as to be expected,
the result was one of his very finest pictures. As a work of art, it was
unquestionably the best. When my father saw it placed beside those of
the other competitors, a smile of triumph curled his lip, and he
entertained no doubt that his would be the picture chosen to adorn the
altar. The committee appointed to decide arrived, and cast approving
glances at my father's painting. Before giving their verdict, however,
they proceeded to examine it minutely, and at last, one of the
members--an ecclesiastic of high rank, if I remember rightly--waved his
hand to secure the attention of his fellow-judges, and spoke thus: 'The
picture presented by this artist,' he said, 'has undoubtedly very high
merit as a mere work of art; but it is unsuited to the place and purpose
for which it was designed. Those countenances have nothing sacred or
holy in their expression. On the contrary, you may discern in every one
of them, and especially in the eyes, the traces, more or less modified,
of some evil passion, a something unhallowed and almost fiendish.'
Struck by this observation, all present looked at the picture: it was
impossible to deny the justice of the criticism. My father rushed
furiously forward eager to deny and disprove the unfavourable judgment.
But he saw for the first time, with feelings of intense horror, that he
had given to almost all his countenances the eyes of the money-lender.
They all looked out of the canvass with such a devilish and abominable
stare, that he himself could scarcely help shuddering. The picture was
rejected, and, with unspeakable rage and envy, he heard the prize
awarded to his former pupil. He returned home in a state of mind worthy
of a demon. He abused and even ill-treated my poor mother, who sought to
console him for his disappointment, drove his children brutally from
him, broke his easel and brushes, tore down from the wall the portrait
of the money-lender, called for a knife, and ordered a fire to be
instantly lighted, intending to cut up the picture and burn it. In this
mood he was found by a friend, a painter like himself, a careless,
jovial dog, always in good-humour, untroubled with ambition, working
gaily at whatever he could get to do, and loving a good dinner and merry
company.

"'What the deuce are you at? what are you about to burn?' said he, going
up to the portrait. 'Why, are you mad? This is one of your very best
pictures! The old money-lender, I declare. By Jove!