s not in the artists, but in Art. Painting shares the
same fate as Sculpture: not only is the soul not a thing, it is not
wholly an appearance, but combines with its appearing a constant protest
against the finality of it. Not only is the body an inadequate
manifestation, but what it manifests is itself progressive, and any
conception of it restrictive and partial. Henceforth any representation
of the human form must either pretend a mystery that is not felt, or, if
inspired by a genuine interest, it must be of a lower kind, and must
avoid of set purpose any undue exaltation of one part over another, as
of the face over the limbs, and dwell rather upon harmony of lines and
colors, wherein nothing shall be prominent at the expense of the rest,
seeking to make up what is wanting in intensity, in inward meaning, by
allusion, by an interest reflected from without, instead of the
immediate and intuitive. We often feel, even in Raphael's pictures, that
the aim is lower than, for instance, Fra Angelico's. But it is at least
genuine, and what that saves us from we may see in some of Perugino's
and Pinturicchio's altar-pieces, where spirituality means kicking heels,
hollow cheeks, and a deadly-sweet smile. That Raphael, among all his
Holy Families, painted only one Madonna di San Sisto, and that hastily,
on trifling occasion, shows that it was a chance-hit rather than the
normal fruit of his genius. The beauty that shines like celestial flame
from the face of the divine child, and the transfigured humanity of the
mother, are no denizens of earth, but fugitive radiances that tinge it
for a moment and are gone. For once, the impossible is achieved; the
figures hover, dreamlike, disconnected from all around, as if the canvas
opened and showed, not what is upon it, but beyond it. But it is a
casual success, not to be sought or expected. A wise instinct made the
painter in general shun such direct, explicit statement, and rather
treat the subject somewhat cavalierly than allow it to confront and
confound him. The greater he is, and the more complete his development,
the more he must dread whatever makes his Art secondary or superfluous.
Whatever force we give to the reproach of want of elevation, etc., the
only impossible theme is the unartistic.

But before we give heed to any such reproach we must beware of
confounding the personality of the artist or the fashion of the time
with the moving spirit in both. He works always--as Michel