indeed, but with the solitariness of triumph of the Divine Man, Who knows now the awful sorrow of humanity.  It is Life human and divine in the Artist’s Conception or Idea.  How absorbed must he have been in his representation of this idea since he could suggest, and that spontaneously, such problems of unutterable thoughts in those divine eyes.  The whole vision of humanity, as it might be in the mind of Christ, and as it was felt in the artist’s vision, is flashed into our own minds—­it is an artistic inspiration.  Art suggests, it does not explain.  A picture focusses into a few inches of space a whole drama of life and thought.  We read it there, we feel it, and with no conscious effort, for this is the gift of Genius.

And our absorption in a work of genius is untouched even by consideration of technique.  The methods of conveying the impression may be noted afterwards, and we may delight in form and colour, and light and shade.  But it is the result of all these that the art lover feels so spontaneously and unconsciously.  Learned art critics and dealers will study the size of ears, the length of noses, the breadth of thumbs, the manner of curving the little finger in order to make sure of the authenticity of the artist.  It is more important to them than the enjoyment of the work of art itself.  The lover of art has a receptive nature, so that he does not concern himself much, with these considerations, he does not even compare pictures.  All that may come afterwards, if he is a student, as well as a lover.  But, at all events, at first, he will find a response simply in his own soul to the picture, which represents to him an idea.  His own personality and individuality leave him; unconsciously he is possessed.  Instead of getting to understand it, and attacking a work of art as if it were a mathematical problem, he discovers that the picture is possessing him, and that is what Schopenhauer means.  Art has daemonic power, it takes hold of us wholly, and in proportion to our faculty of receptiveness we understand it more or less fully.  Architecture can hold us in this way, sculpture can, a great city can with its architecture and associations combined.  Rome does.  The very essence of the artistic quality hangs round the old walls of Rome.  Rome itself can teach us, enter into us, possess us in a way of its own.  The great bond of similarity between all the arts is their having this possessing power, this revelation of ideas, in whatever form they are expressed.  Rafael in the exquisite outline of the peasant girl’s face, saw without conscious effort the vision of maternity, as the perfect form of the Madonna della Seggiola rose before him.  This is idealism—­seeing the idea in the object of contemplation.  And the spectator, gazing at the picture, also without consciousness of effort, is moved into “a passionate tenderness, which he knows not whether he has given to heavenly beauty or earthly charm”; he feels motherhood, and