Jeanne made no objection, but smiled softly upon the Cleopatra, the Umbrian ‘as’, and the fair huntress.

Little by little her father’s enthusiasm expanded over the vast collection of treasures.  He took out his pocketbook and began to make notes.  Jeanne raised her eyes to the walls, took one glance, then a second, and, not being called back to the medals, stepped softly up to the picture at which I had begun.

She went quickly from one to another having evidently no more than a child’s untutored taste for pictures.  As I, on the contrary, was getting on very slowly, she was bound to overtake me.  You may be sure I took no steps to prevent it, and so in a very short time we were both standing before the same picture, a portrait of Holbein the younger.  A subject of conversation was ready to hand.

“Mademoiselle,” said I, “do you like this Holbein?”

“You must admit, sir, that the old gentleman is exceedingly plain.”

“Yes, but the painting is exquisite.  See how powerful is the drawing of the head, how clear and deep the colors remain after more than three hundred years.  What a good likeness it must have been!  The subject tells his own story:  he must have been a nobleman of the court of Henry VIII, a Protestant in favor with the King, wily but illiterate, and wishing from the bottom of his heart that he were back with the companions of his youth at home in his country house, hunting and drinking at his ease.  It is really the study of a man’s character.  Look at this Rubens beside it, a mere mass of flesh scarcely held together by a spirit, a style that is exuberantly material, all color and no expression.  Here you have spirituality on one side and materialism on the other, unconscious, perhaps, but unmistakable.  Compare, again, with these two pictures this little drawing, doubtless by Perugino, just a sketch of an angel for an Annunciation; notice the purity of outline, the ideal atmosphere in which the painter lives and with which he impregnates his work.  You see he comes of a school of poets and mystics, gifted with a second sight which enabled them to beautify this world and raise themselves above it.”

I was pleased with my little lecture, and so was Jeanne.  I could tell it by her surprised expression, and by the looks she cast toward her father, who was still taking notes, to see whether she might go on with her first lesson in art.

He smiled in a friendly way, which meant: 

“I’m happy here, my dear, thank you; ’va piano va sano’.”

This was as good as permission.  We went on our way, saluting, as we passed, Tintoretto and Titian, Veronese and Andrea Solari, old Cimabue, and a few early paintings of angular virgins on golden backgrounds.

Jeanne was no longer bored.

“And is this,” she would say, “another Venetian, or a Lombard, or a Florentine?”

We soon completed the round of the first room, and made our way into the gallery beyond, devoted to sculpture.  The marble gods and goddesses, the lovely fragments of frieze or cornice from the excavations at Rome, Pompeii, or Greece, had but a moderate interest for Mademoiselle Charnot.  She never gave more than one glance to each statue, to some none at all.