University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

It should have been mentioned, in a former part of
this narrative, that among the honors bestowed on
our artist, soon after his arrival in Rome, was the
title of principal painter to the pope; which was
immediately followed by an order for a series of
pictures for the pontifical palace at Monte Cavallo.
These works, which had occupied him for several
years, being now completed, so added to his fame,
that commissions flowed upon him from all quarters,
insomuch that he was obliged to decline many
from other distinguished personages both at home
and abroad. But there was one order which he
would have gladly declined for other reasons, yet,
coming from the pontiff, it was a virtual command,
and he was fain to accept it, though with more
reluctance than the world might believe of one so
flattered: this was a “companion” picture to a
Madonna by Raffaelle. His notions were perhaps
peculiar; but we give them here as indicative of
his character.

He “accepted the commission,” he said, “not
with the arrogant hope of producing a rival to the
picture of Raffaelle, but in grateful compliance
with the wishes of his patron.” Besides, with a
just reverence for his art, he looked upon all competition
as unworthy a true artist; nay, he even
doubted whether any one could command the
power of his own genius whilst his mind was under
the influence of so vulgar a motive. “For what,”
he would say, “is that which you call my genius,
but the love and perception of excellence — the
twin power that incites and directs to successful
production? which can never coexist with the desire
to diminish, or even to contend with, that in
another. It would be rather self-love, than a true
love of excellence, did I value it less in Raffaelle
than in myself.” He might have added another
reason: that competition implying comparison,
and comparison a difference only of degree, could
not really exist between men of genius; since the
individualizing power by which we recognise genius,
or the originating faculty, must necessarily
mark their several productions by a difference in
kind. But he needed not this deduction of the
understanding; his own lofty impulses placed him
on surer ground.

Having accepted the commission, however, it
was necessary that he should see the picture which
he was expected to equal; he accordingly waited
on the gentleman to whose collection it belonged,
and was shown into his gallery. Though Monaldi
had heard much of this collection, he found that
report had for once fallen far short of the truth;
and the pleasure of such a surprise to him may be
imagined by those who have witnessed the effect
of unexpected excellence on a man of genius.

He had expected to see only a fine Raffaelle;
but he now found himself surrounded by the master
spirits of Rome and Venice: they seemed to
bewilder him with delight, and he was wandering
from one to another, as if uncertain where to rest,
when, passing a door at the end of the gallery, his
eyes fell on an object to which every other immediately
gave place. It was the form of a young
female who was leaning, or rather bending, over
the back of a chair, and reading. At first he saw
only its general loveliness, and he gazed on it as
on a more beautiful picture, till a slight movement
suddenly gave it a new character — if was the
quickening grace that gives life to symmetry.
There is a charm in life which no pencil can
reach — it thrilled him. But when he caught a
glimpse of the half-averted face, the pearly forehead,

gleaming through clusters of black, glossy
hair — the lustrous, intellectual line beneath, just
seen through the half-closed eyelids — the tremulously-parted
lips, and the almost visible soul that
seemed to rush from them upon the page before
her — even the wonders of his art appeared like
idle mockeries. The eyes of the reader now turned
upon him. Still he continued to gaze, and to give
way to his new and undefined emotions, till the
thought of his intrusion suddenly crossed him, and
his face crimsoned. How far the embarrassment
may have been shared by Rosalia Landi (for she it
was) was hardly known to herself, as the entrance
of her father immediately restored her to her usual
self-possession.

“It gives us no common pleasure, signor Monaldi,”
said the Advocate, as he presented him to
his daughter, “that we have this opportunity to
make some acknowledgment for the many happy
hours we owe to you. I may add, that I use the
epithet in no indefinite sense; for when is the
mind more innocent than while it loses itself in a
pure work of genius? — and mere freedom from
evil should be happiness: but your art effects
more — it unites innocence with pleasure.”

“We owe signor Monaldi much indeed,” said
Rosalia, bowing.

Monaldi had none of that spurious modesty
which affects to shrink from praise when conscious
of deserving it; yet he could make no reply.

Without noticing his silence, Landi observed,
that, perhaps he ought to apologize for the length
of his absence. “And yet,” he added, turning to
the pictures, “I cannot honestly say that I regret
it, since it has left signor Monaldi more at liberty
to form a fair opinion; for I am connoisseur
enough to know that the first impression of a picture
is seldom aided by words — especially those
of a fond collector. The pictures I doubt not
have fared all the better without me.”

They now stood before the Raffaelle, and the
Advocate waited for several minutes for his visiter
to speak; but Monaldi's thoughts had no connection
with his senses; he saw nothing, though his
eyes were apparently fixed on the picture, but
the beautiful vision that still possessed his imagination.

“Perhaps report may have overrated it,” at
length said Landi, in something like a tone of disappointment.

“Or probably,” added Rosalia, observing the
blankness of his countenance, “our favorite Madonna
may not be one with signor Monaldi.”

“It is your favorite then?” said Monaldi, with

a sudden change of expression. He had no time
to think of the abruptness of this question before
Rosalia replied, —

“And we had hoped too of yours; for it is natural
to wish our opinions confirmed by those who
have a right to direct them.”

“Nay,” said Monaldi, “Raffaelle is one whom
criticism can affect but little either way. He
speaks to the heart, a part of us that never mistakes
a meaning; and they who have one to understand
should ask nothing in liking him but the
pleasure of sympathy.”

“And yet there are many technical beauties,”
said the Advocate, “which an unpractised eye
needs to have pointed out.”

“Yes — and faults too,” answered Monaldi;
“but his execution makes only a small part of
that by which he affects us. But had he even
the color of Titian, or the magic chiaro-scuro of
Correggio, they would scarcely add to that sentient
spirit with which our own communes. I have
certainly seen more beautiful faces; we sometimes
meet them in nature — faces to look at, and with
pleasure — but not to think of like this. Besides,
Raffaelle does more than make us think of him;
he makes us forget his deficiencies — or, rather,
supply them.”

“I think I understand you — when the heart is
touched, but a hint is enough,” said Rosalia.

“Ay,” said the Advocate, smiling, “'t is with
pictures as with life; only bribe that invisible
finisher and we are sure to reach perfection.
However, since there is no other human way to
perfection of any kind, I do not see that it is unwise
to allow the illusion — which certainly elevates
us while it lasts; for we cannot have a sense
of the perfect, though imaginary, while we admit
ignoble thoughts.”

“This is a great admission for you, sir,” said
Rosalia; “'t is the best apology for romance I have
heard.”

“Is it? Well, child, then I have been romantic
myself without knowing it. — But the picture before
us — ”

“I could not forget it if I would,” interrupted
Monaldi, with excitement — “that single-hearted,
that ineffable look of love! yet so pure and passionless
— so like what we may believe of the love
of angels. It seems as if I had never before
known the power of my art.”

As he spoke, his eyes unconsciously wandered
to Rosalia. — The charm was there; and his art
was now as much indebted to the living presence
as a little before it had suffered from it.

“If one may judge from his works,” said Rosalia,
“Raffaelle must have been a very amiable
man.”

“We have no reason to think otherwise,” answered
Monaldi. “He at least, knew how to be
so: if he was not, his self-reproach must have
been no small punishment, if at all proportioned
to his exquisite perception of moral beauty. But
he was all you believe, according to the testimony
of his contemporaries, by whom he appears to
have been as much beloved as admired.”

“I could wish,” said Rosalia, “that tradition
had spared us either more or less of the great author
of that Prophet;” — they had turned to a
cartoon by Michael Angelo. “They say he was
morose; and many affect to find in that the reason
why he does not touch their hearts. Yet, I
know not how it is, whether he stirs the heart or
not, there is a something in his works that so
lifts one above our present world, or at least,
which so raises one above all ordinary emotions,
that I never quit the Sistine Chapel without feeling
it impossible to believe any charge to his discredit.”

“Never believe it!” said Monaldi with energy.
“He had too great a soul — too rapt for an unkind
feeling. If he did not often sympathize with those

about him, it was because he had but little in common
with them. Not that he had less of passion,
but more of the intellectual. His heart seems to
have been so sublimated by his imagination that
his too refined affections — I can almost believe —
sought a higher sphere — even that in which the
forms of his pencil seem to have had their birth;
for they are neither men nor women — at least
like us that walk the earth — but rather of a race
which minds of a high order might call up when
they think of the inhabitants of the planet Saturn.
To some, perhaps, this may be jargon — but not
here — I venture to hope.” Rosalia bowed.
“Nay, the eloquent confession I have just heard
could not have been made had not the spell of
Michael Angelo been understood as well as felt.”

“You have assisted me to understand him better,”
said Rosalia. “And, if I do, perhaps I
might say, that he makes me think, instead of
feel. In other words, the effect is not mere sensation.”

Monaldi answered her only by a look, but one
of such unmingled pleasure, as would have called
up a blush, had not a similar feeling prevented her
observing it. He felt as if he had been listening
to the echoes of his own mind.

“Upon my word, Rosalia,” said her father, “I

did not know you were so much of a connoisseur;
't is quite new to me, I assure you.”

Rosalia now blushed, for the compliment made
her sensible of her enthusiasm, which now surprised
herself: she could not recollect that she had
ever before felt so much excited.

“Nay, my dear, I am serious — and I need not
say how pleased. How you have escaped the
cant of the day I can't guess. 'T is now the
fashion to talk of Michael Angelo's extravagance,
of his want of truth, and what not — as if truth
were only in what we have seen! This matter-of-fact
philosophy has infected the age. Let the
artists look to it! They have already begun to
quarrel with the Apollo — because the skin wants
suppleness! But what is that? — a mere mechanical
defect. Then they cavil at the form —
those exquisite proportions. And where would be
his celestial lightness, his preternatural majesty
without them? — Signor Monaldi will forgive this
strain: perhaps, I should not hold it before an
artist.”

“I should be very sorry to have it believed,”
answered Monaldi, “that any artist could be
found — I mean worthy the name — who would
refuse to be instructed because the lesson does not
come from a professor. I, for one, shall always

be most happy to become a listener, especially
where, from the pledge given, I shall have so just
a hope of being enlightened. I am not used to
complimenting; and signor Landi will pardon
me if I add, that I respect my art too much to
affect a deference for any criticism — come whence
it may — which I know to be unsound; it is
founded in truth, and the professor degrades it
who palters with its principles.”

“Perhaps you overrate me,” said the Advocate.
“But, be that as it may, signor Monaldi cannot
do me a greater favor than in making me a frequent
listener to himself.”

Monaldi then took leave.

“So gentle — yet so commanding!” said Landi,
his eyes still resting on the door through which
his visiter had passed — “even lofty — yet so
wholly free of pretence and affectation — not an
atom of either, but perfectly natural, even when
he talked of the people of Saturn. Did you observe
how his face brightened then, as if he had
been actually familiar with them? I can almost
fancy that we have been talking with Raffaelle.
He has not disappointed you, I am sure.”

“No,” replied Rosalia, “on the contrary” —
She felt provoked with herself that she could say
nothing more.

“I do not know,” added the Advocate, “that I
ever met with a young man who won upon me so
rapidly. But 't is an intellectual creature — rarely
to be met with.”