[Illustration:  MAGDALEN.
        Correggio]

All the great museums of the world possess Correggios, and I will only mention the exquisite Saint Catherine and the resplendent Antiope of the Louvre; the Danae of the Borghese Gallery, a chef-d’oeuvre of grace and delicacy; and, finally, in the Dresden Gallery, our Magdalen in the Desert, that jewel so well-known and so often reproduced.

This Magdalen as a matter of fact holds the first place among the small Correggios.  There are two kinds of Magdalens in art:  I. the Repentant, emaciated, growing ugly, disfigured by tears and penitence at the end of her life, with a skull in her hand or before her eyes, not having had even—­like the one sculptured in the Cathedral of Rouen—­“for three times ten winters any other vesture than her long hair,” according to Petrarch’s verse; II. the Sinner, always young, always beautiful, always seductive, who has not lost any of her charms nor even of her coquetry, and with whom the Book of Life takes the place of the Death’s Head.

Our Magdalen belongs to the latter class.  In a solitary spot, but attractive with its verdure and rocks, on a grassy knoll the saint is stretched out at full length, with her shoulder, her bosom, her arms, and her feet adorably bare.  A blue fabric drapes the rest of her body and forms a coquettish hood for her head and neck.  Her flesh has a robust elegance of line.  Leaning on her right elbow, her hand, half hidden in her hair, supports a charming and meditative head, while her other arm is slipped under an open manuscript.  Her hair, long and blonde, according to legend—­which she loves and still cares for because it once wiped the feet of her Saviour—­falls in thick curls, or strays at will with a premeditated abandon.  On the ground, to her right, stands the vase of perfumes of her first adoration; to the left are the stones of her supreme expiation.

What grace in her attitude!  What beauty of form!  She is thrown in with a rare happiness and painted with an exquisite delicacy of touch and tint.  The blue drapery upon the green landscape defines her sufficiently without making her stand out too much, leaving the figure and the landscape to mingle without disturbing each other in skilful harmony.  All of this is in most finished execution, a little elaborate, perhaps, and the expression of the face reflects the sweet, sad memory of the Beloved, whose Gospels she is reading, just as one reads again tender letters of the past.

This work was executed for the Dukes of Este, who kept it in a silver frame studded with precious stones and used it as an ornament for their bedrooms, and when they travelled, they took it with them in a casket.  When the King of Poland became its possessor, he gave it a second boxing of glass with lock and key.  In 1788, this masterpiece having been stolen, 1,000 ducats were promised for its discovery, and, in consideration of that sum, the thief denounced himself.  Cristofano Allori, the greatest Florentine painter of the Decadence, made a superb copy for the Offices, I believe.