a mitata,"
(ch. 276). In plain terms, "the painting which is likest nature is the
best." And you will find by referring to the preceding chapter, "come lo
specchio e maestro de' pittori," how absolutely Lionardo means what he
says. Let the living thing, (he tells us,) be reflected in a mirror,
then put your picture beside the reflection, and match the one with the
other. And indeed, the very best painting is unquestionably so like the
mirrored truth, that all the world admits its excellence. Entirely
first-rate work is so quiet and natural that there can be no dispute
over it; you may not particularly admire it, but you will find no fault
with it. Second-rate painting pleases one person much, and displeases
another; but first-rate painting pleases all a little, and intensely
pleases those who can recognise its unostentatious skill.

130. This, then, is what we have first got to do--to make our drawing
look as like the thing we have to draw as we can.

Now, all objects are seen by the eye as patches of colour of a certain
shape, with gradations of colour within them. And, unless their colours
be actually luminous, as those of the sun, or of fire, these patches of
different hues are sufficiently imitable, except so far as they are seen
stereoscopically. You will find Lionardo again and again insisting on
the stereoscopic power of the double sight: but do not let that trouble
you; you can only paint what you can see from one point of sight, but
that is quite enough. So seen, then, all objects appear to the human eye
simply as masses of colour of variable depth, texture, and outline. The
outline of any object is the limit of its mass, as relieved against
another mass. Take a crocus, and lay it on a green cloth. You will see
it detach itself as a mere space of yellow from the green behind it, as
it does from the grass. Hold it up against the window--you will see it
detach itself as a dark space against the white or blue behind it. In
either case its outline is the limit of the space of light or dark
colour by which it expresses itself to your sight. That outline is
therefore infinitely subtle--not even a line, but the place of a line,
and that, also, made soft by texture. In the finest painting it is
therefore slightly softened; but it is necessary to be able to draw it
with absolute sharpness and precision. The art of doing this is to be
obtained by drawing it as an actual line, which art is to be the subject
of our imme