rk he
could turn out. And Fortuny did not make the mistake of doing too much.
He possessed the artistic conscience, and nothing left his studio that
did not satisfy his heart and head.

Trips had been taken to Florence, Venice and the beloved Morocco, and the
poise and grace and limpid beauty of Fortuny's pictures seemed to
increase.

Three years had passed, and now came a letter from the authorities at
Barcelona asking for their great battle picture, and a remittance was
sent "to meet expenses."

Fortuny promised, and made an effort at the work.

Another year went by and another letter of importunity came. Barcelona
did not comprehend how her gifted son was now being counted among the
very ablest artists in Paris--that world center of art. Artists should
struggle for recognition, be rebuffed, live on a crust in dingy garrets,
cultivate a gaunt and haggard look, and wear suits shiny at the elbows!

How could the old professors down at Barcelona understand that this mere
youth was pressed with commissions from rich Americans, and in receipt of
a princely income?

Fortuny returned all the money that Barcelona had sent him, regarding it
all as a mere loan, and promised to complete the battle picture whenever
he could bring his mind to bear upon it so that the work would satisfy
himself.

The next year he visited Spain and was received at Madrid and Barcelona
as a prince. Decorations and ceremonials greeted him at Madrid; and at
Barcelona there were arches of triumph built over the streets, and a
hundred students drew his carriage from the steamboat-landing up to the
old Academy where he used to draw angles and curves from a copy all day
long.

And it was not so many moons after this little visit to Barcelona that
wedding-bells were sent a-swing, and Mariano Fortuny was married to
Cecilia, daughter of Federico Madrazo.

Their honeymoon of a year was spent at the Alhambra Palace amid the
scenes made famous by our own Washington Irving. And it was from Granada
that he sent a picture to America to be sold for the benefit of the
sufferers in the Chicago fire.

But there were no idle days. The artist worked with diligence, dipping
deep into the old Moorish life, and catching the queer angles of old
ruins and more queer humanity upon his palette. His noble wife proved his
mate in very deed, and much of his best work is traceable to her loving
criticism and inspiration.

Paris, Granada and Rome were their home, each