are those who live from morning to night ready to see impartially and to express with utter truth.
Among these few Soffici is one of the most fortunate. Free and alone, a man of few needs, accustomed to a simple, wandering life, poverty has not defeated him, obscurity has not discouraged him. He has always found as much love and friendship as he needed, and the world is so large, so complicated, so magnificent, so variegated, warm, and sonorous, that he has never lacked for pleasure. A bit of crayon and a bit of paper, and he is content. He trained himself little by little, grew silently, stored up his gains, was willing to wait and meditate, extracted the essence of countryside and of metropolis; and set forth at last fully confident, armed for any combat, strong enough for any conquest. He came slowly, and late. He came from Paris, and looked as if he came from the country. He came late, but he has advanced beyond his fellows. It is a pleasure and a good fortune to be by his side.
III
I will not speak of his work as painter; it would take too long to trace the stages of his development, from his first Giottesque ventures down to his recent fusion of popular art with the discoveries of cubists and futurists—a fusion
