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There was nothing in him of the envy of January because of my younger years, nor reproof for the Maytime sunshine that was in the heart of Isabel. Isabel and I had been to the Vatican several times. Uncle Tom disliked pictures; above all he dreaded the fatigue of walking and the cold of the churches and rooms where he was obliged to remove his hat.
"But that will take your time, and you will want canvas and colors," said Flore. "You will have to spend money. Come, Pere Rouget, offer your nephew a hundred francs for each copy; here are twenty-seven pictures, and I think there are eleven very big ones in the garret which ought to cost double, call the whole four thousand francs.
If so, have you not perceived, that, in proportion as his presence and communication either revived old memories, or brought before you new pictures of "the bright tumult" of that existence of which your guest made a part, you began to compare him curiously with yourself; you began to feel that what before was to rest is now to rot; that your years are gliding from you unenjoyed and wasted; that the contrast between the animal life of passionate civilisation and the vegetable torpor of motionless seclusion is one that, if you are still young, it tasks your philosophy to bear, feeling all the while that the torpor may be yours to your grave?
That is why his pictures are so dark not of deliberate technical purpose, like those of the Tenebrosi, but because to him a subject was felt within him rather than seen as a picture on so many square feet of canvas.
"I've seen pictures of them in books," I said, "of course." "Yes, perch, all but that black, soft-looking chap close to the bottom. He's a tench. But come on, and let's get the rods." He led the way to the boat-house, a green strip of coarse grass about five feet wide leading to the rough building, and Mercer looked longingly at the boat, which was half full of water.
And on that summer evening she voiced complaint again. "You have so many pretty gowns already! You wear one last evening you wear anodder this evening and still you make some more! When a young girl nigh kill herself so as to make a picture-book of her dresses I think it is time to look for some young man who seems to like the pictures. Eh?"
These compartments on the walls are so large, that no greater spaces for the painting of historical pictures have ever been seen either by the ancients or by the moderns.
The pictures there are more alive, more real, more intense, and fascinate many unable to appreciate the recondite charms of the canvas.
In the Palazzo Adorno too, No. 10, the work of Alessi, you may find several fine pictures, among them three trionfi in the manner of Botticelli, and a Rubens; while in Palazzo Serra, No. 12, but you may not enter, there is a fine hall.
How mysterious, too, is S. Francis! rapt in his own thoughts, yet strangely human. We have now examined ten of the twelve pictures added, on Morelli's initiative, to the list of genuine works, and we have found very little, if any, serious opposition on the part of later writers to his views. Not so, however, with regard to the remaining two pictures.
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