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Peter's began to ring, the hangings before the windows were drawn aside, and Michael Angelo's marvellous frescoes were fully revealed to the admiring gaze of all present. The swords and halberds of the guards were once more raised erect, and the choir, the prelates, and the pilgrims joined in a common "Hallelujah!"
When they turned to drive home, there was already a purple mist about Vesuvius, and the great Sant' Angelo's crest was black against the sky, for these were the shortest days, and the sun set far to southward. It was almost dark when they got back to the city. "Shall we have tea in your room?" asked Matilde as they went up the stairs together. "It is so dreary in the drawing-room."
On February 8, 1668, we find him writing to Evelyn, his mind bitterly occupied with the late Dutch war, and some thoughts of the different story of the repulse of the Great Armada: "Sir, you will not wonder at the backwardness of my thanks for the present you made me, so many days since, of the Prospect of the Medway, while the Hollander rode master in it, when I have told you that the sight of it hath led me to such reflections on my particular interest, by my employment, in the reproach due to that miscarriage, as have given me little less disquiet than he is fancied to have who found his face in Michael Angelo's hell.
I am not quite sure, however, that the outer surface of the eye may not reflect more light in some states of feeling than in others; the state of the health, certainly, has an influence of this kind. I asked Powers what he thought of Michael Angelo's statue of Lorenzo de' Medici.
"If Vanno were here he would kill you!" the strange something that was not herself cried out in a voice that was not hers. Angelo's face hardened as he looked down at her with a bitter contempt. "So you would rejoice in bringing strife between brothers!" he said. "I had not yet thought so badly of you as that. But there are such women.
Filippi understands drawing; but otherwise. . . . Michael Angelo's pupil! Does he still write on his back? Every monk is God's servant, but in how few does the Lord dwell! What have you drawn with Sebastiano?"
It is this splendid feeling of bigness in Michael Angelo's figures that is so satisfying. One cannot come away from the contemplation of that wonderful ceiling of his in the Vatican without the sense of having experienced something of a larger life than one had known before.
But the statue that sits above these two latter allegories, Morning and Evening, is like no other that ever came from a sculptor's hand. It is the one work worthy of Michael Angelo's reputation, and grand enough to vindicate for him all the genius that the world gave him credit for.
Anna's mystical semi-patriotism prompted by her hatred of Vittoria, hatred of Carlo as Angelo's cousin and protector, hatred of the Italy which held the three, who never took the name Tedesco on their tongues without loathing was perfectly hidden from this shrewd head. Some extra patrols were in the streets.
I abridged Guicciardini's intolerable History, I hacked sense out of Michael Angelo's granite verses, weeded Lorenzo of disgustfulness, Politian of pedantry. The last thing we read together was the Aminta of Tasso; the last thing I had of her was the "Little Flowers of St. Francis," a favourite book of her devotion. My Saint, she called St.
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