Looking
at him, one is reminded of that over-swollen monster gourd which to
young Nevil Beauchamp and his Marquise, as they saw it from their
river-boat, `hanging heavily down the bank on one greenish yellow
cheek, in prolonged contemplation of its image in the mirror below,'
so sinisterly recalled Monsieur le Marquis. But to us this `self-
adored, gross bald Cupid' has no such symbolism, and we revel as
whole-heartedly as he in his monstrous contours. `I am very
beautiful,' he seems to murmur. And we endorse the boast. At the same
time, we transfer to Hokusai the credit which this glutton takes all
to himself. It is Hokusai who made him, delineating his paunch in that
one soft summary curve, and echoing it in the curve of the wine-skin
that swells around him. Himself, as a living man, were too loathsome
for words; but here, thanks to Hokusai, he is not less admirable than
Pheidias' Hermes, or the Discobolus himself. Yes! Swathed in his
abominable surplusage of bulk, he is as fair as any statue of
astricted god or athlete that would suffer not by incarnation...
Presently, we forget again that he is unreal. He seems alive to us,
and somehow he is still beautiful. `It is a beauty,' like that of Mona
Lisa, `wrought out from within upon the flesh, the' adipose `deposit,
little cell by cell, of strange thoughts and fantastic reveries and
exquisite passions.
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