And I don’t mind telling you that you couldn’t have a better guide than your mother.
She’s very artistic, and she knows what’s what, and she won’t waste your time over a lot of tripe.”
“I don’t claim that your grandfather was a great artist,” said Mrs. Mason, with the modest self-assurance of someone who is without conceit aware that he knows his subject, “but he knew what was good.
All I know about art he taught me.”
“Of course you had a flair,” said her husband.
Mrs. Mason considered this for a moment.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right, Leslie.
I had a flair.”
What made it easier to do the Louvre with expedition and spiritual profit was that in those days they had not rearranged it, and the Salon Carre contained most of the pictures which Mrs. Mason thought worthy of her children’s attention.
When they entered that room they walked straight to Leonardo’s Gioconda.
“I always think one ought to look at that first,” she said.
“It puts you in the right mood for the Louvre.”
The four of them stood in front of the picture and with reverence gazed at the insipid smile of that prim and sex-starved young woman.
After a decent interval for meditation Mrs. Mason turned to her husband and her two children.
There were tears in her eyes.
“Words fail me to express what that picture always makes me feel,” she said, with a sigh.
“Leonardo was a Great Artist.
I think everybody’s bound to acknowledge that.”
“I don’t mind admitting that I’m a bit of a philistine when it comes to old masters,” said Leslie, “but that’s got a je ne sais quoi that gets you, there’s no denying that.
Can you remember that bit of Pater’s, Venetia?
He hit the nail on the head and no mistake.”
“You mean the bit that begins:
‘Hers is the head upon which all the ends of the world are come.’
I used to know it by heart years ago; I’m afraid I’ve forgotten it now.”
“That’s a pity.”
“Well, my memory isn’t what it was.
Let’s go and look at the Raphael now, shall we?”
But it was impossible to avoid seeing the two vast canvases of Paolo Veronese that faced one another on opposite walls.
“It’s worth while giving them a glance,” she said.
“Your grandfather had a very high opinion of them.
Of course Veronese was neither subtle nor profound.
He had no soul.
But he certainly had a gift of composition, and you must remember that there’s no one now who could arrange so great a number of figures in a harmonious, and yet natural, design.
You must admire them if for no other reason because of their vitality and for the sheer physical vigour Veronese must have had to paint such enormous pictures.
But I think there’s more in them than that.
They do give you an impression of the abundant, multicoloured life of the period and of the pleasure-loving, pagan spirit which was characteristic of patrician Venice in the heyday of its glory.”
“I’ve often tried to count the number of figures in the Marriage of Cana,” said Leslie Mason, “but every time I make it different.”
The four of them began to count, but none of the results they reached agreed.
Presently they strolled into the Grande Galerie.
“Now here is L’Homme au Gant,” said Mrs. Mason.
“I’m not sorry you looked at the Veroneses first, because they do bring out very clearly the peculiar merit of Titian.
You remember what I said about Veronese having no soul; well, you’ve only got to look at L’Homme au Gant to see that soul is just what Titian had.”
“He was a remarkable old buffer,” said Leslie Mason.
“He lived to the age of ninety-nine and then it needed the plague to kill him.”
Mrs. Mason smiled slightly.
“I have no hesitation,” she continued, “in saying that I consider this one of the finest portraits that’s ever been painted.
Of course one can’t compare it with a portait by Cezanne or even by Manet.”
“We mustn’t forget to show them the Manet, Venetia.”
“No, we won’t do that.
We’ll come to that presently.