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of a broader, loftier, and indestructible humanity. Moreover, in the

lunettes and the arches over the windows other figures of grace, power,

and beauty appear and throng, the ancestors of the Christ, thoughtful

mothers with lovely nude infants, men with wondering eyes peering into

the future, representatives of the punished weary race longing for the

promised Redeemer; while in the pendentives of the four corners various

biblical episodes, the victories of Israel over the Spirit of Evil,

spring into life. And finally there is the gigantic fresco at the far

end, the Last Judgment with its swarming multitude, so numerous that days

and days are needed to see each figure aright, a distracted crowd, full

of the hot breath of life, from the dead rising in response to the

furious trumpeting of the angels, from the fearsome groups of the damned

whom the demons fling into hell, even to Jesus the justiciar, surrounded

by the saints and apostles, and to the radiant concourse of the blessed

who ascend upheld by angels, whilst higher and still higher other angels,

bearing the instruments of the Passion, triumph as in full glory. And

yet, above this gigantic composition, painted thirty years subsequently,

in the full ripeness of age, the ceiling retains its ethereality, its

unquestionable superiority, for on it the artist bestowed all his virgin

power, his whole youth, the first great flare of his genius.

And Pierre found but one word to express his feelings: Michael Angelo was

the monster dominating and crushing all others. Beneath his immense

achievement you had only to glance at the works of Perugino,

Pinturicchio, Roselli, Signorelli, and Botticelli, those earlier

frescoes, admirable in their way, which below the cornice spread out

around the chapel.

Narcisse for his part had not raised his eyes to the overpowering

splendour of the ceiling. Wrapt in ecstasy, he did not allow his gaze to

stray from one of the three frescoes of Botticelli. "Ah! Botticelli," he

at last murmured; "in him you have the elegance and the grace of the

mysterious; a profound feeling of sadness even in the midst of

voluptuousness, a divination of the whole modern soul, with the most

troublous charm that ever attended artist's work."

Pierre glanced at him in amazement, and then ventured to inquire: "You

come here to see the Botticellis?"

"Yes, certainly," the young man quietly replied; "I only come here for

him, and five hours every week I only look at his work. There, just study

that fresco, Moses and the daughters of Jethro. Isn't it the most

penetrating work that human tenderness and melancholy have produced?"

Then, with a faint, devout quiver in his voice and the air of a priest

initiating another into the delightful but perturbing atmosphere of a

sanctuary, he went on repeating the praises of Botticelli's art; his

women with long, sensual, yet candid faces, supple bearing, and rounded

forms showing from under light drapery; his young men, his angels of

doubtful sex, blending stateliness of muscle with infinite delicacy of

outline; next the mouths he painted, fleshy, fruit-like mouths, at times

suggesting irony, at others pain, and often so enigmatical with their

sinuous curves that one knew not whether the words they left unuttered

were words of purity or filth; then, too, the eyes which he bestowed on

his figures, eyes of languor and passion, of carnal or mystical rapture,

their joy at times so instinct with grief as they peer into the nihility

of human things that no eyes in the world could be more impenetrable. And

finally there were Botticelli's hands, so carefully and delicately

painted, so full of life, wantoning so to say in a free atmosphere, now

joining, caressing, and even, as it were, speaking, the whole evincing

such intense solicitude for gracefulness that at times there seems to be

undue mannerism, though every hand has its particular expression, each

varying expression of the enjoyment or pain which the sense of touch can

bring. And yet there was nothing effeminate or false about the painter's

work: on all sides a sort of virile pride was apparent, an atmosphere of

superb passionate motion, absolute concern for truth, direct study from

life, conscientiousness, veritable realism, corrected and elevated by a

genial strangeness of feeling and character that imparted a

never-to-be-forgotten charm even to ugliness itself.

Pierre's stupefaction, however, increased as he listened to Narcisse,

whose somewhat studied elegance, whose curly hair cut in the Florentine

fashion, and whose blue, mauvish eyes paling with enthusiasm he now for

the first time remarked. "Botticelli," he at last said, "was no doubt a

marvellous artist, only it seems to me that here, at any rate, Michael

Angelo--"

But Narcisse interrupted him almost with violence. "No! no! Don't talk of

him! He spoilt everything, ruined everything! A man who harnessed himself

to his work like an ox, who laboured at his task like a navvy, at the

rate of so many square yards a day! And a man, too, with no sense of the

mysterious and the unknown, who saw everything so huge as to disgust one

with beauty, painting girls like the trunks of oak-trees, women like

giant butchers, with heaps and heaps of stupid flesh, and never a gleam

of a divine or infernal soul! He was a mason--a colossal mason, if you

like--but he was nothing more."

Weary "modern" that Narcisse was, spoilt by the pursuit of the original

and the rare, he thus unconsciously gave rein to his fated hate of health

and power. That Michael Angelo who brought forth without an effort, who

had left behind him the most prodigious of all artistic creations, was

the enemy. And his crime precisely was that he had created life, produced

life in such excess that all the petty creations of others, even the most

delightful among them, vanished in presence of the overflowing torrent of

human beings flung there all alive in the sunlight.

"Well, for my part," Pierre courageously declared, "I'm not of your

opinion. I now realise that life is everything in art; that real

immortality belongs only to those who create. The case of Michael Angelo

seems to me decisive, for he is the superhuman master, the monster who

overwhelms all others, precisely because he brought forth that

magnificent living flesh which offends your sense of delicacy. Those who

are inclined to the curious, those who have minds of a pretty turn, whose

intellects are ever seeking to penetrate things, may try to improve on

the equivocal and invisible, and set all the charm of art in some

elaborate stroke or symbolisation; but, none the less, Michael Angelo

remains the all-powerful, the maker of men, the master of clearness,

simplicity, and health."

At this Narcisse smiled with indulgent and courteous disdain. And he

anticipated further argument by remarking: "It's already eleven. My

cousin was to have sent a servant here as soon as he could receive us. I

am surprised to have seen nobody as yet. Shall we go up to see the

_stanze_ of Raffaelle while we wait?"

Once in the rooms above, he showed himself perfect, both lucid in his

remarks and just in his appreciations, having recovered all his easy

intelligence as soon as he was no longer upset by his hatred of colossal

labour and cheerful decoration.

It was unfortunate that Pierre should have first visited the Sixtine

Chapel; for it was necessary he should forget what he had just seen and

accustom himself to what he now beheld in order to enjoy its pure beauty.

It was as if some potent wine had confused him, and prevented any

immediate relish of a lighter vintage of delicate fragrance. Admiration

did not here fall upon one with lightning speed; it was slowly,

irresistibly that one grew charmed. And the contrast was like that of

Racine beside Corneille, Lamartine beside Hugo, the eternal pair, the

masculine and feminine genius coupled through centuries of glory. With

Raffaelle it is nobility, grace, exquisiteness, and correctness of line,

and divineness of harmony that triumph. You do not find in him merely the

materialist symbolism so superbly thrown off by Michael Angelo; he

introduces psychological analysis of deep penetration into the painter's

art. Man is shown more purified, idealised; one sees more of that which

is within him. And though one may be in presence of an artist of

sentimental bent, a feminine genius whose quiver of tenderness one can

feel, it is also certain that admirable firmness of workmanship confronts

one, that the whole is very strong and very great. Pierre gradually

yielded to such sovereign masterliness, such virile elegance, such a

vision of supreme beauty set in supreme perfection. But if the "Dispute

on the Sacrament" and the so-called "School of Athens," both prior to the

paintings of the Sixtine Chapel, seemed to him to be Raffaelle's

masterpieces, he felt that in the "Burning of the Borgo," and

particularly in the "Expulsion of Heliodorus from the Temple," and "Pope

St. Leo staying Attila at the Gates of Rome," the artist had lost the

flower of his divine grace, through the deep impression which the

overwhelming grandeur of Michael Angelo had wrought upon him. How

crushing indeed had been the blow when the Sixtine Chapel was thrown open

and the rivals entered! The creations of the monster then appeared, and

the greatest of the humanisers lost some of his soul at sight of them,

thenceforward unable to rid himself of their influence.

From the _stanze_ Narcisse took Pierre to the _loggie_, those glazed

galleries which are so high and so delicately decorated. But here you

only find work which pupils executed after designs left by Raffaelle at

his death. The fall was sudden and complete, and never had Pierre better

understood that genius is everything--that when it disappears the school

collapses. The man of genius sums up his period; at a given hour he

throws forth all the sap of the social soil, which afterwards remains

exhausted often for centuries. So Pierre became more particularly

interested in the fine view that the _loggie_ afford, and all at once he

noticed that the papal apartments were in front of him, just across the

Court of San Damaso. This court, with its porticus, fountain, and white

pavement, had an aspect of empty, airy, sunlit solemnity which surprised

him. There was none of the gloom or pent-up religious mystery that he had

dreamt of with his mind full of the surroundings of the old northern

cathedrals. Right and left of the steps conducting to the rooms of the

Pope and the Cardinal Secretary of State four or five carriages were

ranged, the coachmen stiffly erect and the horses motionless in the

brilliant light; and nothing else peopled that vast square desert of a

court which, with its bareness gilded by the coruscations of its

glass-work and the ruddiness of its stones, suggested a pagan temple

dedicated to the sun. But what more particularly struck Pierre was the

splendid panorama of Rome, for he had not hitherto imagined that the Pope

from his windows could thus behold the entire city spread out before him

as if he merely had to stretch forth his hand to make it his own once

more.

While Pierre contemplated the scene a sound of voices caused him to turn;

and he perceived a servant in black livery who, after repeating a message

to Narcisse, was retiring with a deep bow. Looking much annoyed, the

_attache_ approached the young priest. "Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo," said

he, "has sent word that he can't see us this morning. Some unexpected

duties require his presence." However, Narcisse's embarrassment showed

that he did not believe in the excuse, but rather suspected some one of

having so terrified his cousin that the latter was afraid of compromising

himself. Obliging and courageous as Habert himself was, this made him

indignant. Still he smiled and resumed: "Listen, perhaps there's a means

of forcing an entry. If your time is your own we can lunch together and

then return to visit the Museum of Antiquities. I shall certainly end by

coming across my cousin and we may, perhaps, be lucky enough to meet the

Pope should he go down to the gardens."

At the news that his audience was yet again postponed Pierre had felt

keenly disappointed. However, as the whole day was at his disposal, he

willingly accepted the _attache's_ offer. They lunched in front of St.

Peter's, in a little restaurant of the Borgo, most of whose customers

were pilgrims, and the fare, as it happened, was far from good. Then at

about two o'clock they set off for the museum, skirting the basilica by

way of the Piazza della Sagrestia. It was a bright, deserted, burning

district; and again, but in a far greater degree, did the young priest

experience that sensation of bare, tawny, sun-baked majesty which had

come upon him while gazing into the Court of San Damaso. Then, as he

passed the apse of St. Peter's, the enormity of the colossus was brought

home to him more strongly than ever: it rose like a giant bouquet of

architecture edged by empty expanses of pavement sprinkled with fine

weeds. And in all the silent immensity there were only two children

playing in the shadow of a wall. The old papal mint, the Zecca, now an

Italian possession, and guarded by soldiers of the royal army, is on the

left of the passage leading to the museums, while on the right, just in

front, is one of the entrances of honour to the Vatican where the papal

Swiss Guard keeps watch and ward; and this is the entrance by which,

according to etiquette, the pair-horse carriages convey the Pope's

visitors into the Court of San Damaso.

Following the long lane which ascends between a wing of the palace and

its garden wall, Narcisse and Pierre at last reached the Museum of

Antiquities. Ah! what a museum it is, with galleries innumerable, a

museum compounded of three museums, the Pio-Clementino, Chiaramonti, and

the Braccio-Nuovo, and containing a whole world found beneath the soil,