and the three easel pictures in the
Vatican are in the highest degree perfect and sublime. But they demand
a stress of attention, even from the most accomplished beholder, and
serious study, to be fully understood; while the _Violin-player_, the
_Marriage of the Virgin_, and the _Vision of Ezekiel_ go straight to the
heart through the portal of sight, and make their home there. It is
a pleasure to receive them thus without an effort; if it is not the
highest phase of art, it is the happiest. This fact proves that, in the
begetting of works of art, there is as much chance in the character of
the offspring as there is in a family of children; that some will
be happily graced, born beautiful, and costing their mothers little
suffering, creatures on whom everything smiles, and with whom everything
succeeds; in short, genius, like love, has its fairer blossoms.

This _brio_, an Italian word which the French have begun to use, is
characteristic of youthful work. It is the fruit of an impetus and fire
of early talent--an impetus which is met with again later in some happy
hours; but this particular _brio_ no longer comes from the artist's
heart; instead of his flinging it into his work as a volcano flings up
its fires, it comes to him from outside, inspired by circumstances, by
love, or rivalry, often by hatred, and more often still by the imperious
need of glory to be lived up to.

This group by Wenceslas was to his later works what the _Marriage of the
Virgin_ is to the great mass of Raphael's, the first step of a gifted
artist taken with the inimitable grace, the eagerness, and delightful
overflowingness of a child, whose strength is concealed under the
pink-and-white flesh full of dimples which seem to echo to a mother's
laughter. Prince Eugene is said to have paid four hundred thousand
francs for this picture, which would be worth a million to any nation
that owned no picture by Raphael, but no one would give that sum for the
finest of the frescoes, though their value is far greater as works of
art.

Hortense restrained her admiration, for she reflected on the amount of
her girlish savings; she assumed an air of indifference, and said to the
dealer:

"What is the price of that?"

"Fifteen hundred francs," replied the man, sending a glance of
intelligence to a young man seated on a stool in the corner.

The young man himself gazed in a stupefaction at Monsieur Hulot's living
masterpiece. Hortense, forewarned, at on