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Updated: May 26, 2025
Here we have not a mere manual effort, however admirable; this is not merely a spiritual and truly religious picture such as Roger van der Weyden and Quentin Matsys could create; it is quite another thing. With Angelico an unknown being appears on the scene, the soul of a mystic that has entered on the contemplative life, and breathes it on the canvas as on a perfect mirror.
Then the Van Eycks, Hubert and Jan, Rogier van der Weyden, Hugo van der Goes, Hans Memling, Quentin Massys, Lucas van Leyden, the two Hans Holbein, elder and younger, Burgkmair, Wolgemut, and then, master of them all, Albrecht Dürer.
"The early Flemish painters were the greatest that ever lived!" said Durtal to himself, "and this Roger Van der Weyden, or Roger de la Pasture as he is sometimes called, crushed between the fame of van Eyck and of Memling as Gherard David was later, and Hugo van der Goes, Justus of Ghent, and Dierck Bouts was in my opinion superior to them all. "And after them what a falling away!
It " Here she paused and looked about the table at the circle of unsympathetic faces staring hard at the plates. "It is not right," she concluded. "That is a question you must settle with Mr. Van Weyden there," he replied, nodding to me with a mischievous twinkle. "Mr. Van Weyden is what you may call an authority on such things as rights.
Van Weyden, will you take the wheel?" Maud Brewster had stepped inside the companion-way so that only her head was exposed. Wolf Larsen had procured a rifle and was throwing a cartridge into the barrel. I begged her with my eyes to go below, but she smiled and said: "We may be feeble land-creatures without legs, but we can show Captain Larsen that we are at least as brave as he."
One may see the soul stir in some men's eyes, but his were bleak, and cold, and grey as the sea itself. "Well?" "Yes," I said. "Say 'yes, sir." "Yes, sir," I corrected. "What is your name?" "Van Weyden, sir." "First name?" "Humphrey, sir; Humphrey Van Weyden." "Age?" "Thirty-five, sir." "That'll do. Go to the cook and learn your duties."
I saw her eyes flash with indignation, and this time it was I who dropped mine, while I felt my face flushing under her gaze. It was cowardly, but what else could I do? "Mr. Van Weyden speaks with the voice of authority," Wolf Larsen laughed. I nodded my head, and she, having recovered herself, waited expectantly.
Humphrey Van Weyden, "the cold-blooded fish," the "emotionless monster," the "analytical demon," of Charley Furuseth's christening, in love! And then, without rhyme or reason, all sceptical, my mind flew back to a small biographical note in the red-bound Who's Who, and I said to myself, "She was born in Cambridge, and she is twenty-seven years old."
"And you are Maud Brewster," I said solemnly, gazing across at her. "And you are Humphrey Van Weyden," she said, gazing back at me with equal solemnity and awe. "How unusual! I don't understand. We surely are not to expect some wildly romantic sea-story from your sober pen." "No, I am not gathering material, I assure you," was my answer. "I have neither aptitude nor inclination for fiction."
How can he be tempted to get drunk and refuse to get drunk? If the desire to remain sober prevails, it is because it is the strongest desire. Temptation plays no part, unless " he paused while grasping the new thought which had come into his mind "unless he is tempted to remain sober. "Ha! ha!" he laughed. "What do you think of that, Mr. Van Weyden?" "That both of you are hair-splitting," I said.
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