The Hidden Masterpiece

“There,” returned Porbus, touching the canvas, “is the ultimate end of our art on earth.”

“And from thence,” added Poussin, “it rises, to enter heaven.”

“How much happiness is there! – upon that canvas,” said Porbus.

The absorbed old man gave no heed to their words; he was smiling at his visionary woman.

“But sooner or later, he will perceive that there is nothing there,” cried Poussin.

“Nothing there! – upon my canvas?” said Frenhofer, looking first at the two painters, and then at his imaginary picture.

“What have you done?” cried Porbus, addressing Poussin.

The old man seized the arm of the young man violently, and said to him, “You see nothing? – clown, infidel, scoundrel, dolt! Why did you come here? My good Porbus,” he added, turning to his friend, “is it possible that you, too, are jesting with me? Answer; I am your friend. Tell me, can it be that I have spoiled my picture?”

Porbus hesitated, and feared to speak; but the anxiety painted on the white face of the old man was so cruel that he was constrained to point to the canvas and utter the word, “See!”

Frenhofer looked at his picture for a space of a moment, and staggered.

“Nothing! nothing! after toiling ten years!”

He sat down and wept.

“Am I then a fool, an idiot? Have I neither talent nor capacity? Am I no better than a rich man who walks, and can only walk? Have I indeed produced nothing?”

He gazed at the canvas through tears. Suddenly he raised himself proudly and flung a lightning glance upon the two painters.

“By the blood, by the body, by the head of Christ, you are envious men who seek to make me think she is spoiled, that you may steal her from me. I – I see her!” he cried. “She is wondrously beautiful!”

At this moment Poussin heard the weeping of Gillette as she stood, forgotten, in a corner.

“What troubles thee, my darling?” asked the painter, becoming once more a lover.

“Kill me!” she answered. “I should be infamous if I still loved thee, for I despise thee. I admire thee; but thou hast filled me with horror. I love, and yet already I hate thee.”

While Poussin listened to Gillette, Frenhofer drew a green curtain before his Catherine, with the grave composure of a jeweller locking his drawers when he thinks that thieves are near him. He cast at the two painters a look which was profoundly dissimulating, full of contempt and suspicion; then, with convulsive haste, he silently pushed them through the door of his atelier. When they reached the threshold of his house he said to them, “Adieu, my little friends.”

The tone of this farewell chilled the two painters with fear.

On the morrow Porbus, alarmed, went again to visit Frenhofer, and found that he had died during the night, after having burned his paintings.