Whilst talking thus, father Aloysius had conducted me to the chapel, whose nave was supported by a magnificent colonade of the Corinthian order. On the left of the great altar arose a vast scaffolding, on which a painter was busy repairing frescoes painted in the old French style.
"Well, master Berthold," said Aloysius, "how goes on the work?"
The painter hardly turned to look at us, and recommenced his labor, murmuring, so as to be heard with difficulty.
"Bad work! confused lines—a mixed mass of figures of men, animals, monkeys, demons! Miserable madman that I am!"
The plaintive accent with which the painter dropped these words made my heart ache: I saw before me, doubtlessly, a poor unknown artist, whose talent was made use of for a bit of bread which hardly sufficed to keep him from want. This man carried in his features the marks of forty years of age; and in spite of the dilapidation visible in his costume, there was in the whole of his appearance a singular nobility of expression, which neither age nor grief had been able to destroy. I asked, concerning him, some questions of my guide.
"He is," answered Aloysius, "a strange painter who came to us at the time when we were thinking of repairing our church. This circumstance was for him, as well as ourselves, very fortunate, for the poor devil was destitute of everything, and we would have found with difficulty, and even then at great expense, a man so capable as he is, to undertake and perform successfully so difficult a piece of work. On this account we pay him particular attention; besides his pay, he sits at table with the superiors. This is a favor which he does not abuse. I have never seen so sober a man; he is nearly an anchorite. But come with me and look at some valuable paintings with which we have ornamented the lower side of the nave. With the exception of the painting of Dominiquin, these are masterpieces of unknown painters of the Italian school; but you will agree, I am sure, that a work has not always need of
