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diff --git a/1553-h/1553-h.htm b/1553-h/1553-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3b1bdc7 --- /dev/null +++ b/1553-h/1553-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1715 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Hidden Masterpiece, by Honore de Balzac + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Hidden Masterpiece, by Honore de Balzac + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Hidden Masterpiece + +Author: Honore de Balzac + +Translator: Katharine Prescott Wormeley + +Release Date: February 26, 2010 [EBook #1553] +Last Updated: November 22, 2016 + + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HIDDEN MASTERPIECE *** + + + + +Produced by John Bickers, and Dagny, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE HIDDEN MASTERPIECE + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Honore De Balzac + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h3> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>THE HIDDEN MASTERPIECE</b> </a> + </h3> + <h3> + </h3> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + THE HIDDEN MASTERPIECE + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + 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 Grands-Augustine, 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 as to what sort of + reception the king might grant him. + </p> + <p> + 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 Rubens—was 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 spring-time 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 heart-string, some touch, I know not + what, of his brush, some fibre in his creations, some sentiment in his + poetry. When braggarts, self-satisfied 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 new-comer; looking at him attentively + and hoping to find either the frank good-nature 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 alluring the artistic mind. + </p> + <p> + 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; + sea-green eyes, faded perhaps by age, but whose pupils, contrasting with + the pearl-white 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 fish-slice, 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 sign-manual 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-morning, maitre.” + </p> + <p> + 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 heaven-born + 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 + rough-grained texture of ancient gold-brocaded 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; + color-boxes, 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 face of + Porbus and on the ivory skull of his singular visitor. + </p> + <p> + 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 distress. + </p> + <p> + “I like your saint,” said the old man to Porbus, “and I will give you ten + golden crowns over and above the queen’s offer; but as to entering into + competition with her—the devil!” + </p> + <p> + “You do like her, then?” + </p> + <p> + “As for that,” said the old man, “yes, and no. The good woman is well + set-up, but—she 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! Pr-r-r-r!—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 net-work + 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 well-beloved work. The torch of Prometheus went + out in your hands over and over again; there are several parts of your + painting on which the celestial flame never shone.” + </p> + <p> + “But why is it so, my dear master?” said Porbus humbly, while the young + man could hardly restrain a strong desire to strike the critic. + </p> + <p> + “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 inquire into the why and wherefore. I should fill you with + despair.” + </p> + <p> + The old man sat down on a stool and held his head in his hands for some + minutes in silence. + </p> + <p> + “Master,” said Porbus at length, “I studied that throat from the nude; + but, to our sorrow, there are effects in nature which become false or + impossible when placed on canvas.” + </p> + <p> + “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 theory of art as a theory. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” continued the old man vehemently, “you draw a woman, but you do not + <i>see</i> 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 will-o’-the-wisps, 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, and—that + is <i>not it</i>. What lacks? A mere nothing; but that mere nothing is <i>all</i>. + You have given the shadow of life, but you have not given its fulness, its + being, its—I know not what—soul, 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 hurly-burly of color. At any + rate, you have got the elements of color, drawing, and sentiment,—the + three essential parts of art.” + </p> + <p> + “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 + know one of them who could have invented that hesitation of the boatman.” + </p> + <p> + “Does the young fellow belong to you?” asked Porbus of the old man. + </p> + <p> + “Alas, maitre, forgive my boldness,” said the neophyte, blushing. “I am + all unknown; only a dauber by instinct. I have just come to Paris, that + fountain of art and science.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us see what you can do,” said Porbus, giving him a red crayon and a + piece of paper. + </p> + <p> + The unknown copied the saint with an easy turn of his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! oh!” exclaimed the old man, “what is your name?” + </p> + <p> + The youth signed the drawing: Nicolas Poussin. + </p> + <p> + “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 way again. + Your palette, Porbus.” + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + “Colors fit to fling out of the window with the man who ground them,—crude, + false, revolting! who can paint with them?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Porbus and Poussin stood motionless on either side of the easel, plunged + in passionate contemplation. + </p> + <p> + “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 reddish-brown 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 to-day.” + </p> + <p> + 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. The old man + worked on, muttering half to himself, half to his neophyte:— + </p> + <p> + “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 an ardent Egyptian. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + At last the demon paused; the old man turned to Porbus and Poussin, who + stood mute with admiration, and said to them,— + </p> + <p> + “It is not yet equal to my Beautiful Nut-girl; 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 Poussin + on the shoulder, “who has the faculty.” + </p> + <p> + Observing the shabby cap of the youth, he pulled from his belt a leathern + purse from which he took two gold pieces and offered them to him, saying,— + </p> + <p> + “I buy your drawing.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The three left the atelier and proceeded, talking all the way of art, to a + handsome wooden house standing near the Pont Saint-Michel, whose + window-casings 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 treated him with + kindly attention. + </p> + <p> + “Young man,” said Porbus, observing that he was speechless, with his eyes + fixed on a picture, “do not look at that too long, or you will fall into + despair.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + Mabuse said so himself with vexation in his sober moments.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Poussin, observing against the dark panelling of the wall a magnificent + portrait of a woman, exclaimed aloud, “What a magnificent Giorgione!” + </p> + <p> + “No,” remarked the old man, “that is only one of my early daubs.” + </p> + <p> + “Zounds!” cried Poussin naively; “are you the king of painters?” + </p> + <p> + The old man smiled, as if long accustomed to such homage. “Maitre + Frenhofer,” said Porbus, “could you order up a little of your good Rhine + wine for me?” + </p> + <p> + “Two casks,” answered the host; “one to pay for the pleasure of looking at + your pretty sinner this morning, and the other as a mark of friendship.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! if I were not so feeble,” resumed Porbus, “and if you would consent + to let me see your Beautiful Nut-girl, I too could paint some lofty + picture, grand and yet profound, where the forms should have the living + life.” + </p> + <p> + “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 waved—she + 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 half-tints, 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 half-tints, 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 the air circulating around them. + </p> + <p> + “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 depths of ignorance, lead to unbelief. I doubt my work.” + </p> + <p> + 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 walked—” + </p> + <p> + He fell into a reverie and remained, with fixed eyes, oblivious of all + about him, playing mechanically with his knife. + </p> + <p> + “See, he is talking to his own soul,” said Porbus in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + 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 + white-winged 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 flesh-tints—Ah! 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 would go down to hell to + win back the life of art—” + </p> + <p> + “Let us go,” said Porbus to Poussin; “he neither sees nor hears us any + longer.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us go to his atelier,” said the wonder-struck young man. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! the old dragon has guarded the entrance. His treasure is out of our + reach. I have not waited for your wish or urging to attempt an assault on + the mystery.” + </p> + <p> + “Mystery! then there is a mystery?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “We will contrive to get in,” cried Poussin, not listening to Porbus, and + thinking only of the hidden masterpiece. + </p> + <p> + Porbus smiled at the youth’s enthusiasm, and bade him farewell with a + kindly invitation to come and visit him. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + 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 young man’s touch upon the latch. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “It is—it is,” he cried, choking with joy, “that I feel myself a + painter! I have doubted it till now; but to-day I believe in myself. I can + be a great man. Ah, Gillette, we shall be rich, happy! There is gold in + these brushes!” + </p> + <p> + 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 well-nigh 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 its destined + expression. + </p> + <p> + “Listen, Gillette; come!” + </p> + <p> + The obedient, happy girl sprang lightly on the painter’s knee. She was all + grace and beauty, pretty as the spring-time, decked with the wealth of + feminine charm, and lighting all with the fire of a noble soul. + </p> + <p> + “O God!” he exclaimed, “I can never tell her!” + </p> + <p> + “A secret!” she cried; “then I must know it.” + </p> + <p> + Poussin was lost in thought. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “Gillette, poor, beloved heart!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! do you want something of me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “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 say nothing to me, then. You + look at me, but you do not think of me.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you like me to copy another woman?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” she answered, “if she were very ugly.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” continued Poussin, in a grave tone, “if to make me a great painter + it were necessary to pose to some one else—” + </p> + <p> + “You are testing me,” she interrupted; “you know well that I would not do + it.” + </p> + <p> + Poussin bent his head upon his breast like a man succumbing to joy or + grief too great for his spirit to bear. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Renounce it?” cried Poussin. + </p> + <p> + “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 + doing thy dear will; but to another, fy!” + </p> + <p> + “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. Perish art and all its + secrets!” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him admiringly, happy and captivated by his passion. She + reigned; she felt instinctively that the arts were forgotten for her sake, + and flung at her feet like grains of incense. + </p> + <p> + “Yet he is only an old man,” resumed Poussin. “In you he would see only a + woman. You are the perfect woman whom he seeks.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “It came there, and yet I love thee,” he said, with a sort of contrition. + “Am I, then, a wretch?” + </p> + <p> + “Let us consult Pere Hardouin.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no! it must be a secret between us.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I will go; but thou must not be present,” she said. “Stay at the + door, armed with thy dagger. If I cry out, enter and kill the man.” + </p> + <p> + Forgetting all but his art, Poussin clasped her in his arms. + </p> + <p> + “He loves me no longer!” thought Gillette, when she was once more alone. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + 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, self-developed 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, maitre,” said Porbus, “was the distant ultra-marine, for which you + journeyed to Brussels, worthless? Are you unable to grind a new white? Is + the oil bad, or the brushes restive?” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>there</i>,” 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.” + </p> + <p> + He rose suddenly, as if to depart at once. “Wait,” exclaimed Porbus. “I + have come in time to spare you the costs and fatigues of such a journey.” + </p> + <p> + “How so?” asked Frenhofer, surprised. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 tricked-out + lay-figures. 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 Nut-girl + 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 whom I love.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Filled with such thoughts, Porbus said to the old man, “Is it not woman + for woman? Poussin lends his mistress to your eyes.” + </p> + <p> + “What sort of mistress is that?” cried Frenhofer. “She will betray him + sooner or later. Mine will be to me forever faithful.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. Yet—I wish + I could be sure—” + </p> + <p> + “Go to Asia, then,” said Porbus hastily, fancying he saw some hesitation + in the old man’s eye. + </p> + <p> + 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 at him fixedly. + </p> + <p> + “Gillette, I leave you mistress of your actions; I will obey your will. + You are my conscience, my glory. Come home; I shall be happy, perhaps, if + you, yourself—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 + master. + </p> + <p> + “There!” he cried; “is she not worth all the masterpieces in the world?” + </p> + <p> + 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 slave-merchant. 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. + </p> + <p> + “Gillette!” he cried; “let us go.” + </p> + <p> + At this cry, with its accent of love, his mistress raised her eyes + joyfully and looked at him; then she ran into his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! you love me still?” she whispered, bursting into tears. + </p> + <p> + Though she had had strength to hide her suffering, she had none to hide + her joy. + </p> + <p> + “Let me have her for one moment,” exclaimed the old master, “and you shall + compare her with my Catherine. Yes, yes; I consent!” + </p> + <p> + 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 over the + beauty of the living woman. + </p> + <p> + “Do not let him retract,” cried Porbus, striking Poussin on the shoulder. + “The fruits of love wither in a day; those of art are immortal.” + </p> + <p> + “Can it be,” said Gillette, looking steadily at Poussin and at Porbus, + “that I am nothing more than a woman to him?” + </p> + <p> + She raised her head proudly; and as she glanced at Frenhofer with flashing + eyes she saw her lover gazing once more at the picture he had formerly + taken for a Giorgione. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” she cried, “let us go in; he never looked at me like that!” + </p> + <p> + “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 you understand me?” + </p> + <p> + 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 + her to his art and to his hopes of a glorious future. + </p> + <p> + 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 + hour to strike a tyrant. + </p> + <p> + “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 Nut-girl.” + </p> + <p> + 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, life-sized and half nude, which + filled them with eager admiration. + </p> + <p> + “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 them. + </p> + <p> + At these words Porbus and Poussin, amazed at the disdain which the master + showed for such marvels of art, looked about them for the secret treasure, + but could see it nowhere. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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 is + about to rise; wait!” + </p> + <p> + “Can you see anything?” whispered Poussin to Porbus. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. Can you?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 a naive motion. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “We are mistaken. See!” returned Porbus. + </p> + <p> + 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 light + amid the ruins of a burned city. + </p> + <p> + “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 lived. + </p> + <p> + “He means it in good faith,” said Porbus. + </p> + <p> + “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 + half-shadow; if you observed it in Nature you might think it could hardly + be rendered. Well, believe me, I took unheard-of 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 half-tints, + 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 to a spot of clear light color. + </p> + <p> + Porbus struck the old man on the shoulder, turning to Poussin as he did + so, and said, “Do you know that he is one of our greatest painters?” + </p> + <p> + “He is a poet even more than he is a painter,” answered Poussin gravely. + </p> + <p> + “There,” returned Porbus, touching the canvas, “is the ultimate end of our + art on earth.” + </p> + <p> + “And from thence,” added Poussin, “it rises, to enter heaven.” + </p> + <p> + “How much happiness is there!—upon that canvas,” said Porbus. + </p> + <p> + The absorbed old man gave no heed to their words; he was smiling at his + visionary woman. + </p> + <p> + “But sooner or later, he will perceive that there is nothing there,” cried + Poussin. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing there!—upon my canvas?” said Frenhofer, looking first at + the two painters, and then at his imaginary picture. + </p> + <p> + “What have you done?” cried Porbus, addressing Poussin. + </p> + <p> + 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 picture?” + </p> + <p> + Porbus hesitated, and feared to speak; but the anxiety painted on the + white face of the old man was so cruel that he was constrained to point to + the canvas and utter the word, “See!” + </p> + <p> + Frenhofer looked at his picture for a space of a moment, and staggered. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing! nothing! after toiling ten years!” + </p> + <p> + He sat down and wept. + </p> + <p> + “Am I then a fool, an idiot? Have I neither talent nor capacity? Am I no + better than a rich man who walks, and can only walk? Have I indeed + produced nothing?” + </p> + <p> + He gazed at the canvas through tears. Suddenly he raised himself proudly + and flung a lightning glance upon the two painters. + </p> + <p> + “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. I—I + see her!” he cried. “She is wondrously beautiful!” + </p> + <p> + At this moment Poussin heard the weeping of Gillette as she stood, + forgotten, in a corner. + </p> + <p> + “What troubles thee, my darling?” asked the painter, becoming once more a + lover. + </p> + <p> + “Kill me!” she answered. “I should be infamous if I still loved thee, for + I despise thee. I admire thee; but thou hast filled me with horror. I + love, and yet already I hate thee.” + </p> + <p> + 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 he said to them, + “Adieu, my little friends.” + </p> + <p> + The tone of this farewell chilled the two painters with fear. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + On the morrow Porbus, alarmed, went again to visit Frenhofer, and found + that he had died during the night, after having burned his paintings. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s The Hidden Masterpiece, by Honore de Balzac + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HIDDEN MASTERPIECE *** + +***** This file should be named 1553-h.htm or 1553-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/5/1553/ + +Produced by John Bickers, and Dagny, and David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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