"Rivolsimi in quel lato
Là 'nde venia la voce,
E parvemi una luce
Che lucea quanto stella:
La mia mente era quella."
_Bonaggiunta Urbiciani_, (1250.)
Before any knowledge of painting was brought to Florence, there were
already painters in Lucca, and Pisa, and Arezzo, who feared God and
loved the art. The keen, grave workmen from Greece, whose trade it
was to sell their own works in Italy and teach Italians to imitate
them, had already found rivals of the soil with skill that could
forestall their lessons and cheapen their crucifixes and
_addolorate_, more years than is supposed before the art came at all
into Florence. The pre-eminence to which Cimabue was raised at once
by his contemporaries, and which he still retains to a wide extent
even in the modern mind, is to be accounted for, partly by the
circumstances under which he arose, and partly by that extraordinary
_purpose of fortune_ born with the lives of some few, and through
which it is not a little thing for any who went before, if they are
even remembered as the shadows of the coming of such an one, and the
voices which prepared his way in the wilderness. It is thus, almost
exclusively, that the painters of whom I speak are now known. They
have left little, and but little heed is taken of that which men hold
to have been surpassed; it is gone like time gone--a track of dust
and dead leaves that merely led to the fountain.
Nevertheless, of very late years, and in very rare instances, some
signs of a better understanding have become manifest. A case in point
is that of the tryptic and two cruciform pictures at Dresden, by
Chiaro di Messer Bello dell' Erma, to which the eloquent pamphlet of
Dr. Aemmster has at length succeeded in attracting the students.
There is another, still more solemn and beautiful work, now proved to
be by the same hand, in the gallery at Florence. It is the one to
which my narrative will relate.
* * * * * * *
This Chiaro dell' Erma was a young man of very honorable family in
Arezzo; where, conceiving art almost, as it were, for himself, and
loving it deeply, he endeavored from early boyhood towards the
imitation of any objects offered in nature. The extreme longing after
a visible embodiment of his thoughts strengthened as his years
increased, more even than his sinews or the blood of his life; until
he would feel faint in sunsets and at the sight of stately persons.
When he had lived nineteen years, he heard of the famous Giunta
Pisano; and, feeling much of admiration, with, perhaps, a little of
that envy which youth always feels until it has learned to measure
success by time and opportunity, he determined that he would seek out
Giunta, and, if possible, become his pupil.
Having arrived in Pisa, he clothed himself in humble apparel, being
unwilling that any other thing than the desire he had for knowledge
should be his plea with the great painter; and then, leaving his
baggage at a house of entertainment, he took his way along the
street, asking whom he met for the lodging of Giunta. It soon chanced
that one of that city, conceiving him to be a stranger and poor, took
him into his house, and refreshed him; afterwards directing him on
his way.
When he was brought to speech of Giunta, he said merely that he was a
student, and that nothing in the world was so much at his heart as to
become that which he had heard told of him with whom he was speaking.
He was received with courtesy and consideration, and shewn into the
study of the famous artist. But the forms he saw there were lifeless
and incomplete; and a sudden exultation possessed him as he said
within himself, "I am the master of this man." The blood came at
first into his face, but the next moment he was quite pale and fell
to trembling. He was able, however, to conceal his emotion; speaking
very little to Giunta, but, when he took his leave, thanking him
respectfully.
After this, Chiaro's first resolve was, that he would work out
thoroughly some one of his thoughts, and let the world know him. But
the lesson which he had now learned, of how small a greatness might
win fame, and how little there was to strive against, served to make
him torpid, and rendered his exertions less continual. Also Pisa was
a larger and more luxurious city than Arezzo; and, when in his walks,
he saw the great gardens laid out for pleasure, and the beautiful
women who passed to and fro, and heard the music that was in the
groves of the city at evening, he was taken with wonder that he had
never claimed his share of the inheritance of those years in which
his youth was cast. And women loved Chiaro; for, in despite of the
burthen of study, he was well-favoured and very manly in his walking;
and, seeing his face in front, there was a glory upon it, as upon the
face of one who feels a light round his hair.
So he put thought from him, and partook of his life. But, one night,
being in a certain company of ladies, a gentleman that was there with
him began to speak of the paintings of a youth named Bonaventura,
which he had seen in Lucca; adding that Giunta Pisano might now look
for a rival. When Chiaro heard this, the lamps shook before him, and
the music beat in his ears and made him giddy. He rose up, alleging a
sudden sickness, and went out of that house with his teeth set.
He now took to work diligently; not returning to Arezzo, but
remaining in Pisa, that no day more might be lost; only living
entirely to himself. Sometimes, after nightfall, he would walk abroad
in the most solitary places he could find; hardly feeling the ground
under him, because of the thoughts of the day which held him in
fever.
The lodging he had chosen was in a house that looked upon gardens
fast by the Church of San Rocco. During the offices, as he sat at
work, he could hear the music of the organ and the long murmur that
the chanting left; and if his window were open, sometimes, at those
parts of the mass where there is silence throughout the church, his
ear caught faintly the single voice of the priest. Beside the matters
of his art and a very few books, almost the only object to be noticed
in Chiaro's room was a small consecrated image of St. Mary Virgin
wrought out of silver, before which stood always, in summer-time, a
glass containing a lily and a rose.
It was here, and at this time, that Chiaro painted the Dresden
pictures; as also, in all likelihood, the one--inferior in merit, but
certainly his--which is now at Munich. For the most part, he was calm
and regular in his manner of study; though often he would remain at
work through the whole of the day, not resting once so long as the
light lasted; flushed, and with the hair from his face. Or, at times,
when he could not paint, he would sit for hours in thought of all the
greatness the world had known from of old; until he was weak with
yearning, like one who gazes upon a path of stars.
He continued in this patient endeavour for about three years, at the
end of which his name was spoken throughout all Tuscany. As his fame
waxed, he began to be employed, besides easel-pictures, upon
paintings in fresco: but I believe that no traces remain to us of any
of these latter. He is said to have painted in the Duomo: and
D'Agincourt mentions having seen some portions of a fresco by him
which originally had its place above the high altar in the Church of
the Certosa; but which, at the time he saw it, being very
dilapidated, had been hewn out of the wall, and was preserved in the
stores of the convent. Before the period of Dr. Aemmster's
researches, however, it had been entirely destroyed.
Chiaro was now famous. It was for the race of fame that he had girded
up his loins; and he had not paused until fame was reached: yet now,
in taking breath, he found that the weight was still at his heart.
The years of his labor had fallen from him, and his life was still in
its first painful desire.
With all that Chiaro had done during these three years, and even
before, with the studies of his early youth, there had always been a
feeling of worship and service. It was the peace-offering that he
made to God and to his own soul for the eager selfishness of his aim.
There was earth, indeed, upon the hem of his raiment; but _this_ was
of the heaven, heavenly. He had seasons when he could endure to think
of no other feature of his hope than this: and sometimes, in the
ecstacy of prayer, it had even seemed to him to behold that day when
his mistress--his mystical lady (now hardly in her ninth year, but
whose solemn smile at meeting had already lighted on his soul like
the dove of the Trinity)--even she, his own gracious and holy Italian
art--with her virginal bosom, and her unfathomable eyes, and the
thread of sunlight round her brows--should pass, through the sun that
never sets, into the circle of the shadow of the tree of life, and be
seen of God, and found good: and then it had seemed to him, that he,
with many who, since his coming, had joined the band of whom he was
one (for, in his dream, the body he had worn on earth had been dead
an hundred years), were permitted to gather round the blessed maiden,
and to worship with her through all ages and ages of ages, saying,
Holy, holy, holy. This thing he had seen with the eyes of his spirit;
and in this thing had trusted, believing that it would surely come to
pass.
But now, (being at length led to enquire closely into himself,) even
as, in the pursuit of fame, the unrest abiding after attainment had
proved to him that he had misinterpreted the craving of his own
spirit--so also, now that he would willingly have fallen back on
devotion, he became aware that much of that reverence which he had
mistaken for faith had been no more than the worship of beauty.
Therefore, after certain days passed in perplexity, Chiaro said
within himself, "My life and my will are yet before me: I will take
another aim to my life."
From that moment Chiaro set a watch on his soul, and put his hand to
no other works but only to such as had for their end the presentment
of some moral greatness that should impress the beholder: and, in
doing this, he did not choose for his medium the action and passion
of human life, but cold symbolism and abstract impersonation. So the
people ceased to throng about his pictures as heretofore; and, when
they were carried through town and town to their destination, they
were no longer delayed by the crowds eager to gaze and admire: and no
prayers or offerings were brought to them on their path, as to his
Madonnas, and his Saints, and his Holy Children. Only the critical
audience remained to him; and these, in default of more worthy
matter, would have turned their scrutiny on a puppet or a mantle.
Meanwhile, he had no more of fever upon him; but was calm and pale
each day in all that he did and in his goings in and out. The works
he produced at this time have perished--in all likelihood, not
unjustly. It is said (and we may easily believe it), that, though
more labored than his former pictures, they were cold and unemphatic;
bearing marked out upon them, as they must certainly have done, the
measure of that boundary to which they were made to conform.
And the weight was still close at Chiaro's heart: but he held in his
breath, never resting (for he was afraid), and would not know it.
Now it happened, within these days, that there fell a great feast in
Pisa, for holy matters: and each man left his occupation; and all the
guilds and companies of the city were got together for games and
rejoicings. And there were scarcely any that stayed in the houses,
except ladies who lay or sat along their balconies between open
windows which let the breeze beat through the rooms and over the
spread tables from end to end. And the golden cloths that their arms
lay upon drew all eyes upward to see their beauty; and the day was
long; and every hour of the day was bright with the sun.
So Chiaro's model, when he awoke that morning on the hot pavement of
the Piazza Nunziata, and saw the hurry of people that passed him, got
up and went along with them; and Chiaro waited for him in vain.
For the whole of that morning, the music was in Chiaro's room from
the Church close at hand: and he could hear the sounds that the crowd
made in the streets; hushed only at long intervals while the
processions for the feast-day chanted in going under his windows.
Also, more than once, there was a high clamour from the meeting of
factious persons: for the ladies of both leagues were looking down;
and he who encountered his enemy could not choose but draw upon him.
Chiaro waited a long time idle; and then knew that his model was gone
elsewhere. When at his work, he was blind and deaf to all else; but
he feared sloth: for then his stealthy thoughts would begin, as it
were, to beat round and round him, seeking a point for attack. He now
rose, therefore, and went to the window. It was within a short space
of noon; and underneath him a throng of people was coming out through
the porch of San Rocco.
The two greatest houses of the feud in Pisa had filled the church for
that mass. The first to leave had been the Gherghiotti; who, stopping
on the threshold, had fallen back in ranks along each side of the
archway: so that now, in passing outward, the Marotoli had to walk
between two files of men whom they hated, and whose fathers had hated
theirs. All the chiefs were there and their whole adherence; and each
knew the name of each. Every man of the Marotoli, as he came forth
and saw his foes, laid back his hood and gazed about him, to show the
badge upon the close cap that held his hair. And of the Gherghiotti
there were some who tightened their girdles; and some shrilled and
threw up their wrists scornfully, as who flies a falcon; for that was
the crest of their house.
On the walls within the entry were a number of tall, narrow frescoes,
presenting a moral allegory of Peace, which Chiaro had painted that
year for the Church. The Gherghiotti stood with their backs to these
frescoes: and among them Golzo Ninuccio, the youngest noble of the
faction, called by the people of Golaghiotta, for his debased life.
This youth had remained for some while talking listlessly to his
fellows, though with his sleepy sunken eyes fixed on them who passed:
but now, seeing that no man jostled another, he drew the long silver
shoe off his foot, and struck the dust out of it on the cloak of him
who was going by, asking him how far the tides rose at Viderza. And
he said so because it was three months since, at that place, the
Gherghiotti had beaten the Marotoli to the sands, and held them there
while the sea came in; whereby many had been drowned. And, when he
had spoken, at once the whole archway was dazzling with the light of
confused swords; and they who had left turned back; and they who were
still behind made haste to come forth: and there was so much blood
cast up the walls on a sudden, that it ran in long streams down
Chiaro's paintings.
Chiaro turned himself from the window; for the light felt dry between
his lids, and he could not look. He sat down, and heard the noise of
contention driven out of the church-porch and a great way through the
streets; and soon there was a deep murmur that heaved and waxed from
the other side of the city, where those of both parties were
gathering to join in the tumult.
Chiaro sat with his face in his open hands. Once again he had wished
to set his foot on a place that looked green and fertile; and once
again it seemed to him that the thin rank mask was about to spread
away, and that this time the chill of the water must leave leprosy in
his flesh. The light still swam in his head, and bewildered him at
first; but when he knew his thoughts, they were these:--
"Fame failed me: faith failed me: and now this also,--the hope that I
nourished in this my generation of men,--shall pass from me, and
leave my feet and my hands groping. Yet, because of this, are my feet
become slow and my hands thin. I am as one who, through the whole
night, holding his way diligently, hath smitten the steel unto the
flint, to lead some whom he knew darkling; who hath kept his eyes
always on the sparks that himself made, lest they should fail; and
who, towards dawn, turning to bid them that he had guided God speed,
sees the wet grass untrodden except of his own feet. I am as the last
hour of the day, whose chimes are a perfect number; whom the next
followeth not, nor light ensueth from him; but in the same darkness
is the old order begun afresh. Men say, 'This is not God nor man; he
is not as we are, neither above us: let him sit beneath us, for we
are many.' Where I write Peace, in that spot is the drawing of
swords, and there men's footprints are red. When I would sow, another
harvest is ripe. Nay, it is much worse with me than thus much. Am I
not as a cloth drawn before the light, that the looker may not be
blinded; but which sheweth thereby the grain of its own coarseness;
so that the light seems defiled, and men say, 'We will not walk by
it.' Wherefore through me they shall be doubly accursed, seeing that
through me they reject the light. May one be a devil and not know
it?"
As Chiaro was in these thoughts, the fever encroached slowly on his
veins, till he could sit no longer, and would have risen; but
suddenly he found awe within him, and held his head bowed, without
stirring. The warmth of the air was not shaken; but there seemed a
pulse in the light, and a living freshness, like rain. The silence
was a painful music, that made the blood ache in his temples; and he
lifted his face and his deep eyes.
A woman was present in his room, clad to the hands and feet with a
green and grey raiment, fashioned to that time. It seemed that the
first thoughts he had ever known were given him as at first from her
eyes, and he knew her hair to be the golden veil through which he
beheld his dreams. Though her hands were joined, her face was not
lifted, but set forward; and though the gaze was austere, yet her
mouth was supreme in gentleness. And as he looked, Chiaro's spirit
appeared abashed of its own intimate presence, and his lips shook
with the thrill of tears; it seemed such a bitter while till the
spirit might be indeed alone.
She did not move closer towards him, but he felt her to be as much
with him as his breath. He was like one who, scaling a great
steepness, hears his own voice echoed in some place much higher than
he can see, and the name of which is not known to him. As the woman
stood, her speech was with Chiaro: not, as it were, from her mouth or
in his ears; but distinctly between them.
"I am an image, Chiaro, of thine own soul within thee. See me, and
know me as I am. Thou sayest that fame has failed thee, and faith
failed thee; but because at least thou hast not laid thy life unto
riches, therefore, though thus late, I am suffered to come into thy
knowledge. Fame sufficed not, for that thou didst seek fame: seek
thine own conscience (not thy mind's conscience, but thine heart's),
and all shall approve and suffice. For Fame, in noble soils, is a
fruit of the Spring: but not therefore should it be said: 'Lo! my
garden that I planted is barren: the crocus is here, but the lily is
dead in the dry ground, and shall not lift the earth that covers it:
therefore I will fling my garden together, and give it unto the
builders.' Take heed rather that thou trouble not the wise secret
earth; for in the mould that thou throwest up shall the first tender
growth lie to waste; which else had been made strong in its season.
Yea, and even if the year fall past in all its months, and the soil
be indeed, to thee, peevish and incapable, and though thou indeed
gather all thy harvest, and it suffice for others, and thou remain
vext with emptiness; and others drink of thy streams, and the drouth
rasp thy throat;--let it be enough that these have found the feast
good, and thanked the giver: remembering that, when the winter is
striven through, there is another year, whose wind is meek, and whose
sun fulfilleth all."
While he heard, Chiaro went slowly on his knees. It was not to her
that spoke, for the speech seemed within him and his own. The air
brooded in sunshine, and though the turmoil was great outside, the
air within was at peace. But when he looked in her eyes, he wept. And
she came to him, and cast her hair over him, and, took her hands
about his forehead, and spoke again:
"Thou hadst said," she continued, gently, "that faith failed thee.
This cannot be so. Either thou hadst it not, or thou hast it. But who
bade thee strike the point betwixt love and faith? Wouldst thou sift
the warm breeze from the sun that quickens it? Who bade thee turn
upon God and say: "Behold, my offering is of earth, and not worthy:
thy fire comes not upon it: therefore, though I slay not my brother
whom thou acceptest, I will depart before thou smite me." Why
shouldst thou rise up and tell God He is not content? Had He, of His
warrant, certified so to thee? Be not nice to seek out division; but
possess thy love in sufficiency: assuredly this is faith, for the
heart must believe first. What He hath set in thine heart to do, that
do thou; and even though thou do it without thought of Him, it shall
be well done: it is this sacrifice that He asketh of thee, and His
flame is upon it for a sign. Think not of Him; but of His love and
thy love. For God is no morbid exactor: he hath no hand to bow
beneath, nor a foot, that thou shouldst kiss it."
And Chiaro held silence, and wept into her hair which covered his
face; and the salt tears that he shed ran through her hair upon his
lips; and he tasted the bitterness of shame.
Then the fair woman, that was his soul, spoke again to him, saying:
"And for this thy last purpose, and for those unprofitable truths of
thy teaching,--thine heart hath already put them away, and it needs
not that I lay my bidding upon thee. How is it that thou, a man,
wouldst say coldly to the mind what God hath said to the heart
warmly? Thy will was honest and wholesome; but look well lest this
also be folly,--to say, 'I, in doing this, do strengthen God among
men.' When at any time hath he cried unto thee, saying, 'My son, lend
me thy shoulder, for I fall?' Deemest thou that the men who enter
God's temple in malice, to the provoking of blood, and neither for
his love nor for his wrath will abate their purpose,--shall
afterwards stand with thee in the porch, midway between Him and
themselves, to give ear unto thy thin voice, which merely the fall of
their visors can drown, and to see thy hands, stretched feebly,
tremble among their swords? Give thou to God no more than he asketh
of thee; but to man also, that which is man's. In all that thou
doest, work from thine own heart, simply; for his heart is as thine,
when thine is wise and humble; and he shall have understanding of
thee. One drop of rain is as another, and the sun's prism in all: and
shalt not thou be as he, whose lives are the breath of One? Only by
making thyself his equal can he learn to hold communion with thee,
and at last own thee above him. Not till thou lean over the water
shalt thou see thine image therein: stand erect, and it shall slope
from thy feet and be lost. Know that there is but this means whereby
thou may'st serve God with man:--Set thine hand and thy soul to serve
man with God."
And when she that spoke had said these words within Chiaro's spirit,
she left his side quietly, and stood up as he had first seen her;
with her fingers laid together, and her eyes steadfast, and with the
breadth of her long dress covering her feet on the floor. And,
speaking again, she said:
"Chiaro, servant of God, take now thine Art unto thee, and paint me
thus, as I am, to know me: weak, as I am, and in the weeds of this
time; only with eyes which seek out labour, and with a faith, not
learned, yet jealous of prayer. Do this; so shall thy soul stand
before thee always, and perplex thee no more."
And Chiaro did as she bade him. While he worked, his face grew solemn
with knowledge: and before the shadows had turned, his work was done.
Having finished, he lay back where he sat, and was asleep
immediately: for the growth of that strong sunset was heavy about
him, and he felt weak and haggard; like one just come out of a dusk,
hollow country, bewildered with echoes, where he had lost himself,
and who has not slept for many days and nights. And when she saw him
lie back, the beautiful woman came to him, and sat at his head,
gazing, and quieted his sleep with her voice.
The tumult of the factions had endured all that day through all Pisa,
though Chiaro had not heard it: and the last service of that Feast
was a mass sung at midnight from the windows of all the churches for
the many dead who lay about the city, and who had to be buried before
morning, because of the extreme heats.
* * * * * * *
In the Spring of 1847 I was at Florence. Such as were there at
the same time with myself--those, at least, to whom Art is
something,--will certainly recollect how many rooms of the Pitti
Gallery were closed through that season, in order that some of the
pictures they contained might be examined, and repaired without the
necessity of removal. The hall, the staircases, and the vast central
suite of apartments, were the only accessible portions; and in these
such paintings as they could admit from the sealed _penetralia_ were
profanely huddled together, without respect of dates, schools, or
persons.
I fear that, through this interdict, I may have missed seeing many of
the best pictures. I do not mean _only_ the most talked of: for
these, as they were restored, generally found their way somehow into
the open rooms, owing to the clamours raised by the students; and I
remember how old Ercoli's, the curator's, spectacles used to be
mirrored in the reclaimed surface, as he leaned mysteriously over
these works with some of the visitors, to scrutinize and elucidate.
One picture, that I saw that Spring, I shall not easily forget. It
was among those, I believe, brought from the other rooms, and had
been hung, obviously out of all chronology, immediately beneath that
head by Raphael so long known as the "Berrettino," and now said to be
the portrait of Cecco Ciulli.
The picture I speak of is a small one, and represents merely the
figure of a woman, clad to the hands and feet with a green and grey
raiment, chaste and early in its fashion, but exceedingly simple. She
is standing: her hands are held together lightly, and her eyes set
earnestly open.
The face and hands in this picture, though wrought with great
delicacy, have the appearance of being painted at once, in a single
sitting: the drapery is unfinished. As soon as I saw the figure, it
drew an awe upon me, like water in shadow. I shall not attempt to
describe it more than I have already done; for the most absorbing
wonder of it was its literality. You knew that figure, when painted,
had been seen; yet it was not a thing to be seen of men. This
language will appear ridiculous to such as have never looked on the
work; and it may be even to some among those who have. On examining
it closely, I perceived in one corner of the canvass the words _Manus
Animam pinxit_, and the date 1239.
I turned to my Catalogue, but that was useless, for the pictures were
all displaced. I then stepped up to the Cavaliere Ercoli, who was in
the room at the moment, and asked him regarding the subject of
authorship of the painting. He treated the matter, I thought,
somewhat slightingly, and said that he could show me the reference in
the Catalogue, which he had compiled. This, when found, was not of
much value, as it merely said, "Schizzo d'autore incerto," adding the
inscription.{4} I could willingly have prolonged my inquiry, in the
hope that it might somehow lead to some result; but I had disturbed
the curator from certain yards of Guido, and he was not
communicative. I went back therefore, and stood before the picture
till it grew dusk.
{4}I should here say, that in the catalogue for the year just over,
(owing, as in cases before mentioned, to the zeal and enthusiasm of
Dr. Aemmester) this, and several other pictures, have been more
competently entered. The work in question is now placed in the _Sala
Sessagona_, a room I did not see--under the number 161. It is
described as "Figura mistica di Chiaro dell' Erma," and there is a
brief notice of the author appended.
The next day I was there again; but this time a circle of students
was round the spot, all copying the "Berrettino." I contrived,
however, to find a place whence I could see _my_ picture, and where I
seemed to be in nobody's way. For some minutes I remained
undisturbed; and then I heard, in an English voice: "Might I beg of
you, sir, to stand a little more to this side, as you interrupt my
view."
I felt vext, for, standing where he asked me, a glare struck on the
picture from the windows, and I could not see it. However, the
request was reasonably made, and from a countryman; so I complied,
and turning away, stood by his easel. I knew it was not worth while;
yet I referred in some way to the work underneath the one he was
copying. He did not laugh, but he smiled as we do in England: "_Very_
odd, is it not?" said he.
The other students near us were all continental; and seeing an
Englishman select an Englishman to speak with, conceived, I suppose,
that he could understand no language but his own. They had evidently
been noticing the interest which the little picture appeared to
excite in me.
One of them, and Italian, said something to another who stood next to
him. He spoke with a Genoese accent, and I lost the sense in the
villainous dialect. "Che so?" replied the other, lifting his eyebrows
towards the figure; "roba mistica: 'st' Inglesi son matti sul
misticismo: somiglia alle nebbie di là. Li fa pensare alla patria,
"E intenerisce il core
Lo dì ch' han detto ai dolci amici adio."
"La notte, vuoi dire," said a third.
There was a general laugh. My compatriot was evidently a novice in
the language, and did not take in what was said. I remained silent,
being amused.
"Et toi donc?" said he who had quoted Dante, turning to a student,
whose birthplace was unmistakable even had he been addressed in any
other language: "que dis-tu de ce genre-là?"
"Moi?" returned the Frenchman, standing back from his easel, and
looking at me and at the figure, quite politely, though with an
evident reservation: "Je dis, mon cher, que c'est une spécialité dont
je me fiche pas mal. Je tiens que quand on ne comprend pas une chose,
c'est qu' elle ne signifie rein."
My reader thinks possibly that the French student was right.