Artemisia, Part 2 of 12

(It was 1860 when the English poet Robert Browning stumbled upon an interesting artefact as he walked through the city of Florence. It was a file of documents from an old Italian criminal trial, and he would turn this material into his masterpiece, "The Ring and the Book".) The Old Square Yellow Book It was the kind of day they call a "stallion" in Florence, with white sun, surpassing strong. And it was noon. (In June, to be precise.) The Englishman came strolling aimlessly (or was it?) through Piazza San Lorenzo. And, just as now, a market crammed the square and foamed around the statue's marble plinth. Here, plaster busts, there, flaking picture-frames, and Garibaldi portraits (way back then, in eighteen-sixty, they were giving birth: Italian nationhood was in the air). The tall "inglese", drawn towards the stall which offered prints and books, picked something up. He shouted "shop", and put one lira down. The book was his. He managed to ignore the girls, a-squabbling over tasseled shawls, those burly porters, drenching head and neck in Giovanni's fountain, braying mules, cacophony and chaos all around, to read his book. His blood knew, right away. At last, he'd found the raw material from which he'd quarry one great masterpiece. One foot propped on the railing, near the step which leads down to the fountain by the church, he read, engrossed. Then, with a sudden laugh, he threw it in the air, and caught it, safe. What was it? Well, a book - but more than that. It was the record of some long-dead trial, some murder case of many years before, with statements, pleadings, longhand notes. In this authentic tangle lay a human tale of fierce emotion, rich psychology, if he could tease it out. So off he set, re-reading as he walked, feeling his way, along the narrow Giglio, then the broad Panzani. Via Tornabuoni next, so long and straight, down to the river. He passed the Strozzi Palace, crossed the bridge they call the Trinita. When he reached home, the cool Felice, there was not a doubt. His whole life's labour lay there, in his hands.