glancing
aside at the picture. "First, signor, I would have you know that, in
the mixing of certain colours, and in the preparation of your oil, you
Italians are far behind us Flemings. But let that flea stick. For as
small as I am, I can show you certain secrets of the Van Eycks, that you
will put to marvellous profit in your next picture. Meantime I see in
this one the great qualities of your nation. Verily, ye are solis filii.
If we have colour, you have imagination. Mother of Heaven! an he hath
not flung his immortal soul upon the panel. One thing I go by is this;
it makes other pictures I once admired seem drossy, earth-born things.
The drapery here is somewhat short and stiff, why not let it float
freely, the figures being in air and motion?

"I will! I will!" cried Pietro eagerly. "I will do anything for those
who will but see what I have done."

"Humph! This landscape it enlightens me. Henceforth I scorn those little
huddled landscapes that did erst content me. Here is nature's very face:
a spacious plain, each distance marked, and every tree, house, figure,
field, and river smaller and less plain, by exquisite gradation, till
vision itself melts into distance. O, beautiful! And the cunning rogue
hath hung his celestial figure in air out of the way of his little world
below. Here, floating saints beneath heaven's purple canopy. There,
far down, earth and her busy hives. And they let you take this painted
poetry, this blooming hymn, through the streets of Rome and bring it
home unsold. But I tell thee in Ghent or Bruges, or even in Rotterdam,
they would tear it out of thy hands. But it is a common saying that a
stranger's eye sees clearest. Courage, Pietro Vanucci! I reverence thee
and though myself a scurvy painter, do forgive thee for being a great
one. Forgive thee? I thank God for thee and such rare men as thou art;
and bow the knee to thee in just homage. Thy picture is immortal, and
thou, that hast but a chest to sit on, art a king in thy most royal art.
Viva, il maestro! Viva!"

At this unexpected burst the painter, with all the abandon of his
nation, flung himself on Gerard's neck. "They said it was a maniac's
dream," he sobbed.

"Maniacs themselves! no, idiots!" shouted Gerard.

"Generous stranger! I will hate men no more since the world hath such as
thee. I was a viper to fling thy poor dinner away; a wretch, a monster."

"Well, monster, wilt be gentle now, and sup with me?"

"Ah! that I will. W