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The Madonna of the Future



by Henry James









We had been talking about the masters who had achieved but a single

masterpiecethe artists and poets who but once in their lives had

known the divine afflatus and touched the high level of perfection。

Our host had been showing us a charming little cabinet picture by a

painter whose name we had never heard; and who; after this single

spasmodic bid for fame; had apparently relapsed into obscurity and

mediocrity。  There was some discussion as to the frequency of this

phenomenon; during which; I observed; H… sat silent; finishing his

cigar with a meditative air; and looking at the picture which was

being handed round the table。  〃I don't know how common a case it

is;〃 he said at last; 〃but I have seen it。  I have known a poor

fellow who painted his one masterpiece; and〃he added with a smile

〃he didn't even paint that。  He made his bid for fame and missed it。〃

We all knew H… for a clever man who had seen much of men and manners;

and had a great stock of reminiscences。  Some one immediately

questioned him further; and while I was engrossed with the raptures

of my neighbour over the little picture; he was induced to tell his

tale。  If I were to doubt whether it would bear repeating; I should

only have to remember how that charming woman; our hostess; who had

left the table; ventured back in rustling rose…colour to pronounce

our lingering a want of gallantry; and; finding us a listening

circle; sank into her chair in spite of our cigars; and heard the

story out so graciously that; when the catastrophe was reached; she

glanced across at me and showed me a tear in each of her beautiful

eyes。





It relates to my youth; and to Italy:  two fine things!  (H… began)。

I had arrived late in the evening at Florence; and while I finished

my bottle of wine at supper; had fancied that; tired traveller though

I was; I might pay the city a finer compliment than by going vulgarly

to bed。  A narrow passage wandered darkly away out of the little

square before my hotel; and looked as if it bored into the heart of

Florence。  I followed it; and at the end of ten minutes emerged upon

a great piazza; filled only with the mild autumn moonlight。  Opposite

rose the Palazzo Vecchio; like some huge civic fortress; with the

great bell…tower springing from its embattled verge as a mountain…

pine from the edge of a cliff。  At its base; in its projected shadow;

gleamed certain dim sculptures which I wonderingly approached。  One

of the images; on the left of the palace door; was a magnificent

colossus; shining through the dusky air like a sentinel who has taken

the alarm。  In a moment I recognised him as Michael Angelo's David。

I turned with a certain relief from his sinister strength to a

slender figure in bronze; stationed beneath the high light loggia;

which opposes the free and elegant span of its arches to the dead

masonry of the palace; a figure supremely shapely and graceful;

gentle; almost; in spite of his holding out with his light nervous

arm the snaky head of the slaughtered Gorgon。  His name is Perseus;

and you may read his story; not in the Greek mythology; but in the

memoirs of Benvenuto Cellini。  Glancing from one of these fine

fellows to the other; I probably uttered some irrepressible

commonplace of praise; for; as if provoked by my voice; a man rose

from the steps of the loggia; where he had been sitting in the

shadow; and addressed me in good Englisha small; slim personage;

clad in a sort of black velvet tunic (as it seemed); and with a mass

of auburn hair; which gleamed in the moonlight; escaping from a

little mediaeval birretta。  In a tone of the most insinuating

deference he asked me for my 〃impressions。〃  He seemed picturesque;

fantastic; slightly unreal。  Hovering there in this consecrated

neighbourhood; he might have passed for the genius of aesthetic

hospitalityif the genius of aesthetic hospitality were not commonly

some shabby little custode; flourishing a calico pocket…handkerchief

and openly resentful of the divided franc。  This analogy was made

none the less complete by the brilliant tirade with which he greeted

my embarrassed silence。



〃I have known Florence long; sir; but I have never known her so

lovely as tonight。  It's as if the ghosts of her past were abroad in

the empty streets。  The present is sleeping; the past hovers about us

like a dream made visible。  Fancy the old Florentines strolling up in

couples to pass judgment on the last performance of Michael; of

Benvenuto!  We should come in for a precious lesson if we might

overhear what they say。  The plainest burgher of them; in his cap and

gown; had a taste in the matter!  That was the prime of art; sir。

The sun stood high in heaven; and his broad and equal blaze made the

darkest places bright and the dullest eyes clear。  We live in the

evening of time!  We grope in the gray dusk; carrying each our poor

little taper of selfish and painful wisdom; holding it up to the

great models and to the dim idea; and seeing nothing but overwhelming

greatness and dimness。  The days of illumination are gone!  But do

you know I fancyI fancy〃and he grew suddenly almost familiar in

this visionary fervour〃I fancy the light of that time rests upon us

here for an hour!  I have never seen the David so grand; the Perseus

so fair!  Even the inferior productions of John of Bologna and of

Baccio Bandinelli seem to realise the artist's dream。  I feel as if

the moonlit air were charged with the secrets of the masters; and as

if; standing here in religious attention; we mightwe might witness

a revelation!〃  Perceiving at this moment; I suppose; my halting

comprehension reflected in my puzzled face; this interesting

rhapsodist paused and blushed。  Then with a melancholy smile; 〃You

think me a moonstruck charlatan; I suppose。  It's not my habit to

bang about the piazza and pounce upon innocent tourists。  But

tonight; I confess; I am under the charm。  And then; somehow; I

fancied you too were an artist!〃



〃I am not an artist; I am sorry to say; as you must understand the

term。  But pray make no apologies。  I am also under the charm; your

eloquent remarks have only deepened it。〃



〃If you are not an artist you are worthy to be one!〃 he rejoined;

with an expressive smile。  〃A young man who arrives at Florence late

in the evening; and; instead of going prosaically to bed; or hanging

over the traveller's book at his hotel; walks forth without loss of

time to pay his devoirs to the beautiful; is a young man after my own

heart!〃



The mystery was suddenly solved; my friend was an American!  He must

have been; to take the picturesque so prodigiously to heart。  〃None

the less so; I trust;〃 I answered; 〃if the young man is a sordid New

Yorker。〃



〃New Yorkers have been munificent patrons of art!〃 he answered;

urbanely。



For a moment I was alarmed。  Was this midnight reverie mere Yankee

enterprise; and was he simply a desperate brother of the brush who

had posted himself here to extort an 〃order〃 from a sauntering

tourist?  But I was not called to defend myself。  A great brazen note

broke suddenly from the far…off summit of the bell…tower above us;

and sounded the first stroke of midnight。  My companion started;

apologised for detaining me; and prepared to retire。  But he seemed

to offer so lively a promise of further entertainment that I was

indisposed to part with him; and suggested that we should stroll

homeward together。  He cordially assented; so we turned out of the

Piazza; passed down before the statued arcade of the Uffizi; and came

out upon the Arno。  What course we took I hardly remember; but we

roamed slowly about for an hour; my companion delivering by snatches

a sort of moon…touched aesthetic lecture。  I listened in puzzled

fascination; and wondered who the deuce he was。  He confessed with a

melancholy but all…respectful head…shake to his American origin。



〃We are the disinherited of Art!〃 he cried。  〃We are condemned to be

superficial!  We are excluded from the magic circle。  The soil of

American perception is a poor little barren artificial deposit。  Yes!

we are wedded to imperfection。  An American; to excel; has just ten

times as much to learn as a European。  We lack the deeper sense。  We

have neither taste; nor tact; nor power。  How should we have them?

Our crude and garish climate; our silent past; our deafening present;

the constant pressure about us of unlovely circumstance; are as void

of all that nourishes and prompts and inspires the artist; as my sad

heart is void of bitterness in saying so!  We poor aspirants must

live in perpetual exile。〃



〃You seem fairly at home in exile;〃 I answered; 〃and Florence seems

to me a very pretty Siberia。  But do you know my own thought?

Nothing is so idle as to talk about our want of a nutritive soil; of

opportunity; of inspiration; and all the rest of it。  The worthy part

is to do something fine!  There is no law in our glorious

Constitution against that。  Invent; create; achieve!  No matter if

you have to study fifty times as much as one of these!  What else are

you an artist for?  Be you our Moses;〃 I added; laughing; and laying

my hand on his shoulder; 〃and lead us out of the house of bondage!〃



〃Golden wordsgolden words; young man!〃 he cried; with a tender

smile。  〃'Invent; create; achieve!'  Yes; that's our business; I know

it well。  Don't take me; in Heaven's name; for one of your barren

complainersimpotent cynics who have neither talent nor faith!  I am

at work!〃and he glanced about him and lowered his voice as if this

were a quite peculiar secret〃I'm at work night and day。  I have

undertaken a CREATION!  I am no Moses; I am only a poor patient

artist; but it would be a fine thing if I were to cause some slender

stream of beauty to flow in our thirsty land!  Don't think me a

monster of conceit;〃 he went on; as he saw me smile 

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