, with no diadem, no jewelled band, not a bracelet or a gem, her
head simply crowned by a few golden rays, is seen in a white dress,
closed to the throat, and a blue cloak of which the ample folds lie on
the ground; the sleeves of her under dress, fastened at the wrists, are
of a rich blue violet, more nearly black than red.

Her face is indescribable; of superhuman loveliness, with long red-gold
hair; the brow high, the nose straight, the lips full, the chin small;
but words are of no avail; what cannot be described is the expression of
candour and sadness, the tide of love that rises to those downcast eyes
as she looks down on the tiny, helpless Babe, round whose head there is
a rosy nimbus starred with gold.

Never was there a more unearthly and yet more living Virgin. Neither Van
Eyck, with his rather vulgar and never beautiful heads, nor
Memling--more tender and refined, no doubt, but limited to his ideal of
a woman with a round forehead and a face shaped like a kite, wide above
and pointed below--ever achieved the elegance of form or the purity of a
woman made divine by love, a being who, even apart from her surroundings
and bereft of the attributes by which she is recognizable, could be none
other than the Mother of God.

By her side the Chevalier Bladelin, dressed all in black, with his
equine type of face, his shaven cheeks, his dignity, at once priestly
and princely, is lost in contemplation, far away from the world; he is
praying in good earnest. And Saint Joseph, opposite to him, represented
as a bald old man, with a short beard, and wearing a red cloak, comes
forward as if amazed at his happiness, and scarce daring to believe that
the moment has come when he may adore the Messiah born at last; he
smiles, deferentially, mildly stepping with the almost clumsy care of an
old man who would fain be serviceable but fears to intrude.

To make the whole thing more than perfect, above the figure of Pierre
Bladelin extends a wondrous landscape, cut across by the High Street of
Middelburg, the town founded by this nobleman, a street bordered by
castellated houses with battlements and church towers, and vanishing in
a country scene lighted up by a clear sky, a blue spring day; above
Saint Joseph a meadow and woods, sheep and shepherds, and three
exquisite angels in robes, one of pinkish yellow, one of purple like a
campanula, and one of greenish citron hue; three really ethereal beings,
having no relationship with t