"Of course. I should think you could see that the painting and drawing, at least, were of peasant origin."
"It is terrific in a way," said Ethel, scrutinizing with a professional squint, which sat very prettily on her charming face, a picture of the Holy Family which happened to be nearest to her; "and yet," she went on, "there's feeling in that—quite wonderful feeling! If that Virgin were not such a fright, she would really be quite beautiful. Do you see what I mean?"
"Well, hardly," said Florence, with a smile.
"Of course not! but I do mean what I say. The tender feeling of that face and figure are now completely subject to the grotesque form and crude color which the poor ignorant painter must have suffered from acutely—for he had a beautiful ideal in his mind when he did that."
"Well, you are even more knowing in art than I gave you credit for," said Florence, "if you can make that out. It seems to me to resemble nothing so much as one of the jointed dolls, made of wood, and painted with three colors,—white, black, and red,—which used to be the delight of my infancy."
"I see that resemblance," said Ethel seriously; "but I also see something else—very different. I wonder who does these things."
"I have inquired," Florence answered, "and I find that every generation has its own local artist, who makes it a profession to do these decorations, to paint the little wooden head-boards which serve as tombstones here, and also to paint the andenken which decorate the surrounding country. You will see them by the dozen."
"Andenken! What is that?"
"It is a little picture-sign, which is set up by the family or friends of a person who is killed by any of the casualties which are so common here, from avalanches or from falling rocks, which, once misplaced and started, tumble down the mountain sides with increasing velocity, and kill anything in their way. The shepherds here, who so often spend the nights with their flocks on the mountain sides, are frequently killed by them, and then, too, the inhabitants of this region are sometimes overwhelmed with torrents of mud, ejected by the mountains—not a very pretty thing to paint! But you will see dozens of these little andenken all about here, as they are always erected on the spot of the disaster, and always consist of a pictorial representation of it, and the passers-by are supposed to say a prayer for the repose of the victim's soul."
"How strange! I think it seems rather sweet," said Ethel dreamily.