This
proves that our art is made up, like nature, of an infinite number of
elements. Drawing gives the skeleton, and color gives the life; but
life without the skeleton is a far more incomplete thing than the
skeleton without the life. But there is a higher truth still,--namely,
that practice and observation are the essentials of a painter; and
that if reason and poesy persist in wrangling with the tools, the
brushes, we shall be brought to doubt, like Frenhofer, who is as much
excited in brain as he is exalted in art. A sublime painter, indeed;
but he had the misfortune to be born rich, and that enables him to
stray into theory and conjecture. Do not imitate him. Work! work!
painters should theorize with their brushes in their hands."
"We will contrive to get in," cried Poussin, not listening to Porbus,
and thinking only of the hidden masterpiece.
Porbus smiled at the youth's enthusiasm, and bade him farewell with a
kindly invitation to come and visit him.
* * * * *
Nicolas Poussin returned slowly towards the Rue de la Harpe and
passed, without observing that he did so, the modest hostelry where he
was lodging. Returning presently upon his steps, he ran up the
miserable stairway with anxious rapidity until he reached an upper
chamber nestling between the joists of a roof "en colombage,"--the
plain, slight covering of the houses of old Paris. Near the single and
gloomy window of the room sat a young girl, who rose quickly as the
door opened, with a gesture of love; she had recognized the young
man's touch upon the latch.
Pages:
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34