“Thanks, Senor Don Inocencio,” said Pepe, feeling a bitter and rebellious sentiment of hostility springing up within him toward the canon, and unable to conquer his desire to mortify him.  “But let none of you imagine, either, that it was the beauties of art, of which you suppose the temple to be full, that engaged my attention.  Those beauties, with the exception of the imposing architecture of a portion of the edifice and of the three tombs that are in the chapel of the apse, I do not see.  What occupied my mind was the consideration of the deplorable decadence of the religious arts; and the innumerable monstrosities, of which the cathedral is full, caused me not astonishment, but disgust.”

The amazement of all present was profound.

“I cannot endure,” continued Pepe, “those glazed and painted images that resemble so much—­God forgive me for the comparison—­the dolls that little girls pay with.  And what am I to say of the theatrical robes that cover them?  I saw a St. Joseph with a mantle whose appearance I will not describe, out of respect for the holy patriarch and for the church of which he is the patron.  On the altar are crowded together images in the worst possible taste; and the innumerable crowns, branches, stars, moons, and other ornaments of metal or gilt paper have an air of an ironmongery that offends the religious sentiment and depresses the soul.  Far from lifting itself up to religious contemplation, the soul sinks, and the idea of the ludicrous distracts it.  The great works of art which give sensible form to ideas, to dogmas, to religious faith, to mystic exaltation, fulfil a noble mission.  The caricatures, the aberrations of taste, the grotesque works with which a mistaken piety fills the church, also fulfil their object; but this is a sad one enough:  They encourage superstition, cool enthusiasm, oblige the eyes of the believer to turn away from the altar, and, with the eyes, the souls that have not a very profound and a very firm faith turn away also.”

“The doctrine of the iconoclasts, too,” said Jacinto, “has, it seems, spread widely in Germany.”

“I am not an iconoclast, although I would prefer the destruction of all the images to the exhibition of buffooneries of which I speak,” continued the young man.  “Seeing it, one may justly advocate a return of religious worship to the august simplicity of olden times.  But no; let us not renounce the admirable aid which all the arts, beginning with poetry and ending with music, lend to the relations between man and God.  Let the arts live; let the utmost pomp be displayed in religious ceremonies.  I am a partisan of pomp.”

“An artist, an artist, and nothing more than an artist!” exclaimed the canon, shaking his head with a sorrowful air.  “Fine pictures, fine statues, beautiful music; pleasure for the senses, and let the devil take the soul!”

“Apropos of music,” said Pepe Rey, without observing the deplorable effect which his words produced on both mother and daughter, “imagine how disposed my mind would be to religious contemplation on entering the cathedral, when just at that moment, and precisely at the offertory at high mass, the organist played a passage from ‘Traviata.’”