The Madonna of the Future | Page 9

will post back to Florence and
pay my respects to--the MADONNA OF THE FUTURE!"
He blushed vividly and gave a heavy sigh, half of protest, half of
resignation. "I don't often mention my picture by name. I detest this
modem custom of premature publicity. A great work needs silence,
privacy, mystery even. And then, do you know, people are so cruel, so
frivolous, so unable to imagine a man's wishing to paint a Madonna at
this time of day, that I have been laughed at--laughed at, sir!" and his
blush deepened to crimson. "I don't know what has prompted me to be
so frank and trustful with you. You look as if you wouldn't laugh at me.
My dear young man"--and he laid his hand on my arm--"I am worthy of
respect. Whatever my talents may be, I am honest. There is nothing
grotesque in a pure ambition, or in a life devoted to it."
There was something so sternly sincere in his look and tone that further
questions seemed impertinent. I had repeated opportunity to ask them,
however, for after this we spent much time together. Daily for a
fortnight, we met by appointment, to see the sights. He knew the city so
well, he had strolled and lounged so often through its streets and
churches and galleries, he was so deeply versed in its greater and lesser
memories, so imbued with the local genius, that he was an altogether
ideal valet de place, and I was glad enough to leave my Murray at home,
and gather facts and opinions alike from his gossiping commentary. He
talked of Florence like a lover, and admitted that it was a very old affair;
he had lost his heart to her at first sight. "It's the fashion to talk of all
cities as feminine," he said, "but, as a rule, it's a monstrous mistake. Is
Florence of the same sex as New York, as Chicago? She is the sole

perfect lady of them all; one feels towards her as a lad in his teens feels
to some beautiful older woman with a 'history.' She fills you with a sort
of aspiring gallantry." This disinterested passion seemed to stand my
friend in stead of the common social ties; he led a lonely life, and cared
for nothing but his work. I was duly flattered by his having taken my
frivolous self into his favour, and by his generous sacrifice of precious
hours to my society. We spent many of these hours among those early
paintings in which Florence is so rich, returning ever and anon, with
restless sympathies, to wonder whether these tender blossoms of art
had not a vital fragrance and savour more precious than the full-fruited
knowledge of the later works. We lingered often in the sepulchral
chapel of San Lorenzo, and watched Michael Angelo's dim-visaged
warrior sitting there like some awful Genius of Doubt and brooding
behind his eternal mask upon the mysteries of life. We stood more than
once in the little convent chambers where Fra Angelico wrought as if
an angel indeed had held his hand, and gathered that sense of scattered
dews and early bird- notes which makes an hour among his relics seem
like a morning stroll in some monkish garden. We did all this and much
more--wandered into dark chapels, damp courts, and dusty
palace-rooms, in quest of lingering hints of fresco and lurking treasures
of carving.
I was more and more impressed with my companion's remarkable
singleness of purpose. Everything was a pretext for some wildly
idealistic rhapsody or reverie. Nothing could be seen or said that did
not lead him sooner or later to a glowing discourse on the true, the
beautiful, and the good. If my friend was not a genius, he was certainly
a monomaniac; and I found as great a fascination in watching the odd
lights and shades of his character as if he had been a creature from
another planet. He seemed, indeed, to know very little of this one, and
lived and moved altogether in his own little province of art. A creature
more unsullied by the world it is impossible to conceive, and I often
thought it a flaw in his artistic character that he had not a harmless vice
or two. It amused me greatly at times to think that he was of our shrewd
Yankee race; but, after all, there could be no better token of his
American origin than this high aesthetic fever. The very heat of his
devotion was a sign of conversion; those born to European opportunity
manage better to reconcile enthusiasm with comfort. He had, moreover,

all our native mistrust for intellectual discretion, and our native relish
for sonorous superlatives. As a critic he was very much more generous
than just, and his