n admirable reflex of his own personality.
He knew that Argensola had come third-class from Madrid with twenty
francs in his pocket, in order to "capture glory," to use his own words.
Upon observing that the Spaniard was painting with as much difficulty
as himself, with the same wooden and childish strokes, which are so
characteristic of the make-believe artists and pot-boilers, the routine
workers concerned themselves with color and other rank fads. Argensola
was a psychological artist, a painter of souls. And his disciple, felt
astonished and almost displeased on learning what a comparatively simple
thing it was to paint a soul. Upon a bloodless countenance, with a chin
as sharp as a dagger, the gifted Spaniard would trace a pair of nearly
round eyes, and at the centre of each pupil he would aim a white brush
stroke, a point of light . . . the soul. Then, planting himself
before the canvas, he would proceed to classify this soul with his
inexhaustible imagination, attributing to it almost every kind of stress
and extremity. So great was the sway of his rapture that Julio, too, was
able to see all that the artist flattered himself into believing that he
had put into the owlish eyes. He, also, would paint souls . . . souls of
women.

In spite of the ease with which he developed his psychological
creations, Argensola preferred to talk, stretched on a divan, or to
read, hugging the fire while his friend and protector was outside.
Another advantage this fondness for reading gave young Desnoyers was
that he was no longer obliged to open a volume, scanning the index and
last pages "just to get the idea." Formerly when frequenting society
functions, he had been guilty of coolly asking an author which was his
best book--his smile of a clever man--giving the writer to understand
that he merely enquired so as not to waste time on the other volumes.
Now it was no longer necessary to do this; Argensola would read for him.
As soon as Julio would see him absorbed in a book, he would demand an
immediate share: "Tell me the story." So the "secretary," not only gave
him the plots of comedies and novels, but also detailed the argument of
Schopenhauer or of Nietzsche . . . Dona Luisa almost wept on hearing her
visitors--with that benevolence which wealth always inspires--speak of
her son as "a rather gay young man, but wonderfully well read!"

In exchange for his lessons, Argensola received, much the same treatment
as did the Greek slav