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〃An idealist； then；〃 I said； half jocosely； wishing to provoke him to
further utterance； 〃is a gentleman who says to Nature in the person
of a beautiful girl； 'Go to； you are all wrong！ Your fine is coarse；
your bright is dim； your grace is gaucherie。 This is the way you
should have done it！' Is not the chance against him？〃
He turned upon me almost angrily； but perceiving the genial savour of
my sarcasm； he smiled gravely。 〃Look at that picture；〃 he said； 〃and
cease your irreverent mockery！ Idealism is THAT！ There's no
explaining it； one must feel the flame！ It says nothing to Nature；
or to any beautiful girl； that they will not both forgive！ It says
to the fair woman； 'Accept me as your artist friend； lend me your
beautiful face； trust me； help me； and your eyes shall be half my
masterpiece！' No one so loves and respects the rich realities of
nature as the artist whose imagination caresses and flatters them。
He knows what a fact may hold （whether Raphael knew； you may judge by
his portrait； behind us there； of Tommaso Inghirami）； bad his fancy
hovers above it； as Anal hovered above the sleeping prince。 There is
only one Raphael； bad an artist may still be an artist。 As I said
last night； the days of illumination are gone； visions are rare； we
have to look long to see them。 But in meditation we may still
cultivate the ideal； round it； smooth it； perfect it。 The result
the result；〃 （here his voice faltered suddenly； and he fixed his eyes
for a moment on the picture； when they met my own again they were
full of tears）〃the result may be less than this； but still it may
be good； it may be GREAT！〃 he cried with vehemence。 〃It may hang
somewhere； in after years； in goodly company； and keep the artist's
memory warm。 Think of being known to mankind after some such fashion
as this！ of hanging here through the slow centuries in the gaze of an
altered world； living on and on in the cunning of an eye and hand
that are part of the dust of ages； a delight and a law to remote
generations； making beauty a force and purity an example！〃
〃Heaven forbid；〃 I said； smiling； 〃that I should take the wind out of
your sails！ But doesn't it occur to you that； besides being strong
in his genius； Raphael was happy in a certain good faith of which we
have lost the trick？ There are people； I know； who deny that his
spotless Madonnas are anything more than pretty blondes of that
period enhanced by the Raphaelesque touch； which they declare is a
profane touch。 Be that as it may； people's religious and aesthetic
needs went arm in arm； and there was； as I may say； a demand for the
Blessed Virgin； visible and adorable； which must have given firmness
to the artist's hand。 I am afraid there is no demand now。〃
My companion seemed painfully puzzled； he shivered； as it were； in
this chilling blast of scepticism。 Then shaking his head with
sublime confidence〃There is always a demand！〃 he cried； 〃that
ineffable type is one of the eternal needs of man's heart； but pious
souls long for it in silence； almost in shame。 Let it appear； and
their faith grows brave。 How SHOULD it appear in this corrupt
generation？ It cannot be made to order。 It could； indeed； when the
order came； trumpet…toned； from the lips of the Church herself； and
was addressed to genius panting with inspiration。 But it can spring
now only from the soil of passionate labour and culture。 Do you
really fancy that while； from time to time； a man of complete
artistic vision is born into the world； that image can perish？ The
man who paints it has painted everything。 The subject admits of
every perfectionform； colour； expression； composition。 It can be
as simple as you please； and yet as rich； as broad and pure； and yet
as full of delicate detail。 Think of the chance for flesh in the
little naked； nestling child； irradiating divinity； of the chance for
drapery in the chaste and ample garment of the mother！ think of the
great story you compress into that simple theme！ Think； above all；
of the mother's face and its ineffable suggestiveness； of the mingled
burden of joy and trouble； the tenderness turned to worship； and the
worship turned to far…seeing pity！ Then look at it all in perfect
line and lovely colour； breathing truth and beauty and mastery！〃
〃Anch' io son pittore！〃 I cried。 〃Unless I am mistaken； you have a
masterpiece on the stocks。 If you put all that in； you will do more
than Raphael himself did。 Let me know when your picture is finished；
and wherever in the wide world I may be； I will post back to Florence
and pay my respects tothe MADONNA OF THE FUTURE！〃
He blushed vividly and gave a heavy sigh； half of protest； half of
resignation。 〃I don't often mention my picture by name。 I detest
this modem custom of premature publicity。 A great work needs
silence； privacy； mystery even。 And then； do you know； people are so
cruel； so frivolous； so unable to imagine a man's wishing to paint a
Madonna at this time of day； that I have been laughed atlaughed at；
sir！〃 and his blush deepened to crimson。 〃I don't know what has
prompted me to be so frank and trustful with you。 You look as if you
wouldn't laugh at me。 My dear young man〃and he laid his hand on my
arm〃I am worthy of respect。 Whatever my talents may be； I am
honest。 There is nothing grotesque in a pure ambition； or in a life
devoted to it。〃
There was something so sternly sincere in his look and tone that
further questions seemed impertinent。 I had repeated opportunity to
ask them； however； for after this we spent much time together。 Daily
for a fortnight； we met by appointment； to see the sights。 He knew
the city so well； he had strolled and lounged so often through its
streets and churches and galleries； he was so deeply versed in its
greater and lesser memories； so imbued with the local genius； that he
was an altogether ideal valet de place； and I was glad enough to
leave my Murray at home； and gather facts and opinions alike from his
gossiping commentary。 He talked of Florence like a lover； and
admitted that it was a very old affair； he had lost his heart to her
at first sight。 〃It's the fashion to talk of all cities as
feminine；〃 he said； 〃but； as a rule； it's a monstrous mistake。 Is
Florence of the same sex as New York； as Chicago？ She is the sole
perfect lady of them all； one feels towards her as a lad in his teens
feels to some beautiful older woman with a 'history。' She fills you
with a sort of aspiring gallantry。〃 This disinterested passion
seemed to stand my friend in stead of the common social ties； he led
a lonely life； and cared for nothing but his work。 I was duly
flattered by his having taken my frivolous self into his favour； and
by his generous sacrifice of precious hours to my society。 We spent
many of these hours among those early paintings in which Florence is
so rich； returning ever and anon； with restless sympathies； to wonder
whether these tender b