A Tramp Abroad — Volume 07

  I was there a year trying to steal that money; that is, it seemed ayear, though, of course, it must have been much less. The worshiperswent and came; there were hardly ever three in the church at once, butthere was always one or more. Every time I tried to commit my crimesomebody came in or somebody started out, and I was prevented; but atlast my opportunity came; for one moment there was nobody in the churchbut the two beggar-women and me. I whipped the gold piece out of thepoor old pauper's palm and dropped my Turkish penny in its place. Poorold thing, she murmured her thanks--they smote me to the heart. Then Isped away in a guilty hurry, and even when I was a mile from the churchI was still glancing back, every moment, to see if I was being pursued.

  That experience has been of priceless value and benefit to me; for Iresolved then, that as long as I lived I would never again rob a blindbeggar-woman in a church; and I have always kept my word. The mostpermanent lessons in morals are those which come, not of booky teaching,but of experience.

  CHAPTER XLVIII

  [Beauty of Women--and of Old Masters]

  In Milan we spent most of our time in the vast and beautiful Arcade orGallery, or whatever it is called. Blocks of tall new buildings of themost sumptuous sort, rich with decoration and graced with statues, thestreets between these blocks roofed over with glass at a great height,the pavements all of smooth and variegated marble, arranged in tastefulpatterns--little tables all over these marble streets, people sittingat them, eating, drinking, or smoking--crowds of other people strollingby--such is the Arcade. I should like to live in it all the time. Thewindows of the sumptuous restaurants stand open, and one breakfaststhere and enjoys the passing show.

  We wandered all over the town, enjoying whatever was going on in thestreets. We took one omnibus ride, and as I did not speak Italian andcould not ask the price, I held out some copper coins to the conductor,and he took two. Then he went and got his tariff card and showed methat he had taken only the right sum. So I made a note--Italian omnibusconductors do not cheat.

  Near the Cathedral I saw another instance of probity. An old man waspeddling dolls and toy fans. Two small American children bought fans,and one gave the old man a franc and three copper coins, and bothstarted away; but they were called back, and the franc and one of thecoppers were restored to them. Hence it is plain that in Italy, partiesconnected with the drama and the omnibus and the toy interests do notcheat.

  The stocks of goods in the shops were not extensive, generally. In thevestibule of what seemed to be a clothing store, we saw eight or tenwooden dummies grouped together, clothed in woolen business suits andeach marked with its price. One suit was marked forty-five francs--ninedollars. Harris stepped in and said he wanted a suit like that. Nothingeasier: the old merchant dragged in the dummy, brushed him off with abroom, stripped him, and shipped the clothes to the hotel. He said hedid not keep two suits of the same kind in stock, but manufactured asecond when it was needed to reclothe the dummy.

  In another quarter we found six Italians engaged in a violent quarrel.They danced fiercely about, gesticulating with their heads, their arms,their legs, their whole bodies; they would rush forward occasionallywith a sudden access of passion and shake their fists in each other'svery faces. We lost half an hour there, waiting to help cord up thedead, but they finally embraced each other affectionately, and thetrouble was over. The episode was interesting, but we could not haveafforded all the time to it if we had known nothing was going to come ofit but a reconciliation. Note made--in Italy, people who quarrel cheatthe spectator.

  We had another disappointment afterward. We approached a deeplyinterested crowd, and in the midst of it found a fellow wildlychattering and gesticulating over a box on the ground which was coveredwith a piece of old blanket. Every little while he would bend downand take hold of the edge of the blanket with the extreme tips of hisfingertips, as if to show there was no deception--chattering away allthe while--but always, just as I was expecting to see a wonder feat oflegerdemain, he would let go the blanket and rise to explain further.However, at last he uncovered the box and got out a spoon with a liquidin it, and held it fair and frankly around, for people to see that itwas all right and he was taking no advantage--his chatter became moreexcited than ever. I supposed he was going to set fire to the liquidand swallow it, so I was greatly wrought up and interested. I got a centready in one hand and a florin in the other, intending to give him theformer if he survived and the latter if he killed himself--for his losswould be my gain in a literary way, and I was willing to pay a fairprice for the item --but this impostor ended his intensely movingperformance by simply adding some powder to the liquid and polishingthe spoon! Then he held it aloft, and he could not have shown a wilderexultation if he had achieved an immortal miracle. The crowd applaudedin a gratified way, and it seemed to me that history speaks the truthwhen it says these children of the south are easily entertained.

  We spent an impressive hour in the noble cathedral, where long shaftsof tinted light were cleaving through the solemn dimness from the loftywindows and falling on a pillar here, a picture there, and a kneelingworshiper yonder. The organ was muttering, censers were swinging,candles were glinting on the distant altar and robed priests were filingsilently past them; the scene was one to sweep all frivolous thoughtsaway and steep the soul in a holy calm. A trim young American ladypaused a yard or two from me, fixed her eyes on the mellow sparksflecking the far-off altar, bent her head reverently a moment, thenstraightened up, kicked her train into the air with her heel, caught itdeftly in her hand, and marched briskly out.

  We visited the picture-galleries and the other regulation "sights" ofMilan--not because I wanted to write about them again, but to see ifI had learned anything in twelve years. I afterward visited the greatgalleries of Rome and Florence for the same purpose. I found I hadlearned one thing. When I wrote about the Old Masters before, I saidthe copies were better than the originals. That was a mistake of largedimensions. The Old Masters were still unpleasing to me, but they weretruly divine contrasted with the copies. The copy is to the original asthe pallid, smart, inane new wax-work group is to the vigorous, earnest,dignified group of living men and women whom it professes to duplicate.There is a mellow richness, a subdued color, in the old pictures, whichis to the eye what muffled and mellowed sound is to the ear. That is themerit which is most loudly praised in the old picture, and is the onewhich the copy most conspicuously lacks, and which the copyist must nothope to compass. It was generally conceded by the artists with whom Italked, that that subdued splendor, that mellow richness, is impartedto the picture by AGE. Then why should we worship the Old Master for it,who didn't impart it, instead of worshiping Old Time, who did? Perhapsthe picture was a clanging bell, until Time muffled it and sweetened it.

  In conversation with an artist in Venice, I asked: "What is it thatpeople see in the Old Masters? I have been in the Doge's palace and Isaw several acres of very bad drawing, very bad perspective, and veryincorrect proportions. Paul Veronese's dogs to not resemble dogs; allthe horses look like bladders on legs; one man had a RIGHT leg onthe left side of his body; in the large picture where the Emperor(Barbarossa?) is prostrate before the Pope, there are three men in theforeground who are over thirty feet high, if one may judge by the sizeof a kneeling little boy in the center of the foreground; and accordingto the same scale, the Pope is seven feet high and the Doge is ashriveled dwarf of four feet."

  The artist said:

  "Yes, the Old Masters often drew badly; they did not care much for truthand exactness in minor details; but after all, in spite of bad drawing,bad perspective, bad proportions, and a choice of subjects which nolonger appeal to people as strongly as they did three hundred years ago,there is a SOMETHING about their pictures which is divine--a somethingwhich is above and beyond the art of any epoch since--a something whichwould be the despair of artists but that they never hope or expect toattain it, and therefore do not worry about it."

  That is what he said--and he said what he believed; and not onl
ybelieved, but felt.

  Reasoning--especially reasoning, without technical knowledge--must beput aside, in cases of this kind. It cannot assist the inquirer. Itwill lead him, in the most logical progression, to what, in the eyes ofartists, would be a most illogical conclusion. Thus: bad drawing, badproportion, bad perspective, indifference to truthful detail, colorwhich gets its merit from time, and not from the artist--these thingsconstitute the Old Master; conclusion, the Old Master was a bad painter,the Old Master was not an Old Master at all, but an Old Apprentice. Yourfriend the artist will grant your premises, but deny your conclusion;he will maintain that notwithstanding this formidable list of confesseddefects, there is still a something that is divine and unapproachableabout the Old Master, and that there is no arguing the fact away by anysystem of reasoning whatsoever.

  I can believe that. There are women who have an indefinable charm intheir faces which makes them beautiful to their intimates, but a coldstranger who tried to reason the matter out and find this beauty wouldfail. He would say of one of these women: This chin is too short, thisnose is too long, this forehead is too high, this hair is too red, thiscomplexion is too pallid, the perspective of the entire compositionis incorrect; conclusion, the woman is not beautiful. But her nearestfriend might say, and say truly, "Your premises are right, your logicis faultless, but your conclusion is wrong, nevertheless; she is an OldMaster--she is beautiful, but only to such as know her; it is a beautywhich cannot be formulated, but it is there, just the same."

  I found more pleasure in contemplating the Old Masters this time thanI did when I was in Europe in former years, but still it was a calmpleasure; there was nothing overheated about it. When I was in Venicebefore, I think I found no picture which stirred me much, but this timethere were two which enticed me to the Doge's palace day after day, andkept me there hours at a time. One of these was Tintoretto's three-acrepicture in the Great Council Chamber. When I saw it twelve years agoI was not strongly attracted to it--the guide told me it was aninsurrection in heaven--but this was an error.

  The movement of this great work is very fine. There are ten thousandfigures, and they are all doing something. There is a wonderful "go"to the whole composition. Some of the figures are driving headlongdownward, with clasped hands, others are swimming through thecloud-shoals--some on their faces, some on their backs--greatprocessions of bishops, martyrs, and angels are pouring swiftlycenterward from various outlying directions--everywhere is enthusiasticjoy, there is rushing movement everywhere. There are fifteen or twentyfigures scattered here and there, with books, but they cannot keep theirattention on their reading--they offer the books to others, but no onewishes to read, now. The Lion of St. Mark is there with his book; St.Mark is there with his pen uplifted; he and the Lion are lookingeach other earnestly in the face, disputing about the way to spell aword--the Lion looks up in rapt admiration while St. Mark spells. Thisis wonderfully interpreted by the artist. It is the master-stroke ofthis imcomparable painting.

  I visited the place daily, and never grew tired of looking at thatgrand picture. As I have intimated, the movement is almost unimaginablyvigorous; the figures are singing, hosannahing, and many are blowingtrumpets. So vividly is noise suggested, that spectators who becomeabsorbed in the picture almost always fall to shouting comments in eachother's ears, making ear-trumpets of their curved hands, fearing theymay not otherwise be heard. One often sees a tourist, with the eloquenttears pouring down his cheeks, funnel his hands at his wife's ear, andhears him roar through them, "OH, TO BE THERE AND AT REST!"

  None but the supremely great in art can produce effects like these withthe silent brush.

  Twelve years ago I could not have appreciated this picture. One year agoI could not have appreciated it. My study of Art in Heidelberg has beena noble education to me. All that I am today in Art, I owe to that.

  The other great work which fascinated me was Bassano's immortal HairTrunk. This is in the Chamber of the Council of Ten. It is in one ofthe three forty-foot pictures which decorate the walls of the room.The composition of this picture is beyond praise. The Hair Trunk is nothurled at the stranger's head--so to speak--as the chief feature of animmortal work so often is; no, it is carefully guarded from prominence,it is subordinated, it is restrained, it is most deftly and cleverlyheld in reserve, it is most cautiously and ingeniously led up to, by themaster, and consequently when the spectator reaches it at last, heis taken unawares, he is unprepared, and it bursts upon him with astupefying surprise.

  One is lost in wonder at all the thought and care which this elaborateplanning must have cost. A general glance at the picture could neversuggest that there was a hair trunk in it; the Hair Trunk is notmentioned in the title even--which is, "Pope Alexander III. and the DogeZiani, the Conqueror of the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa"; you see,the title is actually utilized to help divert attention from the Trunk;thus, as I say, nothing suggests the presence of the Trunk, by any hint,yet everything studiedly leads up to it, step by step. Let us examineinto this, and observe the exquisitely artful artlessness of the plan.

  At the extreme left end of the picture are a couple of women, one ofthem with a child looking over her shoulder at a wounded man sittingwith bandaged head on the ground. These people seem needless, but no,they are there for a purpose; one cannot look at them without seeingthe gorgeous procession of grandees, bishops, halberdiers, andbanner-bearers which is passing along behind them; one cannot see theprocession without feeling the curiosity to follow it and learn whitherit is going; it leads him to the Pope, in the center of the picture, whois talking with the bonnetless Doge--talking tranquilly, too, althoughwithin twelve feet of them a man is beating a drum, and not far from thedrummer two persons are blowing horns, and many horsemen are plungingand rioting about--indeed, twenty-two feet of this great work is all adeep and happy holiday serenity and Sunday-school procession, and thenwe come suddenly upon eleven and one-half feet of turmoil and racket andinsubordination. This latter state of things is not an accident, it hasits purpose. But for it, one would linger upon the Pope and the Doge,thinking them to be the motive and supreme feature of the picture;whereas one is drawn along, almost unconsciously, to see what thetrouble is about. Now at the very END of this riot, within four feet ofthe end of the picture, and full thirty-six feet from the beginningof it, the Hair Trunk bursts with an electrifying suddenness upon thespectator, in all its matchless perfection, and the great master'striumph is sweeping and complete. From that moment no other thing inthose forty feet of canvas has any charm; one sees the Hair Trunk, andthe Hair Trunk only--and to see it is to worship it. Bassano even placedobjects in the immediate vicinity of the Supreme Feature whose pretendedpurpose was to divert attention from it yet a little longer and thusdelay and augment the surprise; for instance, to the right of it he hasplaced a stooping man with a cap so red that it is sure to hold the eyefor a moment--to the left of it, some six feet away, he has placed ared-coated man on an inflated horse, and that coat plucks your eyeto that locality the next moment--then, between the Trunk and the redhorseman he has intruded a man, naked to his waist, who is carryinga fancy flour-sack on the middle of his back instead of on hisshoulder--this admirable feat interests you, of course--keeps you atbay a little longer, like a sock or a jacket thrown to the pursuingwolf--but at last, in spite of all distractions and detentions, the eyeof even the most dull and heedless spectator is sure to fall upon theWorld's Masterpiece, and in that moment he totters to his chair or leansupon his guide for support.

  Descriptions of such a work as this must necessarily be imperfect, yetthey are of value. The top of the Trunk is arched; the arch is a perfecthalf-circle, in the Roman style of architecture, for in the thenrapid decadence of Greek art, the rising influence of Rome was alreadybeginning to be felt in the art of the Republic. The Trunk is bound orbordered with leather all around where the lid joins the main body. Manycritics consider this leather too cold in tone; but I consider this itshighest merit, since it was evidently made so to emphasize by contr
astthe impassioned fervor of the hasp. The highlights in this part of thework are cleverly managed, the MOTIF is admirably subordinated to theground tints, and the technique is very fine. The brass nail-heads arein the purest style of the early Renaissance. The strokes, here, arevery firm and bold--every nail-head is a portrait. The handle on theend of the Trunk has evidently been retouched--I think, with a piece ofchalk--but one can still see the inspiration of the Old Master in thetranquil, almost too tranquil, hang of it. The hair of this Trunk isREAL hair--so to speak--white in patches, brown in patches. The detailsare finely worked out; the repose proper to hair in a recumbent andinactive attitude is charmingly expressed. There is a feeling about thispart of the work which lifts it to the highest altitudes of art; thesense of sordid realism vanishes away--one recognizes that there is SOULhere.

  View this Trunk as you will, it is a gem, it is a marvel, it is amiracle. Some of the effects are very daring, approaching even tothe boldest flights of the rococo, the sirocco, and the Byzantineschools--yet the master's hand never falters--it moves on, calm,majestic, confident--and, with that art which conceals art, it finallycasts over the TOUT ENSEMBLE, by mysterious methods of its own, a subtlesomething which refines, subdues, etherealizes the arid components andendures them with the deep charm and gracious witchery of poesy.