《尘缘》章十八 情天恨地两濛濛 上

　　（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.