er, and
did not change his listless attitude, but glanced at Porbus like a man
who has settled down into low spirits.

"Well, master," said Porbus, "was the ultramarine bad that you sent for
to Bruges? Is the new white difficult to grind? Is the oil poor, or are
the brushes recalcitrant?"

"Alas!" cried the old man, "for a moment I thought that my work was
finished, but I am sure that I am mistaken in certain details, and I can
not rest until I have cleared my doubts. I am thinking of traveling. I
am going to Turkey, to Greece, to Asia, in quest of a model, so as to
compare my picture with the different living forms of Nature. Perhaps,"
and a smile of contentment stole over his face, "perhaps I have Nature
herself up there. At times I am half afraid that a breath may waken her,
and that she will escape me."

He rose to his feet as if to set out at once.

"Aha!" said Porbus, "I have come just in time to save you the trouble
and expense of a journey."

"What?" asked Frenhofer in amazement.

"Young Poussin is loved by a woman of incomparable and flawless beauty.
But, dear master, if he consents to lend her to you, at the least you
ought to let us see your work."

The old man stood motionless and completely dazed.

"What!" he cried piteously at last, "show you my creation, my bride?
Rend the veil that has kept my happiness sacred? It would be an infamous
profanation. For ten years I have lived with her; she is mine, mine
alone; she loves me. Has she not smiled at me, at each stroke of the
brush upon the canvas? She has a soul--the soul that I have given her.
She would blush if any eyes but mine should rest on her. To exhibit her!
Where is the husband, the lover so vile as to bring the woman he loves
to dishonor? When you paint a picture for the court, you do not put your
whole soul into it; to courtiers you sell lay figures duly colored. My
painting is no painting, it is a sentiment, a passion. She was born in
my studio, there she must dwell in maiden solitude, and only when clad
can she issue thence. Poetry and women only lay the last veil aside
for their lovers Have we Rafael's model, Ariosto's Angelica, Dante's
Beatrice? Nay, only their form and semblance. But this picture, locked
away above in my studio, is an exception in our art. It is not a canvas,
it is a woman--a woman with whom I talk. I share her thoughts, her
tears, her laughter. Would you have me fling aside these ten years of
happiness like a cloak?