After this we went through many galleries and churches devoted to his
works; for Antwerp is Rubens's shrine. None of them impressed me, as
compared with this. One of his Madonnas, however, I must not forget to
describe, it was a conceit so just like him. Instead of the pale,
downcast, or upturned faces, which form the general types of Madonna,
he gives her to us, in one painting, as a gorgeous Oriental sultana,
leaning over a balcony, with full, dark eye and jewelled turban, and
rounded outlines, sustaining on her hand a brilliant paroquet.
Ludicrous as this conception appears in a scriptural point of view, I
liked it because there was life in it; because he had painted it from
an internal sympathy, not from a chalky, second-hand tradition.
And now, farewell to Antwerp. Art has satisfied me at last. I have
been conquered, and that is enough.
To-morrow for Paris. Adieu.
LETTER XLVIII.
PARIS, Saturday, August 20.
MY DEAR: -
I am seated in my snug little room at M. Belloc's. The weather is
overpoweringly hot, but these Parisian houses seem to have seized and
imprisoned coolness. French household ways are delightful. I like
their seclusion from the street, by these deep-paved quadrangles.
