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was an altogether ideal valet de place； and I was glad enough to
leave my Murray at home； and gather facts and opinions alike from his
gossiping commentary。 He talked of Florence like a lover； and
admitted that it was a very old affair； he had lost his heart to her
at first sight。 〃It's the fashion to talk of all cities as
feminine；〃 he said； 〃but； as a rule； it's a monstrous mistake。 Is
Florence of the same sex as New York； as Chicago？ She is the sole
perfect lady of them all； one feels towards her as a lad in his teens
feels to some beautiful older woman with a 'history。' She fills you
with a sort of aspiring gallantry。〃 This disinterested passion
seemed to stand my friend in stead of the common social ties； he led
a lonely life； and cared for nothing but his work。 I was duly
flattered by his having taken my frivolous self into his favour； and
by his generous sacrifice of precious hours to my society。 We spent
many of these hours among those early paintings in which Florence is
so rich； returning ever and anon； with restless sympathies； to wonder
whether these tender blossoms of art had not a vital fragrance and
savour more precious than the full…fruited knowledge of the later
works。 We lingered often in the sepulchral chapel of San Lorenzo；
and watched Michael Angelo's dim…visaged warrior sitting there like
some awful Genius of Doubt and brooding behind his eternal mask upon
the mysteries of life。 We stood more than once in the little convent
chambers where Fra Angelico wrought as if an angel indeed had held
his hand； and gathered that sense of scattered dews and early bird…
notes which makes an hour among his relics seem like a morning stroll
in some monkish garden。 We did all this and much morewandered into
dark chapels； damp courts； and dusty palace…rooms； in quest of
lingering hints of fresco and lurking treasures of carving。
I was more and more impressed with my companion's remarkable
singleness of purpose。 Everything was a pretext for some wildly
idealistic rhapsody or reverie。 Nothing could be seen or said that
did not lead him sooner or later to a glowing discourse on the true；
the beautiful； and the good。 If my friend was not a genius； he was
certainly a monomaniac； and I found as great a fascination in
watching the odd lights and shades of his character as if he had been
a creature from another planet。 He seemed； indeed； to know very
little of this one； and lived and moved altogether in his own little
province of art。 A creature more unsullied by the world it is
impossible to conceive； and I often thought it a flaw in his artistic
character that he had not a harmless vice or two。 It amused me
greatly at times to think that he was of our shrewd Yankee race； but；
after all； there could be no better token of his American origin than
this high aesthetic fever。 The very heat of his devotion was a sign
of conversion； those born to European opportunity manage better to
reconcile enthusiasm with comfort。 He had； moreover； all our native
mistrust for intellectual discretion； and our native relish for
sonorous superlatives。 As a critic he was very much more generous
than just； and his mildest terms of approbation were 〃stupendous；〃
〃transcendent；〃 and 〃incomparable。〃 The small change of admiration
seemed to him no coin for a gentleman to handle； and yet； frank as he
was intellectually； he was personally altogether a mystery。 His
professions； somehow； were all half…professions； and his allusions to
his work and circumstances left something dimly ambiguous in the
background。 He was modest and proud； and never spoke of his domestic
matters。 He was evidently poor； yet he must have had some slender
independence； since he could afford to make so merry over the fact
that his culture of ideal beauty had never brought him a penny。 His
poverty； I supposed； was his motive for neither inviting me to his
lodging nor mentioning its whereabouts。 We met either in some public
place or at my hotel； where I entertained him as freely as I might
without appearing to be prompted by charity。 He seemed always
hungry； and this was his nearest approach to human grossness。 I made
a point of asking no impertinent questions； but； each time we met； I
ventured to make some respectful allusion to the magnum opus； to
inquire； as it were； as to its health and progress。 〃We are getting
on； with the Lord's help；〃 he would say； with a grave smile。 〃We are
doing well。 You see； I have the grand advantage that I lose no time。
These hours I spend with you are pure profit。 They are SUGGESTIVE！
Just as the truly religious soul is always at worship； the genuine
artist is always in labour。 He takes his property wherever he finds
it； and learns some precious secret from every object that stands up
in the light。 If you but knew the rapture of observation！ I gather
with every glance some hint for light； for colour； or relief！ When I
get home； I pour out my treasures into the lap of toy Madonna。 Oh； I
am not idle！ Nulla dies sine linea。〃
I was introduced in Florence to an American lady whose drawing…room
had long formed an attractive place of reunion for the foreign
residents。 She lived on a fourth floor； and she was not rich； but
she offered her visitors very good tea； little cakes at option； and
conversation not quite to match。 Her conversation had mainly an
aesthetic flavour； for Mrs。 Coventry was famously ''artistic。〃 Her
apartment was a sort of Pitti Palace au petit pied。 She possessed
〃early masters〃 by the dozena cluster of Peruginos in her dining…
room； a Giotto in her boudoir； an Andrea del Sarto over her drawing…
room chimney…piece。 Surrounded by these treasures； and by
innumerable bronzes； mosaics； majolica dishes； and little worm…eaten
diptychs covered with angular saints on gilded backgrounds； our
hostess enjoyed the dignity of a sort of high…priestess of the arts。
She always wore on her bosom a huge miniature copy of the Madonna
della Seggiola。 Gaining her ear quietly one evening； I asked her
whether she knew that remarkable man； Mr。 Theobald。
〃Know him！〃 she exclaimed； 〃know poor Theobald！ All Florence knows
him； his flame…coloured locks； his black velvet coat； his
interminable harangues on the beautiful； and his wondrous Madonna
that mortal eye has never seen； and that mortal patience has quite
given up expecting。〃
〃Really；〃 I cried； 〃you don't believe in his Madonna？〃
〃My dear ingenuous youth；〃 rejoined my shrewd friend； 〃has he made a
convert of you？ Well； we all believed in him once； he came down upon
Florence and took the town by storm。 Another Raphael； at the very
least； had been born among men； and the poor dear United States were
to have the credit of him。 Hadn't he the very hair of Raphael
flowing down on his shoulders？ The hair； alas； but not the head！ We
swallowed him whole； however； we hung upon his lips and proclaimed
his genius on the house…tops。 The women were all dying to sit to him
for their portraits and be made immortal； like Leonardo's Joconde。
We decided that his manner was a good deal like Leonardo's
mysterious； and inscrutable； and fascinating。 Mysterious it
certainly was； mystery was the beginning and the end of it。 The
months passed by； and the miracle hung fire； our master never
produced his masterpiece。 He passed hours in the galleries and
churches； posturing； musing； and gazing； he talked more than ever
about the beautiful； but he never put brush to canvas。 We had all
subscribed； as it were； to the great performance； but as it never
came off people began to ask for their money again。 I was one of the
last of the faithful； I carried devotion so far as to sit to him for
my head。 If you could have seen the horrible creature he made of me；
you would admit that even a woman with no more vanity than will tie
her bonnet straight must have cooled off then。 The man didn't know
the very alphabet of drawing！ His strong point； he intimated； was
his sentiment； but is it a consolation； when one has been painted a
fright； to know it has been done with peculiar gusto？ One by one； I
confess； we fell away from the faith； and Mr。 Theobald didn't lift
his little finger to preserve us。 At the first hint that we were
tired of waiting； and that we should like the show to begin； he was
off in a huff。 'Great work requires time； contemplation； privacy；
mystery！ O ye of little faith！' We answered that we didn't insist
on a great work； that the five…act tragedy might come at his
convenience； that we merely asked for something to keep us from
yawning； some inexpensive little lever de rideau。 Hereupon the poor
man took his stand as a genius misconceived and persecuted； an ame
meconnue； and washed his hands of us from that hour！ No； I believe
he does me the honour to consider me the head and front of the
conspiracy formed to nip his glory in the buda bud that has taken
twenty years to blosso