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The Hidden Masterpiece-Part2_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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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 waywardgenius 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




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