"A woman's face then, I suppose? How very beautiful she must be!"
"Actual beauty is sexless," he replied, and was silent. The expression of his face had become abstracted and dreamy, and he turned over the sketches for Mrs. Everard with an air which showed his thoughts to be far away from his occupation.
"And the Death Angel?" I went on. "Had you a model for that also?"
This time a look of relief, almost of gladness, passed over his features.
"No indeed," he answered with ready frankness; "that is entirely my own creation."
I was about to compliment him on the grandeur and force of his poetical fancy, when he stopped me by a slight gesture of his hand.
"If you really admire the picture," he said, "pray do not say so. If it is in truth a work of art, let it speak to you as art only, and spare the poor workman who has called it into existence the shame of having to confess that it is not above human praise. The only true criticism of high art is silence—silence as grand as heaven itself."
He spoke with energy, and his dark eyes flashed. Amy (Mrs. Everard) looked at him curiously.
"Say now!" she exclaimed, with a ringing laugh, "aren't you a little bit eccentric, signor? You talk like a long-haired prophet! I never met an artist before who couldn't stand praise; it is generally a matter of wonder to me to notice how much of that intoxicating sweet they can swallow without reeling. But you're an exception, I must admit. I congratulate you!"
Cellini bowed gaily in response to the half-friendly, half-mocking curtsey she gave him, and, turning to me again, said: