was a Crucifixion in which the painter by some magic of feeling had been able to suggest that the flesh of Christ’s dead body was not human flesh only but divine; and there was an Ascension in which the Saviour seemed to surge up towards the empyrean and yet to stand upon the air as steadily as though it were solid ground:  the uplifted arms of the Apostles, the sweep of their draperies, their ecstatic gestures, gave an impression of exultation and of holy joy.  The background of nearly all was the sky by night, the dark night of the soul, with wild clouds swept by strange winds of hell and lit luridly by an uneasy moon.

“I’ve seen that sky in Toledo over and over again,” said Athelny.  “I have an idea that when first El Greco came to the city it was by such a night, and it made so vehement an impression upon him that he could never get away from it.”

Philip remembered how Clutton had been affected by this strange master, whose work he now saw for the first time.  He thought that Clutton was the most interesting of all the people he had known in Paris.  His sardonic manner, his hostile aloofness, had made it difficult to know him; but it seemed to Philip, looking back, that there had been in him a tragic force, which sought vainly to express itself in painting.  He was a man of unusual character, mystical after the fashion of a time that had no leaning to mysticism, who was impatient with life because he found himself unable to say the things which the obscure impulses of his heart suggested.  His intellect was not fashioned to the uses of the spirit.  It was not surprising that he felt a deep sympathy with the Greek who had devised a new technique to express the yearnings of his soul.  Philip looked again at the series of portraits of Spanish gentlemen, with ruffles and pointed beards, their faces pale against the sober black of their clothes and the darkness of the background.  El Greco was the painter of the soul; and these gentlemen, wan and wasted, not by exhaustion but by restraint, with their tortured minds, seem to walk unaware of the beauty of the world; for their eyes look only in their hearts, and they are dazzled by the glory of the unseen.  No painter has shown more pitilessly that the world is but a place of passage.  The souls of the men he painted speak their strange longings through their eyes:  their senses are miraculously acute, not for sounds and odours and colour, but for the very subtle sensations of the soul.  The noble walks with the monkish heart within him, and his eyes see things which saints in their cells see too, and he is unastounded.  His lips are not lips that smile.