What is chiefly notable in her is--that you would not,
if you had to guess who she was, take her for Fortitude at all.
Everybody else's Fortitudes announce themselves clearly and proudly.
They have tower-like shields, and lion-like helmets--and stand firm
astride on their legs,--and are confidently ready for all comers. Yes;
--that is your common Fortitude. Very grand, though common. But not the
highest, by any means.
Ready for all comers, and a match for them,--thinks the universal
Fortitude;--no thanks to her for standing so steady, then!
But Botticelli's Fortitude is no match, it may be, for any that are
coming. Worn, somewhat; and not a little weary, instead of standing
ready for all comers, she is sitting,--apparently in reverie, her
fingers playing restlessly and idly--nay, I think--even nervously,
about the hilt of her sword.
For her battle is not to begin to-day; nor did it begin yesterday. Many
a morn and eve have passed since it began--and now--is this to be the
ending day of it? And if this--by what manner of end?
That is what Sandro's Fortitude is thinking. And the playing fingers
about the sword-hilt would fain let it fall, if it might be: and yet,
how swiftly and gladly will they close on it, when the far-off trumpet
blows, which she will hear through all her reverie!
There is yet another picture of Sandro's here, which you must look at
before going back to Giotto: the small Judith in the room next the
Tribune, as you return from this outer one.
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