Staunton spectator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1849-1896, 1884-06-24
AN ARTIsT,S MYSTERY.


| for us, Peter Paul Reubens, the grea
Flemish master, accompanied by few o
his chosen pupils. It was a habit the mas
ter had, this Of entering the various church
es he passed on his way through the street
of the Spanish capital But the visits ap
parently gave him little pleasure, for h
always emerged into the street again in
| Weighing against the barbaric want of tast'
displayed by the Castilian friars in thei
sacred edifices To day the bare, disman
tied interior of the church to which he hat
penetrated offered him even less induce
ment than usual to inger. He was abou
| to depart when his eyehappened to fall OF
canvas half-hidden in the gloomy recess
of a tawdry chapel.
the painting and suppressed cry Of amaze
ment.
His pupils were around him in an instant
eWhat is it master ?"
nLook-,ook therer' said the author O
the ssDescent from the Cross and pointed
to the canvas. 1t represented the death o.
"a monk.
The monk was young, and his face had g
beauty which neither long penance, mol
fasting, nor the throes of death had sue
ceeded in obscuring. He lay on bare bricks
of his cell, the one hand grasping skull,
the other pressing a wooden crucitix to his
breast, and over his eyes the death film
had gathered.
In the back ground Of this picture there
was a second one. 1t hung over the mar.
row pallet from which, one inferred, the
monk had risen to die with greater humility
on the bare floor. Tt represented beauti.
full woman stretched on bier shrouded in
sumptuous black draperies, and with the
light of wax tapers in tall candlesticks
streaming upon her dead face.
AS the eye rested ON these two scenes,
the one contained in the other the meaning
of each, the fact that one complemented,
completed and explained the other, forced
itself clearly on the mind. An unhappy
love; dead hopes; blighted life; renun-
citation of the world; this was the mysteri-
Gus drama reproduced on the canvas at
which Rubensssand his pupils now gazed.
And in drawing, in coloring, in compost
tion, the picture attested the hand of a
genius.
"Who can have painted the magnificent
work, master?" came in chorus from the
masters pupils.
"There has evidently been a signature in
this corner" said Rubens, ''but it has been
erased, and quite lately, I should judge.
The picture is not more than thirty years
old, and think not less than twenty. AS
to the author, Judging from the merit of
the work he might be Veiasquez, Zurbaran,
Ribera, or that young genius Murillo, of
whom [ am so much enamored. But We
lasquez does not conceive things in this
way; nor is the coloring or composition of
Zurbaran's manner, Murillo is more ten
der, and Tibera has a more sombre style,
besides the work does not belong to the
school of either. No, do not know the
author. I am sure, and | should be willing
to affirm, that have never before seen any
of his work. go still further l do not
believe the artist unknown and perhaps no
longer living, who has given the world this
wonderful legacy, ever belonged to any
school, or ever could have painted another
which would have approached it in point of
merit. This is the work of inspiration, a
personal affair, reflex of the soul, a piece
out of a mans life. But what a concep-
tion. Do you want to know who painted
this picture? Well, that dead monk therer'
"NIaster, you are joking
ffNo, no, ! know what I say. To Join
certain monastic orders, you know, is to
die to all intsnts and purposes-to die to
the world
"Ah, you think"
81 think the woman stretched ON that
most beautiful bier there was the soul and
life of that monk; that when she died it
was his DEATH too; that he did die, in point
of fact. to the world from that moment. /
believe this work represents this spiritual
diving to the world of it's author rather than
his physical death Accordingly he may
still be living to-day, and as in thirty years
time the traces of many % tragic episode have
a chance to become etfaced, should not
wonder at all if he were a very fat snd
iolIy old gentleman. We must certainly
look him up, and, above all, find out if he
ever painted anything else"
An elderly monk was kneeling in an ad-
jacent chapel. Rubens approached and
asked him where he could find the prior Of
the convent The monk rose to his feet
with some difficulty.
CT am the prior,'' he said, in a low, rath-
er brokon voice.
ssPardon me, father, for interrupting your
devotions," said Rubens with the bright
courtesy which lent so great charm to
his manner. ''But you can tell me who is
the author of that picture?'
ssOf that picture? What will you thiul
of me if [ tell you have forgotten?'
"What! You know, and you have for.
gottens"
eyes, my son, have forgotten, forgot
ten completely"
s'Your memory is poor, father" cried
Rubens, with an indignant tone of irony
he did not try to suppress.
The prior turned from him without an
swer and llnelt down as before.
r in,
King" said Rubens haughtily. The PAM
pered pet of royalty was little accustomed
to this sort of treatment.
The monk slowly raised his head.
"What do you wish, my son?''
II wish to buy that picture
at cannot be sold, my son.''
ssThen tell me, at least, where its author
can be found! The King will want tc
know him, and l must congratulate him,
tell him of my admiration-''
GAN that cannot be. The author is nc
longer of this world"
''Not dead, father, not dead? And nc
one knew him. His name forgotten II
should have been immortal. It would have
eclipsed mine-I am. Paul Peter Rubens,
father" he added simply.
At that famous name, familiar all ovel
the civilized world, and connected in the
heart of every man leading a monastic life
with innumerable religious paintings Of
marvellous beauty, the prior's pale face
flushed, and his sunken eyes fixed them
selves on the strangers face with look Of
veneratien and surprise.
"Ah, see that you know men' cried Ru
bens, smiling with naive satisfaction
s'Well, perhaps you will treat me better
now So, then-will you sell me that pic
ture?'
81 must repeat-iti is impossible"
''fhen do you know of any other worA
by the s4me hand? At least tell me wheI
the artist died."
"You misunderstood me-" began the
prior. 81 told you that he belonged nj
longer to the world-but that does not sig
Nifty
''He is living. Then 1 must know himp
''To what end? He has renounced al
that belongs to this life-he has nothing
more to do with the world. Let him die il
peace
s'You ask a strange thing of me, father
When God lights the sacred fire of genius
in human soul, it is not that it may bt
hidden under bushel and go out in dark
ness 1t should accomplish it's sublim,
mission and give light to other men. Tel