Twenty years later Michelangelo lost the lady of his soul. He stood by her death-bed. With reverence and pity he pressed a long kiss upon her hand, not daring, even at that tragic moment when Death purifies all things, to touch ever so lightly that pale cold brow; though many a time, in truth, he regretted the timidity of his farewell. Condivi tells us that he was frantic with grief. Night had closed her wings upon his life; he could never hear the marchioness mentioned without tears starting in his eyes: “We had a great mutual regard,” he said; “Death has snatched from me a great friend.” A great friend! He became religious; in his robust old age his soul maintained its fire, like some deep pool which, in the blackness of night, still reflects the sunset glow. He died at the age of ninety, and among his papers were found the letters of the marchioness, and the sonnets he wrote for her—though cunning pilferers had carried off a portion of these, which, unhappily, they kept for themselves. The other, and more numerous, school of platonists started from an absolutely different principle. It was much less individual, and much more sociological. It was cultured, to all appearance without enthusiasm, keenly sensitive, wholly of this world, or if it moved at all toward the ideal it was by many tortuous, obscure and labyrinthine paths of which it would sometimes be difficult to draw an accurate map. It was philosophical; its method was to coax the human animal, to converse with him, to lure him with smiles and soft words, and to wind about him a multitude of slender cords till he was reduced to helplessness. The method was considered eminently laudable, and indeed it demanded infinite tact, time and patience; for what was involved was nothing less than the training of “the other partner” in habits of refinement and discretion—to content himself with a few tit-bits of love or kindliness, to refrain from constantly showing teeth and claws with a cry for his “reward”—the wolfish cry, the roar of the beast of prey! A light hand was needed. Men, snared in cold blood, appeared so commonplace, so much alike! The little favours by which men were held captive were in no way open to censure; they were virtue itself, for the end justified the means. The art which regulated the dispensation of these favours may justly be regarded as a complicated one. It grew out of long habit, and was not learnt from books; it was the Machiavelism of a special charity, a supreme devotion, very often the immolation of self; and it was precisely this admirable feature which distinguished platonism from coquetry: “O Love!” cried Bembo, “it is by thee that the higher virtues rule the lower.” How many of these strange, admirable women might be mentioned, who devoured men like veritable Minotaurs, and who, after devouring them, would have liked to resurrect them for another meal!