At times I am half afraid that a brush may wake
this woman, and that she will disappear from sight."
He rose suddenly, as if to depart at once. "Wait," exclaimed Porbus.
"I have come in time to spare you the costs and fatigues of such a
journey."
"How so?" asked Frenhofer, surprised.
"Young Poussin is beloved by a woman whose incomparable beauty is
without imperfection. But, my dear master, if he consents to lend her
to you, at least you must let us see your picture."
The old man remained standing, motionless, in a state bordering on
stupefaction. "What!" he at last exclaimed, mournfully. "Show my
creature, my spouse?--tear off the veil with which I have chastely
hidden my joy? It would be prostitution! For ten years I have lived
with this woman; she is mine, mine alone! she loves me! Has she not
smiled upon me as, touch by touch, I painted her? She has a soul,--the
soul with which I endowed her. She would blush if other eyes than mine
beheld her. Let her be seen?--where is the husband, the lover, so
debased as to lend his wife to dishonor? When you paint a picture for
the court you do not put your whole soul into it; you sell to
courtiers your tricked-out lay-figures. My painting is not a picture;
it is a sentiment, a passion! Born in my atelier, she must remain a
virgin there. She shall not leave it unclothed. Poesy and women give
themselves bare, like truth, to lovers only. Have we the model of
Raphael, the Angelica of Ariosto, the Beatrice of Dante? No, we see
but their semblance.
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