Stole he the rose, and whence the dew of morn,
Bidding them breathe and live in Beauty’s mould?
So we discussed the treasures which were laid out before me as I returned again and again to the Library. The illuminated volumes showed me that marvelous Book of Hours Francesco d’Antonio made for Lorenzo the Magnificent, which is described in an earlier chapter (page [146]); I became familiar with the gorgeous pages of Lorenzo Monaco, master of Fra Angelico; of Benozzo Gozzoli, whose frescoes give the Riccardi its greatest fame; of Gherado and Clovio, and other great artists whose names are unknown or forgotten.
Besides being librarian of the Laurenziana, Biagi was also custodian of the Buonarroti and the da Vinci archives. Thus it was that during some of my visits I had the opportunity to study the early sketches of the great Leonardo, and the manuscript letters of Michelangelo. Such intimacies gave me an understanding of the people and the times in which they worked that has clothed that period with an everlasting halo.
As our friendship expanded through our work together, Biagi introduced me to other fascinations, outside the Library. I came to know Pasquale Villari and other great Italian intellects. My friend and I planned Odysseys together,—to Vallombrosa, to Pisa, to Perugia, to Siena. We visited the haunts of Dante.
Nor was our conversation devoted wholly to the literary spirits of antiquity. One day something was said about George Eliot. I had always shared the common fallacy that she was entitled to be classified as the greatest realist of the analytical or psychological school; yet I had always marveled at the consummate skill which made it possible for her, in Romola, to draw her characters and to secure the atmosphere of veritable Italians and the truest Italy without herself having lived amongst the Florentines and assimilating those unique peculiarities which she so wonderfully portrayed. For I had accepted the myth that she had only passed through Italy on her memorable trip with the Brays in 1849, and secured her local color by study.
I made some allusion to this, and Biagi smiled.
“Where did you get that idea?” he asked. “Her diary tells you to the contrary.”
I could only confess that I had never read her diary.
“George Eliot and Lewes were in Florence together in 1861,” he continued; “and it was because they were here that Romola became a fact.”