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.
[Illustration: _Dott. Comm._ GUIDO BIAGI in 1924
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.”
[Illustration: VESTIBULE of the LAURENZIANA LIBRARY, FLORENCE
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.
[Illustration: THE PROPHET EZRA. From _Codex Amiatinus_, (8th 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.
[Illustration: ANTONIO MAGLIABECCHI
_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.”
[Illustration: Library Slips used by George Eliot in the Magliabecchia
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.”