The Coming-out Party.
Like the swell of some sweet tune,
Morning rises into noon,
May glides onward into June.
—Longfellow.
PALAZZO PITTI, FLORENCE.
"Well, have you seen Ghirlandajo's work?" asked Mr. Sumner, the next time the little group met in the library.
"Only his frescoes in Santa Maria Novella. We have spent two entire mornings looking at those," answered Bettina.
"We took your list of the portraits there with us, uncle," said Malcom, "and tried to get acquainted with those old Florentine bishops, bankers, and merchants that he painted."
"And oh! isn't that Ginevra de' Benci in the Meeting of Mary and Elizabeth lovely! and her golden brocaded dress!" cried Margery.
"You pay quite a compliment to the old painter's power of representing men and women," said Mr. Sumner, "for these evidently captivated you. I wish I could have overheard you talking by yourselves."
"I fear we could not appreciate the best things, though," said Barbara. "We imagined ourselves in old Florence of the fifteenth century, and tried to recognize the mountains and palaces in the backgrounds, and we enjoyed the people and admired their fine clothes. I do think, however, that these last seem often too stiff and as if made of metal rather than of silk, satin, or cloth. And when Howard told us that Mr. Ruskin says 'they hang from the figures as they would from clothes-pegs,' we could but laugh, and think he is right with regard to some of them. Ought we to admire everything in these old pictures, Mr. Sumner?" she earnestly added.
"Not at all; not by any means. I would not have you think this for a moment. Ghirlandajo's paintings are famous and worthy because they are such an advance on what was before him. Compare his men and women with those by Giotto. You know how much you found of interest and to admire in Giotto's pictures when you compared them with Cimabue's and with the old Greek Byzantine paintings. Just so compare those by Masaccio and Ghirlandajo with what was done before. See the growth,—the steady evolution,—and realize that Ghirlandajo was honest and earnest, and gifted too; that his drawing is firm and truer to nature than that of most contemporary artists; that his portraits possess character; that they are well-bred and important, as the people they represent were; that his mountains are like mountains even in some of their subtile lines; that his rivers wind; that his masses of architecture are in good perspective and proportion; and then you will excuse his faults, though it is right to notice and feel them. We must see many in the work of every artist until we come to the great painters of the High Renaissance. You must find Ghirlandajo's other pictures, and study them also."
"Now about Botticelli," he added. A little rustle of expectancy swept through the group of listeners. Bettina drew nearer Barbara and clasped her hand; and all settled themselves anew with an especial air of interest. "I see you, like most other people, care more for him. He is immensely popular at present. It is quite the fashion to admire him. But, strangely enough, only a few years ago little was known or cared about his work, and his name is not even mentioned by some writers on art. He was first a goldsmith like Ghirlandajo, then afterward became a pupil of Fra Filippo Lippi, father of the Filippino Lippi who finished Masaccio's frescoes in the Brancacci Chapel. Botticelli wrought an immense service to painting by widening greatly the field of subjects hitherto assigned to it, which had been confined to Bible incidents. Others, contemporary with him, were beginning to depart slightly from these subjects in response to the desires of the pleasure-loving Florentines of that day; but Botticelli was the first to come deliberately forth and make art minister to the pleasure and education of the secular as well as the religious world. By nature he loved myths, fables, and allegories, and freely introduced them into his pictures. He painted Venuses, Cupids, and nymphs just as willingly as Madonnas and saints.
"I hope you will read diligently about him. The story of how his pictures, and those of other artists who were influenced by him, led to the protest which Savonarola (who lived at the same time) made against the 'corrupting influence of profane pictures' and his demand that bonfires should be made of them is most interesting. Botticelli devotedly contributed a large number of his paintings to the burning piles."
"But he painted religious pictures also, did he not?" queried Barbara.
"Oh, yes. His works were wrought in churches as well as in private houses and palaces. He even received the honor of being summoned to Rome by Pope Sixtus IV. to assist in the decoration of the Sistine Chapel of the Vatican, where Michael Angelo afterward performed his greatest work. There he painted three large religious frescoes—by the way, Ghirlandajo painted there also. Now we must find what is the charm in Botticelli's painting that accounts for the wonderful present interest in his work. I think it is in a large degree his attempt to put expression into faces. While Masaccio had taken a long step in advance of other artists by making man himself, rather than events, the chief interest in his pictures,—Botticelli, more imaginative and poetic, painted man's moods,—his subtile feelings. You are all somewhat familiar, through their reproductions, with his Madonna pictures. How do these differ from those of other painters?"
"The faces are less pretty."
"They are sad instead of joyous."
"In some the little Christ looks as though he were trying to comfort his mother."
"The angels look as if they longed to help both," were some of the quick answers.
"Yes; inner feelings, you see. Sometimes he put a crown of thorns somewhere in a picture, as if to explain its expressions. His Madonna is 'pondering these things,' as Scripture says, and the Child-Christ and angels are in intense sympathy with her. We long to look again and again at such pictures—they move us.
"Another characteristic of his work is the action—a vehement impetuous motion. You will find this finely illustrated in his Allegory of Spring, a very famous picture in the Academy. His type of figure and face is most easily recognizable; the limbs are long and slender, and often show through almost transparent garments; the hands are long and nervous; the faces are rather long also, with prominent rounded chins and full lips. He put delicate patterns of gold embroidery about the neck and wrists of the Madonna's gown and the edges of her mantle, and heaped gold all over the lights on the curled hair of her angels and other attendants. You can never mistake one of these pictures when once you have grown familiar with his style.
"I think you should study particularly his Allegory of Spring in the Academy for full length figures in motion. You will find the color of this picture happily weird to agree with the fantastic conception. Then in the Uffizi Gallery you will find several pictures of the Madonna; notable among them is his Coronation of the Virgin, painted, as he was fond of doing, on a round board. Such a picture is called a tondo. Here you will find all his characteristics.
BOTICELLI. UFFIZI GALLERY, FLORENCE. CORONATION OF THE VIRGIN.
"Study this first; study figures, faces, hands, and methods of technique; then see if you cannot readily find the other examples without your catalogue. A noted one is Calumny. This exemplifies strikingly Botticelli's power of expressing swift motion. In the Pitti Palace is a very interesting one called Pallas, or Triumph of Wisdom over Barbarity,—strangely enough, found only recently."
"Found only recently; how can that be, uncle?" quickly asked Malcom.
"The picture was known to have been painted, for Vasari described it in his 'Life of Botticelli,' but it was lost sight of until an Englishman discovered it in an old private collection which had been for many years in the Pitti Palace, suspected it to be the missing picture, and connoisseurs agree that it is genuine. There was a great deal of excitement here when the fact was made known. The figure of Pallas, in its clinging transparent garment, is strikingly beautiful, and characteristic of Botticelli. The picture was painted as a glorification of the wise reign of the Medici, who did so much for the intellectual advancement of Florence."
Then Mr. Sumner told them that he was to be absent from Florence for a week or two, and should be exceedingly busy for some time, and so would leave them to go on with their study of the pictures by themselves.
"I have been delighted," he said, "to know how much time you have spent in going again and again to the churches and galleries in order to become familiar with the painters whom we have especially considered. This is the real and the only way to make the study valuable. Do the same with regard to the pictures by Ghirlandajo and Botticelli, and if I have not given you enough to do until I am free again to talk with you, study the frescoes by Filippino Lippi in Santa Maria Novella, and compare them with those in the Brancacci Chapel; and his easel pictures in the Uffizi and Pitti Galleries. Get familiar also with his father's (Fra Filippo's) Madonna pictures. You will find in them a type of face so often repeated that you will always recognize it; it is just the opposite of Botticelli's,—short and childish, with broad jaws, and simple as childhood in expression. I shall be most interested to know what you have done, and what your thoughts have been."
"We certainly shall not do much but look at pictures for weeks to come, uncle; that is sure!" said Malcom, "for the girls are bewitched with them, and now that they think they can learn to know, as soon as they see it, a Giotto, a Fra Angelico, a Botticelli, or a Fra Filippo Lippi, they will be simply crazy. You ought to hear the learned way in which they are beginning to discourse about them. They don't do it when you are around."
"Oh, Malcom! who was it that must wait a few minutes longer, the other morning, in Santa Maria Novella in order to run downstairs and give one more look at Giotto's frescoes?" laughed Bettina.
Barbara's and Bettina's eighteenth birthday was drawing near. Mrs. Douglas had for a long time planned to give a party to them, and had fully arranged the details before she spoke of it to the girls.
"It shall be your 'coming-out party' here in Florence," she said; "not a large party, but a thoroughly pleasant and enjoyable one, I am sure."
And the circle of friends who were eager to know and to add to the pleasure of any one belonging to Robert Sumner seemed to ensure this. Mrs. Douglas further said that she did not wish them to give a thought to what they would wear on the occasion, but to leave everything with her. Every girl of eighteen years will readily understand what a flutter of joyous excitement Barbara and Bettina felt, and how they talked over the coming event, when they were alone. Finally Bettina asked:—
"Why does Mrs. Douglas do so much for us? How can we ever repay her?"
"We can never repay her, Betty," replied her sister. "Nor does she wish it. I do not know why she is so kind. She must love us, or,—perhaps it is because she is so fond of papa. Do you know, Betty, that our father once saved her life? She told me about it only yesterday, and I did not think to tell you last night, there was so much to talk about. It was when she was a little girl of twelve or thirteen years and papa was just beginning to practise. You know her father was very wealthy, and had helped him to get his profession because the two families were always so intimate. Well, Mrs. Douglas was so ill that three or four doctors said they could do nothing more for her, and she must die. Of course her father and mother were broken-hearted. And papa went to them, and for days and nights did not sleep and hardly ate, but was with her every moment; and the older doctors acknowledged that but for him she could never have lived.—And, just think! he never said a word about it to us!"
"Our father never talks of the good and noble things he does," said Bettina, proudly. "No wonder she loves him; but I do really think she loves us too. Only the other day Malcom said he should be jealous were it anybody but you and me. So I think all we can do is to keep on doing just as we have done, and love her more dearly than ever."
"I wonder if there are any other girls in the world so happy as we are," she added after a moment's silence—and the two pairs of brown eyes looked into each other volumes of tender sympathy and gladness.
What a day was that birthday! Barbara and Bettina will surely tell of it to their children and grandchildren! First of all came letters from the dear home—birthday letters which Mrs. Douglas had withheld for a day or two so that they should be read at the fitting time. Then the lovely gifts! From Margery, an exquisite bit of sculptured marble for each, chosen after much consultation with her uncle and many visits to Via dei Fossi; from Malcom, copies of two of Fra Angelico's musical Angels, each in a rich frame of Florentine hand-carving (for everything must be purely Florentine, all had agreed); from Mr. Sumner, portfolios of the finest possible photographs of the best works of Florentine masters from the very beginning down through the High Renaissance.
Mrs. Douglas gave them most lovely outfits for the party—gowns of white chiffon daintily embroidered—slippers, gloves—everything needful; while Howard had asked that he might provide all the flowers.
When finally Barbara and Bettina stood on either side of Mrs. Douglas in the floral bower where they received their guests, it was indeed as if they were in fairy-land. It did not seem possible that any more pink or white roses could be left in Florence, if indeed all Italy had not been laid under tribute,—so lavish had Howard been. Barbara carried white roses, and Bettina pink ones, and everywhere through the entire house were the exquisite things, peeping out from amidst the daintiest greens possible, or superb in the simplicity of their own magnificence.
The lovely American girls were the cynosure of all eyes, and the flattering things said to them by foreigners and Americans were almost enough to turn their heads. Mrs. Douglas was delighted with the simple frankness and dignity with which they met all.
"You may trust well-bred American girls anywhere," she said to her brother as she met him later in the evening, after all her guests had been welcomed, "especially such as are ours," and she called his attention to Barbara, who at that moment was approaching on the arm of a distinguished-looking man, who was evidently absorbed with his fair companion.
Perfectly unconscious of herself, she moved with so much of womanly grace that Robert Sumner was startled. She seemed like a stranger; this tall, queenly creature could not be the everyday Barbara who had been little more than a child to him. In passing she looked with a loving smile at Mrs. Douglas, and then for a moment her eyes with the light still in them met his, and slowly turned away. The soft flush on her cheek deepened, and Robert Sumner felt the swift blood surge back upon his heart until his head swam. When last had he seen such a look in woman's eyes? Ah! how he had loved those sweet dark eyes long years ago! Oh! the desolate longing!
Mrs. Douglas's look had followed Barbara—then had sought Bettina, who, with Margery by her side, was surrounded by a little group of admirers; so she was conscious of nothing unusual. But Miss Sherman, who stood near, had seen Barbara's flush and noted Mr. Sumner's momentary pallor, and afterward his evident effort to be just himself again. What could it mean? she thought.
All through the evening she had suffered from a little unreasonable jealousy as she had realized for the first time that these "Burnett girls,"—mere companions of Margery, as she had always thought of them,—were really young ladies, and most unusually beautiful ones, as she was forced to confess to herself. She envied them the occasion, the honor they gained through their intimate connection with Mr. Sumner and Mrs. Douglas, and the impression they were so evidently making on everybody. She was not broad or generous minded enough to be glad for the young girls from her own country as a nobler-minded woman would have been. But that there could be any especial feeling, or even momentary thought, between Mr. Sumner and Barbara was too absurd to be considered for a moment. That could not be.
Drawing near, she joined Mrs. Douglas and Mr. Sumner, and again sweetly congratulated them on the success of their party, the beauty of the rooms, etc.
"The young girls, too," she said, "I am sure do you great credit—quite grown-up they seem, I declare. What a difference clothes make, do they not? I have been a bit amused by some of their pretty airs, as an older woman could not fail to be," and an indulgent smile played about her lips.
As it was time to go to the dining room for refreshments, Mrs. Douglas, in accordance with a preconceived plan, asked her brother to lead the way with Miss Sherman. When Barbara entered the room soon after with Howard, she saw the two sitting behind the partial screen of a big palm. She felt a momentary wish that she could know what they were so earnestly talking about, and, presently, was conscious that Mr. Sumner's eyes sought her.
But how little she thought that she, herself, was the subject of their conversation, or rather of Miss Sherman's, who was saying how apparent the devotion of Mr. Sinclair was to every one, and that surely Barbara must reciprocate his feeling, else she would withdraw from him; and how pleasant it was to see such young people, just in the beginning of life, becoming so interested in each other; and how romantic to thus find each other in such a city as Florence; and what an advantage to become allied with such an old, wealthy family as the Sinclairs, and so on and on.