Once he took me by a quick turn, as if by impulse, into an old church.
"There is a lovely Madonna here," he said. "Who painted it?" "Some pupil
of Raphael's perhaps." Serafino removed his hat and stood reverently
before this beautiful face, so human, so tender. "I have heard you say
so much against the Church, the Papacy--I thought you were not in the
Church," I said. "No, I am an atheist," replied Serafino. "But what has
that to do with this? Look at those eyes, those lips. In '48, when my
soul was torn, I used to come in here every day just for the consolation
of that face. And now I come for the memory and the peace it brings me."
Slow tears were on the lower lids of his eyes. With a rough hand he
brushed them away, then asked me: "What do you think?" "I love that
face," I replied. "I understand how you feel."
A friendship grew up between Serafino and me. He was not a perfunctory
guide. He never grew tired. When five o'clock would come and the day was
really ended I would say: "Well I must be back now. Little Reverdy is
coming over for an early dinner." "Ah, but just this one picture," he
would say, "it will only take a few minutes. I want you to see this. It
is a great work and something may happen. I may forget to bring you
again." Then we would walk in and out of the cold and gloom of the
church after having stared the picture into vividness.
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