Conversely the criticism of some writers tends towards depreciation because of their predilection for objective as opposed to subjective criticism.  The late P.G.  Hamerton, writing upon Rembrandt, says, “The chiaroscuro of Rembrandt is often false and inconsistent, and in fact he relied largely on public ignorance.  But though arbitrary, it is always conducive to his purpose.”

“Conducive to his purpose!” There is much virtue in those four words.  Rembrandt probably knew as well as anybody that his lighting of a picture was not a facsimile of the lighting of nature, or rather not the chiaroscuro as seen by the average eye; but he had an aim, a vision before him, and he did not hesitate to interpret that vision in his own way.  Who dares to say that Rembrandt was disloyal to nature?  Our concern is not what we should have done, but what Rembrandt did, seeing with his own eyes.  And the questions we should ask ourselves are:—­Is the interpretation of the world as seen through his eyes beautiful, suggestive, profound, and stimulating?  Does the statement of his personality in paint add to our knowledge, educate our aesthetic perceptions, and extend our horizon by showing us things that our imperfect vision does not see except through him?

[Illustration:  A YOUNG WOMAN IN A RED CHAIR HOLDING A PINK IN HER RIGHT HAND

1656.  The Hermitage, St. Petersburg.]

Comparisons are not only odious, but foolish.  No sensible critic attempts a comparison between Titian, Velasquez, and Rembrandt.  He accepts them as they are, and is grateful.  But even the most obscure of mortals may have his preferences, and a curious chapter in the lives of individuals who have concerned themselves with painting would be the bewildering way in which the pendulum of their appreciation and admiration has swung backwards and forwards from Titian to Velasquez, from Velasquez to Rembrandt, and sometimes back to Titian.  It is often a question of mood.

There are moods when the regal abundance, the consummate craftsmanship of Titian, the glow and splendour of his canvases, the range of them from The Man with the Glove in the Louvre to the Bacchus and Ariadne, force us to place him on the summit of Parnassus.  We are dazzled by this prince of painters, dominating Venice at the height of her prosperity, inspired by her, having around him, day by day, the glorious pictures that the genius of Venice had produced.  We follow his triumphant career, see him courted and feted, recognise his detachment from the sorrow and suffering of the unfortunate and unclassed, and amid the splendour of his career note his avidity for the loaves and fishes of the world.  Unlike Rembrandt, fortune favoured Titian to the end.  His career was a triumphal progress.  We stand in that small room at the Prado Museum at Madrid and gaze upon his canvases, sumptuous and opulent, diffusing colour like a sunset, indifferent to their story or meaning, happy and content