The Disciple

Chapter I Rogation Days‘Follow me, and I will show you the view from the loggia,’ Sir Christopher Noble-Nolan said. ‘Yes, I’d love to see it,’ the 24-year-old John Forde said to the distinguished art historian – nearly half a century older than himself – whom he trailed after. Once they had climbed a steep staircase and a forbidding-looking door was unbolted, they passed into a vaulted, open-air room, jutting out toward the Arno, with expansive views of Florence on three sides, each one neatly framed by a pair of Doric columns, as if to demarcate precisely the spot from which one should stand and behold the monumental vista: the cupola of the Duomo, the spire of the Palazzo Vecchio, the colonnade of the Uffizi and the campanili of one imposing Renaissance church after another, all encircled by the poetically undulating hills of Tuscany. In that summer of 1983, it was both thrilling and terrifying for John Forde, on this his first trip to Europe, to stand in such proximity to the city of his dreams, for he had, from the time that he began to study art history as an undergraduate, harboured an especial devotion to Florence. And thou, his Florence, to thy trust / Receive and keep, he quoted silently as he gaped at the sight before himself, praying, as one might for a good harvest or an increase in vocations, that his burning desire of escape – escape from the eternal struggle of scrimping and saving and scholarshipping, escape, even more, from the parched landscape of his middle, middle-class childhood in Providence, Rhode Island – should be realised here, in Florence, the ‘City of Flowers’, as she has been known for century upon century upon century. ‘Well, there you have Florence – all within touching distance,’ Sir Christopher Noble-Nolan said, waving his hand in a proprietary gesture. Have it? If only I did have it, John sighed to himself. Aloud, he merely said, ‘Spectacular.’ ‘It is nicely positioned, isn’t it?’ Sir Christopher asked with a rhetorical flourish. ‘I suppose it’s even better than the view from Belcanto,’ John said, referring to the villa, just outside of Florence, where he had heard Sir Christopher speak on Botticelli’s illustrations for the Divine Comedy less than one week ago, a lecture round which he had organised his entire summer travel plans. Ever since he had come across the name – that, to him, magical-sounding name: Christopher Noble-Nolan – when idling round the art and archæology library on a lonely Friday night during his freshman year at the University of Chicago in 1977, John had convinced himself of a mystical union with the illustrious scholar. In the years that had elapsed since, he made himself obsessively familiar with every aspect (professional and personal) of Sir Christopher’s life: the relations he bore; the schools he had attended; the clubs he belonged to; the societies he was a fellow of; the decorations he had been awarded; and, most important, the books he had written – from the first monograph he published, in 1937, when he was twenty-three years old, right up through the volume of collected essays that came out just this spring. Thus was it but little wonder that John should have felt utterly transported when, last week, on 23 June, the Vigil of the Baptist, he beheld the tall, thin, beautifully groomed art historian ascend the dais with aristocratic aplomb. To John, Sir Christopher presented an urbane image of Olympian detachment – elegant, without being dandified; unusually refined, rather than conventionally handsome – in whom intellectual attainment was indissolubly wedded to social distinction. Mesmerised by the commanding timbre of the voice holding forth on Botticelli’s illustrations for the Divine Comedy, John felt that he could, at last, see the advantage of the long study and the great love that had made him search volumes. As if overcome by a vision, John was convinced that he finally beheld his master and author. ‘Oh, but this view is infinitely superior,’ Sir Christopher declared. ‘To begin with, it is just the right height, so that one doesn’t see any of the suburban sprawl that one does from Fiesole. From here, one has the illusion that there is just the historic centre of Florence and the surrounding hills. And one doesn’t really want anything more than the illusion, does one?’ But John did want more than an illusion – much more. He wanted to be firmly planted at the foot of a noble castle, seven times encircled by high walls, a sweet brook flowing round. And so it was that, on the very day following the lecture at Villa Belcanto, he had made a pilgrimage to Palazzo Vespucci – where, tradition says, Dante often dined with the Ospizio de’ Pelegrini after hearing Mass at the adjoining church – and deposited with the surly portress a calculatedly sincere letter of admiration, addressed to Sir Christopher Noble-Nolan, KCVO, CBE, FBA, FSA, FRSL. ‘Now, you mentioned in your letter,’ Sir Christopher continued, sitting down on a cushionless wicker chair, as he motioned for John to do the same, ‘that you’ve done some work on Botticelli.’ ‘Well no, I mean yes, but, uh, I’ve just begun, really,’ John stammered, as eager to establish himself as he was anxious not to stake false claims he might have later to recant. ‘I only started a little while ago, but I have pretty much decided that I want to write about a group of Botticelli’s followers. I am particularly interested in Bartolomeo di Giovanni and the Master of San Miniato. Of course, Botticelli comes into that, though I wouldn’t presume to deal with his work. I realise that’s much too big a subject. My real aim is to try to reconstruct the actual workings of his studio from the point of view of the artists who were trained therein.’ ‘What a frightfully good subject.’ ‘Unfortunately, my dissertation adviser, Professor Isner, doesn’t share your enthusiasm.’ ‘Oh, old Milton Isner, you mean? I’ve known him since he was a graduate student himself, and, believe me, I wouldn’t worry too much about what he thinks,’ Sir Christopher said with a dismissive chuckle. ‘Hmm.’ John smiled, secretly thrilled to collude in such denigration. Though he could not deny that his professor was a perfectly able dissertation adviser, and always a conscientious one, John knew in his heart that Milton Isner – he of the shiny polyester suits; he of the thinning grey hair (parted just slightly above ear level); he of the flat Middle Western twang and the altogether unforthcoming manner; he, the married suburban commuter; he, the Jewish atheist – bore no relation to the etiolated æsthete whom he had envisaged, before he came to graduate school, acting as his mentor, his Mantuan guide. Romantic egotist that he was, John’s intellectual vanity demanded that he picture himself safely escorted on the back of Geryon by someone such as Sir Christopher Noble-Nolan – he of the Oxbridge education (and attendant accent); he of the doctorates of honoris causa; he of the knighthood and the altogether patrician demeanour; he, the celibate expatriate; he, the Roman Catholic ritualist – which is why, in searching for a dissertation topic, John had been determined to find a subject that would relate to (without seeming to impinge on) Sir Christopher’s Botticelli work, a long-standing project that he had already heard talked about in New York. Though the grant that had made possible John’s summer trip to Europe was specifically intended to help a graduate student define his dissertation proposal, he had resolutely decided, before he set foot abroad, to commit himself to a group of obscure followers of Botticelli. He knew that much study (and a good deal of speculation) had been devoted to reconstructing the young Botticelli’s training in the studio of Fra Filippo Lippi, but that little work had been done on the constitution of the large bottega he himself eventually founded, and John hoped that, by addressing this question, he would be able firmly to ally himself to Sir Christopher Noble-Nolan. That he might, at the same time, incur the wrath of Professor Isner, whose supposedly steadfast assistant he had been all of the last year, excited him more than it intimidated him. ‘As you know from the lecture the other day,’ Sir Christopher continued, ‘I am now engaged on a full-scale monograph on Botticelli, so I think I’m in a much better position than old Milton Isner to pronounce on the matter. And it’s not,’ he added, ‘as if he’s a connoisseur. I mean, Isner’s attribution of a picture – positive or negative – is not about to change its value. He knows about documents, not works of art. And I always say that if a document contradicts my eye, I assume that the document is at fault.’ ‘That’s a nice way to put it,’ John said, trying not too blatantly to reveal the admiration he felt for the power that a connoisseur like Christopher Noble-Nolan can wield, for he realised that Sir Christopher, with his stellar reputation – never the slightest hint of any truck with the marketplace – could, with but the flick of a footnote, alter the value of a work of art by millions, indeed many millions, of dollars. ‘That’s really, you see, why one has retired from all positions in London and moved out here, so that one can devote one’s self entirely to scholarly writing.’ ‘I suppose that it must be a relief to be free of all that administration?’ ‘To be honest, I rather liked the administration, or administering people at any rate. But yes, I am happy to have returned to the fold of pure scholarship. And now that one has done so, nothing must get in the way of the Botticelli work. First, I am to finish the book on Botticelli’s illustrations for the Divine Comedy, which has been commissioned under a beautiful contract – they are planning to produce not so much a coffee-table book as a billiard-table one – then, I will return to the full-scale monograph – the catalogue raisonné is nearly complete – and finally, when that is done, I plan a comprehensive study of the Botticelli shop. So, I greatly look forward to your work. It should dovetail neatly with what I am engaged on. ‘Do you know Hamamelis?’ Sir Christopher asked, reaching out to caress the branch of one of the many plants growing in terracotta pots on the loggia. He indicated the abrupt change in subject by briefly, though markedly, raising the pitch of his voice. John stood up and, simulating interest, inspected the spindly and, to him, far from prepossessing shrub. There was a pot of rather unusual green flowers that he liked, but he didn’t dare draw attention to them, as he had no idea what they were. ‘It comes from the Himalayas, Hamamelis does. Very rare. One had to be taken to a nursery garden near Volterra to find it. It flowers on Epiphany, you know.’ John didn’t know, but he nodded vaguely, for he wanted to please without appearing intent on doing so. When, on Tuesday of this week, he had received a terse postcard from Sir Christopher, acknowledging his letter and inviting him to turn up – any day he chose – at his apartment at five o’clock, John had been torn by the temptation instantly to gratify his desire to meet the object of his fascination and the belief that his own cause would be best served by a show of disinterested restraint. He reasoned that it would be advisable to come on the Thursday – neither too soon nor too late – but, in the end, unable to curb his ardour, he rang Sir Christopher’s bell at one minute past five on the Wednesday, 29 June. Impatient as he had been to penetrate Sir Christopher’s lair, he did not, however, once there, intend to stay long, for he thought that a short visit held greater promise of future invitations. He was pleased that Sir Christopher seemed genuinely reluctant to let him go when, after having been there for three quarters of an hour, he made a motion to leave. He insisted that he did not want to impose but said that he would like to come back soon, giving precise details of his dates, for he very much wanted to impress on Sir Christopher the fact of his limited presence in Florence. Nonetheless, as he descended the staircase from the loggia and followed Sir Christopher through the majestic hallway, he began to think that perhaps he had been too hasty in taking his departure.