His career was a triumphal progress.

We stand in that small room at the Prado Museum at Madrid and gaze upon his canvases, sumptuous and opulent, diffusing colour like a sunset, indifferent to their story or meaning, happy and content with the flaming feast outspread for our enjoyment.

We stand before his _Entombment_ at the Louvre, dumb before its superlative painting, with hardly a thought for the tragedy that it represents.

Titian accepts the literary motive, and the artist in him straight forgets it.

We walk from _The Entombment_ to the little chamber where Rembrandt's _Christ at Emmaus_ hangs, and the heart of Rembrandt is beating there.