was born. He was a maker, creating mighty meanings under formlessness.
His great shapes seem each a mystery, wrestling with a message."

"I had thought there was none who equaled him in form--that he was even
as a sculptor in his painting."

"And it was even so. When I spake of 'formlessness' it was not the less,
but the more; as if, _before the visions had taken mortal shape, he,
being greater than men, saw them as spirits_."

"Never before have I talked with one who knew this master," said
Girolamo, "and it is a feast."

"Nay, I knew him not, for it was not easy to get speech with him, nor a
favor a young man might crave. But once I saw him at his work in San
Pietro, where he wrought most furiously and would take no payment--'for
the good of his soul,' he said, that he might end his life with a pious
work. The night was coming on, and already his candle was fastened to
his hat, that he might lose no time. They had brought him a little bread
and wine for his evening meal, for often he went not home when the mood
of work possessed him; and beside him was a writing of the man
Savonarola--this and the Holy Evangel and the 'Inferno' fashioned his
thoughts. He lived not long after that, for we were still in Rome when
they made for him that great funeral in Santa Croce of Florence, the
rumor of which is dear to artist hearts. He was great and lonely, and he
knew no joy; there hath been none like him."

"And the Tintoretto, at Santa Maria dell' Orto?"

"He, too, is a _furioso_, wonderful in form--and the Michelangelo had