Silvio Bartholi, Painter. A story of Siena

Chapter I

'■' God's fashion is another, day by day, And year by year He tarrieth ; Uttle need The Lord should hasten ; whom He loves the most, He seeks not of tenest, nor wooes him long, But by denial quickens his desire, And, in forgetting, best remembers him." — F. Myers. " Tantum ergo Sacr amentum, Veneremur cerum," sang the white-robed choir. And the silver censer swung high, swung low, whbe the deep-toned organ rolled forth its mighty diapason, and the grey-haired Cardinal Arch bishop, in gorgeous golden vestment, gave the Benediction, and all the assembled canons bowed low in adoration, and the great and mingled throng of worshippers bowed low. Then the sweet, sbvery echoes of the music died away, even as the memory of some past joy dies away, softer and softer, ceasing at last altogether, and the white-robed procession filed back into the sacristy.

A And, when ab was over, the worshippers rose from their knees and pressed into the little chapel in the Cathedral of Siena, which was re opened at Solemn Vespers and Benediction this night. "It is more rich and beautiful than any of the other chapels," was the remark of the old sacristan to one and another as they passed him, waiting there to extinguish the lights. "Ab do say so that know anything about it." " And it is a Sienese painter, is it not, who has done it all ? " " Dio mio / To be sure it is ; why, Sbvio Bar thob. We don't want to fetch any other painters here ; he can beat them all." And the country women, in their white flap ping straw hats, who bad walked in some miles to the grand function at the Duomo, of which they were so proud, asked, "What is bis name ? " as they bent their heads together, ab anxious to carry back accurately to their homes in the far lying pillages the name of the painter who had done so great things.

" That's him there," whispered the sacristan, pointing to a thin, grey -haired figure rising from his knees in a far corner, and passing down the nave with his daughter beside him. " Why, he is quite an old man ! " said a young French painter, who was trying to think if he could not have done something better himself. " No wonder if it is not quite up to date." "I don't know what you mean by 'up to date,'" remarked a painter from Rome, who had been examining each fresco very narrowly. " It is quite the most beautiful piece of modern work I have ever seen, and I have seen a good deal, I can tell you." So the young Frenchman slunk into the back ground : he had not known he was speaking in the presence of an artist. "Da robur,fer auxilium," murmured tbe old painter to himself as the echo of the music rung on in his heart and brain while he walked sbently home, his daughter knowing his mood too web to disturb him by irrelevant talk.

" Yes, I shall need it all now ; He only knows how I shall bear it, and what wbl be the end of it all." Meantime, in the sacristy, the Archbishop had been disrobed and had proceeded to his ancient palace hard by ; the other priests from the various churches of the city had gone their different ways, so too most of the canons, except some few who had business in the Cathedral that detained them. One of these, when he had finished, lingered some time in the newly-decorated chapel to examine the pictures. His was a thoughtful and benevolent face, deeply lined with many an anxious furrow, and the muscles round the mouth expressed a sensitive nature. The light-blue eyes had a far-away, dreamy look in them, as though his thoughts and prayers carried him to greater heights than his fellows. He stood some time before several of the pictures, shading his eyes with his hand as he stood there, evidently deeply interested.

" Yes, a fine conception that," as he remarked the central figure of the Madonna and Chbd, adored by angels. " Nothing earthly about that — holy, heavenly, blessed." And he sighed, as though the picture touched some chord in his mind that was painful. Long he stood there, and it was not of art that he now thought, not of Raffaehe, nor of Sodoma, nor yet of Perugino, but rather of the great mystery summed up in the Creed in these simple words, " He was made man." Wearily be passed his hand across his brow, as though he would fain also smoothe the troubled thoughts that often dwelt there. A few moments he knelt in silent prayer, and then returned to his study, where his well-filled bookshelves told of his studious tastes. A few good oil-paintings of the Saints hung on the walls, but besides these the room was bare of ornament.

All his life Ambrogio Darcb had been a patient student. He came of a good stock, and the name of " Dardi " was much revered in Rome, and he was proud to bear it. His early life had been passed in a Jesuit college, where the deep learning of the fathers had aroused in him a desire for knowledge which was not too easby satisfied. He had an excellent classical know ledge, far surpassing that of most of his con temporaries ; had carefully studied history, both ancient and modern. Astronomy had opened out to him new worlds of thought. The poetry of Greece, of Spain, of France, of England, as well as that of his own country, had been easby committed to memory, and as easily retained. In early bfe he had been the author of various scholarly translations that had marked him out as a phbologist of no mean type, as well as of several theological treatises, which were widely read by students.

In later life, when men had asked him why he did not turn his learning to account, and pubbsh more of his writings, he would shake his head somewhat sadly and say : " There are times in life when we do better to think than to write." And think he did ; as he said his daby Mass and Offices, as he swabowed his hasty meals and took his daily stroll, as he lay down to rest, and as he rose up again. And Don Ambrogio's interests were the interests of the Church at large. He had visited some of the Jesuit settlements, both in North and South America. He had spent a couple of years in the deserts of Africa, actively engaged in mission work among the natives. In Turkey and Armenia he had deeply regretted the divergence between Eastern and Western Christendom. In England he had mourned over that great nation being lost to the Western Church, a prey to Protestantism, and had set himself to think whether it was through any error of judgment that she had been suffered to alienate herself from Rome.

In Rome he had lifted up his voice, somewhat too loudly his brethren said, against what he deemed modern innovations. And men told him, moreover, that he had lost his chance of a vacant See by so doing. But Ambrogio's was a simple and gubeless nature in spite of his great learning, and he had never coveted honours or high places any more than he had ever coveted wealth or luxury. Ab he asked was to be allowed to follow on his own path, walking in the light of truth. And yet that seemed to be just the boon that was not to be granted him. "Truth, what is Truth?" he asked himself, as he pondered deeply over a new volume that had recently been put forth by a Cardinal highly esteemed at the Vatican, whose doo-niatic acumen was said to have been highly commended by the Holy Father. " Is this what the Church has ever held, and what she will ever hold ?

Is it some portion of the whole Truth, or is it not ? " And he would turn to his volumes of the Fathers bearing upon the point in question, would study his own marginal notes made years before, would read and read again, lean back wearily in his chair, with his nervous, blue-veined, slender hands clasped over his head. Sometimes it would be a sermon preached by one of the Cathedral dignitaries, to which he listened from his stab with his head bent in his hand, as he fobowed on the argument which, by the support of many carefully chosen authorities, was said to be the true teaching of the Cathohc Church. "Redde me intelligentem, ut discam prœcepta tua," he murmured in his heart. He had under taken to act as chaplain to the Hospital of Santa Maria della Scala, in the Piazza del Duomo ; and as he passed noiselessly about among the sick and suffering, commending their souls when de parting to their Heavenly Father, all his doubts and difficulties would disperse as the darkling mists of night before the rising sun.

Very assiduous he was in his ministrations to these poor suffering folk, often getting up from his studies to go across to the Hospital and recite some prayers by the bedside of some one among them thought to be near his end. " What a beautiful face he has ! " some of the other patients would say ; " it is like the face of an angel." Deeply penetrated with humility and with a sense of his own shortcomings, he shrank from undertaking the direction of souls ; and yet hi such veneration was he held, both for his piety and for his learning, that his counsel and guidance were more sought for than was the case with any of his brethren. Far and wide, people came to see good Don Ambrogio. He was the conductor of many retreats, the preacher of many missions. But the honour in which he was held only served to render him more thoroughly humble and self-sacrificing.

The ideal he had set before himself was one that drew him to greater and yet greater heights of hobness. Sempre diritto was the principle upon which he ever strove to act.

Chapter II

" While Art Sets action on the top of suffering ; The artist's part is both to be and do. Transfixing with a special central power The flat experience of the common man, And turning outward, with a sudden wrench, Half-agony, half-ecstasy, the thing He feels the inmost — never felt the less Because he sings it." — E. B. Browning. " What wib you paint me the Sibyl for ? " The painter turned aside to hide a smbe. " You must teb me which Sibyl you want." The Englishman started, but he was not going to show his ignorance, and said, " Of course, of course," whbe the painter went on to explain — "There are many; the Persian Sibyl, the Samian, the Delphic " " Why, the one you did in the Palazzo C , to be sure." " Oh yes, the Persian Sibyl." " I am not a rich man," continued Mr Monk house, " but I want to give it to my brother.

Now, I can't pay a big price." " I wbl do it for 2000 bre." " Oh, that is too much by far," repbed the Englishman. " I can't go beyond 1000." " Then don't come to me ; and excuse me, I am very much occupied," and Sbvio Barthob, for it was he, turned rather impatient glances upon the unfinished picture of the Magdalene that stood on his easel. " Why, I thought times were bad with artists just now, and that you could not seb your pictures when you had painted them ? " " That is neither here nor there," replied Silvio. " I am staying at the Continental Hotel for one night," continued Mr Monkhouse, " and when I was up at the Cathedral just now, they pointed out your work to me, and said you were by far the best painter, so I thought I could not do better than give you my commission." " You asked me to name my price, and I have done so," replied Shvio.

" If it does not suit you, well " and a shrug of his shoulders finished the sentence. " Well, then, if you are sure it wib be a really good work of art ? " Silvio smbed somewhat grimly, conscious of his power, and thought within himself: "These English are simply unbearable. Art ! Why, they know no more of it than the Hebrews. All they think of is the money a painting is worth." A few more words passed, and finally the order was given, so Silvio bowed the stranger out. Coming back to his studio, he set to work again on the drapery of his Magdalene, but he was ruffled. Nothing would go right, and laying down his palette, he began to search in a portfolio for some sketches he wanted. " Veniet nox, quum nemo potest operare " kept recurring to him, and urging him forward, as it were. He was bending over these sketches, deep in thought, when the door opened and his daughter came in.

Going up to her father, she kissed him, looking up lovingly into his face wrinkled with many anxious thoughts, for Silvio's art cost him much thought and anxiety as well as labour. "Padre mio, you won't forget that to-day is Montaperto day,1 and you promised to take me to the Lizza, to hear the music and see all the smart dresses. I have been waiting very patiently till five o'clock, but now I am dressed, father." " Well, then, a promise is a promise, is it not, child ? I am ready to do your will," and put ting on his coat which hung on a peg near the door, for he had been working in his shirt sleeves, he prepared to follow her. 1 The day of the great victory of Montaperto is still observed as a great festa at Siena. " Not your old coat, father dear, for everyone will be in their best, and you must be smart too," as she helped him on with his newer coat.

" Ozfu giammai gente si vana come la Sanese!" with a twinkle in his eyes. "Dante is quite right, my dear." "Oh, father, wib you never forget that old thing ? " she retorted merrby enough. Up the Via Ricasoli they passed, hard by the stately old Palazzo Pubblico, with its flag wav ing proudly hi honour of the renowned Sienese victory, and made their way through the throng of holiday-makers in the Via Cavour. Clearly they were weh known in Siena. Many were the hats raised to the grey-haired painter, as, with erect form and rather haughty bearing, he passed among them. For Shvio's was rather a haughty nature, though a more lovable one could not be found. Sthl he was a man who required to be known. Sensitive to a fault, he often covered his sensitiveness by a mask of hardness, and people cahed him unapproachable.

Perhaps he was, though none would have said so who saw him with his daughter. She was chatting merrby to him as they passed alono-, all life and animation ; and when they reached the Lizza, they made their way to a seat over shadowed by a spreading acacia, and there they listened to the band. They sat there some time, watching the gaily-dressed people passing to and fro, many of whom stopped to talk to them. Much to Vera's delight, the Cardinal- Archbishop, who was strolling about with two of the canons, came up to her father, shook him warmly by the hand, and asked what pictures he had now on hand. " We shall want you again by and by, at the Duomo, you know. Your work is the best there ; every one says so who is any judge," and they passed on. "Fancy the Archbishop stopping to speak to us !

" " Well, my dear, what of that ? " " Is it not an honour ? Of course, father dear, I know they ought all to bow down before you anywhere, but somehow I forget that sometimes, forget that you are anything except just my father. Oh, there is Luigi come out to join us ; he is looking about for us." Another moment, and they were joined by a young man of middle height, with pale, delicate features, slight, and, like so many of the Sienese, fair, with blue eyes, and a somewhat æsthetic look. "Luigi, my boy, it is pleasant to have you with us again. I was afraid you might not have time to come. I had hardly time to see you this morning. He looks well, does he not, Vera?" " Very well," she repbed with a blush, thinking how much handsomer and more manly looking Luigi had grown. He had rather an uneasy countenance, as if he would fain avoid meeting her eye.

On either side there was much to teb. But while Silvio and his daughter were keenly interested in ab that Luigi had to tell them of what he had see in Rome during his two years' absence, he, on bis part, did not seem to have any particular anxiety to hear news of their home or of Siena. His features wore a restless, anxious look, and he was evidently a good deal preoccupied. So at least thought Vera. It was easy to see how Shvio loved him, and yet he was not his son, only tbe son of his great friend, Nero Ferrari, at whose death, when the lad was only five years old, Sbvio had brought him home and been to him as a father. People had wondered at the time, and said Sbvio had difficulty enough to keep himself and his daughter without adding another member to their household, but the painter was not one to whom a suggestion would be easily made.

Perhaps they would have wondered more if they had known that Silvio had done this because of the love he had borne, long years before, to Luigi's mother. But she, or ere he had spoken to her of his love, had wedded his friend, and had then died a few months after giving birth to Luigi. Sbvio in his disappointment, and not from love, had wedded another, but it had not been a happy marriage ; and when his wife died, leaving him with his little daughter Vera, it seemed as if ab the love in Silvio's great heart, that had been pent up ab his life, could flow forth at last upon this little one, and, as a bttle child, she was hardly ever out of his studio. As sbe grew older, and began to develop ideas of her own as to the better economy of theh: httle abode, and wished to supervise tbe work of Mariana, their old servant, sbe could not be with him so much ; but stib there was the same sympathy and harmony between them, without any of the jarring notes which spob the harmony of many homes.

And Luigi, from the day that Silvio had brought him home, had but added to their happiness and bad not interrupted it. He had been welcomed and been loved by both of them. The tears would often rise in Silvio's eyes, though he took care tbat none should see them, when some gesture or tone of voice in the lad re called the memory of her he had loved. Vera had first rather patronised her little playfellow, who was, however, a year older than she was. " Luigi, you must not do this ; you are not a girl. Luigi, you ought to do that; every boy ought to know that." And Luigi did not resent his bttle monitress's reproofs, but bis love and his reverence went out both to her and ber father. He loved to stand and watch Sbvio at his easel, with wide-open blue eyes, whbe Vera never could bring herseh0 to care for pictures, and much preferred playing with and teaching her dob to any other amusement.

Meantime Sbvio worked on at his art. Great painter as he always had been, with lofty con ceptions, enthusiasm for his ideal, and a manual skill that surpassed most of bis contemporaries, it seemed as if the touch of baby fingers had been as the sun's first rays upon the old statue of Memnon, bringing out of it marvebous and wonderful sounds. Perhaps, just because he was a true painter, painted what his mind saw and what his heart felt, and not what pleased his fellow-men, it was that he was not a prosperous man. Many a picture he had had returned from the exhibitions to which he had sent them, hoping to have them admitted. Many a rich man had visited his studio, and had gone away with out having given an order for a picture, prefer ring those more in the modern, reabstic, and impressionist style.

And yet the consciousness of power sustained him. Proud man as regarded his fellow-men, be was a humble man in his art, groping after the noble and the beautiful, and con scious all the time that though much of it might have eluded his grasp, yet what he had was true, and no unreality. And when critics condemned this or that in his pictures, he would smile to himself, as their remarks only showed him how ignorant they were of true art as he understood it. The old masters were his masters. No mere passing admiration of their work, as depicted on the Academy wabs, but ab bis life he had had them before him, representing, as they did to him, all that was highest in Art, and he knew every line and shade of colour of Sodoma, of Memmi, of the brothers Lorenzetti. Siena was his native city, and, like ab the Sienese, he was very proud of the fact — proud of recalling tbe day when, marching out of the Gate Fontebrenda, she witb her smab army of brave men had completely overmastered her more numerous foes ; proud of the position also which she had attained in the world of Art.

The blue hibs that surround Siena may have been rather the boundary of his life's interests ; but then we must remember that his life lay not so much in the new, and the houses and the streets that were about his daby path, but in the past and in the future of his city, and so he did not become narrow or petty in his bfe. B

Chapter III

" Sow an act, reap a habit, Sow a habit, reap a character, Sow a character, reap a destiny." — Unknown. We have told how Luigi came to be an inmate of the little household. A fine little febow the lad was, very winning in his ways, one whom it was very difficult not to spob. He attended the school of San Francesco, ad joining the church of the same name, and the monks took great interest in the lad. All bis play-hours were spent in drawing, and Sbvio early saw and recognised his talent, and took the greatest pains in teaching him. He never praised the boy's work, was always pointing to greater and still greater heights to which he must attain, and yet in his own heart he often said : " The lad wbl be a great painter some day." And Luigi was con scious himself that he had talent, and went to his work with a good heart.

Early and late he laboured, following Silvio's example, till at last the doctor forbade his doing so much, and said if he had not more fresh air and exercise he would not answer for the consequences; so for the next year there was not much painting, but Sbvio sent the lad to play with his companions in all his leisure time until he grew ruddy and strong. But, unfortunately, Luigi was not the better moraby for this change of treatment. His was a character easby moulded for good or for evil, easby receiving the impress from those among whom he spent his time. When he had lived mostly in Silvio's studio, there could not have been a more dbigent, painstaking pupil. But thrown with other boys, playing with them day by day beneath the shadow of Fortress S. Barbera, by degrees he fell more into their ways, laughed with them when they laughed at the old-fashioned ways of all their elders — Sbvio included, joined with them in turning into ridicule the Church services, bstened ah too eagerly to the unbelieving theories that some of them had imbibed in other schools.

A change graduaby came over the lad, which was more noticed by bis companions than by Sbvio, per haps because Luigi was always more or less afraid of him, whbe with his companions he was at his ease. One day he had been out all day, and came in flushed and rather excited, when Silvio and Vera had half finished their evening meal. Sbvio was as usual engrossed in his own thoughts. He had a good deal of work on hand just then, and ate his food often without observing what it was, hurrying back to his studio, leaving the young people to finish theirs at leisure. Sometimes Vera would say rather reproachfuby, "Father, dear, don't you like this frittura ? It is my own making," and, startled, he would then reproach himself for not paying more attention to his chbd and his bttle household, On this occasion he just said to Luigi : " You are late, my boy ; I suppose you did not know the time," but he asked no questions.

His was a very trusting nature, and he believed others were as sincere as he himself was. Meanwhile Luigi was feeling very ill at ease, and tried to hide it by talking more than usual to Vera whbe the meal lasted, and then he went early to bed. The truth was he had been persuaded by some lads older than himself to go with them to Monteriggione, some miles off, where an annual festa was being observed. These lads were the sons of Carlo Realmi, also a painter in Siena, though of quite a different school to Silvio. Between these two there had always been a kind of unconscious rivalry. Both were equally good in their way as painters, but Silvio in his moral character stood much hio-her than his rival, who brought up his family very badly. His daughter Gigia was a showy, fast kind of girl, very different to Vera, who shrank from her instinctively.

But Luigi was rather attracted by her good looks, and she had gained a great ascendency over him, for which he was none the better. The two sons Carlo and Pietro it was who had persuaded Luigi to go with them to Monteriggione. Full of spirits and fun, they had been rather over noisy in the streets, and had come into contact with the police. The two brothers at sight of these had taken to their heels and fled, thinking it was very lucky Luigi only had been caught, and not themselves. Meantime Luigi had been taken to the police station, where, however, he only received a severe reprimand, and was allowed to return home. Naturally be smarted under the desertion of his friends, who had really been more to blame than he had. By the delay he had missed the train and had to walk home, which accounted for his being late.

The police had taken down his name and address, and he knew it was quite possible the inspector might call at his home, and his father would hear all about it. And sure enough the following day he did come, and Luigi thought he would never forget the shame of that day and Silvio's anger. What pained Sbvio so much was that the boy should not have told him himself. It was some time before he could quite treat him as before, his confidence was shaken for a time ; but Luigi bore his anger so web, and was so submissive, that after a time the offence was quite for gotten. It might perhaps have been better for a nature such as his if it had not been so easily lost sight of, better if he had earlier learnt that dis obedience brings unpleasant consequences in its rear. Vera, in her turn, was growing up a most engaging, lovable girl, not pretty — in fact, rather plain — but a helpful, womanly girl, of whom her father was justly proud.

She grew up with her patron saint, Santa Catherina, her ideal of all that was best and highest, as all Sienese girls ousht to do. At the Sisters' school which she attended she made great progress : her father was anxious to give her the best education possible, knowing that the time might come when she would have to support herself; so sbe learned French and music, besides the ordinary branches of education. When her school-time came to an end, the Sisters asked her if she would not like to join their Order, to which she gave a decided negative, saying that she would never leave her father. When she came home from school in the afternoons she always busied herself in mending her father's and Luigi's clothes, and in helping Mariana in her household work. She was not one to make many friends.