In Mercury, who is touching the trees with his caduceus and bidding them burgeon, some see Giuliano de’ Medici, who was not yet betrothed.  But when the picture was painted both Giuliano and Simonetta were dead:  Simonetta first, of consumption, in 1476, and Giuliano, by stabbing in 1478.  Lorenzo, who was at Pisa during Simonetta’s illness, detailed his own physician for her care.  On hearing of her death he walked out into the night and noticed for the first time a brilliant star.  “See,” he said, “either the soul of that most gentle lady hath been transferred into that new star or else hath it been joined together thereunto.”  Of Giuliano’s end we have read in Chapter II, and it was Botticelli, whose destinies were so closely bound up with the Medici, who was commissioned to paint portraits of the murderous Pazzi to be displayed outside the Palazzo Vecchio.

A third picture in what may be called the tournament period is found by some in the “Venus and Mars,” No. 915, in our National Gallery.  Here Giuliano would be Mars, and Venus either one woman in particular whom Florence wished him to marry, or all women, typified by one, trying to lure him from other pre-occupations, such as hunting.  To make her Simonetta is to go too far; for she is not like the Simonetta of the other pictures, and Simonetta was but recently married and a very model of fair repute.  In No. 916 in the National Gallery is a “Venus with Cupids” (which might be by Botticelli and might be by that interesting painter of whom Mr. Berenson has written so attractively as Amico di Sandro), in which Politian’s description of Venus, in his poem, is again closely followed.

After the tournament pictures we come in Botticelli’s career to the Sixtine Chapel frescoes, and on his return to Florence to other frescoes, including that lovely one at the Villa Lemmi (then the Villa Tornabuoni) which is now on the staircase of the Louvre.  These are followed by at least two more Medici pictures—­the portrait of Piero di Lorenzo de’ Medici, in this room, No. 1154, the sad-faced youth with the medal; and the “Pallas and the Centaur” at the Pitti, an historical record of Lorenzo’s success as a diplomatist when he went to Naples in 1480.

The latter part of Botticelli’s life was spent under the influence of Savonarola and in despair at the wickedness of the world and its treatment of that prophet.  His pictures became wholly religious, but it was religion without joy.  Never capable of disguising the sorrow that underlies all human happiness—­or, as I think of it in looking at his work, the sense of transience—­Botticelli, as age came upon him, was more than ever depressed.  One has the feeling that he was persuaded that only through devotion and self-negation could peace of mind be gained, and yet for himself could find none.  The sceptic was too strong in him.  Savonarola’s eloquence could not make him serene, however much he may have come beneath its spell.  It but served to increase his melancholy.  Hence these wistful despondent Madonnas, all so conscious of the tragedy before their Child; hence these troubled angels and shadowed saints.