b thee if I had had a mind.'

During all these years in which Perugino had worked so diligently, the
art of painting had been growing rapidly. Many of the new artists shook
off the old rules and ideas, and began to paint in quite a new way.
There was one man especially, called Michelangelo, whose story you will
hear later on, who arose like a giant, and with his new way and greater
knowledge swept everything before him.

Perugino was jealous of all these new ideas, and clung more closely
than ever to his old ideals, his quiet, dignified saints, and spacious
landscapes. He talked openly of his dislike of the new style, and once
he had a serious quarrel with the great Michelangelo.

There was a gathering of painters in Perugino's studio that day.
Filippino Lippi, Botticelli, Ghirlandaio, and Leonardo were there, and
in the background the pupil Raphael was listening to the talk.

'What dost thou think of this new style of painting?' asked Botticelli.
'To me it seems but strange and unpleasing. Music and motion are
delightful, but this violent twisting of limbs to show the muscles
offends my taste.'

'Yet it is most marvellously skilful,' said the young Leonardo
thoughtfully.

'But totally unfit for the proper picturing of saints and the blessed
Madonna,' said Filippino, shaking his curly head.

'I never trouble myself about it,' said Ghirlandaio. 'Life is too short
to attend to other men's work. It takes all my care and attention to
look after mine own. But see, here comes the great Michelangelo himself
to listen to our criticism.'

The curious, rugged face of the great artist looked good-naturedly on
the company, but his strong knotted hands waved aside their greetings.

'So you were busy as usual finding fault with my work,' he said. 'Come,
friend Perugino, tell me what thou hast found to grumble at.'

'I like not thy methods, and that I tell thee frankly,' answered
Perugino, an angry light shining in his eyes. 'It is such work as thine
that drags the art of painting down from the heights of heavenly things
to the low taste of earth. It robs it of all dignity and restfulness,
and destroys the precious traditions handed down to us since the days
of Giotto.'

The face of Michelangelo grew angry and scornful as he listened to this.

'Thou art but a dolt and a blockhead in Art,' he said. 'Thou wilt soon
see that the day of thy saints and Madonnas is past, and wilt cease to
paint them over and over again in the