“Yes, the Old Masters often drew badly; they did not care much for truth and exactness in minor details; but after all, in spite of bad drawing, bad perspective, bad proportions, and a choice of subjects which no longer appeal to people as strongly as they did three hundred years ago, there is a something about their pictures which is divine—­a something which is above and beyond the art of any epoch since—­a something which would be the despair of artists but that they never hope or expect to attain it, and therefore do not worry about it.”

That is what he said—­and he said what he believed; and not only believed, but felt.

Reasoning—­especially reasoning, without technical knowledge—­must be put aside, in cases of this kind.  It cannot assist the inquirer.  It will lead him, in the most logical progression, to what, in the eyes of artists, would be a most illogical conclusion.  Thus:  bad drawing, bad proportion, bad perspective, indifference to truthful detail, color which gets its merit from time, and not from the artist—­these things constitute the Old Master; conclusion, the Old Master was a bad painter, the Old Master was not an Old Master at all, but an Old Apprentice.  Your friend the artist will grant your premises, but deny your conclusion; he will maintain that notwithstanding this formidable list of confessed defects, there is still a something that is divine and unapproachable about the Old Master, and that there is no arguing the fact away by any system of reasoning whatsoever.

I can believe that.  There are women who have an indefinable charm in their faces which makes them beautiful to their intimates, but a cold stranger who tried to reason the matter out and find this beauty would fail.  He would say to one of these women:  This chin is too short, this nose is too long, this forehead is too high, this hair is too red, this complexion is too pallid, the perspective of the entire composition is incorrect; conclusion, the woman is not beautiful.  But her nearest friend might say, and say truly, “Your premises are right, your logic is faultless, but your conclusion is wrong, nevertheless; she is an Old Master—­she is beautiful, but only to such as know her; it is a beauty which cannot be formulated, but it is there, just the same.”

I found more pleasure in contemplating the Old Masters this time than I did when I was in Europe in former years, but still it was a calm pleasure; there was nothing overheated about it.  When I was in Venice before, I think I found no picture which stirred me much, but this time there were two which enticed me to the Doge’s palace day after day, and kept me there hours at a time.  One of these was Tintoretto’s three-acre picture in the Great Council Chamber.  When I saw it twelve years ago I was not strongly attracted to it—­the guide told me it was an insurrection in heaven—­but this was an error.