of the
clearer tones; and then see how, by an opposite method,--smoothing off
the sharp contrasts and the texture of the color,--I have been able,
by caressing the outline of my figure and veiling it with cloudy
half-tints, to do away with the very idea of drawing and all other
artificial means, and give to the form the aspect and roundness of
Nature itself. Come nearer, and you will see the work more distinctly;
if too far off it disappears. See! there, at that point, it is, I think,
most remarkable." And with the end of his brush he pointed to a spot of
clear light color.

Porbus struck the old man on the shoulder, turning to Poussin as he did
so, and said, "Do you know that he is one of our greatest painters?"

"He is a poet even more than he is a painter," answered Poussin gravely.

"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