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In the Spring of 1847 I was at Florence.  Such as were there at the same time with myself—­those, at least, to whom Art is something,—­will certainly recollect how many rooms of the Pitti Gallery were closed through that season, in order that some of the pictures they contained might be examined, and repaired without the necessity of removal.  The hall, the staircases, and the vast central suite of apartments, were the only accessible portions; and in these such paintings as they could admit from the sealed penetralia were profanely huddled together, without respect of dates, schools, or persons.

I fear that, through this interdict, I may have missed seeing many of the best pictures.  I do not mean only the most talked of:  for these, as they were restored, generally found their way somehow into the open rooms, owing to the clamours raised by the students; and I remember how old Ercoli’s, the curator’s, spectacles used to be mirrored in the reclaimed surface, as he leaned mysteriously over these works with some of the visitors, to scrutinize and elucidate.

One picture, that I saw that Spring, I shall not easily forget.  It was among those, I believe, brought from the other rooms, and had been hung, obviously out of all chronology, immediately beneath that head by Raphael so long known as the “Berrettino,” and now said to be the portrait of Cecco Ciulli.

The picture I speak of is a small one, and represents merely the figure of a woman, clad to the hands and feet with a green and grey raiment, chaste and early in its fashion, but exceedingly simple.  She is standing:  her hands are held together lightly, and her eyes set earnestly open.

The face and hands in this picture, though wrought with great delicacy, have the appearance of being painted at once, in a single sitting:  the drapery is unfinished.  As soon as I saw the figure, it drew an awe upon me, like water in shadow.  I shall not attempt to describe it more than I have already done; for the most absorbing wonder of it was its literality.  You knew that figure, when painted, had been seen; yet it was not a thing to be seen of men.  This language will appear ridiculous to such as have never looked on the work; and it may be even to some among those who have.  On examining it closely, I perceived in one corner of the canvass the words Manus Animam pinxit, and the date 1239.

I turned to my Catalogue, but that was useless, for the pictures were all displaced.  I then stepped up to the Cavaliere Ercoli, who was in the room at the moment, and asked him regarding the subject of authorship of the painting.  He treated the matter, I thought, somewhat slightingly, and said that he could show me the reference in the Catalogue, which he had compiled.  This, when found, was not of much value, as it merely said, “Schizzo d’autore incerto,” adding the inscription.{4} I could willingly have prolonged my inquiry, in the hope that it might somehow lead to some result; but I had disturbed the curator from certain yards of Guido, and he was not communicative.  I went back therefore, and stood before the picture till it grew dusk.