I said this to Mr. Wake, who entirely agreed with me. Then he told me that one of the reasons that the Italians made such beautiful things was that they took a long time to doing it. A man named Orcagna who is dead—it is discouraging to think that every one who is great seems to have to be dead a long, long time—this man worked thirty years on a shrine that is in a church called Or San Michele. (It is a beautiful shrine of marble and silver and precious stones and lovely little carved figures) And Giotto died before his tower was finished—it looks like a slim lily where it stands by the side of the big fat Duomo—and Raphael was killed by working too hard over his pictures, and wasn’t allowed to marry because the Pope thought he should give all of his time to his work, which seems so sad to me. . . . I kept thinking for a long time, after Mr. Wake told me that, of how Raphael’s sweetheart must have felt when Raphael was buried at thirty-seven, for that isn’t so very old, after all.
As we stood there talking I saw Viola coming toward us, and after I had spoken quickly to Mr. Wake, I called to her, because I knew she was lonely.
“This is Viola,” I said to Mr. Wake, “her last name is Harris-Clarke, you say them both,” and then I added, to Viola, “We’re going to see this church. Do you want to go with us?”
“But how charming!” she murmured, “and this is Mr. Wake, of whom I have heard most pleasant things?”
Mr. Wake bowed from the waistline, but he didn’t seem especially pleased, or at all excited over the things she had heard of him and that did surprise me a lot!
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
STORIES, MUSIC AND TEA
That afternoon was pleasant, but I don’t think that’s the reason I remember it so clearly. A good many pleasant sight-seeing walks followed that have grown a little dim, even now. I think it fastened itself by my beginning to see Viola, and a side of her through which she was soon to hurt herself so cruelly. I discovered the side through a little comment of hers on a painting made by Andrea del Sarto, an artist who painted in Florence a good deal in the fourteen hundreds. They didn’t have any electric signs then, and so they used paint instead, and they spread this over the churches—both inside and out—because they were old fashioned and religious.
After Viola joined us Mr. Wake said, “The building we face, the one that has the della Robbia babies smiling down on you from the front of it, is a hospital for foundlings—little children whose parents die, or for some reason or other don’t want them—and it is called the ‘Innocenti,’ which means The Innocents, and there, years ago—probably some time in 1452—a little baby who was later called Leonardo da Vinci, found a home. It was rather well that he did, wasn’t it? And now shall we go into the church?”
“Let’s,” I answered, after I had taken a long look at the stern looking building that holds inside so much that is lovable. And then we went into Santissima Annunziata and after we had looked at the glittering Chapel of the “Annunciation Virgin” and some paintings Mr. Wake told us were wonderful, we went on into the cloisters.
As we got about half way in, Mr. Wake put his hand on my arm, drew me to a standstill, and Viola followed suit.