Part 13
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!
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.
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.”
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!