After a day's consideration,
I submitted to the restrictions, by my wife's advice, and saved
the nuns the trouble of making application for a copier of
Correggio in any other quarter.
I found the convent was charmingly situated in a quiet little
valley in the West of England. The parlor in which I was to paint
was a large, well-lighted apartment; and the village inn, about
half a mile off, afforded me cheap and excellent quarters for the
night. Thus far, therefore, there was nothing to complain of. As
for the picture, which was the next object of interest to me, I
was surprised to find that the copying of it would be by no means
so difficult a task as I had anticipated. I am rather of a
revolutionary spirit in matters of art, and am bold enough to
think that the old masters have their faults as well as their
beauties. I can give my opinion, therefore, on the Correggio at
the convent independently at least. Looked at technically, the
picture was a fine specimen of coloring and execution; but looked
at for the higher merits of delicacy, elevation, and feeling for
the subject, it deserved copying as little as the most
commonplace work that any unlucky modern artist ever produced.
The faces of the Holy Family not only failed to display the right
purity and tenderness of expression, but absolutely failed to
present any expression at all. It is flat heresy to say so, but
the valuable Correggio was nevertheless emphatically, and, in so
many words, a very uninteresting picture.
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