“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.”