ere! what
woman could paint _that_?--or rather, what man! Alas! how feeble we
are--we, the boldest followers of an Art which is divine.--Truly there
was but one among us who was himself above humanity, Michael the angel!"

He gazed reverently at the majestic head of Buonarotti, which loomed out
from the shadowy corner of the studio.

Olive experienced--as she often did when brought into contact with this
man's enthusiasm--a delight almost like terror; for it made her shudder
and tremble as though within her own poor frame was that Pythian
effluence, felt, not understood--the spirit of Genius.

Vanbrugh came back, and continued his painting, talking all the while.

"I said that it was impossible for a woman to become an artist--I mean a
_great_ artist. Have you ever thought what that term implies? Not only
a painter, but a poet; a man of learning, of reading, of observation. A
gentleman--we artists have been the friends of kings. A man of stainless
virtue, or how can he reach the pure ideal? A man of iron will,
indomitable daring, and passions strong, yet kept always leashed in
his hand. Last and greatest, a man who, feeling within him the divine
spirit, with his whole soul worships God!"

Vanbrugh lifted off his velvet cap and reverently bared his head; then
he continued:

"This is what an artist should _be_, by nature. I have not spoken of
what he has to make himself. Years of study incessant lie before him;
no life of a carpet-knight, no easy play-work of scraping colours on
canvas. Why, these hands of mine have wielded not only the pencil but
the scalpel; these eyes have rested on scenes of horror, misery--crime,
I glory in it; for it was all for Art. At times I have almost felt like
Parrhasius of old, who exulted in his captive's dying throes, since
upon them his hand of genius would confer immortality. But I beg your
pardon--you are but a woman--a mere girl," added Vanbrugh, seeing Olive
shudder. Yet he had not been unmindful of the ardent enthusiasm which
had dilated her whole frame while listening. It touched him like the
memory of his own youth. Some likeness, too, there seemed between
himself and this young creature to whom nature had been so niggardly.
She might also be one of those who, shut out from human ties, are the
more free to work the glorious work of genius.

After a few minutes of thought, Michael again burst forth.

"They who embrace Art must embrace her with heart and soul, as their one
on