Part 14
“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.
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.
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.”
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