'
Then, as the young man looked with interest
at the tiny face, Filippo clapped him on the
shoulder.
`I have it!' he cried. `She shall be called after
thee, Alessandra. Some day she will be proud to
think that she bears thy name.'
For already Filippo knew that this pupil of his
would ere long wake the world to new wonder.
The only clouds that hid the sunshine of Lucrezia's
life was when Filippo was obliged to leave her for a
while and paint his pictures in other towns. She
always grew sad when his work in Florence drew
to a close, for she never knew where his next work
might lie.
`Well,' said Filippo one night as he returned
home and caught up little Filippino in his arms,
`the picture for the nuns of San Ambrogio is finished
at last! Truly they have saints and angels enough
this time--rows upon rows of sweet faces and white
lilies. And the sweetest face of all is thine, Saint
Lucy, kneeling in front with thy hand beneath the
chin of this young cherub.'
`Is it indeed finished so soon?' asked Lucrezia, a
wistful note creeping into her voice.
`Ay, and to-morrow I must away to Spoleto to
begin my work at the Chapel of Our Lady. But
look not so sad, dear heart; before three months are
past, by the time the grapes are gathered, I will
return.'
But it was sad work parting, though it might only
be for three months, and even her little son could not
make his mother smile, though he drew wonderful
pictures for her of birds and beasts, and told her he
meant to be a great painter like his father when
he grew up.
Next day Filippo started, and with him went his
good friend Fra Diamante.
`Fare thee well, Filippo. Take good care of him,
friend Diamante,' cried Lucrezia; and she stood
watching until their figures disappeared at the end
of the long white road, and then went inside to wait
patiently for their return.
The summer days passed slowly by. The cheeks
of the peaches grew soft and pink under the kiss of
the sun, the figs showed ripe and purple beneath the
green leaves, and the grapes hung in great transparent
clusters of purple and gold from the vines
that swung between the poplar-trees. Then came
the merry days of vintage, and the juice was pressed
out of the ripe grapes.
`Now he will come back,' said Lucrezia, `for he
said ``by the time the grapes are gathered I will
return.'' '
The days went slowly by, and every evening she
stood in the loggia and gazed across the hills. Then
she would point out the long white road to little
Filippino.
`Thy father will come along that road ere long,'
she said, and joy sang in her voice.
Then one evening as she watched as usual her
heart beat quickly. Surely that figure riding so
slowly along was Fra Diamante? But where was
Filippo, and why did his friend ride so slowly?
When he came near and entered the house she
looked into his face, and all the joy faded from her
eyes.
`You need not tell me,' she cried; `I know that
Filippo is dead.'
It was but too true. The faithful friend had
brought the sad news himself. No one could tell
how Filippo had died. A few short hours of pain
and then all was over. Some talked of poison. But
who could tell?
There had just been time to send his farewell to
Lucrezia, and to pray his friend to take charge of
little Filippino.
So, as she listened, joy died out of Lucrezia's life.
Spring might come again, and summer sunshine
make others glad, but for her it would be ever cold,
bleak winter. For never more should her heart grow
warm in the sunshine of Filippo's smile--that
sunshine which had made every one love him, in spite
of his faults, ever since he ran about the streets,
a little ragged boy, in the old city of Florence.
SANDRO BOTTICELLI
We must now go back to the days when Fra
Filippo Lippi painted his pictures and so brought
fame to the Carmine Convent.
There was at that time in Florence a good citizen
called Mariano Filipepi, an honest, well-to-do man,
who had several sons. These sons were all taught
carefully and well trained to do each the work he
chose. But the fourth son, Alessandro, or Sandro
as he was called, was a great trial to his father. He
would settle to no trade or calling. Restless and
uncertain, he turned from one thing to another.
At one time he would work with all his might, and
then again become as idle and fitful as the summer
breeze. He could learn well and quickly when he
chose, but then there were so few things that he
did choose to learn. Music he loved, and he knew
every song of the birds, and anything connected
with flowers was a special joy to him. No one
knew better than he how the different kinds of
roses grew, and how the lilies hung upon their
stalks.
`And what, I should like to know, is going to be
the use of all this,' the good father would say
impatiently, `as long as thou takest no pains to read
and write and do thy sums? What am I to do
with such a boy, I wonder?'
Then in despair the poor man decided to send
Sandro to a neighbour's workshop, to see if perhaps
his hands would work better than his head.
The name of this neighbour was Botticelli, and
he was a goldsmith, and a very excellent master of
his art. He agreed to receive Sandro as his pupil,
so it happened that the boy was called by his
master's name, and was known ever after as Sandro
Botticelli.
Sandro worked for some time with his master, and
quickly learned to draw designs for the goldsmith's
work.
In those days painters and goldsmiths worked a
great deal together, and Sandro often saw designs
for pictures and listened to the talk of the artists
who came to his master's shop. Gradually, as he
looked and listened, his mind was made up. He
would become a painter. All his restless longings
and day dreams turned to this. All the music that
floated in the air as he listened to the birds' song,
the gentle dancing motion of the wind among the
trees, all the colours of the flowers, and the graceful
twinings of the rose-stems--all these he would catch
and weave into his pictures. Yes, he would learn
to painst music and motion, and then he would be
happy.
`So now thou wilt become a painter,' said his
father, with a hopeless sigh.
Truly this boy was more trouble than all the rest
put together. Here he had just settled down to
learn how to become a good goldsmith, and now he
wished to try his hand at something else. Well, it
was no use saying `no.' The boy could never be
made to do anything but what he wished. There was
the Carmelite monk Fra Filippo Lippi, of whom all,
men were talking. It was said he was the greatest
painter in Florence. The boy should have the best
teaching it was possible to give him, and perhaps
this time he would stick to his work.
So Sandro was sent as a pupil to Fra Filippo, and
he soon became a great favourite with the happy,
sunny-tempered master. The quick eye of the
painter soon saw that this was no ordinary pupil.
There was something about Sandro's drawing that
was different to anything that Filippo had ever seen
before. His figures seemed to move, and one
almost heard the wind rustling in their flowing
drapery. Instead of walking, they seemed to be
dancing lightly along with a swaying motion as if to
the rhythm of music. The very rose-leaves the boy
loved to paint, seemed to flutter down to the sound
of a fairy song. Filippo was proud of his pupil.
`The world will one day hear more of my Sandro
Botticelli,' he said; and, young though the boy was,
he often took him to different places to help him in
his work.
So it happened that, in that wonderful spring
of Filippo's life, Sandro too was at Prato, and
worked there with Fra Diamante. And in after
years when the master's little daughter was born,
she was named Alessandra, after the favourite
pupil, to whom was also left the training of little
Filippino.
Now, indeed, Sandros good old father had no
further cause to complain. The boy had found the
work he was most fitted for, and his name soon
became famous in Florence.
It was the reign of gaiety and pleasure in the city
of Florence at that time. Lorenzo the Magnificent,
the son of Cosimo de Medici, was ruler now, and
his court was the centre of all that was most splendid
and beautiful. Rich dresses, dainty food, music,
gay revels, everything that could give pleasure,
whether good or bad, was there.
Lorenzo, like his father, was always glad to
discover a new painter, and Botticelli soon became a
great favourite at court.
But pictures of saints and angels were somewhat
out of fashion at that time, for people did not care
to be reminded of anything but earthly pleasures.
So Botticelli chose his subjects to please the court,
and for a while ceased to paint his sad-eyed Madonnas.
What mattered to him what his subject was?
Let him but paint his dancing figures, tripping
along in their light flowing garments, keeping time
to the music of his thoughts, and the subject might
be one of the old Greek tales or any other story
that served his purpose.
All the gay court dresses, the rich quaint robes of
the fair ladies, helped to train the young painter's
fancy for flowing draperies and wonderful veils of
filmy transparent gauze.
There was one fair lady especially whom Sandro
loved to paint--the beautiful Simonetta, as she is
still called.
First he painted her as Venus, who was born of
the sea foam. In his picture she floats to the shore
standing in a shell, her golden hair wrapped round
her. The winds behind blow her onward and
scatter pink and red roses through the air. On the
shore stands Spring, who holds out a mantle, flowers
nestling in its folds, ready to enwrap the goddess
when the winds shall have wafted her to land.
Then again we see her in his wonderful picture
of `Spring,' and in another called `Mars and Venus.'
She was too great a lady to stoop to the humble
painter, and he perhaps only looked up to her as a
star shining in heaven, far out of the reach of his
love. But he never ceased to worship her from afar.
He never married or cared for any other fair face, just
as the great poet Dante, whom Botticelli admired
so much, dreamed only of his one love, Beatrice.
But Sandro did not go sadly through life sighing
for what could never be his. He was kindly and
good-natured, full of jokes, and ready to make merry
with his pupils in the workshop.
It once happened that one of these pupils, Biagio
by name, had made a copy of one of Sandro's
pictures, a beautiful Madonna surrounded by eight
angels. This he was very anxious to sell, and the
master kindly promised to help him, and in the end
arranged the matter with a citizen of Florence, who
offered to buy it for six gold pieces.
`Well, Biagio,' said Sandro, when his pupil came
into the studio next morning, `I have sold thy
picture. Let us now hang it up in a good light
that the man who wishes to buy it may see it at its
best. Then will he pay thee the money.'
Biagio was overjoyed.
`Oh, master,' he cried, `how well thou hast done.'
Then with hands which trembled with excitement
the pupil arranged the picture in the best light, and
went to fetch the purchaser.
Now meanwhile Botticelli and his other pupils
had made eight caps of scarlet pasteboard such as
the citizens of Florence then wore, and these they
fastened with wax on to the heads of the eight
angels in the picture.
Presently Biagio came back panting with joyful
excitement, and brought with him the citizen, who
knew already of the joke. The poor boy looked at
his picture and then rubbed his eyes. What had
happened? Where were his angels? The picture
must be bewitched, for instead of his angels he saw
only eight citizens in scarlet caps.
He looked wildly around, and then at the face
of the man who had promised to buy the picture.
Of course he would refuse to take such a thing.
But, to his surprise, the citizen looked well pleased,
and even praised the work.
`It is well worth the money,' he said; `and if thou
wilt return with me to my house, I will pay thee the
six gold pieces.'
Biagio scarcely knew what to do. He was so
puzzled and bewildered he felt as if this must be a
bad dream.
As soon as he could, he rushed back to the studio
to look again at that picture, and then he found
that the red-capped citizens had disappeared, and his
eight angels were there instead. This of course was
not surprising, as Sandro and his pupils had quickly
removed the wax and taken off the scarlet caps.
`Master, master,' cried the astonished pupil, `tell
me if I am dreaming, or if I have lost my wits?
When I came in just now, these angels were
Florentine citizens with red caps on their heads, and
now they are angels once more. What may this
mean?'
`I think, Biagio, that this money must have
turned thy brain round,' said Botticelli gravely. `If
the angels had looked as thou sayest, dost thou
think the citizen would have bought the picture?'
`That is true,' said Biagio, shaking his head
solemnly; `and yet I swear I never saw anything
more clearly.'
And the poor boy, for many a long day, was
afraid to trust his own eyes, since they had so
basely deceived him.
But the next thing that happened at the studio
did not seem like a joke to the master, for a weaver
of cloth came to live close by, and his looms made
such a noise and such a shaking that Sandro was
deafened, and the house shook so greatly that it was
impossible to paint.
But though Botticelli went to the weaver and
explained all this most courteously, the man
answered roughly, `Can I not do what I like with
my own house?' So Sandro was angry, and went
away and immediately ordered a great square of
stone to be brought, so big that it filled a waggon.
This he had placed on the top of his wall nearest to
the weaver's house, in such a way that the least
shake would bring it crashing down into the enemy's
workshop.
When the weaver saw this he was terrified, and
came round at once to the studio.
`Take down that great stone at once,' he shouted.
`Do you not see that it would crush me and my
workshop if it fell?'
`Not at all,' said Botticelli. `Why should I take
it down? Can I not do as I like with my own
house?'
And this taught the weaver a lesson, so that he
made less noise and shaking, and Sandro had the
best of the joke after all.
There were no idle days of dreaming now for
Sandro. As soon as one picture was finished
another was wanted. Money flowed in, and his
purse was always full of gold, though he emptied it
almost as fast as it was filled. His work for the
Pope at Rome alone was so well paid that the
money should have lasted him for many a long day,
but in his usual careless way he spent it all before
he returned to Florence.
Perhaps it was the gay life at Lorenzo's splendid
court that had taught him to spend money so carelessly,
and to have no thought but to eat, drink, and
be merry. But very soon a change began to steal
over his life.
There was one man in Florence who looked with
sad condemning eyes on all the pleasure-loving
crowd that thronged the court of Lorenzo the
Magnificent. In the peaceful convent of San
Marco, whose walls the angel-painter had covered
with pictures `like windows into heaven,' the
stern monk Savonarola was grieving over the sin
and vanity that went on around him. He loved
Florence with all his heart, and he could not bear
the thought that she was forgetting, in the whirl of
pleasure, all that was good and pure and worth the
winning.
Then, like a battle-cry, his voice sounded through
the city, and roused the people from their foolish
dreams of ease and pleasure. Every one flocked to
the great cathedral to hear Savonarola preach, and
Sandro Botticelli left for a while his studio and his
painting and became a follower of the great preacher.
Never again did he paint those pictures of earthly
subjects which had so delighted Lorenzo. When he
once more returned to his work, it was to paint his
sad-eyed Madonnas; and the music which still floated
through his visions was now like the song of angels.
The boys of Florence especially had grown wild
and rough during the reign of pleasure, and they
were the terror of the city during carnival time.
They would carry long poles, or `stili,' and bar the
streets across, demanding money before they would
let the people pass. This money they spent on
drinking and feasting, and at night they set up
great trees in the squares or wider streets and
lighted huge bonfires around them. Then would
begin a terrible fight with stones, and many of the
boys were hurt, and some even killed.
No one had been able to put a stop to this until
Savonarola made up his mind that it should cease.
Then, as if by magic, all was changed.
Instead of the rough game of `stili,' there were
altars put up at the corners of the streets, and the
boys begged money of the passers-by, not for their
feasts, but for the poor.
`You shall not miss your bonfire,' said Savonarola;
`but instead of a tree you shall burn up vain and
useless things, and so purify the city.'
So the children went round and collected all the
`vanities,' as they were called--wigs and masks and
carnival dresses, foolish songs, bad books, and evil
pictures; all were heaped high and then lighted to
make one great bonfire.
Some people think that perhaps Sandro threw
into the Bonfire of Vanities some of his own beautiful
pictures, but that we cannot tell.
Then came the sad time when the people, who at
one time would have made Savonarola their king,
turned against him, in the same fickle way that
crowds will ever turn. And then the great preacher,
who had spent his life trying to help and teach them,
and to do them good, was burned in the great
square of that city which he had loved so dearly.
After this it was long before Botticelli cared to
paint again. He was old and weary now, poor and
sad, sick of that world which had treated with such
cruelty the master whom he loved.
One last picture he painted to show the triumph
of good over evil. Not with the sword or the might
of great power is the triumph won, says Sandro to
us by this picture, but by the little hand of the
Christ Child, conquering by love and drawing all
men to Him. This Adoration of the Magi is in
our own National Gallery in London, and is the
only painting which Botticelli ever signed.
`I, Alessandro, painted this picture during the
troubles of Italy ... when the devil was let loose
for the space of three and a half years. Afterwards
shall he be chained, and we shall see him trodden
down as in this picture.'
It is evident that Botticelli meant by this those
sad years of struggle against evil which ended in
the martyrdom of the great preacher, and he has
placed Savonarola among the crowd of worshippers
drawn to His feet by the Infant Christ.
It is sad to think of those last days when Sandro
was too old and too weary to paint. He who had
loved to make his figures move with dancing feet, was
now obliged to walk with crutches. The roses and
lilies of spring were faded now, and instead of the
music of his youth he heard only the sound of harsh,
ungrateful voices, in the flowerless days of poverty
and old age.
There is always something sad too about his
pictures, but through the sadness, if we listen, we
may hear the angel-song, and understand it better if
we have in our minds the prayer which Botticelli
left for us.
`Oh, King of Wings and Lord of Lords, who
alone rulest always in eternity, and who correctest
all our wanderings, giver of melody to the choir
of angels, listen Thou a little to our bitter grief, and
come and rule us, oh Thou highest King, with Thy
love which is so sweet.'
DOMENICO GHlRLANDAIO
Ghirlandaio! what a difficult name that sounds to
our English ears. But it has a very simple meaning,
and when you understand it the difficulty will
vanish.
It all happened in this way. Domenico's father
was a goldsmith, one of the cleverest goldsmiths
in Florence, and he was specially famous for making
garlands or wreaths of gold and silver. It was the
fashion then for the young maidens of Florence to
wear these garlands, or `ghirlande' as they were
called, on their heads, and because this goldsmith
made them better than any one else they gave him
the name of Ghirlandaio, which means `maker of
garlands,' and that became the family name.
When the time came for the boy Domenico to
learn a trade, he was sent, of course, to his father's
workshop. He learned so quickly, and worked with
such strong, clever fingers, that his father was
delighted.
`The boy will make the finest goldsmith of his
day,' he said proudly, as he watched him twisting
the delicate golden wire and working out his designs
in beaten silver.
So he was set to make the garlands, and for a while
be was contented and happy. It was such exquisite
work to twine into shape the graceful golden leaves,
with here and there a silver lily or a jewelled rose,
and to dream of the fair head on which the garland
would rest.
But the making of garlands did not satisfy
Domenico for long, and like Botticelli he soon
began to dream of becoming a painter.
You must remember that in those days goldsmiths
and painters had much in common, and often worked
together. The goldsmith made his picture with
gold and silver and jewels, while the painter drew
his with colours, but they were both artists.
So as the young Ghirlandaio watched these men
draw their great designs and listened to their talk,
he began to feel that the goldsmith's work was
cramped and narrow, and he longed for a larger,
grander work. Day by day the garlands were more
and more neglected, and every spare moment was
spent drawing the faces of those who came to the
shop, or even those of the passers-by.
But although, ere long, Ghirlandaio left his
father's shop and learned to make pictures with
colours, instead of with gold, silver, and jewels, still
the training he had received in his goldsmith's work
showed to the end in all his pictures. He painted
the smallest things with extreme care, and was
never tired of spreading them over with delicate
ornaments and decorations. It is a great deal the
outward show with Ghirlandaio, and not so much
the inward soul, that we find in his pictures, though
he had a wonderful gift of painting portraits.
These portraits painted by the young Ghirlandaio
seemed very wonderful to the admiring Florentines.
From all his pictures looked out faces which they
knew and recognised immediately. There, in a
group of saints, or in a crowd of figures around the
Infant Christ, they saw the well-known faces of
Florentine nobles, the great ladies from the palaces,
ay, and even the men of the market-place, and the
poor peasant women who sold eggs and vegetables
in the streets. Once he painted an old bishop with
a pair of spectacles resting on his nose. It was the
first time that spectacles had ever been put into a
picture.
Then off he must go to Rome, like every one else,
to add his share to the famous frescoes of the
Vatican. But it was in Florence that most of his
work was done.
In the church of Santa Maria Novella there was
a great chapel which belonged to the Ricci family.
It had once been covered by beautiful frescoes, but
now it was spoilt by damp and the rain that came
through the leaking roof. The noble family, to
whom the chapel belonged, were poor and could not
afford to have the chapel repainted, but neither
would they allow any one else to decorate it, lest
it should pass out of their hands.
Now another noble family, called the Tournabuoni,
when they heard of the fame of the new
painter, greatly desired to have a chapel painted
by him in order to do honour to their name and
family.
Accordingly they went to the Ricci family and
offered to have the whole chapel painted and to pay
the artist themselves. Moreover, they said that
the arms or crest of the Ricci family should be
painted in the most honourable part of the chapel,
that all might see that the chapel still belonged to
them.
To this the Ricci family gladly agreed, and
Ghirlandaio was set to work to cover the walls with
his frescoes.
`I will give thee twelve hundred gold pieces when
it is done,' said Giovanni Tournabuoni, `and if I
like it well, then shalt thou have two hundred more.'
Here was good pay indeed. Ghirlandaio set to
work with all speed, and day by day the frescoes
grew. For four years he worked hard, from
morning until night, until at last the walls were
covered.
One of the subjects which he chose for these
frescoes was the story of the Life of the Virgin, so
often painted by Florentine artists. This story I
will tell you now, that your eyes may take greater
pleasure in the pictures when you see them.
The Bible story of the Virgin Mary begins when
the Angel Gabriel came to tell her of the birth of
the Baby Jesus, but there are many stories or
legends about her before that time, and this is one
which the Italians specially loved to paint.
Among the blue hills of Galilee, in the little town
of Nazareth, there lived a man and his wife whose
names were Joachim and Anna. Though they were
rich and had many flocks of sheep which fed in the
rich pastures around, still there was one thing which
God had not given them and which they longed
for more than all beside. They had no child. They
had hoped that God would send one, but now they
were both growing old, and hope began to fade.
Joachim was a very good man, and gave a third
of all that he had as an offering to the temple; but
one sad day when he took his gift, the high priest
at the altar refused to take it.
`God has shown that He will have nought of
thee,' said the priest, `since thou hast no child to
come after thee.'
Filled with shame and grief Joachim would not
go home to his wife, but instead he wandered out
into the far-of fields where his shepherds were
feeding the flocks, and there he stayed forty days.
With bowed head and sad eyes when he was alone,
he knelt and prayed that God would tell him what
he had done to deserve this disgrace.
And as he prayed God sent an angel to comfort
him.
The angel placed his hand upon the bowed head
of the poor old man, and told him to be of good
cheer and to return home at once to his wife.
`For God will even now send thee a child,' said
the angel.
So with a thankful heart which never doubted
the angel's word, Joachim turned his face homewards.
Meanwhile, at home, Anna had been sorrowing
alone. That same day she had gone into the garden,
and, as she wandered among the flowers, she wept
bitterly and prayed that God would send her comfort.
Then there appeared to her also an angel, who
told her that God had heard her prayer and would
send her the child she longed for.
`Go now,' the angel added, `and meet thy
husband Joachim, who is even now returning to
thee, and thou shall find him at the entrance to the
Golden Gate.'
So the husband and wife did as the angel
bade them, and met together at the Golden Gate.
And the Angel of Promise hovered above them,
and laid a hand in blessing upon both their heads.
There was no need for speech. As Joachim and
Anna looked into each other's eyes and read there
the solemn joy of the angel's message, their hearts
were filled with peace and comfort.
And before long the angel's promise was fulfilled,
and a little daughter was born to Anna and Joachim.
In their joy and thankfulness they said she should
not be as other children, but should serve in the
temple as little Samuel had done. The name they
gave the child was Mary, not knowing even then
that she was to be the mother of our Lord.
The little maid was but three years old when her
parents took her to present her in the temple. She
was such a little child that they almost feared she
might be frightened to go up the steps to the great
temple and meet the high priest alone. So they
asked if she might go in company with the other
children who were also on their way to the temple.
But when the little band arrived at the temple
steps, Mary stepped forward and began to climb
up, step by step, alone, while the other children
and her parents watched wondering from below.
Straight up to the temple gates she climbed, and
stood with little head bent low to receive the
blessing of the great high priest.
So the child was left there to be taught to serve
God and to learn how to embroider the purple and
fine linen for the priests' vestments. Never before
had such exquisite embroidery been done as that
which Mary's fingers so delicately stitched, for her
work was aided by angel hands. Sleeping or
waking, the blessed angels never left her.
When it was time that the maiden should be
married, so many suitors came to seek her that it
was difficult to know which to choose. To decide
the matter they were all told to bring their staves
or wands and leave them in the temple all night,
that God might show by a sign who was the
most worthy to be the guardian of the pure young
maid.
Now among the suitors was a poor carpenter of
Nazareth called Joseph, who was much older and
much poorer than any of the other suitors. They
thought it was foolish of him to bring his staff,
nevertheless it was placed in the temple with the
others.
But when the morning came and the priest went
into the temple, behold, Joseph's staff had budded
into leaves and flowers, and from among the
blossoms there flew out a dove as white as snow.
So it was known that Joseph was to take charge
of the young maid, and all the rest of the suitors
seized their staves and broke them across their
knees in rage and disappointment.
Then the story goes on to the birth of our
Saviour as it is told to you in the Bible.
It was this story which Ghirlandaio painted on
the walls of the chapel, as well as the history of
John the Baptist. Then, as Giovanni directed, he
painted the arms of the Tournabuoni on various
shields all over the chapel, and only in the tabernacle
of the sacrament on the high altar he
painted a tiny coat of arms of the Ricci family.
The chapel was finished at last and every one
flocked to see it, but first of all came the Ricci, the
owners of the chapel.
They looked high and low, but nowhere could
they see the arms of their family. Instead, on all
sides, they saw the arms of the Tournabuoni. In a
great rage they hurried to the Council and
demanded that Giovanni Tournabuoni should be
punished. But when the facts were explained, and
it was shown that the Ricci arms had indeed been
placed in the most honourable part, they were
obliged to be content, though they vowed vengeance
against the Tournabuoni. Neither did Ghirlandaio
get his extra two hundred gold pieces, for although
Giovanni was delighted with the frescoes he never
paid the price he had promised.
To the end of his days Ghirlandaio loved nothing
so much as to work from morning till night.
Nothing was too small or mean for him to do.
He would even paint the hoops for women's baskets
rather than send any work away from his shop.
`Oh,' he cried, one day, `how I wish I could
paint all the walls around Florence with my stories.'
But there was no time to do all that. He was
only forty-four years old when Death came and bade
him lay down his brushes and pencil, for his work
was done.
Beneath his own frescoes they laid him to rest
in the church of Santa Maria Novella. And
although we sometimes miss the soul in his pictures
and weary of the gay outward decoration of
goldsmith's work, yet there is something there which
makes us love the grand show of fair ladies and strong
men in the carefully finished work of this Florentine
`Maker of Garlands.'
FILIPPINO LIPPI
The little curly-haired Filippino, left in the charge
of good Fra Diamante, soon showed that he meant
to be a painter like his father. When, as a little
boy, he drew his pictures and showed them proudly
to his mother, he told her that he, too, would learn
some day to be a great artist. And she, half smiling,
would pat his curly head and tell him that he could
at least try his best.
Then, after that sad day when Lucrezia heard of
Filippo's death, and the happy little home was
broken up, Fra Diamante began in earnest to train
the boy who had been left under his care. He had
plenty of money, for Filippo had been well paid for
the work at Spoleto, and so it was decided that the
boy should be placed in some studio where he could
be taught all that was necessary.
There was no fear of Filippino ever wandering
about the Florentine streets cold and hungry as his
father had done. And his training was very different
too. Instead of the convent and the kind monks,
he was placed under the care of a great painter, and
worked in the master's studio with other boys as
well off as himself.
The name of Filippino's master was Sandro Botti-
celli, a Florentine artist, who had been one of
Filippo's pupils and had worked with him in Prato.
Fra Diamante knew that he was the greatest artist
now in Florence, and that he would be able to teach
the child better than any one else.
Filippino was a good, industrious boy, and had
none of the faults which had so often led his father
into so much mischief and so many strange adventures.
His boyhood passed quietly by and he learned
all that his master could teach him, and then began
to paint his own pictures.
Strangely enough, his first work was to paint the
walls of the Carmille Chapel--that same chapel where
Filippo and Diamante had learned their lessons, and
had gazed with such awe and reverence on Masaccio's
work.
The great painter, Ugly Tom, was dead, and there
were still parts of the chapel unfinished, so Filippino
was invited to fill the empty spaces with his work.
No need for the new prior to warn this young painter
against the sin of painting earthly pictures. The
frescoes which daily grew beneath Filippino's hands
were saintly and beautiful. The tall angel in flowing
white robes who so gently leads St. Peter out of
the prison door, shines with a pure fair light that
speaks of Heaven. The sleeping soldier looks in
contrast all the more dull and heavy, while St. Peter
turns his eyes towards his gentle guide and folds his
hands in reverence, wrapped in the soft reflected
light of that fair face. And on the opposite wall,
the sad face of St. Peter looks out through the prison
bars, while a brother saint stands outside, and with
uplifted hand speaks comforting words to the poor
prisoner.
By slow degrees the chapel walls were finished, and
after that there was much work ready for the young
painter's hand. It is said that he was very fond of
studying old Roman ornaments and painted them
into his pictures whenever it was possible, and became
very famous for this kind of work. But it is the beauty
of his Madonnas and angels that makes us love his
pictures, and we like to think that the memory of
his gentle mother taught him how to paint those
lovely faces.
Perhaps of all his pictures the most beautiful is one
in the church of the Badia in Florence. It tells the
story of the blessed St. Bernard, and shows the saint
in his desert home, as he sat among the rocks writing
the history of the Madonna. He had not been
able to write that day; perhaps he felt dull, and none
of his books, scattered around, were of any help.
Then, as he sat lost in thought, with his pen in his
hand, the Virgin herself stood before him, an angel on
either side, and little angel faces pressed close behind
her. Laying a gentle hand upon his book, she
seems to tell St. Bernard all those golden words
which his poor earthly pen had not been able yet to
write.
It used to be the custom long ago in Italy to place
in the streets sacred pictures or figures, that passers-
by might be reminded of holy things and say a prayer
in passing. And still in many towns you will find in
some old dusty corner a beautiful picture, painted by
a master hand. A gleam of colour will catch your
eye, and looking up you see a picture or little shrine
of exquisite blue-and-white glazed pottery, where
the Madonna kneels and worships the Infant Christ
lying amongst the lilies at her feet. The old battered
lamp which hangs in front of these shrines is still
kept lighted by some faithful hand, and in spring-
time the children will often come and lay little
bunches of wild-flowers on the ledge below.
`It is for the Jesu Bambino,' they will say, and
their little faces grow solemn and reverent as they
kneel and say a prayer. Then off again they go to
their play.
In a little side-street of Prato, not far from the
convent where Filippino's father first saw Lucrezia's
lovely face in the sunny garden, there is one of these
wayside shrines. It is painted by Filippino, and is
one of his most beautiful pictures. The sweet face
of the Madonna looks down upon the busy street
below, and the Holy Child lifts His little hand in
blessing, amid the saints which stand on either
side.
The glass that covers the picture is thick with
dust, and few who pass ever stop to look up. The
world is all too busy nowadays. The hurrying feet
pass by, the unseeing eyes grow more and more
careless. But Filippino's beautiful Madonna looks
on with calm, sad eyes, and the Christ Child,
surrounded by the cloud of little angel faces, still holds
in His uplifted hand a blessing for those who
seek it.
Like all the great Florentine artists, Filippino, as
soon as he grew famous, was invited to Rome, and
he painted many pictures there. On his way he
stopped for a while at Spoleto, and there he
designed a beautiful marble monument for his father's
tomb.
Unlike that father, Filippino was never fond of
travel or adventure, and was always glad to return
to Florence and live his quiet life there. Not even
an invitation from the King of Hungary could tempt
him to leave home.
It was in the great church of Santa Maria Novella
in Florence that Filippino painted his last frescoes.
They are very real and lifelike, as one of the great
painter's pupils once learned to his cost. Filippino
had, of course, many pupils who worked under him.
They ground his colours and watched him work,
and would sometimes be allowed to prepare the less
important parts of the picture.
Now it happened that one day when the master
had finished his work and had left the chapel, that
one of the pupils lingered behind. His sharp eye
had caught sight of a netted purse which lay in a dark
corner, dropped there by some careless visitor, or
perhaps by the master himself. The boy darted
back and caught up the treasure; but at that
moment the master turned back to fetch something
he had forgotten. The boy looked quickly
round. Where could he hide his prize? In a
moment his eye fell on a hole in the wall,
underneath a step which Filippino had been painting in
the fresco. That was the very place, and he ran
forward to thrust the purse inside. But, alas! the
hole was only a painted one, and the boy was fairly
caught, and was obliged with shame and confusion
to give up his prize.
Scarcely were these frescoes finished when
Filippino was seized with a terrible fever, and he died
almost as suddenly as his father had done.
In those days when there was a funeral of a prince
in Florence, the Florentines used to shut their shops,
and this was considered a great mark of respect,
and was paid only to those of royal blood. But on
the day that Filippino's funeral passed along the
Via dei Servi, every shop there was closed and all
Florence mourned for him.
`Some men,' they said, `are born princes, and
some raise themselves by their talents to be kings
among men. Our Filippino was a prince in Art, and
so do we do honour to his title.'
PIETRO PERUGINO
It was early morning, and the rays of the rising
sun had scarcely yet caught the roofs of the city
of Perugia, when along the winding road which led
across the plain a man and a boy walked with
steady, purposelike steps towards the town which
crowned the hill in front.
The man was poorly dressed in the common
rough clothes of an Umbrian peasant. Hard work
and poverty had bent his shoulders and drawn stern
lines upon his face, but there was a dignity about
him which marked him as something above the
common working man.
The little boy who trotted barefoot along by the
side of his father had a sweet, serious little face, but
he looked tired and hungry, and scarcely fit for such
a long rough walk. They had started from their
home at Castello delle Pieve very early that morning,
and the piece of black bread which had served
them for breakfast had been but small. Away in
front stretched that long, white, never-ending road;
and the little dusty feet that pattered so bravely
along had to take hurried runs now and again to
keep up with the long strides of the man, while the
wistful eyes, which were fixed on that distant town,
seemed to wonder if they would really ever reach
their journey's end.
`Art tired already, Pietro?' asked the father at
length, hearing a panting little sigh at his side.
`Why, we are not yet half-way there! Thou must
step bravely out and be a man, for to-day thou shalt
begin to work for thy living, and no longer live the
life of an idle child.'
The boy squared his shoulders, and his eyes shone.
`It is not I who am tired, my father,' he said.
`It is only that my legs cannot take such good long
steps as thine; and walk as we will the road ever
seems to unwind itself further and further in front,
like the magic white thread which has no end.'
The father laughed, and patted the child's head
kindly.
`The end will come ere long,' he said. `See
where the mist lies at the foot of the hill; there we
will begin to climb among the olive-trees and leave
the dusty road. I know a quicker way by which
we may reach the city. We will climb over the
great stones that mark the track of the stream, and
before the sun grows too hot we will have reached
the city gates.'
It was a great relief to the little hot, tired feet to
feel the cool grass beneath them, and to leave the
dusty road. The boy almost forgot his tiredness as
he scrambled from stone to stone, and filled his
hands with the violets which grew thickly on the
banks, scenting the morning air with their sweetness.
And when at last they came out once more
upon the great white road before the city gates,
there was so much to gaze upon and wonder at, that
there was no room for thoughts of weariness or hunger.
There stood the herds of great white oxen,
patiently waiting to pass in. Pietro wondered if
their huge wide horns would not reach from side to
side of the narrow street within the gates. There
the shepherd-boys played sweet airs upon their
pipes as they walked before their flocks, and led the
silly frightened sheep out of the way of passing
carts. Women with bright-coloured handkerchiefs
tied over their heads crowded round, carrying
baskets of fruit and vegetables from the country
round. Carts full of scarlet and yellow pumpkins
were driven noisily along. Whips cracked, people
shouted and talked as much with their hands as
with their lips, and all were eager to pass through
the great Etruscan gateway, which stood grim and
tall against the blue of the summer sky. Much
good service had that gateway seen, and it was as
strong as when it had been first built hundreds of
years before, and was still able to shut out an army
of enemies, if Perugia had need to defend herself.
Pietro and his father quickly threaded their way
through the crowd, and passed through the gateway
into the steep narrow street beyond. It was cool
and quiet here. The sun was shut out by the tall
houses, and the shadows lay so deep that one might
have thought it was the hour of twilight, but for the
peep of bright blue sky which showed between the
overhanging eaves above. Presently they reached
the great square market-place, where all again was
sunshine and bustle, with people shouting and selling
their wares, which they spread out on the ground
up to the very steps of the cathedral and all along
in front of the Palazzo Publico. Here the man
stopped, and asked one of the passers-by if he could
direct him to the shop of Niccolo the painter.
`Yonder he dwells,' answered the citizen, and
pointed to a humble shop at the corner of the
market-place. `Hast thou brought the child to be
a model?'
Pietro held his head up proudly, and answered
quickly for himself.
`I am no longer a child,' he said; `and I have
come to work and not to sit idle.'
The man laughed and went his way, while father
and son hurried on towards the little shop and
entered the door.
The old painter was busy, and they had to wait
a while until he could leave his work and come to
see what they might want.
`This is the boy of whom I spoke,' said the
father as he pushed Pietro forward by his shoulder.
`He is not well grown, but he is strong, and has
learnt to endure hardness. I promise thee that he
will serve thee well if thou wilt take him as thy
servant.'
The painter smiled down at the little eager face
which was waiting so anxiously for his answer.
`What canst thou do?' he asked the boy.
`Everything,' answered Pietro promptly. `I can
sweep out thy shop and cook thy dinner. I will
learn to grind thy colours and wash thy brushes,
and do a man's work.'
`In faith,' laughed the painter, `if thou canst do
everything, being yet so young, thou wilt soon be
the greatest man in Perugia, and bring great fame
to this fair city. Then will we call thee no longer
Pietro Vanucci, but thou shalt take the city's name,
and we will call thee Perugino.'
The master spoke in jest, but as time went on
and he watched the boy at work, he marvelled at
the quickness with which the child learned to
perform his new duties, and began to think the jest
might one day turn to earnest.
From early morning until sundown Pietro was
never idle, and when the rough work was done he
would stand and watch the master as he painted,
and listen breathless to the tales which Niccolo
loved to tell.
`There is nothing so great in all the world as the
art of painting,' the master would say. `It is the
ladder that leads up to heaven, the window which
lets light into the soul. A painter need never be
lonely or poor. He can create the faces he loves,
while all the riches of light and colour and beauty
are always his. If thou hast it in thee to be a
painter, my little Perugino, I can wish thee no
greater fortune.'
Then when the day's work was done and the
short spell of twilight drew near, the boy would
leave the shop and run swiftly down the narrow
street until he came to the grim old city gates.
Once outside, under the wide blue sky in the free
open air of the country, he drew a long, long breath
of pleasure, and quickly found a hidden corner in
the cleft of the hoary trunk of an olive-tree, where
no passer-by could see him. There he sat, his chin
resting on his hands, gazing and gazing out over
the plain below, drinking in the beauty with his
hungry eyes.
How he loved that great open space of sweet
fresh air, in the calm pure light of the evening hour.
That white light, which seemed to belong more to
heaven than to earth, shone on everything around.
Away in the distance the purple hills faded into the
sunset sky. At his feet the plain stretched away,
away until it met the mountains, here and there
lifting itself in some little hill crowned by a lonely
town whose roofs just caught the rays of the setting
sun. The evening mist lay like a gossamer veil
upon the low-lying lands, and between the little
towns the long straight road could be seen, winding
like a white ribbon through the grey and silver, and
marked here and there by a dark cypress-tree or a
tall poplar. And always there would be a glint
of blue, where a stream or river caught the
reflection of the sky and held it lovingly there, like
a mirror among the rocks.
But Pietro did not have much time for idle
dreaming. His was not an easy life, for Niccolo
made but little money with his painting, and the
boy had to do all the work of the house besides
attending to the shop. But all the time he was
sweeping and dusting he looked forward to the
happy days to come when he might paint pictures
and become a famous artist.
Whenever a visitor came to the shop, Pietro
would listen eagerly to his talk and try to learn
something of the great world of Art. Sometimes he
would even venture to ask questions, if the stranger
happened to be one who had travelled from afar.
`Where are the most beautiful pictures to be
found?' he asked one day when a Florentine painter
had come to the little shop and had been describing
the glories he had seen in other cities. `And where
is it that the greatest painters dwell?'
`That is an easy question to answer, my boy,' said
the painter. `All that is fairest is to be found in
Florence, the most beautiful city in all the world,
the City of Flowers. There one may find the best of
everything, but above all, the most beautiful pictures
and the greatest of painters. For no one there can
bear to do only the second best, and a man must
attain to the very highest before the Florentines
will call him great. The walls of the churches and
monasteries are covered with pictures of saints and
angels, and their beauty no words can describe.'
`I too will go to Florence, said Pietro to himself,
and every day he longed more and more to see that
wonderful city.
It was no use to wait until he should have saved
enough money to take him there. He scarcely
earned enough to live on from day to day. So at
last, poor as he was, he started off early one morning
and said good-bye to his old master and the hard
work of the little shop in Perugia. On he went
down the same long white road which had seemed
so endless to him that day when, as a little child, he
first came to Perugia. Even now, when he was
a strong young man, the way seemed long and
weary across that great plain, and he was often foot-
sore and discouraged. Day after day he travelled
on, past the great lake which lay like a sapphire in
the bosom of the plain, past many towns and little
villages, until at last he came in sight of the City
of Flowers.
It was a wonderful moment to Perugino, and he
held his breath as he looked. He had passed the brow
of the hill, and stood beside a little stre