ttle
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 less remarkable. No. 81, above it,
is by Browning's Pacchiorotto (who worked in distemper); close by
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