deceptive magic of the chiaroscuro. See! at this place the rich, clear
color of Titian has forced out the skeleton outline of Albrecht
Durier, as molten bronze might burst and overflow a slender mould.
Here and there the outline has resisted the flood, and holds back the
magnificent torrent of Venetian color. Your figure is neither
perfectly well painted nor perfectly well drawn; it bears throughout
the signs of this unfortunate indecision. If you did not feel that the
fire of your genius was hot enough to weld into one the rival methods,
you ought to have chosen honestly the one or the other, and thus
attained the unity which conveys one aspect, at least, of life. As it
is, you are true only on your middle plane. Your outlines are false;
they do not round upon themselves; they suggest nothing behind them.
There is truth here," said the old man, pointing to the bosom of the
saint; "and here," showing the spot where the shoulder ended against
the background; "but there," he added, returning to the throat, "it is
all false. Do not inquire into the why and wherefore. I should fill
you with despair."

The old man sat down on a stool and held his head in his hands for
some minutes in silence.

"Master," said Porbus at length, "I studied that throat from the nude;
but, to our sorrow, there are effects in nature which become false or
impossible when placed on canvas."

"The mission of art is not to copy nature, but to represent it. You
are not an abject copyist, but a poet," cried the old man, hastily
interrupting Porbus with a despotic gesture. "If it were not so, a
sculptor could reach the height of his art by merely moulding a woman.
Try to mould the hand of your mistress, and see what you will get,