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
Uffizi--that 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
Mantegna--a 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 heav