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An artist is speaking: 

A person may be a true artist, who has never made a stroke with a brush.  Any one who can blend colors harmoniously or produce effective contrasts in dress, or even in so trivial a thing as fancy work, is an artist.  Again, one may paint for years without the slightest knowledge of, or taste for true art.  In painting a portrait, something more is required than the mere likeness, something besides pink and white prettiness.  Perhaps in two or three centuries an artist is born, one who in painting a portrait produces almost a living, breathing creature; and is able by his magic touch, to paint in the thoughts which flit through the brain; the feelings which move the heart, and is able to read almost the very soul.

Many years ago a poor struggling painter in an Italian studio, conceived the idea of painting a picture of the Madonna.  He shut his doors to visitors in order to give full play to his imagination.  Days and nights were spent in dreaming and working, until he lost consciousness of the outer world and only lived for his work, for this picture, he was sure would make him famous.  Days rolled into weeks and weeks into months, and still the realization of his dream seemed as far off as when he first began.  The figure was standing with hands clasped and head bent in humble submission to the Divine will; the graceful, easy repose of the limbs, every curve and line was perfect.  But the face!  It seemed at times as if he had accomplished the great task, yet the expression always eluded his most earnest efforts, the heavenly expression of the Divine mother was wanting.  At last, after many failures and vain efforts, it occurred to him to open his doors to visitors and perchance he could catch the longed-for expression from the faces of the women who might visit him.  As soon as it was announced that the artist had opened his doors, people came from neighboring towns and cities, attracted as much by the desire to see the strange person whom they thought a monomaniac, as by the wish to see the picture.  Women of rank and fashion arrived daily, and it was a curious study to watch the intent gaze which he fixed upon them, hoping, praying, in each one to find the desired expression.  Occasionally he would request some beautiful woman to remain standing in a certain attitude, when he fancied he had caught the look for which he was striving, but it always proved unsatisfactory, for often the stately robes covered an aching heart which told its story very plainly on the canvass.  Again a lovely girl would be asked to pose, but here alas was disappointment, for oftentimes the face expressed prettiness, but nothing more.  Then again the canvass reflected the image of some worldly-wise woman with selfishness stamped upon it.  Again the look of envy stared him in the face, or pride mocked at him while he struggled vainly on.  As the last resort a young mother and