The eminent American sculptor Greenough, who has recently (1853)
departed this life, wrote several years ago a very interesting account
of a wonderful picture at Florence, from which the following is
extracted:
"When you enter the church of Santissima Annunziata, at Florence, your
attention is drawn at once to a sort of miniature temple on the left
hand. It is of white marble; but the glare and flash of crimson hangings
and silver lamps scarcely allow your eye the quiet necessary to
appreciate either form or material. A picture hangs there. It is the
_Miraculous Annunciation_. The artist who was employed to paint it, had
finished all except the head of the Virgin Mary, and fell asleep before
the easel while the work was in that condition. On awakening, he beheld
the picture finished; and the short time which had elapsed, and his own
position relative to the canvas, made it clear (so says the tradition)
that a divine hand had completed a task which, to say the least, a
mortal could only attempt with despair.
"Less than this has made many pictures in Italy the objects of
attentions which our Puritan fathers condemned as idolatrous. The
miraculous 'Annunziata' became, accordingly, the divinity of a splendid
shrine. The fame of her interposition spread far and wide, and her
tabernacle was filled with the costly offerings of the devout, the showy
tributes of the zealous. The prince gave of his abundance, nor was the
widow's mite refused; and to this day the reputation of this shrine
stands untouched among all papal devotees.
"The Santissima Annunziata is always veiled, unless her interposition is
urgently demanded by the apprehension of famine, plague, cholera, or
some other public calamity. During my own residence at Florence, I have
never known the miraculous picture to be uncovered during a drought,
without the desired result immediately following. In cases of long
continued rains, its intervention has been equally happy. I have heard
several persons, rather inclined to skepticism as to the miraculous
qualities of the picture, hint that the _barometer_ was consulted on
these occasions; else, say they, why was not the picture uncovered
before the mischief had gone so far? What an idea is suggested by the
bare hint!
"I stood on the pavement of the church, with an old man who had himself
been educated as a priest. He had a talent for drawing, and became a
painter. As a practical painter, he was mediocre; but he was learned in
everything relating to art. He gradually sank from history to portrait,
from portrait to miniature, from miniature to restoration; and had the
grim satisfaction, in his old age, of mending what in his best days he
never could make--good pictures. When I knew him, he was one of the
conservators of the Royal Gallery. He led me before the shrine, and
whispered, with much veneration, the story I have related of its origin.
When I had gazed long at the picture, I turned to speak to him, but he
had left the church. As I walked through the vestibule, however, I saw
him standing near one of the pillars that adorn the façade. He was
evidently waiting for me. Me-thinks I see him now, with his face of
seventy and his dress of twenty-five, his bright black wig, his velvet
waistcoat, and glittering gold chain--his snuff-box in his hand, and a
latent twinkle in his black eyes. 'What is really remarkable in that
miraculous picture,' said he, taking me by the button, and forcing me to
bend till his mouth and my ear were exactly on a line--'What is really
remarkable about it is, that the angel who painted that Virgin, so
completely adopted the style of that epoch! Same angular, incorrect
outline! Same opaque shadows! eh? eh?' He took a pinch, and wishing me a
good appetite, turned up the Via S. Sebastiano."