I found him in the course of the morning in the Tribune of the
Uffizi--that little treasure-chamber of world-famous things. He had
turned his back on the Venus de' Medici, and with his arms resting on the
rail-mug which protects the pictures, and his head buried in his hands,
he was lost in the contemplation of that superb triptych of Andrea
Mantegna--a work which has neither the material splendour nor the
commanding force of some of its neighbours, but which, glowing there with
the loveliness of patient labour, suits possibly a more constant need of
the soul. I looked at the picture for some time over his shoulder; at
last, with a heavy sigh, he turned away and our eyes met. As he
recognised me a deep blush rose to his face; he fancied, perhaps, that he
had made a fool of himself overnight. But I offered him my hand with a
friendliness which assured him I was not a scoffer. I knew him by his
ardent _chevelure_; otherwise he was much altered. His midnight mood was
over, and he looked as haggard as an actor by daylight. He was far older
than I had supposed, and he had less bravery of costume and gesture.
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