And now again for some time was the deep stillness of the studio interrupted only by the strokes of Antonio’s charcoal, which, unlike his rapid and feverish efforts when sketching the old woman, were now subdued and tranquil.  As he gazed into the upraised and pleading eyes of the beautiful Magdalen, his excitement gradually yielded to the pacifying influence of her mute and eloquent sorrow.  This salutary change escaped not the observation of Contarini, whose benevolent features softened as he gazed upon these tokens of a better spirit in his pupil.

“I rejoice to see, Antonio,” he began, “that you already feel, how ever imperfectly, the soothing and hallowed influence of the Beautiful in Art and Nature, and the peril to soul and body of delighting in imaginary forms of horror.  If you indulge these cravings of a distempered fancy, you will sink to the base level of those Flemish artists who delight in painting witches and demons, and in all fabulous and monstrous forms.  You, who are nobly born, devoted to poetry and fine art, and possess manifest power in portraiture, should aim at the Heroic in painting.  Make this your first and steadfast purpose.  Devote to it your life and soul; and, should the power to reach this elevation be wanting, you may still achieve the Beautiful, and paint lovely women in lovely attitudes.  But tell me, Antonello!” continued he, resuming his wonted kindness, “how came that horrid visage across thy path, or rather across thy fancy? for surely no such original exists.  Say, didst thou see it living, or was it the growth of those distempered dreams to which painters, more than other men, are subject?”

“No, padre mio! it was no dream,” eagerly answered his pupil.  “Yesterday I went in our gondola, as is my wont on festivals, to the beautiful church of San Moyses, which I love for its oriental and singular architecture.  When near the church I heard a melodious voice calling to Jacopo, my gondolier, the only boatman in sight, and begging a conveyance across the canal.  Issuing from the cabin, I saw a tall figure, closely veiled, standing on the steps of the palace facing the church and occupied by the Archduke’s ambassador.  Approaching the steps, Jacopo placed a plank for the stranger; but, as she stepped out to reach it, a sudden gust caught her large loose mantle, which, clinging to her shape, displayed for a moment a form of such majestic and luxuriant fulness—­such perfect and glorious symmetry, as no man, still less an artist, could look on unmoved.  In trembling and indescribable impatience, I awaited the raising of her veil.  Another gust, and a slight stumble as she bounded rather than stepped into the boat, befriended me; the partial shifting of her veil, which she hastily replaced, permitted a glimpse of her features—­brief, indeed, but never to be forgotten.  Yes, father! the face which surmounted that goddess-like and splendid person, was the horrid visage I have sketched, lean and yellow,