Florian recoiled with an involuntary cry,--and
then remained motionless and silent,--stricken dumb and stupid by
the magnificent creation which confronted him. This Angela's
masterpiece! A woman's work! This stupendous conception! This
perfect drawing! This wondrous colouring! Fully facing him, the
central glory of the whole picture, was a figure of Christ--unlike
any other Christ ever imagined by poet or painter--an etherealised
Form through which the very light of Heaven itself seemed to shine,-
-supreme, majestic, and austerely God-like;--the face was more
beautiful than any ever dreamed of by the hewers of the classic
marbles--it was the face of a great Archangel,--beardless and
youthful, yet kingly and commanding. Round the broad brows a Crown
of Thorns shone like a diadem, every prickly point tipped with pale
fire,--and from the light floating folds of intense white which,
cloud-like, clung about the divine Form, faint flashes of the
lightning gleamed. Above this grand Christ, the heavens were opened,
pouring out a rain of such translucent purity of colour and radiance
as never had been seen in any painted canvas before--but beneath,
the clouds were black as midnight--confused, chaotic, and drifting
darkly on a strong wind as it seemed into weird and witch-like
shapes, wherein there were seen the sun and moon revolving pallidly,
like globes of fire lost from their orbits and about to become
extinct.
Pages:
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674