The Unknown Masterpiece (5 page)

Three months after Poussin met Porbus, the latter paid a visit to Maître Frenhofer. The old man was suffering at the time from one of those deep and spontaneous depressions caused, according to the mathematicians of medicine, by poor digestion, by wind, by heat, or by some swelling of the abdominal regions; and according to those who prefer a spiritual explanation, by the imperfection of our moral nature. The poor man was quite simply exhausted by the effort to complete his mysterious picture. He appeared to have collapsed on an enormous throne of carved oak upholstered in black leather, and without altering his melancholy posture, he stared at Porbus with the expression of a man not to be argued out of his distress.

“Well now, maître,” Porbus cajoled him, “was it so bad, that ultramarine you went all the way to Bruges for? Or couldn’t you grind your new white fine enough? Has your oil gone sour? Are the brushes stiff?”

“Alas!” the old man cried. “For a time I believed my painting was done; but now I’m sure several details are wrong, and I won’t have a moment’s peace till I’ve dispelled my doubts. I’ve made up my mind to travel—I’m off to Greece, Turkey, even Asia to look for a model; I want to compare my picture to various beauties in nature. Perhaps,” he continued with a smile of satisfaction, “perhaps I’ve got nature herself upstairs. Sometimes I’m almost afraid to breathe, lest I waken the woman and she vanishes.” And he suddenly stood up, as if to leave at that moment.

“Oh, then I’m just in time,” Porbus replied, “to spare you the expense and the fatigue of the journey.”

“How’s that?” asked Frenhofer in surprise.

“Young Poussin happens to have a mistress of incomparable beauty—not one defect! But if he consents to lend her to you, you must give us at least a glimpse of that canvas of yours.”

The old man remained standing just where he had risen to his feet, in a state of utter stupefaction.

“What!” he exclaimed at last, with a wail of pain. “Expose my creation, my wife? Rend the veil by which I’ve so chastely hidden my happiness? But that would be a terrible prostitution! For ten years now I’ve lived with this woman; she’s mine, mine alone, she loves me. Hasn’t she smiled at me with each brushstroke I’ve given her? She has a soul, I tell you, the soul I’ve endowed her with. She’d blush if other eyes than mine were fastened on her. Show her! What husband, what lover would be vile enough to put his own wife to such shame? When you paint a picture for the court, you needn’t put your very soul into it; what you’re selling the courtiers is no more than a fancy mannequin! My painting’s not a painting, my figure’s a feeling, a passion! Born in my studio, my beauty must remain inviolate there—she may not leave until she’s fully dressed. Poetry and women show themselves naked only to their lovers! Do we possess Raphael’s model, Ariosto’s Angelica, Dante’s Beatrice? No, we see only their Forms. Well! The work I keep under lock and key upstairs is an exception in our art. It isn’t a canvas, it’s a woman! A woman with whom I weep and laugh and talk and think. Do you suppose I’d suddenly abandon ten years’ felicity the way you take off a cloak? That all at once I’d cease being a father, a lover, and God Himself? This woman’s not a creature, she’s a creation. Let your young man come, I’ll give him my treasures, I’ll give him Correggios, Titians, even Michelangelos! I’ll kiss his footprints in the dust. But make him my rival? Shame on me! Ha, ha! I’m still more of a lover than a painter. Yes, I’m strong enough to burn my Catherine as I draw my dying breath, but to compel her to endure the gaze of a man, a young man, a painter? No, no! If anyone sullied her with a glance, I’d kill him the next day! I’d kill you then and there, my friend, if you didn’t greet her on your knees! And you’d have me subject my idol to the cold gaze and the stupid criticisms of fools? Ah, love’s a mystery: it lives only in the depths of our hearts, and all is lost when a man says, even to his friend, ‘This is the woman I love!’”

The old man seemed to become young again; his eyes glistened with life, his pale cheeks were tinged with a sudden red, and his hands trembled. Porbus, amazed at the passionate violence with which these words were spoken, was at a loss to reply to a sentiment as novel as it was profound. Was Frenhofer in his right mind, or was he mad? Had he been overtaken by an artist’s illusion, or did such ideas result from that ineffable fanaticism caused by the long gestation of a great work? Could one ever hope to speak reason to this strange passion?

A prey to such thoughts, Porbus asked the old man, “But isn’t it one woman for another? Isn’t Poussin yielding his mistress to your eyes?”

“What mistress is that?” Frenhofer sneered. “She’ll betray him sooner or later. Mine will always be faithful!”

“All right,” Porbus resumed, “we’ll say no more about it. But before you find—even in Asia—a woman as beautiful, as perfect as the one I’m telling you about, you may die without finishing your picture.”

“Oh, it’s finished!” Frenhofer said. “Anyone seeing it would suppose he saw a woman lying on a velvet coverlet, her bed surrounded by draperies, and at her side, a golden tripod exhaling incense. You’d be tempted to seize the tassel of the cord tying back the draperies, and you’d believe you saw the breast of Catherine rising and falling with her breath. Yet I must be sure...”

“Then go to Asia,” Porbus replied, detecting a sort of hesitation in Frenhofer’s gaze. And he took a few steps toward the door of the room.

At that very moment, Gillette and Nicolas Poussin had reached Frenhofer’s house. About to go in, the girl released the painter’s arm and drew back as if seized by a sudden presentiment.

“What am I doing here?” she asked her lover in a hollow tone of voice, looking him straight in the eye.

“Gillette, I’ve left the decision up to you, and I’ll obey you, whatever you say. You’re my conscience and my glory. Let’s go back to the inn. I may be happier there than if you...”

“Am I my own mistress when you speak to me like that? Oh no, I’m just a child. Let’s go in,” she urged, seeming to make a violent effort. “If our love dies, if I’m opening my heart to eternal regret, won’t your glory be my reward for obeying your wishes? Let’s go in: being an eternal memory on your palette will still be a kind of life.”

Opening the door of the house, the two lovers almost bumped into Porbus who, astonished by this sudden encounter with Gillette, whose eyes were just then full of tears, took her, trembling, by the arm and led her into the old man’s presence. “Look here,” he said. “Isn’t she worth all the masterpieces in the world?”

Frenhofer gave a start. Gillette stood before him in the innocent posture of a terrified Circassian girl carried off by brigands to some slave dealer. A modest blush suffused her countenance, her eyes were lowered, her hands hung at her sides, her strength seemed to leave her, and tears protested against the violence done to her modesty. At this moment Poussin, in despair at having taken this lovely treasure out of his attic, cursed himself: once again he became more lover than artist, and a thousand scruples racked his heart when he saw the rejuvenated gaze of the old man who, in the fashion of all painters, undressed the girl with his eyes, divining her most secret forms. Poussin reverted then to the true lover’s fierce jealousy.

“Gillette, let’s leave!” he exclaimed.

At these words, spoken in that tone, his overjoyed mistress raised her eyes to her lover and flung herself into his arms.

“Oh, you do love me!” she cried, bursting into tears; having willed herself not to reveal her suffering, she had no strength left to conceal her joy.

“Oh, leave her with me, just for a moment,” the old painter pleaded, “and you can compare her to my Catherine. Yes, I consent.”

There was still something of love in Frenhofer’s plea. He seemed prey to a certain coquetry toward his painted lady, and to enjoy in advance the victory his artificial virgin’s beauty would gain over that of a real girl.

“Don’t let him go back on his word!” exclaimed Porbus, clapping Poussin on the shoulder. “The fruits of love wither quickly; those of art are immortal.”

“For him,” Gillette whispered, looking hard at Poussin and then at Porbus, “for him, then, I’m nothing more than a woman?” She raised her head proudly, but when, after darting a glance at Frenhofer, she saw her lover once again studying the portrait he had lately taken for a Giorgione, she continued, “Ah! let’s go upstairs. He’s never looked at me that way.”

“Old man,” Poussin continued, torn from his meditation by Gillette’s voice, “you see this sword? I’ll thrust it into your heart at the first word of complaint from this child, I’ll set fire to your house, and no one will get out alive. Do you understand?”

Nicolas Poussin was grim, and his words were terrible. This utterance, and especially the young painter’s gesture, consoled Gillette, who almost forgave him for sacrificing her to painting and to his glorious future. Porbus and Poussin remained at the studio door, staring at each other in silence. At first the painter of
Mary of Egypt
allowed himself a few exclamations—“Now she’s undressing... Now he’s telling her to stand where there’s daylight...Now he’s comparing her!” But Porbus fell silent at the sight of Poussin’s face, which expressed a terrible sadness, and although old painters no longer feel such petty scruples in the presence of art, he admired these two young people for being so naïve and so charming. Poussin kept his hand on his sword hilt, his ear pressed to the door. Standing there in the shadows, the two men looked like a pair of conspirators waiting for the moment to assault a tyrant.

“Come in, come in!” the old man called, radiant with joy. “My work is perfect, and now I can show it to you with pride. Never will painter, paintbrush, color, canvas, or light succeed in creating a rival to
Catherine Lescault
.”

Seized by the keenest curiosity, Porbus and Poussin rushed into the middle of a vast studio covered with dust, where everything was in chaos; here and there they caught sight of paintings and sketches on the walls, and suddenly stopped, both of them overcome with admiration, before a life-size figure of a half-naked woman.

“Oh, don’t bother with that!” Frenhofer said. “That’s just a study for a pose; as a picture it’s worth nothing at all. These are my mistakes,” he continued, gesturing at the ravishing compositions hung on the walls around them.

At these words, Porbus and Poussin, astonished by this disdain for such works, sought the portrait they had been promised, without managing to find it.

“Well, here it is,” the old man announced, his hair disheveled, his face inflamed by a preternatural exaltation, his eyes sparkling, and panting like a lovesick swain. “Aha! You weren’t expecting such perfection, were you? You’re in the presence of a woman, and you’re still looking for a picture. There’s such depth on this canvas, the air is so real you can no longer distinguish it from the air around yourselves. Where’s the art? Gone, vanished! Here’s true form—the very form of a girl. Haven’t I captured the color, the energy of the line that seems to bound her body? Isn’t this just the phenomenon presented by objects that live in air as fish live in water? Notice how the contours are silhouetted against the background! That back! Doesn’t it look as if you could run your hand down that? It took me seven years’ study to achieve such effects, the conjugation of objects with daylight! And that hair! You see how the light glows through it...But I do believe she’s breathing...You see that breast? Ah! Who could fail to worship her on his knees? The flesh throbs, she’s about to stand up, wait a moment...”

“Do you see anything?” Poussin whispered to Porbus.

“No. Do you?”

“Nothing.”

The two painters left the old man to his ecstasy and tried to see whether the light, falling directly on the canvas he was showing them, had neutralized its every effect. Then they peered at the picture by moving to the right, to the left, first crouching then straightening up again.

“Yes, yes, it really is a canvas,” Frenhofer assured them, mistaking the purpose of this scrutiny. “See, here’s the stretcher, there’s the easel, then here are my paints, my brushes.” And he took up a brush which he presented to them with a naïve gesture.

“The old fraud’s pulling our leg,” Poussin murmured, returning to face the so-called painting. “All I see are colors daubed one on top of the other and contained by a mass of strange lines forming a wall of paint.”

“We must be missing something,” Porbus insisted.

Coming closer, they discerned, in one corner of the canvas, the tip of a bare foot emerging from this chaos of colors, shapes, and vague shadings, a kind of incoherent mist; but a delightful foot, a living foot! They stood stock-still with admiration before this fragment which had escaped from an incredible, slow, and advancing destruction. That foot appeared there like the torso of some Parian marble Venus rising out of the ruins of a city burned to ashes.

“There’s a woman under there!” Porbus cried, drawing Poussin’s attention to the layers of color the old painter had superimposed, imagining he was perfecting his art.

The two painters spontaneously turned toward Frenhofer, beginning to realize, however vaguely, the state of ecstasy which imprisoned him.

“He means it,” Porbus said.

“Yes, my friend,” the old man replied as he wakened from his trance, “you must have faith, faith in art, and you must live a long time with your work to produce a creation like this. Some of these shadows cost me a lot of hard work. Look there—on that cheek, under the eyes—that faint shadow which you’d swear was untranslatable if you saw it in nature. Do you suppose an effect like that didn’t cost me incredible difficulties to reproduce? But also, my dear Porbus, consider my work closely, and you’ll understand something more of what I was telling you about the way I handle the modeling and the outlines. Look at the light on the breast and you’ll see how, by a series of brushstrokes and by accents applied with a full brush, I’ve managed to capture the truth of light and to combine it with the gleaming whiteness of the highlights, and how, by an opposite effort, by smoothing the ridges and the texture of the paint itself, by caressing my figure’s contours and by submerging them in halftones, I have eliminated the very notion of drawing, of artificial means, and given my work the look and the actual solidity of nature. Come closer, you’ll see better how it’s done. At a distance, it vanishes. You see? Here, right here, I believe it’s truly remarkable.”