This was very pleasing to Rubens. But when Van Dyck began sending out
pictures on his own account, properly signed, and people said they were
equal to those of Rubens, if not better, Rubens shrugged his shoulders.

There was as little jealousy in the composition of Peter Paul Rubens as
in any artistic man we can name; but to declare that he was incapable of
jealousy, as a few of his o'er-zealous defenders did, is to apply the
whitewash. The artistic temperament is essentially feminine, and jealousy
is one of its inherent attributes. Of course there are all degrees of
jealousy, but the woman who can sit serenely by and behold her charms
ignored for those of another, by one who yesterday sat at her feet making
ballad to her eyebrow and sighing like a furnace, does not exist on the
planet called Earth.

The artist, in any line, craves praise, and demands applause as his
lawful right; and the pupil who in excellence approaches him, pays him a
compliment that warms the cockles of his heart. But let a pupil once
equal him and the pupil's name is anathema. I can not conceive of any man
born of woman who would not detest another man who looked like him, acted
like him, and did difficult things just as well. Such a one robs us of
our personality, and personality is all there is of us.

The germ of jealousy in Rubens' nature had never been developed. He
dallied with no "culture-beds," and the thought that any one could ever
really equal him had never entered his mind. His conscious sense of power
kept his head high above the miasma of fear.

But now a contract for certain portraits that were to come from the
Rubens studio had been drawn up by the Jesuit Brothers, and in the