"
After having refreshed himself, Candide walked into a large gallery,
where he was struck with the sight of a fine collection of paintings.
"Pray," said Candide, "by what master are the two first of these?"
"They are by Raphael," answered the senator. "I gave a great deal of
money for them seven years ago, purely out of curiosity, as they
were said to be the finest pieces in Italy; but I cannot say they
please me: the coloring is dark and heavy; the figures do not swell
nor come out enough; and the drapery is bad. In short, notwithstanding
the encomiums lavished upon them, they are not, in my opinion, a
true representation of nature. I approve of no paintings save those
wherein I think I behold nature itself; and there are few, if any,
of that kind to be met with. I have what is called a fine
collection, but I take no manner of delight in it."
While dinner was being prepared Pococurante ordered a concert.
Candide praised the music to the skies.
"This noise," said the noble Venetian, "may amuse one for a little
time, but if it were to last above half an hour, it would grow
tiresome to everybody, though perhaps no one would care to own it.
Music has become the art of executing what is difficult; now, whatever
is difficult cannot be long pleasing.
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