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<h2> CHAPTER XLVIII </h2>
<h3> [Beauty of Women—and of Old Masters] </h3>
<p><br/></p>
<p>In Milan we spent most of our time in the vast and beautiful Arcade or
Gallery, or whatever it is called. Blocks of tall new buildings of the
most sumptuous sort, rich with decoration and graced with statues, the
streets between these blocks roofed over with glass at a great height, the
pavements all of smooth and variegated marble, arranged in tasteful
patterns—little tables all over these marble streets, people sitting
at them, eating, drinking, or smoking—crowds of other people
strolling by—such is the Arcade. I should like to live in it all the
time. The windows of the sumptuous restaurants stand open, and one
breakfasts there and enjoys the passing show.</p>
<p>We wandered all over the town, enjoying whatever was going on in the
streets. We took one omnibus ride, and as I did not speak Italian and
could not ask the price, I held out some copper coins to the conductor,
and he took two. Then he went and got his tariff card and showed me that
he had taken only the right sum. So I made a note—Italian omnibus
conductors do not cheat.</p>
<p>Near the Cathedral I saw another instance of probity. An old man was
peddling dolls and toy fans. Two small American children bought fans, and
one gave the old man a franc and three copper coins, and both started
away; but they were called back, and the franc and one of the coppers were
restored to them. Hence it is plain that in Italy, parties connected with
the drama and the omnibus and the toy interests do not cheat.<br/> <br/>
<br/> <br/></p>
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<p>The stocks of goods in the shops were not extensive, generally. In the
vestibule of what seemed to be a clothing store, we saw eight or ten
wooden dummies grouped together, clothed in woolen business suits and each
marked with its price. One suit was marked forty-five francs—nine
dollars. Harris stepped in and said he wanted a suit like that. Nothing
easier: the old merchant dragged in the dummy, brushed him off with a
broom, stripped him, and shipped the clothes to the hotel. He said he did
not keep two suits of the same kind in stock, but manufactured a second
when it was needed to reclothe the dummy.<br/> <br/> <br/> <br/></p>
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<p>In another quarter we found six Italians engaged in a violent quarrel.
They danced fiercely about, gesticulating with their heads, their arms,
their legs, their whole bodies; they would rush forward occasionally with
a sudden access of passion and shake their fists in each other's very
faces. We lost half an hour there, waiting to help cord up the dead, but
they finally embraced each other affectionately, and the trouble was over.
The episode was interesting, but we could not have afforded all the time
to it if we had known nothing was going to come of it but a
reconciliation. Note made—in Italy, people who quarrel cheat the
spectator.</p>
<p>We had another disappointment afterward. We approached a deeply interested
crowd, and in the midst of it found a fellow wildly chattering and
gesticulating over a box on the ground which was covered with a piece of
old blanket. Every little while he would bend down and take hold of the
edge of the blanket with the extreme tips of his fingertips, as if to show
there was no deception—chattering away all the while—but
always, just as I was expecting to see a wonder feat of legerdemain, he
would let go the blanket and rise to explain further. However, at last he
uncovered the box and got out a spoon with a liquid in it, and held it
fair and frankly around, for people to see that it was all right and he
was taking no advantage—his chatter became more excited than ever. I
supposed he was going to set fire to the liquid and swallow it, so I was
greatly wrought up and interested. I got a cent ready in one hand and a
florin in the other, intending to give him the former if he survived and
the latter if he killed himself—for his loss would be my gain in a
literary way, and I was willing to pay a fair price for the item—but
this impostor ended his intensely moving performance by simply adding some
powder to the liquid and polishing the spoon! Then he held it aloft, and
he could not have shown a wilder exultation if he had achieved an immortal
miracle. The crowd applauded in a gratified way, and it seemed to me that
history speaks the truth when it says these children of the south are
easily entertained.</p>
<p>We spent an impressive hour in the noble cathedral, where long shafts of
tinted light were cleaving through the solemn dimness from the lofty
windows and falling on a pillar here, a picture there, and a kneeling
worshiper yonder. The organ was muttering, censers were swinging, candles
were glinting on the distant altar and robed priests were filing silently
past them; the scene was one to sweep all frivolous thoughts away and
steep the soul in a holy calm. A trim young American lady paused a yard or
two from me, fixed her eyes on the mellow sparks flecking the far-off
altar, bent her head reverently a moment, then straightened up, kicked her
train into the air with her heel, caught it deftly in her hand, and
marched briskly out.<br/> <br/> <br/> <br/></p>
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<p>We visited the picture-galleries and the other regulation "sights" of
Milan—not because I wanted to write about them again, but to see if
I had learned anything in twelve years. I afterward visited the great
galleries of Rome and Florence for the same purpose. I found I had learned
one thing. When I wrote about the Old Masters before, I said the copies
were better than the originals. That was a mistake of large dimensions.
The Old Masters were still unpleasing to me, but they were truly divine
contrasted with the copies. The copy is to the original as the pallid,
smart, inane new wax-work group is to the vigorous, earnest, dignified
group of living men and women whom it professes to duplicate. There is a
mellow richness, a subdued color, in the old pictures, which is to the eye
what muffled and mellowed sound is to the ear. That is the merit which is
most loudly praised in the old picture, and is the one which the copy most
conspicuously lacks, and which the copyist must not hope to compass. It
was generally conceded by the artists with whom I talked, that that
subdued splendor, that mellow richness, is imparted to the picture by <i>age</i>.
Then why should we worship the Old Master for it, who didn't impart it,
instead of worshiping Old Time, who did? Perhaps the picture was a
clanging bell, until Time muffled it and sweetened it.<br/> <br/> <br/>
<br/></p>
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<p>In conversation with an artist in Venice, I asked: "What is it that people
see in the Old Masters? I have been in the Doge's palace and I saw several
acres of very bad drawing, very bad perspective, and very incorrect
proportions. Paul Veronese's dogs to not resemble dogs; all the horses
look like bladders on legs; one man had a <i>right</i> leg on the left side of
his body; in the large picture where the Emperor (Barbarossa?) is
prostrate before the Pope, there are three men in the foreground who are
over thirty feet high, if one may judge by the size of a kneeling little
boy in the center of the foreground; and according to the same scale, the
Pope is seven feet high and the Doge is a shriveled dwarf of four feet."</p>
<p>The artist said:</p>
<p>"Yes, the Old Masters often drew badly; they did not care much for truth
and exactness in minor details; but after all, in spite of bad drawing,
bad perspective, bad proportions, and a choice of subjects which no longer
appeal to people as strongly as they did three hundred years ago, there is
a <i>something</i> about their pictures which is divine—a something which
is above and beyond the art of any epoch since—a something which
would be the despair of artists but that they never hope or expect to
attain it, and therefore do not worry about it."</p>
<p>That is what he said—and he said what he believed; and not only
believed, but felt.</p>
<p>Reasoning—especially reasoning, without technical knowledge—must
be put aside, in cases of this kind. It cannot assist the inquirer. It
will lead him, in the most logical progression, to what, in the eyes of
artists, would be a most illogical conclusion. Thus: bad drawing, bad
proportion, bad perspective, indifference to truthful detail, color which
gets its merit from time, and not from the artist—these things
constitute the Old Master; conclusion, the Old Master was a bad painter,
the Old Master was not an Old Master at all, but an Old Apprentice. Your
friend the artist will grant your premises, but deny your conclusion; he
will maintain that notwithstanding this formidable list of confessed
defects, there is still a something that is divine and unapproachable
about the Old Master, and that there is no arguing the fact away by any
system of reasoning whatsoever.</p>
<p>I can believe that. There are women who have an indefinable charm in their
faces which makes them beautiful to their intimates, but a cold stranger
who tried to reason the matter out and find this beauty would fail. He
would say of one of these women: This chin is too short, this nose is too
long, this forehead is too high, this hair is too red, this complexion is
too pallid, the perspective of the entire composition is incorrect;
conclusion, the woman is not beautiful. But her nearest friend might say,
and say truly, "Your premises are right, your logic is faultless, but your
conclusion is wrong, nevertheless; she is an Old Master—she is
beautiful, but only to such as know her; it is a beauty which cannot be
formulated, but it is there, just the same."<br/> <br/> <br/> <br/></p>
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<p>I found more pleasure in contemplating the Old Masters this time than I
did when I was in Europe in former years, but still it was a calm
pleasure; there was nothing overheated about it. When I was in Venice
before, I think I found no picture which stirred me much, but this time
there were two which enticed me to the Doge's palace day after day, and
kept me there hours at a time. One of these was Tintoretto's three-acre
picture in the Great Council Chamber. When I saw it twelve years ago I was
not strongly attracted to it—the guide told me it was an
insurrection in heaven—but this was an error.</p>
<p>The movement of this great work is very fine. There are ten thousand
figures, and they are all doing something. There is a wonderful "go" to
the whole composition. Some of the figures are driving headlong downward,
with clasped hands, others are swimming through the cloud-shoals—some
on their faces, some on their backs—great processions of bishops,
martyrs, and angels are pouring swiftly centerward from various outlying
directions—everywhere is enthusiastic joy, there is rushing movement
everywhere. There are fifteen or twenty figures scattered here and there,
with books, but they cannot keep their attention on their reading—they
offer the books to others, but no one wishes to read, now. The Lion of St.
Mark is there with his book; St. Mark is there with his pen uplifted; he
and the Lion are looking each other earnestly in the face, disputing about
the way to spell a word—the Lion looks up in rapt admiration while
St. Mark spells. This is wonderfully interpreted by the artist. It is the
master-stroke of this imcomparable painting.<br/> <br/> <br/> <br/></p>
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<p>I visited the place daily, and never grew tired of looking at that grand
picture. As I have intimated, the movement is almost unimaginably
vigorous; the figures are singing, hosannahing, and many are blowing
trumpets. So vividly is noise suggested, that spectators who become
absorbed in the picture almost always fall to shouting comments in each
other's ears, making ear-trumpets of their curved hands, fearing they may
not otherwise be heard. One often sees a tourist, with the eloquent tears
pouring down his cheeks, funnel his hands at his wife's ear, and hears him
roar through them, "<i>Oh, to be there and at rest</i>!"<br/> <br/> <br/> <br/></p>
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<p><br/> <br/> <br/> <br/></p>
<p>None but the supremely great in art can produce effects like these with
the silent brush.</p>
<p>Twelve years ago I could not have appreciated this picture. One year ago I
could not have appreciated it. My study of Art in Heidelberg has been a
noble education to me. All that I am today in Art, I owe to that.</p>
<p>The other great work which fascinated me was Bassano's immortal Hair
Trunk. This is in the Chamber of the Council of Ten. It is in one of the
three forty-foot pictures which decorate the walls of the room. The
composition of this picture is beyond praise. The Hair Trunk is not hurled
at the stranger's head—so to speak—as the chief feature of an
immortal work so often is; no, it is carefully guarded from prominence, it
is subordinated, it is restrained, it is most deftly and cleverly held in
reserve, it is most cautiously and ingeniously led up to, by the master,
and consequently when the spectator reaches it at last, he is taken
unawares, he is unprepared, and it bursts upon him with a stupefying
surprise.</p>
<p>One is lost in wonder at all the thought and care which this elaborate
planning must have cost. A general glance at the picture could never
suggest that there was a hair trunk in it; the Hair Trunk is not mentioned
in the title even—which is, "Pope Alexander III. and the Doge Ziani,
the Conqueror of the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa"; you see, the title is
actually utilized to help divert attention from the Trunk; thus, as I say,
nothing suggests the presence of the Trunk, by any hint, yet everything
studiedly leads up to it, step by step. Let us examine into this, and
observe the exquisitely artful artlessness of the plan.</p>
<p>At the extreme left end of the picture are a couple of women, one of them
with a child looking over her shoulder at a wounded man sitting with
bandaged head on the ground. These people seem needless, but no, they are
there for a purpose; one cannot look at them without seeing the gorgeous
procession of grandees, bishops, halberdiers, and banner-bearers which is
passing along behind them; one cannot see the procession without feeling
the curiosity to follow it and learn whither it is going; it leads him to
the Pope, in the center of the picture, who is talking with the bonnetless
Doge—talking tranquilly, too, although within twelve feet of them a
man is beating a drum, and not far from the drummer two persons are
blowing horns, and many horsemen are plunging and rioting about—indeed,
twenty-two feet of this great work is all a deep and happy holiday
serenity and Sunday-school procession, and then we come suddenly upon
eleven and one-half feet of turmoil and racket and insubordination. This
latter state of things is not an accident, it has its purpose. But for it,
one would linger upon the Pope and the Doge, thinking them to be the
motive and supreme feature of the picture; whereas one is drawn along,
almost unconsciously, to see what the trouble is about. Now at the very
<i>end</i> of this riot, within four feet of the end of the picture, and full
thirty-six feet from the beginning of it, the Hair Trunk bursts with an
electrifying suddenness upon the spectator, in all its matchless
perfection, and the great master's triumph is sweeping and complete. From
that moment no other thing in those forty feet of canvas has any charm;
one sees the Hair Trunk, and the Hair Trunk only—and to see it is to
worship it. Bassano even placed objects in the immediate vicinity of the
Supreme Feature whose pretended purpose was to divert attention from it
yet a little longer and thus delay and augment the surprise; for instance,
to the right of it he has placed a stooping man with a cap so red that it
is sure to hold the eye for a moment—to the left of it, some six
feet away, he has placed a red-coated man on an inflated horse, and that
coat plucks your eye to that locality the next moment—then, between
the Trunk and the red horseman he has intruded a man, naked to his waist,
who is carrying a fancy flour-sack on the middle of his back instead of on
his shoulder—this admirable feat interests you, of course—keeps
you at bay a little longer, like a sock or a jacket thrown to the pursuing
wolf—but at last, in spite of all distractions and detentions, the
eye of even the most dull and heedless spectator is sure to fall upon the
World's Masterpiece, and in that moment he totters to his chair or leans
upon his guide for support.<br/> <br/> <br/> <br/></p>
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<p>Descriptions of such a work as this must necessarily be imperfect, yet
they are of value. The top of the Trunk is arched; the arch is a perfect
half-circle, in the Roman style of architecture, for in the then rapid
decadence of Greek art, the rising influence of Rome was already beginning
to be felt in the art of the Republic. The Trunk is bound or bordered with
leather all around where the lid joins the main body. Many critics
consider this leather too cold in tone; but I consider this its highest
merit, since it was evidently made so to emphasize by contrast the
impassioned fervor of the hasp. The highlights in this part of the work
are cleverly managed, the <i>motif</i> is admirably subordinated to the ground
tints, and the technique is very fine. The brass nail-heads are in the
purest style of the early Renaissance. The strokes, here, are very firm
and bold—every nail-head is a portrait. The handle on the end of the
Trunk has evidently been retouched—I think, with a piece of chalk—but
one can still see the inspiration of the Old Master in the tranquil,
almost too tranquil, hang of it. The hair of this Trunk is <i>real</i> hair—so
to speak—white in patches, brown in patches. The details are finely
worked out; the repose proper to hair in a recumbent and inactive attitude
is charmingly expressed. There is a feeling about this part of the work
which lifts it to the highest altitudes of art; the sense of sordid
realism vanishes away—one recognizes that there is <i>soul</i> here.</p>
<p>View this Trunk as you will, it is a gem, it is a marvel, it is a miracle.
Some of the effects are very daring, approaching even to the boldest
flights of the rococo, the sirocco, and the Byzantine schools—yet
the master's hand never falters—it moves on, calm, majestic,
confident—and, with that art which conceals art, it finally casts
over the <i>tout ensemble</i>, by mysterious methods of its own, a subtle
something which refines, subdues, etherealizes the arid components and
endures them with the deep charm and gracious witchery of poesy.</p>
<p>Among the art-treasures of Europe there are pictures which approach the
Hair Trunk—there are two which may be said to equal it, possibly—but
there is none that surpasses it. So perfect is the Hair Trunk that it
moves even persons who ordinarily have no feeling for art. When an Erie
baggagemaster saw it two years ago, he could hardly keep from checking it;
and once when a customs inspector was brought into its presence, he gazed
upon it in silent rapture for some moments, then slowly and unconsciously
placed one hand behind him with the palm uppermost, and got out his chalk
with the other. These facts speak for themselves.<br/> <br/> <br/> <br/></p>
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