There was something so novel, so sleepy, so harmless, so mediaeval, in
the Flemish life, that it soothed him. He had been swimming all his
life in salt sea-fed rapids; this sluggish, dull, canal water, mirroring
between its rushes a life that had scarcely changed for centuries, had a
charm for him.
He stayed awhile in Antwerpen. The town is ugly and beautiful; it is like
a dull quaint gres de Flandre jug, that has precious stones set inside
its rim. It is a burgher ledger of bales and barrels, of sale and barter,
of loss and gain; but in the heart of it there are illuminated leaves of
missal vellum, all gold and color, and monkish story and heroic ballad,
that could only have been executed in the days when Art was a religion.
He gazed himself into an homage of Rubens, whom before he had slighted,
never having known (for, unless you have seen Antwerp, it is as absurd to
say that you have seen Rubens, as it is to think that you have seen
Murillo out of Seville, or Raffaelle out of Rome); and he studied the
Gretchen carefully, delicately, sympathetically, for he loved Scheffer;
but though he tried, he failed to care for her.
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