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The Hidden Masterpiece....................................................................................................................................1

Honore de Balzac .....................................................................................................................................1

CHAPTER I .............................................................................................................................................1

CHAPTER II ..........................................................................................................................................11

On a cold morning in December, towards the close of the year 1612, a young man, whose clothing betrayed

his poverty, was standing before the door of a house in the Rue des GrandsAugustine, in Paris. After

walking to and fro for some time with the hesitation of a lover who fears to approach his mistress, however

complying she may be, he ended by crossing the threshold and asking if Maitre Francois Porbus were within.

At the affirmative answer of an old woman who was sweeping out one of the lower rooms the young man

slowly mounted the stairway, stopping from time to time and hesitating, like a newly fledged courier doubtful

When he reached the upper landing of the spiral ascent, he paused a moment before laying hold of a

grotesque knocker which ornamented the door of the atelier where the famous painter of Henry

IV.neglected by Marie de Medicis for Rubenswas probably at work. The young man felt the strong

sensation which vibrates in the soul of great artists when, in the flush of youth and of their ardor for art, they

approach a man of genius or a masterpiece. In all human sentiments there are, as it were, primeval flowers

bred of noble enthusiasms, which droop and fade from year to year, till joy is but a memory and glory a lie.

Amid such fleeting emotions nothing so resembles love as the young passion of an artist who tastes the first

delicious anguish of his destined fame and woe,a passion daring yet timid, full of vague confidence and

sure discouragement. Is there a man, slender in fortune, rich in his springtime of genius, whose heart has not

beaten loudly as he approached a master of his art? If there be, that man will forever lack some heartstring,

some touch, I know not what, of his brush, some fibre in his creations, some sentiment in his poetry. When

braggarts, selfsatisfied and in love with themselves, step early into the fame which belongs rightly to their

future achievements, they are men of genius only in the eyes of fools. If talent is to be measured by youthful

shyness, by that indefinable modesty which men born to glory lose in the practice of their art, as a pretty

woman loses hers among the artifices of coquetry, then this unknown young man might claim to be possessed

of genuine merit. The habit of success lessens doubt; and modesty, perhaps, is doubt.

Worn down with poverty and discouragement, and dismayed at this moment by his own presumption, the

young neophyte might not have dared to enter the presence of the master to whom we owe our admirable

portrait of Henry IV., if chance had not thrown an unexpected assistance in his way. An old man mounted the

spiral stairway. The oddity of his dress, the magnificence of his lace ruffles, the solid assurance of his

deliberate step, led the youth to assume that this remarkable personage must be the patron, or at least the

intimate friend, of the painter. He drew back into a corner of the landing and made room for the newcomer;

looking at him attentively and hoping to find either the frank goodnature of the artistic temperament, or the

serviceable disposition of those who promote the arts. But on the contrary he fancied he saw something

diabolical in the expression of the old man's face,something, I know not what, which has the quality of

Imagine a bald head, the brow full and prominent and falling with deep projection over a little flattened nose

turned up at the end like the noses of Rabelais and Socrates; a laughing, wrinkled mouth; a short chin boldly

chiselled and garnished with a gray beard cut into a point; seagreen eyes, faded perhaps by age, but whose

pupils, contrasting with the pearlwhite balls on which they floated, cast at times magnetic glances of anger

or enthusiasm. The face in other respects was singularly withered and worn by the weariness of old age, and

still more, it would seem, by the action of thoughts which had undermined both soul and body. The eyes had

lost their lashes, and the eyebrows were scarcely traced along the projecting arches where they belonged.

Imagine such a head upon a lean and feeble body, surround it with lace of dazzling whiteness worked in

meshes like a fishslice, festoon the black velvet doublet of the old man with a heavy gold chain, and you

will have a faint idea of the exterior of this strange individual, to whose appearance the dusky light of the

landing lent fantastic coloring. You might have thought that a canvas of Rembrandt without its frame had

walked silently up the stairway, bringing with it the dark atmosphere which was the signmanual of the great

master. The old man cast a look upon the youth which was full of sagacity; then he rapped three times upon

the door, and said, when it was opened by a man in feeble health, apparently about forty years of age, "Good

Porbus bowed respectfully, and made way for his guest, allowing the youth to pass in at the same time, under

the impression that he came with the old man, and taking no further notice of him; all the less perhaps

because the neophyte stood still beneath the spell which holds a heavenborn painter as he sees for the first

time an atelier filled with the materials and instruments of his art. Daylight came from a casement in the roof

and fell, focussed as it were, upon a canvas which rested on an easel in the middle of the room, and which

bore, as yet, only three or four chalk lines. The light thus concentrated did not reach the dark angles of the

vast atelier; but a few wandering reflections gleamed through the russet shadows on the silvered breastplate

of a horseman's cuirass of the fourteenth century as it hung from the wall, or sent sharp lines of light upon the

carved and polished cornice of a dresser which held specimens of rare pottery and porcelains, or touched with

sparkling points the roughgrained texture of ancient goldbrocaded curtains, flung in broad folds about the

room to serve the painter as models for his drapery. Anatomical casts in plaster, fragments and torsos of

antique goddesses amorously polished by the kisses of centuries, jostled each other upon shelves and

brackets. Innumerable sketches, studies in the three crayons, in ink, and in red chalk covered the walls from

floor to ceiling; colorboxes, bottles of oil and turpentine, easels and stools upset or standing at right angles,

left but a narrow pathway to the circle of light thrown from the window in the roof, which fell full on the pale

The attention of the young man was taken exclusively by a picture destined to become famous after those

days of tumult and revolution, and which even then was precious in the sight of certain opinionated

individuals to whom we owe the preservation of the divine afflatus through the dark days when the life of art

was in jeopardy. This noble picture represents the Mary of Egypt as she prepares to pay for her passage by

the ship. It is a masterpiece, painted for Marie de Medicis, and afterwards sold by her in the days of her

"I like your saint," said the old man to Porbus, "and I will give you ten golden crowns over and above the

"As for that," said the old man, "yes, and no. The good woman is well setup, butshe is not living. You

young men think you have done all when you have drawn the form correctly, and put everything in place

according to the laws of anatomy. You color the features with flesh tones, mixed beforehand on your

palette,taking very good care to shade one side of the face darker than the other; and because you draw

now and then from a nude woman standing on a table, you think you can copy nature; you fancy yourselves

painters, and imagine that you have got at the secret of God's creations! Prrrr!To be a great poet it is

not enough to know the rules of syntax and write faultless grammar. Look at your saint, Porbus. At first sight

she is admirable; but at the very next glance we perceive that she is glued to the canvas, and that we cannot

walk round her. She is a silhouette with only one side, a semblance cut in outline, an image that can't turn nor

change her position. I feel no air between this arm and the background of the picture; space and depth are

wanting. All is in good perspective; the atmospheric gradations are carefully observed, and yet in spite of

your conscientious labor I cannot believe that this beautiful body has the warm breath of life. If I put my hand

on that firm, round throat I shall find it cold as marble. No, no, my friend, blood does not run beneath that

ivory skin; the purple tide of life does not swell those veins, nor stir those fibres which interlace like

network below the translucent amber of the brow and breast. This part palpitates with life, but that other part

is not living; life and death jostle each other in every detail. Here, you have a woman; there, a statue; here

again, a dead body. Your creation is incomplete. You have breathed only a part of your soul into the

wellbeloved work. The torch of Prometheus went out in your hands over and over again; there are several

"But why is it so, my dear master?" said Porbus humbly, while the young man could hardly restrain a strong

"Ah! that is the question," said the little old man. "You are floating between two systems,between drawing

and color, between the patient phlegm and honest stiffness of the old Dutch masters and the dazzling warmth

and abounding joy of the Italians. You have tried to follow, at one and the same time, Hans Holbein and

Titian; Albrecht Durier and Paul Veronese. Well, well! it was a glorious ambition, but what is the result? You

have neither the stern attraction of severity nor the deceptive magic of the chiaroscuro. See! at this place the

rich, clear color of Titian has forced out the skeleton outline of Albrecht Durier, as molten bronze might burst

and overflow a slender mould. Here and there the outline has resisted the flood, and holds back the

magnificent torrent of Venetian color. Your figure is neither perfectly well painted nor perfectly well drawn;

it bears throughout the signs of this unfortunate indecision. If you did not feel that the fire of your genius was

hot enough to weld into one the rival methods, you ought to have chosen honestly the one or the other, and

thus attained the unity which conveys one aspect, at least, of life. As it is, you are true only on your middle

plane. Your outlines are false; they do not round upon themselves; they suggest nothing behind them. There

is truth here," said the old man, pointing to the bosom of the saint; "and here," showing the spot where the

shoulder ended against the background; "but there," he added, returning to the throat, "it is all false. Do not

The old man sat down on a stool and held his head in his hands for some minutes in silence.

"Master," said Porbus at length, "I studied that throat from the nude; but, to our sorrow, there are effects in

"The mission of art is not to copy nature, but to represent it. You are not an abject copyist, but a poet," cried

the old man, hastily interrupting Porbus with a despotic gesture. "If it were not so, a sculptor could reach the

height of his art by merely moulding a woman. Try to mould the hand of your mistress, and see what you will

get, ghastly articulations, without the slightest resemblance to her living hand; you must have recourse to

the chisel of a man who, without servilely copying that hand, can give it movement and life. It is our mission

to seize the mind, soul, countenance of things and beings. Effects! effects! what are they? the mere accidents

of the life, and not the life itself. A hand,since I have taken that as an example, a hand is not merely a

part of the body, it is far more; it expresses and carries on a thought which we must seize and render. Neither

the painter nor the poet nor the sculptor should separate the effect from the cause, for they are indissolubly

one. The true struggle of art lies there. Many a painter has triumphed through instinct without knowing this

"Yes," continued the old man vehemently, "you draw a woman, but you do not SEE her. That is not the way

to force an entrance into the arcana of Nature. Your hand reproduces, without an action of your mind, the

model you copied under a master. You do not search out the secrets of form, nor follow its windings and

evolutions with enough love and perseverance. Beauty is solemn and severe, and cannot be attained in that

way; we must wait and watch its times and seasons, and clasp it firmly ere it yields to us. Form is a Proteus

less easily captured, more skilful to double and escape, than the Proteus of fable; it is only at the cost of

struggle that we compel it to come forth in its true aspects. You young men are content with the first glimpse

you get of it; or, at any rate, with the second or the third. This is not the spirit of the great warriors of

art,invincible powers, not misled by willo'thewisps, but advancing always until they force Nature to lie

bare in her divine integrity. That was Raphael's method," said the old man, lifting his velvet cap in homage to

the sovereign of art; "his superiority came from the inward essence which seems to break from the inner to

the outer of his figures. Form with him was what it is with us,a medium by which to communicate ideas,

sensations, feelings; in short, the infinite poesy of being. Every figure is a world; a portrait, whose original

stands forth like a sublime vision, colored with the rainbow tints of light, drawn by the monitions of an

inward voice, laid bare by a divine finger which points to the past of its whole existence as the source of its

given expression. You clothe your women with delicate skins and glorious draperies of hair, but where is the

blood which begets the passion or the peace of their souls, and is the cause of what you call 'effects'? Your

saint is a dark woman; but this, my poor Porbus, belongs to a fair one. Your figures are pale, colored

phantoms, which you present to our eyes; and you call that painting! art! Because you make something which

looks more like a woman than a house, you think you have touched the goal; proud of not being obliged to

write "currus venustus" or "pulcher homo" on the frame of your picture, you think yourselves majestic artists

like our great forefathers. Ha, ha! you have not got there yet, my little men; you will use up many a crayon

and spoil many a canvas before you reach that height. Undoubtedly a woman carries her head this way and

her petticoats that way; her eyes soften and droop with just that look of resigned gentleness; the throbbing

shadow of the eyelashes falls exactly thus upon her cheek. That is it, andthat is NOT IT. What lacks? A

mere nothing; but that mere nothing is ALL. You have given the shadow of life, but you have not given its

fulness, its being, its I know not whatsoul, perhaps, which floats vaporously about the tabernacle of

flesh; in short, that flower of life which Raphael and Titian culled. Start from the point you have now

attained, and perhaps you may yet paint a worthy picture; you grew weary too soon. Mediocrity will extol

your work; but the true artist smiles. O Mabuse! O my master!" added this singular person, "you were a thief;

you have robbed us of your life, your knowledge, your art! But at least," he resumed after a pause, "this

picture is better than the paintings of that rascally Rubens, with his mountains of Flemish flesh daubed with

vermilion, his cascades of red hair, and his hurlyburly of color. At any rate, you have got the elements of

"But the saint is sublime, good sir!" cried the young man in a loud voice, waking from a deep reverie. "These

figures, the saint and the boatman, have a subtile meaning which the Italian painters cannot give. I do not

"Alas, maitre, forgive my boldness," said the neophyte, blushing. "I am all unknown; only a dauber by

"Let us see what you can do," said Porbus, giving him a red crayon and a piece of paper.

"Not bad for a beginner," said the strange being who had discoursed so wildly. "I see that it is worth while to

talk art before you. I don't blame you for admiring Porbus's saint. It is a masterpiece for the world at large;

only those who are behind the veil of the holy of holies can perceive its errors. But you are worthy of a

lesson, and capable of understanding it. I will show you how little is needed to turn that picture into a true

masterpiece. Give all your eyes and all your attention; such a chance of instruction may never fall in your

Porbus fetched his palette and brushes. The little old man turned up his cuffs with convulsive haste, slipped

his thumb through the palette charged with prismatic colors, and snatched, rather than took, the handful of

brushes which Porbus held out to him. As he did so his beard, cut to a point, seemed to quiver with the

eagerness of an incontinent fancy; and while he filled his brush he muttered between his teeth:

"Colors fit to fling out of the window with the man who ground them, crude, false, revolting! who can

Then he dipped the point of his brush with feverish haste into the various tints, running through the whole

scale with more rapidity than the organist of a cathedral runs up the gamut of the "O Filii" at Easter.

Porbus and Poussin stood motionless on either side of the easel, plunged in passionate contemplation.

"See, young man," said the old man without turning round, "see how with three or four touches and a faint

bluish glaze you can make the air circulate round the head of the poor saint, who was suffocating in that thick

atmosphere. Look how the drapery now floats, and you see that the breeze lifts it; just now it looked like

heavy linen held out by pins. Observe that the satiny lustre I am putting on the bosom gives it the plump

suppleness of the flesh of a young girl. See how this tone of mingled reddishbrown and ochre warms up the

cold grayness of that large shadow where the blood seemed to stagnate rather than flow. Young man, young

man! what I am showing you now no other master in the world can teach you. Mabuse alone knew the secret

of giving life to form. Mabuse had but one pupil, and I am he. I never took a pupil, and I am an old man now.

You are intelligent enough to guess at what should follow from the little that I shall show you today."

While he was speaking, the extraordinary old man was giving touches here and there to all parts of the

picture. Here two strokes of the brush, there one, but each so telling that together they brought out a new

painting,a painting steeped, as it were, in light. He worked with such passionate ardor that the sweat rolled

in great drops from his bald brow; and his motions seemed to be jerked out of him with such rapidity and

impatience that the young Poussin fancied a demon, encased with the body of this singular being, was

working his hands fantastically like those of a puppet without, or even against, the will of their owner. The

unnatural brightness of his eyes, the convulsive movements which seemed the result of some mental

resistance, gave to this fancy of the youth a semblance of truth which reacted upon his lively imagination.

"Paf! paf! paf! that is how we butter it on, young man. Ah! my little pats, you are right; warm up that icy

tone. Come, come!pon, pon, pon," he continued, touching up the spots where he had complained of a

lack of life, hiding under layers of color the conflicting methods, and regaining the unity of tone essential to

"Now see, my little friend, it is only the last touches of the brush that count for anything. Porbus put on a

hundred; I have only put on one or two. Nobody will thank us for what is underneath, remember that!"

At last the demon paused; the old man turned to Porbus and Poussin, who stood mute with admiration, and

"It is not yet equal to my Beautiful Nutgirl; still, one can put one's name to such a work. Yes, I will sign it,"

he added, rising to fetch a mirror in which to look at what he had done. "Now let us go and breakfast. Come,

both of you, to my house. I have some smoked ham and good wine. Hey! hey! in spite of the degenerate

times we will talk painting; we are strong ourselves. Here is a little man," he continued, striking Nicolas

Observing the shabby cap of the youth, he pulled from his belt a leathern purse from which he took two gold

"Take them," said Porbus to Poussin, seeing that the latter trembled and blushed with shame, for the young

scholar had the pride of poverty; "take them, he has the ransom of two kings in his pouch."

The three left the atelier and proceeded, talking all the way of art, to a handsome wooden house standing near

the Pont SaintMichel, whose windowcasings and arabesque decoration amazed Poussin. The embryo

painter soon found himself in one of the rooms on the ground floor seated, beside a good fire, at a table

covered with appetizing dishes, and, by unexpected good fortune, in company with two great artists who

"Young man," said Porbus, observing that he was speechless, with his eyes fixed on a picture, "do not look at

It was the Adam of Mabuse, painted by that wayward genius to enable him to get out of the prison where his

creditors had kept him so long. The figure presented such fulness and force of reality that Nicolas Poussin

began to comprehend the meaning of the bewildering talk of the old man. The latter looked at the picture with

a satisfied but not enthusiastic manner, which seemed to say, "I have done better myself."

"There is life in the form," he remarked. "My poor master surpassed himself there; but observe the want of

truth in the background. The man is living, certainly; he rises and is coming towards us; but the atmosphere,

the sky, the air that we breathe, see, feel,where are they? Besides, that is only a man; and the being who

came first from the hand of God must needs have had something divine about him which is lacking here.

Poussin looked alternately at the old man and at Porbus with uneasy curiosity. He turned to the latter as if to

ask the name of their host, but the painter laid a finger on his lips with an air of mystery, and the young man,

keenly interested, kept silence, hoping that sooner or later some word of the conversation might enable him to

guess the name of the old man, whose wealth and genius were sufficiently attested by the respect which

Porbus showed him, and by the marvels of art heaped together in the picturesque apartment.

Poussin, observing against the dark panelling of the wall a magnificent portrait of a woman, exclaimed aloud,

The old man smiled, as if long accustomed to such homage. "Maitre Frenhofer," said Porbus, "could you

"Two casks," answered the host; "one to pay for the pleasure of looking at your pretty sinner this morning,

"Ah! if I were not so feeble," resumed Porbus, "and if you would consent to let me see your Beautiful

Nutgirl, I too could paint some lofty picture, grand and yet profound, where the forms should have the

"Show my work!" exclaimed the old man, with deep emotion. "No, no! I have still to bring it to perfection.

Yesterday, towards evening, I thought it was finished. Her eyes were liquid, her flesh trembled, her tresses

wavedshe breathed! And yet, though I have grasped the secret of rendering on a flat canvas the relief and

roundness of nature, this morning at dawn I saw many errors. Ah! to attain that glorious result, I have studied

to their depths the masters of color. I have analyzed and lifted, layer by layer, the colors of Titian, king of

light. Like him, great sovereign of art, I have sketched my figure in light clear tones of supple yet solid color;

for shadow is but an accident, remember that, young man. Then I worked backward, as it were; and by

means of halftints, and glazings whose transparency I kept diminishing little by little, I was able to cast

strong shadows deepening almost to blackness. The shadows of ordinary painters are not of the same texture

as their tones of light. They are wood, brass, iron, anything you please except flesh in shadow. We feel that if

the figures changed position the shady places would not be wiped off, and would remain dark spots which

never could be made luminous. I have avoided that blunder, though many of our most illustrious painters

have fallen into it. In my work you will see whiteness beneath the opacity of the broadest shadow. Unlike the

crowd of ignoramuses, who fancy they draw correctly because they can paint one good vanishing line, I have

not dryly outlined my figures, nor brought out superstitiously minute anatomical details; for, let me tell you,

the human body does not end off with a line. In that respect sculptors get nearer to the truth of nature than we

do. Nature is all curves, each wrapping or overlapping another. To speak rigorously, there is no such thing as

drawing. Do not laugh, young man; no matter how strange that saying seems to you, you will understand the

reasons for it one of these days. A line is a means by which man explains to himself the effect of light upon a

given object; but there is no such thing as a line in nature, where all things are rounded and full. It is only in

modelling that we really draw,in other words, that we detach things from their surroundings and put them

in their due relief. The proper distribution of light can alone reveal the whole body. For this reason I do not

sharply define lineaments; I diffuse about their outline a haze of warm, light halftints, so that I defy any one

to place a finger on the exact spot where the parts join the groundwork of the picture. If seen near by this sort

of work has a woolly effect, and is wanting in nicety and precision; but go a few steps off and the parts fall

into place; they take their proper form and detach themselves, the body turns, the limbs stand out, we feel

"Nevertheless," he continued, sadly, "I am not satisfied; there are moments when I have my doubts. Perhaps

it would be better not to sketch a single line. I ask myself if I ought not to grasp the figure first by its highest

lights, and then work down to the darker portions. Is not that the method of the sun, divine painter of the

universe? O Nature, Nature! who has ever caught thee in thy flights? Alas! the heights of knowledge, like the

The old man paused, then resumed. "For ten years I have worked, young man; but what are ten short years in

the long struggle with Nature? We do not know the type it cost Pygmalion to make the only statue that ever

He fell into a reverie and remained, with fixed eyes, oblivious of all about him, playing mechanically with his

The words acted like a spell on Nicolas Poussin, filling him with the inexplicable curiosity of a true artist.

The strange old man, with his white eyes fixed in stupor, became to the wondering youth something more

than a man; he seemed a fantastic spirit inhabiting an unknown sphere, and waking by its touch confused

ideas within the soul. We can no more define the moral phenomena of this species of fascination than we can

render in words the emotions excited in the heart of an exile by a song which recalls his fatherland. The

contempt which the old man affected to pour upon the noblest efforts of art, his wealth, his manners, the

respectful deference shown to him by Porbus, his work guarded so secretly,a work of patient toil, a work

no doubt of genius, judging by the head of the Virgin which Poussin had so naively admired, and which,

beautiful beside even the Adam of Mabuse, betrayed the imperial touch of a great artist,in short,

everything about the strange old man seemed beyond the limits of human nature. The rich imagination of the

youth fastened upon the one perceptible and clear clew to the mystery of this supernatural being,the

presence of the artistic nature, that wild impassioned nature to which such mighty powers have been

confided, which too often abuses those powers, and drags cold reason and common souls, and even lovers of

art, over stony and arid places, where for such there is neither pleasure nor instruction; while to the artistic

soul itself,that whitewinged angel of sportive fancy,epics, works of art, and visions rise along the way.

It is a nature, an essence, mocking yet kind, fruitful though destitute. Thus, for the enthusiastic Poussin, the

old man became by sudden transfiguration Art itself,art with all its secrets, its transports, and its dreams.

"Yes, my dear Porbus," said Frenhofer, speaking half in reverie, "I have never yet beheld a perfect woman; a

body whose outlines were faultless and whose fleshtintsAh! where lives she?" he cried, interrupting his

own words; "where lives the lost Venus of the ancients, so long sought for, whose scattered beauty we snatch

by glimpses? Oh! to see for a moment, a single moment, the divine completed nature,the ideal,I would

give my all of fortune. Yes; I would search thee out, celestial Beauty! in thy farthest sphere. Like Orpheus, I

"Oh! the old dragon has guarded the entrance. His treasure is out of our reach. I have not waited for your

"Yes," answered Porbus. "Frenhofer was the only pupil Mabuse was willing to teach. He became the friend,

saviour, father of that unhappy man, and he sacrificed the greater part of his wealth to satisfy the mad

passions of his master. In return, Mabuse bequeathed to him the secret of relief, the power of giving life to

form,that flower of nature, our perpetual despair, which Mabuse had seized so well that once, having sold

and drunk the value of a flowered damask which he should have worn at the entrance of Charles V., he made

his appearance in a paper garment painted to resemble damask. The splendor of the stuff attracted the

attention of the emperor, who, wishing to compliment the old drunkard, laid a hand upon his shoulder and

discovered the deception. Frenhofer is a man carried away by the passion of his art; he sees above and

beyond what other painters see. He has meditated deeply on color and the absolute truth of lines; but by dint

of much research, much thought, much study, he has come to doubt the object for which he is searching. In

his hours of despair he fancies that drawing does not exist, and that lines can render nothing but geometric

figures. That, of course, is not true; because with a black line which has no color we can represent the human

form. This proves that our art is made up, like nature, of an infinite number of elements. Drawing gives the

skeleton, and color gives the life; but life without the skeleton is a far more incomplete thing than the

skeleton without the life. But there is a higher truth still,namely, that practice and observation are the

essentials of a painter; and that if reason and poesy persist in wrangling with the tools, the brushes, we shall

be brought to doubt, like Frenhofer, who is as much excited in brain as he is exalted in art. A sublime painter,

indeed; but he had the misfortune to be born rich, and that enables him to stray into theory and conjecture. Do

not imitate him. Work! work! painters should theorize with their brushes in their hands."

"We will contrive to get in," cried Poussin, not listening to Porbus, and thinking only of the hidden

Porbus smiled at the youth's enthusiasm, and bade him farewell with a kindly invitation to come and visit

Nicolas Poussin returned slowly towards the Rue de la Harpe and passed, without observing that he did so,

the modest hostelry where he was lodging. Returning presently upon his steps, he ran up the miserable

stairway with anxious rapidity until he reached an upper chamber nestling between the joists of a roof "en

colombage,"the plain, slight covering of the houses of old Paris. Near the single and gloomy window of

the room sat a young girl, who rose quickly as the door opened, with a gesture of love; she had recognized the

"It isit is," he cried, choking with joy, "that I feel myself a painter! I have doubted it till now; but today I

believe in myself. I can be a great man. Ah, Gillette, we shall be rich, happy! There is gold in these brushes!"

Suddenly he became silent. His grave and earnest face lost its expression of joy; he was comparing the

immensity of his hopes with the mediocrity of his means. The walls of the garret were covered with bits of

paper on which were crayon sketches; he possessed only four clean canvases. Colors were at that time costly,

and the poor gentleman gazed at a palette that was wellnigh bare. In the midst of this poverty he felt within

himself an indescribable wealth of heart and the superabundant force of consuming genius. Brought to Paris

by a gentleman of his acquaintance, and perhaps by the monition of his own talent, he had suddenly found a

mistress,one of those generous and noble souls who are ready to suffer by the side of a great man;

espousing his poverty, studying to comprehend his caprices, strong to bear deprivation and bestow love, as

others are daring in the display of luxury and in parading the insensibility of their hearts. The smile which

flickered on her lips brightened as with gold the darkness of the garret and rivalled the effulgence of the

skies; for the sun did not always shine in the heavens, but she was always here,calm and collected in her

passion, living in his happiness, his griefs; sustaining the genius which overflowed in love ere it found in art

The obedient, happy girl sprang lightly on the painter's knee. She was all grace and beauty, pretty as the

springtime, decked with the wealth of feminine charm, and lighting all with the fire of a noble soul.

"If you want me to pose as I did the other day," she said, with a little pouting air, "I will not do it. Your eyes

"Well," continued Poussin, in a grave tone, "if to make me a great painter it were necessary to pose to some

Poussin bent his head upon his breast like a man succumbing to joy or grief too great for his spirit to bear.

"Listen," she said, pulling him by the sleeve of his worn doublet, "I told you, Nick, that I would give my life

for you; but I never said never!that I, a living woman, would renounce my love."

"If I showed myself thus to another you would love me no longer; and I myself, I should feel unworthy of

your love. To obey your caprices, ah, that is simple and natural! in spite of myself, I am proud and happy in

"Forgive me, my own Gillette," said the painter, throwing himself at her feet. "I would rather be loved than

famous. To me thou art more precious than fortune and honors. Yes, away with these brushes! burn those

sketches! I have been mistaken. My vocation is to love thee, thee alone! I am not a painter, I am thy lover.

She looked at him admiringly, happy and captivated by his passion. She reigned; she felt instinctively that the

"Yet he is only an old man," resumed Poussin. "In you he would see only a woman. You are the perfect

"Love should grant all things!" she exclaimed, ready to sacrifice love's scruples to reward the lover who thus

seemed to sacrifice his art to her. "And yet," she added, "it would be my ruin. Ah, to suffer for thy good! Yes,

it is glorious! But thou wilt forget me. How came this cruel thought into thy mind?"

"It came there, and yet I love thee," he said, with a sort of contrition. "Am I, then, a wretch?"

"Well, I will go; but thou must not be present," she said. "Stay at the door, armed with thy dagger. If I cry

She regretted her promise. But before long she fell a prey to an anguish far more cruel than her regret; and

she struggled vainly to drive forth a terrible fear which forced its way into her mind. She felt that she loved

him less as the suspicion rose in her heart that he was less worthy than she had thought him.

Three months after the first meeting of Porbus and Poussin, the former went to see Maitre Frenhofer. He

found the old man a prey to one of those deep, selfdeveloped discouragements, whose cause, if we are to

believe the mathematicians of health, lies in a bad digestion, in the wind, in the weather, in some swelling of

the intestines, or else, according to casuists, in the imperfections of our moral nature; the fact being that the

good man was simply worn out by the effort to complete his mysterious picture. He was seated languidly in a

large oaken chair of vast dimensions covered with black leather; and without changing his melancholy

attitude he cast on Porbus the distant glance of a man sunk in absolute dejection.

"Well, maitre," said Porbus, "was the distant ultramarine, for which you journeyed to Brussels, worthless?

"Alas!" cried the old man, "I thought for one moment that my work was accomplished; but I must have

deceived myself in some of the details. I shall have no peace until I clear up my doubts. I am about to travel; I

go to Turkey, Asia, Greece, in search of models. I must compare my picture with various types of Nature. It

may be that I have up THERE," he added, letting a smile of satisfaction flicker on his lip, "Nature herself. At

times I am half afraid that a brush may wake this woman, and that she will disappear from sight."

He rose suddenly, as if to depart at once. "Wait," exclaimed Porbus. "I have come in time to spare you the

"Young Poussin is beloved by a woman whose incomparable beauty is without imperfection. But, my dear

master, if he consents to lend her to you, at least you must let us see your picture."

The old man remained standing, motionless, in a state bordering on stupefaction. "What!" he at last

exclaimed, mournfully. "Show my creature, my spouse?tear off the veil with which I have chastely hidden

my joy? It would be prostitution! For ten years I have lived with this woman; she is mine, mine alone! she

loves me! Has she not smiled upon me as, touch by touch, I painted her? She has a soul,the soul with

which I endowed her. She would blush if other eyes than mine beheld her. Let her be seen?where is the

husband, the lover, so debased as to lend his wife to dishonor? When you paint a picture for the court you do

not put your whole soul into it; you sell to courtiers your trickedout layfigures. My painting is not a

picture; it is a sentiment, a passion! Born in my atelier, she must remain a virgin there. She shall not leave it

unclothed. Poesy and women give themselves bare, like truth, to lovers only. Have we the model of Raphael,

the Angelica of Ariosto, the Beatrice of Dante? No, we see but their semblance. Well, the work which I keep

hidden behind bolts and bars is an exception to all other art. It is not a canvas; it is a woman,a woman with

whom I weep and laugh and think and talk. Would you have me resign the joy of ten years, as I might throw

away a worn out doublet? Shall I, in a moment, cease to be father, lover, creator? this woman is not a

creature; she is my creation. Bring your young man; I will give him my treasures,paintings of Correggio,

Michael Angelo, Titian; I will kiss the print of his feet in the dust,but make him my rival? Shame upon

me! Ha! I am more a lover than I am a painter. I shall have the strength to burn my Nutgirl ere I render my

last sigh; but suffer her to endure the glance of a man, a young man, a painter?No, no! I would kill on the

morrow the man who polluted her with a look! I would kill you,you, my friend,if you did not worship

her on your knees; and think you I would submit my idol to the cold eyes and stupid criticisms of fools? Ah,

love is a mystery! its life is in the depths of the soul; it dies when a man says, even to his friend, Here is she

The old man seemed to renew his youth; his eyes had the brilliancy and fire of life, his pale cheeks blushed a

vivid red, his hands trembled. Porbus, amazed by the passionate violence with which he uttered these words,

knew not how to answer a feeling so novel and yet so profound. Was the old man under the thraldom of an

artist's fancy? Or did these ideas flow from the unspeakable fanaticism produced at times in every mind by

the long gestation of a noble work? Was it possible to bargain with this strange and whimsical being?

Filled with such thoughts, Porbus said to the old man, "Is it not woman for woman? Poussin lends his

"What sort of mistress is that?" cried Frenhofer. "She will betray him sooner or later. Mine will be to me

"Well," returned Porbus, "then let us say no more. But before you find, even in Asia, a woman as beautiful, as

perfect, as the one I speak of, you may be dead, and your picture forever unfinished."

"Oh, it is finished!" said Frenhofer. "Whoever sees it will find a woman lying on a velvet bed, beneath

curtains; perfumes are exhaling from a golden tripod by her side: he will be tempted to take the tassels of the

cord that holds back the curtain; he will think he sees the bosom of Catherine Lescaut,a model called the

Beautiful Nut girl; he will see it rise and fall with the movement of her breathing. YetI wish I could be

"Go to Asia, then," said Porbus hastily, fancying he saw some hesitation in the old man's eye.

Porbus made a few steps towards the door of the room. At this moment Gillette and Nicolas Poussin reached

the entrance of the house. As the young girl was about to enter, she dropped the arm of her lover and shrank

back as if overcome by a presentiment. "What am I doing here?" she said to Poussin, in a deep voice, looking

"Gillette, I leave you mistress of your actions; I will obey your will. You are my conscience, my glory. Come

"Have I a self when you speak thus to me? Oh, no! I am but a child. Come," she continued, seeming to make

a violent effort. "If our love perishes, if I put into my heart a long regret, thy fame shall be the guerdon of my

obedience to thy will. Let us enter. I may yet live again,a memory on thy palette."

Opening the door of the house the two lovers met Porbus coming out. Astonished at the beauty of the young

girl, whose eyes were still wet with tears, he caught her all trembling by the hand and led her to the old

Frenhofer quivered. Gillette stood before him in the ingenuous, simple attitude of a young Georgian, innocent

and timid, captured by brigands and offered to a slavemerchant. A modest blush suffused her cheeks, her

eyes were lowered, her hands hung at her sides, strength seemed to abandon her, and her tears protested

against the violence done to her purity. Poussin cursed himself, and repented of his folly in bringing this

treasure from their peaceful garret. Once more he became a lover rather than an artist; scruples convulsed his

heart as he saw the eye of the old painter regain its youth and, with the artist's habit, disrobe as it were the

beauteous form of the young girl. He was seized with the jealous frenzy of a true lover.

At this cry, with its accent of love, his mistress raised her eyes joyfully and looked at him; then she ran into

Though she had had strength to hide her suffering, she had none to hide her joy.

"Let me have her for one moment," exclaimed the old master, "and you shall compare her with my Catherine.

There was love in the cry of Frenhofer as in that of Poussin, mingled with jealous coquetry on behalf of his

semblance of a woman; he seemed to revel in the triumph which the beauty of his virgin was about to win

"Do not let him retract," cried Porbus, striking Poussin on the shoulder. "The fruits of love wither in a day;

"Can it be," said Gillette, looking steadily at Poussin and at Porbus, "that I am nothing more than a woman to

She raised her head proudly; and as she glanced at Frenhofer with flashing eyes she saw her lover gazing

"Old man!" said Poussin, roused from his meditation by Gillette's voice, "see this sword. I will plunge it into

your heart at the first cry of that young girl. I will set fire to your house, and no one shall escape from it. Do

His look was gloomy and the tones of his voice were terrible. His attitude, and above all the gesture with

which he laid his hand upon the weapon, comforted the poor girl, who half forgave him for thus sacrificing

Porbus and Poussin remained outside the closed door of the atelier, looking at one another in silence. At first

the painter of the Egyptian Mary uttered a few exclamations: "Ah, she unclothes herself!" "He tells her to

stand in the light!""He compares them!" but he grew silent as he watched the mournful face of the young

man; for though old painters have none of such petty scruples in presence of their art, yet they admire them in

others, when they are fresh and pleasing. The young man held his hand on his sword, and his ear seemed

glued to the panel of the door. Both men, standing darkly in the shadow, looked like conspirators waiting the

"Come in! come in!" cried the old man, beaming with happiness. "My work is perfect; I can show it now with

pride. Never shall painter, brushes, colors, canvas, light, produce the rival of Catherine Lescaut, the Beautiful

Porbus and Poussin, seized with wild curiosity, rushed into the middle of a vast atelier filled with dust, where

everything lay in disorder, and where they saw a few paintings hanging here and there upon the walls. They

stopped before the figure of a woman, lifesized and half nude, which filled them with eager admiration.

"Do not look at that," said Frenhofer, "it is only a daub which I made to study a pose; it is worth nothing.

Those are my errors," he added, waving his hand towards the enchanting compositions on the walls around

At these words Porbus and Poussin, amazed at the disdain which the master showed for such marvels of art,

"There it is!" said the old man, whose hair fell in disorder about his face, which was scarlet with supernatural

excitement. His eyes sparkled, and his breast heaved like that of a young man beside himself with love.

"Ah!" he cried, "did you not expect such perfection? You stand before a woman, and you are looking for a

picture! There are such depths on that canvas, the air within it is so true, that you are unable to distinguish it

from the air you breathe. Where is art? Departed, vanished! Here is the form itself of a young girl. Have I not

caught the color, the very life of the line which seems to terminate the body? The same phenomenon which

we notice around fishes in the water is also about objects which float in air. See how these outlines spring

forth from the background. Do you not feel that you could pass your hand behind those shoulders? For seven

years have I studied these effects of light coupled with form. That hair,is it not bathed in light? Why, she

breathes! That bosom,see! Ah! who would not worship it on bended knee? The flesh palpitates! Wait, she

The two painters drew back, leaving the old man absorbed in ecstasy, and tried to see if the light, falling

plumb upon the canvas at which he pointed, had neutralized all effects. They examined the picture, moving

from right to left, standing directly before it, bending, swaying, rising by turns.

"Yes, yes; it is really a canvas," cried Frenhofer, mistaking the purpose of their examination. "See, here is the

frame, the easel; these are my colors, my brushes." And he caught up a brush which he held out to them with

"The old rogue is making game of us," said Poussin, coming close to the pretended picture. "I can see nothing

here but a mass of confused color, crossed by a multitude of eccentric lines, making a sort of painted wall."

Coming nearer, they perceived in a corner of the canvas the point of a naked foot, which came forth from the

chaos of colors, tones, shadows hazy and undefined, misty and without form,an enchanting foot, a living

foot. They stood lost in admiration before this glorious fragment breaking forth from the incredible, slow,

progressive destruction around it. The foot seemed to them like the torso of some Grecian Venus, brought to

"There is a woman beneath it all!" cried Porbus, calling Poussin's attention to the layers of color which the

old painter had successively laid on, believing that he thus brought his work to perfection. The two men

turned towards him with one accord, beginning to comprehend, though vaguely, the ecstasy in which he

"Yes, my friend," answered the old man, rousing from his abstraction, "we need faith; faith in art. We must

live with our work for years before we can produce a creation like that. Some of these shadows have cost me

endless toil. See, there on her cheek, below the eyes, a faint halfshadow; if you observed it in Nature you

might think it could hardly be rendered. Well, believe me, I took unheardof pains to reproduce that effect.

My dear Porbus, look attentively at my work, and you will comprehend what I have told you about the

manner of treating form and outline. Look at the light on the bosom, and see how by a series of touches and

higher lights firmly laid on I have managed to grasp light itself, and combine it with the dazzling whiteness of

the clearer tones; and then see how, by an opposite method,smoothing off the sharp contrasts and the

texture of the color,I have been able, by caressing the outline of my figure and veiling it with cloudy

halftints, to do away with the very idea of drawing and all other artificial means, and give to the form the

aspect and roundness of Nature itself. Come nearer, and you will see the work more distinctly; if too far off it

disappears. See! there, at that point, it is, I think, most remarkable." And with the end of his brush he pointed

Porbus struck the old man on the shoulder, turning to Poussin as he did so, and said, "Do you know that he is

"There," returned Porbus, touching the canvas, "is the ultimate end of our art on earth."

The absorbed old man gave no heed to their words; he was smiling at his visionary woman.

"But sooner or later, he will perceive that there is nothing there," cried Poussin.

"Nothing there!upon my canvas?" said Frenhofer, looking first at the two painters, and then at his

The old man seized the arm of the young man violently, and said to him, "You see nothing?clown, infidel,

scoundrel, dolt! Why did you come here? My good Porbus," he added, turning to his friend, "is it possible

that you, too, are jesting with me? Answer; I am your friend. Tell me, can it be that I have spoiled my

Porbus hesitated, and feared to speak; but the anxiety painted on the white face of the old man was so cruel

"Am I then a fool, an idiot? Have I neither talent nor capacity? Am I no better than a rich man who walks,

He gazed at the canvas through tears. Suddenly he raised himself proudly and flung a lightning glance upon

"By the blood, by the body, by the head of Christ, you are envious men who seek to make me think she is

spoiled, that you may steal her from me. II see her!" he cried. "She is wondrously beautiful!"

At this moment Poussin heard the weeping of Gillette as she stood, forgotten, in a corner.

"What troubles thee, my darling?" asked the painter, becoming once more a lover.

"Kill me!" she answered. "I should be infamous if I still loved thee, for I despise thee. I admire thee; but thou

While Poussin listened to Gillette, Frenhofer drew a green curtain before his Catherine, with the grave

composure of a jeweller locking his drawers when he thinks that thieves are near him. He cast at the two

painters a look which was profoundly dissimulating, full of contempt and suspicion; then, with convulsive

haste, he silently pushed them through the door of his atelier. When they reached the threshold of his house

On the morrow Porbus, alarmed, went again to visit Frenhofer, and found that he had died during the night,