ABSTRACT
How many times, when I looked at some old Majorcan gentleman standing on the threshold of his faded and dilapidated mansion, have I thought of Descamps, the great master of serious caricature, upgraded to the class of historical painting, the man of genius who can infuse spirit, animation, poetry, in a word, life, to the very walls. The beautiful, suntanned children who played in our cloister dressed up as monks would have delighted him. He would have had there monkeys galore, and angels at their side, pigs with human faces, and cherubs as well, mixed up with the piglets and just as dirty. But above all, he would have had Perica, as lovely as Galatea, splashed with mud like a water-spaniel, and laughing in the sun, as evertyhing does that is good on earth. But it is you, Eugene, myoId friend, my dear artist, whom I would have liked to take to the mountain at night, when a livid moon was flooding the place with light.
