And now we come to Botticelli, who although less richly represented in numbers than at the Uffizi, is for the majority of his admirers more to be sought here, by reason of the “Primavera” allegory, which is the Accademia’s most powerful magnet.  The Botticellis are divided between two rooms, the “Primavera” being in the first.  The first feeling one has is how much cooler it is here than among the Peruginos, and how much gayer; for not only is there the “Primavera,” but Fra Lippo Lippi is here too, with a company of angels helping to crown the Virgin, and a very sweet, almost transparent, little Madonna adoring—­No. 79—­which one cannot forget.

The “Primavera” is not wearing too well:  one sees that at once.  Being in tempera it cannot be cleaned, and a dulness is overlaying it; but nothing can deprive the figure of Spring of her joy and movement, a floating type of conquering beauty and youth.  The most wonderful thing about this wonderful picture is that it should have been painted when it was:  that, suddenly, out of a solid phalanx of Madonnas should have stepped these radiant creatures of the joyous earth, earthy and joyful.  And not only that they should have so surprisingly and suddenly emerged, but that after all these years this figure of Spring should still be the finest of her kind.  That is the miracle!  Luca Signorelli’s flowers at the Uffizi remain the best, but Botticelli’s are very thoughtful and before the grass turned black they must have been very lovely; the exquisite drawing of the irises in the right-hand corner can still be traced, although the colour has gone.  The effect now is rather like a Chinese painting.  For the history of the “Primavera” and its signification, one must turn back to Chapter X.

I spoke just now of Luca’s flowers.  There are others in his picture in this room—­botanist’s flowers as distinguished from painter’s flowers:  the wild strawberry beautifully straggling.  This picture is one of the most remarkable in all Florence to me:  a Crucifixion to which the perishing of the colour has given an effect of extreme delicacy, while the group round the cross on the distant mound has a quality for which one usually goes to Spanish art.  The Magdalen is curiously sulky and human.  Into the skull at the foot of the cross creeps a lizard.

This room has three Lippo Lippis, which is an interesting circumstance when we remember that that dissolute brother was the greatest influence on Botticelli.  The largest is the Coronation of the Virgin with its many lilies—­a picture which one must delight in, so happy and crowded is it, but which never seems to me quite what it should be.  The most fascinating part of it is the figures in the two little medallions:  two perfect pieces of colour and design.  The kneeling monk on the right is Lippo Lippi himself.  Near it is the Madonna adoring, No. 79, of which I have spoken, with herself so luminous and the background so dark; the other—­No. 82—­is