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Updated: June 10, 2025
"Don't you admire his genius? Don't you admire Beltraffio?" She hesitated a moment, and I wondered what she could possibly say. She did not speak I could see the first words that rose to her lips; she repeated what she had said a few minutes before. "Oh, of course he 's very clever!" And with this she got up; her husband and little boy had reappeared. Mrs.
I could but envy him the force of that passion, and it was at any rate through the receipt of this impression that by the time we returned I had gained the sense of intimacy with him that I have noted. Before we got up for the homeward stretch he alluded to his wife's having once or perhaps more than once asked him whether he should like Dolcino to read "Beltraffio."
"Do you call that being perfect as a mother?" Ambient inquired. "Yes, from her point of view." "Damn her point of view!" cried the author of Beltraffio. And he left the room; after which we heard him ascend the stairs.
It cost him small spasms of the self-consciousness that is an Englishman's last and dearest treasure the thing he pays his way through life by sacrificing small pieces of even as the gallant but moneyless adventurer in "Quentin Durward" broke off links of his brave gold chain. He had been thirty-eight years old at the time "Beltraffio" was published.
It was while the church-bell droned near at hand that the author of "Beltraffio" led me forth for the ramble he had spoken of in his note. I shall attempt here no record of where we went or of what we saw.
The place had both color and quiet; I thought it a perfect room for work, and went so far as to say to myself that, if it were mine to sit and scribble in, there was no knowing but that I might learn to write as well as the author of Beltraffio. This distinguished man did not turn up, and I rummaged freely among his treasures.
I carried his productions about in my trunk they are not, as you know, very numerous, but he had preluded to "Beltraffio" by, some exquisite things and I used to read them over in the evening at the inn. I used profoundly to reason that the man who drew those characters and wrote that style understood what he saw and knew what he was doing. This is my sole ground for mentioning my winter in Italy.
Andrea Salaino, Marco d'Oggiono, Francesco Melzi, Giovanni Antonio Beltraffio, and Cesare da Sesto, are all of them skilled workmen, losing and finding their individuality, as just described, in the manner of their master.
This was a safe subject, and yet there was a certain surprise for me in seeing the author of "Beltraffio" even in such superficial communion with the Church of England.
"Very often," Mrs. Quentin answered. "I find pictures a great help." "A help?" "A rest, I mean...if one is tired or out of sorts." "Ah," Miss Fenno murmured, looking down. "This Beltraffio is new, you know," Mrs. Quentin continued. "What a wonderful background, isn't it? Is he a painter who interests you?"
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