“That’s what it is. It is truth,” agreed Cortés.
“Yes, but there are people who do not like the truth, my friend. I tell you: this is a man of flesh, somewhat enigmatic, like nature herself, and with arteries in which blood flows; this is a man who breathes and digests, and not merely a pleasant abstraction; you, who understand such things, will tell me that the drawing is perfect, and the colour such as it was in reality; but how about the person who doesn’t ask for reality?”
“Stendhal, the writer, was affected that way by this picture,” said Cortés; “he was shocked at its being hung among masterpieces.”
“He found it bad, no doubt.”
“Very bad?”
“Was this Stendhal English?”
“No, French.”
“Ah, then, you needn’t be surprised. A Frenchman has no obligation to understand anything that’s not French.”
“Nevertheless he was an intelligent man.”
“Did he perhaps have a good deal of veneration?”