my part," Pierre courageously declared, "I'm not of your
opinion. I now realise that life is everything in art; that real
immortality belongs only to those who create. The case of Michael Angelo
seems to me decisive, for he is the superhuman master, the monster who
overwhelms all others, precisely because he brought forth that
magnificent living flesh which offends your sense of delicacy. Those who
are inclined to the curious, those who have minds of a pretty turn, whose
intellects are ever seeking to penetrate things, may try to improve on
the equivocal and invisible, and set all the charm of art in some
elaborate stroke or symbolisation; but, none the less, Michael Angelo
remains the all-powerful, the maker of men, the master of clearness,
simplicity, and health."

At this Narcisse smiled with indulgent and courteous disdain. And he
anticipated further argument by remarking: "It's already eleven. My
cousin was to have sent a servant here as soon as he could receive us. I
am surprised to have seen nobody as yet. Shall we go up to see the
_stanze_ of Raffaelle while we wait?"

Once in the rooms above, he showed himself perfect, both lucid in his
remarks and just in his appreciations, having recovered all his easy
intelligence as soon as he was no longer upset by his hatred of colossal
labour and cheerful decoration.

It was unfortunate that Pierre should have first visited the Sixtine
Chapel; for it was necessary he should forget what he had just seen and
accustom himself to what he now beheld in order to enjoy its pure beauty.
It was as if some potent wine had confused him, and prevented any
immediate relish of a lighter vintage of delicate fragrance. Admiration
did not here fall upon one with lightning speed; it was slowly,
irresistibly that one grew charmed. And the contrast was like that of
Racine beside Corneille, Lamartine beside Hugo, the eternal pair, the
masculine and feminine genius coupled through centuries of glory. With
Raffaelle it is nobility, grace, exquisiteness, and correctness of line,
and divineness of harmony that triumph. You do not find in him merely the
materialist symbolism so superbly thrown off by Michael Angelo; he
introduces psychological analysis of deep penetration into the painter's
art. Man is shown more purified, idealised; one sees more of that which
is within him. And though one may be in presence of an artist of
sentimental bent, a feminine genius whose quiver of tenderness one ca