巴尔扎克《无名的杰作》（英译本）
（卡尔维诺《未来千年文学备忘录》中曾提到这篇小说。这里的应该是定稿的英译本，译者不详。电子文本来自ProjectGutenberg，原网址为http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/23060
http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/23060）
http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/23060
http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/23060）
THEUNKNOWNMASTERPIECE
ByHonoréDeBalzac
TOALORD
1845
I——GILLETTE
OnacoldDecembermorningintheyear1612,ayoungman,whoseclothingwassomewhatofthethinnest,waswalkingtoandfrobeforeagatewayintheRuedesGrands-AugustinsinParis.Hewentupanddownthestreetbeforethishousewiththeirresolutionofagallantwhodaresnotventureintothepresenceofthemistresswhomhelovesforthefirsttime,easyofaccessthoughshemaybe;butafterasufficientlylongintervalofhesitation,heatlastcrossedthethresholdandinquiredofanoldwoman,whowassweepingoutalargeroomonthegroundfloor,whetherMasterPorbuswaswithin.Receivingareplyintheaffirmative,theyoungmanwentslowlyupthestaircase,likeagentlemanbutnewlycometocourt,anddoubtfulastohisreceptionbytheking.Hecametoastandoncemoreonthelandingattheheadofthestairs,andagainhehesitatedbeforeraisinghishandtothegrotesqueknockeronthedoorofthestudio,wheredoubtlessthepainterwasatwork——MasterPorbus,sometimepainterinordinarytoHenriIVtillMarydeMedicitookRubensintofavor.
Theyoungmanfeltdeeplystirredbyanemotionthatmustthrilltheheartsofallgreatartistswhen,intheprideoftheiryouthandtheirfirstloveofart,theycomeintothepresenceofamasterorstandbeforeamasterpiece.Forallhumansentimentsthereisatimeofearlyblossoming,adayofgenerousenthusiasmthatgraduallyfadesuntilnothingisleftofhappinessbutamemory,andgloryisknownforadelusion.Ofallthesedelicateandshort-livedemotions,nonesoresembleloveasthepassionofayoungartistforhisart,asheisabouttoenterontheblissfulmartyrdomofhiscareerofgloryanddisaster,ofvagueexpectationsandrealdisappointments.
Thosewhohavemissedthisexperienceintheearlydaysoflightpurses;whohavenot,inthedawnoftheirgenius,stoodinthepresenceofamasterandfeltthethrobbingoftheirhearts,willalwayscarryintheirinmostsoulsachordthathasneverbeentouched,andintheirworkanindefinablequalitywillbelacking,asomethinginthestrokeofthebrush,amysteriouselementthatwecallpoetry.Theswaggerers,sopuffedupbyself-conceitthattheyareconfidentover-soonoftheirsuccess,canneverbetakenformenoftalentsavebyfools.Fromthispointofview,ifyouthfulmodestyisthemeasureofyouthfulgenius,thestrangeronthestaircasemightbeallowedtohavesomethinginhim;forheseemedtopossesstheindescribablediffidence,theearlytimiditythatartistsareboundtoloseinthecourseofagreatcareer,evenasprettywomenloseitastheymakeprogressintheartsofcoquetry.Self-distrustvanishesastriumphsucceedstotriumph,andmodestyis,perhaps,distrustofitself.
Thepoorneophytewassoovercomebytheconsciousnessofhisownpresumptionandinsignificance,thatitbegantolookasifhewashardlylikelytopenetrateintothestudioofthepainter,towhomweowethewonderfulportraitofHenriIV.Butfatewaspropitious;anoldmancameupthestaircase.Fromthequaintcostumeofthisnewcomer,hiscollarofmagnificentlace,andacertainserenegravityinhisbearing,thefirstarrivalthoughtthatthispersonagemustbeeitherapatronorafriendofthecourtpainter.Hestoodasidethereforeuponthelandingtoallowthevisitortopass,scrutinizinghimcuriouslythewhile.Perhapshemighthopetofindthegoodnatureofanartistortoreceivethegoodofficesofanamateurnotunfriendlytothearts;butbesidesanalmostdiabolicalexpressioninthefacethatmethisgaze,therewasthatindescribablesomethingwhichhasanirresistibleattractionforartists.
Picturethatface.Abaldhighforeheadandruggedjuttingbrowsaboveasmallflatnoseturnedupattheend,asintheportraitsofSocratesandRabelais;deeplinesaboutthemockingmouth;ashortchin,carriedproudly,coveredwithagrizzledpointedbeard;sea-greeneyesthatagemightseemtohavedimmedwereitnotforthecontrastbetweentheirisandthesurroundingmother-of-pearltints,sothatitseemedasifunderthestressofangerorenthusiasmtherewouldbeamagneticpowertoquellorkindleintheirglances.Thefacewaswitheredbeyondwontbythefatigueofyears,yetitseemedagedstillmorebythethoughtsthathadwornawaybothsoulandbody.Therewerenolashestothedeep-seteyes,andscarcelyatraceofthearchinglinesoftheeyebrowsabovethem.Setthisheadonaspareandfeebleframe,placeitinaframeoflacewroughtlikeanengravedsilverfish-slice,imagineaheavygoldchainovertheoldmansblackdoublet,andyouwillhavesomedimideaofthisstrangepersonage,whoseemedstillmorefantasticinthesombretwilightofthestaircase.OneofRembrandtsportraitsmighthavesteppeddownfromitsframetowalkinanappropriateatmosphereofgloom,suchasthegreatpainterloved.Theoldermangavetheyoungerashrewdglance,andknockedthriceatthedoor.Itwasopenedbyamanoffortyorthereabout,whoseemedtobeaninvalid.
"Goodday,Master."
Porbusbowedrespectfully,andheldthedooropenfortheyoungermantoenter,thinkingthatthelatteraccompaniedhisvisitor;andwhenhesawthattheneophytestoodawhileasifspellbound,feeling,aseveryartist-naturemustfeel,thefascinatinginfluenceofthefirstsightofastudioinwhichthematerialprocessesofartarerevealed,Porbustroubledhimselfnomoreaboutthissecondcomer.
Allthelightinthestudiocamefromawindowintheroof,andwasconcentrateduponaneasel,whereacanvasstooduntouchedasyetsaveforthreeorfouroutlinesinchalk.Thedaylightscarcelyreachedtheremoteranglesandcornersofthevastroom;theywereasdarkasnight,butthesilverornamentedbreastplateofaReiterscorselet,thathunguponthewall,attractedastraygleamtoitsdimabiding-placeamongthebrownshadows;orashaftoflightshotacrossthecarvedandglisteningsurfaceofanantiquesideboardcoveredwithcurioussilver-plate,orstruckoutalineofglitteringdotsamongtheraisedthreadsofthegoldenwarpofsomeoldbrocadedcurtains,wherethelinesofthestiff,heavyfoldswerebroken,asthestuffhadbeenflungcarelesslydowntoserveasamodel.
Plaster_écorchés_stoodabouttheroom;andhereandthere,onshelvesandtables,layfragmentsofclassicalsculpture-torsosofantiquegoddesses,wornsmoothasthoughalltheyearsofthecenturiesthathadpassedoverthemhadbeenloverskisses.Thewallswerecovered,fromfloortoceiling,withcountlesssketchesincharcoal,redchalk,orpenandink.Amidthelitterandconfusionofcolorboxes,overturnedstools,flasksofoil,andessences,therewasjustroomtomovesoastoreachtheilluminatedcircularspacewheretheeaselstood.ThelightfromthewindowintherooffellfulluponPor-busspalefaceandontheivory-tintedforeheadofhisstrangevisitor.Butinanothermomenttheyoungermanheedednothingbutapicturethathadalreadybecomefamouseveninthosestormydaysofpoliticalandreligiousrevolution,apicturethatafewofthezealousworshipers,whohavesooftenkeptthesacredfireofartaliveinevildays,werewonttogoonpilgrimagetosee.ThebeautifulpanelrepresentedaSaintMaryofEgyptabouttopayherpassageacrosstheseas.ItwasamasterpiecedestinedforMarydeMedici,whosolditinlateryearsofpoverty.
"Ilikeyoursaint,"theoldmanremarked,addressingPorbus."IwouldgiveyoutengoldencrownsforheroverandabovethepricetheQueenispaying;butasforputtingaspokeinthatwheel,——thedeviltakeit!"
"Itisgoodthen?"
"Hey!hey!"saidtheoldman;"good,sayyou?——Yesandno.Yourgoodwomanisnotbadlydone,butsheisnotalive.Youartistsfancythatwhenafigureiscorrectlydrawn,andeverythinginitsplaceaccordingtotherulesofanatomy,thereisnothingmoretobedone.Youmakeupthefleshtintsbeforehandonyourpalettesaccordingtoyourformulae,andfillintheoutlineswithduecarethatonesideofthefaceshallbedarkerthantheother;andbecauseyoulookfromtimetotimeatanakedwomanwhostandsontheplatformbeforeyou,youfondlyimaginethatyouhavecopiednature,thinkyourselvestobepainters,believethatyouhavewrestedHissecretfromGod.Pshaw!Youmayknowyoursyntaxthoroughlyandmakenoblundersinyourgrammar,butittakesthatandsomethingmoretomakeagreatpoet.Lookatyoursaint,Porbus!Atafirstglancesheisadmirable;lookatheragain,andyouseeatoncethatsheisgluedtothebackground,andthatyoucouldnotwalkroundher.Sheisasilhouettethatturnsbutonesideofherfacetoallbeholders,afigurecutoutofcanvas,animagewithnopowertomovenorchangeherposition.Ifeelasiftherewerenoairbetweenthatarmandthebackground,nospace,nosenseofdistanceinyourcanvas.Theperspectiveisperfectlycorrect,thestrengthofthecoloringisaccuratelydiminishedwiththedistance;but,inspiteofthesepraiseworthyefforts,Icouldneverbringmyselftobelievethatthewarmbreathoflifecomesandgoesinthatbeautifulbody.ItseemstomethatifIlaidmyhandonthefirm,roundedthroat,itwouldbecoldasmarbletothetouch.No,myfriend,theblooddoesnotflowbeneaththativoryskin,thetideoflifedoesnotflushthosedelicatefibres,thepurpleveinsthattraceanetworkbeneaththetransparentamberofherbrowandbreast.Herethepulseseemstobeat,thereitismotionless,lifeanddeathareatstrifeineverydetail;hereyouseeawoman,thereastatue,thereagainacorpse.Yourcreationisincomplete.Youhadonlypowertobreatheaportionofyoursoulintoyourbelovedwork.ThefireofPrometheusdiedoutagainandagaininyourhands;manyaspotinyourpicturehasnotbeentouchedbythedivineflame."
"Buthowisit,dearmaster?"Porbusaskedrespectfully,whiletheyoungmanwithdifficultyrepressedhisstrongdesiretobeatthecritic.
"Ah!"saidtheoldman,"itisthis!Youhavehaltedbetweentwomanners.Youhavehesitatedbetweendrawingandcolor,betweenthedoggedattentiontodetail,thestiffprecisionoftheGermanmastersandthedazzlingglow,thejoyousexuberanceofItalianpainters.YouhavesetyourselftoimitateHansHolbeinandTitian,AlbrechtDurerandPaulVeroneseinasinglepicture.Amagnificentambitiontruly,butwhathascomeofit?YourworkhasneithertheseverecharmofadryexecutionnorthemagicalillusionofItalian_chiaroscuro_.TitiansrichgoldencoloringpouredintoAlbrechtDurerasaustereoutlineshasshatteredthem,likemoltenbronzeburstingthroughthemoldthatisnotstrongenoughtoholdit.Inotherplacestheoutlineshaveheldfirm,imprisoningandobscuringthemagnificent,glowingfloodofVenetiancolor.Thedrawingofthefaceisnotperfect,thecoloringisnotperfect;tracesofthatunluckyindecisionaretobeseeneverywhere.Unlessyoufeltstrongenoughtofusethetwoopposedmannersinthefireofyourowngenius,youshouldhavecastinyourlotboldlywiththeoneortheother,andsohaveobtainedtheunitywhichsimulatesoneoftheconditionsoflifeitself.Yourworkisonlytrueinthecentres;youroutlinesarefalse,theyprojectnothing,thereisnohintofanythingbehindthem.Thereistruthhere,"saidtheoldman,pointingtothebreastoftheSaint,"andagainhere,"hewenton,indicatingtheroundedshoulder."Butthere,"oncemorereturningtothecolumnofthethroat,"everythingisfalse.Letusgonofurtherintodetail,youwouldbedisheartened."
Theoldmansatdownonastool,andremainedawhilewithoutspeaking,withhisfaceburiedinhishands.
"YetIstudiedthatthroatfromthelife,dearmaster,"Porbusbegan;"ithappenssometimes,forourmisfortune,thatrealeffectsinnaturelookimprobablewhentransferredtocanvas——"
"Theaimofartisnottocopynature,buttoexpressit.Youarenotaservilecopyist,butapoet!"criedtheoldmansharply,cuttingPorbusshortwithanimperiousgesture."Otherwiseasculptormightmakeaplastercastofalivingwomanandsavehimselfallfurthertrouble.Well,trytomakeacastofyourmistressshand,andsetupthethingbeforeyou.Youwillseeamonstrosity,adeadmass,bearingnoresemblancetothelivinghand;youwouldbecompelledtohaverecoursetothechiselofasculptorwho,withoutmakinganexactcopy,wouldrepresentforyouitsmovementanditslife.Wemustdetectthespirit,theinformingsoulintheappearancesofthingsandbeings.Effects!Whatareeffectsbuttheaccidentsoflife,notlifeitself?Ahand,sinceIhavetakenthatexample,isnotonlyapartofabody,itistheexpressionandextensionofathoughtthatmustbegraspedandrendered.Neitherpainternorpoetnorsculptormayseparatetheeffectfromthecause,whichareinevitablycontainedtheoneintheother.Therebeginstherealstruggle!Manyapainterachievessuccessinstinctively,unconsciousofthetaskthatissetbeforeart.Youdrawawoman,yetyoudonotseeher!NotsodoyousucceedinwrestingNaturessecretsfromher!Youarereproducingmechanicallythemodelthatyoucopiedinyourmastersstudio.Youdonotpenetratefarenoughintotheinmostsecretsofthemysteryofform;youdonotseekwithloveenoughandperseveranceenoughaftertheformthatbafflesandeludesyou.Beautyisathingsevereandunapproachable,nevertobewonbyalanguidlover.Youmustlieinwaitforhercomingandtakeherunawares,pressherhardandclaspherinatightembrace,andforcehertoyield.FormisaProteusmoreintangibleandmoremanifoldthantheProteusofthelegend;compelled,onlyafterlongwrestling,tostandforthmanifestinhistrueaspect.Someofyouaresatisfiedwiththefirstshape,oratmostbythesecondorthethirdthatappears.Notthuswrestlethevictors,theunvanquishedpainterswhoneversufferthemselvestobedeludedbyallthosetreacherousshadow-shapes;theyperseveretillNatureatthelaststandsbaretotheirgaze,andherverysoulisrevealed.
"InthismannerworkedRafael,"saidtheoldman,takingoffhiscaptoexpresshisreverencefortheKingofArt."Histranscendentgreatnesscameoftheintimatesensethat,inhim,seemsasifitwouldshatterexternalform.Forminhisfigures(aswithus)isasymbol,ameansofcommunicatingsensations,ideas,thevastimaginingsofapoet.Everyfaceisawholeworld.Thesubjectoftheportraitappearedforhimbathedinthelightofadivinevision;itwasrevealedbyaninnervoice,thefingerofGodlaidbarethesourcesofexpressioninthepastofawholelife.
"Youclotheyourwomeninfairraimentofflesh,ingraciousveilingofhair;butwhereistheblood,thesourceofpassionandofcalm,thecauseoftheparticulareffect?Why,thisbrownEgyptianofyours,mygoodPorbus,isacolorlesscreature!Thesefiguresthatyousetbeforeusarepaintedbloodlessfantoms;andyoucallthatpainting,youcallthatart!
"Becauseyouhavemadesomethingmorelikeawomanthanahouse,youthinkthatyouhavesetyourfingersonthegoal;youarequiteproudthatyouneednottowrite_currusvenustus_or_pulcherhomo_besideyourfigures,asearlypainterswerewonttodoandyoufancythatyouhavedonewonders.Ah!mygoodfriend,thereisstillsomethingmoretolearn,andyouwilluseupagreatdealofchalkandcovermanyacanvasbeforeyouwilllearnit.Yes,truly,awomancarriesherheadinjustsuchaway,sosheholdshergarmentsgatheredintoherhand;hereyesgrowdreamyandsoftwiththatexpressionofmeeksweetness,andevensothequiveringshadowofthelasheshoversuponhercheeks.Itisallthere,andyetitisnotthere.Whatislacking?Anothing,butthatnothingiseverything.
"Thereyouhavethesemblanceoflife,butyoudonotexpressitsfulnessandeffluence,thatindescribablesomething,perhapsthesoulitself,thatenvelopestheoutlinesofthebodylikeahaze;thatfloweroflife,inshort,thatTitianandRafaelcaught.Yourutmostachievementhithertohasonlybroughtyoutothestarting-point.Youmightnowperhapsbegintodoexcellentwork,butyougrowwearyalltoosoon;andthecrowdadmires,andthosewhoknowsmile.
"Oh,Mabuse!oh,mymaster!"criedthestrangespeaker,"thouartathief!Thouhastcarriedawaythesecretoflifewiththee!"
"Nevertheless,"hebeganagain,"thispictureofyoursisworthmorethanallthepaintingsofthatrascalRubens,withhismountainsofFlemishfleshraddledwithvermilion,historrentsofredhair,hisriotofcolor.You,atleasthavecolorthere,andfeelinganddrawing——thethreeessentialsinart."
Theyoungmanrousedhimselffromhisdeepmusings.
"Why,mygoodman,theSaintissublime!"hecried."Thereisasubtletyofimaginationaboutthosetwofigures,theSaintMaryandtheShipman,thatcannotbefoundamongItalianmasters;IdonotknowasingleoneofthemcapableofimaginingtheShipmanshesitation."
"Didthatlittlemalapertcomewithyou?"askedPorbusoftheolderman.
"Alas!master,pardonmyboldness,"criedtheneophyte,andthecolormountedtohisface."Iamunknown——adauberbyinstinct,andbutlatelycometothiscity——thefountain-headofalllearning."
"Settowork,"saidPorbus,handinghimabitofredchalkandasheetofpaper.
Thenew-comerquicklysketchedtheSaintMarylineforline.
"Aha!"exclaimedtheoldman."Yourname?"headded.
Theyoungmanwrote"NicolasPoussin"belowthesketch.
"Notbadthatforabeginning,"saidthestrangespeaker,whohaddiscoursedsowildly."Iseethatwecantalkofartinyourpresence.IdonotblameyouforadmiringPorbusssaint.Intheeyesoftheworldsheisamasterpiece,andthosealonewhohavebeeninitiatedintotheinmostmysteriesofartcandiscoverhershortcomings.Butitisworthwhiletogiveyouthelesson,foryouareabletounderstandit,soIwillshowyouhowlittleitneedstocompletethispicture.Youmustbealleyes,allattention,foritmaybethatsuchachanceoflearningwillnevercomeinyourwayagain——Porbus!yourpalette."
Porbuswentinsearchofpaletteandbrushes.Thelittleoldmanturnedbackhissleeveswithimpatientenergy,seizedthepalette,coveredwithmanyhues,thatPorbushandedtohim,andsnatchedratherthantookahandfulofbrushesofvarioussizesfromthehandsofhisacquaintance.Hispointedbeardsuddenlybristled——amenacingmovementthatexpressedtheprickofaloversfancy.Asheloadedhisbrush,hemutteredbetweenhisteeth,"Thesepaintsareonlyfittoflingoutofthewindow,togetherwiththefellowwhogroundthem,theircrudenessandfalsenessaredisgusting!Howcanonepaintwiththis?"
Hedippedthetipofthebrushwithfeverisheagernessinthedifferentpigments,makingthecircuitofthepaletteseveraltimesmorequicklythantheorganistofacathedralsweepstheoctavesonthekeyboardofhisclavierforthe"OFilii"atEaster.
PorbusandPoussin,oneithersideoftheeasel,stoodstock-still,watchingwithintenseinterest.
"Look,youngman,"hebeganagain,"seehowthreeorfourstrokesofthebrushandathinglazeofblueletinthefreeairtoplayabouttheheadofthepoorSaint,whomusthavefeltstifledandoppressedbythecloseatmosphere!Seehowthedraperybeginstoflutter;youfeelthatitisliftedbythebreeze!Amomentagoithungasheavilyandstifflyasifitwereheldoutbypins.DoyouseehowthesatinsheenthatIhavejustgiventothebreastrendsthepliant,silkensoftnessofayounggirlsskin,andhowthebrown-red,blendedwithburntochre,bringswarmthintothecoldgrayofthedeepshadowwherethebloodlaycongealedinsteadofcoursingthroughtheveins?Youngman,youngman,nomastercouldteachyouhowtodothisthatIamdoingbeforeyoureyes.Mabusealonepossessedthesecretofgivinglifetohisfigures;Mabusehadbutonepupil——thatwasI.Ihavehadnone,andIamold.YouhavesufficientintelligencetoimaginetherestfromtheglimpsesthatIamgivingyou."
Whiletheoldmanwasspeaking,hegaveatouchhereandthere;sometimestwostrokesofthebrush,sometimesasingleone;buteverystroketoldsowell,thatthewholepictureseemedtransfigured——thepaintingwasfloodedwithlight.Heworkedwithsuchpassionatefervorthatbeadsofsweatgathereduponhisbareforehead;heworkedsoquickly,inbrief,impatientjerks,thatitseemedtoyoungPoussinasifsomefamiliarspiritinhabitingthebodyofthisstrangebeingtookagrotesquepleasureinmakinguseofthemanshandsagainsthisownwill.Theunearthlyglitterofhiseyes,theconvulsivemovementsthatseemedlikestruggles,gavetothisfancyasemblanceoftruthwhichcouldnotbutstirayoungimagination.Theoldmancontinued,sayingashedidso——
"Paf!paf!thatishowtolayiton,youngman!——Littletouches!comeandbringaglowintothoseicycoldtonesforme!Justso!Pon!pon!pon!"andthosepartsofthepicturethathehadpointedoutascoldandlifelessflushedwithwarmerhues,afewboldstrokesofcolorbroughtallthetonesofthepictureintotherequiredharmonywiththeglowingtintsoftheEgyptian,andthedifferencesintemperamentvanished.
"Lookyou,youngster,thelasttouchesmakethepicture.Porbushasgivenitahundredstrokesforeveryoneofmine.Noonethanksusforwhatliesbeneath.Bearthatinmind."
Atlasttherestlessspiritstopped,andturningtoPorbusandPoussin,whowerespeechlesswithadmiration,hespoke——
"ThisisnotasgoodasmyBelleNoiseuse;stillonemightputonesnametosuchathingasthis——Yes,Iwouldputmynametoit,"headded,risingtoreachforamirror,inwhichhelookedatthepicture——"Andnow,"hesaid,"willyoubothcomeandbreakfastwithme?Ihaveasmokedhamandsomeveryfairwine!Eh!eh!thetimesmaybebad,butwecanstillhavesometalkaboutart!WecantalklikeequalsHereisalittlefellowwhohasaptitude,"headded,layingahandonNicolasPoussinsshoulder.
InthiswaythestrangerbecameawareofthethreadbareconditionoftheNormansdoublet.Hedrewaleatherpursefromhisgirdle,feltinit,foundtwogoldcoins,andheldthemout.
"Iwillbuyyoursketch,"hesaid.
"Takeit,"saidPorbus,ashesawtheotherstartandflushwithembarrassment,forPoussinhadtheprideofpoverty."Pray,takeit;hehasacoupleofkingsransomsinhispouch!"
Thethreecamedowntogetherfromthestudio,and,talkingofartbytheway,reachedapicturesquewoodenhousehardbythePontSaint-Michel.Poussinwonderedamomentatitsornament,attheknocker,attheframesofthecasements,atthescroll-workdesigns,andinthenexthestoodinavastlow-ceiledroom.Atable,coveredwithtemptingdishes,stoodneartheblazingfire,and(luckunhopedfor)hewasinthecompanyoftwogreatartistsfullofgenialgoodhumor.
"Donotlooktoolongatthatcanvas,youngman,"saidPorbus,whenhesawthatPoussinwasstanding,struckwithwonder,beforeapainting."Youwouldfallavictimtodespair."
Itwasthe"Adam"paintedbyMabusetopurchasehisreleasefromtheprison,wherehiscreditorshadsolongkepthim.And,asamatteroffact,thefigurestoodoutsoboldlyandconvincingly,thatNicolasPoussinbegantounderstandtherealmeaningofthewordspouredoutbytheoldartist,whowashimselflookingatthepicturewithapparentsatisfaction,butwithoutenthusiasm."Ihavedonebetterthanthat!"heseemedtobesayingtohimself.
"Thereislifeinit,"hesaidaloud;"inthatrespectmypoormasterheresurpassedhimself,butthereissomelackoftruthinthebackground.Themanlivesindeed;heisrising,andwillcometowardus;buttheatmosphere,thesky,theair,thebreathofthebreeze——youlookandfeelforthem,buttheyarenotthere.Andthenthemanhimselfis,afterall,onlyaman!Ah!buttheonemanintheworldwhocamedirectfromthehandsofGodmusthavehadasomethingdivineabouthimthatiswantinghere.Mabusehimselfwouldgrindhisteethandsaysowhenhewasnotdrunk."
PoussinlookedfromthespeakertoPorbus,andfromPorbustothespeaker,withrestlesscuriosity.Hewentuptothelattertoaskforthenameoftheirhost;butthepainterlaidafingeronhislipswithanairofmystery.Theyoungmansinterestwasexcited;hekeptsilence,buthopedthatsoonerorlatersomewordmightbeletfallthatwouldrevealthenameofhisentertainer.Itwasevidentthathewasamanoftalentandverywealthy,forPorbuslistenedtohimrespectfully,andthevastroomwascrowdedwithmarvelsofart.
Amagnificentportraitofawoman,hungagainstthedarkoakpanelsofthewall,nextcaughtPoussinsattention.
"WhatagloriousGiorgione!"hecried.
"No,"saidhishost,"itisanearlydaubofmine——"
"Gramercy!Iamintheabodeofthegodofpainting,itseems!"criedPoussiningenuously.
Theoldmansmiledasifhehadlonggrownfamiliarwithsuchpraise.
"MasterFrenhofer!"saidPorbus,"doyouthinkyoucouldsparemealittleofyourcapitalRhinewine?"
"Acoupleofpipes!"answeredhishost;"onetodischargeadebt,forthepleasureofseeingyourprettysinner,theotherasapresentfromafriend."
"Ah!ifIhadmyhealth,"returnedPorbus,"andifyouwouldbutletmeseeyourBelleNoiseuse,Iwouldpaintsomegreatpicture,withbreadthinitanddepth;thefiguresshouldbelife-size."
"Letyouseemywork!"criedthepainterinagitation."No,no!itisnotperfectyet;somethingstillremainsformetodo.Yesterday,inthedusk,"hesaid,"IthoughtIhadreachedtheend.Hereyesseemedmoist,thefleshquivered,somethingstirredthetressesofherhair.Shebreathed!ButthoughIhavesucceededinreproducingNaturesroundnessandreliefontheflatsurfaceofthecanvas,thismorning,bydaylight,Ifoundoutmymistake.Ah!toachievethatgloriousresultIhavestudiedtheworksofthegreatmastersofcolor,strippingoffcoataftercoatofcolorfromTitianscanvas,analyzingthepigmentsofthekingoflight.Likethatsovereignpainter,Ibeganthefaceinaslighttonewithasuppleandfatpaste——forshadowisbutanaccident;bearthatinmind,youngster!——ThenIbeganafresh,andbyhalf-tonesandthinglazesofcolorlessandlesstransparent,Igraduallydeepenedthetintstothedeepestblackofthestrongestshadows.Anordinarypaintermakeshisshadowssomethingentirelydifferentinnaturefromthehighlights;theyarewoodorbrass,orwhatyouwill,anythingbutfleshinshadow.Youfeelthatevenifthosefiguresweretoaltertheirposition,thoseshadowstainswouldneverbecleansedaway,thosepartsofthepicturewouldneverglowwithlight.
"Ihaveescapedonemistake,intowhichthemostfamouspaintershavesometimesfallen;inmycanvasthewhitenessshinesthroughthedensestandmostpersistentshadow.Ihavenotmarkedoutthelimitsofmyfigureinhard,dryoutlines,andbroughteveryleastanatomicaldetailintoprominence(likeahostofdunces,whofancythattheycandrawbecausetheycantracealineelaboratelysmoothandclean),forthehumanbodyisnotcontainedwithinthelimitsofline.Inthisthesculptorcanapproachthetruthmorenearlythanwepainters.Natureswayisacomplicatedsuccessionofcurvewithincurve.Strictlyspeaking,thereisnosuchthingasdrawing——Donotlaugh,youngman;strangeasthatspeechmayseemtoyou,youwillunderstandthetruthinitsomeday——Alineisamethodofexpressingtheeffectoflightuponanobject;buttherearenolinesinNature,everythingissolid.Wedrawbymodeling,thatistosay,thatwedisengageanobjectfromitssetting;thedistributionofthelightalonegivestoabodytheappearancebywhichweknowit.SoIhavenotdefinedtheoutlines;Ihavesuffusedthemwithahazeofhalf-tintswarmorgolden,insuchasortthatyoucannotlayyourfingerontheexactspotwherebackgroundandcontoursmeet.Seenfromnear,thepicturelooksablur;itseemstolackdefinition;butstepbacktwopaces,andthewholethingbecomesclear,distinct,andsolid;thebodystandsout;theroundedformcomesintorelief;youfeelthattheairplaysroundit.Andyet——Iamnotsatisfied;Ihavemisgivings.Perhapsoneoughtnottodrawasingleline;perhapsitwouldbebettertoattackthefacefromthecentre,takingthehighestprominencesfirst,proceedingfromthemthroughthewholerangeofshadowstotheheaviestofall.Isnotthisthemethodofthesun,thedivinepainteroftheworld?Oh,Nature,Nature!whohassurprisedthee,fugitive?But,afterall,toomuchknowledge,likeignorance,bringsyoutoanegation.Ihavedoubtsaboutmywork."
Therewasapause.Thentheoldmanspokeagain."Ihavebeenatworkuponitfortenyears,youngman;butwhataretenshortyearsinastrugglewithNature?DoweknowhowlongSirPygmalionwroughtattheonestatuethatcametolife?"Theoldmanfellintodeepmusings,andgazedbeforehimwithunseeingeyes,whileheplayedunheedinglywithhisknife.
"Look,heisinconversationwithhis_domon!_"murmuredPorbus.
Attheword,NicolasPoussinfelthimselfcarriedawaybyanunaccountableaccessionofartistscuriosity.Forhimtheoldman,atonceintentandinert,theseerwiththeunseeingeyes,becamesomethingmorethanaman——afantasticspiritlivinginamysteriousworld,andcountlessvaguethoughtsawokewithinhissoul.Theeffectofthisspeciesoffascinationuponhismindcannomorebedescribedinwordsthanthepassionatelongingawakenedinanexilesheartbythesongthatrecallshishome.Hethoughtofthescornthattheoldmanaffectedtodisplayforthenoblesteffortsofart,ofhiswealth,hismanners,ofthedeferencepaidtohimbyPorbus.Themysteriouspicture,theworkofpatienceonwhichhehadwroughtsolonginsecret,wasdoubtlessaworkofgenius,fortheheadoftheVirginwhichyoungPoussinhadadmiredsofranklywasbeautifulevenbesideMabuses"Adam"——therewasnomistakingtheimperialmannerofoneoftheprincesofart.Everythingcombinedtosettheoldmanbeyondthelimitsofhumannature.
OutofthewealthoffanciesinNicolasPoussinsbrainanideagrew,andgatheredshapeandclearness.Hesawinthissupernaturalbeingacompletetypeoftheartistnature,anaturemockingandkindly,barrenandprolific,anerraticspiritintrustedwithgreatandmanifoldpowerswhichshetoooftenabuses,leadingsoberreason,thePhilistine,andsometimeseventheamateurforthintoastonywildernesswheretheyseenothing;butthewhite-wingedmaidenherself,wildasherfanciesmaybe,findsepicsthereandcastlesandworksofart.ForPoussin,theenthusiast,theoldman,wassuddenlytransfigured,andbecameArtincarnate,Artwithitsmysteries,itsvehementpassionanditsdreams.
"Yes,mydearPorbus,"Frenhofercontinued,"hithertoIhaveneverfoundaflawlessmodel,abodywithoutlinesofperfectbeauty,thecarnations——Ah!wheredoesshelive?"hecried,breakinginuponhimself,"theundiscoverableVenusoftheoldertime,forwhomwehavesoughtsooften,onlytofindthescatteredgleamsofherbeautyhereandthere?Oh!tobeholdonceandforonemoment,Naturegrownperfectanddivine,theIdealatlast,IwouldgiveallthatIpossessNay,Beautydivine,Iwouldgotoseektheeinthedimlandofthedead;likeOrpheus,IwouldgodownintotheHadesofArttobringbackthelifeofartfromamongtheshadowsofdeath."
"Wecangonow,"saidPorbustoPoussin."Heneitherhearsnorseesusanylonger."
"Letusgotohisstudio,"saidyoungPoussin,wonderinggreatly.
"Oh!theoldfoxtakescarethatnooneshallenterit.Histreasuresaresocarefullyguardedthatitisimpossibleforustocomeatthem.Ihavenotwaitedforyoursuggestionandyourfancytoattempttolayhandsonthismysterybyforce."
"Sothereisamystery?""Yes,"answeredPorbus."OldFrenhoferistheonlypupilMabusewouldtake.Frenhoferbecamethepaintersfriend,deliverer,andfather;hesacrificedthegreaterpartofhisfortunetoenableMabusetoindulgeinriotousextravagance,andinreturnMabusebequeathedtohimthesecretofrelief,thepowerofgivingtohisfiguresthewonderfullife,theflowerofNature,theeternaldespairofart,thesecretwhichMa-buseknewsowellthatonedaywhenhehadsoldthefloweredbrocadesuitinwhichheshouldhaveappearedattheEntryofCharlesV,heaccompaniedhismasterinasuitofpaperpaintedtoresemblethebrocade.ThepeculiarrichnessandsplendorofthestuffstrucktheEmperor;hecomplimentedtheolddrunkardspatronontheartistsappearance,andsothetrickwasbroughttolight.Frenhoferisapassionateenthusiast,whoseesaboveandbeyondotherpainters.Hehasmeditatedprofoundlyoncolor,andtheabsolutetruthofline;butbythewayofmuchresearchhehascometodoubttheveryexistenceoftheobjectsofhissearch.Hesays,inmomentsofdespondency,thatthereisnosuchthingasdrawing,andthatbymeansoflineswecanonlyreproducegeometricalfigures;butthatisovershootingthemark,forbyoutlineandshadowyoucanreproduceformwithoutanycoloratall,whichshowsthatourart,likeNature,iscomposedofaninfinitenumberofelements.Drawinggivesyoutheskeleton,theanatomicalframe-work,andcolorputsthelifeintoit;butlifewithouttheskeletonisevenmoreincompletethanaskeletonwithoutlife.Butthereissomethingelsetruerstill,anditisthis——forpainters,practiseandobservationareeverything;andwhentheoriesandpoeticalideasbegintoquarrelwiththebrushes,theendisdoubt,ashashappenedwithourgoodfriend,whoishalfcrack-brainedenthusiast,halfpainter.Asublimepainter!butunluckyforhim,hewasborntoriches,andsohehasleisuretofollowhisfancies.Donotyoufollowhisexample!Work!paintershavenobusinesstothink,exceptbrushinhand."
"Wewillfindawayintohisstudio!"criedPoussinconfidently.HehadceasedtoheedPorbussremarks.Theothersmiledattheyoungpaintersenthusiasm,askedhimtocometoseehimagain,andtheyparted.NicolasPoussinwentslowlybacktotheRuedelaHarpe,andpassedthemodesthostelrywherehewaslodgingwithoutnoticingit.Afeelingofuneasinesspromptedhimtohurryupthecrazystaircasetillhereachedaroomatthetop,aquaint,airyrecessunderthesteep,high-pitchedroofcommonamonghousesinoldParis.Intheonedingywindowoftheplacesatayounggirl,whosprangupatoncewhensheheardsomeoneatthedoor;itwasthepromptingoflove;shehadrecognizedthepainterstouchonthelatch.
"Whatisthematterwithyou?"sheasked.
"ThematterisisOh!IhavefeltthatIamapainter!Untilto-dayIhavehaddoubts,butnowIbelieveinmyself!Thereisthemakingofagreatmaninme!Nevermind,Gillette,weshallberichandhappy!Thereisgoldatthetipsofthosebrushes——"
Hebrokeoffsuddenly.Thejoyfadedfromhispowerfulandearnestfaceashecomparedhisvasthopeswithhisslenderresources.Thewallswerecoveredwithsketchesinchalkonsheetsofcommonpaper.Therewerebutfourcanvasesintheroom.Colorswereverycostly,andtheyoungpainterspalettewasalmostbare.Yetinthemidstofhispovertyhepossessedandwasconsciousofthepossessionofinexhaustibletreasuresoftheheart,ofadevouringgeniusequaltoallthetasksthatlaybeforehim.
HehadbeenbroughttoParisbyanoblemanamonghisfriends,orperchancebytheconsciousnessofhispowers;andinParishehadfoundamistress,oneofthosenobleandgeneroussoulswhochoosetosufferbyagreatmansside,whosharehisstrugglesandstrivetounderstandhisfancies,acceptingtheirlotofpovertyandloveasbravelyanddauntlesslyasotherwomenwillsetthemselvestobeartheburdenofrichesandmakeaparadeoftheirinsensibility.ThesmilethatstoleoverGilletteslipsfilledthegarretwithgoldenlight,andrivaledthebrightnessofthesuninheaven.Thesun,moreover,doesnotalwaysshineinheaven,whereasGillettewasalwaysinthegarret,absorbedinherpassion,occupiedbyPoussinshappinessandsorrow,consolingthegeniuswhichfoundanoutletinlovebeforeartengrossedit.
"Listen,Gillette.Comehere."
Thegirlobeyedjoyously,andspranguponthepaintersknee.Herswasperfectgraceandbeauty,andthelovelinessofspring;shewasadornedwithallluxuriantfairnessofoutwardform,lightedupbytheglowofafairsoulwithin.
"Oh!God,"hecried;"Ishallneverdaretotellher——"
"Asecret?"shecried;"Imustknowit!"
Poussinwasabsorbedinhisdreams.
"Dotellitme!"
"Gillettepoorbelovedheart!"
"Oh!doyouwantsomethingofme?"
"Yes."
"IfyouwishmetositoncemoreforyouasIdidtheotherday,"shecontinuedwithplayfulpetulance,"Iwillneverconsenttodosuchathingagain,foryoureyessaynothingallthewhile.Youdonotthinkofmeatall,andyetyoulookatme——"
"Wouldyouratherhavemedrawanotherwoman?"
"Perhaps——ifshewereveryugly,"shesaid.
"Well,"saidPoussingravely,"andif,forthesakeofmyfametocome,iftomakemeagreatpainter,youmustsittosomeoneelse?"
"Youmaytryme,"shesaid;"youknowquitewellthatIwouldnot."
Poussinsheadsankonherbreast;heseemedtobeoverpoweredbysomeintolerablejoyorsorrow.
"Listen,"shecried,pluckingatthesleeveofPoussinsthreadbaredoublet,"Itoldyou,Nick,thatIwouldlaydownmylifeforyou;butIneverpromisedyouthatIinmylifetimewouldlaydownmylove."
"Yourlove?"criedtheyoungartist.
"IfIshowedmyselfthustoanother,youwouldlovemenolonger,andIshouldfeelmyselfunworthyofyou.Obediencetoyourfancieswasanaturalandsimplething,wasitnot?Evenagainstmyownwill,Iamgladandevenproudtodothydearwill.Butforanother,outuponit!"
"Forgiveme,myGillette,"saidthepainter,fallinguponhisknees;"Iwouldratherbebelovedthanfamous.Youarefairerthansuccessandhonors.There,flingthepencilsaway,andburnthesesketches!Ihavemadeamistake.Iwasmeanttoloveandnottopaint.Perishartandallitssecrets!"
Gillettelookedadmiringlyathim,inanecstasyofhappiness!Shewastriumphant;shefeltinstinctivelythatartwaslaidasideforhersake,andflunglikeagrainofincenseatherfeet.
"Yetheisonlyanoldman,"Poussincontinued;"forhimyouwouldbeawoman,andnothingmore.You——soperfect!"
"Imustloveyouindeed!"shecried,readytosacrificeevenlovesscruplestotheloverwhohadgivenupsomuchforhersake;"butIshouldbringaboutmyownruin.Ah!toruinmyself,toloseeverythingforyou!Itisaverygloriousthought!Ah!butyouwillforgetme.OhIwhatevilthoughtisthisthathascometoyou?"
"Iloveyou,andyetIthoughtofit,"hesaid,withsomethinglikeremorse,"AmIsobaseawretch?"
"LetusconsultPèreHardouin,"shesaid.
"No,no!Letitbeasecretbetweenus."
"Verywell;Iwilldoit.Butyoumustnotbethere,"shesaid."Stayatthedoorwithyourdaggerinyourhand;andifIcall,rushinandkillthepainter."
Poussinforgoteverythingbutart.HeheldGillettetightlyinhisarms.
"Helovesmenolonger!"thoughtGillettewhenshewasalone.Sherepentedofherresolutionalready.
Buttothesemisgivingstheresoonsucceededasharperpain,andshestrovetobanishahideousthoughtthataroseinherownheart.Itseemedtoherthatherownlovehadgrownlessalready,withavaguesuspicionthatthepainterhadfallensomewhatinhereyes.
II——CATHERINELESCAULT
ThreemonthsafterPoussinandPorbusmet,thelatterwenttoseeMasterFrenhofer.Theoldmanhadfallenavictimtooneofthoseprofoundandspontaneousfitsofdiscouragementthatarecaused,accordingtomedicallogicians,byindigestion,flatulence,fever,orenlargementofthespleen;or,ifyoutaketheopinionoftheSpiritualists,bytheimperfectionsofourmortalnature.Thegoodmanhadsimplyoverworkedhimselfinputtingthefinishingtouchestohismysteriouspicture.Hewaslounginginahugecarvedoakchair,coveredwithblackleather,anddidnotchangehislistlessattitude,butglancedatPorbuslikeamanwhohassettleddownintolowspirits.
"Well,master,"saidPorbus,"wastheultramarinebadthatyousentfortoBruges?Isthenewwhitedifficulttogrind?Istheoilpoor,orarethebrushesrecalcitrant?"
"Alas!"criedtheoldman,"foramomentIthoughtthatmyworkwasfinished,butIamsurethatIammistakenincertaindetails,andIcannotrestuntilIhaveclearedmydoubts.Iamthinkingoftraveling.IamgoingtoTurkey,toGreece,toAsia,inquestofamodel,soastocomparemypicturewiththedifferentlivingformsofNature.Perhaps,"andasmileofcontentmentstoleoverhisface,"perhapsIhaveNatureherselfupthere.AttimesIamhalfafraidthatabreathmaywakenher,andthatshewillescapeme."
Herosetohisfeetasiftosetoutatonce.
"Aha!"saidPorbus,"Ihavecomejustintimetosaveyouthetroubleandexpenseofajourney."
"What?"askedFrenhoferinamazement.
"YoungPoussinislovedbyawomanofincomparableandflawlessbeauty.But,dearmaster,ifheconsentstolendhertoyou,attheleastyououghttoletusseeyourwork."
Theoldmanstoodmotionlessandcompletelydazed.
"What!"hecriedpiteouslyatlast,"showyoumycreation,mybride?Rendtheveilthathaskeptmyhappinesssacred?Itwouldbeaninfamousprofanation.FortenyearsIhavelivedwithher;sheismine,minealone;shelovesme.Hasshenotsmiledatme,ateachstrokeofthebrushuponthecanvas?Shehasasoul——thesoulthatIhavegivenher.Shewouldblushifanyeyesbutmineshouldrestonher.Toexhibither!Whereisthehusband,theloversovileastobringthewomanhelovestodishonor?Whenyoupaintapictureforthecourt,youdonotputyourwholesoulintoit;tocourtiersyouselllayfiguresdulycolored.Mypaintingisnopainting,itisasentiment,apassion.Shewasborninmystudio,thereshemustdwellinmaidensolitude,andonlywhencladcansheissuethence.PoetryandwomenonlylaythelastveilasidefortheirloversHaveweRafaelsmodel,AriostosAngelica,DantesBeatrice?Nay,onlytheirformandsemblance.Butthispicture,lockedawayaboveinmystudio,isanexceptioninourart.Itisnotacanvas,itisawoman——awomanwithwhomItalk.Ishareherthoughts,hertears,herlaughter.Wouldyouhavemeflingasidethesetenyearsofhappinesslikeacloak?Wouldyouhavemeceaseatoncetobefather,lover,andcreator?Sheisnotacreature,butacreation.
"Bringyouryoungpainterhere.Iwillgivehimmytreasures;IwillgivehimpicturesbyCorreggioandMichelangeloandTitian;Iwillkisshisfootprintsinthedust;butmakehimmyrival!Shameonme.Ah!ah!Iamaloverfirst,andthenapainter.Yes,withmylatestsighIcouldfindstrengthtoburnmyBelleNoiseuse;but——compelhertoendurethegazeofastranger,ayoungmanandapainter!——Ah!no,no!Iwouldkillhimonthemorrowwhoshouldsullyherwithaglance!Nay,you,myfriend,Iwouldkillyouwithmyownhandsinamomentifyoudidnotkneelinreverencebeforeher!Now,willyouhavemesubmitmyidoltothecarelesseyesandsenselesscriticismsoffools?Ah!loveisamystery;itcanonlylivehiddeninthedepthsoftheheart.Yousay,eventoyourfriend,BeholdherwhomIlove,andthereisanendoflove."
Theoldmanseemedtohavegrownyoungagain;therewaslightandlifeinhiseyes,andafaintflushofredinhispaleface.Hishandsshook.PorbuswassoamazedbythepassionatevehemenceofFrenhoferswordsthatheknewnotwhattoreplytothisutteranceofanemotionasstrangeasitwasprofound.WasFrenhofersaneormad?Hadhefallenavictimtosomefreakoftheartistsfancy?orweretheseideasofhisproducedbythestrangelightheadednesswhichcomesoverusduringthelongtravailofaworkofart.Woulditbepossibletocometotermswiththissingularpassion?
Harassedbyallthesedoubts,Porbusspoke——"Isitnotwomanforwoman?"hesaid."DoesnotPoussinsubmithismistresstoyourgaze?"
"Whatisshe?"retortedtheother."Amistresswhowillbefalsetohimsoonerorlater.Minewillbefaithfultomeforever."
"Well,well,"saidPorbus,"letussaynomoreaboutit.Butyoumaydiebeforeyouwillfindsuchaflawlessbeautyashers,eveninAsia,andthenyourpicturewillbeleftunfinished.
"Oh!itisfinished,"saidFrenhofer."Standingbeforeityouwouldthinkthatitwasalivingwomanlyingonthevelvetcouchbeneaththeshadowofthecurtains.Perfumesareburningonagoldentripodbyherside.Youwouldbetemptedtolayyourhanduponthetasselofthecordthatholdsbackthecurtains;itwouldseemtoyouthatyousawherbreastriseandfallasshebreathed;thatyoubeheldthelivingCatherineLescault,thebeautifulcourtezanwhommencalledLaBelleNoiseuse.Andyet——ifIcouldbutbesure——"
"ThengotoAsia,"returnedPorbus,noticingacertainindecisioninFrenhofersface.AndwiththatPorbusmadeafewstepstowardthedoor.BythattimeGilletteandNicolasPoussinhadreachedFrenhofershouse.Thegirldrewawayherarmfromherloversasshestoodonthethreshold,andshrankbackasifsomepresentimentflashedthroughhermind.
"Oh!whathaveIcometodohere?"sheaskedofherloverinlowvibratingtones,withhereyesfixedonhis.
"Gillette,Ihaveleftyoutodecide;Iamreadytoobeyyouineverything.Youaremyconscienceandmyglory.Gohomeagain;Ishallbehappier,perhaps,ifyoudonot——"
"AmImyownwhenyouspeaktomelikethat?No,no;Iamachild——Come,"sheadded,seeminglywithaviolenteffort;"ifourlovedies,ifIplantalongregretinmyheart,yourfamewillbetherewardofmyobediencetoyourwishes,willitnot?Letusgoin.Ishallstillliveonasamemoryonyourpalette;thatshallbelifeformeafterward."
Thedooropened,andthetwoloversencounteredPorbus,whowassurprisedbythebeautyofGillette,whoseeyeswerefulloftears.Hehurriedher,tremblingfromheadtofoot,intothepresenceoftheoldpainter.
"Here!"hecried,"isshenotworthallthemasterpiecesintheworld!"
Frenhofertrembled.TherestoodGilletteintheartlessandchildlikeattitudeofsometimidandinnocentGeorgian,carriedoffbybrigands,andconfrontedwithaslavemerchant.Ashamefacedredflushedherface,hereyesdrooped,herhandshungbyherside,herstrengthseemedtohavefailedher,hertearsprotestedagainstthisoutrage.Poussincursedhimselfindespairthatheshouldhavebroughthisfairtreasurefromitshiding-place.Theloverovercametheartist,andcountlessdoubtsassailedPoussinsheartwhenhesawyouthdawnintheoldmanseyes,as,likeapainter,hediscernedeverylineoftheformhiddenbeneaththeyounggirlsvesture.Thentheloverssavagejealousyawoke.
"Gillette!"hecried,"letusgo."
Thegirlturnedjoyouslyatthecryandthetoneinwhichitwasuttered,raisedhereyestohis,lookedathim,andfledtohisarms.
"Ah!thenyouloveme,"shecried;"youloveme!"andsheburstintotears.
Shehadspiritenoughtosufferinsilence,butshehadnostrengthtohideherjoy.
"Oh!leaveherwithmeforonemoment,"saidtheoldpainter,"andyoushallcompareherwithmyCatherineyes——Iconsent."
Frenhoferswordslikewisecamefromhimlikealoverscry.Hisvanityseemedtobeengagedforhissemblanceofwomanhood;heanticipatedthetriumphofthebeautyofhisowncreationoverthebeautyofthelivinggirl.
"Donotgivehimtimetochangehismind!"criedPorbus,strikingPoussinontheshoulder."Thefloweroflovesoonfades,buttheflowerofartisimmortal."
"ThenamIonlyawomannowforhim?"saidGillette.ShewaswatchingPoussinandPorbusclosely.
Sheraisedherheadproudly;sheglancedatFrenhofer,andhereyesflashed;thenasshesawhowherloverhadfallenagaintogazingattheportraitwhichhehadtakenatfirstforaGiorgione——
"Ah!"shecried;"letusgouptothestudio.Henevergavemesuchalook."
ThesoundofhervoicerecalledPoussinfromhisdreams.
"Oldman,"hesaid,"doyouseethisblade?Iwillplungeitintoyourheartatthefirstcryfromthisyounggirl;Iwillsetfiretoyourhouse,andnooneshallleaveitalive.Doyouunderstand?"
NicolasPoussinscowled;everywordwasamenace.Gillettetookcomfortfromtheyoungpaintersbearing,andyetmorefromthatgesture,andalmostforgavehimforsacrificinghertohisartandhisgloriousfuture.
PorbusandPoussinstoodatthedoorofthestudioandlookedateachotherinsilence.AtfirstthepainteroftheSaintMaryofEgypthazardedsomeexclamations:"Ah!shehastakenoffherclothes;hetoldhertocomeintothelight——heiscomparingthetwo!"butthesightofthedeepdistressinPoussinsfacesuddenlysilencedhim;andthougholdpaintersnolongerfeelthesescruples,sopettyinthepresenceofart,headmiredthembecausetheyweresonaturalandgraciousinthelover.Theyoungmankepthishandonthehiltofhisdagger,andhisearwasalmostgluedtothedoor.Thetwomenstandingintheshadowmighthavebeenconspiratorswaitingforthehourwhentheymightstrikedownatyrant.
"Comein,comein,"criedtheoldman.Hewasradiantwithdelight."Myworkisperfect.Icanshowhernowwithpride.Nevershallpainter,brushes,colors,light,andcanvasproducearivalforCatherineLescault,thebeautifulcourtezan!"
PorbusandPoussin,burningwitheagercuriosity,hurriedintoavaststudio.Everythingwasindisorderandcoveredwithdust,buttheysawafewpictureshereandthereuponthewall.Theystoppedfirstofallinadmirationbeforethelife-sizefigureofawomanpartiallydraped.
"Oh!nevermindthat,"saidFrenhofer;"thatisaroughdaubthatImade,astudy,apose,itisnothing.Thesearemyfailures,"hewenton,indicatingtheenchantingcompositionsuponthewallsofthestudio.
ThisscornforsuchworksofartstruckPorbusandPoussindumbwithamazement.Theylookedroundforthepictureofwhichhehadspoken,andcouldnotdiscoverit.
"Lookhere!"saidtheoldman.Hishairwasdisordered,hisfaceaglowwithamorethanhumanexaltation,hiseyesglittered,hebreathedhardlikeayoungloverfrenziedbylove.
"Aha!"hecried,"youdidnotexpecttoseesuchperfection!Youarelookingforapicture,andyouseeawomanbeforeyou.Thereissuchdepthinthatcanvas,theatmosphereissotruethatyoucannotdistinguishitfromtheairthatsurroundsus.Whereisart?Arthasvanished,itisinvisible!Itistheformofalivinggirlthatyouseebeforeyou.HaveInotcaughttheveryhuesoflife,thespiritofthelivinglinethatdefinesthefigure?Istherenottheeffectproducedtherelikethatwhichallnaturalobjectspresentintheatmosphereaboutthem,orfishesinthewater?Doyouseehowthefigurestandsoutagainstthebackground?Doesitnotseemtoyouthatyoupassyourhandalongtheback?ButthenforsevenyearsIstudiedandwatchedhowthedaylightblendswiththeobjectsonwhichitfalls.Andthehair,thelightpoursoveritlikeaflood,doesitnot?Ah!shebreathed,Iamsurethatshebreathed!Herbreast——ah,see!Whowouldnotfallonhiskneesbeforeher?Herpulsesthrob.Shewillrisetoherfeet.Wait!"
"Doyouseeanything?"PoussinaskedofPorbus.
"Nodoyou?"
"Iseenothing."
Thetwopainterslefttheoldmantohisecstasy,andtriedtoascertainwhetherthelightthatfellfulluponthecanvashadinsomewayneutralizedalltheeffectforthem.Theymovedtotherightandleftofthepicture;theycameinfront,bendingdownandstandinguprightbyturns.
"Yes,yes,itisreallycanvas,"saidFrenhofer,whomistookthenatureofthisminuteinvestigation.
"Look!thecanvasisonastretcher,hereistheeasel;indeed,herearemycolors,mybrushes,"andhetookupabrushandhelditouttothem,allunsuspiciousoftheirthought.
"Theold_lansquenet_islaughingatus,"saidPoussin,comingoncemoretowardthesupposedpicture."Icanseenothingtherebutconfusedmassesofcolorandamultitudeoffantasticallinesthatgotomakeadeadwallofpaint."
"Wearemistaken,look!"saidPorbus.
Inacornerofthecanvas,astheycamenearer,theydistinguishedabarefootemergingfromthechaosofcolor,half-tintsandvagueshadowsthatmadeupadim,formlessfog.Itslivingdelicatebeautyheldthemspellbound.Thisfragmentthathadescapedanincomprehensible,slow,andgradualdestructionseemedtothemliketheParianmarbletorsoofsomeVenusemergingfromtheashesofaruinedtown.
"Thereisawomanbeneath,"exclaimedPorbus,callingPoussinsattentiontothecoatsofpaintwithwhichtheoldartisthadoverlaidandconcealedhisworkinthequestofperfection.
BothartiststurnedinvoluntarilytoFrenhofer.Theybegantohavesomeunderstanding,vaguethoughitwas,oftheecstasyinwhichhelived.
"Hebelievesitinallgoodfaith,"saidPorbus.
"Yes,myfriend,"saidtheoldman,rousinghimselffromhisdreams,"itneedsfaith,faithinart,andyoumustliveforlongwithyourworktoproducesuchacreation.Whattoilsomeofthoseshadowshavecostme.Look!thereisafaintshadowthereuponthecheekbeneaththeeyes——ifyousawthatonahumanface,itwouldseemtoyouthatyoucouldneverrenderitwithpaint.Doyouthinkthatthateffecthasnotcostunheardoftoil?
"Butnotonlyso,dearPorbus.Lookcloselyatmywork,andyouwillunderstandmoreclearlywhatIwassayingastomethodsofmodelingandoutline.Lookatthehighlightsonthebosom,andseehowbytouchontouch,thicklylaidon,Ihaveraisedthesurfacesothatitcatchesthelightitselfandblendsitwiththelustrouswhitenessofthehighlights,andhowbyanoppositeprocess,byflatteningthesurfaceofthepaint,andleavingnotraceofthepassageofthebrush,Ihavesucceededinsofteningthecontoursofmyfiguresandenvelopingtheminhalf-tintsuntiltheveryideaofdrawing,ofthemeansbywhichtheeffectisproduced,fadesaway,andthepicturehastheroundnessandreliefofnature.Comecloser.Youwillseethemannerofworkingbetter;atalittledistanceitcannotbeseen.ThereIJustthere,itis,Ithink,veryplainlytobeseen,"andwiththetipofhisbrushhepointedoutapatchoftransparentcolortothetwopainters.
Porbus,layingahandontheoldartistsshoulder,turnedtoPoussinwitha"Doyouknowthatinhimweseeaverygreatpainter?"
"Heisevenmoreofapoetthanapainter,"Poussinansweredgravely.
"There,"Porbuscontinued,ashetouchedthecanvas,"Usetheutmostlimitofourartonearth."
"Beyondthatpointitlosesitselfintheskies,"saidPoussin.
"Whatjoysliethereonthispieceofcanvas!"exclaimedPorbus.
Theoldman,deepinhisownmusings,smiledatthewomanhealonebeheld,anddidnothear.
"Butsoonerorlaterhewillfindoutthatthereisnothingthere!"criedPoussin.
"Nothingonmycanvas!"saidFrenhofer,lookinginturnateitherpainterandathispicture.
"Whathaveyoudone?"mutteredPorbus,turningtoPoussin.
Theoldmanclutchedtheyoungpaintersarmandsaid,"Doyouseenothing?clodpatelHuguenot!varlet!cullion!Whatbroughtyouhereintomystudio?——MygoodPorbus,"hewenton,asheturnedtothepainter,"areyoualsomakingafoolofme?Answer!Iamyourfriend.Tellme,haveIruinedmypictureafterall?"
Porbushesitatedandsaidnothing,buttherewassuchintolerableanxietyintheoldmanswhitefacethathepointedtotheeasel.
"Look!"hesaid.
Frenhoferlookedforamomentathispicture,andstaggeredback.
"Nothing!nothing!Aftertenyearsofwork"Hesatdownandwept.
"SoIamadotard,amadman,Ihaveneithertalentnorpower!Iamonlyarichman,whoworksforhisownpleasure,andmakesnoprogress,Ihavedonenothingafterall!"
Helookedthroughhistearsathispicture.Suddenlyheroseandstoodproudlybeforethetwopainters.
"BythebodyandbloodofChrist,"hecriedwithflashingeyes,"youarejealous!Youwouldhavemethinkthatmypictureisafailurebecauseyouwanttostealherfromme!Ah!Iseeher,Iseeher,"hecried"sheismarvelouslybeautiful"
AtthatmomentPoussinheardthesoundofweeping;Gillettewascrouchingforgotteninacorner.Allatoncethepainteroncemorebecamethelover."Whatisit,myangel?"heaskedher.
"Killme!"shesobbed."ImustbeavilethingifIloveyoustill,forIdespiseyouIadmireyou,andIhateyou!Iloveyou,andIfeelthatIhateyouevennow!"
WhileGilletteswordssoundedinPoussinsears,Frenhoferdrewagreensergecoveringoverhis"Catherine"withthesoberdeliberationofajewelerwholockshisdrawerswhenhesuspectshisvisitorstobeexpertthieves.Hegavethetwopaintersaprofoundlyastuteglancethatexpressedtothefullhissuspicions,andhiscontemptforthem,sawthemoutofhisstudiowithimpetuoushasteandinsilence,untilfromthethresholdofhishousehebadethem"Good-by,myyoungfriends!"
Thatfarewellstruckachillofdreadintothetwopainters.Porbus,inanxiety,wentagainonthemorrowtoseeFrenhofer,andlearnedthathehaddiedinthenightafterburninghiscanvases.
Paris,February,1832.