"
Her devoted lover, Florian! Yes; Florian Varillo--her comrade in
art, was her lover,--a genius himself, who had recognised HER genius
and who bowed before it, conquered and subdued! Florian, the creator
of exquisitely delicate landscapes and seascapes, with nymphs and
cupids and nereids and sirens all daintily portrayed therein,--
pictures so ethereal and warm and bright in colour that they were
called by some of the best Italian critics, the "amoretti" of
painting,--he, this wonderful man, had caught her soul and heart by
storm, in a few sudden, quickly-whispered words one night when the
moon was at the full, hanging high over the gardens of the Pincio,--
and, proud of her security in the love she had won, Angela had risen
by leaps and bounds to a magnificence of creative effort and
attainment so far beyond him, that old and wise persons, skilled in
the wicked ways of the world, would sometimes discourse among
themselves in dubious fashion thus: "Is it possible that he is not
jealous? He must surely see that her work is superior to his own!"
And others would answer, "Oh no! No man was ever known to admit,
even in thought, that a woman can do better things in art than
himself! If a masculine creature draws a picture on a paving-stone
he will assure himself in his own Ego, that it is really much more
meritorious simply as 'man's work' than the last triumph of a Rosa
Bonheur.
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