een in the right as a fool, but as a Christian and a
Spaniard he was certainly in the wrong, and he was probably soon
convinced of the mistake he had made by the diminution in the offerings
of the faithful.

My interest in the study of human nature made me call on this priest,
whom I expected to find a stupid old man.

I went one morning, but instead of being old, the priest was an active,
clever-looking man of thirty, who immediately offered me chocolate with
the best grace imaginable. I refused, as was my duty as a stranger, and
indeed the Spaniards offer visitors chocolate so frequently at all hours,
that if one accepted it all one would be choked.

I lost no time in exordiums, but came to the point at once, by saying
that as a lover of paintings I had been grieved at finding the
magnificent Madonna spoilt.

"Very likely," he replied, "but it was exactly the physical beauty of the
picture that rendered it in my eyes unfit to represent one whose aspect
should purify and purge the senses, instead of exciting them. Let all the
pictures in the world be destroyed, if they be found to have caused the
commission of one mortal sin."

"Who allowed you to commit this mutilation? The Venetian State
Inquisitors, even M. Barberigo, though he is a devout man, would have put
you under the Leads for such a deed. The love of Paradise should not be
allowed to interfere with the fine arts, and I am sure that St. Luke
himself (who was a painter, as you know) would condemn you if he could
come to life again."

"Sir, I needed no one's leave or license. I have to say mass at that
altar every day, and I am not ashamed to tell you that I was unable to
consecrate. You are a man and a Christian, you can excuse my weakness.
That voluptuous picture drew away my thoughts from holy things."

"Who obliged you to look at it?"

"I did not look at it; the devil, the enemy of God, made me see it in
spite of myself."

"Then you should have mutilated yourself like Origen. Your generative
organs, believe me, are not so valuable as the picture you have ruined."

"Sir, you insult me."

"Not at all, I have no intention of doing so."

That young priest shewed me the door with such brusqueness that I felt
sure he would inform against me to the Inquisition. I knew he would have
no difficulty in finding out my name, so I resolved to be beforehand with
him.

Both my fear and my resolve were inspired by an incident which I shall
mention as an epis