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 divineintegrity. 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 inwardessence 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 sublimevision, 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 unnaturalbrightness 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 livelyimagination. 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