巴尔扎克《无名的杰作》（英译本）

    （卡尔维诺《未来千年文学备忘录》中曾提到这篇小说。这里的应该是定稿的英译本，译者不详。电子文本来自ProjectGutenberg，原网址为http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/23060

    http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/23060）

    http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/23060

    http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/23060）

    THEUNKNOWNMASTERPIECE

    ByHonoréDeBalzac

    TOALORD

    1845

    I——GILLETTE

    OnacoldDecembermorningintheyear1612,ayoungman,whoseclothingwassomewhatofthethinnest,waswalkingtoandfrobeforeagatewayintheRuedesGrands-AugustinsinParis.Hewentupanddownthestreetbeforethishousewiththeirresolutionofagallantwhodaresnotventureintothepresenceofthemistresswhomhelovesforthefirsttime,easyofaccessthoughshemaybe;butafterasufficientlylongintervalofhesitation,heatlastcrossedthethresholdandinquiredofanoldwoman,whowassweepingoutalargeroomonthegroundfloor,whetherMasterPorbuswaswithin.Receivingareplyintheaffirmative,theyoungmanwentslowlyupthestaircase,likeagentlemanbutnewlycometocourt,anddoubtfulastohisreceptionbytheking.Hecametoastandoncemoreonthelandingattheheadofthestairs,andagainhehesitatedbeforeraisinghishandtothegrotesqueknockeronthedoorofthestudio,wheredoubtlessthepainterwasatwork——MasterPorbus,sometimepainterinordinarytoHenriIVtillMarydeMedicitookRubensintofavor.

    Theyoungmanfeltdeeplystirredbyanemotionthatmustthrilltheheartsofallgreatartistswhen,intheprideoftheiryouthandtheirfirstloveofart,theycomeintothepresenceofamasterorstandbeforeamasterpiece.Forallhumansentimentsthereisatimeofearlyblossoming,adayofgenerousenthusiasmthatgraduallyfadesuntilnothingisleftofhappinessbutamemory,andgloryisknownforadelusion.Ofallthesedelicateandshort-livedemotions,nonesoresembleloveasthepassionofayoungartistforhisart,asheisabouttoenterontheblissfulmartyrdomofhiscareerofgloryanddisaster,ofvagueexpectationsandrealdisappointments.

    Thosewhohavemissedthisexperienceintheearlydaysoflightpurses;whohavenot,inthedawnoftheirgenius,stoodinthepresenceofamasterandfeltthethrobbingoftheirhearts,willalwayscarryintheirinmostsoulsachordthathasneverbeentouched,andintheirworkanindefinablequalitywillbelacking,asomethinginthestrokeofthebrush,amysteriouselementthatwecallpoetry.Theswaggerers,sopuffedupbyself-conceitthattheyareconfidentover-soonoftheirsuccess,canneverbetakenformenoftalentsavebyfools.Fromthispointofview,ifyouthfulmodestyisthemeasureofyouthfulgenius,thestrangeronthestaircasemightbeallowedtohavesomethinginhim;forheseemedtopossesstheindescribablediffidence,theearlytimiditythatartistsareboundtoloseinthecourseofagreatcareer,evenasprettywomenloseitastheymakeprogressintheartsofcoquetry.Self-distrustvanishesastriumphsucceedstotriumph,andmodestyis,perhaps,distrustofitself.

    Thepoorneophytewassoovercomebytheconsciousnessofhisownpresumptionandinsignificance,thatitbegantolookasifhewashardlylikelytopenetrateintothestudioofthepainter,towhomweowethewonderfulportraitofHenriIV.Butfatewaspropitious;anoldmancameupthestaircase.Fromthequaintcostumeofthisnewcomer,hiscollarofmagnificentlace,andacertainserenegravityinhisbearing,thefirstarrivalthoughtthatthispersonagemustbeeitherapatronorafriendofthecourtpainter.Hestoodasidethereforeuponthelandingtoallowthevisitortopass,scrutinizinghimcuriouslythewhile.Perhapshemighthopetofindthegoodnatureofanartistortoreceivethegoodofficesofanamateurnotunfriendlytothearts;butbesidesanalmostdiabolicalexpressioninthefacethatmethisgaze,therewasthatindescribablesomethingwhichhasanirresistibleattractionforartists.

    Picturethatface.Abaldhighforeheadandruggedjuttingbrowsaboveasmallflatnoseturnedupattheend,asintheportraitsofSocratesandRabelais;deeplinesaboutthemockingmouth;ashortchin,carriedproudly,coveredwithagrizzledpointedbeard;sea-greeneyesthatagemightseemtohavedimmedwereitnotforthecontrastbetweentheirisandthesurroundingmother-of-pearltints,sothatitseemedasifunderthestressofangerorenthusiasmtherewouldbeamagneticpowertoquellorkindleintheirglances.Thefacewaswitheredbeyondwontbythefatigueofyears,yetitseemedagedstillmorebythethoughtsthathadwornawaybothsoulandbody.Therewerenolashestothedeep-seteyes,andscarcelyatraceofthearchinglinesoftheeyebrowsabovethem.Setthisheadonaspareandfeebleframe,placeitinaframeoflacewroughtlikeanengravedsilverfish-slice,imagineaheavygoldchainovertheoldmansblackdoublet,andyouwillhavesomedimideaofthisstrangepersonage,whoseemedstillmorefantasticinthesombretwilightofthestaircase.OneofRembrandtsportraitsmighthavesteppeddownfromitsframetowalkinanappropriateatmosphereofgloom,suchasthegreatpainterloved.Theoldermangavetheyoungerashrewdglance,andknockedthriceatthedoor.Itwasopenedbyamanoffortyorthereabout,whoseemedtobeaninvalid.

    "Goodday,Master."

    Porbusbowedrespectfully,andheldthedooropenfortheyoungermantoenter,thinkingthatthelatteraccompaniedhisvisitor;andwhenhesawthattheneophytestoodawhileasifspellbound,feeling,aseveryartist-naturemustfeel,thefascinatinginfluenceofthefirstsightofastudioinwhichthematerialprocessesofartarerevealed,Porbustroubledhimselfnomoreaboutthissecondcomer.

    Allthelightinthestudiocamefromawindowintheroof,andwasconcentrateduponaneasel,whereacanvasstooduntouchedasyetsaveforthreeorfouroutlinesinchalk.Thedaylightscarcelyreachedtheremoteranglesandcornersofthevastroom;theywereasdarkasnight,butthesilverornamentedbreastplateofaReiterscorselet,thathunguponthewall,attractedastraygleamtoitsdimabiding-placeamongthebrownshadows;orashaftoflightshotacrossthecarvedandglisteningsurfaceofanantiquesideboardcoveredwithcurioussilver-plate,orstruckoutalineofglitteringdotsamongtheraisedthreadsofthegoldenwarpofsomeoldbrocadedcurtains,wherethelinesofthestiff,heavyfoldswerebroken,asthestuffhadbeenflungcarelesslydowntoserveasamodel.

    Plaster_écorchés_stoodabouttheroom;andhereandthere,onshelvesandtables,layfragmentsofclassicalsculpture-torsosofantiquegoddesses,wornsmoothasthoughalltheyearsofthecenturiesthathadpassedoverthemhadbeenloverskisses.Thewallswerecovered,fromfloortoceiling,withcountlesssketchesincharcoal,redchalk,orpenandink.Amidthelitterandconfusionofcolorboxes,overturnedstools,flasksofoil,andessences,therewasjustroomtomovesoastoreachtheilluminatedcircularspacewheretheeaselstood.ThelightfromthewindowintherooffellfulluponPor-busspalefaceandontheivory-tintedforeheadofhisstrangevisitor.Butinanothermomenttheyoungermanheedednothingbutapicturethathadalreadybecomefamouseveninthosestormydaysofpoliticalandreligiousrevolution,apicturethatafewofthezealousworshipers,whohavesooftenkeptthesacredfireofartaliveinevildays,werewonttogoonpilgrimagetosee.ThebeautifulpanelrepresentedaSaintMaryofEgyptabouttopayherpassageacrosstheseas.ItwasamasterpiecedestinedforMarydeMedici,whosolditinlateryearsofpoverty.

    "Ilikeyoursaint,"theoldmanremarked,addressingPorbus."IwouldgiveyoutengoldencrownsforheroverandabovethepricetheQueenispaying;butasforputtingaspokeinthatwheel,——thedeviltakeit!"

    "Itisgoodthen?"

    "Hey!hey!"saidtheoldman;"good,sayyou?——Yesandno.Yourgoodwomanisnotbadlydone,butsheisnotalive.Youartistsfancythatwhenafigureiscorrectlydrawn,andeverythinginitsplaceaccordingtotherulesofanatomy,thereisnothingmoretobedone.Youmakeupthefleshtintsbeforehandonyourpalettesaccordingtoyourformulae,andfillintheoutlineswithduecarethatonesideofthefaceshallbedarkerthantheother;andbecauseyoulookfromtimetotimeatanakedwomanwhostandsontheplatformbeforeyou,youfondlyimaginethatyouhavecopiednature,thinkyourselvestobepainters,believethatyouhavewrestedHissecretfromGod.Pshaw!Youmayknowyoursyntaxthoroughlyandmakenoblundersinyourgrammar,butittakesthatandsomethingmoretomakeagreatpoet.Lookatyoursaint,Porbus!Atafirstglancesheisadmirable;lookatheragain,andyouseeatoncethatsheisgluedtothebackground,andthatyoucouldnotwalkroundher.Sheisasilhouettethatturnsbutonesideofherfacetoallbeholders,afigurecutoutofcanvas,animagewithnopowertomovenorchangeherposition.Ifeelasiftherewerenoairbetweenthatarmandthebackground,nospace,nosenseofdistanceinyourcanvas.Theperspectiveisperfectlycorrect,thestrengthofthecoloringisaccuratelydiminishedwiththedistance;but,inspiteofthesepraiseworthyefforts,Icouldneverbringmyselftobelievethatthewarmbreathoflifecomesandgoesinthatbeautifulbody.ItseemstomethatifIlaidmyhandonthefirm,roundedthroat,itwouldbecoldasmarbletothetouch.No,myfriend,theblooddoesnotflowbeneaththativoryskin,thetideoflifedoesnotflushthosedelicatefibres,thepurpleveinsthattraceanetworkbeneaththetransparentamberofherbrowandbreast.Herethepulseseemstobeat,thereitismotionless,lifeanddeathareatstrifeineverydetail;hereyouseeawoman,thereastatue,thereagainacorpse.Yourcreationisincomplete.Youhadonlypowertobreatheaportionofyoursoulintoyourbelovedwork.ThefireofPrometheusdiedoutagainandagaininyourhands;manyaspotinyourpicturehasnotbeentouchedbythedivineflame."

    "Buthowisit,dearmaster?"Porbusaskedrespectfully,whiletheyoungmanwithdifficultyrepressedhisstrongdesiretobeatthecritic.

    "Ah!"saidtheoldman,"itisthis!Youhavehaltedbetweentwomanners.Youhavehesitatedbetweendrawingandcolor,betweenthedoggedattentiontodetail,thestiffprecisionoftheGermanmastersandthedazzlingglow,thejoyousexuberanceofItalianpainters.YouhavesetyourselftoimitateHansHolbeinandTitian,AlbrechtDurerandPaulVeroneseinasinglepicture.Amagnificentambitiontruly,butwhathascomeofit?YourworkhasneithertheseverecharmofadryexecutionnorthemagicalillusionofItalian_chiaroscuro_.TitiansrichgoldencoloringpouredintoAlbrechtDurerasaustereoutlineshasshatteredthem,likemoltenbronzeburstingthroughthemoldthatisnotstrongenoughtoholdit.Inotherplacestheoutlineshaveheldfirm,imprisoningandobscuringthemagnificent,glowingfloodofVenetiancolor.Thedrawingofthefaceisnotperfect,thecoloringisnotperfect;tracesofthatunluckyindecisionaretobeseeneverywhere.Unlessyoufeltstrongenoughtofusethetwoopposedmannersinthefireofyourowngenius,youshouldhavecastinyourlotboldlywiththeoneortheother,andsohaveobtainedtheunitywhichsimulatesoneoftheconditionsoflifeitself.Yourworkisonlytrueinthecentres;youroutlinesarefalse,theyprojectnothing,thereisnohintofanythingbehindthem.Thereistruthhere,"saidtheoldman,pointingtothebreastoftheSaint,"andagainhere,"hewenton,indicatingtheroundedshoulder."Butthere,"oncemorereturningtothecolumnofthethroat,"everythingisfalse.Letusgonofurtherintodetail,youwouldbedisheartened."

    Theoldmansatdownonastool,andremainedawhilewithoutspeaking,withhisfaceburiedinhishands.

    "YetIstudiedthatthroatfromthelife,dearmaster,"Porbusbegan;"ithappenssometimes,forourmisfortune,thatrealeffectsinnaturelookimprobablewhentransferredtocanvas——"

    "Theaimofartisnottocopynature,buttoexpressit.Youarenotaservilecopyist,butapoet!"criedtheoldmansharply,cuttingPorbusshortwithanimperiousgesture."Otherwiseasculptormightmakeaplastercastofalivingwomanandsavehimselfallfurthertrouble.Well,trytomakeacastofyourmistressshand,andsetupthethingbeforeyou.Youwillseeamonstrosity,adeadmass,bearingnoresemblancetothelivinghand;youwouldbecompelledtohaverecoursetothechiselofasculptorwho,withoutmakinganexactcopy,wouldrepresentforyouitsmovementanditslife.Wemustdetectthespirit,theinformingsoulintheappearancesofthingsandbeings.Effects!Whatareeffectsbuttheaccidentsoflife,notlifeitself?Ahand,sinceIhavetakenthatexample,isnotonlyapartofabody,itistheexpressionandextensionofathoughtthatmustbegraspedandrendered.Neitherpainternorpoetnorsculptormayseparatetheeffectfromthecause,whichareinevitablycontainedtheoneintheother.Therebeginstherealstruggle!Manyapainterachievessuccessinstinctively,unconsciousofthetaskthatissetbeforeart.Youdrawawoman,yetyoudonotseeher!NotsodoyousucceedinwrestingNaturessecretsfromher!Youarereproducingmechanicallythemodelthatyoucopiedinyourmastersstudio.Youdonotpenetratefarenoughintotheinmostsecretsofthemysteryofform;youdonotseekwithloveenoughandperseveranceenoughaftertheformthatbafflesandeludesyou.Beautyisathingsevereandunapproachable,nevertobewonbyalanguidlover.Youmustlieinwaitforhercomingandtakeherunawares,pressherhardandclaspherinatightembrace,andforcehertoyield.FormisaProteusmoreintangibleandmoremanifoldthantheProteusofthelegend;compelled,onlyafterlongwrestling,tostandforthmanifestinhistrueaspect.Someofyouaresatisfiedwiththefirstshape,oratmostbythesecondorthethirdthatappears.Notthuswrestlethevictors,theunvanquishedpainterswhoneversufferthemselvestobedeludedbyallthosetreacherousshadow-shapes;theyperseveretillNatureatthelaststandsbaretotheirgaze,andherverysoulisrevealed.

    "InthismannerworkedRafael,"saidtheoldman,takingoffhiscaptoexpresshisreverencefortheKingofArt."Histranscendentgreatnesscameoftheintimatesensethat,inhim,seemsasifitwouldshatterexternalform.Forminhisfigures(aswithus)isasymbol,ameansofcommunicatingsensations,ideas,thevastimaginingsofapoet.Everyfaceisawholeworld.Thesubjectoftheportraitappearedforhimbathedinthelightofadivinevision;itwasrevealedbyaninnervoice,thefingerofGodlaidbarethesourcesofexpressioninthepastofawholelife.

    "Youclotheyourwomeninfairraimentofflesh,ingraciousveilingofhair;butwhereistheblood,thesourceofpassionandofcalm,thecauseoftheparticulareffect?Why,thisbrownEgyptianofyours,mygoodPorbus,isacolorlesscreature!Thesefiguresthatyousetbeforeusarepaintedbloodlessfantoms;andyoucallthatpainting,youcallthatart!

    "Becauseyouhavemadesomethingmorelikeawomanthanahouse,youthinkthatyouhavesetyourfingersonthegoal;youarequiteproudthatyouneednottowrite_currusvenustus_or_pulcherhomo_besideyourfigures,asearlypainterswerewonttodoandyoufancythatyouhavedonewonders.Ah!mygoodfriend,thereisstillsomethingmoretolearn,andyouwilluseupagreatdealofchalkandcovermanyacanvasbeforeyouwilllearnit.Yes,truly,awomancarriesherheadinjustsuchaway,sosheholdshergarmentsgatheredintoherhand;hereyesgrowdreamyandsoftwiththatexpressionofmeeksweetness,andevensothequiveringshadowofthelasheshoversuponhercheeks.Itisallthere,andyetitisnotthere.Whatislacking?Anothing,butthatnothingiseverything.

    "Thereyouhavethesemblanceoflife,butyoudonotexpressitsfulnessandeffluence,thatindescribablesomething,perhapsthesoulitself,thatenvelopestheoutlinesofthebodylikeahaze;thatfloweroflife,inshort,thatTitianandRafaelcaught.Yourutmostachievementhithertohasonlybroughtyoutothestarting-point.Youmightnowperhapsbegintodoexcellentwork,butyougrowwearyalltoosoon;andthecrowdadmires,andthosewhoknowsmile.

    "Oh,Mabuse!oh,mymaster!"criedthestrangespeaker,"thouartathief!Thouhastcarriedawaythesecretoflifewiththee!"

    "Nevertheless,"hebeganagain,"thispictureofyoursisworthmorethanallthepaintingsofthatrascalRubens,withhismountainsofFlemishfleshraddledwithvermilion,historrentsofredhair,hisriotofcolor.You,atleasthavecolorthere,andfeelinganddrawing——thethreeessentialsinart."

    Theyoungmanrousedhimselffromhisdeepmusings.

    "Why,mygoodman,theSaintissublime!"hecried."Thereisasubtletyofimaginationaboutthosetwofigures,theSaintMaryandtheShipman,thatcannotbefoundamongItalianmasters;IdonotknowasingleoneofthemcapableofimaginingtheShipmanshesitation."

    "Didthatlittlemalapertcomewithyou?"askedPorbusoftheolderman.

    "Alas!master,pardonmyboldness,"criedtheneophyte,andthecolormountedtohisface."Iamunknown——adauberbyinstinct,andbutlatelycometothiscity——thefountain-headofalllearning."

    "Settowork,"saidPorbus,handinghimabitofredchalkandasheetofpaper.

    Thenew-comerquicklysketchedtheSaintMarylineforline.

    "Aha!"exclaimedtheoldman."Yourname?"headded.

    Theyoungmanwrote"NicolasPoussin"belowthesketch.

    "Notbadthatforabeginning,"saidthestrangespeaker,whohaddiscoursedsowildly."Iseethatwecantalkofartinyourpresence.IdonotblameyouforadmiringPorbusssaint.Intheeyesoftheworldsheisamasterpiece,andthosealonewhohavebeeninitiatedintotheinmostmysteriesofartcandiscoverhershortcomings.Butitisworthwhiletogiveyouthelesson,foryouareabletounderstandit,soIwillshowyouhowlittleitneedstocompletethispicture.Youmustbealleyes,allattention,foritmaybethatsuchachanceoflearningwillnevercomeinyourwayagain——Porbus!yourpalette."

    Porbuswentinsearchofpaletteandbrushes.Thelittleoldmanturnedbackhissleeveswithimpatientenergy,seizedthepalette,coveredwithmanyhues,thatPorbushandedtohim,andsnatchedratherthantookahandfulofbrushesofvarioussizesfromthehandsofhisacquaintance.Hispointedbeardsuddenlybristled——amenacingmovementthatexpressedtheprickofaloversfancy.Asheloadedhisbrush,hemutteredbetweenhisteeth,"Thesepaintsareonlyfittoflingoutofthewindow,togetherwiththefellowwhogroundthem,theircrudenessandfalsenessaredisgusting!Howcanonepaintwiththis?"

    Hedippedthetipofthebrushwithfeverisheagernessinthedifferentpigments,makingthecircuitofthepaletteseveraltimesmorequicklythantheorganistofacathedralsweepstheoctavesonthekeyboardofhisclavierforthe"OFilii"atEaster.

    PorbusandPoussin,oneithersideoftheeasel,stoodstock-still,watchingwithintenseinterest.

    "Look,youngman,"hebeganagain,"seehowthreeorfourstrokesofthebrushandathinglazeofblueletinthefreeairtoplayabouttheheadofthepoorSaint,whomusthavefeltstifledandoppressedbythecloseatmosphere!Seehowthedraperybeginstoflutter;youfeelthatitisliftedbythebreeze!Amomentagoithungasheavilyandstifflyasifitwereheldoutbypins.DoyouseehowthesatinsheenthatIhavejustgiventothebreastrendsthepliant,silkensoftnessofayounggirlsskin,andhowthebrown-red,blendedwithburntochre,bringswarmthintothecoldgrayofthedeepshadowwherethebloodlaycongealedinsteadofcoursingthroughtheveins?Youngman,youngman,nomastercouldteachyouhowtodothisthatIamdoingbeforeyoureyes.Mabusealonepossessedthesecretofgivinglifetohisfigures;Mabusehadbutonepupil——thatwasI.Ihavehadnone,andIamold.YouhavesufficientintelligencetoimaginetherestfromtheglimpsesthatIamgivingyou."

    Whiletheoldmanwasspeaking,hegaveatouchhereandthere;sometimestwostrokesofthebrush,sometimesasingleone;buteverystroketoldsowell,thatthewholepictureseemedtransfigured——thepaintingwasfloodedwithlight.Heworkedwithsuchpassionatefervorthatbeadsofsweatgathereduponhisbareforehead;heworkedsoquickly,inbrief,impatientjerks,thatitseemedtoyoungPoussinasifsomefamiliarspiritinhabitingthebodyofthisstrangebeingtookagrotesquepleasureinmakinguseofthemanshandsagainsthisownwill.Theunearthlyglitterofhiseyes,theconvulsivemovementsthatseemedlikestruggles,gavetothisfancyasemblanceoftruthwhichcouldnotbutstirayoungimagination.Theoldmancontinued,sayingashedidso——

    "Paf!paf!thatishowtolayiton,youngman!——Littletouches!comeandbringaglowintothoseicycoldtonesforme!Justso!Pon!pon!pon!"andthosepartsofthepicturethathehadpointedoutascoldandlifelessflushedwithwarmerhues,afewboldstrokesofcolorbroughtallthetonesofthepictureintotherequiredharmonywiththeglowingtintsoftheEgyptian,andthedifferencesintemperamentvanished.

    "Lookyou,youngster,thelasttouchesmakethepicture.Porbushasgivenitahundredstrokesforeveryoneofmine.Noonethanksusforwhatliesbeneath.Bearthatinmind."

    Atlasttherestlessspiritstopped,andturningtoPorbusandPoussin,whowerespeechlesswithadmiration,hespoke——

    "ThisisnotasgoodasmyBelleNoiseuse;stillonemightputonesnametosuchathingasthis——Yes,Iwouldputmynametoit,"headded,risingtoreachforamirror,inwhichhelookedatthepicture——"Andnow,"hesaid,"willyoubothcomeandbreakfastwithme?Ihaveasmokedhamandsomeveryfairwine!Eh!eh!thetimesmaybebad,butwecanstillhavesometalkaboutart!WecantalklikeequalsHereisalittlefellowwhohasaptitude,"headded,layingahandonNicolasPoussinsshoulder.

    InthiswaythestrangerbecameawareofthethreadbareconditionoftheNormansdoublet.Hedrewaleatherpursefromhisgirdle,feltinit,foundtwogoldcoins,andheldthemout.

    "Iwillbuyyoursketch,"hesaid.

    "Takeit,"saidPorbus,ashesawtheotherstartandflushwithembarrassment,forPoussinhadtheprideofpoverty."Pray,takeit;hehasacoupleofkingsransomsinhispouch!"

    Thethreecamedowntogetherfromthestudio,and,talkingofartbytheway,reachedapicturesquewoodenhousehardbythePontSaint-Michel.Poussinwonderedamomentatitsornament,attheknocker,attheframesofthecasements,atthescroll-workdesigns,andinthenexthestoodinavastlow-ceiledroom.Atable,coveredwithtemptingdishes,stoodneartheblazingfire,and(luckunhopedfor)hewasinthecompanyoftwogreatartistsfullofgenialgoodhumor.

    "Donotlooktoolongatthatcanvas,youngman,"saidPorbus,whenhesawthatPoussinwasstanding,struckwithwonder,beforeapainting."Youwouldfallavictimtodespair."

    Itwasthe"Adam"paintedbyMabusetopurchasehisreleasefromtheprison,wherehiscreditorshadsolongkepthim.And,asamatteroffact,thefigurestoodoutsoboldlyandconvincingly,thatNicolasPoussinbegantounderstandtherealmeaningofthewordspouredoutbytheoldartist,whowashimselflookingatthepicturewithapparentsatisfaction,butwithoutenthusiasm."Ihavedonebetterthanthat!"heseemedtobesayingtohimself.

    "Thereislifeinit,"hesaidaloud;"inthatrespectmypoormasterheresurpassedhimself,butthereissomelackoftruthinthebackground.Themanlivesindeed;heisrising,andwillcometowardus;buttheatmosphere,thesky,theair,thebreathofthebreeze——youlookandfeelforthem,buttheyarenotthere.Andthenthemanhimselfis,afterall,onlyaman!Ah!buttheonemanintheworldwhocamedirectfromthehandsofGodmusthavehadasomethingdivineabouthimthatiswantinghere.Mabusehimselfwouldgrindhisteethandsaysowhenhewasnotdrunk."

    PoussinlookedfromthespeakertoPorbus,andfromPorbustothespeaker,withrestlesscuriosity.Hewentuptothelattertoaskforthenameoftheirhost;butthepainterlaidafingeronhislipswithanairofmystery.Theyoungmansinterestwasexcited;hekeptsilence,buthopedthatsoonerorlatersomewordmightbeletfallthatwouldrevealthenameofhisentertainer.Itwasevidentthathewasamanoftalentandverywealthy,forPorbuslistenedtohimrespectfully,andthevastroomwascrowdedwithmarvelsofart.

    Amagnificentportraitofawoman,hungagainstthedarkoakpanelsofthewall,nextcaughtPoussinsattention.

    "WhatagloriousGiorgione!"hecried.

    "No,"saidhishost,"itisanearlydaubofmine——"

    "Gramercy!Iamintheabodeofthegodofpainting,itseems!"criedPoussiningenuously.

    Theoldmansmiledasifhehadlonggrownfamiliarwithsuchpraise.

    "MasterFrenhofer!"saidPorbus,"doyouthinkyoucouldsparemealittleofyourcapitalRhinewine?"

    "Acoupleofpipes!"answeredhishost;"onetodischargeadebt,forthepleasureofseeingyourprettysinner,theotherasapresentfromafriend."

    "Ah!ifIhadmyhealth,"returnedPorbus,"andifyouwouldbutletmeseeyourBelleNoiseuse,Iwouldpaintsomegreatpicture,withbreadthinitanddepth;thefiguresshouldbelife-size."

    "Letyouseemywork!"criedthepainterinagitation."No,no!itisnotperfectyet;somethingstillremainsformetodo.Yesterday,inthedusk,"hesaid,"IthoughtIhadreachedtheend.Hereyesseemedmoist,thefleshquivered,somethingstirredthetressesofherhair.Shebreathed!ButthoughIhavesucceededinreproducingNaturesroundnessandreliefontheflatsurfaceofthecanvas,thismorning,bydaylight,Ifoundoutmymistake.Ah!toachievethatgloriousresultIhavestudiedtheworksofthegreatmastersofcolor,strippingoffcoataftercoatofcolorfromTitianscanvas,analyzingthepigmentsofthekingoflight.Likethatsovereignpainter,Ibeganthefaceinaslighttonewithasuppleandfatpaste——forshadowisbutanaccident;bearthatinmind,youngster!——ThenIbeganafresh,andbyhalf-tonesandthinglazesofcolorlessandlesstransparent,Igraduallydeepenedthetintstothedeepestblackofthestrongestshadows.Anordinarypaintermakeshisshadowssomethingentirelydifferentinnaturefromthehighlights;theyarewoodorbrass,orwhatyouwill,anythingbutfleshinshadow.Youfeelthatevenifthosefiguresweretoaltertheirposition,thoseshadowstainswouldneverbecleansedaway,thosepartsofthepicturewouldneverglowwithlight.

    "Ihaveescapedonemistake,intowhichthemostfamouspaintershavesometimesfallen;inmycanvasthewhitenessshinesthroughthedensestandmostpersistentshadow.Ihavenotmarkedoutthelimitsofmyfigureinhard,dryoutlines,andbroughteveryleastanatomicaldetailintoprominence(likeahostofdunces,whofancythattheycandrawbecausetheycantracealineelaboratelysmoothandclean),forthehumanbodyisnotcontainedwithinthelimitsofline.Inthisthesculptorcanapproachthetruthmorenearlythanwepainters.Natureswayisacomplicatedsuccessionofcurvewithincurve.Strictlyspeaking,thereisnosuchthingasdrawing——Donotlaugh,youngman;strangeasthatspeechmayseemtoyou,youwillunderstandthetruthinitsomeday——Alineisamethodofexpressingtheeffectoflightuponanobject;buttherearenolinesinNature,everythingissolid.Wedrawbymodeling,thatistosay,thatwedisengageanobjectfromitssetting;thedistributionofthelightalonegivestoabodytheappearancebywhichweknowit.SoIhavenotdefinedtheoutlines;Ihavesuffusedthemwithahazeofhalf-tintswarmorgolden,insuchasortthatyoucannotlayyourfingerontheexactspotwherebackgroundandcontoursmeet.Seenfromnear,thepicturelooksablur;itseemstolackdefinition;butstepbacktwopaces,andthewholethingbecomesclear,distinct,andsolid;thebodystandsout;theroundedformcomesintorelief;youfeelthattheairplaysroundit.Andyet——Iamnotsatisfied;Ihavemisgivings.Perhapsoneoughtnottodrawasingleline;perhapsitwouldbebettertoattackthefacefromthecentre,takingthehighestprominencesfirst,proceedingfromthemthroughthewholerangeofshadowstotheheaviestofall.Isnotthisthemethodofthesun,thedivinepainteroftheworld?Oh,Nature,Nature!whohassurprisedthee,fugitive?But,afterall,toomuchknowledge,likeignorance,bringsyoutoanegation.Ihavedoubtsaboutmywork."

    Therewasapause.Thentheoldmanspokeagain."Ihavebeenatworkuponitfortenyears,youngman;butwhataretenshortyearsinastrugglewithNature?DoweknowhowlongSirPygmalionwroughtattheonestatuethatcametolife?"Theoldmanfellintodeepmusings,andgazedbeforehimwithunseeingeyes,whileheplayedunheedinglywithhisknife.

    "Look,heisinconversationwithhis_domon!_"murmuredPorbus.

    Attheword,NicolasPoussinfelthimselfcarriedawaybyanunaccountableaccessionofartistscuriosity.Forhimtheoldman,atonceintentandinert,theseerwiththeunseeingeyes,becamesomethingmorethanaman——afantasticspiritlivinginamysteriousworld,andcountlessvaguethoughtsawokewithinhissoul.Theeffectofthisspeciesoffascinationuponhismindcannomorebedescribedinwordsthanthepassionatelongingawakenedinanexilesheartbythesongthatrecallshishome.Hethoughtofthescornthattheoldmanaffectedtodisplayforthenoblesteffortsofart,ofhiswealth,hismanners,ofthedeferencepaidtohimbyPorbus.Themysteriouspicture,theworkofpatienceonwhichhehadwroughtsolonginsecret,wasdoubtlessaworkofgenius,fortheheadoftheVirginwhichyoungPoussinhadadmiredsofranklywasbeautifulevenbesideMabuses"Adam"——therewasnomistakingtheimperialmannerofoneoftheprincesofart.Everythingcombinedtosettheoldmanbeyondthelimitsofhumannature.

    OutofthewealthoffanciesinNicolasPoussinsbrainanideagrew,andgatheredshapeandclearness.Hesawinthissupernaturalbeingacompletetypeoftheartistnature,anaturemockingandkindly,barrenandprolific,anerraticspiritintrustedwithgreatandmanifoldpowerswhichshetoooftenabuses,leadingsoberreason,thePhilistine,andsometimeseventheamateurforthintoastonywildernesswheretheyseenothing;butthewhite-wingedmaidenherself,wildasherfanciesmaybe,findsepicsthereandcastlesandworksofart.ForPoussin,theenthusiast,theoldman,wassuddenlytransfigured,andbecameArtincarnate,Artwithitsmysteries,itsvehementpassionanditsdreams.

    "Yes,mydearPorbus,"Frenhofercontinued,"hithertoIhaveneverfoundaflawlessmodel,abodywithoutlinesofperfectbeauty,thecarnations——Ah!wheredoesshelive?"hecried,breakinginuponhimself,"theundiscoverableVenusoftheoldertime,forwhomwehavesoughtsooften,onlytofindthescatteredgleamsofherbeautyhereandthere?Oh!tobeholdonceandforonemoment,Naturegrownperfectanddivine,theIdealatlast,IwouldgiveallthatIpossessNay,Beautydivine,Iwouldgotoseektheeinthedimlandofthedead;likeOrpheus,IwouldgodownintotheHadesofArttobringbackthelifeofartfromamongtheshadowsofdeath."

    "Wecangonow,"saidPorbustoPoussin."Heneitherhearsnorseesusanylonger."

    "Letusgotohisstudio,"saidyoungPoussin,wonderinggreatly.

    "Oh!theoldfoxtakescarethatnooneshallenterit.Histreasuresaresocarefullyguardedthatitisimpossibleforustocomeatthem.Ihavenotwaitedforyoursuggestionandyourfancytoattempttolayhandsonthismysterybyforce."

    "Sothereisamystery?""Yes,"answeredPorbus."OldFrenhoferistheonlypupilMabusewouldtake.Frenhoferbecamethepaintersfriend,deliverer,andfather;hesacrificedthegreaterpartofhisfortunetoenableMabusetoindulgeinriotousextravagance,andinreturnMabusebequeathedtohimthesecretofrelief,thepowerofgivingtohisfiguresthewonderfullife,theflowerofNature,theeternaldespairofart,thesecretwhichMa-buseknewsowellthatonedaywhenhehadsoldthefloweredbrocadesuitinwhichheshouldhaveappearedattheEntryofCharlesV,heaccompaniedhismasterinasuitofpaperpaintedtoresemblethebrocade.ThepeculiarrichnessandsplendorofthestuffstrucktheEmperor;hecomplimentedtheolddrunkardspatronontheartistsappearance,andsothetrickwasbroughttolight.Frenhoferisapassionateenthusiast,whoseesaboveandbeyondotherpainters.Hehasmeditatedprofoundlyoncolor,andtheabsolutetruthofline;butbythewayofmuchresearchhehascometodoubttheveryexistenceoftheobjectsofhissearch.Hesays,inmomentsofdespondency,thatthereisnosuchthingasdrawing,andthatbymeansoflineswecanonlyreproducegeometricalfigures;butthatisovershootingthemark,forbyoutlineandshadowyoucanreproduceformwithoutanycoloratall,whichshowsthatourart,likeNature,iscomposedofaninfinitenumberofelements.Drawinggivesyoutheskeleton,theanatomicalframe-work,andcolorputsthelifeintoit;butlifewithouttheskeletonisevenmoreincompletethanaskeletonwithoutlife.Butthereissomethingelsetruerstill,anditisthis——forpainters,practiseandobservationareeverything;andwhentheoriesandpoeticalideasbegintoquarrelwiththebrushes,theendisdoubt,ashashappenedwithourgoodfriend,whoishalfcrack-brainedenthusiast,halfpainter.Asublimepainter!butunluckyforhim,hewasborntoriches,andsohehasleisuretofollowhisfancies.Donotyoufollowhisexample!Work!paintershavenobusinesstothink,exceptbrushinhand."

    "Wewillfindawayintohisstudio!"criedPoussinconfidently.HehadceasedtoheedPorbussremarks.Theothersmiledattheyoungpaintersenthusiasm,askedhimtocometoseehimagain,andtheyparted.NicolasPoussinwentslowlybacktotheRuedelaHarpe,andpassedthemodesthostelrywherehewaslodgingwithoutnoticingit.Afeelingofuneasinesspromptedhimtohurryupthecrazystaircasetillhereachedaroomatthetop,aquaint,airyrecessunderthesteep,high-pitchedroofcommonamonghousesinoldParis.Intheonedingywindowoftheplacesatayounggirl,whosprangupatoncewhensheheardsomeoneatthedoor;itwasthepromptingoflove;shehadrecognizedthepainterstouchonthelatch.

    "Whatisthematterwithyou?"sheasked.

    "ThematterisisOh!IhavefeltthatIamapainter!Untilto-dayIhavehaddoubts,butnowIbelieveinmyself!Thereisthemakingofagreatmaninme!Nevermind,Gillette,weshallberichandhappy!Thereisgoldatthetipsofthosebrushes——"

    Hebrokeoffsuddenly.Thejoyfadedfromhispowerfulandearnestfaceashecomparedhisvasthopeswithhisslenderresources.Thewallswerecoveredwithsketchesinchalkonsheetsofcommonpaper.Therewerebutfourcanvasesintheroom.Colorswereverycostly,andtheyoungpainterspalettewasalmostbare.Yetinthemidstofhispovertyhepossessedandwasconsciousofthepossessionofinexhaustibletreasuresoftheheart,ofadevouringgeniusequaltoallthetasksthatlaybeforehim.

    HehadbeenbroughttoParisbyanoblemanamonghisfriends,orperchancebytheconsciousnessofhispowers;andinParishehadfoundamistress,oneofthosenobleandgeneroussoulswhochoosetosufferbyagreatmansside,whosharehisstrugglesandstrivetounderstandhisfancies,acceptingtheirlotofpovertyandloveasbravelyanddauntlesslyasotherwomenwillsetthemselvestobeartheburdenofrichesandmakeaparadeoftheirinsensibility.ThesmilethatstoleoverGilletteslipsfilledthegarretwithgoldenlight,andrivaledthebrightnessofthesuninheaven.Thesun,moreover,doesnotalwaysshineinheaven,whereasGillettewasalwaysinthegarret,absorbedinherpassion,occupiedbyPoussinshappinessandsorrow,consolingthegeniuswhichfoundanoutletinlovebeforeartengrossedit.

    "Listen,Gillette.Comehere."

    Thegirlobeyedjoyously,andspranguponthepaintersknee.Herswasperfectgraceandbeauty,andthelovelinessofspring;shewasadornedwithallluxuriantfairnessofoutwardform,lightedupbytheglowofafairsoulwithin.

    "Oh!God,"hecried;"Ishallneverdaretotellher——"

    "Asecret?"shecried;"Imustknowit!"

    Poussinwasabsorbedinhisdreams.

    "Dotellitme!"

    "Gillettepoorbelovedheart!"

    "Oh!doyouwantsomethingofme?"

    "Yes."

    "IfyouwishmetositoncemoreforyouasIdidtheotherday,"shecontinuedwithplayfulpetulance,"Iwillneverconsenttodosuchathingagain,foryoureyessaynothingallthewhile.Youdonotthinkofmeatall,andyetyoulookatme——"

    "Wouldyouratherhavemedrawanotherwoman?"

    "Perhaps——ifshewereveryugly,"shesaid.

    "Well,"saidPoussingravely,"andif,forthesakeofmyfametocome,iftomakemeagreatpainter,youmustsittosomeoneelse?"

    "Youmaytryme,"shesaid;"youknowquitewellthatIwouldnot."

    Poussinsheadsankonherbreast;heseemedtobeoverpoweredbysomeintolerablejoyorsorrow.

    "Listen,"shecried,pluckingatthesleeveofPoussinsthreadbaredoublet,"Itoldyou,Nick,thatIwouldlaydownmylifeforyou;butIneverpromisedyouthatIinmylifetimewouldlaydownmylove."

    "Yourlove?"criedtheyoungartist.

    "IfIshowedmyselfthustoanother,youwouldlovemenolonger,andIshouldfeelmyselfunworthyofyou.Obediencetoyourfancieswasanaturalandsimplething,wasitnot?Evenagainstmyownwill,Iamgladandevenproudtodothydearwill.Butforanother,outuponit!"

    "Forgiveme,myGillette,"saidthepainter,fallinguponhisknees;"Iwouldratherbebelovedthanfamous.Youarefairerthansuccessandhonors.There,flingthepencilsaway,andburnthesesketches!Ihavemadeamistake.Iwasmeanttoloveandnottopaint.Perishartandallitssecrets!"

    Gillettelookedadmiringlyathim,inanecstasyofhappiness!Shewastriumphant;shefeltinstinctivelythatartwaslaidasideforhersake,andflunglikeagrainofincenseatherfeet.

    "Yetheisonlyanoldman,"Poussincontinued;"forhimyouwouldbeawoman,andnothingmore.You——soperfect!"

    "Imustloveyouindeed!"shecried,readytosacrificeevenlovesscruplestotheloverwhohadgivenupsomuchforhersake;"butIshouldbringaboutmyownruin.Ah!toruinmyself,toloseeverythingforyou!Itisaverygloriousthought!Ah!butyouwillforgetme.OhIwhatevilthoughtisthisthathascometoyou?"

    "Iloveyou,andyetIthoughtofit,"hesaid,withsomethinglikeremorse,"AmIsobaseawretch?"

    "LetusconsultPèreHardouin,"shesaid.

    "No,no!Letitbeasecretbetweenus."

    "Verywell;Iwilldoit.Butyoumustnotbethere,"shesaid."Stayatthedoorwithyourdaggerinyourhand;andifIcall,rushinandkillthepainter."

    Poussinforgoteverythingbutart.HeheldGillettetightlyinhisarms.

    "Helovesmenolonger!"thoughtGillettewhenshewasalone.Sherepentedofherresolutionalready.

    Buttothesemisgivingstheresoonsucceededasharperpain,andshestrovetobanishahideousthoughtthataroseinherownheart.Itseemedtoherthatherownlovehadgrownlessalready,withavaguesuspicionthatthepainterhadfallensomewhatinhereyes.

    II——CATHERINELESCAULT

    ThreemonthsafterPoussinandPorbusmet,thelatterwenttoseeMasterFrenhofer.Theoldmanhadfallenavictimtooneofthoseprofoundandspontaneousfitsofdiscouragementthatarecaused,accordingtomedicallogicians,byindigestion,flatulence,fever,orenlargementofthespleen;or,ifyoutaketheopinionoftheSpiritualists,bytheimperfectionsofourmortalnature.Thegoodmanhadsimplyoverworkedhimselfinputtingthefinishingtouchestohismysteriouspicture.Hewaslounginginahugecarvedoakchair,coveredwithblackleather,anddidnotchangehislistlessattitude,butglancedatPorbuslikeamanwhohassettleddownintolowspirits.

    "Well,master,"saidPorbus,"wastheultramarinebadthatyousentfortoBruges?Isthenewwhitedifficulttogrind?Istheoilpoor,orarethebrushesrecalcitrant?"

    "Alas!"criedtheoldman,"foramomentIthoughtthatmyworkwasfinished,butIamsurethatIammistakenincertaindetails,andIcannotrestuntilIhaveclearedmydoubts.Iamthinkingoftraveling.IamgoingtoTurkey,toGreece,toAsia,inquestofamodel,soastocomparemypicturewiththedifferentlivingformsofNature.Perhaps,"andasmileofcontentmentstoleoverhisface,"perhapsIhaveNatureherselfupthere.AttimesIamhalfafraidthatabreathmaywakenher,andthatshewillescapeme."

    Herosetohisfeetasiftosetoutatonce.

    "Aha!"saidPorbus,"Ihavecomejustintimetosaveyouthetroubleandexpenseofajourney."

    "What?"askedFrenhoferinamazement.

    "YoungPoussinislovedbyawomanofincomparableandflawlessbeauty.But,dearmaster,ifheconsentstolendhertoyou,attheleastyououghttoletusseeyourwork."

    Theoldmanstoodmotionlessandcompletelydazed.

    "What!"hecriedpiteouslyatlast,"showyoumycreation,mybride?Rendtheveilthathaskeptmyhappinesssacred?Itwouldbeaninfamousprofanation.FortenyearsIhavelivedwithher;sheismine,minealone;shelovesme.Hasshenotsmiledatme,ateachstrokeofthebrushuponthecanvas?Shehasasoul——thesoulthatIhavegivenher.Shewouldblushifanyeyesbutmineshouldrestonher.Toexhibither!Whereisthehusband,theloversovileastobringthewomanhelovestodishonor?Whenyoupaintapictureforthecourt,youdonotputyourwholesoulintoit;tocourtiersyouselllayfiguresdulycolored.Mypaintingisnopainting,itisasentiment,apassion.Shewasborninmystudio,thereshemustdwellinmaidensolitude,andonlywhencladcansheissuethence.PoetryandwomenonlylaythelastveilasidefortheirloversHaveweRafaelsmodel,AriostosAngelica,DantesBeatrice?Nay,onlytheirformandsemblance.Butthispicture,lockedawayaboveinmystudio,isanexceptioninourart.Itisnotacanvas,itisawoman——awomanwithwhomItalk.Ishareherthoughts,hertears,herlaughter.Wouldyouhavemeflingasidethesetenyearsofhappinesslikeacloak?Wouldyouhavemeceaseatoncetobefather,lover,andcreator?Sheisnotacreature,butacreation.

    "Bringyouryoungpainterhere.Iwillgivehimmytreasures;IwillgivehimpicturesbyCorreggioandMichelangeloandTitian;Iwillkisshisfootprintsinthedust;butmakehimmyrival!Shameonme.Ah!ah!Iamaloverfirst,andthenapainter.Yes,withmylatestsighIcouldfindstrengthtoburnmyBelleNoiseuse;but——compelhertoendurethegazeofastranger,ayoungmanandapainter!——Ah!no,no!Iwouldkillhimonthemorrowwhoshouldsullyherwithaglance!Nay,you,myfriend,Iwouldkillyouwithmyownhandsinamomentifyoudidnotkneelinreverencebeforeher!Now,willyouhavemesubmitmyidoltothecarelesseyesandsenselesscriticismsoffools?Ah!loveisamystery;itcanonlylivehiddeninthedepthsoftheheart.Yousay,eventoyourfriend,BeholdherwhomIlove,andthereisanendoflove."

    Theoldmanseemedtohavegrownyoungagain;therewaslightandlifeinhiseyes,andafaintflushofredinhispaleface.Hishandsshook.PorbuswassoamazedbythepassionatevehemenceofFrenhoferswordsthatheknewnotwhattoreplytothisutteranceofanemotionasstrangeasitwasprofound.WasFrenhofersaneormad?Hadhefallenavictimtosomefreakoftheartistsfancy?orweretheseideasofhisproducedbythestrangelightheadednesswhichcomesoverusduringthelongtravailofaworkofart.Woulditbepossibletocometotermswiththissingularpassion?

    Harassedbyallthesedoubts,Porbusspoke——"Isitnotwomanforwoman?"hesaid."DoesnotPoussinsubmithismistresstoyourgaze?"

    "Whatisshe?"retortedtheother."Amistresswhowillbefalsetohimsoonerorlater.Minewillbefaithfultomeforever."

    "Well,well,"saidPorbus,"letussaynomoreaboutit.Butyoumaydiebeforeyouwillfindsuchaflawlessbeautyashers,eveninAsia,andthenyourpicturewillbeleftunfinished.

    "Oh!itisfinished,"saidFrenhofer."Standingbeforeityouwouldthinkthatitwasalivingwomanlyingonthevelvetcouchbeneaththeshadowofthecurtains.Perfumesareburningonagoldentripodbyherside.Youwouldbetemptedtolayyourhanduponthetasselofthecordthatholdsbackthecurtains;itwouldseemtoyouthatyousawherbreastriseandfallasshebreathed;thatyoubeheldthelivingCatherineLescault,thebeautifulcourtezanwhommencalledLaBelleNoiseuse.Andyet——ifIcouldbutbesure——"

    "ThengotoAsia,"returnedPorbus,noticingacertainindecisioninFrenhofersface.AndwiththatPorbusmadeafewstepstowardthedoor.BythattimeGilletteandNicolasPoussinhadreachedFrenhofershouse.Thegirldrewawayherarmfromherloversasshestoodonthethreshold,andshrankbackasifsomepresentimentflashedthroughhermind.

    "Oh!whathaveIcometodohere?"sheaskedofherloverinlowvibratingtones,withhereyesfixedonhis.

    "Gillette,Ihaveleftyoutodecide;Iamreadytoobeyyouineverything.Youaremyconscienceandmyglory.Gohomeagain;Ishallbehappier,perhaps,ifyoudonot——"

    "AmImyownwhenyouspeaktomelikethat?No,no;Iamachild——Come,"sheadded,seeminglywithaviolenteffort;"ifourlovedies,ifIplantalongregretinmyheart,yourfamewillbetherewardofmyobediencetoyourwishes,willitnot?Letusgoin.Ishallstillliveonasamemoryonyourpalette;thatshallbelifeformeafterward."

    Thedooropened,andthetwoloversencounteredPorbus,whowassurprisedbythebeautyofGillette,whoseeyeswerefulloftears.Hehurriedher,tremblingfromheadtofoot,intothepresenceoftheoldpainter.

    "Here!"hecried,"isshenotworthallthemasterpiecesintheworld!"

    Frenhofertrembled.TherestoodGilletteintheartlessandchildlikeattitudeofsometimidandinnocentGeorgian,carriedoffbybrigands,andconfrontedwithaslavemerchant.Ashamefacedredflushedherface,hereyesdrooped,herhandshungbyherside,herstrengthseemedtohavefailedher,hertearsprotestedagainstthisoutrage.Poussincursedhimselfindespairthatheshouldhavebroughthisfairtreasurefromitshiding-place.Theloverovercametheartist,andcountlessdoubtsassailedPoussinsheartwhenhesawyouthdawnintheoldmanseyes,as,likeapainter,hediscernedeverylineoftheformhiddenbeneaththeyounggirlsvesture.Thentheloverssavagejealousyawoke.

    "Gillette!"hecried,"letusgo."

    Thegirlturnedjoyouslyatthecryandthetoneinwhichitwasuttered,raisedhereyestohis,lookedathim,andfledtohisarms.

    "Ah!thenyouloveme,"shecried;"youloveme!"andsheburstintotears.

    Shehadspiritenoughtosufferinsilence,butshehadnostrengthtohideherjoy.

    "Oh!leaveherwithmeforonemoment,"saidtheoldpainter,"andyoushallcompareherwithmyCatherineyes——Iconsent."

    Frenhoferswordslikewisecamefromhimlikealoverscry.Hisvanityseemedtobeengagedforhissemblanceofwomanhood;heanticipatedthetriumphofthebeautyofhisowncreationoverthebeautyofthelivinggirl.

    "Donotgivehimtimetochangehismind!"criedPorbus,strikingPoussinontheshoulder."Thefloweroflovesoonfades,buttheflowerofartisimmortal."

    "ThenamIonlyawomannowforhim?"saidGillette.ShewaswatchingPoussinandPorbusclosely.

    Sheraisedherheadproudly;sheglancedatFrenhofer,andhereyesflashed;thenasshesawhowherloverhadfallenagaintogazingattheportraitwhichhehadtakenatfirstforaGiorgione——

    "Ah!"shecried;"letusgouptothestudio.Henevergavemesuchalook."

    ThesoundofhervoicerecalledPoussinfromhisdreams.

    "Oldman,"hesaid,"doyouseethisblade?Iwillplungeitintoyourheartatthefirstcryfromthisyounggirl;Iwillsetfiretoyourhouse,andnooneshallleaveitalive.Doyouunderstand?"

    NicolasPoussinscowled;everywordwasamenace.Gillettetookcomfortfromtheyoungpaintersbearing,andyetmorefromthatgesture,andalmostforgavehimforsacrificinghertohisartandhisgloriousfuture.

    PorbusandPoussinstoodatthedoorofthestudioandlookedateachotherinsilence.AtfirstthepainteroftheSaintMaryofEgypthazardedsomeexclamations:"Ah!shehastakenoffherclothes;hetoldhertocomeintothelight——heiscomparingthetwo!"butthesightofthedeepdistressinPoussinsfacesuddenlysilencedhim;andthougholdpaintersnolongerfeelthesescruples,sopettyinthepresenceofart,headmiredthembecausetheyweresonaturalandgraciousinthelover.Theyoungmankepthishandonthehiltofhisdagger,andhisearwasalmostgluedtothedoor.Thetwomenstandingintheshadowmighthavebeenconspiratorswaitingforthehourwhentheymightstrikedownatyrant.

    "Comein,comein,"criedtheoldman.Hewasradiantwithdelight."Myworkisperfect.Icanshowhernowwithpride.Nevershallpainter,brushes,colors,light,andcanvasproducearivalforCatherineLescault,thebeautifulcourtezan!"

    PorbusandPoussin,burningwitheagercuriosity,hurriedintoavaststudio.Everythingwasindisorderandcoveredwithdust,buttheysawafewpictureshereandthereuponthewall.Theystoppedfirstofallinadmirationbeforethelife-sizefigureofawomanpartiallydraped.

    "Oh!nevermindthat,"saidFrenhofer;"thatisaroughdaubthatImade,astudy,apose,itisnothing.Thesearemyfailures,"hewenton,indicatingtheenchantingcompositionsuponthewallsofthestudio.

    ThisscornforsuchworksofartstruckPorbusandPoussindumbwithamazement.Theylookedroundforthepictureofwhichhehadspoken,andcouldnotdiscoverit.

    "Lookhere!"saidtheoldman.Hishairwasdisordered,hisfaceaglowwithamorethanhumanexaltation,hiseyesglittered,hebreathedhardlikeayoungloverfrenziedbylove.

    "Aha!"hecried,"youdidnotexpecttoseesuchperfection!Youarelookingforapicture,andyouseeawomanbeforeyou.Thereissuchdepthinthatcanvas,theatmosphereissotruethatyoucannotdistinguishitfromtheairthatsurroundsus.Whereisart?Arthasvanished,itisinvisible!Itistheformofalivinggirlthatyouseebeforeyou.HaveInotcaughttheveryhuesoflife,thespiritofthelivinglinethatdefinesthefigure?Istherenottheeffectproducedtherelikethatwhichallnaturalobjectspresentintheatmosphereaboutthem,orfishesinthewater?Doyouseehowthefigurestandsoutagainstthebackground?Doesitnotseemtoyouthatyoupassyourhandalongtheback?ButthenforsevenyearsIstudiedandwatchedhowthedaylightblendswiththeobjectsonwhichitfalls.Andthehair,thelightpoursoveritlikeaflood,doesitnot?Ah!shebreathed,Iamsurethatshebreathed!Herbreast——ah,see!Whowouldnotfallonhiskneesbeforeher?Herpulsesthrob.Shewillrisetoherfeet.Wait!"

    "Doyouseeanything?"PoussinaskedofPorbus.

    "Nodoyou?"

    "Iseenothing."

    Thetwopainterslefttheoldmantohisecstasy,andtriedtoascertainwhetherthelightthatfellfulluponthecanvashadinsomewayneutralizedalltheeffectforthem.Theymovedtotherightandleftofthepicture;theycameinfront,bendingdownandstandinguprightbyturns.

    "Yes,yes,itisreallycanvas,"saidFrenhofer,whomistookthenatureofthisminuteinvestigation.

    "Look!thecanvasisonastretcher,hereistheeasel;indeed,herearemycolors,mybrushes,"andhetookupabrushandhelditouttothem,allunsuspiciousoftheirthought.

    "Theold_lansquenet_islaughingatus,"saidPoussin,comingoncemoretowardthesupposedpicture."Icanseenothingtherebutconfusedmassesofcolorandamultitudeoffantasticallinesthatgotomakeadeadwallofpaint."

    "Wearemistaken,look!"saidPorbus.

    Inacornerofthecanvas,astheycamenearer,theydistinguishedabarefootemergingfromthechaosofcolor,half-tintsandvagueshadowsthatmadeupadim,formlessfog.Itslivingdelicatebeautyheldthemspellbound.Thisfragmentthathadescapedanincomprehensible,slow,andgradualdestructionseemedtothemliketheParianmarbletorsoofsomeVenusemergingfromtheashesofaruinedtown.

    "Thereisawomanbeneath,"exclaimedPorbus,callingPoussinsattentiontothecoatsofpaintwithwhichtheoldartisthadoverlaidandconcealedhisworkinthequestofperfection.

    BothartiststurnedinvoluntarilytoFrenhofer.Theybegantohavesomeunderstanding,vaguethoughitwas,oftheecstasyinwhichhelived.

    "Hebelievesitinallgoodfaith,"saidPorbus.

    "Yes,myfriend,"saidtheoldman,rousinghimselffromhisdreams,"itneedsfaith,faithinart,andyoumustliveforlongwithyourworktoproducesuchacreation.Whattoilsomeofthoseshadowshavecostme.Look!thereisafaintshadowthereuponthecheekbeneaththeeyes——ifyousawthatonahumanface,itwouldseemtoyouthatyoucouldneverrenderitwithpaint.Doyouthinkthatthateffecthasnotcostunheardoftoil?

    "Butnotonlyso,dearPorbus.Lookcloselyatmywork,andyouwillunderstandmoreclearlywhatIwassayingastomethodsofmodelingandoutline.Lookatthehighlightsonthebosom,andseehowbytouchontouch,thicklylaidon,Ihaveraisedthesurfacesothatitcatchesthelightitselfandblendsitwiththelustrouswhitenessofthehighlights,andhowbyanoppositeprocess,byflatteningthesurfaceofthepaint,andleavingnotraceofthepassageofthebrush,Ihavesucceededinsofteningthecontoursofmyfiguresandenvelopingtheminhalf-tintsuntiltheveryideaofdrawing,ofthemeansbywhichtheeffectisproduced,fadesaway,andthepicturehastheroundnessandreliefofnature.Comecloser.Youwillseethemannerofworkingbetter;atalittledistanceitcannotbeseen.ThereIJustthere,itis,Ithink,veryplainlytobeseen,"andwiththetipofhisbrushhepointedoutapatchoftransparentcolortothetwopainters.

    Porbus,layingahandontheoldartistsshoulder,turnedtoPoussinwitha"Doyouknowthatinhimweseeaverygreatpainter?"

    "Heisevenmoreofapoetthanapainter,"Poussinansweredgravely.

    "There,"Porbuscontinued,ashetouchedthecanvas,"Usetheutmostlimitofourartonearth."

    "Beyondthatpointitlosesitselfintheskies,"saidPoussin.

    "Whatjoysliethereonthispieceofcanvas!"exclaimedPorbus.

    Theoldman,deepinhisownmusings,smiledatthewomanhealonebeheld,anddidnothear.

    "Butsoonerorlaterhewillfindoutthatthereisnothingthere!"criedPoussin.

    "Nothingonmycanvas!"saidFrenhofer,lookinginturnateitherpainterandathispicture.

    "Whathaveyoudone?"mutteredPorbus,turningtoPoussin.

    Theoldmanclutchedtheyoungpaintersarmandsaid,"Doyouseenothing?clodpatelHuguenot!varlet!cullion!Whatbroughtyouhereintomystudio?——MygoodPorbus,"hewenton,asheturnedtothepainter,"areyoualsomakingafoolofme?Answer!Iamyourfriend.Tellme,haveIruinedmypictureafterall?"

    Porbushesitatedandsaidnothing,buttherewassuchintolerableanxietyintheoldmanswhitefacethathepointedtotheeasel.

    "Look!"hesaid.

    Frenhoferlookedforamomentathispicture,andstaggeredback.

    "Nothing!nothing!Aftertenyearsofwork"Hesatdownandwept.

    "SoIamadotard,amadman,Ihaveneithertalentnorpower!Iamonlyarichman,whoworksforhisownpleasure,andmakesnoprogress,Ihavedonenothingafterall!"

    Helookedthroughhistearsathispicture.Suddenlyheroseandstoodproudlybeforethetwopainters.

    "BythebodyandbloodofChrist,"hecriedwithflashingeyes,"youarejealous!Youwouldhavemethinkthatmypictureisafailurebecauseyouwanttostealherfromme!Ah!Iseeher,Iseeher,"hecried"sheismarvelouslybeautiful"

    AtthatmomentPoussinheardthesoundofweeping;Gillettewascrouchingforgotteninacorner.Allatoncethepainteroncemorebecamethelover."Whatisit,myangel?"heaskedher.

    "Killme!"shesobbed."ImustbeavilethingifIloveyoustill,forIdespiseyouIadmireyou,andIhateyou!Iloveyou,andIfeelthatIhateyouevennow!"

    WhileGilletteswordssoundedinPoussinsears,Frenhoferdrewagreensergecoveringoverhis"Catherine"withthesoberdeliberationofajewelerwholockshisdrawerswhenhesuspectshisvisitorstobeexpertthieves.Hegavethetwopaintersaprofoundlyastuteglancethatexpressedtothefullhissuspicions,andhiscontemptforthem,sawthemoutofhisstudiowithimpetuoushasteandinsilence,untilfromthethresholdofhishousehebadethem"Good-by,myyoungfriends!"

    Thatfarewellstruckachillofdreadintothetwopainters.Porbus,inanxiety,wentagainonthemorrowtoseeFrenhofer,andlearnedthathehaddiedinthenightafterburninghiscanvases.

    Paris,February,1832.