so long as a sitter is coldly self-conscious, and fully mindful
that he is "being took," his countenance is as stiff, awkward, and
constrained as that of a farmer at a dinner-party.

Hence the task devolves upon the portrait-artist to bring out, by the
magic of his presence, the nature of the subject. "In order to paint a
truly correct likeness, you must know your sitter thoroughly," said Van
Dyck.

The gracious Rubens prided himself on his ability in this line. He would
often spend half an hour busily mending a brush or mixing paints, talking
the while, but only waiting for the icy mood of the sitter to thaw. Then
he would arrange the raiment of his patron, sometimes redress the hair,
especially of his lady patrons, and once we know he kissed the cheek of
the Duchess of Mantua, "so as to dispel her distant look." I know a
portrait-artist in Albany who is said to occasionally salute his lady
customers by the same token, and if they protest he simply explains to
them that it was all in the interest of art--in other words, artifice for
art's sake.

After three days at the charming old country-seat at Saventhem, Van Dyck
called his servant and told him to take the shoes off of the
saddle-horse, and turn it and the cart-horse loose in the pasture. He
had decided to remain and paint a picture for the village church.

And it was so done.

The pictures that Van Dyck then painted are there now in the same old
ivy-grown, moss-covered church at Saventhem. The next time you are in
Brussels it will pay you to walk out and see them.

One of the pictures is called "Saint Martin Dividing His Cloak With Two
Beggars." The Saint is modestly represented by Van Dyck himself, seated
astride the beautiful horse that Rubens gave him.

The other picture is "The Holy Family," in which the fair Anna posed for
the Virgin, and her parents and kinsmen are grouped around her as the
Magi and attendants.

Both pictures reveal the true Van Dyck touch, and are highly prized by
the people of the village and the good priests of the church. Each night
a priest carries in a cot and sleeps in the chancel to see that these
priceless works of art are protected from harm. When you go there to see
them, give the cowled attendant a franc and he will unfold the tale, not
just as I have written it, but substantially. He will tell you that Van
Dyck stopped here on his way to Italy and painted these pictures as a
pious offering to God, and what boots it aft