They are so simply right, in the figure of the Soldan, that we do not
think of them;--we see him only, not his dress But we see dress first,
in the figures of the discomfited Magi. Very fully draped personages
these, indeed,--with trains, it appears, four yards long, and bearers
of them.
The one nearest the Soldan has done his devoir as bravely as he could;
would fain go up to the fire, but cannot; is forced to shield his face,
though he has not turned back. Giotto gives him full sweeping breadth
of fold; what dignity he can;--a man faithful to his profession, at all
events.
The next one has no such courage. Collapsed altogether, he has nothing
more to say for himself or his creed. Giotto hangs the cloak upon him,
in Ghirlandajo's fashion, as from a peg, but with ludicrous narrowness
of fold. Literally, he is a 'shut-up' Magus--closed like a fan. He
turns his head away, hopelessly. And the last Magus shows nothing but
his back, disappearing through the door.
Opposed to them, in a modern work, you would have had a St. Francis
standing as high as he could in his sandals, contemptuous,
denunciatory; magnificently showing the Magi the door. No such thing,
says Giotto. A somewhat mean man; disappointing enough in presence-even
in feature; I do not understand his gesture, pointing to his forehead
--perhaps meaning, 'my life, or my head, upon the truth of this.' The
attendant monk behind him is terror-struck; but will follow his master.
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