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For a moment I was alarmed。 Was this midnight reverie mere Yankee
enterprise； and was he simply a desperate brother of the brush who
had posted himself here to extort an 〃order〃 from a sauntering
tourist？ But I was not called to defend myself。 A great brazen note
broke suddenly from the far…off summit of the bell…tower above us；
and sounded the first stroke of midnight。 My companion started；
apologised for detaining me； and prepared to retire。 But he seemed
to offer so lively a promise of further entertainment that I was
indisposed to part with him； and suggested that we should stroll
homeward together。 He cordially assented； so we turned out of the
Piazza； passed down before the statued arcade of the Uffizi； and came
out upon the Arno。 What course we took I hardly remember； but we
roamed slowly about for an hour； my companion delivering by snatches
a sort of moon…touched aesthetic lecture。 I listened in puzzled
fascination； and wondered who the deuce he was。 He confessed with a
melancholy but all…respectful head…shake to his American origin。
〃We are the disinherited of Art！〃 he cried。 〃We are condemned to be
superficial！ We are excluded from the magic circle。 The soil of
American perception is a poor little barren artificial deposit。 Yes！
we are wedded to imperfection。 An American； to excel； has just ten
times as much to learn as a European。 We lack the deeper sense。 We
have neither taste； nor tact； nor power。 How should we have them？
Our crude and garish climate； our silent past； our deafening present；
the constant pressure about us of unlovely circumstance； are as void
of all that nourishes and prompts and inspires the artist； as my sad
heart is void of bitterness in saying so！ We poor aspirants must
live in perpetual exile。〃
〃You seem fairly at home in exile；〃 I answered； 〃and Florence seems
to me a very pretty Siberia。 But do you know my own thought？
Nothing is so idle as to talk about our want of a nutritive soil； of
opportunity； of inspiration； and all the rest of it。 The worthy part
is to do something fine！ There is no law in our glorious
Constitution against that。 Invent； create； achieve！ No matter if
you have to study fifty times as much as one of these！ What else are
you an artist for？ Be you our Moses；〃 I added； laughing； and laying
my hand on his shoulder； 〃and lead us out of the house of bondage！〃
〃Golden wordsgolden words； young man！〃 he cried； with a tender
smile。 〃'Invent； create； achieve！' Yes； that's our business； I know
it well。 Don't take me； in Heaven's name； for one of your barren
complainersimpotent cynics who have neither talent nor faith！ I am
at work！〃and he glanced about him and lowered his voice as if this
were a quite peculiar secret〃I'm at work night and day。 I have
undertaken a CREATION！ I am no Moses； I am only a poor patient
artist； but it would be a fine thing if I were to cause some slender
stream of beauty to flow in our thirsty land！ Don't think me a
monster of conceit；〃 he went on； as he saw me smile at the avidity
with which he adopted my illustration； 〃I confess that I am in one of
those moods when great things seem possible！ This is one of my
nervous nightsI dream waking！ When the south wind blows over
Florence at midnight it seems to coax the soul from all the fair
things locked away in her churches and galleries； it comes into my
own little studio with the moonlight； and sets my heart beating too
deeply for rest。 You see I am always adding a thought to my
conception！ This evening I felt that I couldn't sleep unless I had
communed with the genius of Buonarotti！〃
He seemed deeply versed in local history and tradition； and he
expatiated con amore on the charms of Florence。 I gathered that he
was an old resident； and that he had taken the lovely city into his
heart。 〃I owe her everything；〃 he declared。 〃It's only since I came
here that I have really lived； intellectually。 One by one； all
profane desires； all mere worldly aims； have dropped away from me；
and left me nothing but my pencil； my little note…book〃 （and he
tapped his breast…pocket）； 〃and the worship of the pure masters
those who were pure because they were innocent； and those who were
pure because they were strong！〃
〃And have you been very productive all this time？〃 I asked
sympathetically。
He was silent a while before replying。 〃Not in the vulgar sense！〃 he
said at last。 〃I have chosen never to manifest myself by
imperfection。 The good in every performance I have re…absorbed into
the generative force of new creations； the badthere is always
plenty of thatI have religiously destroyed。 I may say； with some
satisfaction； that I have not added a mite to the rubbish of the
world。 As a proof of my conscientiousness and he stopped short； and
eyed me with extraordinary candour； as if the proof were to be
overwhelming〃I have never sold a picture！ 'At least no merchant
traffics in my heart！' Do you remember that divine line in Browning？
My little studio has never been profaned by superficial； feverish；
mercenary work。 It's a temple of labour； but of leisure！ Art is
long。 If we work for ourselves； of course we must hurry。 If we work
for her； we must often pause。 She can wait！〃
This had brought us to my hotel door； somewhat to my relief； I
confess； for I had begun to feel unequal to the society of a genius
of this heroic strain。 I left him； however； not without expressing a
friendly hope that we should meet again。 The next morning my
curiosity had not abated； I was anxious to see him by common
daylight。 I counted upon meeting him in one of the many pictorial
haunts of Florence； and I was gratified without delay。 I found him
in the course of the morning in the Tribune of the Uffizithat
little treasure…chamber of world…famous things。 He had turned his
back on the Venus de' Medici； and with his arms resting on the rail…
mug which protects the pictures； and his head buried in his hands； he
was lost in the contemplation of that superb triptych of Andrea
Mantegnaa work which has neither the material splendour nor the
commanding force of some of its neighbours； but which； glowing there
with the loveliness of patient labour； suits possibly a more constant
need of the soul。 I looked at the picture for some time over his
shoulder； at last； with a heavy sigh； he turned away and our eyes
met。 As he recognised me a deep blush rose to his face； he fancied；
perhaps； that he had made a fool of himself overnight。 But I offered
him my hand with a friendliness which assured him I was not a
scoffer。 I knew him by his ardent chevelure； otherwise he was much
altered。 His midnight mood was over； and he looked as haggard as an
actor by daylight。 He was far older than I had supposed； and he had
less bravery of costume and gesture。 He seemed the quiet； poor；
patient artist he had proclaimed himself； and the fact that he had
never sold a picture was more obvious th