The Hidden Masterpiece

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THE HIDDEN MASTERPIECE

BY

HONORE DE BALZAC



Translated By
Katharine Prescott Wormeley




THE HIDDEN MASTERPIECE



CHAPTER I

On a cold morning in December, towards the close of the year 1612, a
young man, whose clothing betrayed his poverty, was standing before
the door of a house in the Rue des Grands-Augustine, in Paris. After
walking to and fro for some time with the hesitation of a lover who
fears to approach his mistress, however complying she may be, he ended
by crossing the threshold and asking if Maitre Francois Porbus were
within. At the affirmative answer of an old woman who was sweeping out
one of the lower rooms the young man slowly mounted the stairway,
stopping from time to time and hesitating, like a newly fledged
courier doubtful as to what sort of reception the king might grant
him.

When he reached the upper landing of the spiral ascent, he paused a
moment before laying hold of a grotesque knocker which ornamented the
door of the atelier where the famous painter of Henry IV.--neglected
by Marie de Medicis for Rubens--was probably at work. The young man
felt the strong sensation which vibrates in the soul of great artists
when, in the flush of youth and of their ardor for art, they approach
a man of genius or a masterpiece. In all human sentiments there are,
as it were, primeval flowers bred of noble enthusiasms, which droop
and fade from year to year, till joy is but a memory and glory a lie.
Amid such fleeting emotions nothing so resembles love as the young
passion of an artist who tastes the first delicious anguish of his
destined fame and woe,--a passion daring yet timid, full of vague
confidence and sure discouragement. Is there a man, slender in
fortune, rich in his spring-time of genius, whose heart has not beaten
loudly as he approached a master of his art? If there be, that man
will forever lack some heart-string, some touch, I know not what, of
his brush, some fibre in his creations, some sentiment in his poetry.
When braggarts, self-satisfied and in love with themselves, step early
into the fame which belongs rightly to their future achievements, they
are men of genius only in the eyes of fools. If talent is to be
measured by youthful shyness, by that indefinable modesty which men
born to glory lose in the practice of their art, as a pretty woman
loses hers among the artifices of coquetry, then this unknown young
man might claim to be possessed of genuine merit. The habit of success
lessens doubt; and modesty, perhaps, is doubt.

Worn down with poverty and discouragement, and dismayed at this moment
by his own presumption, the young neophyte might not have dared to
enter the presence of the master to whom we owe our admirable portrait
of Henry IV., if chance had not thrown an unexpected assistance in his
way. An old man mounted the spiral stairway. The oddity of his dress,
the magnificence of his lace ruffles, the solid assurance of his
deliberate step, led the youth to assume that this remarkable
personage must be the patron, or at least the intimate friend, of the
painter. He drew back into a corner of the landing and made room for
the new-comer; looking at him attentively and hoping to find either
the frank good-nature of the artistic temperament, or the serviceable
disposition of those who promote the arts. But on the contrary he
fancied he saw something diabolical in the expression of the old man's
face,--something, I know not what, which has the quality of alluring
the artistic mind.

Imagine a bald head, the brow full and prominent and falling with deep
projection over a little flattened nose turned up at the end like the
noses of Rabelais and Socrates; a laughing, wrinkled mouth; a short
chin boldly chiselled and garnished with a gray beard cut into a
point; sea-green eyes, faded perhaps by age, but whose pupils,
contrasting with the pearl-white balls on which they floated, cast at
times magnetic glances of anger or enthusiasm. The face in other
respects was singularly withered and worn by the weariness of old age,
and still more, it would seem, by the action of thoughts which had
undermined both soul and body. The eyes had lost their lashes, and the
eyebrows were scarcely traced along the projecting arches where they
belonged. Imagine such a head upon a lean and feeble body, surround it
with lace of dazzling whiteness worked in meshes like a fish-slice,
festoon the black velvet doublet of the old man with a heavy gold
chain, and you will have a faint idea of the exterior of this strange
individual, to whose appearance the dusky light of the landing lent
fantastic coloring. You might have thought that a canvas of Rembrandt
without its frame had walked silently up the stairway, bringing with
it the dark atmosphere which was the sign-manual of the great master.
The old man cast a look upon the youth which was full of sagacity;
then he rapped three times upon the door, and said, when it was opened
by a man in feeble health, apparently about forty years of age,
"Good-morning, maitre."

Porbus bowed respectfully, and made way for his guest, allowing the
youth to pass in at the same time, under the impression that he came
with the old man, and taking no further notice of him; all the less
perhaps because the neophyte stood still beneath the spell which holds
a heaven-born painter as he sees for the first time an atelier filled
with the materials and instruments of his art. Daylight came from a
casement in the roof and fell, focussed as it were, upon a canvas
which rested on an easel in the middle of the room, and which bore, as
yet, only three or four chalk lines. The light thus concentrated did
not reach the dark angles of the vast atelier; but a few wandering
reflections gleamed through the russet shadows on the silvered
breastplate of a horseman's cuirass of the fourteenth century as it
hung from the wall, or sent sharp lines of light upon the carved and
polished cornice of a dresser which held specimens of rare pottery and
porcelains, or touched with sparkling points the rough-grained texture
of ancient gold-brocaded curtains, flung in broad folds about the room
to serve the painter as models for his drapery. Anatomical casts in
plaster, fragments and torsos of antique goddesses amorously polished
by the kisses of centuries, jostled each other upon shelves and
brackets. Innumerable sketches, studies in the three crayons, in ink,
and in red chalk covered the walls from floor to ceiling; color-boxes,
bottles of oil and turpentine, easels and stools upset or standing at
right angles, left but a narrow pathway to the circle of light thrown
from the window in the roof, which fell full on the pale face of
Porbus and on the ivory skull of his singular visitor.

The attention of the young man was taken exclusively by a picture
destined to become famous after those days of tumult and revolution,
and which even then was precious in the sight of certain opinionated
individuals to whom we owe the preservation of the divine afflatus
through the dark days when the life of art was in jeopardy. This noble
picture represents the Mary of Egypt as she prepares to pay for her
passage by the ship. It is a masterpiece, painted for Marie de
Medicis, and afterwards sold by her in the days of her distress.

"I like your saint," said the old man to Porbus, "and I will give you
ten golden crowns over and above the queen's offer; but as to entering
into competition with her--the devil!"

"You do like her, then?"

"As for that," said the old man, "yes, and no. The good woman is well
set-up, but--she is not living. You young men think you have done all
when you have drawn the form correctly, and put everything in place
according to the laws of anatomy. You color the features with
flesh-tones, mixed beforehand on your palette,--taking very good care to
shade one side of the face darker than the other; and because you draw
now and then from a nude woman standing on a table, you think you can
copy nature; you fancy yourselves painters, and imagine that you have
got at the secret of God's creations! Pr-r-r-r!--To be a great poet it
is not enough to know the rules of syntax and write faultless grammar.
Look at your saint, Porbus. At first sight she is admirable; but at
the very next glance we perceive that she is glued to the canvas, and
that we cannot walk round her. She is a silhouette with only one side,
a semblance cut in outline, an image that can't turn nor change her
position. I feel no air between this arm and the background of the
picture; space and depth are wanting. All is in good perspective; the
atmospheric gradations are carefully observed, and yet in spite of
your conscientious labor I cannot believe that this beautiful body has
the warm breath of life. If I put my hand on that firm, round throat I
shall find it cold as marble. No, no, my friend, blood does not run
beneath that ivory skin; the purple tide of life does not swell those
veins, nor stir those fibres which interlace like net-work below the
translucent amber of the brow and breast. This part palpitates with
life, but that other part is not living; life and death jostle each
other in every detail. Here, you have a woman; there, a statue; here
again, a dead body. Your creation is incomplete. You have breathed
only a part of your soul into the well-beloved work. The torch of
Prometheus went out in your hands over and over again; there are
several parts of your painting on which the celestial flame never
shone."

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

"Ah! that is the question," said the little old man. "You are floating
between two systems,--between drawing and color, between the patient
phlegm and honest stiffness of the old Dutch masters and the dazzling
warmth and abounding joy of the Italians. You have tried to follow, at
one and the same time, Hans Holbein and Titian; Albrecht Durier and
Paul Veronese. Well, well! it was a glorious ambition, but what is the
result? You have neither the stern attraction of severity nor the
deceptive magic of the chiaroscuro. See! at this place the rich, clear
color of Titian has forced out the skeleton outline of Albrecht
Durier, as molten bronze might burst and overflow a slender mould.
Here and there the outline has resisted the flood, and holds back the
magnificent torrent of Venetian color. Your figure is neither
perfectly well painted nor perfectly well drawn; it bears throughout
the signs of this unfortunate indecision. If you did not feel that the
fire of your genius was hot enough to weld into one the rival methods,
you ought to have chosen honestly the one or the other, and thus
attained the unity which conveys one aspect, at least, of life. As it
is, you are true only on your middle plane. Your outlines are false;
they do not round upon themselves; they suggest nothing behind them.
There is truth here," said the old man, pointing to the bosom of the
saint; "and here," showing the spot where the shoulder ended against
the background; "but there," he added, returning to the throat, "it is
all false. Do not inquire into the why and wherefore. I should fill
you with despair."

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

"Master," said Porbus at length, "I studied that throat from the nude;
but, to our sorrow, there are effects in nature which become false or
impossible when placed on canvas."

"The mission of art is not to copy nature, but to represent it. You
are not an abject copyist, but a poet," cried the old man, hastily
interrupting Porbus with a despotic gesture. "If it were not so, a
sculptor could reach the height of his art by merely moulding a woman.
Try to mould the hand of your mistress, and see what you will get,
--ghastly articulations, without the slightest resemblance to her
living hand; you must have recourse to the chisel of a man who, without
servilely copying that hand, can give it movement and life. It is our
mission to seize the mind, soul, countenance of things and beings.
Effects! effects! what are they? the mere accidents of the life, and
not the life itself. A hand,--since I have taken that as an example,
--a hand is not merely a part of the body, it is far more; it expresses
and carries on a thought which we must seize and render. Neither the
painter nor the poet nor the sculptor should separate the effect from
the cause, for they are indissolubly one. The true struggle of art
lies there. Many a painter has triumphed through instinct without
knowing this theory of art as a theory.

"Yes," continued the old man vehemently, "you draw a woman, but you do
not _see_ her. That is not the way to force an entrance into the arcana
of Nature. Your hand reproduces, without an action of your mind, the
model you copied under a master. You do not search out the secrets of
form, nor follow its windings and evolutions with enough love and
perseverance. Beauty is solemn and severe, and cannot be attained in
that way; we must wait and watch its times and seasons, and clasp it
firmly ere it yields to us. Form is a Proteus less easily captured,
more skilful to double and escape, than the Proteus of fable; it is
only at the cost of struggle that we compel it to come forth in its
true aspects. You young men are content with the first glimpse you get
of it; or, at any rate, with the second or the third. This is not the
spirit of the great warriors of art,--invincible powers, not misled by
will-o'-the-wisps, but advancing always until they force Nature to lie
bare in her divine integrity. That was Raphael's method," said the old
man, lifting his velvet cap in homage to the sovereign of art; "his
superiority came from the inward essence which seems to break from the
inner to the outer of his figures. Form with him was what it is with
us,--a medium by which to communicate ideas, sensations, feelings; in
short, the infinite poesy of being. Every figure is a world; a
portrait, whose original stands forth like a sublime vision, colored
with the rainbow tints of light, drawn by the monitions of an inward
voice, laid bare by a divine finger which points to the past of its
whole existence as the source of its given expression. You clothe your
women with delicate skins and glorious draperies of hair, but where is
the blood which begets the passion or the peace of their souls, and is
the cause of what you call 'effects'? Your saint is a dark woman; but
this, my poor Porbus, belongs to a fair one. Your figures are pale,
colored phantoms, which you present to our eyes; and you call that
painting! art! Because you make something which looks more like a
woman than a house, you think you have touched the goal; proud of not
being obliged to write "currus venustus" or "pulcher homo" on the
frame of your picture, you think yourselves majestic artists like our
great forefathers. Ha, ha! you have not got there yet, my little men;
you will use up many a crayon and spoil many a canvas before you reach
that height. Undoubtedly a woman carries her head this way and her
petticoats that way; her eyes soften and droop with just that look of
resigned gentleness; the throbbing shadow of the eyelashes falls
exactly thus upon her cheek. That is it, and--that is _not it_. What
lacks? A mere nothing; but that mere nothing is _all_. You have given
the shadow of life, but you have not given its fulness, its being, its
--I know not what--soul, perhaps, which floats vaporously about the
tabernacle of flesh; in short, that flower of life which Raphael and
Titian culled. Start from the point you have now attained, and perhaps
you may yet paint a worthy picture; you grew weary too soon.
Mediocrity will extol your work; but the true artist smiles. O Mabuse!
O my master!" added this singular person, "you were a thief; you have
robbed us of your life, your knowledge, your art! But at least," he
resumed after a pause, "this picture is better than the paintings of
that rascally Rubens, with his mountains of Flemish flesh daubed with
vermilion, his cascades of red hair, and his hurly-burly of color. At
any rate, you have got the elements of color, drawing, and sentiment,
--the three essential parts of art."

"But the saint is sublime, good sir!" cried the young man in a loud
voice, waking from a deep reverie. "These figures, the saint and the
boatman, have a subtile meaning which the Italian painters cannot
give. I do not know one of them who could have invented that
hesitation of the boatman."

"Does the young fellow belong to you?" asked Porbus of the old man.

"Alas, maitre, forgive my boldness," said the neophyte, blushing. "I
am all unknown; only a dauber by instinct. I have just come to Paris,
that fountain of art and science."

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

The unknown copied the saint with an easy turn of his hand.

"Oh! oh!" exclaimed the old man, "what is your name?"

The youth signed the drawing: Nicolas Poussin.

"Not bad for a beginner," said the strange being who had discoursed so
wildly. "I see that it is worth while to talk art before you. I don't
blame you for admiring Porbus's saint. It is a masterpiece for the
world at large; only those who are behind the veil of the holy of
holies can perceive its errors. But you are worthy of a lesson, and
capable of understanding it. I will show you how little is needed to
turn that picture into a true masterpiece. Give all your eyes and all
your attention; such a chance of instruction may never fall in your
way again. Your palette, Porbus."

Porbus fetched his palette and brushes. The little old man turned up
his cuffs with convulsive haste, slipped his thumb through the palette
charged with prismatic colors, and snatched, rather than took, the
handful of brushes which Porbus held out to him. As he did so his
beard, cut to a point, seemed to quiver with the eagerness of an
incontinent fancy; and while he filled his brush he muttered between
his teeth:--

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

Then he dipped the point of his brush with feverish haste into the
various tints, running through the whole scale with more rapidity than
the organist of a cathedral runs up the gamut of the "O Filii" at
Easter.

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

"See, young man," said the old man without turning round, "see how
with three or four touches and a faint bluish glaze you can make the
air circulate round the head of the poor saint, who was suffocating in
that thick atmosphere. Look how the drapery now floats, and you see
that the breeze lifts it; just now it looked like heavy linen held out
by pins. Observe that the satiny lustre I am putting on the bosom
gives it the plump suppleness of the flesh of a young girl. See how
this tone of mingled reddish-brown and ochre warms up the cold
grayness of that large shadow where the blood seemed to stagnate
rather than flow. Young man, young man! what I am showing you now no
other master in the world can teach you. Mabuse alone knew the secret
of giving life to form. Mabuse had but one pupil, and I am he. I never
took a pupil, and I am an old man now. You are intelligent enough to
guess at what should follow from the little that I shall show you
to-day."

While he was speaking, the extraordinary old man was giving touches
here and there to all parts of the picture. Here two strokes of the
brush, there one, but each so telling that together they brought out a
new painting,--a painting steeped, as it were, in light. He worked
with such passionate ardor that the sweat rolled in great drops from
his bald brow; and his motions seemed to be jerked out of him with
such rapidity and impatience that the young Poussin fancied a demon,
encased with the body of this singular being, was working his hands
fantastically like those of a puppet without, or even against, the
will of their owner. The unnatural brightness of his eyes, the
convulsive movements which seemed the result of some mental
resistance, gave to this fancy of the youth a semblance of truth which
reacted upon his lively imagination. The old man worked on, muttering
half to himself, half to his neophyte:--

"Paf! paf! paf! that is how we butter it on, young man. Ah! my little
pats, you are right; warm up that icy tone. Come, come!--pon, pon,
pon,--" he continued, touching up the spots where he had complained of
a lack of life, hiding under layers of color the conflicting methods,
and regaining the unity of tone essential to an ardent Egyptian.

"Now see, my little friend, it is only the last touches of the brush
that count for anything. Porbus put on a hundred; I have only put on
one or two. Nobody will thank us for what is underneath, remember
that!"

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

"It is not yet equal to my Beautiful Nut-girl; still, one can put
one's name to such a work. Yes, I will sign it," he added, rising to
fetch a mirror in which to look at what he had done. "Now let us go
and breakfast. Come, both of you, to my house. I have some smoked ham
and good wine. Hey! hey! in spite of the degenerate times we will talk
painting; we are strong ourselves. Here is a little man," he
continued, striking Nicolas Poussin on the shoulder, "who has the
faculty."

Observing the shabby cap of the youth, he pulled from his belt a
leathern purse from which he took two gold pieces and offered them to
him, saying,--

"I buy your drawing."

"Take them," said Porbus to Poussin, seeing that the latter trembled
and blushed with shame, for the young scholar had the pride of
poverty; "take them, he has the ransom of two kings in his pouch."

The three left the atelier and proceeded, talking all the way of art,
to a handsome wooden house standing near the Pont Saint-Michel, whose
window-casings and arabesque decoration amazed Poussin. The embryo
painter soon found himself in one of the rooms on the ground floor
seated, beside a good fire, at a table covered with appetizing dishes,
and, by unexpected good fortune, in company with two great artists who
treated him with kindly attention.

"Young man," said Porbus, observing that he was speechless, with his
eyes fixed on a picture, "do not look at that too long, or you will
fall into despair."

It was the Adam of Mabuse, painted by that wayward genius to enable
him to get out of the prison where his creditors had kept him so long.
The figure presented such fulness and force of reality that Nicolas
Poussin began to comprehend the meaning of the bewildering talk of the
old man. The latter looked at the picture with a satisfied but not
enthusiastic manner, which seemed to say, "I have done better myself."

"There is life in the form," he remarked. "My poor master surpassed
himself there; but observe the want of truth in the background. The
man is living, certainly; he rises and is coming towards us; but the
atmosphere, the sky, the air that we breathe, see, feel,--where are
they? Besides, that is only a man; and the being who came first from
the hand of God must needs have had something divine about him which
is lacking here. Mabuse said so himself with vexation in his sober
moments."

Poussin looked alternately at the old man and at Porbus with uneasy
curiosity. He turned to the latter as if to ask the name of their
host, but the painter laid a finger on his lips with an air of
mystery, and the young man, keenly interested, kept silence, hoping
that sooner or later some word of the conversation might enable him to
guess the name of the old man, whose wealth and genius were
sufficiently attested by the respect which Porbus showed him, and by
the marvels of art heaped together in the picturesque apartment.

Poussin, observing against the dark panelling of the wall a
magnificent portrait of a woman, exclaimed aloud, "What a magnificent
Giorgione!"

"No," remarked the old man, "that is only one of my early daubs."

"Zounds!" cried Poussin naively; "are you the king of painters?"

The old man smiled, as if long accustomed to such homage. "Maitre
Frenhofer," said Porbus, "could you order up a little of your good
Rhine wine for me?"

"Two casks," answered the host; "one to pay for the pleasure of
looking at your pretty sinner this morning, and the other as a mark of
friendship."

"Ah! if I were not so feeble," resumed Porbus, "and if you would
consent to let me see your Beautiful Nut-girl, I too could paint some
lofty picture, grand and yet profound, where the forms should have the
living life."

"Show my work!" exclaimed the old man, with deep emotion. "No, no! I
have still to bring it to perfection. Yesterday, towards evening, I
thought it was finished. Her eyes were liquid, her flesh trembled, her
tresses waved--she breathed! And yet, though I have grasped the secret
of rendering on a flat canvas the relief and roundness of nature, this
morning at dawn I saw many errors. Ah! to attain that glorious result,
I have studied to their depths the masters of color. I have analyzed
and lifted, layer by layer, the colors of Titian, king of light. Like
him, great sovereign of art, I have sketched my figure in light clear
tones of supple yet solid color; for shadow is but an accident,
--remember that, young man. Then I worked backward, as it were; and
by means of half-tints, and glazings whose transparency I kept
diminishing little by little, I was able to cast strong shadows
deepening almost to blackness. The shadows of ordinary painters are
not of the same texture as their tones of light. They are wood, brass,
iron, anything you please except flesh in shadow. We feel that if the
figures changed position the shady places would not be wiped off, and
would remain dark spots which never could be made luminous. I have
avoided that blunder, though many of our most illustrious painters
have fallen into it. In my work you will see whiteness beneath the
opacity of the broadest shadow. Unlike the crowd of ignoramuses, who
fancy they draw correctly because they can paint one good vanishing
line, I have not dryly outlined my figures, nor brought out
superstitiously minute anatomical details; for, let me tell you, the
human body does not end off with a line. In that respect sculptors get
nearer to the truth of nature than we do. Nature is all curves, each
wrapping or overlapping another. To speak rigorously, there is no such
thing as drawing. Do not laugh, young man; no matter how strange that
saying seems to you, you will understand the reasons for it one of
these days. A line is a means by which man explains to himself the
effect of light upon a given object; but there is no such thing as a
line in nature, where all things are rounded and full. It is only in
modelling that we really draw,--in other words, that we detach things
from their surroundings and put them in their due relief. The proper
distribution of light can alone reveal the whole body. For this reason
I do not sharply define lineaments; I diffuse about their outline a
haze of warm, light half-tints, so that I defy any one to place a
finger on the exact spot where the parts join the groundwork of the
picture. If seen near by this sort of work has a woolly effect, and is
wanting in nicety and precision; but go a few steps off and the parts
fall into place; they take their proper form and detach themselves,
--the body turns, the limbs stand out, we feel the air circulating
around them.