CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY GIFT OF CONY STURGES Cornell University Library PR 4890.L5F7 Fra Lippo Lippi, a romance, 3 1924 013 517 069 The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013517069 A &z^ &upi. yield. Not that she objected to seeing the mar- tyrdoms of the saints or the Passion of our Lord ever depicted before her, but she decidedly re- belled against having the dim, sacred chapel, where she prostrated herself in penance and prayer, glow with life and color, — indeed flame with any light other than that from the taper on the altar. What colorist could ever reproduce the portrait of the Blessed Virgin as painted by St. Luke? It was imaged in the Abbess' heart as the very impersonation of beauty, simple gentleness, humility, sanctified purity, maternal love, and sublime heroism. Her very soul exclaimed against the profaneness which represented the peerless mother of Christ under the features of some too well known duchess, unveiled, decked in glittering robes as if to allure by earthly loveliness. Were not the very Holy of Holies in Florence turned into mere picture-galleries, and for the most part painted by unworthy hands, — only now and then a monk like gentle Fra Angelico weeping and praying as he por- The Madonna Fresco. 3 trayed the sorrows of Christ and the saints ! The Abbess had not caught the artistic spirit which had budded and blossomed in Florence — Florence ! how she hated that magnificent, passionate city ! She shuddered as she thought it was just a hundred years ago since Prato, finally exhausted by intrigues, had actually given up its liberty and had been ground in the dust by the despots of the conquering city ; how the old houses had declined and new ones had risen to power. With the de- cline of the aristocracy in Florence, their ad- herents in neighboring cities had gone down too ; when the fortunes of the imperial party had suddenly changed, the Guazziolitri, her family, loyal supporters of the Popes in all their disputes and discords and wars, were driven from their homes, their fortunes con- fiscated, their palaces in possession of the invaders. What if there was a little calm in that fickle city, tumult might break out at any time ; what if beautiful churches had risen through the riches of the feudal nobles and 4 Fra Lippo Lippi. powerful guilds, what if the arts did flourish, — was it in this way these feasting, dancing, corrupt followers of the Medici ruffians ex- pected to save their souls from purgatory? The Abbess reverently crossed herself as she thought of the moral baseness of the poli- ticians who made their hypocritical religion a tool of the state. Yes ; let them build their gorgeous palaces and cathedrals, and fill them with carvings and statues and pictures, but the convent of Santa Margharita, ah, — would that it could be in its chaste simplicity, as a veiled bride ready for the heavenly bridegroom, instead of a conscious woman in splendid apparel. As for the painting, — first there would be the confusion in the worship consequent to the staging, and certain delay in decoration. In the second place, the convent rules must be more rigidly enforced. Last of all, the Bishop of Santa Maria had engaged Fra Filippo Lippi to paint the Madonna over the high altar, and the Abbess had a premonition of evil. The Madonna Fresco. 5 Whatever interfered with the worship natu- rally perplexed the Abbess, for the convent buildings were not large, and some special arrangement must be made with the workmen for- the vacancy of the chapel during mass. But the difficulty was that there would be the longer delay in frescoing because of this con- stant interruption. To enforce the church rules perplexed the Abbess still more since the convent stood on a hill just outside the town, and greater liberty was allowed the novices and nuns than at Florence. The garden, shut within walls, was far from the clamor of the streets, and at such a distance the noises of the city were carried over the tree-tops, or lost and indistin- guishable in the rustling leaves. It was the habit of the nuns to leave the convent court-yard with its plashing fountain and heavy, perfumed air, for the grass-grown terrace or the cool orchard, — the broader out- of-doors world of theirs. Here they could see more blue sky, and look below the hill-slope to the sunlit, misty valley, where the little 6 Fra Lippo Lippi. sparkling river flowed lazily to the Arno. It was so calm and restful here above the blos- soming vineyards, with only the sweet clang- ing of the bell in its open tower to break the silence ; but with the workmen and painters, — monks though they were, — the Abbess decided that whatever sunlight and air the nuns took during the next few weeks must be from the low windows of their rooms. Only that very day the Abbess had seen Sister Theresa, who recently had been rescued from a union with the young dissolute Duke of Verona, and who had lately taken vows of allegiance to only a celestial spouse, — yet, in spite of all this, she had seen her look long and earnestly at an illuminated text in which was a head of Saint Augustine. The Abbess could not deny that it was a handsome head, and she fancied that Lippo Lippi had one very much resembling it. Yes, it would be necessary to increase the days of fasting and hours of penance, for, of all things most perplexing, Lippi was a Carme- lite monk. Not that she knew very much about him, or the Church of the Carmine, but Tne Madonna Fresco. 7 it was not of the seraphic order of St. Francis under which the convent of Santa Margharita was founded. And as for Lippi, was it not enough that the hot-headed Florentines were singing his praises, and that Cosmo de Medici was his patron ? Not many weeks before she had lingered for a few moments in the doorway of Santo Ste- fano. Lippi was then frescoing the choir of the Cathedral, but she had not even been in to see it. She was waiting for one of the Sisters to join her, when she overheard there some young monks enthusiastically praising the work of the brilliant Carmelite artist. She knew then, as well as after that, when the Bishop came to the convent to urge the painting, she would not like Fra Lippi. Was it the law of contradiction ? It might be. Any way, this was the beginning of her prejudice. Yet now she almost wished that she had just looked into the Cathedral. It need not appear that she had come to see the fresco, for she often went in the choir to look through the railing into the chapel where that 8 Fra Lippo Lippi. most sacred relic, the Cintola of the Virgin was kept. She began to finger her rosary a little uneasily as she remembered that she had sometimes lingered as long in looking at that exquisite gate designed by Ghiberti as she had in worshipping the Cintola, or saying prayers for Michael Dogomari, who, through his mar- riage with the fair daughter of a Greek priest at Jerusalem, had brought the blessed treas- ure to Prato. How naively Agnolo Gaddi had told that story with his brush and his colors. She was sure she should not like Lippi's painting as well as those old frescos in the chapel, for the reason that Masaccio, his master, had turned his back on the world of ecstatics, on mystical Fra Angelico, who painted only angels beheld in visions. Ma- saccio painted men and women about him, the flesh and blood of Florence. She knew that Lippi had abandoned himself with reckless- ness from the ideal to the real. Ah ! who indeed should adorn the ceiling of Santa Margharita, now that the Angel Painter was dead ! The Abbess sighed as she The Madonna Fresco. 9 thought how she had waited all these years for Fra Angelico to portray for the nuns the truths of the invisible world. Only seven years ago he had been brought to Prato to fresco the greater chapel of Santo Stefano, but suddenly left the next day without a word to the disappointed rectors of the commune. What Madonnas of ineffable sweetness and purity would have looked down upon the sad penitents if he had painted them ! The Abbess felt that there must be grave and powerful reasons that prompted him to leave Prato, and from that day she had thought it impious to consider decorating cathedral or convent in that unhappy city. The holy fathers had suggested Benozzi Gozzoli ; — yes, he was a pupil of the saintly Frate, yet she felt once when she had seen his vintage gatherers and festal troops of cavaliers, his marriage dances of youths and maidens, that he had not followed his master in his em- bodied ecstasies, nor could she agree with the priests in thinking that, by the grace of the Virgin, a holy mind had been given him with io Fra Lippo Lippi. which he looked upon the earthly beauty of men and women about him, that he might spiritualize it. Indeed, Lippi himself could not seem more smitten by the beauty of the natural world. What saints and Madonnas were taking the place of Cimabue's and Giottb ; s celestial be- ings ! They, whether bearing the lily or the sword, the palm or the crown, were beings full of mystery, of power, of dignity ; the tranquillity of the ethereal regions bespoke itself in the peacefully folded hands and repose of spirit, and brought a message to the restless flaunt- ing Florentines. But if the holy fathers insisted, they should bring to the convent some one whose painting would breathe the same gentle, devotional spirit of the mystical painters. The Bishop of Santa Maria was surprised to find the Abbess so indifferent about the Madonna fresco, when he came to see her after sending word about Fra Lippi. He had supposed the mere fact that Lippi was to ly^W^M*^- ^ €Scr^ ._/'tff. ■CS>/^«#^^<* The Madonna Fresco. n be the artist would be enough to insure en- thusiasm, and he only made matters worse by his talk with the Abbess. "You know what he has done already in Florence," he said. The Abbess gravely bowed her head, and said in a low tone : " May the Holy Mother save us ! " II. THE CONVENT OF SANTA MARGHARITA. [HE convent of Santa Margha- rita was built, after the manner of convents of the thirteenth century, in a hollow square. It was of gray stone, simple, harmonious, with little rich carving or ornamentation. The Byzantine arches of the cloistered walk were its chief beauty, but it was necessary to open the heavy wooden gate to see them as well as the court-yard, with its orange-trees and grape-vines, its waving rose-bushes, or to smell the sweet breath of the violets which encircled the fountain. Passing through an arched opening in the southern corner of the court, a walk led to the vegetable and herb 12 The Convent of Santa Margharita. 13 garden, and the orchard beyond. This was shut in by a high wall, except on one side, where a long parapet of dusky tiles left open the beautiful view of the Val d'Arno. Here, under the fruit-laden boughs in the orchard, wooden crosses marked the resting- places of nuns who had lived and died in the convent. In a corner, where the ilex foliage was thickest, one cross stood apart from the others ; the dark green branches shadowed it, and wandering ivy vines clambered up and wound around the arms, nearly concealing letters carved in the wood, — the name of the first Abbess, Sister Margharita. It was just about two hundred years before, that there lived in Prato a knight who had one beautiful daughter. This knight was from a most noble family, and one of the first to band a company of young nobles to sup- port Manfred and his eight hundred knights, in defiance of the Guelphs, — of the tyranny of Pope Alexander IV. Through the dreary, exciting years of Michael Gonfali's absence, the child bios- 14 Fra Lippo Lippi. somed into a woman with black hair and languorous eyes. Michael had evidently for- gotten the flight of years, for it surprised him to find Lucia no longer a child, — but he was proud of the grace of his daughter. It discom- forted him to think that he had brought home that blonde-haired Saxon, Rudolph, who came with Manfred's men — that sword-wound would have healed as quickly in Naples as in Prato. There was little calm in Tuscany, even though peace had been formally declared and Manfred crowned. After victories, old disputes awakened within the very walls of the town, and Michael Gonfali had plenty to do in quelling neighborly quarrels. The pain in Saxon Rudolph's arm kept him from riding or walking around the city, and he spent most of his time in the court- yard ; his favorite seat was under the arcades, where Lucia came to listen, for hours at a time, to war tales. Manfred thought that if, in the course of human events, wounds heal, certainly the gash in Rudolph's arm had been given plenty of time at the house of Michael The Convent of Santa Margharita. 15 Gonfali ; then, too, he missed his favorite and called him to the land of the olives. With pas- sionate kisses and murmurs of love, Rudolph held Lucia in his arms ; she clung weeping about his neck, begging him to stay. An hour later, sad-eyed and heavy-hearted, she looked out of the window and saw the end of a blue velvet mantle floating in the wind, the nodding of plumes, the flash of a sword-hilt, — then she covered her ears with her hands that she might not hear the sound of the horse's hoofs die away in the distance. Lucia never saw her blue-eyed, fair-skinned Saxon knight again. Very possibly he found the women of Naples more beautiful. At any rate the skies were purpler, the air more dreamy, the wine better, — and it was vastly pleasanter to play cavalier in the king's court than to be fighting these passionate Tuscan rebels. The days made weeks, and the weeks made months, Lucia scarcely noticing the change, until one night she found herself thrust out of the palace, and the gates shut against her. She wandered about the streets until finally 1 6 Fra Lippo Lippi. exhausted, then sank before the door of an old house on the hill-slope just outside the city. She knew no more until she awoke and found a babe nestling in her arms. It was on that very day Manfred fought his last battle ; victory had seemed almost his — and Rudolph, with his sword raised high, shouting to the men, was struck down by the very hand that slew the king. When the stars came out that night, king and knight lay side by side on the battle-field of Benevento. In the change of fortunes the Guelphs were at the head of government. The family of Michael Gonfali were again excommunicated by Urban IV. A small part of his fortune in some way came to Lucia, with the provision that she should use it for the Church. So she founded a convent and named it for Margaret, the patron saint of repentant Magdalens. The convent became a shelter for the be- trayed, deserted women of Tuscany, whom other things than war had robbed of their homes and lovers. After the death of Lucia (who had taken Hie Convent of Santa Margharita. 1 7 the name of Sister Margharita), the child, who had grown up in the convent, utterly ignorant of the sins and sorrows of the real world, was made abbess. So the years went by, until nearly two centuries had passed, and five more crosses were added to the first one placed in the orchard. Then one of the nuns, who had taken the name of the saint in whose honor the convent was founded, was made abbess. Sister Margharita had lived in the convent since she was a maiden of only fifteen years. Even in so sunny a land as Italy, the Abbess' girlhood had been full of shadow. Among the hundreds of noble families ex- iled was that of her father. She remembered how she, when but a mere child, was taken on a long journey — how they had to leave their beautiful home and go to a land of strangers. One day her father was killed, then her mother died, — then some one brought her to Florence, and she lived with an old relative who never allowed her any 1 8 Fra Lippo Lippi. liberty for fear the Medici would find out that a daughter of the banished Guazziolitri was in that city. De Medici ! How she hated that name ! It meant to her all that was cruel and cor- rupt. Were they not from a family neither noble nor distinguished ? Had not Salvestro and Ciompi united the lowest classes for the sake of destroying the nobles? Her heart thrilled at the deeds of her ancestors from the time the Hohenstaufens ruled the world. And now they were dead, banished by these despots, while she, in the course of years, had found refuge in a convent and become its abbess. She thought of the morning, long years ago, when she started out with Monna Maria to go to market ; how she strayed from her aunt's side, and wandered to the Duomo and stood in front of it watching the men as they worked on the great cupola. The whole Piazza was noisy with the rush and roar of busy life, and brilliant with the mass of glitter of the ducal cavalcade coming The Convent of Santa Margharita. __ 19 that way. She stood looking at the gold- embroidered mantles, the beautiful faces, the jewelled hands, the flash of dagger-hilts, when suddenly some one shouted and seized her by her shoulder. She saw a white horse with its princely rider dashing towards her — she started to run out of the way, but stumbled against a stone and fell. When she opened her eyes she saw the white horse quietly standing near, while its rider was bending over her binding a strip of silk about her bruised wrist. Then the bewildering cor- tege swept by. She never forgot that face. To her it was all that was beautiful and princely, with its soft waving hair, tender eyes, and smiling mouth. She used to long to run away again and watch in the squares and piazzas for a return of the ducal party (even though she still hated them for the bitter wrongs to her father), for the sight of a white horse with its youthful rider. In so sunny a land she soon grew to be a maiden, but the face of her prince had not faded away with other childish dreams. 20 Fra Lippo Lippi. One day she was sitting on a grass-grown terrace near her aunt's little villa, when, by the flourish of trumpets, the flash of swords, the gay trappings of the horses, the glittering jewels and colors, she knew a party of nobles was coming that way. The almond bushes concealed her, but peering out through the leaves, she saw a youth more princely than the rest, mounted on a snow-white horse. Hours go quickly when one sits dreaming, and it seemed but a few moments before she saw a single horseman returning, leading his steed which limped as if from a sprain. He guided it to the terrace as if to rest in the shade, when suddenly a maiden as beautiful as a wood-nymph sprang from the tree, it seemed to him, and as quickly disappeared behind the sheltering wall opposite. She had dropped her flowers ; he picked up one of the blossoms, put it in his doublet, and slowly rode back to the palace. In those fair days it often happened that the maid sat by the almond bush, and Francesco rode that way and rested in the shade. One dreadful day Monna Maria came there too. y-t^dj- ty/^^w/^ T^i- The Convent of Santa Margharita. 21 After that the maiden never left the court- yard alone, and though Francesco rode that way and looked for a pair of violet eyes, he never saw them. Monna Maria had a long talk at the confessional with Fra Giovanni — and the next day the pretty maid, pale from weeping, found herself in the convent of Santa Margharita. So she entered upon the dark and dismal paths of penance, and faith- fully prayed that, for the sake of family wrongs, the love for a Florentine noble might be rooted from her heart ; that every mem- ory of those dark eyes (which seemed to look out of the convent recesses), and every accent of the low voice (which she even now hears in murmurs), should be forgotten. Ah, that she, a Guazziolitri, should be guilty of so passionate a love for one of the foes of her house ! The pain, the penance, wore upon her; the roundness and red bloom of her cheek faded ; the violet eyes lost their dreamy light, and became deep and sad. The years dragged by. Then came the wretched war between Florence and Milan, and Francesco mounted his horse and rode 22 Fra Lippo Lippi. off to fight for his beloved city. Meanwhile the years of girlhood were left far behind, and the sad woman, by her beautiful life, was chosen abbess. One night, just ten years ago, she was in Florence. It was during Holy Week, and long after midnight she was prostrated before the crucifix, when she heard the Dominican Brothers of the San Marco chanting. She was strangely moved by a voice she distin- guished from the others, and looking out of the window, saw by the flare of the torches one who she knew, by his bearing, was Fran- cesco. Stunned, she watched the monks as they passed in their black-and-white robes. So he, too, had laid down name and fame, and taken up the cross and cowl. His head had lost its proud poise, and in the flare of the torch she had seen that the old tender love-light had burned out of his eyes, and his face was seared and drawn by fierce sorrows. The Abbess returned to Prato early the next morning. She had not been to Florence since that day. III. THE PAINTER MONK. HE Bishop of Santa Maria had made all necessary arrangements for Lippi to begin the painting. He was a little touched when he saw the sad light in the Abbess' eyes ; he had always — despite his vows of renunciation of women — thought her eyes very beautiful. When the long dark lashes fell curling over them, they seemed to him like spring violets hiding in shadow. Perhaps if he had not taken so deep a vow he would have held the Abbess' hand and looked longer into the dark-blue depths of her eyes — as he did the morning, so many years ago, when she was brought to the confessional. Even then, she 23 24 Fra Lippo Lippi. was a beautiful child-woman, and knowing her history so well, there had always been a tender place for her in his heart. Before this the Bishop had never opposed the Abbess Margharita ; but now — now — she had been a woman for many years, and surely these years of service and prayer must have so far softened her sorrows that she had for- gotten the handsome young knight, Francesco. Why, he himself had buried the heartaches of youth long ago, and grown stout and com- fortable in the monastery. The climate of Italy was too soft to make the warfare of its Christian soldiers too grave, too austere ; the dreamy mists and soothing winds must have lulled the Abbess' disappoint- ment, even if they had not driven them quite away. Yes ; he was truly grieved to see that the Abbess did not raise her eyes from that old statue of St. Margaret standing there in the cloister. It made him all the more uncom- fortable to look at that barbarously crude carving of the thirteenth century. He grew The Painter Monk. 25 impatient as he thought of the Abbess' un- willingness to have the convent decorated. Why, he would like all the ceiling under the arcades painted blue, and spangled with stars. Then, too, there should be scenes from the life of the Virgin on the side walls, — but after Lippi had finished his beautiful fresco — then, ah ! then, he knew the Abbess would not rest until the whole interior glowed with colors from his magic brush. A happy thought just then came to the holy father, — perhaps the Abbess had a choice as to what scene from the life of the blessed Virgin Lippi should portray. The Abbess was diverted. There was a scene so closely relating to a miracle in which Prato was concerned, that she gratefully smiled at the Bishop and nodded her head. And so the matter was settled. Three days later, the Abbess, looking from her window, saw a Carmelite monk, with three attendants, enter the convent court. It was but an hour after sunrise, and she "had just 26 Fret, Lippo Lippi. returned from early mass in the chapel. She knew that the monk must be Lippi, and the men the carpenters to prepare the staging. She watched them as they crossed the hollow square towards the chapel entrance, for her room was opposite the row of arcades which extended from the court door, and she could see the men pass under the arches. Fra Lippi was the tallest of the four, and although she had not been able to see his face as she looked down into the court, there was an air of inde- pendence in his general bearing which bespoke the genius which commanded so much admira- tion in Florence. The men seemed to follow him naturally. She noticed one of them step forward and speak a few words to him; — apparently to sug- gest that yonder door was that of the chapel — and then resume his place a little behind Lippi. When the Abbess descended to the chapel, an hour after, she found the carpenters at work building a rude staging above the altar, while Lippi gave them directions. He was standing with his back toward her as she The Painter Monk. 2 7 entered, and it was not till she had walked almost the entire length of the nave that he seemed to be aware of her approach. As he turned toward her, she was impressed again by his tall figure — and now she saw what she could not from her window. It was a handsome face — and yet the diffi- culty was to know just where the power lay. There was something so far from self-con- sciousness in it, that it attracted the Abbess. " I see," she began, as if almost at a loss what to say, "that you are at work already, Fra Lippi." "Yes, according to the Bishop's orders. With the staging completed, I shall soon be painting," he replied, looking questioningly into the Abbess' face. " And how long before all is done ? " " I cannot tell. It is more difficult to paint sometimes than at other. I shall reserve the Madonna for the last. It may be that under the inspiration of this holy place I shall be more successful in hastening the work than elsewhere." 28 Fra Lippo Lippi. There was something almost facetious in this remark, but the Abbess did not notice it. Lippi began calling her attention to the bare walls and general dreariness of the chapel, suggesting the various improvements that might be made. He described to her briefly some of the painting he had done in chapels, and the general effect of the predella, lunette, and Madonna above the high altar. These of course were to be his special paintings — and then the moulding and walls might be made to harmonize. The chapel would be beautified wonderfully. "Yet the changes would not interfere with her love for the holy place," added Lippi adroitly, as he saw the Abbess glance about half-hesitatingly. " She would love it all the more," he said reas- suringly. And the Abbess looked convinced All these suggestions were made by Lippi with a delicate deference which unconsciously appealed to the Abbess. Before she knew it, the interest which the Carmelite artist had excited in her by his enthusiasm and true artistic taste, joined with his evident forget- fulness of self in the identification of himself The Painter Monk. 29 so early with the work, made heavy inroads upon the Abbess' prejudice so apparent in her conversation with the Bishop. In fact, she remained longer in the chapel with Fra Lippi than she could believe. When returning to her room she found that the hour- glass had emptied itself in her absence. She had even been drawn into making sugges- tions, and all these were accepted or modified by Lippi with a quiet politeness and respect which she liked. These were the things that she remembered most frequently when her thoughts turned occasionally during the day to the chapel. The Abbess grew daily surprised at the amount of interest she took in the work. Every morning she went to the chapel and quietly watched the painting. The weeks went on. Lippi had worked faithfully. The lunette, with its frame of arabesques, figures, and heads, was finished. The Adoration, The Dedication in the Temple, The Murder of the Innocents of the predella, were painted with masterful touches. The only thing that troubled the Abbess was the difficulty Fra 30 Fra Lippo Lippi. Lippi found in painting the face of the Holy Virgin. He would paint, then hesitate, then destroy, — and she felt sure there was need of fasting and penance. As the days went on she timidly broached the subject of night prayers that the blessed Mother might reveal herself to him in vision, as she did to the Angel Painter. Fra Lippi's face was turned from her, so she did not see the smile that came to his lips and eyes — if she had it would have only strength- ened her belief that he made life a far too merry-go-lucky thing. She often had an un- easy feeling that his face was too bright and his smile too careless. She wondered what the new novice just come to Santa Marghari- ta's meant when she whispered to Lucrezia Buti that " Lippi would not have to be fast- ened in here — there were more pretty eyes in the convent than there were in the empty chapel of Cosmo de Medici." She would care- fully watch that young girl, for it was plain to see that she belonged to the thoughtless, lat- ter-day Florentines. IV. THE CONVENT OF THE CARMINE. JFE was no mere existence with Lippi. He loved light and air and mirth. To be in the great, real world, to feel its sunshine, its joy, its freedom, to chafe under the conven- tional, to break away and know the fascination of recklessness — this to him was life. It had always been so. That morning when his aunt taking him by the hand had led him, a boy of eight years, to the Carmine, he had known her real reason, but she told the monks she must give him into their charge because of her poverty. How often he had disobeyed her in running away at early morning down the bye street, Ardiglion, to be gone all day, 31 32 Fret, Lippo Lippi. joining the other boys and leading on to what they often planned but did not dare. Once — it was only a few weeks before — two of the monks of the Carmine had passed the group at play, and it was Filippo who, running behind, mischievously pulled the cloak of the taller, who turned as if to catch the little rogue. The other monk smiled as he looked back at the boy, — he was such a picturesque little fel- low with his loose shirt showing a round throat almost as brown as his bare legs. His dark hair clustered thickly around his face, which had a curious vivacity of expression that seemed to change each moment. A red woollen sash fastened about his thighs distinguished him from the other boys. Only the next day the monk had reason to remember the bright-colored sash, for, as he was strolling toward the quiet corner of the orchard, he saw it half-way up one of the cherry-trees like a banner waving in the wind Its wearer meanwhile was enjoying the ripe, red fruit, but his feast came abruptly to an end when he saw the dark robe and white mantle The Convent of the Carmine. 33. of the Prior coming toward him. He jumped nimbly to the ground, then stumbled and fell. He felt the Prior's hand upon his shoulder — he was no coward, but this time it was safe to tremble. He lay still a moment, when his curiosity got the better of him, and he opened his dark, bewildered eyes. But the face he looked into was not unkind, yet he was very glad it was the companion-monk's cassock that he pulled yesterday. " I was so hungry," he wailed. The monk lifted the boy to his feet and began to stroke back the soft, dusky curls. " Next time come to the refectory, instead of over the walls like a thief," he said, a little sternly. " You may go, Filippo — I have seen you before." The child flushed guiltily. He was as beautiful as a cherub, and looked quite as guileless as he gave to the Prior the branch heavy with cherries. " No, take them," he said, touched by the child's honor, and Lippo scampered away. At times he would be gone from home all 34 Fra Lippo Lippi. night, sleeping on straw in a box, faring as best he could for food — but oftener during the day, for hours, was hungry and cold. Yet what were these discomforts — how easily for- gotten — in the joy of freedom and adventure ! But how different life at the Carmine would be. Little Lippo knew that, as he listened to his aunt's story of himself to the monks — of the orphan whose father, her brother, had died when the boy was two years old, and his mother shortly after his birth. She had done the best she could for the child, but now it was no use, she could support him no longer; she must bring him to them to educate ; she trusted the good Brothers would find the lad obedient and promising. The Prior had been watching the boy while Mona Lapaccia was speaking, and recalled the incident of the street and the orchard ; Lippi, too, on seeing him, had instantly remembered it, but as ever the quick, light-hearted child appeared to be wholly ignorant of any mischief. "Has he been allowed often in the street?" the Prior asked, looking straight into Mona The Convent of the Carmine. 35 Lapaccia's eyes when she had finished. It was no use for her to conceal the truth, so it was all confessed. "We shall do what we can with him," he said kindly, and Lippi was left in the Carmine. But all the monks were not like the Prior. There was a gentleness in his manner when he took Filippo by the hand and led him into his cell that quite won the boy's heart. He had always thought of the monks as selfish, disagreeable men, and the boys of the street laughed at them so. Then, too, the Prior did not mention the incident of the day before. " There are several boys here already," he said, " and so you will not be alone. This is my cell, and whenever you wish to see me about any thing you will find me here. Come, we will go to your master." He held out his hand to Filippo, and they passed through the bare cell, with its stone walls and one window, furnished only with a small bed and a rough bench, upon which lay an illuminated manu- script, through the dark refectory with its two long tables, to the court-yard. 36 Fra Lippo Lippi. Six boys, all two or three years older than Lippo, were amusing themselves at the foun- tain, while one, a little younger than the rest, was sitting on a bench beside a monk who was instructing him in drawing uncials. The Prior led Filippo to a tall, grave-looking monk, who gave him a book to study. Every thing was so new and strange that he could not keep his eyes on his lesson, and he was glad when the refectory bell sounded for the noonday meal. The boys formed in procession, and Lippo's companion was Diamante, a handsome lad with eyes full of dreams and mouth full of smiles — the very one Lippo watched in the morning drawing such fascinating letters on parchment. So they marched to the dark refectory and took their places at the end of one of the long tables. How silent, and solemn, and dreary it all was. Lippo longed to be free, and when night came and he was alone in his cell, he buried his face in the rough covering of his couch and sobbed himself to sleep. The days went on. Filippo was not a favorite with his master, and the monks found The Convent of the Carmine. 37 it was useless to try to make a scholar of him. No amount of penances were sufficient pun- ishment to keep him from spoiling his books by making little figures all over them. One day his master complained to the Prior. He came and took up one of the disfigured manu- scripts. Filippo stood with downcast eyes, expecting a severer rebuke than before. The Prior looked down upon him and said nothing, but took him by the hand and led him to another monk, the very one who was teaching Diamante to draw. Fra Anselmo looked at his new pupil, and saw in him something more than the wild, frolic- some boy that had so disturbed the other friars. "Come," said Fra Anselmo with a smile, " sit by me and we will see what you can do. Diamante draws very well, can you ? " and he held the parchment before Lippo, who had climbed on to the bench. Very often, when at home, and impatient to be on the street, the boy had beguiled the time with pictures on the door — and yet Mona 38 Fra Lippo Lippi. Lapaccia had never noticed them more than to say he must not deface the walls. " Let me see you draw these uncials," said Fra Anselmo as he set a copy for Lippo. The boy took the pen, and with a few rapid strokes made the letters. His skill seemed to surprise the master, and he set him a more difficult copy, but Lippo drew with the same ease. Again the monk seemed astonished, and after a few more tests he broke out, as if in half soliloquy : " I thought Diamante the most skilful boy I had ever seen " but he did not finish. As he drew, Fra Anselmo told him stories about pictures in the chapel which he had so often longed to stand before and look at, — so beautiful to him that he had often thought of them as he lay awake in his cell or fell asleep only to dream of them. The next morning he spent the first hour after mass with Fra Anselmo in the chapel. It had been newly painted by Masaccio, and the Prior said Fra Anselmo would find in these pic- tures many lessons to teach. There were the The Convent of the Carmine. 39 Coronation, and the stories of the saints. The boys always welcomed the hour, and re- cently Fra Anselmo had suggested that they try to draw the various figures. in outline. It was Diamante who, though the youngest, had won the special interest of the master. But now a new genius was in the Carmine. Fra Anselmo had recognized that the moment Lippo had made the first uncial with that grace and accuracy which bespoke the true talent. It was with special interest that the monk watched the effects of the beautiful paintings upon the boy. Instantly the child seemed to catch the peculiar charm of the great artist. How different were these pictures, unfinished though they were, from the lifeless, artificial frescos in Florence. How often Fra Anselmo had wandered into the churches that he might find some real living picture that would speak humanity. The very spirit of Masaccio, which appealed so strongly to him, had found its way to the boy's soul. Yet he was only a child, and Fra Anselmo would not judge too quickly. He led Lippo into the cloister where he might 40 Fra Lippo Lippi. see the Consecration. He watched the boy as he drew the rude outlines, and again the child's talent was evident. " Have you ever painted ? " asked Fra An- selmo. " Only a few weeks when I was under the master in the city ; I found a brush and daubed my books so I could not read. He taught me my letters — he did not care about the pictures — he would not let me draw. But it is the color I love so." Indeed it seemed as if he were born with a subtle and perfect instinct for coloring, and detected a false line as quickly as the master himself. Already the Prior had heard of the child's talent, for Fra Anselmo was not one to keep so great a discovery to himself. Several mornings after, the Prior entered the chapel, and coming to where Lippo was painting with the materials Fra Anselmo had provided, looked over the boy's shoulder. It was the coloring — the gen- ius that seemed to recognize the peculiar beauty of harmony — that appealed to the Prior. Hie Convent of the Carmine. 41 " What if the poor Carmine convent should have within its walls such a spirit as had made the Dominicans of San Marco famous. To think what Fra Angelico has done for the preaching friars. Who knows but this merry child, who seemed so good-for-nothing the other morning, may not one day do as much for us ? " thought the Prior as he watched the little hand working so eagerly at the canvas. "Fra Anselmo is right in encouraging the boy." And so Filippo was allowed the use of the chapel ; the little Diamante was his constant companion. As the months wore away the old restlessness and longing often came upon him, and he would chafe and grow pale under the seclusion. Then too he would fire Dia- mante and some of the other boys with a desire for freedom, by his tales of old adven- tures. " Ah ! " he would cry, " to be in the world again ! " But Fra Anselmo watched him care- fully, and although he often exclaimed against the confinement, there was a love and in- 42 Fra Lippo Lippi. terest in his work, which kept him from deserting. Once or twice he had found his way outside the convent, but he usually came back at night hungry and humbled. After Filippo had been in the convent a year and colored to his heart's content, he began a real painting in fresco in one corner of the chapel. It was in the cloister near Masaccio's Consecration. He worked at it faithfully, day by day, with a patience that surprised Fra Anselmo, for so often before he had known the boy to throw down his brush and leave the coloring. But this was a real picture, — and when the Prior came into the chapel to watch the progress, and the monks too would steal in, it gave him a sense of grati- fication in the work which inspired him to greater carefulness. But this was not the only picture; others were gradually finished, and when the months had lengthened into years, the monastery was variously adorned with saints and Madonnas painted there by the young Carmelite genius. The Convent of the Carmine. 43 " Surely the spirit of Masaccio has entered the soul of Filippo," — so every one said who saw the work of the young artist. Could any thing be more life-like than his San Maziale, on the pillar near the organ ! It was Fra Anselmo who guided the impetu- ous boy, and now that nine years had passed the master was more than realizing his expec- tations. Many praises poured upon Lippi. He heard already how the Dominicans were fearing the rival of their great painter. The convent bounds were becoming too narrow for him. He longed to be out in the great world. Could he not paint his wonderful pictures there — nay more beautiful ! There was so much in the convent life that was unpromising to art. The espousals of piety and poverty, the inexplicable mysteries, martyrdoms, ascetic faces and haggard figures, morbid enthusiasm and spiritual frenzy, were repugnant, yes, painful to Filippo. Absence of beauty was almost a deformity with him. Sad-visaged penitents, men scourging them- selves, prostrate in prayer, wrestling with 44 Fra Lippo Lippi. demons, awoke no responsive chord in his breast, nor stimulated his artistic spirit. The joylessness of early Christian art was incom- patible with his gladsome temperament. He did not believe in making art the handmaid of religion that had for its message the doctrine of fear. His pictures should never be of that kind. " Pain is deformity, — ecstasy is not sanctity," he replied one day to a monk who chided him for drawing a round-limbed smiling saint ; " the lack of physical beauty is a misfortune — not every woe-begone monk is a martyr-saint, nor every pensive nun an angel." The monk drew back, and sanctimoniously made the sign of the cross ; was the Prior right, could this strong-headed boy, drawing bright-colored, alluring figures, ever glorify the Church of the Carmine and exalt the Order ? " I wonder," laughed Lippi to Diamante, as the Brother went from the painting in pious horror, " if he will cover his eyes in Paradise when he beholds the glorified bodies of the saints ? " The Convent of the Carmine. 45 Yet all was not repulsive in the life around Fra Lippi. There were men among the monks whose broad shoulders, singularly brilliant dark faces, and magnificent pose, would inspire a less artistic soul than his. Then, too, there were those men like the Prior and Fra Anselmo, upon whose features had set- tled that beautiful, soft calm of those who had kept themselves unspotted from the world. Lippo felt its unspeakable charm, apart from him though it was. There was a combination of the beautiful with the awful, the gentle with the implacable. He knew, too, that the life of the cloister was not all disagreeable and repelling. In the damp dark walls were thoughtful, gentle souls, whose home in the change of fortunes and oppression of wars could be in no other place. Their life was a busy one. There were men of the noblest, gentlest blood, from whom came the example of courtly manners, polished speech, and refined taste. Through the years of the desolation and ruin that war brought they preserved art, literature, and religion, 46 Fra Lippo Lip>pi. and infused into civilization the principle of piety, self-sacrifice, chastity, and charity ; they declared a message that protested against vio- lence, injustice, -wars, and luxury; they re- vealed bright glimpses of the promised reward for the triumphant martyr. Fra Lippi felt no need of such a refuge, no need of the sanctity of solitude. It was enough that the cloister had preserved the blessed art traditions and legends. But now with so little freedom terrible superstitions were nurtured. It narrowed the bounds of art. To the rest- less soul of Lippi, it seemed that the time had come when seclusion ceased to be a necessity. Despite the entreaties of Fra Anselmo, he took matters in his own hands, and one night the Prior found Lippi's cell empty. Even though he left the convent he wore the habit of a Carmelite monk, — and assured Fra Anselmo that he would bring as much honor — nay more — to the Order, as if he remained in the Carmine. He was free ! Ah ! the world, — the bright, joyous world The Convent of the Carmine. 47 so full of sunshine. And Florence ! what had he ever known of that hill-encircled city. How fair were its flowery fields, its pearl villas, its spires and towers, the sparkling Arno spanned by its graceful arched bridges. What an en- chanted land this was, contrasted with the shadowy courts of the Carmine, its dusky shrubbery and funereal cypresses. There he had seldom seen the golden sunlight, or felt its warmth. It could hardly force its way to the convent through the tangled growth of trees. The very ground was too damp for grass to grow, — only now and then a flower- stock or rose-bush struggled for existence. Even the walls of the convent were a cold gray ; many of its dark corners were covered with green mould — and the damp interior — ah ! the memory of it made him shudder even in the sunshine. At first it was pleasure enough to wander outside the city, to lie on some Tuscan hill- side half lost in the tangle of vines and blos- soms, to watch the sweep of scythes in the breast-high grasses, to sketch the lithe, brown- 48 Fra Lippo Lippi. armed and strong-limbed youths and maidens carrying baskets of grapes in vintage time; to go singing in the moonlight with merry companions, to laugh, to jest, to paint beauti- ful faces, to bask in the sunshine of smiles, to sip wine in dukes' houses, — this was life indeed ! And the wonderful glow of color of the Carnivals was like some fairy-land enchant- ment to him. The gayly dressed multitude that thronged the squares and piazzas ; the brilliant processions, the mass of scarlet, blue, and gold outlined against the dull stones of palaces and cathedrals ; the flowers, the music, the bon-bons, the jewels, the mystery of masks, the flashing smiles, the tumult and confusion, the mirth, the mischief ; the wild, the fantas- tic, the laughter, the freedom, — ah ! life ! — it was a merry holiday ! Ah, Florence ! . fair and charming ! The noise of war was now hushed. He could listen to the story of palace and cathedral, — to him the very stones were eloquent with legends of the past. Here, along the Borgo The Convent of the Carmine. 49 Santi Apostoli, were stone and iron palaces, the strongholds of the Lamberti, and Uberti, and Amidei, and Buondelmonte. From the windows and towers of these noble houses were carried on private wars, before the families separated into factions and styled themselves Guelph and Ghibelline. Here, through the Ponte Vecchio, one sunny Easter morning, Buondelmonte richly dressed in white, came riding on his white horse. Here, by the statue of Mars, the coward Uberti struck him — and Arrigo, and Lamberti, and Amidei hastened to cut his throat, — for no greater reason than that Buondelmonte had resented an insult to a friend at a banquet not long before. It was a pity his dagger did not find Oddo's heart, at the table that day ; then he would never have promised — that the quarrel might end — to marry Oddo's ugly niece and broken his faith and plighted it to Beatrice Donati. Here, through the streets and squares, through the Piazza della Signoria, Buondel- monte's funeral car was drawn, while in it Beatrice sat, holding her lover's head, her bridal 50 Fra Lippo Lippi. robes soaked with blood. Then the fury, the horror, the tumult, the burning, the butcher- ing, the banishing ! From this house, near that of the Donati, the sad eyes of a poet seemed to look. In the little church of San Martino, that poet was married to Gemma Donati. Across the street, "a saintly maiden," Beatrice Portinari, lived and died. Here, in the Piazza San Pier Maggiore, Corso Donati was summoned by the Podesta to answer for his treasons. Here were the streets filled with the shower of stones and arrows which were aimed at his besiegers. Ah, the evil times of the Bianchi and Neri ! What tales of wrath, and war, and fury that bell in the Vecchio tower could tell! How often Lippi had heard the bell of the Carmine summon men to arms, instead of prayers ! But there was another bell tower which whispered of a calm valley, even while Florence was rent by strife — a gentle slope where a shepherd boy used to lie, and draw figures of his feeding sheep. How much more glorious this tale ! The Convent of the Carmine. 5 1 If Diamante were only with him ! If he too would leave the Carmine ! He would be his teacher — he would take him to this Campanile, together they would stand before the delicate tracery that enriched its windows, they would speak to the four Evangelists standing in simple majesty on the western side. They would go to the Baptistry and stand before those marvellous gates, and read their stories in bronze, — ah ! what poetic touches were there ! He could lay his hand on them — he could feel the wonderful work- manship ! The portals of Paradise could not be more beautiful ! They would go to Santa Croce and study the reliefs of its vaulted ceil- ing. It was the works in terra cotta and marble that pleased Filippo most. He never tired of the singing, dancing children of Lucca della Robbia. He would always study the workers in plastic arts ! But first he must see the other cities of Italy. Then came the year of wandering. What had he known of the life he renounced 52 Fra Lippo Lippi. that first year in the Carmine. He would see something of the world — he loved it ! It was cruel to extort such vows. He would never go back to the monastery — he hated it ! Then the passionate nature yielded to the temp- tations. How easy for a spirit like his to attract souls given over to the pleasures of life. They would be his friends, and he theirs. The world was bright, and happy, and joyous. He could forget painting for a while. That was good enough for a convent, and he loved it there. Now he was different. His purse was large enough for a little merriment. But quickly the joy and freedom came to an end on that unfortunate day when he was with his friends in a boat, at Ancona, and the Moorish galley had led them captives to Bar- bary. Ah ! then he longed for the beautiful sunlit hills of Fiesole — yes, perhaps for the convent of the Carmine. Any thing was bet- ter than this captivity — despite the purple wine and white grapes the slave brought him, — in spite of the dreamy languor of the Medi- terranean. In the midst of soft winds he The Convent of the Carmine. 53 longed to see the distant snow-capped peaks of the Apennines. Yet that mishap, after all, was the beginning of his good fortune. He did not know it then. What was it that should have suggested to him the opportunity to draw the full-length figure on the wall of his master's house ? How quickly he had seized the piece of charcoal that fell from the fire and pictured the chief, robed in his Moorish vestments. Then came freedom and friendship, thanks to his blessed gift of painting. How the old love rushed back upon him ! Now his dreams were coming true. From Barbary to Naples,— to Florence, — to fame ! The news of the great Cosmo de Medici's interest in Fra Lippi reached the convent. The wayward Brother had brought both dis- grace and honor to their Order. Whenever he went back to the Carmine for a day, the monks greeted him as the boy whom they had scolded and petted. In their narrow life, these holy men could not realize the power of 54 Fra Lippo Lippi. other influences than those of the Carmine upon such a temperament as Lippi's. Little did they know their artist as he came back to them. They felt that he should now remain at the convent which had been his boy- hood home, and be the more eager as the great opportunities were opening in the city, to add honor to the Carmelite Order. Ah ! be again imprisoned, after he had once escaped — again illuminate manuscripts, and teach convent boys to draw uncials ? Diamante might be satisfied to stay, but with Lippi paint- ing was a soul-passion, demanding expression. It was no mere stepping-stone to personal favor with princes, or the praise that he might bring to that which he represented. He cared less and less for what men might say, for those who praised or those who scoffed at his realism. Impulse guided him. Here was true pleasure. As in painting, so in life — he had proved it. Life had changed to him since those days at the Carmine. To think he had been con- The Convent of the Carmine. 55 tent to remain as long as he did ! Now it was not the scanty fare of the refectory tables, and sacred services, but those things which satisfied the body and soul. Ah ! it was more ; it was the old spirit of boyhood back again, when he might wander where he pleased, — the satisfied joy of free- dom. V. LUCREZIA BUTI. NE morning after mass, the Abbess opened the chapel door and saw Lippi sitting dejectedly before the altar, his brush thrown down, his cowl awry, the face of Madonna with a streak of dark paint across it. As he glanced up, the Abbess missed the bright look with which he had always greeted her. He said nothing. The Abbess waited for him to speak. At last he looked up at her. " It is utterly useless — I can see no face whereby I gain inspiration." The Abbess was shocked. If he would not pray, perhaps he would go and stand before 56 Lucrezia Butt. 57 one of Giotto's sad-smiling Madonnas ? But Lippi only shrugged his shoulders. " Art deals with the heart, the imagination, not with visions, nor long-eyed Madonnas and lifeless saints. A fine way to paint the soul by painting the body ill ! " A deeper look of melancholy came into his face than the Abbess supposed could ever be there. " I would these fingers could guide this brush as the heart dictates, — the form and idea must be harmonious in order to satisfy." He picked up his brush and sighed ; his impatience was gone. If he was a hot-headed Florentine, the Abbess saw there was some- thing very sweet and gentle withal. She left him painting the folds of the long white robe. A few days later Fra Lippi stood at the door of the Abbess* withdrawing-room. He had come to consult her in regard to further ornamentation of the moulding above the chancel, for having postponed the painting of the Madonna face, he was meanwhile devot- ing the time to relieving the sombreness of the 58 Fra Lippo Lippi. walls. As he stood waiting he heard the mur- mur of voices, then a hush, then the nuns' voices rose in this jubilant hymn of spring- tide : Plaudite coeli, Rideat aether, Summus et imus Gaudeat orbis. Transcivit atrse Turba procellse ; Subiit almase. Gloria palms. Surgite verni, Surgite flores, Gemina pictis ; Teneris mixtae Violis rosse Candida sparsis Lilia calthis. There was one voice he distinguished from the others, so rich and melodious that it might belong to Saint Cecilia herself. In a moment the door opened, and from the place where he stood he could see only one of the nuns, and she was bending over an altar-cloth embroid- Lucrezia Buti. 59 ery, so her face was half hidden. He quickly stepped back as the Abbess came forward to meet him, and in his desire to speak with her he would not have noticed the young girl a second time — her robe made her seem so simi- lar to the many nuns, all of whom were so much alike, he had often declared to himself, — but she lifted her head, and her eyes met his a single moment. This face he had seen be- fore, — yes, in Florence. Yet why she should now be in Prato, and above all things at the convent of Santa Margharita, surprised him greatly. As Lippi walked with the Abbess to the chapel, he found himself wondering more and more what the circumstances were that brought Lucrezia Buti to the convent. In- deed he was so silent that the Abbess was obliged to remind him that there was some- thing he had said he wished to consult with her about. " Ah," he replied, speaking rapidly as if his thoughts were elsewhere, " it was about the moulding,"— and he began describing the gen- 6o Fra Lippo Lippi. eral plan that had occurred to him for coloring the walls. He would bring two of his pupils, Fra Diamante and Sandro Botticelli, — of course all this was to be subordinate to the altar decorations, yet the good effect would be so much heightened by the particular atten- tion given to the surroundings. And in regard to the moulding, should not that be particu- larly bright ? As Lippi spoke with the Abbess, he pointed out to her some of his work, for by this time they had entered the chapel and were in sight of the altar. They had both crossed themselves as they caught a glimpse of the candle burning perpetually before the crucifix, and when they reached the chancel railing the Abbess, turning her glance from the wall on the left, was surprised to see that Lippi had painted the Madonna face. As she stepped forward for a better view, Lippi inter- cepted her by hastily drawing his brush across it. Yet she had seen enough to feel that she would not like the Madonna, but she was dis- appointed to have it destroyed. Lucrezia Buti. 61 " No ! No ! " she cried, as if she could stop the artist with her outstretched arms ; " let me see it, I pray thee." It was too late, and the disfigured face was all that remained of the realistic painting of a moment before. The Abbess knew that it had been very life-like, — yet the face look- ing down at her might belong to any peasant girl. Lippi stood a long time before speaking. "You know," he said at last, "my master uses models." The Abbess said nothing, yet she had given up all hope of Lippi's ever being able to re- produce the ideal. " There must be some one in the convent," — he hesitated as the vision of the beautiful face bending over her gold embroidery swept before him. The Abbess was thinking of that same face. Lucrezia Buti had been in the convent but a short time, yet her gentle ways and loveli- ness had won the heart of the Abbess from the very first. To be sure she had not yet 62 Fra Lippo Lippi. taken the vows of a nun, but she would in time, for she had told the Abbess that she had left Florence that her life might be an ideal one drawn from that of St. Agnes. She cer- tainly had turned her back upon one of the richest nobles, to avoid a marriage with him, — and the Abbess sympathized with that. " Is there no one ? " she heard Lippi again question, and she started from her reverie. " Yes," he continued, " is not Lucrezia Buti here, — she comes from Florence, does she not?" The. Abbess was never more sorely per- plexed. Yet what danger was there ? Lippi was a holy Frate from the Carmine, — true he left the convent years ago — but he was young then — in fact she did not understand it very well — she must ask Father Antonio. Lippi wore the robe of a monk and painted sacred pictures. To be sure, she had been deeply pre- judiced against him, but she felt that she wronged him. Natures were so different — he seemed too full of life to find a cloister com- fortable, — and the Abbess knew that they Lucrezia Buti. 63 were not always the holiest men who stayed in monasteries. She thought of all the nuns, but ever the rapt expression of Lucrezia came before her. " Yes," she said, drawing a long breath — " she is here " ; she paused. " May I not perform mass to-morrow ? " he asked. Indeed why should he not ? Had he not been chaplain for a convent of nuns, — and rector of St. Quirico only the year before ? If Father Antonio should happen to come from Florence, why, all the better. They could talk over the matter that had from the beginning made her so much trouble. In the morning the nuns looked at the new Frate, and some way they all seemed to know that it was Lippo Lippi — what other monk had so bright a smile or so buoyant a step ! Yet why they should recognize him no one could say, for even as the Abbess had decreed, their only glimpse of the outer world had been from the windows of their rooms, since the staging had been put up in the chapel. 64 Fra Lippo Lippi. Through the chanting of the Kyrie, the Credo, the Sanctus, and the Agnus Dei, he heard the same deep rich voice that had so thrilled him the day before. When the host was raised and all the nuns were on their knees, one face alone was up- lifted, and Lucrezia looked into the dark, lim- pid eyes of Lippo Lippi. Lucrezia Buti, whom Fra Lippi was so greatly surprised to see among the nuns, was from a noble Florentine family. He had seen her the year before at the Grand Duke's palace. He saw her once after that standing near the Campanile. He had heard that she was to be betrothed to Senor Aletri of the princely house of Strozzi. He had always thought her the most beautiful of all the beautiful women he had ever seen, — and with them Italy blossomed like a garden. He remembered the night he first saw her, — how the saintly purity of her face distinguished her from the glittering women around her. He remembered in what graceful folds her white robes fell from the Lucrezia Butt. 65 square-cut neck to her feet ; how the over- sleeves hung open from the shoulder and showed the dainty lace sleeves wrought with gold thread, — through the thin stuff he could see the pink flesh tints of her arms. Her face seemed to him more Venetian than Florentine, with its delicately rounded chin, its full flexible lips, the rippling, red-gold hair, and the deep brown eyes over which long lashes curled. He remembered how that night he had refused to go singing carnival songs with the youths of the city ; how they, heated with wine, had jeered and taunted him by asking if he were turning pious monk. How he went to the Carmine that night instead of his own apartments; how the face of the old Friar lighted when he opened the door and saw who it was at that late hour, wishing admittance. How the Friar talked and talked about the sins of the world, and the lust of the flesh, and prayer, and penance. How, as he sat there, the Friar thought he was listening, instead of thinking of a smile of divine sweetness, and a face fairer than that of the Holy Virgin look- 5 66 Fra Lippo Lippi. ing out at him from the canvas, beautiful in colors, put there by the hand of Masaccio. How the Friar would have crossed himself and implored protection from the temptations of the devil, if he had known that Lippi's thoughts were of a woman. Then he went to his old cell, that night, and when he lay down on the bare, hard boards that served for a bed and a pillow, a revulsion of thoughts came over him. To be in the very cell where years before the Prior had led him for the first words, was like living over again the old days, and Lippi felt how he had outgrown them. The very air was stifling. The convent was never his choice. It was almost forced upon him. He remembered how he hated his books and studies, and used to draw little figures all over the leaves. He shuddered as he thought of the long fasts, the night prayers, and penance. He detested his work, he abominated his confinement, he loathed his vows. He could hear the wind sighing just as it used to so many years ago, and a gust from Lucrezia Buti. 67 the cracks around the window made the taper flare and throw gigantic shadows. He put out the light and closed his eyes. He was no longer in his narrow cell, but lying in a ship bound with cords, looking up into the night sky, and the stars were shining down in his eyes. A Moor came and rudely kicked him ; then a low-browed woman seemed to step from the canvas he was painting and offer him a glass of wine ; it was a beautiful deep red, like the velvet gown she wore, but as she came nearer he could see dregs in the bottom of the glass. Yet he took it smilingly from her hand and put it to her lips ; the flush left her cheek and a great horror came to her eyes, which changed to triumph as she looked beyond him; he turned to see a tall, slender maiden with red- gold hair; she stretched her arms towards him, and there were tears in her sorrowful eyes, but he dreamed no more, — he remem- bered that the matin bell awoke him. Since then he had been in the bowers of gay ladies, whose black hair, lustrous eyes, and luring smiles came back to him now. He 68 Fra Lippo Lippi. had given the dark face of that low-browed woman to Herodias, in the Prato Cathedral. Ah ! but that other face with the light of truth in its smile ! He would paint that face ; yes, by the saints and martyrs, he would be near those blessed eyes, and hear that low voice speak to him ! VI. THE MODEL [Y daughter," said the Ab- bess to Lucrezia, a few mornings later, " I would see you; come with me." The color faded in Lu- crezia's cheeks. Could it be that her father had sent for her — or possibly the Abbess was going to urge her taking the vows? " My daughter, even though you were born in the heat and flare of a worldly city, its dust has never profaned you ; it is as though you were a modest flower growing in hidden places." Lucrezia paled still more ; she shrank from the very thing she sought when entering the convent. 6 9 jo Fra Lippo Lippi. " There are women whom the Lord has crowned with beauty," continued the Abbess, " a divine loveliness like that of Mary, his mother, and they know it not." Lucrezia's eyes drooped, a wave of color came back to her cheeks. " My daughter, your beauty was not given to adorn a Florentine palace, and then grow sorrowful and faded by the burdens of that dissolute city ; it was not given you for your own enjoyment, or to win a lover " (Oh ! Abbess Margharita, your voice is a little tremulous, and a dewy look comes into your violet eyes as you remember how, under the almond trees, Francesco, your lover, took you in his arms, whispering such sweet words about your beautiful face, kissing your hair, your eyes, your cheeks, your mouth, your throat, around which he fastened a string of pearls.) " No," she said as the vision passed, and the weary years of convent life, made sacred by her prayers and tears, came to her, " your beauty is like a fair flower to be laid at the The Model. 71 shrine of the Holy Virgin." (Oh ! Lucrezia Buti, you tremble as you strive against the thought that the convent of Santa Margharita has become less sweet a shelter during the last few days !) " My daughter," she heard the Abbess say, " you know that these are trou- blous times, and the pious ones look into the future and cover their eyes. The Virgin and saints are no longer painted by prayerful monks. Art, that was to be the handmaid of religion, has been so far debased that pic- tures of shameless women, in the guise of our Blessed Lady, are not only hung in palaces by profligate princes, but are bought for cathe- drals. Think of the Mother of all Purity being thus presented for the worshipping people." Lucrezia silently looked at the Abbess. " It has been decided that in you, the Frate who is painting the altar-piece of the Madonna Cintola, and who has so lately come from Flor- ence, where he sees not the image of our Lady in the jewelled women, who think of nothing but amours and laughter, — in you he finds 72 Fra Lippo Lippi. such beauty that he shall paint your face for the Madonna." " Oh, no ! no ! " cried Lucrezia, her heart beating so wildly that it seemed as if the Abbess must see how it sent the blood burn- ing in her cheeks, and guess her reason for hesitating. " My daughter, would it not be blessed indeed if through your sweetness and grace the penitent and faithful be reminded of Mary ? Father Antonio and I have so de- cided this morning. Go, child, to your room, and pray before the image of the Virgin that she may fill your heart with her spirit and angelic loveliness." Lucrezia went to her room and sat by the open window. Was it for this she had sought repose in the convent of Santa Margharita? She had never forgotten the aquiline outline of that artist's face, — the dark eyes with their dreaming lids, the smile as frank as sunlight But he was a monk, — and she had come to a convent. Could it be that the laughter and hints and coarse jokes of the Florentines were The Model. 73 true — had he disgraced his vows ? It could not be that he was so profligate, for the Abbess would never allow the face of the Virgin to be painted by an unworthy hand. Fra Angelico had been chosen to do the work, and she was sure no dishonored suc- cessor would be tolerated in the sacred chapel of Santa Margharita. Lucrezia laid her head on the low, broad window-frame, and looked into the garden. The cherries glowed in bright spots against the dark-green leaves, and the grapes hung with their purple sides ripening in the sun. The water flashed in the fountain. Below in the meadow Florence lay; she could almost see the stone walls of her father's palace. How different were the bare walls and hard furniture of the convent from the frescoed ceil- ings, the gilded chairs, the marble floors, and brilliant tapestry cloths, of her home. There were rare vases, and statues, and pictures; she glanced at the little bed and thought of her own couch hung with peacock satin em- broidered with gold. She thought of her gown 74 Fra Lippo Lippi. of soft silk, and pearl girdle, for which she had taken the coarse robe of a novice, the ro- sary and cross. But she could not lay aside the torments of the world with her garment — they followed her to sacred places. She pros- trated herself before the image of the Virgin ; ought she to seek her confessor, — she could not lay bare her heart with this secret, to even him. "O blessed Mother," she prayed, "let me love but thee." VII. IN THE CONVENT CHAPEL. ; HE next morning the Abbess went to Lucrezia's room. " The Frate is waiting for us," she said, " and it is arranged that you shall sit for him two hours each morn- ing. He has asked for part of the after- noon too, but that is not fully settled. I shall, of course, accompany you and remain with you. He has asked that you wear a white robe, — some garment that falls from the throat in graceful folds." For a moment Lucrezia hesitated as if in doubt whether the Abbess would allow the change, but seeing that she had considered the matter already and implied her consent, she hastened to lay aside her nun's habit for the one gown she had brought with her, — a 75 y6 Fra Lippo Lippi. memorial of the gayety at Florence, of the days before the renunciation, — a simple dress in its time and place, neither brilliant nor ostenta- tious. It was one of those delicate silks which give to the wearer a peculiar grace and sweetness. Its fashion seemed to belong par- ticularly to Lucrezia, whose refined and in- stinctive breeding had always been so charming to men. She had brought this garment with her to the convent, knowing, of course, she should have no use for it, but reluctant to part with what seemed so much a part of herself. When the Abbess first saw it, carefully laid away with the little store of personal posses- sions which Lucrezia had unpacked, she was slightly disturbed, but then, seeming to recall how much the fair one from Florence had sac- rificed for the dreariness of Santa Margharita's said no more than gently to remind the novice of all that was required in a life of renunciation. It was a fair picture that greeted Lippi when glancing from his work in the chan- cel, he saw the chapel door open and two figures enter : the Abbess, tall, dark, and In the Convent Chapel. jy sombre in the garb of her order; Lucrezia, so beautiful, so flower-like in contrast. And the gown — the artist's eye had seen that, — the white robe falling from the square-cut neck to the feet ; the thin, transparent lace heightening the soft flesh flush of her throat, and modestly veiling the sweet beauty of the bosom so vir- ginal in form ; the over-sleeves, open from the shoulders, showing the daintily gold-embroid- ered sleeves, and, through the thin stuff, the pink tints of her arms. How well he remem- bered that gown — the very one she had worn that night in Florence, at the Grand Duke's palace. Already the Abbess and Lucrezia were near him and standing at the railing, but the brief interval during their walk down the nave had been so full of recollections that he hardly dare think of himself in the chapel only to paint a Madonna, and the beautiful girl as simply a model. He hastily arranged the can- vas upon the easel and stepped forward to greet the Abbess with that grace and deference she so much admired. 78 Fra Lippo Lippi. " I have brought the model, Fra Lippi," she said. " Lucrezia," she continued, turning to the beautiful figure beside her and seeming for the first time to realize the full charm of the girl's face and form, so enhanced by the grace of the gown, — " Lucrezia, this is the painter, Fra Lippi, who requests that you take that posi- tion of all others most difficult — the model for the Madonna." Lucrezia looked at him with a straight- forward yet modest gaze, that contradicted the quick beating of her heart ; not that she ex- pected a glance of recognition, for she had not dared hope that Fra Lippi would remem- ber seeing her, even though the memory of the moment when his eyes met hers, that night, thrilled her now. She remembered that he was by the side of her cousin, the Princess Beatrice ; her soft clear gaze rested long upon him ; there was no other face like his — every feature bore the reflex of an intense, passionate, artistic nature. It was the face she had seen in her dreams, yet she only smiled gently, as she might to any stranger In the Convent Chapel. 79 whom she had never met before. Fra Lippi felt a quick disappointed pang, but in his cold and deferential greeting Lucrezia little ima- gined it a conscious formality which concealed remembrances of an hour which both had lived over since yesterday morning. There was a gallantry and gentleness which Lucrezia did notice withal, and it was not with the courtesy of an ordinary acknowledgment of an intro- duction that the words were tinged. " Yonder," said Lippi, "is the place I have planned for you to sit. It is there that I can have the best light. From that window above, the sun seems to come most directly. It is fortunate the chapel was so conveniently arranged." All this was said with a smile and glance towards the window and eastern side of the chancel, and in a tone quiet and deliberate, which bespoke the man unembarrassed by the thoughts which were crowding his memory. " Two hours each morning," he continued, "will suffice for the painting, and I trust the work will not be too tiresome for you." 80 Fra Lippo Lippi. As he spoke he looked at Lucrezia as if he would make her feel the delicacy of the request to the Abbess, that the novice shall devote so much time and weariness to the uninteresting task of becoming a model. Dur- ing these few moments in which Lippi had indicated the arrangement, previous to the sitting, he seemed to be ever aware of the Abbess' presence and the regard for her opin- ion. In fact, he spoke almost as if directly to her, and whenever to Lucrezia, included the Abbess' possible modifications of what might be better arranged. The Abbess felt this respect, and found herself more favorably in- clined towards the painter than ever before. Lucrezia had already seated herself in the chair to which Lippi had pointed, while he had taken his place before the easel, — the Abbess remaining at the chancel railing. " Ah, but first if you will stand while I draw the figure full-length — I have painted out my first unhappy effort, — then you can sit while I work on the face of the Virgin. By so divid- ing the posing I trust that I can make it less wearisome for you," he said, half smiling. In the Convent Chapel. 81 Lucrezia stood erect, with clasped hands. Fra Lippi made a few rapid strokes, then turned to look more directly at her face. What a revelation of beauty, what an inspira- tion for an artist, what a Madonna he would give to the world ! There was a hint of half melancholy in the loving mouth and far-seeing eyes ; where the sunshine fell upon her hair it was like burnished gold, — in what rippling shining waves it would float upon her shoul- ders ; there were no shoulders like hers in Florence. What an exquisite figure, what marvellous grace and beauty, what ethereal delicacy ! There was much preliminary sketching to be done. He asked Lucrezia to look up, then down, turn her face to the wall, and then, that he might see the profile from the other side, to look towards the chapel entrance. As she turned towards him for the full-face view, there was a brighter glow in her cheeks, an uplifting of the half-arched brows, and a gentle pressure of the mouth that seemed to please Lippi. He asked her to remain in that position longer than in the others, and 82 Fra Lippo Lippi. after looking at her intently, as if fascinated by the picture before him, said, turning towards the Abbess : " I think that the best attitude." " It is very Virgin-like," she replied, — and it was evident the Abbess felt that this .Ma- donna would be very real. After standing awhile at the chancel rail- ing, the Abbess seated herself on one of the benches near the front, in the left transept. She drew from her pocket a small piece of silk and began a bit of embroidery, soon becoming busily engaged in the handiwork. Lippi con- tinued at the painting, there was such a delight in transferring so much beauty to canvas. The first hour passed quickly. Lucrezia had been standing so long that Fra Lippi asked her to rest a few moments. With a sigh he leaned back in his chair. The Abbess rose from her seat and came to look at the canvas ; she noticed the glad light in Lippi's eyes, the suppressed excitement with which he had painted. The Abbess was holding the piece of tapestry in her hand In the Convent Chapel. 83 on which the outlines of The Flight into Egypt were beginning to show. The Abbess was questioning Lippi. " No, I do not paint Holy Families with Joseph," he smiled ; " he is too old and bald ; — a pity some of the younger suitor's rods did not blossom." The Abbess had never heard any one speak this way on sacred subjects, and after the first shock she was rather amused and was tempted to question him more, yet she was fearful of encouraging his irreverence. " There are beautiful tapestries in Southern Italy, with Greek heads and figures," he was saying ; " beauty is the true art principle — the joyous beauty of the Greeks " " But the craving for mere beauty is a dangerous thing, my brother." She turned towards the easel : " Our Lady should not be represented in the classic features of a pagan goddess ; she should be something more than an idol, a lovely creation that awakens no throb of piety in the breast ; neither should she be stern and motionless, but the most 84 Fra Lippo Lippi. tender, most pure, most sacred Madre, who will be very near the heart of those who salute her as blessed." Fra Lippi took up his brush again and began to paint. Lucrezia stood in the same position to which he had called the Abbess' attention particularly. The uplifted eyes gave no opportunity for the knowledge of long glances from behind the easel. The Abbess still stood watching Fra Lippi as he painted. " We have only a hint of the perfection which art will one day reach," Lippi said. " The artist sees the three types — the severe, awful quietude of the Byzantine masters, the pensive sentimentality of Siena, the stately elegance of Florence ; but there must come one who will unite these, and harmonize the human and divine into one great whole." The Abbess stood listening. " There will be no other one, who, like the saintly Frate, with dreaming eyes will see heaven afar off. The spirit of the times has changed ; the material influence is in advance of the spiritual : the impulse is now for freer In the Convent Chapel. 85 drawing, a truer feeling for life-like attitudes and proportion ; the people no longer stand before the bodiless cold Madonnas of Cimabue. We no longer want flat gold backgrounds, but real landscapes, real blue heavens with golden stars. A Virgin with a body should be as worshipful as one without. We paint Mary as a woman. Now, the triumph of the spirit over the body is no longer the all-absorbing theme, — except in monasteries. We can understand why Angelico never used models," — he smiled a little ; " visions came to him like dreams ; his work was the outpouring of his own celestial spirit ; nothing ever disturbed his peaceful meditations. Day after day he was within the white-walled convent, surrounded by cowls and frocks ; day after day he painted the same white-robed souls, whom the burden of flesh no longer oppressed. What did he know of a woman's.smile ? " — but Fra Lippi suddenly stopped. The Abbess moved a little uneasily and began to embroider the work which had been idly lying in her lap. Lucrezia looked at Fra Lippi ; his face flushed darkly, his beauti- 86 Fra Lippo Lippi. ful eyes were dim, his laugh had a sigh in it. The Abbess said : " Fra Angelico was, indeed, tenderly shel- tered from the rude storms of the world. His paintings are the utterance of a heartfelt love of spiritual things." Thus the two hours passed away. The mellow tone of the bell striking outside the chapel indicated that the noonday had ar- rived. The Abbess rose and came forward. Lippi laid down his brush with a sigh. 11 Eh! the time has flown quickly ! " he said. " I had no idea my work was so nearly at an end, this morning. I have not accomplished as much as I wished — if this afternoon I still might paint from the model," — he pushed the easel towards a better light, and stood looking at the canvas. " It is such slow work," he exclaimed, "that soon I shall hope for more than two hours a day." As he spoke, he turned from the Abbess to Lucrezia, who had remained seated. " Do you find your task a heavy one ? It is no easy thing to be a model — and yet it must give one ^J^/ilZ/ ^O^K^S^-OtX In the Convent Chapel. 87 pleasure to be thought ideal." He said this as if hardly conscious of the words, in the deeper meaning of his smile. The blood rioted through Lucrezia's veins. "A heavy task" to stand before him! A wearisome thing to be near him ! Ah ! — but she could only answer : " It is you who must be ready to rest ; no, I am not weary ! I have nothing to do, — it is quite different with you." " It must be a pleasure to feel that your picture is really begun," said the Abbess. "Yes," replied Fra Lippi, "the interest will become deeper each day. To-morrow, at the same time, I shall look for you again ? " and he spoke directly to the Abbess. " I suppose I must be content with mornings only ? " She hesitated a moment, then hastily said : " Perhaps to-morrow I may be able to de- cide." Fra Lippi watched the two women as they passed down the nave. The noonday sun shone through the window above his head, fill- ing the whole chancel with light. How dreary 88 Fra Lippo Lippi. the chapel was. It seemed to him as if the two figures almost disappeared in the dark- ness. When the heavy door opened for a moment he saw them outlined against the sun- shine of the court. He noticed the darkness all the more after they had gone. " And so my heart's desire is given me ! " he exclaimed as he threw himself into the chair where Lucrezia had sat. " The Virgin is to be painted with a novice as model. How I did dread the noon hour ! But to-morrow I shall see her again ! — My Madonna ! " He wandered out into the court-yard, where the brightness seemed almost to dazzle him, after the darkness of the chapel. He felt rest- less, — he was unable to paint. In the afternoon the desire to do nothing possessed him, — that same feeling which he had known before in Florence. It always came when he thought of her. He tried for an hour to finish the predella of the lowest step. He threw down his brush in despair. " It is no use ! " he cried. " The morning is too long in coming again ! These hours must In the Convent Chapel. 89 be hastened in some other way ! " He went out into the court-yard again, where the sun- shine of the beautiful afternoon enticed him into the orchard, among the orange-trees and grape-vines. But whether he was looking into the clear depths of the court-yard fountain, breathing the sweet odor of the violets, or out here with the fruit and leaves, all speaking a thousand things to him, it was the same — the one voice utter- ing the one thing to his heart. VIII. FRA DIAMANTE. iN his restlessness, Lippi thought of Fra Diamante at the Cathedral. He had not visited him as often as he promised since leaving him to paint in the choir. Shortly after they began work together there, Lippi received the commission for Santa Margharita's, and meanwhile Diamante was engaged upon the preliminary outlining and coloring for the frescos. In Florence, since those days at the Car- mine, they had been much together. After Lippi's departure from the convent, Diamante could not remain there contented. He too must break the shackles of that monastic life, go Fra Diamante. gi he too must go into the world. Besides he missed Lippi, whom he followed as his master ; he wished to be with him — to paint with him. Soon came the message from his friend, and he joined him. Months succeeded months more quickly than they knew, in the pleasure of painting in palace and church. Yet this with- out night's gayety would not have been truly life. Again and again, they were merry com- panions in Florentine festivities, and more than once the coarse brown habits with white cloak and scapular were laid aside for the cavalier's attire. But now they were in Prato and separated for the present. When Lippi entered the Piazza that after- noon, in his walk from Santa Margharita's, he paused before the Cathedral to again look at the effect of the curious inlaying of the black and green serpentine, from Monte Ferrato, al- ternating with white marble. He was also attracted to the corner of the facade, where the pulpit by Donatello projected, whence the Sacra Cintola preserved in the church was periodically exposed to the veneration of the 92 Fra Lippo Lippi. multitude. Perhaps he observed the beautiful work the more carefully now that he was espe- cially interested in the Madonna legends. At any rate he never tired of the happy dancing children, supporting festoons — the seven apart- ments of exquisite sculptured bas-reliefs. He turned towards the entrance to look a moment at the calm loveliness of Robbia's Madonna ; the plastic arts had the same attraction for him as when he used to go to Santa Croce and San Lorenzo, to look at the work of these masters. At the sound of voices Lippi turned to see a group of men come from the side door and cross the Piazza towards the Via dei Sarti. He entered the open door and saw Diamante upon the staging, painting between the pointed windows of the choir. As ever, the pictu- resque interior appealed to the artistic nature ; the Roman basilica enlarged to the cruciform shape, with the columns of serpentine and arches of the nave which belonged to the original structure ; the Capella della Sacra Cintola, separated by Brunelleschi's brass "~\ * « v Fra Diamante. 93 screen ; the circular pulpit with base of carved sphinxes and serpents ; in the chancel, the statue of Mary and huge bronze crucifix, so venerated by the Prato worshippers. " Ah, Diamante ! " called a voice below, and the startled painter looked down on the up- turned face of Lippi, who stood beside the high altar. " You would not know who was near though he stayed here till nightfall ! " And Lippi laughed heartily, as Diamante with an exclamation of surprise, hastened, palette in hand, to descend the staging. "Good friar! So knit to his work!" he continued playfully with his hand upon Dia- mante's shoulder, after they had exchanged the affectionate greeting. " I have been watching those touches — palette to wall — palette to wall — and never a glance at me." Botticelli, Diamante's companion, was paint- ing a saint above the Beheading of St. John. " Ah, Sandro ! " cried Lippi, " that 's not a saint, that 's a nymph — saints have not pout- ing lips breaking into alluring smiles — what round-limbed goddess of Greece have you 94 Fra Lippo Lippi. been dreaming over ? Ah ! my boy, when you paint saints don't let that impetuous imagina- tion run away with you." Lippi and Diamante stood in the chancel, jesting each other and looking up at the un- finished outlines of the frescos, planning the other wall-spaces of the choir. " But no more to-day ! " exclaimed Lippi. " Come into the sunshine. There we may talk. Let us together climb Monte Ferrato." " Only two White Friars," the people said whom they met on the way to Bizenzio Gate, thinking of the austerity of the Carmelite Order, not knowing to what extent the life of these monks was given up to the easy, light- hearted, debonair enjoyment of the present. Indeed, Diamante never knew Lippi in a gayer mood. It was a merry time as their talk turned to Florence, and the contrast of the life at Prato. They were already out- side the ancient walls of the town, on the road that leads to the foot of the principal peak of Monte Ferrato. ''A few weeks more," said Diamante, laugh- Fra Diamante. 95 ing, " and there will be two long-faced friars praying till dawn." Their talk became more serious as they spoke of the frescos at Santo Stefano. " Hardly a day but I see some face in the Piazza I would paint," cried Diamante. " Ah ! it is the real flesh and blood that alone brings true inspiration ! Yet how hard to work when only what memory recalls is the model. Yes- terday I passed a man near the Palazzo del Pretorio. Though I tried so often till eve, it was no use. That face I could not paint. It was the same in Florence." " It is so," replied Lippi. " The model before one alone can satisfy." " The Madonna at Santa Margharita's ? is it this face — now that face ? Yes ! I know ! The brush will daub ! " They both laughed, and Diamante began recalling what had happened to them so often in Florence. The road turned suddenly to the left, and a mile from Bizenzio Gate had brought them to the foot of Monte Ferrato. They stopped for a little while to note the g6 Fra Lippo Lippi. peculiar effect of the sandstone, transformed into red jasper, in contact with the serpentine limestone. Passing along the base of the hill, they found the path leading to the quarries above, and, after a brisk climb, came upon the rocks with which they were so familiar, the blocks of Verdi di Prato, so much used as black marble in the Florentine churches. Here, in the clear air of the beautiful after- noon, the town lay stretched out before them, with the surrounding country and hills. They found a place farther up in the shade of a tree, where, upon the moss, they might give them- selves up to the pleasing prospect. " Ah ! this is the first time that we have seen Prato ! " said Lippi, as he threw himself down at full length and leaned upon his arm. Diamante was seated with his back against the tree. " It is well worth our climb." The afternoon sun threw a mellow light over all, and flashed in the rippling waters of the winding Bizenzio. The old walls with the Castello dell' Imperatore added to the pictu- resque scene of the rich, green valley, stretch- Fra Diamante. 97 ing far away to the northwest in the direction of Figline, while Santa Stefano and its Cam- panile, with the buildings surrounding the Piazza, rose conspicuously among the dwell- ings of the town. " And yonder must be Santa Margharita's ? " said Diamante, looking in the direction of the convent, as it stood apart on its little hill. Lippi had been inquiring the names of some of the buildings in the vicinity of the Cathe- dral, and now they had turned toward the east. The chapel and part of the court were visible — the rest of the convent half hidden by the orchard. " How fare the gay Sisters of the veil, and their Mother ? Is the Abbess a good keeper of the pious Carmelite — our second gentle Angelico ? " and Diamante laughed heartily as he leaned forward to playfully press the arm that supported the handsome head. If Lippi seemed to be serious, it was not because his thoughts now turned into a new channel. All the afternoon the same gentle reverie was present. He lost, for the mo- 98 Fra Lippo Lippi. merit, the sense of being alone, and he was not in the mood to jest. Diamante noticed the change, and was a little perplexed. It was always so different when they used to speak of the convent of St. Ambroggio. " The angels and saints in the altar-piece there would have been innumerable, if Cosimo d'Medici had not come to the rescue," he would say and laugh with Lippi. "But why not have sent for me before the Palazzo Commission ! I could have painted the fair one ! " " No ! no ! " — and so they would jest. " I know but little of Santa Margharita's," said Lippi, half-smiling, as Diamante began in the old manner ; then, changing quickly the subject, " The Madonna ! It is the most difficult I have yet tried." He did not tell of his restlessness since the noon-day bell, of the sweet thought that the declining sun sug- gested for the morrow, of something stealing into his heart which he knew so well. There was a calm he loved, here upon the hill, look- ing down upon the beautiful valley. Fra Diamante. 99 " Diamante ! " he said, as if the thought had suddenly occurred to him. " You re- member Lucrezia, the daughter of Senor Buti ? " " The daughter of Francesco Buti ? " re- plied Diamante, unconscious of a tenderness in Lippi's tone, and unable to see the face turned from him. " The Angel at the Grand Duke's palace one night, whose praises were sung me ? Forget the fair vision, as told me ? No ! no ! Ah — ah, I had almost be- lieved there was one lovesick friar in Florence that night ! " He laughed again, and as Lippi remained silent, continued : " Yet yours are no blinded eyes, my friend. Yes, she was beautiful ! Did I not see her ? What now of the fair one? Dreaming of Lucrezia in this dull land ? " Filippo was not in the mood to tell. Was it strange? Yet often in these hearts where the one deep, sweet passion is first born, there is the desire to be alone with the hidden truth. " Yes, dreaming ! " loo Fra Lippo Lippi. " The Princess Beatrice is her cousin," said Diamante. Lippi laughed carelessly, then a shadow came over his face. " I had not thought," he said. " Lucrezia is betrothed to Senor Aletri," Diamante was saying. " How unlike the cousins are, — one so fair, the other so dark ! The Princess would terrify me ; I never un- derstood — yes, understood — but never felt her fascinations." Filippo made no reply. The conversation flowed easily into other channels. Had not Francesco Buti recently left Flor- ence ? What might be the reason ? Had not several nobles gone ? And so the monks fell to talking of Florentine affairs in general. The sun had reached the horizon, and al- ready it was time to return before the dark- ness steal upon them unawares. At the Bizenzio Gate, Lippi put his hand gently on Diamante's arm and detained him a moment before they separated. " It has been an afternoon most pleasant for me," he said, with a smile which the Fra Diamante. ioi gathering darkness almost hid. " Our to- morrow's work will be better for this ram- ble. Soon I shall return to Santo Stefano. Meanwhile continue upon the left wall-space. There is enough planned for the present. And, Diamante," he added affectionately, as if loath to part, " again shall we climb Monte Ferrato ? The pious monk ! " — and he laughed gently — " seemed he a little strange to-day ? think you he pines ? No ! no ! " He clasped Diamante's hand, " Farewell, farewell ! " and as he drew the white mantle closer about him and disappeared in the gloom, he stopped a moment and called : " On the hillside again — perchance I shall have something to tell ! " "What may that be?" thought Diamante, as he turned into the street that led to his scantily furnished apartments in a dwelling not far from the Cathedral. " Whatever it be, he will tell me ! An open heart ! A true friend ! How few in this world ! A pious monk ! Ah ! ah ! happy the hours with him ! " But the days passed, and Lippi did not come. Diamante became impatient. 102 Fra Lippo Lippi. One morning the Abbess, tired of working longer on the embroidery, walked up and down the chapel, then stopped before the side window and looked out upon the street. She saw a Carmelite monk coming in the direction of the convent. She watched him as he came nearer, and saw him enter the court-yard door. She turned from the window and slowly walked towards the chapel door, when it was opened by the old servant who was followed by the tall dark monk. The model ! In a moment it was all solved ! With such loveliness before him, no wonder the painting was unfinished. Diamante could scarcely utter the message which had been in his mind. " Ah, Diamante ! " said Lippi, rising to greet him, but showing plainly in his face that he was deeply absorbed in his work. " I came to tell you," said Diamante, " that my work at Santo Stefano is finished " — he spoke hesitatingly, — " and that nothing can be done until you come." He had approached the easel and glancing at the model started in surprise. Fra Diamante. 103 " I am yet at work here. I am very busy," replied Lippi, half-smiling, and for . a moment looking down at the palette in his hand, with a quick motion of the brush among the colors. " Pardon me, Diamante, I shall come to the Cathedral — I am busy ! " Diamante understood. " Meanwhile I can find something to do," he said, and bowing respectfully to the Abbess, hastened away. Lucrezia Buti ! It was she ! How came she there ? Never more beautiful than now, thought Diamante. It was this that Lippi would tell him. He walked back to the Cathedral, but he could not paint. He held his brush idly in his hand and sat looking abstractedly at the frescos. A group of passers-by came in, but the idle, silent painter did not interest them. The long shadows crept in through the win- dows. The afternoon had fled. Diamante gathered up his colors and left the Cathedral. He went to his apartment, — to the delicate- illuminated texts he used to trace with such fondness. He had often thought there could be no greater pleasure than that of trans- 104 Fra Lippo Lippi. cribing — to feel the value of precious manu- scripts growing day by day as the letters were finished with exquisite care. How often with Fra Anselmo he had worked until dawn, after night mass, that they might complete the pages they had begun. In the Carmine, one of his duties was to color the uncials, and he loved the task ; he was proud of his parch- ments, illuminated as no other in the monas- tery ; he had now begun a breviary that would require months of copying, yet when the midnight bell struck, he sat looking at the blank page, which, only an evening before, would have been so fanciful in designs and so beautiful in colors. Wherever he looked, whether at the parch- ment, or the inks, or the pen already between his fingers, he saw a sheen of gold-red hair, cheeks the hue of a rose-leaf, and eyes as tender as the Holy Virgin's. It affected the heart like enchanting music. The hushed dreams of youth were awakened, and his pulse bounded at the alarm. IX. FRA LIPPI AND LUCREZIA. |RA LIPPI painted each day until the light from the east- ern window grew too dim to distinguish colors, then with sigh would lay down his brush. The charm of Lucrezia's face was ever varying — it changed with each passing emotion. Now she was the gentle novice, now the awakened girl in whose eyes was the love-dream, now she was the placid Madonna, now a passion would burn in her cheeks, now the lips curved sadly. Filippo did not know which feature was love- liest. He would look into her eyes and wor- ship their dreamy lustre ; he would look long at the golden light in her hair ; there was 105 106 Fra Lippo Lippi. her mouth so quivering and sensitive that it seemed formed to kiss rather than to be kissed, but the dimpled corners in which a little shadow hid, the soft curving under the chin, — ah ! that would tempt a stronger monk than Lippi ; — Jerome, Anthony, — what a vision was saved them ! Now with that look of divine contemplation she was not less pure than Mary when the winged spirit from Paradise came to bring the wondrous message. Sometime he would paint another Annunziata. Mary — with Lucrezia's face of course — should kneel with bowed head and downcast eyes before Gabriel, who should bear neither lily nor sceptre, but with folded hands should bow before the Chosen One. It is the moment she says : " Behold the hand- maid of the Lord." The Ave Maria would always bring this vision to him. It had been a full month since Lippi began to paint the face of the Madonna ; all else was finished, but that still remained. The Abbess, though rejoiced at the sweet spiritual light shining from the uplifted face of the ^ of