My companion seemed painfully puzzled; he shivered, as it were, in this chilling blast of scepticism.  Then shaking his head with sublime confidence—­“There is always a demand!” he cried; “that ineffable type is one of the eternal needs of man’s heart; but pious souls long for it in silence, almost in shame.  Let it appear, and their faith grows brave.  How should it appear in this corrupt generation?  It cannot be made to order.  It could, indeed, when the order came, trumpet-toned, from the lips of the Church herself, and was addressed to genius panting with inspiration.  But it can spring now only from the soil of passionate labour and culture.  Do you really fancy that while, from time to time, a man of complete artistic vision is born into the world, that image can perish?  The man who paints it has painted everything.  The subject admits of every perfection—­form, colour, expression, composition.  It can be as simple as you please, and yet as rich; as broad and pure, and yet as full of delicate detail.  Think of the chance for flesh in the little naked, nestling child, irradiating divinity; of the chance for drapery in the chaste and ample garment of the mother! think of the great story you compress into that simple theme!  Think, above all, of the mother’s face and its ineffable suggestiveness, of the mingled burden of joy and trouble, the tenderness turned to worship, and the worship turned to far-seeing pity!  Then look at it all in perfect line and lovely colour, breathing truth and beauty and mastery!”

“Anch’ io son pittore!” I cried.  “Unless I am mistaken, you have a masterpiece on the stocks.  If you put all that in, you will do more than Raphael himself did.  Let me know when your picture is finished, and wherever in the wide world I may be, I will post back to Florence and pay my respects to—­the Madonna of the future!”

He blushed vividly and gave a heavy sigh, half of protest, half of resignation.  “I don’t often mention my picture by name.  I detest this modern custom of premature publicity.  A great work needs silence, privacy, mystery even.  And then, do you know, people are so cruel, so frivolous, so unable to imagine a man’s wishing to paint a Madonna at this time of day, that I have been laughed at—­laughed at, sir!” and his blush deepened to crimson.  “I don’t know what has prompted me to be so frank and trustful with you.  You look as if you wouldn’t laugh at me.  My dear young man”—­and he laid his hand on my arm—­“I am worthy of respect.  Whatever my talents may be, I am honest.  There is nothing grotesque in a pure ambition, or in a life devoted to it.”