Chapter VII: THE SPELL of the LAURENZIANA 271 (6)

Morris was nearly sixty years of age when he finally settled upon the book as the medium through which to express his message to the world. The Morris wall papers, the Morris chair, the Morris end papers, are among his earlier experiments, all sufficiently unique to perpetuate his name; yet his work as a printer is what gave him undying glory. The _Kelmscott Chaucer_ is his masterpiece, and must be included whenever great typographic monuments are named. For this the decorator-printer cut a smaller size of his Gothic font, secured the co-operation of Sir Edward Burne-Jones as illustrator, and set himself the task of designing the initial letters, borders, and decorations. This was in 1892, and for four years they worked upon it, one delay following another to make Morris fearful that the work might never be completed.

From Photograph at the British Museum]

The decoration for the first page was finished in March, 1893. Morris was entirely satisfied with it, exclaiming, “My eyes! how good it is!” Then he laid the whole project aside for over a year, while he devoted himself to his metrical version of _Beowulf_. In the meantime Burne-Jones was experiencing great difficulty in having his designs satisfactorily translated onto wood, and Morris dolefully remarked, after comparing notes with his friend and collaborator, “We shall be twenty years at this rate in getting it out!”

It was June, 1894, before the great work was fairly under way. “_Chaucer_ getting on well,” Morris notes in his diary,--“such lovely designs.” At the end of June he records his expectation of beginning the actual printing within a month, and that in about three months more all the pictures and nearly all the borders would be ready for the whole of the Canterbury Tales.

About this time Morris was asked if he would accept the poet-laureateship of England, made vacant by Tennyson’s death, if offered to him, and he unhesitatingly declined. His health and strength were noticeably failing, yet at the beginning of 1895, less than two years before his death, he was completely submerged by multifarious occupations. Two presses were running upon the _Chaucer_ and still a third upon smaller books. He was designing new paper hangings and writing new romances; he was collaborating in the translation of _Heimskringla_ and was supervising its production for the Saga Library; he was engaged in getting together his splendid collection of thirteenth- and fourteenth-century illuminated manuscripts.

It was not all smooth sailing with the _Chaucer_. In 1895 Morris discovered that many of the sheets had become discolored by some unfortunate ingredient of the ink, but to his immense relief he succeeded in removing the yellow stains by bleaching. “The check of the _Chaucer_,” he writes, “flattens life for me somewhat, but I am going hard into the matter, and in about a fortnight hope to know the worst of it.”

In December the _Chaucer_ was sufficiently near completion to encourage him to design a binding for it. Even here he found another difficulty. “Leather is not good now,” he complained; “what used to take nine months to cure is now done in three. They used to say ‘What’s longest in the tanyard stays least time in the market,’ but that no longer holds good. People don’t know how to buy now; they’ll take anything.”

Morris’ anxiety over the _Chaucer_ increased as it came nearer to completion. “I’d like it finished tomorrow!” he exclaimed. “Every day beyond tomorrow that it isn’t done is one too many.” To a visitor, looking through the printed sheets in his library, who remarked upon the added beauty of those sheets that follow the Canterbury Tales, where the picture pages face one another in pairs, Morris exclaimed in alarm, “Now don’t you go saying that to Burne-Jones or he’ll be wanting to do the first part over again; and the worst of that would be that he’d want to do all the rest over again because the other would be so much better, and then we should never get done, but be always going round and round in a circle.”

The daily progress of the work upon the _Chaucer_ was the one interest that sustained his waning energies. The last three blocks were brought to him on March 21, 1896. The Easter holidays almost killed him. “Four mouldy Sundays in a mouldy row,” he writes in his diary. “The press shut and _Chaucer_ at a standstill.”

On May 6 all the picture sheets were printed and the block for the title page was submitted for Morris’ approval, the final printing being completed two days later. On June 2 the first two bound copies were delivered to him, one of which he immediately sent to Burne-Jones, the other he placed in his own library.

Thus the _Kelmscott Chaucer_ came to completion. Four months later William Morris was dead. The _Chaucer_ had been nearly five years in preparation and three and a half years in execution. The printing alone had consumed a year and nine months. The volumes contain, besides eighty-seven illustrations by Burne-Jones, a full-page woodcut title, fourteen large borders, eighteen frames for pictures, and twenty-six large initial words, all designed by Morris, together with the smaller initials and the design for binding, which was in white pigskin with silver clasps, executed by Douglas Cockerell.

I have never felt that the Kelmscott volumes were books at all, but were, rather, supreme examples of a master-decorator’s taste and skill. After all, a book is made to read, and the _Kelmscott Chaucer_ is made to be looked at. The principles which should control the design of the ideal book as laid down by William Morris cannot be improved upon, but when he undertook to put them into execution he found himself so wholly under the control of his decorating tendencies that he departed far from his text. William Morris’ work is far greater than is shown in the volumes he printed. He awoke throughout the world an interest in printing as an art beyond what any other man has ever accomplished, the results of which have been a vital factor in bringing modern bookmaking to its present high estate.

* * * * *

It remained for T. J. Cobden-Sanderson, Morris’ friend, admirer, and disciple, to put Morris’ principles into operation at the Doves Press, London, supplemented by Emery Walker, who designed the Doves type,--to me the most beautiful type face in existence. Cobden-Sanderson, undisturbed by counter interests, plodded along, producing volumes into which he translated Morris’ ideals far more consistently than did Morris himself. “The Book Beautiful,” Cobden-Sanderson wrote in his little masterpiece, _The Ideal Book_, “is a composite thing made up of many parts and may be made beautiful by the beauty of each of its parts--its literary content, its material or materials, its writing or printing, its illumination or illustration, its binding and decoration--of each of its parts in subordination to the whole which collectively they constitute; or it may be made beautiful by the supreme beauty of one or more of its parts, all the other parts subordinating or even effacing themselves for the sake of this one or more, and each in turn being capable of playing this supreme part and each in its own peculiar and characteristic way. On the other hand each contributory craft may usurp the functions of the rest and of the whole, and growing beautiful beyond all bounds ruin for its own the common cause.”

The _Doves Bible_ is Cobden-Sanderson’s masterpiece, and one turns to it with relief after the riotous beauty of the Morris pages. It is printed throughout in one size of type with no leads between the lines and with no paragraphs, the divisions being indicated by heavy paragraph marks. The only decorative feature of any description consists of exceedingly graceful initial letters at the beginning of each new book. The type is based flatly upon Jenson’s Roman face, and exactly answers Morris’ definition of the type ideal, “Pure in form, severe, without needless excrescences, solid without the thickening and thinning of the lines, and not compressed laterally.” The presswork is superb.

* * * * *

Surely no form of bibliomania can yield greater rewards in return for study and perseverance. The great typographical monuments, dating from 1456 to 1905, have given me a composite picture of man’s successful struggle to free himself from the bonds of ignorance. I have mingled with Lorenzo the Magnificent and with the oppressed people of Florence; I have been a part of François I’s sumptuous Court, and have seen the anxious faces of the clerical faction as they read the writing on the wall; I have listened to the preaching of Luther, and have heard the Spanish guns bombarding Antwerp; I have stood with the brave defenders of Leyden, and have watched the center of learning find its place in Holland; I have enjoyed Ben Franklin’s participation in the typographical efforts of Baskerville and Didot; I have received the inspiration of seeing William Morris and Cobden-Sanderson put a great art back into its rightful place. These triumphs of the printing press are far more than books. They stand as landmarks charting the path of culture and learning through four marvelous centuries

What volume of the twentieth century and what master-printer shall be included? That is yet to be determined by the test of retrospect; but the choice will be more difficult to make. In America and England history is being made in printing as an art, and the results are full of hopefulness and promise

VII

THE SPELL OF THE LAURENZIANA

The most fascinating city in all Europe is Florence, and the most alluring spot in all Florence is the Laurenziana Library. They say that there is something in the peculiar atmosphere of antiquity that reacts curiously upon the Anglo-Saxon temperament, producing an obsession so definite as to cause indifference to all except the magic lure of culture and learning. This is not difficult to believe after working, as I have, for weeks at a time, in a cell-like alcove of the Laurenziana; for such work, amid such surroundings, possesses an indescribable lure.

Yet my first approach to the Laurenziana was a bitter disappointment; for the bleak, unfinished façade is almost repelling. Perhaps it was more of a shock because I came upon it directly from the sheer beauty of the Baptistery and Giotto’s Campanile. Michelangelo planned to make this façade the loveliest of all in Florence, built of marble and broken by many niches, in each of which was to stand the figure of a saint. The plans, drawn before America was discovered, still exist, yet work has never even been begun. The façade remains unfinished, without a window and unbroken save by three uninviting doors.

Conquering my dread of disillusionment, I approached the nearest entrance, which happened to be that at the extreme right of the building and led me directly into the old Church of San Lorenzo. Drawing aside the heavy crimson curtains, I passed at once into a calm, majestic quiet and peace which made the past seem very near. I drew back into the shadow of a great pillar in order to gain my poise. How completely the twentieth century turned back to the fifteenth! On either side, were the bronze pulpits from which Savonarola thundered against the tyranny and intrigue of the Medici. I seemed to see the militant figure standing there, his eyes flashing, his voice vibrating as he proclaimed his indifference to the penalty he well knew he drew upon himself by exhorting his hearers to oppose the machinations of the powerful family within whose precincts he stood. Then, what a contrast! The masses vanished, and I seemed to be witnessing the gorgeous beauty of a Medici marriage procession. Alessandro de’ Medici was standing beneath a _baldacchino_, surrounded by the pomp and glory of all Florence, to espouse the daughter of Charles V. Again the scene changes and the colors fade. I leave my place of vantage and join the reverent throng surrounding the casket which contains the mortal remains of Michelangelo, and listen with bowed head to Varchi’s eloquent tribute to the great humanist.

The spell was on me! Walking down the nave, I turned to the left and found myself in the Old Sacristy. Verrocchio’s beautiful sarcophagus in bronze and porphyry recalled for a moment the personalities and deeds of Piero and Giovanni de’ Medici. Then on, into the “New” Sacristy,--new, yet built four centuries ago! Again I paused, this time before Michelangelo’s tomb for Lorenzo the Magnificent, from which arise those marvelous monuments, “Day and Night” and “Dawn and Twilight,”--the masterpieces of a super-sculptor to perpetuate the memory of a superman!

A few steps more took me to the Martelli Chapel, and, opening an inconspicuous door, I passed out into the cloister. It was a relief for the moment to breathe the soft air and to find myself in the presence of nature after the tenseness that came from standing before such masterpieces of man. Maurice Hewlett had prepared me for the “great, mildewed cloister with a covered-in walk all around it, built on arches. In the middle a green garth with cypresses and yews dotted about; when you look up, the blue sky cut square and the hot tiles of a huge dome staring up into it.”

From the cloister I climbed an ancient stone staircase and found myself at the foot of one of the most famous stairways in the world. At that moment I did not stop to realize how famous it was, for my mind had turned again on books, and I was intent on reaching the Library itself. At the top of the stairway I paused for a moment at the entrance to the great hall, the _Sala di Michelangiolo_. At last I was face to face with the Laurenziana!

Laurenziana Library, Florence]

Before I had completed my general survey of the room, an attendant greeted me courteously, and when I presented my letter of introduction to the librarian he bowed low and led me the length of the hall. The light came into the room through beautiful stained-glass windows, bearing the Medici arms and the cipher of Giulio de’ Medici, later Pope Clement VII, surrounded by arabesque Renaissance designs. We passed between the _plutei_, those famous carved reading-desks designed by Michelangelo. As we walked down the aisle, the pattern of the nutwood ceiling seemed reflected on the brick floor, so cleverly was the design reproduced in painted bricks. Gradually I became impressed by the immense size of the room, which before I had not felt because the proportions are so perfect.

Doctor Guido Biagi, who was at that time librarian, was seated at one of the _plutei_, studying a Medicean illuminated manuscript fastened to the desk by one of the famous old chains (see _page 14_). He was a Tuscan of medium height, rather heavily built, with full beard, high forehead, and kindly, alert eyes. The combination of his musical Italian voice, his eyes, and his appealing smile, made me feel at home at once. Letters of introduction such as mine were every-day affairs with him, and no doubt he expected, as did I, to have our meeting result in a few additional courtesies beyond what the tourist usually receives, and then that each would go his way. I little realized, as I presented my letter, that this meeting was to be so significant,--that the man whose hand I clasped was to become my closest friend, and that through him the Laurenziana Library was to be for me a sanctuary.

Librarian of the Laurenziana Library, Florence]

After the first words of greeting, I said,

“I am wondering how much more I can absorb today. By mistake I came in through the church, and found myself confronted by a series of masterpieces so overpowering that I am almost exhausted by the monuments of great personages and the important events they recall.”

“A fortunate mistake,” he replied smiling. “The entrance to the Library should be forever closed, and every one forced to come in through the church as you did, in order to absorb the old-world atmosphere, and be ready to receive what I can give.--So this is your first visit? You know nothing of the history of the Library?”

“Simply that everything was designed by Michelangelo,--and the names of some of the priceless manuscripts in your collection.”

“It is not quite exact to say that everything was designed by the great Buonarroti,” he corrected. “It was Michelangelo who conceived, but Vasari who designed and executed. Let me show you the letter the great artist wrote to Vasari about the stairway you just ascended” (_page 280_).

Leaving me for a moment he returned with a manuscript in his hand which he read aloud:

_There is a certain stair that comes into my thoughts like a
dream, _the letter ran_; but I don’t think it is exactly
the one which I had planned at the time, seeing that it appears
to be but a clumsy affair. I will describe it for you here,
nevertheless. I took a number of oval boxes, each about one
palm deep, but not of equal length and breadth. The first and
largest I placed on a pavement at such distance from the wall
of the door as seemed to be required by the greater or lesser
degree of steepness you may wish to give the stair. Over this
was placed another, smaller in all directions, and leaving
sufficient room on that beneath for the foot to rest on in
ascending, thus diminishing each step as it gradually retires
towards the door; the uppermost step being of the exact width
required for the door itself. This part of the oval steps must
have two wings, one right and one left, the steps of the wings
to rise by similar degree, but not be oval in form._

“Who but a great artist could visualize that marvelous staircase through a collection of wooden boxes!” Biagi exclaimed. “Vasari built this great room, but the designs were truly Michelangelo’s,--even to the carving of these _plutei_,” he added, laying his hand on the reading-desk from which he had just risen. “See these chains, which have held these volumes in captivity for over four hundred years.”

He asked me how long I was to be in Florence.

“For a week,” I answered, believing the statement to be truthful; but the seven days stretched out into many weeks before I was able to break the chains which held me to the Library as firmly as if they were the links which for so many years had kept the Medicean treasures in their hallowed places.

“Return tomorrow,” he said. “Enter by the private door, where Marinelli will admit you. I want to keep your mind wholly on the Library.”

Designed by Michelangelo]

The private door was the entrance in the portico overlooking the cloister, held sacred to the librarian and his friends. At the appointed hour I was admitted, and Marinelli conducted me immediately to the little office set apart for the use of the librarian.

“Before I exhibit my children,” he said, “I must tell you the romantic story of this collection. You will enjoy and understand the books themselves better if I give you the proper background.”

Here is the story he told me. I wish you might have heard the words spoken in the musical Tuscan voice:

Four members of the immortal Medici family contributed to the greatness of the Laurenziana Library, their interest in which would seem to be a curious paradox. Cosimo _il Vecchio_, father of his country, was the founder. “Old” Cosimo was unique in combining zeal for learning and an interest in arts and letters with political corruption. As his private fortune increased through success in trade he discovered the power money possessed when employed to secure political prestige. By expending hundreds of thousands of florins upon public works, he gave employment to artisans, and gained a popularity for his family with the lower classes which was of the utmost importance at critical times. Beneath this guise of benefactor existed all the characteristics of the tyrant and despot, but through his money he was able to maintain his position as a Mæcenas while his agents acted as catspaws in accomplishing his political ambitions. Old Cosimo acknowledged to Pope Eugenius that much of his wealth had been ill-gotten, and begged him to indicate a proper method of restitution. The Pope advised him to spend 10,000 florins on the Convent of San Marco. To be sure that he followed this advice thoroughly, Cosimo contributed more than 40,000 florins, and established the basis of the present Laurenziana Library.

“Some of your American philanthropists must have read the private history of Old Cosimo,” Biagi remarked slyly at this point.

Lorenzo the Magnificent was Old Cosimo’s grandson, and his contribution to the Library was far beyond what his father, Piero, had given. Lorenzo was but twenty-two years of age when Piero died, in 1469. He inherited no business ability from his grandfather, but far surpassed him in the use he made of literary patronage. Lorenzo had no idea of relinquishing control of the Medici tyranny, but he was clever enough to avoid the outward appearance of the despot. Throughout his life he combined a real love of arts and letters with a cleverness in political manipulation, and it is sometimes difficult correctly to attribute the purpose behind his seeming benevolences. He employed agents to travel over all parts of the world to secure for him rare and important codices to be placed in the Medicean Library. He announced that it was his ambition to form the greatest collection of books in the world, and to throw it open to public use. Such a suggestion was almost heresy in those days! So great was his influence that the Library received its name from his.

The third Medici to play an important part in this literary history was Lorenzo’s son, Cardinal Giovanni, afterwards Pope Leo X. The library itself had been confiscated by the Republic during the troublous times in which Charles VIII of France played his part, and sold to the monks of San Marco; but when better times returned Cardinal Giovanni bought it back into the family, and established it in the Villa Medici in Rome. During the fourteen years the collection remained in his possession, Giovanni, as Pope Leo X, enriched it by valuable additions. On his death, in 1521, his executor, a cousin, Giulio de’ Medici, afterwards Pope Clement VII, commissioned Michelangelo to erect a building worthy of housing so precious a collection; and in 1522 the volumes were returned to Florence.

Lorenzo’s promise to throw the doors open to the public was accomplished on June 11, 1571. At that time there were 3,000 precious manuscripts, most of which are still available to those who visit Florence. A few are missing.

The princes who followed Cosimo II were not so conscious of their responsibilities, and left the care of the Library to the Chapter of the Church of San Lorenzo. During this period the famous manuscript copy of Cicero’s work, the oldest in existence, disappeared. Priceless miniatures were cut from some of the volumes, and single leaves from others. Where did they go? The _Cicero_ has never since been heard of, but the purloining of fragments of Laurenziana books undoubtedly completed imperfections in similar volumes in other collections.

The House of Lorraine, which succeeded the House of Medici, guarded the Laurenziana carefully, placing at its head the learned Biscioni. After him came Bandini, another capable librarian, under whose administration various smaller yet valuable collections were added in their entirety. Del Furia continued the good work, and left behind a splendid catalogue of the treasures entrusted to him. These four volumes are still to be found in the Library. In 1808, and again in 1867, the libraries of the suppressed monastic orders were divided between the Laurentian and the Magliabecchian institutions; and in 1885, through the efforts of Pasquale Villari, the biographer of Machiavelli, the Ashburnham collection, numbering 1887 volumes, was added through purchase by the Italian Government.

“Now,” said Biagi, as he finished the story, “I am ready to show you some of the Medici treasures. I call them my children. They have always seemed that to me. My earliest memory is of peeping out from the back windows of the Palazzo dei della Vacca, where I was born, behind the bells of San Lorenzo, at the campanile of the ancient church, and at the Chapel or the Medici. The Medici coat of arms was as familiar to me as my father’s face, and the ‘pills’ that perpetuated Old Cosimo’s fame as a chemist possessed so great a fascination that I never rested until I became the Medicean librarian.”

Biagi led the way from his private office through the Hall of Tapestries. As we passed by the cases containing such wealth of illumination, only partially concealed by the green curtains drawn across the glass, I instinctively paused, but my guide insisted.

“We will return here, but first you must see the Tribuna.”

We passed through the great hall into a high-vaulted, circular reading-room.

“This was an addition to the Library in 1841,” Biagi explained, “to house the 1200 copies of original editions from the fifteenth-century Presses, presented by the Count Angiolo Maria d’Elchi. Yes--” he added, reading my thoughts as I glanced around; “this room is a distinct blemish. The great Buonarroti must have turned in his grave when it was finished. But the volumes themselves will make you forget the architectural blunder.”

He showed me volumes printed from engraved blocks by the Germans, Sweynheym and Pannartz, at Subiaco, in the first Press established in Italy. I held in my hand Cicero’s _Epistolæ ad Familiares_, a volume printed in 1469. In the _explicit_ the printer, not at all ashamed of his accomplishment, adds in Latin:

_John, from within the town of Spires, was the first to print
books in Venice from bronze types. See, O Reader, how much hope
there is of future works when this, the first,
has surpassed the art of penmanship_

There was Tortelli’s _Orthographia dictionum e Græcia tractarum_, printed in Venice by Nicolas Jenson, showing the first use of Greek characters in a printed book. The Aldine volumes introduced me to the first appearance of Italic type. No wonder that Italy laid so firm a hand upon the scepter of the new art, when Naples, Milan, Ferrara, Florence, Piedmont, Cremona, and Turin vied with Venice in producing such examples!

“You must come back and study them at your leisure,” the librarian suggested, noting my reluctance to relinquish the volume I was inspecting to receive from him some other example equally interesting. “Now I will introduce you to the prisoners, who have never once complained of their bondage during all these centuries.”

In the great hall we moved in and out among the _plutei_, where Biagi indicated first one manuscript and then another, with a few words of explanation as to the significance of each.

“No matter what the personal bent of any man,” my guide continued, “we have here in the Library that which will satisfy his intellectual desires. If he is a student of the Scriptures, he will find inspiration from our sixth-century _Syriac Gospels_, or the _Biblia Amiatina_. For the lawyer, we have the _Pandects of Justinian_, also of the sixth century, which even today form the absolute basis of Roman law. What classical scholar could fail to be thrilled by the fourth-century _Medicean Virgil_, with its romantic history, which I will tell you some day; what lover of literature would not consider himself privileged to examine Boccaccio’s manuscript copy of the _Decameron_, or the Petrarch manuscript on vellum, in which appear the famous portraits of Laura and Petrarch; or Benvenuto Cellini’s own handwriting in his autobiography? We must talk about all these, but it would be too much for one day.”

Leading the way back to his sanctum, Biagi left me for a moment. He returned with some manuscript poems, which he turned over to me.

“This shall be the climax of your first day in the Laurenziana,” he exclaimed. “You are now holding Michelangelo in your lap!”

Can you wonder that the week I had allotted to Florence began to seem too brief a space of time? In response to the librarian’s suggestion I returned to the Library day after day. He was profligate in the time he gave me. Together we studied the _Biblia Amiatina_, the very copy brought from England to Rome in 716 by Ceolfrid, Abbot of Wearmouth, intended as a votive offering at the Holy Sepulchre of Saint Peter. By this identification at the Laurenziana in 1887 the volume became one of the most famous in the world. In the plate opposite, the Prophet Ezra is shown by the artist sitting before a book press filled with volumes bound in crimson covers of present-day fashion, and even the book in which Ezra is writing has a binding. It was a new thought to me that the binding of books, such as we know it, was in practice as early as the eighth century.

_Showing earliest Volumes in Bindings_

Laurenziana Library, Florence (12 × 8)]

At another time we examined the _Medicean Virgil_ written on vellum, dating back to the fourth century, and the oldest Codex of the Latin poet.

“This is a veritable treasure for the classical scholar, is it not?” Biagi inquired. “While the Medicean collection remained in the hands of the Chapter of San Lorenzo some vandal cut out the first leaves. See,--the text now begins at the 48th line of the 6th Eclogue.”

I felt almost as if I were looking at a mutilated body, so precious did the manuscript seem.

“In 1799,” the librarian continued, “these sheets were carried to France as part of the Napoleonic booty. Later, through the good offices of Prince Metternich, under a special article in the Treaty of Vienna, the volume was returned to Italy. In 1816 a solemn festival was held here in Florence to celebrate its restoration to the Library. Such events as these,” Biagi added, “show you the place the book holds in the hearts of the Italian people. Look!” he exclaimed, pointing disgustedly at the stiff, ugly binding placed upon the _Virgil_ in Paris during its captivity. “See how little the French appreciated what this volume really is!”

The Petrarch manuscript yielded me the originals of the famous portraits of Madonna Laura de Noves de Sale and of Messer Francesco Petrarca which had hung in my library for years; my friend’s comments made them assume a new meaning. The poet’s likeness so closely resembles other more authentic portraits that we may accept that of Madonna Laura as equally correct, even though the same opportunity for comparison is lacking. What could be more graceful or original than the dressing of the hair, recalling the elegance of the _coiffures_ worn by the ladies of Provence and France rather than of Italy, even as the little pearl-sewn cap is absolutely unknown in the fashions of Petrarch’s native country. After looking at the painting, we can understand the inspiration for Petrarch’s lines:

Say from what vein did Love procure the gold
To make those sunny tresses? From what thorn
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.”

Enjoying my surprise, the librarian became more communicative:

“They studied here together from May 4 until June 7, 1861, at the Magliabecchian Library,” said he, “and I can tell you even the titles of the books they consulted.”

Perhaps I showed my incredulity.

“I have discovered the very slips which Lewes signed when he took out the volumes,” he continued. “Would you like to see them?”

By this time Biagi knew me too well to await my response. So we walked together over to the Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale, the library which became famous two hundred and fifty years ago through the reputation of a jeweler’s shop boy, Antonio Magliabecchi, and was known as the Biblioteca Magliabecchiana for more than a century before the Biblioteca Palatina was joined with it in 1860 under its present modern and unromantic name.

_Founder of the Magliabecchia Library, Florence_]

As we walked along Biagi told me of the unique personality of this Magliabecchi, which attracted the attention of the literary world while he was collecting the nucleus of the library. Dibdin scouted him, declaring that his existence was confined to the “parade and pacing of a library,” yet so great was his knowledge and so prodigious his memory that when the Grand Duke of Florence asked him one day for a particular volume, he was able to reply:

“The only copy of this work is at Constantinople, in the Sultan’s library, the seventeenth volume in the second bookcase on the right as you go in.”

We entered the old reading hall, which is almost the only portion of the building still remaining as it was when George Eliot and George Henry Lewes pursued their studies at one of the massive walnut tables. The jeering bust of Magliabecchi is still there; the same volumes, resting upon their ornamental shelves, still await the arrival of another genius to produce another masterpiece--but except for these the Library has become as modernized as its name.

“I was going over some dusty receipts here one day,” my friend explained, “which I found on the top of a cupboard in the office of the archives. It was pure curiosity. I was interested in the names of many Italian writers who have since become famous, but when I stumbled upon a number of receipts signed ‘G. H. Lewes,’ I realized that I was on the track of some valuable material. These I arranged chronologically, and this is what I found.”

Now let me go back a little, before, with Biagi’s help, I fit these interesting receipts into the story of the writing of the book as told by George Eliot’s diary, which I immediately absorbed.

_Silas Marner_ was finished on March 10, 1861, and on April 19 the author and Lewes “set off on our second journey to Florence.” After arriving there, the diary tells us that they “have been industriously foraging in old streets and old books.” Of Lewes she writes: “He was in continual distraction by having to attend to my wants, going with me to the Magliabecchian Library, and poking about everywhere on my behalf.”

Library, Florence, while writing _Romola_]

The first slip signed by Lewes is dated May 15, 1861, and called for Ferrario’s _Costume Antico e Moderno_. This book is somewhat dramatic and superficial, yet it could give the author knowledge of the historical surroundings of the characters which were growing in her mind. The following day they took out Lippi’s _Malmantile_, a comic poem filled with quaint phrases and sayings which fitted well in the mouths of those characters she had just learned how to dress. Migliore’s _Firenze Illustrata_ and Rastrelli’s _Firenze Antica e Moderna_ gave the topography and the aspect of Florence at the end of the fifteenth century.

From Chiari’s _Priorista_ George Eliot secured the idea of the magnificent celebration of the Feast of Saint John, the effective descriptions of the cars, the races, and the extraordinary tapers. “It is the habit of my imagination,” she writes in her diary, “to strive after as full a vision of the medium in which a character moves as of the character itself.” Knowledge of the Bardi family, to which the author added Romola, was secured from notes on the old families of Florence written by Luigi Passerini.

“See how they came back on May 24,” Biagi exclaimed, pointing to a slip calling for _Le Famiglie del Litta_, “to look in vain for the pedigree of the Bardi. But why bother,” he continued with a smile; “for Romola, the Antigone of Bardo Bardi, was by this time already born in George Eliot’s mind, and needed no further pedigree.”

Romance may have been born, but the plot of the story was far from being clear in the author’s mind. Back again in England, two months later, she writes, “This morning I conceived the plot of my novel with new distinction.” On October 4, “I am worried about my plot,” and on October 7, “Began the first chapter of my novel.”

Meanwhile George Eliot continued her reading, now at the British Museum. _La Vita di G. Savonarola_, by Pasquale Villari, gave her much inspiration. The book had just been published, and it may well have suggested the scene where Baldassarre Calvo meets Tito Melema on the steps of the Cathedral. No other available writer had previously described the struggle which took place for the liberation of the Lunigiana prisoners, which plays so important a part in the plot of _Romola_.

In January, 1862, George Eliot writes in her diary, “I began again my novel of _Romola_.” By February the extraordinary proem and the first two chapters were completed. “Will it ever be finished?” she asks herself. But doubt vanished as she proceeded. In May, 1863, she “killed Tito with great excitement,” and June 9, “put the last stroke to _Romola_--Ebenezer!”

Since then I have re-read _Romola_ with the increased interest which came from the new knowledge, and the story added to my love of Florence. Many times have I wandered, as George Eliot and Lewes did, to the heights of Fiesole, and looked down, even as they, in sunlight, and with the moon casting shadows upon the wonderful and obsessing city, wishing that my vision were strong enough to extract from it another story such as _Romola_.

* * * * *

Such were the experiences that extended my stay in Florence. The memory of them has been so strong and so obsessing that no year has been complete without a return to Biagi and the Laurenziana. Once, during these years, he came to America, as the Royal representative of Italy at the St. Louis Exposition (see also _page 182_). In 1916 his term as librarian expired through the limitation of age, but before he retired he completely rearranged that portion of the Library which is now open to visitors (see _page 149_). The treasures of no collection are made so easily accessible except at the British Museum.

I last visited Biagi in May, 1924. His time was well occupied by literary work, particularly on Dante, which had already given him high rank as a scholar and writer; but a distinct change had come over him. I could not fathom it until he told me that he was planning to leave Florence to take up his residence in Rome. I received the news in amazement. Then the mask fell, and he answered my unasked question.

“I can’t stand it!” he exclaimed. “I can’t stay in Florence and not be a part of the Laurenziana. I have tried in vain to reconcile myself, but the Library has been so much a fiber of my being all my life, that something has been taken away from me which is essential to my existence.” The spell of the Laurenziana had possessed him with a vital grip! The following January (1925) he died, and no physician’s diagnosis will ever contain the correct analysis of his decease

I shall always find it difficult to visualize Florence or the Laurenziana without Guido Biagi. When next I hold in my hands those precious manuscripts, still chained to their ancient _plutei_, it will be with even greater reverence. They stand as symbols of the immutability of learning and culture compared with the brief span of life allotted to Prince or Librarian

INDEX

Adams Presses, 50

Æthelwald, 122

Alba, the Duke of, 233

_Alcuin Bible_, the, described, 125-127

Alcuin, Bishop, of York, 125, 126

Aldine Press, the, at Venice, saved by intervention of Jean Grolier,
56, 238;
printing at, 206-215;
the Jenson office combined with, 214

Aldus Manutius, legend over office of, 10;
his confidence in permanence of the printed book, 11-12;
his type designs, 17;
establishes his office in Venice, 206;
his printer’s mark and slogan, 207, 208;
changes _format_ of the book, 207;
his aims, 208;
the Greek classics of, 209;
his contributions to typography, 210;
his _Hypnerotomachia Poliphili_, 210-213;
Jean Grolier’s friendship with family of, 214-215

_Allegro, l’_, Milton’s, 93

_Ambrosiana Iliad_, the, 24, 25

Ambrosiana Library, the, humanistic manuscripts in, 24, 25

Angelico, Fra, 149, 290

Anglo-Saxon missionary artists, the, 125

Anne, of Brittany, _Hours_ of, described, 149-151

Anne, Saint, 138

_Antiquities of the Jews_, the, described, 138-141, 146

Antonio del Cherico, Francesco d’, _Book of Hours_ illuminated by, 111,
113, 116, 146-149, 290

Antwerp, the leading city in Europe, 223;
book manufacture in, 224;
under Spanish domination, 227;
loses her pre-eminence, 233;
purchases the Plantin office, 235;
referred to, 239

Apostrophes, Bernard Shaw’s ideas concerning, 68

Arnold, Matthew, 178

Ashburnham Collection, the, 148, 284

Augustinus, 202

Austria, the Emperor of, 105

Authors, relations between publishers and, 51, 63;
their attitude toward the physical _format_ of their books, 67

Bandini, librarian of the Laurenziana Library, 284

Baptistery, the, at Florence, 273

Barbaro, Marco Antonio, Procurator of Saint Mark’s, 143

Bardi, the, 297

Bardi, Bardo, 297

Barlow, Sir Thomas, 85

Baskerville, John, his editions, 245;
letter from Benjamin Franklin to, 245;
his types, 245-246;
his _Virgil_, 246-250;
first to introduce glossy paper, 250;
Dibdin’s estimate of, 251;
referred to, 95, 244

Baynes, Ernest Harold, 104

Bedford, Anne, Duchess of, 135, 137

_Bedford Book of Hours_, the, described, 135-138, 146

Bedford, John, Duke of, 135, 137

Belgium, see _Netherlands, the_

Bellini, Giovanni, 213

_Beowulf_, William Morris’, 259

Berlin, library of, 196

Berry, the Duc de, the _Très Riches Heures_ of, 116;
the _Antiquities of the Jews_ begun for, 139

Bertieri, Raffaello, 32

Bewick, Thomas, 163, 251

Biagi, Dr. Guido, custodian of the Buonarroti and the da Vinci archives,
14, 182, 290;
defines the humanist, 15, 162;
his association with the designing of the Humanistic type, 17-33;
his comments on Bodoni, 78;
his meeting with Charles Eliot Norton, 180-183;
described, 277;
in the Laurenziana Library, 277-300;
his early ambition to become librarian of the Laurenziana, 284;
in America, 299;
his last days, 299-300;
his death, 300;
referred to, 14, 16, 17, 111

Bible, the, welfare of men and of empires based upon, 224

_Biblia Amiatina_, the, 287, 288

_Biblia Polyglotta_, Plantin’s, 227;
the story of, 227-233;
pages from, 229-231

Bibliothèque Nationale, the, Paris, 119, 127, 128, 139, 140, 141, 149,
196, 198, 220

Billfrith, Saint, 122

Bindings, 113, 288

Birmingham, England, 244

Biscioni, librarian of the Laurenziana Library, 283

Bisticci, quoted, 12

Blanche, Queen, of Castile, 129

Boccaccio, 287

Bodleian Library, the, 196

Bodoni, Giambattista, the father of modern type design, 78-82, 251;
compared with Didot, 252, 257;
referred to, 95

Bodoni Press, the revived, in Montagnola di Lugano, 79

Bodoni type, the, 78;
compared with the Didot type, 79-82;
William Morris’ dislike of, 80;
De Vinne’s admiration for, 80, 82;
estimate of, 257

Bokhara, 118

Bomberghe, Corneille, type designer, 228

Book, the, conception of early patrons of, 11;
lure of, 37;
the tangible expression of man’s intellect, 112.
See also, _Illuminated book_, _Printed book_, _Written book_

Bookmaking, in 1891, 42-54;
the weakness of method in, 54

_Book of Hours_, by Francesco d’Antonio del Cherico, 111;
described, 146-149;
referred to, 290

Books, cost of making, 58

Bookselling, inadequate methods in, 60

Boston, Howell’s comments on, 186

Boston Society of Printers, the, 99

Bourbon, Pierre II, Duc de, 140

Bourdichon, Jean, 113, 149, 150

Boyd, Henry, 26, 27

Brays, the, 292

British Museum, the, 27, 28, 117, 119, 122, 125, 132, 135, 166, 196,
298, 299

Broad Chalke, England, Maurice Hewlett’s home at, 157

Browne, Sir Thomas, 207

Budé, Guillaume, 214

Buonarroti, see _Michelangelo_

Buonarroti archives, the, 14, 182, 290

Burne-Jones, Sir Edward, and the _Kelmscott Chaucer_, 259, 261, 262;
referred to, 6

Burney, Fanny, 163

Byron, Lord, manuscript of his letters burned by John Murray III, 65

Byzantine illumination, see _Illumination, Byzantine_

Byzantine ink, 112

“Cabin,” the, Howell’s, 186

Cable, George W., 177

_Cæsar_, Elzevir’s, 240

Cambridge Immortals, the, 178

Camp, Walter, 84

Campanile, Giotto’s, at Florence, 273

Campanile, the, at Venice, 145

Carlyle, Thomas, 178

Carnegie, Andrew, 174-177

Carnegie, Mrs. Andrew, 174

Caroline minuscule, the, 126

Carolingian illumination, see _Illumination, Carolingian_

Carolingian School, the, in France, 125

Caslon foundry, the, 245, 246

Castiglioncello, Italy, 162

Cato, quoted, 208

Caxton, William, work of, compared with Jenson’s, 244

Cellini, Benvenuto, autobiography of, 287

Celtic illumination, see _Illumination, Celtic_

Censors, the, 221

Ceolfrid, Abbot of Wearmouth, 288

Ceriani, Monsignor, librarian of the Ambrosiana Library at Milan,
described, 24;
his work on the _Ambrosiana Iliad_, 24, 25;
quoted, 25

Chantilly, the Musée Condé at, 116

Charlemagne, Emperor, 125

Charles, King, of France, son of King John, 129

Charles, King, of France, son of King Charles, 129

Charles V, emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, 216, 276

Charles VIII, of France, 282

_Chaucer_, the _Kelmscott_, the story of, 259-268

Chaucer type, the, designed by William Morris, 20

Chianti Hills, the, 171

Chiari, 297

Chinese, the, 7

_Cicero_, the _Medicean_, 283

Cicogna, Doge Pasquale, 143

Cimabue, Giovanni, 147

Clemens, Clara, 172, 174

Clemens, Samuel L., see _Twain, Mark_

Clemens, Mrs. Samuel L., 172, 173

Clement VII, Pope, 214, 276

Clovio, Giulio, 149, 290

Cobden-Sanderson, T. J., quoted, 96, 97;
estimate of, 96-101;
described, 98;
in Boston, 98-99;
importance of his work, 263;
his _Ideal Book_ quoted, 264;
his _Doves Bible_, 264-268;
referred to, 3, 68, 71, 95

Cockerell, Douglas, 262

_Codex Argenteus_, the, 119

Cole, Timothy, 106

Colonna, Francesco, 210

Colvin, Sir Sidney, 27, 28

Constable, Archibald, publisher, 66

Constantinople, might have become center of learning of XV century, 8;
destroyed by fire, 117;
the rebirth of, 118

Cosimo _il Vecchio_, and the Laurenziana Library, 280;
his personality and history, 280-281;
his fame as a chemist, 284

Cosimo II, and the Laurenziana Library, 283

Costs of making books, in 1891, compared with present costs, 48

_Costume Antico e Moderno_, Ferrario’s, 296

_Country Printer_, the, Howell’s, 187

Crasso, Leonardo, 210

Cremona, early printing at, 286

Curtis, George William, 178

Cuthbert, Saint, 120, 121, 122

Cyrus, King, 139

Danes, the, 120

Dante, proposed edition in Humanistic type of, 19, 32;
referred to, 158, 182;
Biagi’s work on, 182, 299;
the haunts of, 291

“Dawn and Twilight,” Michelangelo’s, 275

“Day and Night,” Michelangelo’s, 275

_De Asse_, Budé’s, 214

De Bure, discoverer of the _Gutenberg Bible_, 198

_Decameron_, the, manuscript copy of, 287

_De Civitate Dei_, Augustinus’, 202

Decorations, 116

Del Furia, librarian of the Laurenziana Library, 284

Delmonico’s, in New York City, 176

Deput, quoted on the innovations of the Elzevirs, 240

_De Veritate Catholicæ Fidei_, 93

De Vinne Press, the, New York, 42

De Vinne, Theodore L., 6;
his admiration for the Bodoni type, 80, 82

Dibdin, quoted on Baskerville, 251;
on Antonio Magliabecchi, 295

Didot, Firmin, the father of modern type design, 78-82;
his type discussed, 79-82, 257;
referred to, 39, 95, 257

Didot, Pierre, his _Racine_, 252-258

Didot Press, the, Benjamin Franklin at, 252

Didot type, the, compared with the Bodoni type, 79-82

Didots, the, in Paris, 251;
compared with Bodoni, 252

Dobson, Austin, 158, 162-169;
his lines on Richard Garnett, 166, 167;
his ideas on fiction, 168;
his methods of work, 169;
his handwriting, 169

Dobson, Mrs. Austin, 168

_Doves Bible_, Cobden-Sanderson’s, described, 264-268

Doves Press, the, in London, 3, 70, 96, 263

Doves type, the, designed by Emery Walker, 18, 19;
specimen page of, 23;
in the _Doves Bible_, 264-268

Duneka, Frederick, 184

Dürer, Albrecht, 95

Dyck, Christoffel van, 243

Eadfrith, Bishop, 122

_Earthwork Out of Tuscany_, Hewlett’s, 159, 162

Eddy, Mrs. Mary Baker, 52-54

Edward VII, King, of England, 85, 140, 141

Egyptians, the, 118

Elchi, Count Angiolo Maria d’, 285

Eliot, George, in the Magliabecchian Library, 291-298;
her diary quoted, 296;
volumes consulted in writing _Romola_, 296-298

Elzevir, Abraham, editions of, 240;
his _Terence_, 241-243

Elzevir, Bonaventura, editions of, 240;
his _Terence_, 241-243

Elzevir, Isaac, becomes printer to the University of Leyden, 240

Elzevir, Louis, founder of the House of Elzevir, 239, 240

Elzevir, the House of, craftsmen rather than artists, 238;
in Leyden, 240;
adopt new _format_ for the book, 240;
their editions, 240-243;
their types, 243;
their business organization, 243;
estimate of importance of their work, 243;
referred to, 95, 237, 251

England, typographical supremacy of, 194, 244-250;
second supremacy of, 258-268

English illumination, see _Illumination, English_

Engravings, steel, 105

_Epistolæ ad Familiares_, Cicero’s, 285

Ethics, in business, 65

Étienne, Henri, ruined by his _Thesaurus_, 56, 238;
in Geneva, 223

Étienne, Robert, becomes “printer in Greek” to François I of France,
216;
the _Royal Greeks_ of, 219-222;
leaves France, 223;
death of, 223;
his Roman type, 222;
referred to, 252

Eugenius, Pope, 281

Evreux, Queen Jeanne d’, 129

_Explicit_, the, 92;
examples of, 94, 202, 204, 206, 285

Ezra, the Prophet, portrait of, 288

_Famiglie del Litta, Le_, 297

Felton, Cornelius Conway, President of Harvard University, 50

Ferrara, early printing at, 286

Ferrari, Dr. Luigi, librarian of the San Marco Library, Venice, 145

Ferrario, 296

Field, Eugene, described, 38;
manuscript of, 39, 41;
referred to, 38, 55

Fielding, Henry, 163

Fiesole, the heights of, 298

_Firenze Antica e Moderna_, Rastrelli’s, 297

_Firenze Illustrata_, Migliore’s, 296

Fiske, Willard, 26, 27

Flemish illumination, see _Illumination, Flemish_

Fletcher, Horace, friend of Eugene Field, 41;
philosophy of, 75, 82, 84;
his ideas of typography, 75;
page of his manuscript, 77;
his dinner at Graduates’ Club, New Haven, 84;
importance of his work, 85;
his friendship with William James and Henry James, 86;
letter from Henry James to, 87;
visit to Lamb House, 89

Fletcherism, 75, 83

Florence, Italy, the most fascinating city in Europe, 273;
early printing at, 286

Florence, the Grand Duke of, 295

_Forest Lovers_, the, Hewlett’s, 157, 158

Foucquet, Jean, 113, 138, 140, 149

France, typographical supremacy of, 194, 215-223;
loses supremacy, 223;
second supremacy of, 251-258

François I, of France, becomes patron of learning and culture, 216;
makes Robert Étienne “printer in Greek to the King,” 216;
his interest in printing, 216-221;
his relations with the censors, 221;
referred to, 214, 216

Frankfort, 227

Franklin, Benjamin, quoted on the Baskerville editions, 245;
his letter to Baskerville, 245;
at the Didot Press, 252

French illumination, see _Illumination, French_

French Republic, the, 141

French School of Painting, the, 139

Fust, John, 198, 199

Gabrilowitch, Mrs. Ossip, 172

Garamond, Claude, 220

Garnett, Dr. Richard, 164, 165;
lines written by Dobson on, 166, 167;
estimate of, 166

General Theological School Library, the, New York, 196

_Genesis_, the _Cottonian_, 117

Geneva, the Étiennes at, 223

George, Saint, 137

Germany, not sufficiently developed as nation to take advantage of
Gutenberg’s discovery, 8, 9;
brief typographical supremacy of, 194-201;
loses supremacy, 201

Gherado, 149, 290

Gilder, Richard Watson, 177

Giotto, 147, 273

_Golden Gospels of Saint Médard_, the, described, 127-128

Golden type, the, designed by William Morris, 18

Gold leaf, 116

Gold, Oriental, 112

Goldsmith, Oliver, 163

Gothic illumination, see _Illumination, Gothic_

Gozzoli, Benozzo, 149, 290

Graduates’ Club, the, in New Haven, 84

Grandjon, Robert, 228

Greece, the rich humanities of, 15

Greek classics, the, first printed by Aldus, 209

Greeks, the, 7

Greek types, 56, 219-221, 238

_Grimani Breviary_, the, described, 141-145, 146, 149

Grimani, Cardinal Domenico, 142, 143

Grimani, Doge Antonio, 143

Grimani, Giovanni, Patriarch of Aquileia, 142

Grimani, Marino, Patriarch of Aquileia, 142

Grolier Club of New York, the, 213