The Hidden Masterpiece

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"Nevertheless," he continued, sadly, "I am not satisfied; there are
moments when I have my doubts. Perhaps it would be better not to
sketch a single line. I ask myself if I ought not to grasp the figure
first by its highest lights, and then work down to the darker
portions. Is not that the method of the sun, divine painter of the
universe? O Nature, Nature! who has ever caught thee in thy flights?
Alas! the heights of knowledge, like the depths of ignorance, lead to
unbelief. I doubt my work."

The old man paused, then resumed. "For ten years I have worked, young
man; but what are ten short years in the long struggle with Nature? We
do not know the type it cost Pygmalion to make the only statue that
ever walked--"

He fell into a reverie and remained, with fixed eyes, oblivious of all
about him, playing mechanically with his knife.

"See, he is talking to his own soul," said Porbus in a low voice.

The words acted like a spell on Nicolas Poussin, filling him with the
inexplicable curiosity of a true artist. The strange old man, with his
white eyes fixed in stupor, became to the wondering youth something
more than a man; he seemed a fantastic spirit inhabiting an unknown
sphere, and waking by its touch confused ideas within the soul. We can
no more define the moral phenomena of this species of fascination than
we can render in words the emotions excited in the heart of an exile
by a song which recalls his fatherland. The contempt which the old man
affected to pour upon the noblest efforts of art, his wealth, his
manners, the respectful deference shown to him by Porbus, his work
guarded so secretly,--a work of patient toil, a work no doubt of
genius, judging by the head of the Virgin which Poussin had so naively
admired, and which, beautiful beside even the Adam of Mabuse, betrayed
the imperial touch of a great artist,--in short, everything about the
strange old man seemed beyond the limits of human nature. The rich
imagination of the youth fastened upon the one perceptible and clear
clew to the mystery of this supernatural being,--the presence of the
artistic nature, that wild impassioned nature to which such mighty
powers have been confided, which too often abuses those powers, and
drags cold reason and common souls, and even lovers of art, over stony
and arid places, where for such there is neither pleasure nor
instruction; while to the artistic soul itself,--that white-winged
angel of sportive fancy,--epics, works of art, and visions rise along
the way. It is a nature, an essence, mocking yet kind, fruitful though
destitute. Thus, for the enthusiastic Poussin, the old man became by
sudden transfiguration Art itself,--art with all its secrets, its
transports, and its dreams.

"Yes, my dear Porbus," said Frenhofer, speaking half in reverie, "I
have never yet beheld a perfect woman; a body whose outlines were
faultless and whose flesh-tints--Ah! where lives she?" he cried,
interrupting his own words; "where lives the lost Venus of the
ancients, so long sought for, whose scattered beauty we snatch by
glimpses? Oh! to see for a moment, a single moment, the divine
completed nature,--the ideal,--I would give my all of fortune. Yes; I
would search thee out, celestial Beauty! in thy farthest sphere. Like
Orpheus, I would go down to hell to win back the life of art--"

"Let us go," said Porbus to Poussin; "he neither sees nor hears us any
longer."

"Let us go to his atelier," said the wonder-struck young man.

"Oh! the old dragon has guarded the entrance. His treasure is out of
our reach. I have not waited for your wish or urging to attempt an
assault on the mystery."

"Mystery! then there is a mystery?"

"Yes," answered Porbus. "Frenhofer was the only pupil Mabuse was
willing to teach. He became the friend, saviour, father of that
unhappy man, and he sacrificed the greater part of his wealth to
satisfy the mad passions of his master. In return, Mabuse bequeathed
to him the secret of relief, the power of giving life to form,--that
flower of nature, our perpetual despair, which Mabuse had seized so
well that once, having sold and drunk the value of a flowered damask
which he should have worn at the entrance of Charles V., he made his
appearance in a paper garment painted to resemble damask. The splendor
of the stuff attracted the attention of the emperor, who, wishing to
compliment the old drunkard, laid a hand upon his shoulder and
discovered the deception. Frenhofer is a man carried away by the
passion of his art; he sees above and beyond what other painters see.
He has meditated deeply on color and the absolute truth of lines; but
by dint of much research, much thought, much study, he has come to
doubt the object for which he is searching. In his hours of despair he
fancies that drawing does not exist, and that lines can render nothing
but geometric figures. That, of course, is not true; because with a
black line which has no color we can represent the human form. This
proves that our art is made up, like nature, of an infinite number of
elements. Drawing gives the skeleton, and color gives the life; but
life without the skeleton is a far more incomplete thing than the
skeleton without the life. But there is a higher truth still,--namely,
that practice and observation are the essentials of a painter; and
that if reason and poesy persist in wrangling with the tools, the
brushes, we shall be brought to doubt, like Frenhofer, who is as much
excited in brain as he is exalted in art. A sublime painter, indeed;
but he had the misfortune to be born rich, and that enables him to
stray into theory and conjecture. Do not imitate him. Work! work!
painters should theorize with their brushes in their hands."

"We will contrive to get in," cried Poussin, not listening to Porbus,
and thinking only of the hidden masterpiece.

Porbus smiled at the youth's enthusiasm, and bade him farewell with a
kindly invitation to come and visit him.

* * * * *

Nicolas Poussin returned slowly towards the Rue de la Harpe and
passed, without observing that he did so, the modest hostelry where he
was lodging. Returning presently upon his steps, he ran up the
miserable stairway with anxious rapidity until he reached an upper
chamber nestling between the joists of a roof "en colombage,"--the
plain, slight covering of the houses of old Paris. Near the single and
gloomy window of the room sat a young girl, who rose quickly as the
door opened, with a gesture of love; she had recognized the young
man's touch upon the latch.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"It is--it is," he cried, choking with joy, "that I feel myself a
painter! I have doubted it till now; but to-day I believe in myself. I
can be a great man. Ah, Gillette, we shall be rich, happy! There is
gold in these brushes!"

Suddenly he became silent. His grave and earnest face lost its
expression of joy; he was comparing the immensity of his hopes with
the mediocrity of his means. The walls of the garret were covered with
bits of paper on which were crayon sketches; he possessed only four
clean canvases. Colors were at that time costly, and the poor
gentleman gazed at a palette that was well-nigh bare. In the midst of
this poverty he felt within himself an indescribable wealth of heart
and the superabundant force of consuming genius. Brought to Paris by a
gentleman of his acquaintance, and perhaps by the monition of his own
talent, he had suddenly found a mistress,--one of those generous and
noble souls who are ready to suffer by the side of a great man;
espousing his poverty, studying to comprehend his caprices, strong to
bear deprivation and bestow love, as others are daring in the display
of luxury and in parading the insensibility of their hearts. The smile
which flickered on her lips brightened as with gold the darkness of
the garret and rivalled the effulgence of the skies; for the sun did
not always shine in the heavens, but she was always here,--calm and
collected in her passion, living in his happiness, his griefs;
sustaining the genius which overflowed in love ere it found in art its
destined expression.

"Listen, Gillette; come!"

The obedient, happy girl sprang lightly on the painter's knee. She was
all grace and beauty, pretty as the spring-time, decked with the
wealth of feminine charm, and lighting all with the fire of a noble
soul.

"O God!" he exclaimed, "I can never tell her!"

"A secret!" she cried; "then I must know it."

Poussin was lost in thought.

"Tell me."

"Gillette, poor, beloved heart!"

"Ah! do you want something of me?"

"Yes."

"If you want me to pose as I did the other day," she said, with a
little pouting air, "I will not do it. Your eyes say nothing to me,
then. You look at me, but you do not think of me."

"Would you like me to copy another woman?"

"Perhaps," she answered, "if she were very ugly."

"Well," continued Poussin, in a grave tone, "if to make me a great
painter it were necessary to pose to some one else--"

"You are testing me," she interrupted; "you know well that I would not
do it."

Poussin bent his head upon his breast like a man succumbing to joy or
grief too great for his spirit to bear.

"Listen," she said, pulling him by the sleeve of his worn doublet, "I
told you, Nick, that I would give my life for you; but I never said
--never!--that I, a living woman, would renounce my love."

"Renounce it?" cried Poussin.

"If I showed myself thus to another you would love me no longer; and I
myself, I should feel unworthy of your love. To obey your caprices,
ah, that is simple and natural! in spite of myself, I am proud and
happy in doing thy dear will; but to another, fy!"

"Forgive me, my own Gillette," said the painter, throwing himself at
her feet. "I would rather be loved than famous. To me thou art more
precious than fortune and honors. Yes, away with these brushes! burn
those sketches! I have been mistaken. My vocation is to love thee,
--thee alone! I am not a painter, I am thy lover. Perish art and all
its secrets!"

She looked at him admiringly, happy and captivated by his passion. She
reigned; she felt instinctively that the arts were forgotten for her
sake, and flung at her feet like grains of incense.

"Yet he is only an old man," resumed Poussin. "In you he would see
only a woman. You are the perfect woman whom he seeks."

"Love should grant all things!" she exclaimed, ready to sacrifice
love's scruples to reward the lover who thus seemed to sacrifice his
art to her. "And yet," she added, "it would be my ruin. Ah, to suffer
for thy good! Yes, it is glorious! But thou wilt forget me. How came
this cruel thought into thy mind?"

"It came there, and yet I love thee," he said, with a sort of
contrition. "Am I, then, a wretch?"

"Let us consult Pere Hardouin."

"No, no! it must be a secret between us."

"Well, I will go; but thou must not be present," she said. "Stay at
the door, armed with thy dagger. If I cry out, enter and kill the
man."

Forgetting all but his art, Poussin clasped her in his arms.

"He loves me no longer!" thought Gillette, when she was once more
alone.

She regretted her promise. But before long she fell a prey to an
anguish far more cruel than her regret; and she struggled vainly to
drive forth a terrible fear which forced its way into her mind. She
felt that she loved him less as the suspicion rose in her heart that
he was less worthy than she had thought him.



CHAPTER II

Three months after the first meeting of Porbus and Poussin, the former
went to see Maitre Frenhofer. He found the old man a prey to one of
those deep, self-developed discouragements, whose cause, if we are to
believe the mathematicians of health, lies in a bad digestion, in the
wind, in the weather, in some swelling of the intestines, or else,
according to casuists, in the imperfections of our moral nature; the
fact being that the good man was simply worn out by the effort to
complete his mysterious picture. He was seated languidly in a large
oaken chair of vast dimensions covered with black leather; and without
changing his melancholy attitude he cast on Porbus the distant glance
of a man sunk in absolute dejection.

"Well, maitre," said Porbus, "was the distant ultra-marine, for which
you journeyed to Brussels, worthless? Are you unable to grind a new
white? Is the oil bad, or the brushes restive?"

"Alas!" cried the old man, "I thought for one moment that my work was
accomplished; but I must have deceived myself in some of the details.
I shall have no peace until I clear up my doubts. I am about to
travel; I go to Turkey, Asia, Greece, in search of models. I must
compare my picture with various types of Nature. It may be that I have
up _there_," he added, letting a smile of satisfaction flicker on his
lip, "Nature herself. At times I am half afraid that a brush may wake
this woman, and that she will disappear from sight."

He rose suddenly, as if to depart at once. "Wait," exclaimed Porbus.
"I have come in time to spare you the costs and fatigues of such a
journey."

"How so?" asked Frenhofer, surprised.

"Young Poussin is beloved by a woman whose incomparable beauty is
without imperfection. But, my dear master, if he consents to lend her
to you, at least you must let us see your picture."

The old man remained standing, motionless, in a state bordering on
stupefaction. "What!" he at last exclaimed, mournfully. "Show my
creature, my spouse?--tear off the veil with which I have chastely
hidden my joy? It would be prostitution! For ten years I have lived
with this woman; she is mine, mine alone! she loves me! Has she not
smiled upon me as, touch by touch, I painted her? She has a soul,--the
soul with which I endowed her. She would blush if other eyes than mine
beheld her. Let her be seen?--where is the husband, the lover, so
debased as to lend his wife to dishonor? When you paint a picture for
the court you do not put your whole soul into it; you sell to
courtiers your tricked-out lay-figures. My painting is not a picture;
it is a sentiment, a passion! Born in my atelier, she must remain a
virgin there. She shall not leave it unclothed. Poesy and women give
themselves bare, like truth, to lovers only. Have we the model of
Raphael, the Angelica of Ariosto, the Beatrice of Dante? No, we see
but their semblance. Well, the work which I keep hidden behind bolts
and bars is an exception to all other art. It is not a canvas; it is a
woman,--a woman with whom I weep and laugh and think and talk. Would
you have me resign the joy of ten years, as I might throw away a
worn-out doublet? Shall I, in a moment, cease to be father, lover,
creator?--this woman is not a creature; she is my creation. Bring your
young man; I will give him my treasures,--paintings of Correggio,
Michael-Angelo, Titian; I will kiss the print of his feet in the dust,
--but make him my rival? Shame upon me! Ha! I am more a lover than I am
a painter. I shall have the strength to burn my Nut-girl ere I render my
last sigh; but suffer her to endure the glance of a man, a young man,
a painter?--No, no! I would kill on the morrow the man who polluted
her with a look! I would kill you,--you, my friend,--if you did not
worship her on your knees; and think you I would submit my idol to the
cold eyes and stupid criticisms of fools? Ah, love is a mystery! its
life is in the depths of the soul; it dies when a man says, even to
his friend, Here is she whom I love."

The old man seemed to renew his youth; his eyes had the brilliancy and
fire of life, his pale cheeks blushed a vivid red, his hands trembled.
Porbus, amazed by the passionate violence with which he uttered these
words, knew not how to answer a feeling so novel and yet so profound.
Was the old man under the thraldom of an artist's fancy? Or did these
ideas flow from the unspeakable fanaticism produced at times in every
mind by the long gestation of a noble work? Was it possible to bargain
with this strange and whimsical being?

Filled with such thoughts, Porbus said to the old man, "Is it not
woman for woman? Poussin lends his mistress to your eyes."

"What sort of mistress is that?" cried Frenhofer. "She will betray him
sooner or later. Mine will be to me forever faithful."

"Well," returned Porbus, "then let us say no more. But before you
find, even in Asia, a woman as beautiful, as perfect, as the one I
speak of, you may be dead, and your picture forever unfinished."

"Oh, it is finished!" said Frenhofer. "Whoever sees it will find a
woman lying on a velvet bed, beneath curtains; perfumes are exhaling
from a golden tripod by her side: he will be tempted to take the
tassels of the cord that holds back the curtain; he will think he
sees the bosom of Catherine Lescaut,--a model called the Beautiful
Nut-girl; he will see it rise and fall with the movement of her
breathing. Yet--I wish I could be sure--"

"Go to Asia, then," said Porbus hastily, fancying he saw some
hesitation in the old man's eye.

Porbus made a few steps towards the door of the room. At this moment
Gillette and Nicolas Poussin reached the entrance of the house. As the
young girl was about to enter, she dropped the arm of her lover and
shrank back as if overcome by a presentiment. "What am I doing here?"
she said to Poussin, in a deep voice, looking at him fixedly.

"Gillette, I leave you mistress of your actions; I will obey your
will. You are my conscience, my glory. Come home; I shall be happy,
perhaps, if you, yourself--"

"Have I a self when you speak thus to me? Oh, no! I am but a child.
Come," she continued, seeming to make a violent effort. "If our love
perishes, if I put into my heart a long regret, thy fame shall be the
guerdon of my obedience to thy will. Let us enter. I may yet live
again,--a memory on thy palette."

Opening the door of the house the two lovers met Porbus coming out.
Astonished at the beauty of the young girl, whose eyes were still wet
with tears, he caught her all trembling by the hand and led her to the
old master.

"There!" he cried; "is she not worth all the masterpieces in the
world?"

Frenhofer quivered. Gillette stood before him in the ingenuous, simple
attitude of a young Georgian, innocent and timid, captured by brigands
and offered to a slave-merchant. A modest blush suffused her cheeks,
her eyes were lowered, her hands hung at her sides, strength seemed to
abandon her, and her tears protested against the violence done to her
purity. Poussin cursed himself, and repented of his folly in bringing
this treasure from their peaceful garret. Once more he became a lover
rather than an artist; scruples convulsed his heart as he saw the eye
of the old painter regain its youth and, with the artist's habit,
disrobe as it were the beauteous form of the young girl. He was seized
with the jealous frenzy of a true lover.

"Gillette!" he cried; "let us go."

At this cry, with its accent of love, his mistress raised her eyes
joyfully and looked at him; then she ran into his arms.

"Ah! you love me still?" she whispered, bursting into tears.

Though she had had strength to hide her suffering, she had none to
hide her joy.

"Let me have her for one moment," exclaimed the old master, "and you
shall compare her with my Catherine. Yes, yes; I consent!"

There was love in the cry of Frenhofer as in that of Poussin, mingled
with jealous coquetry on behalf of his semblance of a woman; he seemed
to revel in the triumph which the beauty of his virgin was about to
win over the beauty of the living woman.

"Do not let him retract," cried Porbus, striking Poussin on the
shoulder. "The fruits of love wither in a day; those of art are
immortal."

"Can it be," said Gillette, looking steadily at Poussin and at Porbus,
"that I am nothing more than a woman to him?"

She raised her head proudly; and as she glanced at Frenhofer with
flashing eyes she saw her lover gazing once more at the picture he had
formerly taken for a Giorgione.

"Ah!" she cried, "let us go in; he never looked at me like that!"

"Old man!" said Poussin, roused from his meditation by Gillette's
voice, "see this sword. I will plunge it into your heart at the first
cry of that young girl. I will set fire to your house, and no one
shall escape from it. Do you understand me?"

His look was gloomy and the tones of his voice were terrible. His
attitude, and above all the gesture with which he laid his hand upon
the weapon, comforted the poor girl, who half forgave him for thus
sacrificing her to his art and to his hopes of a glorious future.

Porbus and Poussin remained outside the closed door of the atelier,
looking at one another in silence. At first the painter of the
Egyptian Mary uttered a few exclamations: "Ah, she unclothes herself!"
--"He tells her to stand in the light!"--"He compares them!" but he
grew silent as he watched the mournful face of the young man; for
though old painters have none of such petty scruples in presence of
their art, yet they admire them in others, when they are fresh and
pleasing. The young man held his hand on his sword, and his ear seemed
glued to the panel of the door. Both men, standing darkly in the
shadow, looked like conspirators waiting the hour to strike a tyrant.

"Come in! come in!" cried the old man, beaming with happiness. "My
work is perfect; I can show it now with pride. Never shall painter,
brushes, colors, canvas, light, produce the rival of Catherine
Lescaut, the Beautiful Nut-girl."

Porbus and Poussin, seized with wild curiosity, rushed into the middle
of a vast atelier filled with dust, where everything lay in disorder,
and where they saw a few paintings hanging here and there upon the
walls. They stopped before the figure of a woman, life-sized and half
nude, which filled them with eager admiration.

"Do not look at that," said Frenhofer, "it is only a daub which I made
to study a pose; it is worth nothing. Those are my errors," he added,
waving his hand towards the enchanting compositions on the walls
around them.

At these words Porbus and Poussin, amazed at the disdain which the
master showed for such marvels of art, looked about them for the
secret treasure, but could see it nowhere.

"There it is!" said the old man, whose hair fell in disorder about his
face, which was scarlet with supernatural excitement. His eyes
sparkled, and his breast heaved like that of a young man beside
himself with love.

"Ah!" he cried, "did you not expect such perfection? You stand before
a woman, and you are looking for a picture! There are such depths on
that canvas, the air within it is so true, that you are unable to
distinguish it from the air you breathe. Where is art? Departed,
vanished! Here is the form itself of a young girl. Have I not caught
the color, the very life of the line which seems to terminate the
body? The same phenomenon which we notice around fishes in the water
is also about objects which float in air. See how these outlines
spring forth from the background. Do you not feel that you could pass
your hand behind those shoulders? For seven years have I studied these
effects of light coupled with form. That hair,--is it not bathed in
light? Why, she breathes! That bosom,--see! Ah! who would not worship
it on bended knee? The flesh palpitates! Wait, she is about to rise;
wait!"

"Can you see anything?" whispered Poussin to Porbus.

"Nothing. Can you?"

"No."

The two painters drew back, leaving the old man absorbed in ecstasy,
and tried to see if the light, falling plumb upon the canvas at which
he pointed, had neutralized all effects. They examined the picture,
moving from right to left, standing directly before it, bending,
swaying, rising by turns.

"Yes, yes; it is really a canvas," cried Frenhofer, mistaking the
purpose of their examination. "See, here is the frame, the easel;
these are my colors, my brushes." And he caught up a brush which he
held out to them with a naive motion.

"The old rogue is making game of us," said Poussin, coming close to
the pretended picture. "I can see nothing here but a mass of confused
color, crossed by a multitude of eccentric lines, making a sort of
painted wall."

"We are mistaken. See!" returned Porbus.

Coming nearer, they perceived in a corner of the canvas the point of a
naked foot, which came forth from the chaos of colors, tones, shadows
hazy and undefined, misty and without form,--an enchanting foot, a
living foot. They stood lost in admiration before this glorious
fragment breaking forth from the incredible, slow, progressive
destruction around it. The foot seemed to them like the torso of some
Grecian Venus, brought to light amid the ruins of a burned city.

"There is a woman beneath it all!" cried Porbus, calling Poussin's
attention to the layers of color which the old painter had
successively laid on, believing that he thus brought his work to
perfection. The two men turned towards him with one accord, beginning
to comprehend, though vaguely, the ecstasy in which he lived.

"He means it in good faith," said Porbus.

"Yes, my friend," answered the old man, rousing from his abstraction,
"we need faith; faith in art. We must live with our work for years
before we can produce a creation like that. Some of these shadows have
cost me endless toil. See, there on her cheek, below the eyes, a faint
half-shadow; if you observed it in Nature you might think it could
hardly be rendered. Well, believe me, I took unheard-of pains to
reproduce that effect. My dear Porbus, look attentively at my work,
and you will comprehend what I have told you about the manner of
treating form and outline. Look at the light on the bosom, and see how
by a series of touches and higher lights firmly laid on I have managed
to grasp light itself, and combine it with the dazzling whiteness of
the clearer tones; and then see how, by an opposite method,--smoothing
off the sharp contrasts and the texture of the color,--I have been
able, by caressing the outline of my figure and veiling it with cloudy
half-tints, to do away with the very idea of drawing and all other
artificial means, and give to the form the aspect and roundness of
Nature itself. Come nearer, and you will see the work more distinctly;
if too far off it disappears. See! there, at that point, it is, I
think, most remarkable." And with the end of his brush he pointed to a
spot of clear light color.