The weekly herald. [volume] (Cleveland, Tenn.) 1876-1888, 1877-04-05
GiOrgiOne.

The old campo passes the long, languid
days Of the late summer In dreaming of
the time when the pavement rang with
the footsteps Of student-lads who
pressed about the threshold Of their
master Giorglone, and called upon him
20 come down and join them In their
wild sports. "There will be masques
tonight" cry the lawless young
painters; "and we shall sup afterward
by moonlight under the shadow of St.
Marks" The gods and monsters that
the masters hand has frescoed on the
pallid plaster grin down an acceptance.
A figure appears at the balcony-win-
dow, and cries out to the young idlers
to return to their studies, and abide the
night-fall.
1t is a tall figure, with beautiful
young face, framed by the velvet cap of
the painter-guild. AS he stands there
in the sunlight In his dark-green velvet
garment, full Of rich shadows, with the
concentration of genius upon his face,
you would not believe him the triher,
the pleasure-seeker, that all Venice
halls him. Tee broad brow, the strong
features, the firm chin, tell of quick,
impatient, creative power. Only the
graceful curve of his mouth suggests
the hidden flaw within this vessel, in
which burns the sacred fire.
He is colossal in his achievements
when he has once convinced himself
that creation is the worthiest end of
life. But there is no ideal so noble, no
resolution so bold, that it will not
vanish before the touch of soft lips or
the glance of tender eyes. Why should
he sit and toll over one form of beauty,
when all Gods creation lies at his feet,
waiting but to be graspedG
But now and again comes a moment
when the thought of the sacred charge
committed to him rushes through his
heart. Then, with the impulse Of his
strong soul score of touches from his
eager hand creates a shape that sets the
whole town wondering at his power.
And then his old demon whispers to
him that love and life are better than
art, and so for months he gropes on
through the darkness that thickens
about MIN toward the light that eludes
his grasp. His days are one long strug
gle between the instincts of life and the
instincts of art. His youth, his beauty,
his passionate nature, are forever at war
with the cold, stern asceticsm Of intel.
lectual creation. He had Greek nature,
this Venetian of the cinque centO, and
his was the pure sensuousness of those
perfect organizations that accepted
beauty as the gift of the gods, and made
their lives lyrics, and bathed their
bodies in sunlight, and Stunned the
darkness of thought and mental suffer
ing.
And yet wonder If those wise young
painters, who shook their heads over
the noisy riot with which Giorgione
filed the Venetian streets, never recog
nized in his wild merriment the agOnies
of despairing soul. Did they never
feel in his gorgeous canvases an under
tone of pathOs? Did no underlined sad
ness creep over them when they gazed
upon his pictures of women, those lovely
faces with the moulded features and
ripe, parted mouths, and tender, rosy
brOws shadOwed by rich, bronzed hair,
and deep, brooding eyes that give the
lie to their flushed, bare limbs? Some
dim memory of suffering endured far
back in the ages hides under those
curves, some consciousness
Of approaching decay turks beneath the
fair marble surface, some presentiment
of early death fills the deep eyes with
awe.
Such form as those that glow upon
his canyases, with the mysterious death
written on their brows, used |
TO stand on the balcony of summer |
afternoons and gaze down upon the
campo, with the arms of the
llowers clutching at her sweeping gar
ments of deep-red velvet. There were
rubies on her bare, white throat, and |
-he deep-red carnations of Venice
burned among the dull gold coils Of her
hair. She leaned over among the dark
red damasks that hung from the balcony,
4 rich mass Of color against the tawny
Trescoes of the wall, and the sunlight
leepened the glow of her hair, and
made dark furrows in her velvet
lrapery, and cleaned in the jewels
lbout her throat, and transflgured her
% the wine-t ,ddess, the bacchante, the
,olor.queen of the Venetian revels.
The young students, passing across
he campo, lowered their vol ces as they
,aught sight of the stately form, and
laid one to another. at is Giorgione's
ove!" Did they feel the lurking agony
Ii that smooth, fair face, the forethought
If pain and suffering In the beautiful
,yes, the tears gathering behind the
aughter that made the old campo ring
With gladness2 Yet for her there was
taught in life but love, and joy, and
pleasure, velvets and Jewels, and every
light fresh revel.--AppletOn's journal.
Anecdotes OF Samuel FOOte.