The Author of Beltraffio | Page 4

ingenuous mind I wished to keep
my visit to the author of "Beltraffio" as a trump-card. It was three years
after the publication of that fascinating work, which I had read over
five times and which now, with my riper judgement, I admire on the
whole as much as ever. This will give you about the date of my first
visit--of any duration--to England for you will not have forgotten the
commotion, I may even say the scandal, produced by Mark Ambient's
masterpiece. It was the most complete presentation that had yet been
made of the gospel of art; it was a kind of aesthetic war-cry. People had
endeavoured to sail nearer to "truth" in the cut of their sleeves and the
shape of their sideboards; but there had not as yet been, among English
novels, such an example of beauty of execution and "intimate"
importance of theme. Nothing had been done in that line from the point
of view of art for art. That served me as a fond formula, I may mention,
when I was twenty-five; how much it still serves I won't take upon
myself to say--especially as the discerning reader will be able to judge
for himself. I had been in England, briefly, a twelve-month before the
time to which I began by alluding, and had then learned that Mr.
Ambient was in distant lands- -was making a considerable tour in the

East; so that there was nothing to do but to keep my letter till I should
be in London again. It was of little use to me to hear that his wife had
not left England and was, with her little boy, their only child, spending
the period of her husband's absence--a good many months--at a small
place they had down in Surrey. They had a house in London, but
actually in the occupation of other persons. All this I had picked up,
and also that Mrs. Ambient was charming--my friend the American
poet, from whom I had my introduction, had never seen her, his
relations with the great man confined to the exchange of letters; but she
wasn't, after all, though she had lived so near the rose, the author of
"Beltraffio," and I didn't go down into Surrey to call on her. I went to
the Continent, spent the following winter in Italy, and returned to
London in May. My visit to Italy had opened my eyes to a good many
things, but to nothing more than the beauty of certain pages in the
works of Mark Ambient. I carried his productions about in my
trunk--they are not, as you know, very numerous, but he had preluded
to "Beltraffio" by, some exquisite things--and I used to read them over
in the evening at the inn. I used profoundly to reason that the man who
drew those characters and wrote that style understood what he saw and
knew what he was doing. This is my sole ground for mentioning my
winter in Italy. He had been there much in former years--he was
saturated with what painters call the "feeling" of that classic land. He
expressed the charm of the old hill-cities of Tuscany, the look of certain
lonely grass-grown places which, in the past, had echoed with life; he
understood the great artists, he understood the spirit of the Renaissance;
he understood everything. The scene of one of his earlier novels was
laid in Rome, the scene of another in Florence, and I had moved
through these cities in company with the figures he set so firmly on
their feet. This is why I was now so much happier even than before in
the prospect of making his acquaintance.
At last, when I had dallied with my privilege long enough, I despatched
to him the missive of the American poet. He had already gone out of
town; he shrank from the rigour of the London "season" and it was his
habit to migrate on the first of June. Moreover I had heard he was this
year hard at work on a new book, into which some of his impressions
of the East were to be wrought, so that he desired nothing so much as

quiet days. That knowledge, however, didn't prevent me--cet age est
sans pitie--from sending with my friend's letter a note of my own, in
which I asked his leave to come down and see him for an hour or two
on some day to be named by himself. My proposal was accompanied
with a very frank expression of my sentiments, and the effect of the
entire appeal was to elicit from the great man the kindest possible
invitation. He would be delighted to see me, especially if I should turn
up on the following Saturday and would remain till the Monday
morning.