He was silent a while before replying. "Not in the vulgar sense!" he
said at last. "I have chosen never to manifest myself by imperfection.
The good in every performance I have re-absorbed into the generative
force of new creations; the bad--there is always plenty of that--I have
religiously destroyed. I may say, with some satisfaction, that I have
not added a mite to the rubbish of the world. As a proof of my
conscientiousness"--and he stopped short, and eyed me with extraordinary
candour, as if the proof were to be overwhelming--"I have never sold a
picture! 'At least no merchant traffics in my heart!' Do you remember
that divine line in Browning? My little studio has never been profaned
by superficial, feverish, mercenary work. It's a temple of labour, but
of leisure! Art is long. If we work for ourselves, of course we must
hurry. If we work for her, we must often pause. She can wait!"

This had brought us to my hotel door, somewhat to my relief, I confess,
for I had begun to feel unequal to the society of a genius of this heroic
strain. I left him, however, not without expressing a friendly hope that
we should meet again. The next morning my curiosity had not abated; I
was anxious to see him by common daylight. I counted upon meeting him in
one of the many pictorial haunts of Florence, and I was gratified without
delay. I found him in the course of the morning in the Tribune of the
Uffizi--that little treasure-chamber of world-famous things. He had
turned his back on the Venus de' Medici, and with his arms resting on the
rail-mug which protects the pictures, and his head buried in his hands,
he was lost in the contemplation of that superb triptych of Andrea
Mantegna--a work which has neither the material splendour nor the
commanding force of some of its neighbours, but which, glowing there with
the loveliness of patient labour, suits possibly a more constant need of
the soul. I looked at the picture for some time over his shoulder; at