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opportunity； of inspiration； and all the rest of it。 The worthy part
is to do something fine！ There is no law in our glorious
Constitution against that。 Invent； create； achieve！ No matter if
you have to study fifty times as much as one of these！ What else are
you an artist for？ Be you our Moses；〃 I added； laughing； and laying
my hand on his shoulder； 〃and lead us out of the house of bondage！〃
〃Golden wordsgolden words； young man！〃 he cried； with a tender
smile。 〃'Invent； create； achieve！' Yes； that's our business； I know
it well。 Don't take me； in Heaven's name； for one of your barren
complainersimpotent cynics who have neither talent nor faith！ I am
at work！〃and he glanced about him and lowered his voice as if this
were a quite peculiar secret〃I'm at work night and day。 I have
undertaken a CREATION！ I am no Moses； I am only a poor patient
artist； but it would be a fine thing if I were to cause some slender
stream of beauty to flow in our thirsty land！ Don't think me a
monster of conceit；〃 he went on； as he saw me smile at the avidity
with which he adopted my illustration； 〃I confess that I am in one of
those moods when great things seem possible！ This is one of my
nervous nightsI dream waking！ When the south wind blows over
Florence at midnight it seems to coax the soul from all the fair
things locked away in her churches and galleries； it comes into my
own little studio with the moonlight； and sets my heart beating too
deeply for rest。 You see I am always adding a thought to my
conception！ This evening I felt that I couldn't sleep unless I had
communed with the genius of Buonarotti！〃
He seemed deeply versed in local history and tradition； and he
expatiated con amore on the charms of Florence。 I gathered that he
was an old resident； and that he had taken the lovely city into his
heart。 〃I owe her everything；〃 he declared。 〃It's only since I came
here that I have really lived； intellectually。 One by one； all
profane desires； all mere worldly aims； have dropped away from me；
and left me nothing but my pencil； my little note…book〃 （and he
tapped his breast…pocket）； 〃and the worship of the pure masters
those who were pure because they were innocent； and those who were
pure because they were strong！〃
〃And have you been very productive all this time？〃 I asked
sympathetically。
He was silent a while before replying。 〃Not in the vulgar sense！〃 he
said at last。 〃I have chosen never to manifest myself by
imperfection。 The good in every performance I have re…absorbed into
the generative force of new creations； the badthere is always
plenty of thatI have religiously destroyed。 I may say； with some
satisfaction； that I have not added a mite to the rubbish of the
world。 As a proof of my conscientiousness and he stopped short； and
eyed me with extraordinary candour； as if the proof were to be
overwhelming〃I have never sold a picture！ 'At least no merchant
traffics in my heart！' Do you remember that divine line in Browning？
My little studio has never been profaned by superficial； feverish；
mercenary work。 It's a temple of labour； but of leisure！ Art is
long。 If we work for ourselves； of course we must hurry。 If we work
for her； we must often pause。 She can wait！〃
This had brought us to my hotel door； somewhat to my relief； I
confess； for I had begun to feel unequal to the society of a genius
of this heroic strain。 I left him； however； not without expressing a
friendly hope that we should meet again。 The next morning my
curiosity had not abated； I was anxious to see him by common
daylight。 I counted upon meeting him in one of the many pictorial
haunts of Florence； and I was gratified without delay。 I found him
in the course of the morning in the Tribune of the Uffizithat
little treasure…chamber of world…famous things。 He had turned his
back on the Venus de' Medici； and with his arms resting on the rail…
mug which protects the pictures； and his head buried in his hands； he
was lost in the contemplation of that superb triptych of Andrea
Mantegnaa work which has neither the material splendour nor the
commanding force of some of its neighbours； but which； glowing there
with the loveliness of patient labour； suits possibly a more constant
need of the soul。 I looked at the picture for some time over his
shoulder； at last； with a heavy sigh； he turned away and our eyes
met。 As he recognised me a deep blush rose to his face； he fancied；
perhaps； that he had made a fool of himself overnight。 But I offered
him my hand with a friendliness which assured him I was not a
scoffer。 I knew him by his ardent chevelure； otherwise he was much
altered。 His midnight mood was over； and he looked as haggard as an
actor by daylight。 He was far older than I had supposed； and he had
less bravery of costume and gesture。 He seemed the quiet； poor；
patient artist he had proclaimed himself； and the fact that he had
never sold a picture was more obvious than glorious。 His velvet coat
was threadbare； and his short slouched hat； of an antique pattern；
revealed a rustiness which marked it an 〃original；〃 and not one of
the picturesque reproductions which brethren of his craft affect。
His eye was mild and heavy； and his expression singularly gentle and
acquiescent； the more so for a certain pallid leanness of visage；
which I hardly knew whether to refer to the consuming fire of genius
or to a meagre diet。 A very little talk； however； cleared his brow
and brought back his eloquence。
〃And this is your first visit to these enchanted halls？〃 he cried。
〃Happy； thrice happy youth！〃 And taking me by the arm； he prepared to
lead me to each of the pre…eminent works in turn and show me the
cream of the gallery。 But before we left the Mantegna he pressed my
arm and gave it a loving look。 〃HE was not in a hurry；〃 he murmured。
〃He knew nothing of 〃raw Haste； half…sister to Delay！〃 How sound a
critic my friend was I am unable to say； but he was an extremely
amusing one； overflowing with opinions； theories； and sympathies；
with disquisition and gossip and anecdote。 He was a shade too
sentimental for my own sympathies； and I fancied he was rather too
fond of superfine discriminations and of discovering subtle
intentions in shallow places。 At moments； too； he plunged into the
sea of metaphysics； and floundered a while in waters too deep for
intellectual security。 But his abounding knowledge and happy
judgment told a touching story of long attentive hours in this
worshipful company； there was a reproach to my wasteful saunterings
in so devoted a culture of opportunity。 〃There are two moods；〃 I
remember his saying； 〃in which we may walk through galleriesthe
critical and the ideal。 They seize us at their pleasure； and we can
never tell which is to take its turn。 The critical mood； oddly； is
the genial one； the friendly； the condescending。 It relishes the
pretty trivialities of art； its vulgar cleverness； its conscious
graces。 It has a kindly greeting for anything which looks as if；
according to his light； the painter had enjoyed doing itfor the
little Dutch cabbages and kettles； for the taper fingers and breezy
mantles of late…coming Madonnas； for the little blue…hilled；
pastoral； sceptical Italian landscapes。 Then there are the days of
fierce； fastidious longingsolemn church feasts of the intellect
when all vulgar effort and all petty success is a weariness； and
everything but the bestthe best of the bestdisgusts。 In these
hours we are relentless aristocrats of taste。 We will not take
Michael Angelo for granted； we will not swallow Raphael whole！〃
The gallery of the Uffizi is not only rich in its possessions； but
peculiarly fortunate in that fine architectural accident； as one may
call it； which unites itwith the breadth of river and city between
themto those princely chambers of the Pitti Palace。 The Louvre and
the Vatican hardly give you such a sense of sustained inclosure as
those long passages projected over street and stream to establish a
sort of inviolate transition between the two palaces of art。 We
passed along the gallery in which those precious drawings by eminent
hands hang chaste and gray above the swirl and murmur of the yellow
Arno； and reached the ducal saloons of the Pitti。 Ducal as they are；
it must be confessed that they are imperfect as show…rooms； and that；
with their deep…set windows and their massive mouldings； it is rather
a broken light that reaches the pictured walls。 But here the
masterpieces hang thick； and you seem to see them in a luminous
atmosphere of their own。 And the great saloons； with their superb
dim ceilings； their outer wall in splendid shadow； and the sombre
opposite glow of mellow canvas and dusky gilding； make； themselves；
almost as fine a picture as the Titians and Raphaels they imperfectly
reveal。 We lingered briefly before many a Raphael and Titian； but I
saw my frien