Apocalypse; but as soon as the face of the good priest became
animated, the charm was broken. It was but an expressive mask,
flexible, at times grotesque, where were predicted the fugitive and
shallow impressions of a soul gentle, innocent, and easy, but not
imaginative or exalted. It was then that the monk and the
anchorite suddenly disappeared, and there remained but a child
sixty years old, whose countenance, by turns uneasy or smiling,
expressed nothing but puerile pre-occupations, or still more
puerile content. This transformation was so rapid that it seemed
almost like a juggler's trick. You sought St. John, but found him
no more, and you were tempted to cry out, "Oh, Father Alexis, what
has become of you? The soul now looking out of your face is not
yours." This Father Alexis was an excellent man; but
unfortunately, he had too decided a taste for the pleasures of the
table. He could also be accused of having a strong ingredient of
vanity in his character; but his self-love was so ingenuous, that
the most severe judge could but pardon it. Father Alexis had
succeeded in persuading himself that he was a great artist, and
this conviction constituted his happiness. This much at least
could be said of him, that he managed his brush and pencil with
remarkable dexterity, and could execute four or five square feet of
fresco painting in a few hours. The doctrines of Mount Athos,
which place he had visited in his youth, had no more secrets for
him; Byzantine aesthetics had passed into his flesh and bones; he
knew by heart the famous "Guide to Painting," drawn up by the monk
Denys and his pupil Cyril of Scio. In short, he was thoroughly
acquainted with all the receipts by means of which works of genius
are produced, and thus, with the aid of compasses, he painted from
inspiration, those good and holy men who strikingly resembled
certain figures on gold backgrounds in the convents of Lavra and