What an embodied insult to the arrogance of man
she was! She!--a mere woman!--and the painter of the finest picture
ever seen since Raffaelle and Michael Angelo left the world to work
elsewhere. "Chaste as ice, pure as snow, thou shalt not escape
calumny!" In his imagination he saw the world crowning her with
imperishable bays--he heard the denunciation of the Vatican and the
condemnation of the Churches, thunder uselessly against the grand
lesson of her work, while crowds gathered adoringly before the most
perfect Christ ever painted!--and he saw her name written up in
letters of gold on the scroll of those whom history numbers as
immortal! It should not be! It should never be! And again he spoke,
enunciating his words with difficulty, for his lips were dry.
"It is very fine! Quite marvellous, in fact!--almost unprecedented!
That is why I ask, 'did you do it all yourself?' You must not be
offended, Angela! I mean so well! You see the conception--the
breadth of treatment--the gradation and tone of colour--are all
absolutely masculine. Who first suggested the idea to you?"
Still very pale, breathing quickly yet lightly, and maintaining an
air of calm which was almost matter of fact, she answered,--
"No one! Though perhaps, if it is traced to its source, it arose in
my mind from seeing the universal dissatisfaction which most
intelligent people feel with religion, as administered to them by
the Churches.
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