y, that is, if paint, texture, and arrangement of
still-life be any criterion. As for the Woman Weighing Gold, it is
superb Vermeer.

There is little danger nowadays of any other painter being saddled
with the name of Vermeer. It is usually the other way around, as we
have seen. As was the case with Diaz and Monticelli, so has it been
with Vermeer and De Hooch, Vermeer and Terburg (or Ter Borch). I have
the highest admiration for the vivacious and veracious work of these
two other men--possibly associates of Vermeer. Their surfaces are
impeccably rendered. The woman playing a bass viol in the Berlin
gallery and a certain interior in the National Gallery display the art
of representation raised to the highest pitch; realism can go no
further.

The psychology of a painter's household is revealed in the Count
Czernin example (l'Atelier du Peintre). An artist sits with his back
to us and on his canvas he broiders the image of his good wife. Again
the miracle is repeated, "Let there be light!" Here is not only the
subtle equilibrium between man and the things that surround him, but
the things themselves--flesh-tints, drapery, garbs, polished floor,
chairs, table, and wall tapestry--are saturated with light; absorbed
by the inert matter which nevertheless vibrates and, like the
flesh-tones, remains puissant and individual.

Humanity is the central and sounding note of his art. He is neither a
pantheist in his worship of sunshine, nor is he a mystic in his
pursuit of shadows. He is always virile, always tender, never trivial,
nor coarse--an aristocrat of art.

In the Dresden Merry Company, and a large canvas it is--he comes to
grips with Rembrandt in the matter of the distribution of lights and
shades. The cavalier at the left of the picture--facing it--with the
cynical smile, is marvellously depicted. There is a certain shadow on
his wide-margined collar which also touches the lower part of his
face--but now we are nearing the region of transcendental virtuosity.
I always convince myself when in the presence of the other Dresden
Vermeer, and the greater of the two, that this young Dutch lady
reading a letter at an open window is my favourite.

And now it's high time to answer my question: Who owns the
thirty-fifth Vermeer? We stopped, you may recall, at the
thirty-fourth, The Singing Lesson, belonging to Mr. Frick. That would
give the thirty-fifth to the Portrait of a Man in the Brussels Museum.
But that is a contested