"There it is!" said the old man, whose hair fell in disorder about his
face, which was scarlet with supernatural excitement. His eyes
sparkled, and his breast heaved like that of a young man beside
himself with love.
"Ah!" he cried, "did you not expect such perfection? You stand before
a woman, and you are looking for a picture! There are such depths on
that canvas, the air within it is so true, that you are unable to
distinguish it from the air you breathe. Where is art? Departed,
vanished! Here is the form itself of a young girl. Have I not caught
the color, the very life of the line which seems to terminate the
body? The same phenomenon which we notice around fishes in the water
is also about objects which float in air. See how these outlines
spring forth from the background. Do you not feel that you could pass
your hand behind those shoulders? For seven years have I studied these
effects of light coupled with form. That hair,--is it not bathed in
light? Why, she breathes! That bosom,--see! Ah! who would not worship
it on bended knee? The flesh palpitates! Wait, she is about to rise;
wait!"
"Can you see anything?" whispered Poussin to Porbus.
"Nothing. Can you?"
"No."
The two painters drew back, leaving the old man absorbed in ecstasy,
and tried to see if the light, falling plumb upon the canvas at which
he pointed, had neutralized all effects. They examined the picture,
moving from right to left, standing directly before it, bending,
swaying, rising by turns.
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