us panting with
inspiration. But it can spring now only from the soil of passionate
labour and culture. Do you really fancy that while, from time to time, a
man of complete artistic vision is born into the world, that image can
perish? The man who paints it has painted everything. The subject
admits of every perfection--form, colour, expression, composition. It
can be as simple as you please, and yet as rich; as broad and pure, and
yet as full of delicate detail. Think of the chance for flesh in the
little naked, nestling child, irradiating divinity; of the chance for
drapery in the chaste and ample garment of the mother! think of the great
story you compress into that simple theme! Think, above all, of the
mother's face and its ineffable suggestiveness, of the mingled burden of
joy and trouble, the tenderness turned to worship, and the worship turned
to far-seeing pity! Then look at it all in perfect line and lovely
colour, breathing truth and beauty and mastery!"

"Anch' io son pittore!" I cried. "Unless I am mistaken, you have a
masterpiece on the stocks. If you put all that in, you will do more than
Raphael himself did. Let me know when your picture is finished, and
wherever in the wide world I may be, I will post back to Florence and pay
my respects to--the _Madonna of the future_!"

He blushed vividly and gave a heavy sigh, half of protest, half of
resignation. "I don't often mention my picture by name. I detest this
modern custom of premature publicity. A great work needs silence,
privacy, mystery even. And then, do you know, people are so cruel, so
frivolous, so unable to imagine a man's wishing to paint a Madonna at
this time of day, that I have been laughed at--laughed at, sir!" and his
blush deepened to crimson. "I don't know what has prompted me to be so
frank and trustful with you. You look as if you wouldn't laugh at me. My
dear young man"--and he laid his hand on my arm--"I am worthy of respect.
Whatever my talents may be, I am honest. There is nothing grotesque in a
pure ambition, or in a life devoted to it."

There was something so sternly sincere in his look and tone that further
questions seemed impertinent. I had repeated opportunity to ask them,
however, for after this we spent much time together. Daily for a
fortnight, we met by appointment, to see the sights. He knew the city so
well, he had strolled and lounged so often through its streets and
churches and galleries, he wa