I speak of as artists are those who work day and night to attain even a small degree of perfection, and who are never satisfied with their own best efforts.  I was one of these some years ago, and I humbly assert myself still to be of the same disposition; only the difference between myself then and myself now is, that then I struggled blindly and despairingly, and now I labour patiently and with calmness, knowing positively that I shall obtain what I seek at the duly appointed hour.  I was educated as a painter, mademoiselle, by my father, a good, simple-hearted man, whose little landscapes looked like bits cut out of the actual field and woodland, so fresh and pure were they.  But I was not content to follow in the plain path he first taught me to tread.  Merely correct drawing, merely correct colouring, were not sufficient for my ambition.  I had dazzled my eyes with the loveliness of Correggio’s ‘Madonna,’ and had marvelled at the wondrous blue of her robe—­a blue so deep and intense that I used to think one might scrape away the paint till a hole was bored in the canvas and yet not reach the end of that fathomless azure tint; I had studied the warm hues of Titian; I had felt ready to float away in the air with the marvellous ’Angel of the Annunciation’—­and with all these thoughts in me, how could I content myself with the ordinary aspiration of modern artists?  I grew absorbed in one subject—­Colour.  I noted how lifeless and pale the colouring of to-day appeared beside that of the old masters, and I meditated deeply on the problem thus presented to me.  What was the secret of Correggio—­of Fra Angelico—­of Raphael?  I tried various experiments; I bought the most expensive and highly guaranteed pigments.  In vain, for they were all adulterated by the dealers!  Then I obtained colours in the rough, and ground and mixed them myself; still, though a little better result was obtained, I found trade adulteration still at work with the oils, the varnishes, the mediums—­in fact, with everything that painters use to gain effect in their works.  I could nowhere escape from vicious dealers, who, to gain a miserable percentage on every article sold, are content to be among the most dishonest men in this dishonest age.

“I assure you, mademoiselle, that not one of the pictures which are now being painted for the salons of Paris and London can possibly last a hundred years.  I recently visited that Palace of Art, the South Kensington Museum, in London, and saw there a large fresco by Sir Frederick Leighton.  It had just been completed, I was informed.  It was already fading!  Within a few years it will be a blur of indistinct outlines.  I compared its condition with the cartoons of Raphael, and a superb Giorgione in the same building; these were as warm and bright as though recently painted.  It is not Leighton’s fault that his works are doomed to perish as completely off the canvas as though he had never traced them; it is his dire misfortune,