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Not with the sword or the might of great power is the triumph won, says Sandro to us by this picture, but by the little hand of the Christ Child, conquering by love and drawing all men to Him. This Adoration of the Magi is in our own National Gallery in London, and is the only painting which Botticelli ever signed.
The story of a Cupid, carved and coloured in imitation of the antique, is given by Condivi. It was the cause of Michael Angelo’s first visit to Rome. As soon as he reached the Eternal City he set to work at his sculpture, as the purchase of a piece of marble mentioned in his letter to Pier Francesco de’ Medici, sent to Florence under cover to Sandro Botticelli, indicates. During the whole of this very important visit he worked in marble. We have, however, one record of a cartoon by him for a Saint Francis receiving the Stigmata, to be painted by a certain barber; but that is all. He studied the works of antique art and imitated the finish and softness of the Hellenic style: marbles of debased Greek workmanship abound to this day in the Roman collections. Messer Jacopo Gallo, a Roman gentleman and a banker, commissioned a Bacchus, now in the Bargello at Florence, and a Cupid, said to be the statue now in the Victoria and Albert Museum, South Kensington. Condivi records these commissions. This Bacchus is the least dignified work that Michael Angelo ever executed. Perhaps, like a young artist struggling to get on, he listened too much to the wishes and suggestions of his intelligent patron. The finish and the truth to nature of the unpleasant youth are exquisite. The folds of the skin and the softness of the flesh are perfectly rendered, but the work is repulsive, save for the mischievous little Satyr who steals the grapes; he seems to take us out into the open air, and away from the fumes of the wine shop. Condivi calls the second statue a Cupid, but Springer points out that Ulisse Aldovrandi, who saw the statue in Messer Gallo’s house at Rome, talks of an Apollo quite naked, with a quiver at his side and an urn at his feet. The work, Cupid or Apollo, at Kensington, is not so finely finished as the other statues of this first Roman period; the head is like a copy of the head of the David, the division between the pectoral muscles is weak, and their attachments to the breast-bone are round, regular, and without distinction, very different from either the naturalism of the Bacchus, the delicate truth of the Piet
It is evident that Botticelli meant by this those sad years of struggle against evil which ended in the martyrdom of the great preacher, and he has placed Savonarola among the crowd of worshippers drawn to His feet by the Infant Christ. It is sad to think of those last days when Sandro was too old and too weary to paint.
She returned, picked up the engagement-book and gave it him; then she stood for a moment by the bed, beginning to smile a little. "You've got a lot to fret about," she said. "Don't you fret about money, Sandro. I can manage a thousand in a month or so. No use hoarding it; it looks as if we should neither of us want it long." "You've got a thousand? What, now? Available?"
"Sandro, be careful! See what you are doing! You have spilled the coffee." "Oh, that's nothing!" he said gaily; "it will wash out." "On the contrary, it is a great deal. It makes unnecessary laundry and uses up the linen we can't get any more, you know." At once his gay humor changed to sulkiness. "Va bene, va bene! let us drop that subject."
There were two reasonable views of the matter; either the lady was not what Quisanté declared her, or if she were she would have nothing to do with Quisanté. But Aunt Maria reserved her opinion; she was prepared to find neither of these alternatives correct. For there was something remarkable about Sandro; the knowledge that had been hers so long promised fair to become the world's discovery.
'Sandro raised his hands and implored Sundown to save him from the riders. Sundown stepped to the window. He saw the flash of spurs and bits as a group of the Concho boys swept down the road. One of them was leading a riderless horse. In a flash he realized that they had found the herder's horse and had tracked 'Sandro to the water-hole.
She was strongly excited with her quick resolution; her colour had risen and her voice faltered when she began to speak. She spoke eagerly, running her words together. "Ecco, Messer Sandro," she whispered blushing. "You have heard these sayings.... Who is there in Florence like me?" "There is no one," said Sandro simply. "I will be your Lady Venus," she went on breathlessly.
She spoke rapidly and in English. "How much is it?" "Five hundred lire." She caught her breath. "Do you mean to say that you the Prince Sansevero, the owner of this palace, are in need of a hundred dollars, and don't know where to get it? You shall have it to-morrow, the first thing." Then suddenly she added: "Uncle Sandro I want you to tell me something!
Nor did she share in any serious degree the fears which afflicted her nephew's wife; Sandro always had a case, and she did not doubt that he would have a very good one whereby to justify any proceedings he might take in regard to the Alethea. So she lived frugally, hoped magnificently, and came often to Grosvenor Road to pick up what crumbs of information she could.
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