Andrea's pictures are superior technically to those of his
great contemporaries--Rafael, Michel Angelo, Leonardo da Vinci--but
their imperfect works have a celestial glory, the glory of aspiration,
absent from his perfect productions. His work indeed is,
Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null,
Dead perfection, no more.
It is natural, that he, whose paintings show perfection of form
without spirit, should have married a woman of physical beauty
devoid of soul. She has ruined him, but she could not have ruined him
had he been a different man. He understands her, however, in the
quiet light of his own failure. He tells her she must not treat him
so badly that he can not paint at all; and adds the necessary
explanation that his ceasing to paint would stop her supplies of cash.
For although it is incomprehensible to her, people are willing to
give large sums of money for her ridiculous husband's ridiculous
daubs. His mind, sensitive to beauty, is drunk with his wife's
loveliness of face and form; and like all confirmed drunkards, he
can not conquer himself now, though otherwise he knows it means
death and damnation.
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