Authors Magazine - December 2014 Issue

December Issue

Shaun Bruce Sun Square Cape Town

UWC Creative Writing Awards Student Authors on How dancing saved a child's life

20+ @

pages

Executive Chef:

Zepi Sun Square 1

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Publisher’s Note 04

Shaun Bruce 06

Executive Chef

UWC Creates:

Shirwileta Williams Luvuyo Zulu Dira Rigala

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Tsebang Siphambo 52

Dancing for life

Hidden Masterpiece

Honore De Balzac

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Authors Magazine Š 2014 All Rights Reserved. Excerpts may be used as long as this publication is credited as the source. Longer versions of our content may only be used with the written permission of the publisher. Whilst we have taken care in preparing this publication, the publisher & editorial team does not warrant its completeness or accuracy. We retain the right to edit all content. Advertisers are responsible for their material

Issue 3 Dec 2014

Table of Contents

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From The Publisher d in Boston at Berklee College of Music - Massachusetts (USA), Neo tells us how she connects with life as she sings stories and the poetry behind lyrics.

Issue 3 Dec 2014

For the joy of reading, we include a short story published before many of us were born. It’s called “In a Native Village by Louis Becke” - a village has an interesting way of welcoming a new Australian trader.

Dear friends, 2014 has been an iconic year - South Africa celebrating its 20 years of Democracy.

Although we are all unsettled by the recent turmoil we see in Parliament, we remain strong in pursuit of the great possibilities that this country has on offer.

As we reach this last part of the year, we tend to experience mixed emotions. On one side is a sigh of relief while the other carries anticipation for the coming year that’s about a few days away…

To end the year, we focus on something we all love, I’m talking about food. However, instead of looking into menus and recipes, we celebrate the people who excite our taste buds with great meals. They show us the care that goes into making the best lavish meals that make our social experiences even better.

It’s fascinating just how the human mind works. Although we look into the same subject, we still come to different conclusions. We’re joined by student authors from the University of Western Cape as they take us along into their ROOM. A young dancer shows us a way “to express our emotions when words don’t do them justice” There are many people who are the pillars of this publication, and for every single thing you do, may great rewards be forever coming your way. Thank you for taking your time with Authors Magazine, nothing is possible without you.

Overall, find yourself a good book and enjoy it while eating a nice meal. Till we see each other next year, take care…

Mtho

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Shaun Bruce

Executive Chef Sun Square Cape Town 6

:) I'm Shaun Bruce, I cook... That's it really! I'm not the most interesting person in the world. I grew up in Johannesburg, and travelled overseas for a while, but Cape Town will always be my base.

I've always enjoyed cooking. As far back as I can remember, I've enjoyed working in the kitchen, mixing ingredients and things like that, but I didn't really foresee it would become a career...that just happened! I fell into it by accident, but when I did, it became clear that this was exactly what I should be doing. Although it necessarily what I had envisioned for myself, I am exactly where I'm supposed to be.

More my Grandmother actually. I did a lot of “cooking� with her as a youngster. I started out with the basics... peanut butter sandwiches and the like, and progressed from there.

Fortunately, I’ve evolved! My mother didn't cook much, so I did try to better that. I went on to study and now I'm here. I cook for a living, which is fun...

Of course it's still there! It's a very creative procedure, making new and exciting things. It is very easy to get stuck in a rut, but it's up to the individual to keep things interesting, and to keep up to date with the latest trends, whether local or international. That's where the fun lies; there are constantly new things to try out and new methods or techniques coming through, which feed that creative part of you.

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Click here for Zepi I think we have gone back to a very simple style of cooking, and trying to do the ingredients justice. Whatever you're using, you want to get the most of that particular flavour without messing around with it too much. The focus is on good produce and respect for the ingredients... and the plate, I suppose.

For me, I try to create a good plate of food. As far as the balance is concerned, I think you've got to keep trying until you find what works, before you present it to anybody.

Before studying, I travelled in Europe for some time. In fact, I ended up working in a lot of kitchens doing very basic kind of stuff. Back then it was simply a way for me to make some money for further travelling, and I never took it very seriously. But when I came back to South Africa, I enrolled at the International Hotel School and started working in a professional kitchen. It was brilliant, and studying advanced what I already did…

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Basically an Exec Chef is the person in charge. The Exec Chef comes up with the concept, recipes and so on. Unfortunately the word "Executive" can be misleading. I think it’s a silly title, because at the end of the day, we're all Chefs. We start at the bottom and we work our way up. When we get to the top, we don't cook as much, but we've got a lot more responsibility. It becomes more development-based, and it's not just about the cooking anymore. We can definitely cook very well, but it’s more about developing other people, identifying talent and helping them grow.

It wouldn't be a secret if I told you. But the truth is that even though it's a lot of hard work, chef’s have a lot of fun. We're surrounded by really expensive produce, stuff that you can't get at home, and we are enormously passionate. It really is fun...like perpetual playtime.

Not at all. When I visit friends I focus on the social aspects of the visit. I'm not there to analyse things, although I do sometimes notice they’re a bit nervous! As long as a meal is prepared with love and feeling, that's what matters to me. If they’ve taken time and care, I appreciate it, even if it’s the most basic cheese sandwich or hamburger. When you're at home or with friends, you're not always interested in purees and other expensive ingredients. It’s about the company!

It goes without saying that skill is a necessary quality for any great chef. You’ve got to be able to cook really well. I would also add creativity, and a bit of an attitude. You should be great to work with, not afraid to rise to a challenge, and you should keep abreast of current trends. You've got to be passionate about it all.

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Substantially! I remember in the days before televised cooking shows, you could get away with many things in the kitchen, because nobody really knew anything :) But all that has changed, now everybody is an amateur chef, and most actually know what you're talking about. The pressure is on to create something special.

Some of these guys can cook the same dish, or something better, at home. Of course the amateur chef only does one or two meals, whereas professionals have to produce the same quality across many, many plates. On a positive note, though, these cooking shows have put our trade in the forefront, which also creates more appreciation for what we do.

For me, it comes down to passion.

The hours are long and there are many repetitive aspects, but it is my passion that keeps me going.

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I've been working for Southern Sun for about 3 years now, and it's great in the fact that I get to work with other chefs within the group.

We're not stuck in one kitchen all the time, we get the opportunity to move around and experiment in different places. It's really nice that there's a pool of talent that you can draw from. If you need anything, you get onto the web or call one of your colleagues, and a great team is always there to support you.

Hygiene. Keeping the food safe. I don't think people realize the extent we have to go through to make sure that food is safe to eat, as far as keeping items at proper temperature, rotating stock, sorting through ingredients.

There's a lot of admin stuff that has to be done to make it all come together.

Chefs are generally creative people and suddenly there's a mountain of paperwork to do to keep everybody healthy...that is seriously challenging.

I try to keep up with the latest trends following decent cooking magazines, shows, even other restaurants. Seeing the very best and interesting things around, using an idea or two from different places and adding my creativity to come up with something refreshing and tasty.

Cooking is all about theft (laughs) taking recipes from others and making them your own. You have to think in lots of boxes and you'd be amazed at the end result‌

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It's very important to know the people you are feeding. You need to get a feel for what they like, and what they thought of the food you provided. It gives you insight into they type of food they would like to eat more of, and makes it easier to adjust your menu according to their tastes.

No. I've never felt the need to participate in the competitions, although I certainly appreciate those who do, like the chefs in our national team. I really take my hat off to them and think they're fantastic, but it’s just not for me.

I suppose keeping them all happy. They change so frequently and trying to keep everybody happy is challenging, because people have very diverse tastes.

Fruity, but it's quite a mix that is influenced by so many cultures. Anything goes in Cape Town (laughs). There are a lot of interesting flavours, and we are very open to experimentation.

Zepi is a new restaurant we've opened up here at Sun Square, Cape Town. It's just a great little in-or-outsidethe-box place, where we serve good South African food...very well presented, wellcooked...nothing too fancy or unfamiliar, and as I mentioned earlier on, a respect for the ingredients.

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Zepi has a rotating menu - we never feature the same thing over and over.

That's the fun part: it keeps evolving. We have a lot of talent, and loads of entertainment, especially on Fridays.

Generally people don't come to hotels simply to eat. My hope for Zepi is that it will draw people to frequent the hotel, even if simply to enjoy the food. With this concept we're trying to get people to come here even if they are booked to stay somewhere else. We want to make it extra special, so I hope it really does well. Sort of like restaurants with hotels attached to them, as opposed to the other way round :)

I love surrounding myself with creativity, so I play the guitar.

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In terms of reading, I'm an absolute geek :) I read a lot of fantasy books..."The Lord of the Rings" is one of my favourites, and more recently, it's the "Game of Thrones" books. They are fantastic really...

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Source: Europa Editions In the heart of Paris, in the posh building made famous in The Elegance of the Hedgehog, Pierre Athens, the greatest food critic in the world, is dying. Revered by some and reviled by many, Monsieur Arthens has been lording it over the world?s most esteemed chefs for years, passing judgment on their creations, deciding their fates with a stroke of his pen, destroying and building reputations on a whim. But now, during these his final hours, his mind has turned to simpler things. He is desperately searching for that singular flavor, that sublime something once sampled, never forgotten, the Flavor par excellence.

Indeed, this flamboyant and self-absorbed man desires only one thing before he dies: one last taste.

Thus begins a charming voyage that traces the career of Monsieur Arthens from childhood to maturity across a celebration of all manner of culinary delights. Alternating with the voice of the supercilious Arthens is a chorus belonging to his acquaintances and familiars?relatives, lovers, a would-be protĂŠgĂŠ, even a cat. Each will have his or her say about M. Arthens, a man who has inspired only extreme emotions in people. Here, as in The Elegance of Hedgehog, Muriel Barbery?s story celebrates life?s simple pleasures and sublime moments while condemning the arrogance and vulgarity of power.

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Source: Mariner Books This alluring novel of friendship, love, and cuisine brings the best-selling author of Lost in Translation and A Cup of Light to one of the great Chinese subjects: food. As in her previous novels, Mones’s captivating story also brings into focus a changing China -- this time the hidden world of high culinary culture.

When Maggie McElroy, a widowed American food writer, learns of a Chinese paternity claim against her late husband’s estate, she has to go immediately to Beijing. She asks her magazine for time off, but her editor counters with an assignment: to profile the rising culinary star Sam Liang.

In China Maggie unties the knots of her husband’s past, finding out more than she expected about him and about herself. With Sam as her guide, she is also drawn deep into a world of food rooted in centuries of history and philosophy. To her surprise she begins to be transformed by the cuisine, by Sam’s family -- a querulous but loving pack of cooks and diners -- and most of all by Sam himself. The Last Chinese Chef is the exhilarating story of a woman regaining her soul in the most unexpected of places.

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Source: Bantam Even though working a wake isn’t Goldy Bear’s idea of fun, the Colorado caterer throws herself into preparing a savory feast featuring Poached Salmon and Strawberry Shortcake Buffet designed to soothe forty mourners. Her culinary efforts seem to be exactly what the doctor ordered . . . until her former father-in-law, gynecologist Fritz Korman, is struck down—and Goldy is accused of adding poison to the menu. Now, with the Department of Health impounding her leftovers, her ex-husband trashing her name, and her business close to being shut down, Goldy knows she can’t wait for the police to serve up answers. She soon uncovers more than one skeleton in the closet, along with a veritable slew of unpalatable secrets—the kind that could make Goldy the main course in an unsavory killer’s next murder.

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Source: Gallery Books Sometimes the shortest distance between two people is the length of a kitchen table. . . .

Far too young to be a widow, Angelina D’Angelo suddenly finds herself facing a life without her beloved husband, Frank. Late one night shortly after the funeral, she makes her way down to the kitchen and pours all of her grief and anger into the only outlet she has left—her passion for cooking. In a frenzy of concentration and swift precision, she builds layer upon layer of thick, rich lasagna, braids loaves of yeasty bread, roasts plump herb-rubbed chicken; she makes so much food that she winds up delivering the spoils to the neighbors in her tight-knit Italian community in South Philadelphia.

Retiree Basil Cupertino, who has just moved in with his kindly sister across the street, is positively smitten with Angelina’s food. In a stroke of good fortune, Basil offers Angelina (not only husbandless but unemployed) a job cooking for him—two meals a day, six days a week, in exchange for a handsome salary. Soon, word of her irresistible culinary prowess spreads and she finds herself cooking for seven bachelors—and in the process discovers the magical power of food to heal, to bring people together . . . and maybe even to provide a second chance at love.

Filled to the brim with homemade warmth, Angelina’s Bachelors is a sweet tale of overcoming grief, redefining family, and following your heart—through food.

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Shirwileta Williams Univ. Western Cape Student Author 22

My Room in Gaza: Shirwileta Williams My black shoes are covered in dust. Everything here is always covered in dust. I sit with my chin pressed into my knees on the bed in the corner of the room. This is not my bed, this is not my room, and these are not even my shoes. Our house and all my things are gone, lost in the explosion, buried under rubble and dust. My body feels drained and my brain feels empty but heavy in my light head. The only thing I am aware of is that I am breathing. My ear has been damaged by the blast and I can hear the sound of my breathing in my head. I hear it every second I am awake. It reminds me I am still alive, the way a frightening unfamiliar noise reminds a blind man he is blind. I know I am alive and I know that there are dangers around me, but I am helpless to protect myself against them. For two days I have been here living in this house with Bilaal, the man who found me, and his wife, Rokia. This is home now, but I cannot feel safe here. At any moment this home and all these things and all of us inside it could be blown away to.

I get off the bed when I hear the Imam from the mosque reminding us that it is time for Asr. I lay the masalah on the floor and I kneel at the edge for my afternoon prayer. As I bend forward and put my hands on the borrowed prayer mat, I think of my own that I had to leave behind. I treasured my masalah, it was my grandmothers. She had given it to me when I was thirteen years old, when she could no longer go on her ailing knees for her prayers. I kept it in a blue velvet bag with my thasbeeh just as she had done and I took it with me to America and brought it with each time I came home. It was my most prized possession. I sit up and stare at the mat with my mind consumed with one thought, ‘

I should have listened to Baba and my brother Sirage when they told me not to come home. It was fall break of my final year at university in 2008 and I had been in America for nearly a year and hadn’t seen my family in all that time. I wanted to go home to see them especially because Sirage’s wife Zaida had given birth to a little boy named Selim three months before. I wanted to meet him, I wanted him to know his Ammah. When I phoned to tell him of my plan, Baba had said to me “Layla, you have no need to come back here, you must stay there. Study and do well. I don’t want you to come here, it is not a good place to be.” I told Sirage I would not listen to Baba.

I said that if they did not want to see me that I wanted to see them. I told him I had booked a flight and would be landing in Gaza in five days and he was to fetch me at the airport.

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It was Saturday the twenty-eighth of December and I had been home for a day. Ummi had woken me up early with a kiss on my forehead and she said in English with a thick Arabic accent “It is good for me to see you here in your bed”. I smiled and told her, her English had improved so much in a year. She had smiled and said, this time in Arabic, she had made good use of the dictionary I left behind on my last visit. I got up and got ready for the day. When I came out of my room I heard that Zaida and Sirage were going out to the shop that morning and I insisted that Selim should stay with me. He had been sleeping all day yesterday and I had, had no time with him. Sirage said that Selim was too small for me to take care of, but Zaida said it was ok because Baba and Ummi were also there to help and they would not be gone long. Sirage had become like a miserable old man in a year, he had not even given me so much as a hug since I had landed. When we got home from the airport and I saw the state our home was in, the paint stripped off the walls like it had been sand blasted and the windows so filthy that there was no need for curtains behind them, I asked him why he had let things get so bad. He told me not to question him and that I was not to repeat that question to Ummi or Baba.

After Zaida and Sirage had left Baba and Ummi had gone to lie down and I sat on the floor next to my bed with Selim laying on a thick blanket between my outstretched legs. My laptop was on the bed and I was reading an email from my friend Sarah. She wrote that she missed me and wishes I had gone with her to visit her family in Chicago. As I sat there on the floor I heard a loud bang outside and the earth trembled underneath me.

Everything was quiet for a minute and then in the distance I heard screaming. Ummi and Baba shuffled on their socks from their bedroom to the front door and went outside to see what had happened. I was about to shout to Ummi to ask what it had been and then suddenly there was another loud bang. I realised then that it had been a bomb. I picked up the screaming child and crawled underneath my bed for protection. A minute later I saw Ummi’s feet as she came running into my room with Baba behind her when another bomb went off. I cried out in pain as I knocked my head hard against the bed frame and then laid down on my side and curled my body around Selim to protect him as best as I could. I stayed under the bed, my head paining and blood dripping down to the floor, listening to bomb after bomb go off. All I could do was wait for it to end and I felt helpless.

When I thought it was safe to come out I held Selim against me and slid from underneath the bed. There was dust everywhere and I took my scarf off from my head and put it over Selim’s face to protect him. I began to look around me but I could see nothing. I called out for Baba and Ummi but they did not answer. The next bomb went off and I stumbled over something. I sat down on the floor against the bed and waited until things calmed down a bit so I could call for Ummi and Baba to come find us. ’, I thought, “ 24

’

Bomb after bomb fell on Gaza that day and I remember the screaming, there was so much screaming. People screaming out in pain, people calling for help, people calling for ambulances, people calling out for their loved ones and nobody calling out for us. So many prayers were said to Allah that day, prayers for help, mercy and thanks, but mostly final prayers for those who had lost their lives or from those who lay dying so their souls may be allowed into the gates of Jannah. I sat with a tired and softly sobbing Selim laying across my chest with my knees keeping him up. I rocked my body from side to side and with my cheek on his head I sang my favourite Coldplay song. “Look at the stars, look how they shine for you…” I sang, with my eyes closed to protect them from the dust.

Eventually I opened my eyes and saw that the dust had begun to settle. I looked under the scarf at Selim who was lying awake but quiet against my chest. I looked around the room to try and see if there was a way for us to get out. There was only a little light shining through cracks and I could see that the wall where my doorway was had completely collapsed and the roof had come down on that side and on the left of me where my window was. Above me I could hear what sounded like the sky had taken in a sharp breath as though cringing with anticipation for what it would be witness to on the ground below, and I held on tightly to Selim knowing another bomb was about to go off. The ground began to shake and as I looked around me I realised that the roof could come down on us at any minute. I needed to get us out of there. I put my hand under Selim to keep him up and got up slowly to my knees. That’s when I saw her, my mother lying with half her body inside my room and the other half under the fallen wall in my doorway. I did not want to upset Selim by screaming to her so still on my knees I moved over to her. Her head was facing to the side and there was a large piece of cement against the back of her head and on top of her arm. She was covered in dust and there was blood running out onto the pink mat underneath her. I could not bring myself to touch her knowing she was dead, I kneeled there next to her staring at her dirty bloody face unable to cry or react.

As I looked away from her face I saw on her back a hand, a man’s hand, my father’s hand.

Baba was buried under the wall, and I could not see his face, only his one hand clutching Ummi’s shirt as though he had tried to pull her back by it. I sat down on the floor next to them clutching Selim to me rocking back and forth. Selim had begun crying and I realised that he must be hungry and I could not get to the kitchen to get his bottle. We were trapped there and Ummi and Baba were not coming for us and I did not know where Zaida and Sirage were and I didn’t know if they would come for us. Fear overcame me, and as I sat there choking on dust and the smell of my parents blood filling the air, I began to pray the Al fatigah over and over again.

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For hours the screaming went on outside and Selim would wake up from time to time and cry until he fell asleep again, hungry and wet. I remember hearing the sound of a mother somewhere outside weeping and calling out “La illaha ill-Lallah”, and the sound of men yelling at her to let go of the child so they could move her body. I sat there all the while, unable to move saying my prayers faithfully to Allah for the lives of my mother and father without stopping. The light had begun to fade from the room when Selim began to cry so intensely that he was going blue in the face, and I could smell that he had messed in his diaper. I became desperate at that point. I didn’t want myself and my nephew I had just met to die there and I began to scream for help.

The light was almost gone and Selim was still crying desperately against my chest when I heard a man scream for men to come and help him because he could hear a woman and baby inside a house. I closed my eyes as dust came falling down while cement and bricks were being moved to get to us. I felt someone try to take Selim from me but I would not let him go. Then two hands gripped on each of my arms and lifted me to my feet and held me up as I was lead out of the house. When I realised I was outside I opened my eyes and began to scream in Arabic “my mother and father are in there. Don’t leave them in there!” I fought against the men holding me up trying to go back in the house when a tall man covered in dirt and blood came to me, took me by the arms and told me that they were dead, that there was nothing anyone could do for them now and they were in the care of Allah. I looked at him then and he said “My name is Bilaal. You must come with me now. Your mother and father are dead but you are still alive. Come, I will take care of you.” I began to sob and he took Selim from me and the other men carried me to a car.

Selim and I were taken to Shifa hospital. When we got there Selim was given back to me and Bilaal carried me inside. The smell of blood and charred flesh hit me like a strong wind in the face as we entered. There was blood, injured people and dead bodies covering nearly every space. Bilaal had to step over people as he tried to find an available doctor. I remember seeing a little boy sitting alone on a broken chair against the wall. He was crying and had blood on his face and clothes that appeared to not be his own. I held on even tighter to Selim and turned my face into Bilaal’s chest.

Bilaal sat me down at the edge of a bed that was occupied by a girl who could not have been more thanfifteen. She had pipes in her mouth and machines attached to her and I watched her closely as the doctorcame and tended to a small cut on my head. The sound of chaos and beeping machines filled the entire hospital. The doctor took Selim from me and examined him, he told Bilaal that the boy was unharmed, onlyhungry and dirty.

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The doctor asked me if Selim was my child and I told them he is my nephew and I didn’t know where his parents were. They had gone out and had not come back to the house.

The doctor said that we were fine to leave and Bilaal told me we would go home with him to live with him and his wife. I don’t remember much after getting into the car with Selim and Bilaal. When we arrived at the house I woke up when a woman took Selim from me, I tried to protest but Bilaal said it was ok, it was his wife Rokia and I let go. Bilaal lifted me out of the car, carried me in the house and I was laid on the bed and then I drifted off.

The next day after I had been helped by Rokia to bath and dress in some of her clothes and put back in bed, a clean and fed Selim was brought to me dressed in some old baby clothes given by Rokia’s sister. As I sat there in bed holding my nephew, Bilaal and another man entered the room. They told me they brought me pictures to look at taken with a cell phone of a man and a woman they had found dead in a car not far from our home and asked if it was Sirage and Zaida…I looked at the picture and shook my head yes. I looked at Selim and knew then that I had become his mother and that I would never go back to America to finish my studies. Bilaal had seen to it that Ummi and Baba were taken out of the house and they were buried with Sirage and Zaida that same day. I stayed at the house with Rokia and some of her and Bilaal’s family who came to mourn with me.

Four days ago I landed home in Gaza, and when I got off the plane and my shoes touched the ground I closed my eyes and said “Alhamdulillah”, thanking Allah for bringing me home safely. Now as I look at the dust from the same ground that covers the shoes on my feet, my hands and my face, I think ‘

.I

would hand this land over if I could, I would hold out my dirty hands and go on my knees and say “Here take it, take this piece of earth, do with it what you will. I will say no bad word against you, I will submit. Take the men who threaten you, I will not fight you, I will not fight for their cause. Just please, please, I beg you in the name of Allah, let me leave this place, let me give it to you and keep only my life and that of my nephews.” I do not know if I will ever be given that chance, do not know if I will ever taste American air in the back of my throat or rub American soil between my hands. Still I know I could not have escaped this war, even in America it would have affected me. I would still be mourning for my family.

Only there I would be mourning alone, with no one who understands what the people of Gaza have endured. This place is no longer my home to me, this is the place where I have come to die…’

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-The end-

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I'm currently doing my Honours Degree in Philosophy.

I just finished a creative writing piece, and I suppose that's why we're having this conversation :)

I went to varsity with the idea that I would go study to become a teacher, but I fell so in love with philosophy that I ended up doing my post-grad in it. For as long as I can remember, I've always been interested in creative writing. I thought I could "write" until I started the course with Meg Vandermerwe and Wendy Woodward, and it has helped me grow from where I was. I'm not really a poet, still working on that part, but prose writing is really my thing.

I think they compliment each other well. Poetry teaches you how to write in a way that's almost lyrical.

When you give a description of something, people must say "Wow, I've never thought about it that way"...

In the opposite direction, prose gives you a logical form to everything. A piece of poetry may not directly make sense when read on face value, but if a story were to be written about it, the same thing would make sense much faster because of the power of prose.

As a writer you must always be creative. Even poets tell stories, it's just that I'm more of a prose person. I don't think my writing would be where it is today if I didn't do poetry as well.

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Meg is my teacher for prose writing. She teaches us how to hone our skills. We basically come there with raw talent. We know we can write and have ideas, but she teaches us how to put things in a way that relates to other people. One of the most valuable things she's taught me, is that every character has its own story. You can't force who that character must be.

Although it comes from my head, it should take a life of its own. If you listen first and then write, then the story becomes authentic. But if you force ideas on the story, it will never come out as it should be.

We all go there with the big idea that we can write, and when we get there, we realize that there's more to it than at first sight. I think that everybody can be a good writer if they applied themselves and paid attention to things around them. Instead of looking at things on the surface, we are helped to notice things that other people miss. I would see something or listen to a story, and it would spark an interest within me. Although I do believe that anybody can write, I don't think that it's only about raw talent. It's something that needs to be worked on also. It's a science that has a process to it, and if you don't know that process, you're not necessarily going to be good.

Not really, but it's something they must also work on even though they are not in a formal course or institution. Even talented people need to keep working on improving themselves so that they reach full potential.

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It was basically a competition to see the new talent that is at the University. I think most of the people that entered were creative writing students. The theme was "My Room"‌ I sat for weeks with no idea what I was going to write about. But while visiting my brother, I happened to see a documentary about two reporters that where in Gaza during the 2010 bombings, and they speak about that experience. In that documentary, there was a boy who was stuck in a house with his deceased parents. There was also another story about a girl who was denied access back to the USA because she was in Gaza when the bombings were happening. The two stories sparked an interest in me, and that became the inspiration behind my short story.

It was important for me to write the story because there were even protests here in Cape Town and other parts of the world against companies that are trading and fueling the war in Gaza. Before watching the documentary, I didn't understand why such protests were happening. But when I saw it, I gained insight as to the things that so many people where fighting for. So I decided to write a more personalized story because I want us to see the people and not just statistics. It was extremely emotional for me. I spent long hours in my room going through the documentary over again just to get my mindset in the scenario. I was a little traumatized when I was done with it, but I believe it was worth it.

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Source: Delta As an American appraiser of fine Chinese porcelain, Lia Frank holds fragile beauty in her hands, examines priceless treasure with a magnifying lens.

But when Lia looks in the mirror, she sees the flaws in herself, a woman wary of love, cut off from the world around her. Still, when she is sent to Beijing to authenticate a collection of rare pieces, Lia will find herself changing in surprising ways‌coming alive in the shadow of an astounding mystery.

As Lia evaluates each fragile pot, she must answer questions that will reverberate through dozens of lives: Where did these works of art come from? Are they truly authentic? Or are they impossibly beautiful forgeries--part of the perilous underworld of Chinese art? As Lia examines her treasure, a breathtaking mystery unravels around her. And with political intrigue intruding on her world of provenance and beauty, Lia is drawn into another, more personal drama--a love affair that could alter the course of her life.

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Source: Berkley Trade The last thing Melanie expected to lose when she went on a diet was her husband.

Former lawyer Melanie Hoffman lost half her body weight and opened a gourmet takeout cafĂŠ specializing in healthy and delicious food. Then her husband left her-for a woman twice her size. Immediately afterwards, she's blindsided by a financial crisis. Melanie reaches out to a quirky roommate with a ton of baggage and becomes involved in a budding romance with a local documentary filmmaker.

In this warm and often laugh-out-loud novel, Melanie discovers that she still has a lot to learn about her friends, her relationships with men, and herself-and that her weight loss was just the beginning of an amazing journey that will transform her life from the inside out..

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Source: Plume Corporate star Lily Turner abandons the boardrooms of Manhattan for the steep streets of Montevedova when she discovers her "perfect" husband, Daniel, has another family tucked away in the hills of Tuscany. Once there, her plight attracts the attention of the Secret League of Widowed Darners, an all-but-invisible army pulling strings behind the scenes to create happy endings. Soon founding members, Violetta and Luciana, are scheming to mend Lily's broken heart-and to enlist her help for their struggling pasticceria.

With the lush landscape of a sumptuous Tuscan summer in the background, and the tantalizing scent of fresh-baked cantucci in the air, Dolci di Love is the joyful celebration of a modern recipe for life.

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Luvuyo Zulu Univ. Western Cape Student Author 36

“

� - by Luvuyo Zulu

My room, it is my place to be desperate, to be sick.

It is my place to be desperate, defeated and joyful.

Resting,bathing, my room.

I am comforted and excited in my room.

My room, my room stays .

I will always cry in my room.

Tears, Joys, come and go here.

Apologizing, quarrelling, and begging.

People go in and out of it

Young people of my country Great woman of my country come and go in it.

They cry, they are happy, their prayers are answered.

Young men have come back from Marikana My room is the answer.

Death destroying in the North.

My room was an answer.

I have seen people crushed and destroyed, by the walls of houses.

They tried, they cried, no one heard them They are busy, going up and down, hurting each other Without an answer.

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You are the well of my answers You the river of secrets Ebhola came and affected people But you, my room.

You have hidden me; you have hidden us, and protected us.

Under your wing we are safe.

My room, my room, I love you You give me joy and excitement.

In you we are safe We are entertained.

We are freed from the chains of this wold.

Many people have seen you; they have tasted your power.

They have come to you; they undermined you and forgot about you.

You are my power, my answer, I thank you. ! Prayer,prayer, prayer, my room.

Let the people know you, let me tell you, it is powerful.

Once I close my room.

I am comforted in everything.

Let me get in and hide. ***

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I'm a father of two boys. My five year old son (Sinombono - "we have a vision" ) recently "graduated" to Grade R next year, and my eldest (Simbongile -"We thank God for him") is 11 years old... I love those two boys. You see I have a story about them. I come from a family where it was my sister and me. Being two siblings at home made it a little manageable for my grandmother to groom us. So I made my own decision that I one day I also want only 2 kids, so that I can look after them in my own way...

I grew up in the Eastern Cape and matriculated in 1995... But after matriculating, I came to Cape Town to look for some work. I found lots of part time jobs as they became available. After several years I then decided it was time for me to empower myself, so I decided to go back to school to build my dream again.

Having a Matric Certificate alone is nothing in Cape Town. For 7 years I was a security guard with that Matric Certificate. One day while reading the newspaper, I came across a story of a lady that I adopted to be my "distant" mentor. I even took her picture from the newspaper and glued it to my cupboard because it inspired me that much. What touched me about her was that she was a security guard who studied part-time, and by the time the story was printed in the newspaper, she was qualifying as a social worker. The story inspired me and kept me focused on my own dreams. As a fellow security guard, I told myself - "if she could do it, why can't I?"... So in 2012, I decided to go back to school and today I'm almost done with my degree in Education.

It took a lot of faith on my side to make the decision towards this new path. I'm also a Pastor in my community. I stand in front of people every week, and I need to motivate them. There are young-stars who need encouragement and good leadership. So my wife and I decided it was time for change and I went for it.

Luckily for me, I kept my Matric Certificate even though I didn't use it immediately at the time. It helped me get the bursary that is helping me cover my fees today.

What I love about studying "Education" is that it shapes you to become a good teacher. When you're a teacher you have an opportunity to grow and mentor young people. You have to give yourself to them. At the end of the day, I want to see them change into good and progressive members of our society.

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We saw an advert at school inviting interested people to submit their stories or poems under the title "My Room". It was quite a nice theme, I just liked it. When my friend and I saw the advert, it was 30 minutes before the closing time. So we wrote as quickly as we could, including translating the poems to English from Xhosa. For me, my room is prayer and that's what I wrote about. Fortunately, we were able to submit just in time.

I've recently started with a book that I title "Black Child". It's inspired by what I see in our country. If you are not born of parents who have political connections, things really get tough for you. If you don't do anything about it, your future is gone. You don't have money, you can't go anywhere. So as a "Black Child" myself, I'm inspiring others in similar situations as me to come up and make life happen for themselves, even without the political associations. It's not about who supports you, but about yourself. I want to help break the stereotypes...

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I never grew up under the care of my mother, it was my relatives who looked after me.

When I was as young as 7 years old, the only room I knew was prayer. I was crying in that room everyday. I didn't even know how to pray, but I did it anyway... Things unfolded the more I spent time in this room.

I have to mention "Long Walk To Freedom" by the late legendary leader and former President Nelson Mandela. I read it so often yet never finish it because I keep going back to relearning what it's talking about. It reminds me of my own freedom and gives me so much courage to do "the impossible"... I also love the book "Nervous Conditions" by Tsitsi Dangaremba - those are the kind of books that speak to me. They always remind me that as long as I keep pushing forward, I'll be all that I want to be in the days to come.

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Univ. Western Cape Student Author

Dira Rigala 44

Well I'm a student (Bachelor of Education) at the University of Western Cape and an author. I started writing professionally from around 2002, although I won an award in my high school. Actually winning that award helped me discover that I'm an author as well. My arts & culture teacher used to encourage me to keep my work in tact, so that I could publish it in the future. She knew that my dream is to publish someday.

Not yet. It's a very difficult process. The first struggle is just to find a publisher. In many times, I've sent some of my material without getting a reply from them, including the big industry names. That made me even sceptical about sending more of my work to them. So last year, I decided to focus on performing poetry. Although I write in Xhosa, I usually translate them in English for other people to understand.

It's a message to fathers who abandon their children.

The way my life turned out was affected by my father’s misbehaviour. The struggles and sufferings I've went through is because of him. He was a womaniser who had many children. As a result, I never felt any connection between me and him. So it's a cry-out saying, "look at where I am today, it's because of you".

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So far I’ve performed in local poetry festivals, like the one in Stellenbosch, and I've also rendered a few pieces in our local community radio station in Khayelitsha, but my dream is to publish, I suppose that's my next big task. I see myself publishing in both Xhosa and English just to make my work more accessible.

I submitted my work at the last minute. There was no time to even have it edited, and I think that affected how the judges saw the entire thing...

My siblings are all in the arts. My elder brother is a scriptwriter, and my sister is also a poet.

They are my inspiration. And I can't leave out my mother, she's the best storyteller in the world :) and my wish is to rewrite and publish all the stories she used to tell me, they were very nice...

I really loved Ncedile Saule's work "Ukhozi Olumaphiko" - a story set in the dark days of South Africa about a man who is targeted because he refuses to become a police informant. Another is by Ncumisa Vapi - "Litshona Liphume" and "Nothing But The Truth" by John Kani. Really amazing works....

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It is because of you my father.

By Dira Rigala

You......you used to go out late, having fun with ladies down the valley, singing, clapping and playing with their hearts!

You...You used to go out with them sleeping in one room, changing them like socks, fooling them like monks!

They went crazy whenever they heard your name!

They loved you, they adored you, they were emotional attached to you!

They valued you, they respected you, they praised you.‌ like a man who is owning gold mines in his back-yard!

You impregnated them, they gave birth to your kids!

Your kids like a herd of cattle......nor like a flock of birds due to the way they disturbed our connection!

I never felt your love, you never held me in your arms and throw me in the sky!

I never felt your warmth, I never felt your father-touch, I never felt like I have a father!

Like an orphan I was fatherless.

As a man I needed you guidance!

I became miserable in my life!

Your actions cramped me, warped me and twisted me into unsettled drifter!

Like a father like son, that animal kind relationship!

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I became cold towards love!

I never had heart for love!

I never had mercy towards ladies!

I lied to them!

I said I loved them while I lusted them!

Exactly what you used to do!

I enjoyed that, I felt like a Boss! Like a owner of hearts!

I had pride, my friends complemented me!

Now I have my own herd, my friends are nowhere to be found!

Its because of you Father!

Its because of you father!

My life as a clone of your life its because of you father!

Everyday I swallow insults because of you father!

Everyday those woman are trying to bewitch me because of you father!

Those woman hate my guts, hate my name, they spit in my toes, because of you father!

It...‌Is because of you Father! .....But my tears will never fall and be useless in the ground, they will fertilize a garden that is full of humanity, kindness, love, unity!

I swear I will strive to rectify my errors!

I swear I will strive to rectify my errors in the name of Jesus Christ.

Amen ***

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Source: Gallery Books A baker in Cape Cod, Massachusetts, must travel to Paris to uncover a family secret for her dying grandmother—and what she learns may change everything. is the book that made Kristin Harmel an international bestseller.

At thirty-six Hope McKenna-Smith is no stranger to bad news. She lost her mother to cancer, her husband left her for a twenty-two year old, and her bank account is nearly depleted. Her own dreams of becoming a lawyer long gone, she’s running a failing family bakery on Cape Cod and raising a troubled preteen.

Now, Hope’s beloved French-born grandmother Mamie, who wowed the Cape with her fabulous pastries for more than fifty years, is drifting away into a haze of Alzheimer’s. But in a rare moment of clarity, Mamie realizes that unless she tells Hope about the past, the secrets she has held on to for so many years will soon be lost forever. Tantalizingly, she reveals mysterious snippets of a tragic history in Paris. And then, arming her with a scrawled list of names, she sends Hope to France to uncover a seventy-year-old mystery.

Hope’s emotional journey takes her through the bakeries of Paris and three religious traditions, all guided by Mamie’s fairy tales and the sweet tastes of home. As Hope pieces together her family’s history, she finds horrific Holocaust stories mixed with powerful testimonies of her family’s will to survive in a world gone mad. And to reunite two lovers torn apart by terror, all she’ll need is a dash of courage, and the belief that God exists everywhere, even in cake. . . .

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Source: Scribner Macau: the bulbous nose of China, a peninsula and two islands strung together like a three-bead necklace. It was time to find a life for myself. To make something out of nothing. The end of hope and the beginning of it too.

After moving with her husband to the tiny, bustling island of Macau, Grace Miller finds herself a stranger in a foreign land—a lone redhead towering above the crowd on the busy Chinese streets. As she is forced to confront the devastating news of her infertility, Grace’s marriage is fraying and her dreams of family have been shattered. She resolves to do something bold, something her impetuous mother would do, and she turns to what she loves: baking and the pleasure of afternoon tea.

Grace opens a café where she serves tea, coffee, and macarons—the delectable, delicate French cookies colored like precious stones—to the women of Macau.

There, among fellow expatriates and locals alike, Grace carves out a new definition of home and family. But when her marriage reaches a crisis, secrets Grace thought she had buried long ago rise to the surface. Grace realizes it’s now or never to lay old ghosts to rest and to begin to trust herself. With each mug of coffee brewed, each cup of tea steeped and macaron baked, Grace comes to learn that strength can be gleaned from the unlikeliest of places.

A delicious, melt-in-your-mouth novel featuring the sweet pleasures of French pastries and the exotic scents and sights of China, The Color of Tea is a scrumptious story of love, friendship and renewal.

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Tsebang Ateseng Siphambo 52

Tsebang’s Profile

From the young age of 4yrs, Tsebang started dancing to correct her grossmotor neuron coordination deficiency. This was the beginning of what has now turned to be her career in ballet as well as other form of dances; she has since accumulated a number of accolades, listed amongst others are;2008 / 2009 - Distinction (Grade 1 & 2) OVERALL ACHIEVEMENTS Overall Dancer Award 2010 / 2011 Xtreme Modern Dance Overall Award 2010 / 2011 HIP HOP / MODERN DANCE AIDT - Modern Dance Examination Final Grade - Honours with Distinction - November 2011 - Examiner Bridgette Reeve Taylor Hip Hop Intermediate - Da Bomb - November 2011 - Examiner Bridgette Reeve Taylor AIDT Modern Dance Examination Preparatory - Honours with Distinction.

2010: Foundation Graded Examination in Dance (Examiner Dawn De Wit) ●November 2010 - Examiner Thelma Isaacs - Hip HOP Performance - Junior Level 2 - Da Bomb (Second place in the wholestudio) ●AIDT - Preparatory Modern Exam - Honours with Distinction - November 2010 Diploma awarded for Eisteddfod of the Performing Arts: 13 & under novice September 2010 Junior Hip Hop Group - June 2009 (Solo Championships) A+ Hip Hop Solo June 2009 Novice - A+ AIDT - Passed Junior Higher exams Honours with Distinction in November 2009 (examiner Sharon Montague) ·

Grade 3: Classical Ballet Distinction

2011: Royal Academy of Dance: · Grade 4: Level 2 Award Ballet - Distinction - 91 % - (Awarded 10 credits) first place in the whole studio - Examiner Beverley Velentyn RAD · AIDT Final Grade passed honours with Distinction – Examiner Brigitte Reeve – Taylor Tsebang has participated in a number of prestigious competitions including (European Show Dance Union), Dance Star World Tour 2011 Africa Open Qualification Tournament (both Open dance and Hip hop) to represent SA in Croatia, IDO World Championship where she represented SA in Germany in 2012.

This year, 2014 she will be representing SA in the IDO Jazz, Modern & Ballet World Championship to be held in Poland.

Over the years she has been voted the best ballet and modern dancer of the year in both the dance schools i.e. Cherly School of Ballet and Dance Xtreme. She was also crowned overall dancer since 2008 with distinction for her ballet from grade 2 to Grade 5 until 2011.

In 2012 she went to study at Potchfestroon High School for Girls as a boarder, and this had a huge set back in her dancing practices, as there are no formidable dancing schools there; for this reason she had to come back to Pretoria . When she came back, she had to work hard to catch up in severity. She is currently at Southdowns Academy of Dance under the wing of the most experienced dance teachers who have taught her a lot of skills. Since her come back, she has shown excellency as judged in the 2014 Eisteddford Competition where she was awarded with a lot of gold medals and trophies for the Best Dance Impro for all ages and Best Dance Personality (Judge – Bev Wood).

She is passionate about modern dancing especially contemporary and ballet; and equally passionate with sharing her talent. Her dream is eventually to teach dancing to orphaned children.

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Bubbly, Extroverted, Loving, Adventurous, Optimistic, Caring, A bookworm of note

(believe it or not I have read and finished 9 books this year)

A hardworker, Very analytical and Sensational

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How did you discover that dancing was going to help with your illness?

Early this year I was sneaky and I found reports from a therapist about my motor neuron disorder but I kept quiet, only when my mom told me how this whole dance thing started that it made sense.

Of all the forms of dancing you've done, what's your favourite?

Contemporary…………….because its less restricted, more of showing who you are and sharing real emotions Tell us about your favourite author At the moment its Allen Zadoff, but my all time favourites are Roald Dahl from childhood and Katie Brian in my early teens…….

Allen Zadoff’s “Boy Nobody” an awesome read indeed, he keeps you captivated as a reader such that y ou never know what will happen next…that works for me as he allows you to use your imagination. Just received a gift of one of his books “ I am the mission”……that will keep me busy when I travel to Poland soon, can’t wait. It will be his second book I read, plan to read more of his books How has reading helped you?

Advanced my imaginative mind, medicine to kill boredom when not dancing, travelling entertainment “on my to school, dance classes or waiting for my turn to dance, study intervals”, it is like a sleeping pill “ always read until I fall asleep”……………….the little time I have when not doing school work, dancing I read……….

What can you say to encourage others who want to start dancing?

If you love something don’t let anything stop you from doing it. Just believe in yourself at all time, never compare yourself to another dancer for you may have something that the other dancer doesn’t have, cease the opportunity to learn something new at all times, stay positive at all times

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Books I enjoyed Source: Simon & Schuster Reed Brennan's future is looking as bright as the two-karat diamonds in her new housemates' ears. Being accepted to the most prestigious private boarding school in the country wasn't enough for Reed. She had to break every rule to do it, but she has accomplished the impossible: Reed is a Billings Girl now.

And with her new status come respect, envy, and, most important, opportunity. Not to mention the parties. Unfortunately, at the next illicit party in the Easton campus woods, her roommate snaps some pictures of Reed in more than one compromising position.

She uses the photos to blackmail Reed: Dig up dirt on the most powerful and popular Billings Girls or she will have Reed expelled.

And speaking of parties, the Legacy is coming up. It's the invitation-only Halloween party in NYC and it's rumored that Thomas -- Reed's MIA boyfriend -- will be making an appearance there. Too bad Reed isn't even close to invited.

Life as a Billings Girl is every bit as glamorous as Reed imagined. What she didn't bargain for is the tangled web of private lies these girls weave.

Source: Little, Brown Books For Young Readers He was the perfect assassin.

Boy Nobody: No name. No past. No remorse. At least until he began to ask questions and challenge his orders -- until he fell in love with his target. Now The Program is worried that its valuable soldier has become a liability.

Boy Nobody, haunted by the outcome of his last assignment, is given a new mission. A test of sorts. A chance to show his loyalty.

His objective: Take out Eugene Moore, the owner of a military training and indoctrination camp for teenagers. One target. Limited time frame. Public place. It sounds simple, but a previous operative couldn't do it. He lost the mission and is presumed dead. Boy Nobody is confident he can finish the job. Quickly.

But when things go awry, Boy Nobody finds himself lost in a mission where nothing is as it seems: not The Program, his allegiances, or the truth.

The riveting second book in The Unknown Assassin series by Allen Zadoff delivers heartpounding action and thought-provoking characters, as well as a new, exotic setting; a new mission; and new secrets to be revealed.

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Source: Gutenberg

By Honore De Balzac Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley

THE HIDDEN MASTERPIECE CHAPTER I On a cold morning in December, towards the close of the year 1612, a young man, whose clothing betrayed his poverty, was standing before the door of a house in the Rue des Grands-Augustine, in Paris. After walking to and fro for some time with the hesitation of a lover who fears to approach his mistress, however complying she may be, he ended by crossing the threshold and asking if Maitre Francois Porbus were within. At the affirmative answer of an old woman who was sweeping out one of the lower rooms the young man slowly mounted the stairway, stopping from time to time and hesitating, like a newly fledged courier doubtful as to what sort of reception the king might grant him.

When he reached the upper landing of the spiral ascent, he paused a moment before laying hold of a grotesque knocker which ornamented the door of the atelier where the famous painter of Henry IV.—neglected by Marie de Medicis for Rubens—was probably at work. The young man felt the strong sensation which vibrates in the soul of great artists when, in the flush of youth and of their ardor for art, they approach a man of genius or a masterpiece. In all human sentiments there are, as it were, primeval flowers bred of noble enthusiasms, which droop and fade from year to year, till joy is but a memory and glory a lie. Amid such fleeting emotions nothing so resembles love as the young passion of an artist who tastes the first delicious anguish of his destined fame and woe,—a passion daring yet timid, full of vague confidence and sure discouragement. Is there a man, slender in fortune, rich in his spring-time of genius, whose heart has not beaten loudly as he approached a master of his art? If there be, that man will forever lack some heart-string, some touch, I know not what, of his brush, some fibre in his creations, some sentiment in his poetry. When braggarts, self-satisfied and in love with themselves, step early into the fame which belongs rightly to their future achievements, they are men of genius only in the eyes of fools. If talent is to be measured by youthful shyness, by that indefinable modesty which men born to glory lose in the practice of their art, as a pretty woman loses hers among the artifices of coquetry, then this unknown young man might claim to be possessed of genuine merit. The habit of success lessens doubt; and modesty, perhaps, is doubt.

Worn down with poverty and discouragement, and dismayed at this moment by his own presumption, the young neophyte might not have dared to enter the presence of the master to whom we owe our admirable portrait of Henry IV., if chance had not thrown an unexpected assistance in his way. An old man mounted the spiral stairway. The oddity of his dress, the magnificence of his lace ruffles, the solid assurance of his deliberate step, led the youth to assume that this remarkable personage must be the patron, or at least the intimate friend, of the painter. He drew back into a corner of the landing and made room for the new-comer; looking at him attentively and hoping to find either the frank good-nature of the artistic temperament, or the serviceable disposition of those who promote the arts.

But on the contrary he fancied he saw something diabolical in the expression of the old man's face,—something, I know not what, which has the quality of alluring the artistic mind.

Imagine a bald head, the brow full and prominent and falling with deep projection over a little flattened nose turned up at the end like the noses of Rabelais and Socrates; a laughing, wrinkled mouth; a short chin boldly chiselled and garnished with a gray beard cut into a point; sea-green eyes, faded perhaps by age, but whose pupils, contrasting with the pearl-white balls on which they floated, cast at times magnetic glances of anger or enthusiasm 60

The face in other respects was singularly withered and worn by the weariness of old age, and still more, it would seem, by the action of thoughts which had undermined both soul and body. The eyes had lost their lashes, and the eyebrows were scarcely traced along the projecting arches where they belonged. Imagine such a head upon a lean and feeble body, surround it with lace of dazzling whiteness worked in meshes like a fish-slice, festoon the black velvet doublet of the old man with a heavy gold chain, and you will have a faint idea of the exterior of this strange individual, to whose appearance the dusky light of the landing lent fantastic coloring. You might have thought that a canvas of Rembrandt without its frame had walked silently up the stairway, bringing with it the dark atmosphere which was the sign-manual of the great master. The old man cast a look upon the youth which was full of sagacity; then he rapped three times upon the door, and said, when it was opened by a man in feeble health, apparently about forty years of age, "Good-morning, maitre."

Porbus bowed respectfully, and made way for his guest, allowing the youth to pass in at the same time, under the impression that he came with the old man, and taking no further notice of him; all the less perhaps because the neophyte stood still beneath the spell which holds a heaven-born painter as he sees for the first time an atelier filled with the materials and instruments of his art. Daylight came from a casement in the roof and fell, focussed as it were, upon a canvas which rested on an easel in the middle of the room, and which bore, as yet, only three or four chalk lines. The light thus concentrated did not reach the dark angles of the vast atelier; but a few wandering reflections gleamed through the russet shadows on the silvered breastplate of a horseman's cuirass of the fourteenth century as it hung from the wall, or sent sharp lines of light upon the carved and polished cornice of a dresser which held specimens of rare pottery and porcelains, or touched with sparkling points the rough-grained texture of ancient gold-brocaded curtains, flung in broad folds about the room to serve the painter as models for his drapery. Anatomical casts in plaster, fragments and torsos of antique goddesses amorously polished by the kisses of centuries, jostled each other upon shelves and brackets. Innumerable sketches, studies in the three crayons, in ink, and in red chalk covered the walls from floor to ceiling; color-boxes, bottles of oil and turpentine, easels and stools upset or standing at right angles, left but a narrow pathway to the circle of light thrown from the window in the roof, which fell full on the pale face of Porbus and on the ivory skull of his singular visitor.

The attention of the young man was taken exclusively by a picture destined to become famous after those days of tumult and revolution, and which even then was precious in the sight of certain opinionated individuals to whom we owe the preservation of the divine afflatus through the dark days when the life of art was in jeopardy. This noble picture represents the Mary of Egypt as she prepares to pay for her passage by the ship. It is a masterpiece, painted for Marie de Medicis, and afterwards sold by her in the days of her distress.

"I like your saint," said the old man to Porbus, "and I will give you ten golden crowns over and above the queen's offer; but as to entering into competition with her—the devil!"

"You do like her, then?"

"As for that," said the old man, "yes, and no. The good woman is well set-up, but—she is not living. You young men think you have done all when you have drawn the form correctly, and put everything in place according to the laws of anatomy. You color the features with flesh-tones, mixed beforehand on your palette,—taking very good care to shade one side of the face darker than the other; and because you draw now and then from a nude woman standing on a table, you think you can copy nature; you fancy yourselves painters, and imagine that you have got at the secret of God's creations! Pr-r-r-r!—To be a great poet it is not enough to know the rules of syntax and write faultless grammar. Look at your saint, Porbus.

At first sight she is admirable; but at the very next glance we perceive that she is glued to the canvas, and that we cannot walk round her.

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She is a silhouette with only one side, a semblance cut in outline, an image that can't turn nor change her position. I feel no air between this arm and the background of the picture; space and depth are wanting. All is in good perspective; the atmospheric gradations are carefully observed, and yet in spite of your conscientious labor I cannot believe that this beautiful body has the warm breath of life. If I put my hand on that firm, round throat I shall find it cold as marble. No, no, my friend, blood does not run beneath that ivory skin; the purple tide of life does not swell those veins, nor stir those fibres which interlace like net-work below the translucent amber of the brow and breast. This part palpitates with life, but that other part is not living; life and death jostle each other in every detail. Here, you have a woman; there, a statue; here again, a dead body. Your creation is incomplete. You have breathed only a part of your soul into the well-beloved work. The torch of Prometheus went out in your hands over and over again; there are several parts of your painting on which the celestial flame never shone."

"But why is it so, my dear master?" said Porbus humbly, while the young man could hardly restrain a strong desire to strike the critic.

"Ah! that is the question," said the little old man. "You are floating between two systems,—between drawing and color, between the patient phlegm and honest stiffness of the old Dutch masters and the dazzling warmth and abounding joy of the Italians. You have tried to follow, at one and the same time, Hans Holbein and Titian; Albrecht Durier and Paul Veronese. Well, well! it was a glorious ambition, but what is the result? You have neither the stern attraction of severity nor the 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,—ghastly articulations, without the slightest resemblance to her living hand; you must have recourse to the chisel of a man who, without servilely copying that hand, can give it movement and life. It is our mission to seize the mind, soul, countenance of things and beings. Effects! effects! what are they? the mere accidents of the life, and not the life itself. A hand,—since I have taken that as an example,—a hand is not merely a part of the body, it is far more; it expresses and carries on a thought which we must seize and render. Neither the painter nor the poet nor the sculptor should separate the effect from the cause, for they are indissolubly one. The true struggle of art lies there. Many a painter has triumphed through instinct without knowing this theory of art as a theory.

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"Yes," continued the old man vehemently, "you draw a woman, but you do not see her.

That is not the way to force an entrance into the arcana of Nature. Your hand reproduces, without an action of your mind, the model you copied under a master. You do not search out the secrets of form, nor follow its windings and evolutions with enough love and perseverance. Beauty is solemn and severe, and cannot be attained in that way; we must wait and watch its times and seasons, and clasp it firmly ere it yields to us. Form is a Proteus less easily captured, more skilful to double and escape, than the Proteus of fable; it is only at the cost of struggle that we compel it to come forth in its true aspects. You young men are content with the first glimpse you get of it; or, at any rate, with the second or the third. This is not the spirit of the great warriors of art,—invincible powers, not misled by will-o'-the-wisps, but advancing always until they force Nature to lie bare in her divine integrity. That was Raphael's method," said the old man, lifting his velvet cap in homage to the sovereign of art; "his superiority came from the inward essence which seems to break from the inner to the outer of his figures. Form with him was what it is with us,—a medium by which to communicate ideas, sensations, feelings; in short, the infinite poesy of being. Every figure is a world; a portrait, whose original stands forth like a sublime vision, colored with the rainbow tints of light, drawn by the monitions of an inward voice, laid bare by a divine finger which points to the past of its whole existence as the source of its given expression. You clothe your women with delicate skins and glorious draperies of hair, but where is the blood which begets the passion or the peace of their souls, and is the cause of what you call 'effects'? Your saint is a dark woman; but this, my poor Porbus, belongs to a fair one. Your figures are pale, colored phantoms, which you present to our eyes; and you call that painting! art! Because you make something which looks more like a woman than a house, you think you have touched the goal; proud of not being obliged to write "currus venustus" or "pulcher homo" on the frame of your picture, you think yourselves majestic artists like our great forefathers.

Ha, ha! you have not got there yet, my little men; you will use up many a crayon and spoil many a canvas before you reach that height. Undoubtedly a woman carries her head this way and her petticoats that way; her eyes soften and droop with just that look of resigned gentleness; the throbbing shadow of the eyelashes falls exactly thus upon her cheek. That is it, and—that is not it. What lacks? A mere nothing; but that mere nothing is all. You have given the shadow of life, but you have not given its fulness, its being, its—I know not what—soul, perhaps, which floats vaporously about the tabernacle of flesh; in short, that flower of life which Raphael and Titian culled. Start from the point you have now attained, and perhaps you may yet paint a worthy picture; you grew weary too soon. Mediocrity will extol your work; but the true artist smiles. O Mabuse! O my master!" added this singular person, "you were a thief; you have robbed us of your life, your knowledge, your art! But at least," he resumed after a pause, "this picture is better than the paintings of that rascally Rubens, with his mountains of Flemish flesh daubed with vermilion, his cascades of red hair, and his hurlyburly of color. At any rate, you have got the elements of color, drawing, and sentiment,—the three essential parts of art."

"But the saint is sublime, good sir!" cried the young man in a loud voice, waking from a deep reverie. "These figures, the saint and the boatman, have a subtile meaning which the Italian painters cannot give. I do not know one of them who could have invented that hesitation of the boatman."

"Does the young fellow belong to you?" asked Porbus of the old man.

"Alas, maitre, forgive my boldness," said the neophyte, blushing. "I am all unknown; only a dauber by instinct. I have just come to Paris, that fountain of art and science."

"Let us see what you can do," said Porbus, giving him a red crayon and a piece of paper.

The unknown copied the saint with an easy turn of his hand.

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"Oh! oh!" exclaimed the old man, "what is your name?"

The youth signed the drawing: Nicolas Poussin.

"Not bad for a beginner," said the strange being who had discoursed so wildly. "I see that it is worth while to talk art before you. I don't blame you for admiring Porbus's saint. It is a masterpiece for the world at large; only those who are behind the veil of the holy of holies can perceive its errors. But you are worthy of a lesson, and capable of understanding it. I will show you how little is needed to turn that picture into a true masterpiece. Give all your eyes and all your attention; such a chance of instruction may never fall in your way again. Your palette, Porbus."

Porbus fetched his palette and brushes. The little old man turned up his cuffs with convulsive haste, slipped his thumb through the palette charged with prismatic colors, and snatched, rather than took, the handful of brushes which Porbus held out to him. As he did so his beard, cut to a point, seemed to quiver with the eagerness of an incontinent fancy; and while he filled his brush he muttered between his teeth:— "Colors fit to fling out of the window with the man who ground them,—crude, false, revolting! who can paint with them?"

Then he dipped the point of his brush with feverish haste into the various tints, running through the whole scale with more rapidity than the organist of a cathedral runs up the gamut of the "O Filii" at Easter.

Porbus and Poussin stood motionless on either side of the easel, plunged in passionate contemplation.

"See, young man," said the old man without turning round, "see how with three or four touches and a faint bluish glaze you can make the air circulate round the head of the poor saint, who was suffocating in that thick atmosphere. Look how the drapery now floats, and you see that the breeze lifts it; just now it looked like heavy linen held out by pins. Observe that the satiny lustre I am putting on the bosom gives it the plump suppleness of the flesh of a young girl. See how this tone of mingled reddish-brown and ochre warms up the cold grayness of that large shadow where the blood seemed to stagnate rather than flow.

Young man, young man! what I am showing you now no other master in the world can teach you. Mabuse alone knew the secret of giving life to form. Mabuse had but one pupil, and I am he. I never took a pupil, and I am an old man now. You are intelligent enough to guess at what should follow from the little that I shall show you to-day."

While he was speaking, the extraordinary old man was giving touches here and there to all parts of the picture. Here two strokes of the brush, there one, but each so telling that together they brought out a new painting,—a painting steeped, as it were, in light. He worked with such passionate ardor that the sweat rolled in great drops from his bald brow; and his motions seemed to be jerked out of him with such rapidity and impatience that the young Poussin fancied a demon, encased with the body of this singular being, was working his hands fantastically like those of a puppet without, or even against, the will of their owner.

The unnatural brightness of his eyes, the convulsive movements which seemed the result of some mental resistance, gave to this fancy of the youth a semblance of truth which reacted upon his lively imagination. The old man worked on, muttering half to himself, half to his neophyte:— "Paf! paf! paf! that is how we butter it on, young man. Ah! my little pats, you are right; warm up that icy tone. Come, come!—pon, pon, pon,—" he continued, touching up the spots where he had complained of a lack of life, hiding under layers of color the conflicting methods, and regaining the unity of tone essential to an ardent Egyptian.

"Now see, my little friend, it is only the last touches of the brush that count for anything. Porbus put on a hundred; I have only put on one or two. Nobody will thank us for what is underneath, remember that!"

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At last the demon paused; the old man turned to Porbus and Poussin, who stood mute with admiration, and said to them,— "It is not yet equal to my Beautiful Nut-girl; still, one can put one's name to such a work. Yes, I will sign it," he added, rising to fetch a mirror in which to look at what he had done. "Now let us go and breakfast. Come, both of you, to my house. I have some smoked ham and good wine. Hey! hey! in spite of the degenerate times we will talk painting; we are strong ourselves. Here is a little man," he continued, striking Nicolas Poussin on the shoulder, "who has the faculty."

Observing the shabby cap of the youth, he pulled from his belt a leathern purse from which he took two gold pieces and offered them to him, saying,— "I buy your drawing."

"Take them," said Porbus to Poussin, seeing that the latter trembled and blushed with shame, for the young scholar had the pride of poverty; "take them, he has the ransom of two kings in his pouch."

The three left the atelier and proceeded, talking all the way of art, to a handsome wooden house standing near the Pont Saint-Michel, whose window-casings and arabesque decoration amazed Poussin. The embryo painter soon found himself in one of the rooms on the ground floor seated, beside a good fire, at a table covered with appetizing dishes, and, by unexpected good fortune, in company with two great artists who treated him with kindly attention.

"Young man," said Porbus, observing that he was speechless, with his eyes fixed on a picture, "do not look at that too long, or you will fall into despair."

It was the Adam of Mabuse, painted by that wayward genius to enable him to get out of the prison where his creditors had kept him so long. The figure presented such fulness and force of reality that Nicolas Poussin began to comprehend the meaning of the bewildering talk of the old man. The latter looked at the picture with a satisfied but not enthusiastic manner, which seemed to say, "I have done better myself."

"There is life in the form," he remarked. "My poor master surpassed himself there; but observe the want of truth in the background. The man is living, certainly; he rises and is coming towards us; but the atmosphere, the sky, the air that we breathe, see, feel,—where are they? Besides, that is only a man; and the being who came first from the hand of God must needs have had something divine about him which is lacking here. Mabuse said so himself with vexation in his sober moments."

Poussin looked alternately at the old man and at Porbus with uneasy curiosity. He turned to the latter as if to ask the name of their host, but the painter laid a finger on his lips with an air of mystery, and the young man, keenly interested, kept silence, hoping that sooner or later some word of the conversation might enable him to guess the name of the old man, whose wealth and genius were sufficiently attested by the respect which Porbus showed him, and by the marvels of art heaped together in the picturesque apartment.

Poussin, observing against the dark panelling of the wall a magnificent portrait of a woman, exclaimed aloud, "What a magnificent Giorgione!"

"No," remarked the old man, "that is only one of my early daubs."

"Zounds!" cried Poussin naively; "are you the king of painters?"

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The old man smiled, as if long accustomed to such homage. "Maitre Frenhofer," said Porbus, "could you order up a little of your good Rhine wine for me?"

"Two casks," answered the host; "one to pay for the pleasure of looking at your pretty sinner this morning, and the other as a mark of friendship."

"Ah! if I were not so feeble," resumed Porbus, "and if you would consent to let me see your Beautiful Nut-girl, I too could paint some lofty picture, grand and yet profound, where the forms should have the living life."

"Show my work!" exclaimed the old man, with deep emotion. "No, no! I have still to bring it to perfection. Yesterday, towards evening, I thought it was finished. Her eyes were liquid, her flesh trembled, her tresses waved—she breathed! And yet, though I have grasped the secret of rendering on a flat canvas the relief and roundness of nature, this morning at dawn I saw many errors. Ah! to attain that glorious result, I have studied to their depths the masters of color. I have analyzed and lifted, layer by layer, the colors of Titian, king of light. Like him, great sovereign of art, I have sketched my figure in light clear tones of supple yet solid color; for shadow is but an accident,—remember that, young man. Then I worked backward, as it were; and by means of half-tints, and glazings whose transparency I kept diminishing little by little, I was able to cast strong shadows deepening almost to blackness. The shadows of ordinary painters are not of the same texture as their tones of light. They are wood, brass, iron, anything you please except flesh in shadow. We feel that if the figures changed position the shady places would not be wiped off, and would remain dark spots which never could be made luminous. I have avoided that blunder, though many of our most illustrious painters have fallen into it. In my work you will see whiteness beneath the opacity of the broadest shadow. Unlike the crowd of ignoramuses, who fancy they draw correctly because they can paint one good vanishing line, I have not dryly outlined my figures, nor brought out superstitiously minute anatomical details; for, let me tell you, the human body does not end off with a line. In that respect sculptors get nearer to the truth of nature than we do. Nature is all curves, each wrapping or overlapping another. To speak rigorously, there is no such thing as drawing. Do not laugh, young man; no matter how strange that saying seems to you, you will understand the reasons for it one of these days. A line is a means by which man explains to himself the effect of light upon a given object; but there is no such thing as a line in nature, where all things are rounded and full. It is only in modelling that we really draw,—in other words, that we detach things from their surroundings and put them in their due relief. The proper distribution of light can alone reveal the whole body. For this reason I do not sharply define lineaments; I diffuse about their outline a haze of warm, light half-tints, so that I defy any one to place a finger on the exact spot where the parts join the groundwork of the picture. If seen near by this sort of work has a woolly effect, and is wanting in nicety and precision; but go a few steps off and the parts fall into place; they take their proper form and detach themselves,—the body turns, the limbs stand out, we feel the air circulating around them.

"Nevertheless," he continued, sadly, "I am not satisfied; there are moments when I have my doubts. Perhaps it would be better not to sketch a single line. I ask myself if I ought not to grasp the figure first by its highest lights, and then work down to the darker portions. Is not that the method of the sun, divine painter of the universe? O Nature, Nature! who has ever caught thee in thy flights? Alas! the heights of knowledge, like the depths of ignorance, lead to unbelief. I doubt my work."

The old man paused, then resumed. "For ten years I have worked, young man; but what are ten short years in the long struggle with Nature? We do not know the type it cost Pygmalion to make the only statue that ever walked—"

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He fell into a reverie and remained, with fixed eyes, oblivious of all about him, playing mechanically with his knife.

"See, he is talking to his own soul," said Porbus in a low voice.

The words acted like a spell on Nicolas Poussin, filling him with the inexplicable curiosity of a true artist. The strange old man, with his white eyes fixed in stupor, became to the wondering youth something more than a man; he seemed a fantastic spirit inhabiting an unknown sphere, and waking by its touch confused ideas within the soul. We can no more define the moral phenomena of this species of fascination than we can render in words the emotions excited in the heart of an exile by a song which recalls his fatherland. The contempt which the old man affected to pour upon the noblest efforts of art, his wealth, his manners, the respectful deference shown to him by Porbus, his work guarded so secretly,—a work of patient toil, a work no doubt of genius, judging by the head of the Virgin which Poussin had so naively admired, and which, beautiful beside even the Adam of Mabuse, betrayed the imperial touch of a great artist,—in short, everything about the strange old man seemed beyond the limits of human nature. The rich imagination of the youth fastened upon the one perceptible and clear clew to the mystery of this supernatural being,— the presence of the artistic nature, that wild impassioned nature to which such mighty powers have been confided, which too often abuses those powers, and drags cold reason and common souls, and even lovers of art, over stony and arid places, where for such there is neither pleasure nor instruction; while to the artistic soul itself,—that white-winged angel of sportive fancy,—epics, works of art, and visions rise along the way. It is a nature, an essence, mocking yet kind, fruitful though destitute. Thus, for the enthusiastic Poussin, the old man became by sudden transfiguration Art itself,—art with all its secrets, its transports, and its dreams.

"Yes, my dear Porbus," said Frenhofer, speaking half in reverie, "I have never yet beheld a perfect woman; a body whose outlines were faultless and whose flesh-tints—Ah! where lives she?" he cried, interrupting his own words; "where lives the lost Venus of the ancients, so long sought for, whose scattered beauty we snatch by glimpses? Oh! to see for a moment, a single moment, the divine completed nature,—the ideal,—I would give my all of fortune.

Yes; I would search thee out, celestial Beauty! in thy farthest sphere. Like Orpheus, I would go down to hell to win back the life of art—" "Let us go," said Porbus to Poussin; "he neither sees nor hears us any longer."

"Let us go to his atelier," said the wonder-struck young man.

"Oh! the old dragon has guarded the entrance. His treasure is out of our reach. I have not waited for your wish or urging to attempt an assault on the mystery."

"Mystery! then there is a mystery?"

"Yes," answered Porbus. "Frenhofer was the only pupil Mabuse was willing to teach. He became the friend, saviour, father of that unhappy man, and he sacrificed the greater part of his wealth to satisfy the mad passions of his master. In return, Mabuse bequeathed to him the secret of relief, the power of giving life to form,—that flower of nature, our perpetual despair, which Mabuse had seized so well that once, having sold and drunk the value of a flowered damask which he should have worn at the entrance of Charles V., he made his appearance in a paper garment painted to resemble damask. The splendor of the stuff attracted the attention of the emperor, who, wishing to compliment the old drunkard, laid a hand upon his shoulder and discovered the deception. Frenhofer is a man carried away by the passion of his art; he sees above and beyond what other painters see. He has meditated deeply on color and the absolute truth of lines; but by dint of much research, much thought, much study, he has come to doubt the object for which he is searching. In his hours of despair he fancies that drawing does not exist, and that lines can render nothing but geometric figures.

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That, of course, is not true; because with a black line which has no color we can represent the human form. This proves that our art is made up, like nature, of an infinite number of elements. Drawing gives the skeleton, and color gives the life; but life without the skeleton is a far more incomplete thing than the skeleton without the life. But there is a higher truth still,— namely, that practice and observation are the essentials of a painter; and that if reason and poesy persist in wrangling with the tools, the brushes, we shall be brought to doubt, like Frenhofer, who is as much excited in brain as he is exalted in art. A sublime painter, indeed; but he had the misfortune to be born rich, and that enables him to stray into theory and conjecture. Do not imitate him. Work! work! painters should theorize with their brushes in their hands."

"We will contrive to get in," cried Poussin, not listening to Porbus, and thinking only of the hidden masterpiece.

Porbus smiled at the youth's enthusiasm, and bade him farewell with a kindly invitation to come and visit him.

Nicolas Poussin returned slowly towards the Rue de la Harpe and passed, without observing that he did so, the modest hostelry where he was lodging. Returning presently upon his steps, he ran up the miserable stairway with anxious rapidity until he reached an upper chamber nestling between the joists of a roof "en colombage,"—the plain, slight covering of the houses of old Paris. Near the single and gloomy window of the room sat a young girl, who rose quickly as the door opened, with a gesture of love; she had recognized the young man's touch upon the latch.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"It is—it is," he cried, choking with joy, "that I feel myself a painter! I have doubted it till now; but to-day I believe in myself. I can be a great man. Ah, Gillette, we shall be rich, happy! There is gold in these brushes!"

Suddenly he became silent. His grave and earnest face lost its expression of joy; he was comparing the immensity of his hopes with the mediocrity of his means. The walls of the garret were covered with bits of paper on which were crayon sketches; he possessed only four clean canvases. Colors were at that time costly, and the poor gentleman gazed at a palette that was well-nigh bare. In the midst of this poverty he felt within himself an indescribable wealth of heart and the superabundant force of consuming genius. Brought to Paris by a gentleman of his acquaintance, and perhaps by the monition of his own talent, he had suddenly found a mistress,—one of those generous and noble souls who are ready to suffer by the side of a great man; espousing his poverty, studying to comprehend his caprices, strong to bear deprivation and bestow love, as others are daring in the display of luxury and in parading the insensibility of their hearts. The smile which flickered on her lips brightened as with gold the darkness of the garret and rivalled the effulgence of the skies; for the sun did not always shine in the heavens, but she was always here,—calm and collected in her passion, living in his happiness, his griefs; sustaining the genius which overflowed in love ere it found in art its destined expression.

"Listen, Gillette; come!"

The obedient, happy girl sprang lightly on the painter's knee. She was all grace and beauty, pretty as the spring-time, decked with the wealth of feminine charm, and lighting all with the fire of a noble soul.

"O God!" he exclaimed, "I can never tell her!"

"A secret!" she cried; "then I must know it."

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Poussin was lost in thought.

"Tell me."

"Gillette, poor, beloved heart!"

"Ah! do you want something of me?"

"Yes." "If you want me to pose as I did the other day," she said, with a little pouting air, "I will not do it. Your eyes say nothing to me, then. You look at me, but you do not think of me."

"Would you like me to copy another woman?"

"Perhaps," she answered, "if she were very ugly."

"Well," continued Poussin, in a grave tone, "if to make me a great painter it were necessary to pose to some one else—" "You are testing me," she interrupted; "you know well that I would not do it."

Poussin bent his head upon his breast like a man succumbing to joy or grief too great for his spirit to bear.

"Listen," she said, pulling him by the sleeve of his worn doublet, "I told you, Nick, that I would give my life for you; but I never said—never!—that I, a living woman, would renounce my love."

"Renounce it?" cried Poussin.

"If I showed myself thus to another you would love me no longer; and I myself, I should feel unworthy of your love. To obey your caprices, ah, that is simple and natural! in spite of myself, I am proud and happy in doing thy dear will; but to another, fy!"

"Forgive me, my own Gillette," said the painter, throwing himself at her feet. "I would rather be loved than famous. To me thou art more precious than fortune and honors. Yes, away with these brushes! burn those sketches! I have been mistaken. My vocation is to love thee,—thee alone! I am not a painter, I am thy lover. Perish art and all its secrets!"

She looked at him admiringly, happy and captivated by his passion. She reigned; she felt instinctively that the arts were forgotten for her sake, and flung at her feet like grains of incense.

"Yet he is only an old man," resumed Poussin. "In you he would see only a woman. You are the perfect woman whom he seeks."

"Love should grant all things!" she exclaimed, ready to sacrifice love's scruples to reward the lover who thus seemed to sacrifice his art to her. "And yet," she added, "it would be my ruin.

Ah, to suffer for thy good! Yes, it is glorious! But thou wilt forget me. How came this cruel thought into thy mind?"

"It came there, and yet I love thee," he said, with a sort of contrition. "Am I, then, a wretch?"

"Let us consult Pere Hardouin."

"No, no! it must be a secret between us."

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"Well, I will go; but thou must not be present," she said. "Stay at the door, armed with thy dagger. If I cry out, enter and kill the man."

Forgetting all but his art, Poussin clasped her in his arms.

"He loves me no longer!" thought Gillette, when she was once more alone.

She regretted her promise. But before long she fell a prey to an anguish far more cruel than her regret; and she struggled vainly to drive forth a terrible fear which forced its way into her mind. She felt that she loved him less as the suspicion rose in her heart that he was less worthy than she had thought him.

CHAPTER II Three months after the first meeting of Porbus and Poussin, the former went to see Maitre Frenhofer. He found the old man a prey to one of those deep, self-developed discouragements, whose cause, if we are to believe the mathematicians of health, lies in a bad digestion, in the wind, in the weather, in some swelling of the intestines, or else, according to casuists, in the imperfections of our moral nature; the fact being that the good man was simply worn out by the effort to complete his mysterious picture. He was seated languidly in a large oaken chair of vast dimensions covered with black leather; and without changing his melancholy attitude he cast on Porbus the distant glance of a man sunk in absolute dejection.

"Well, maitre," said Porbus, "was the distant ultra-marine, for which you journeyed to Brussels, worthless? Are you unable to grind a new white? Is the oil bad, or the brushes restive?"

"Alas!" cried the old man, "I thought for one moment that my work was accomplished; but I must have deceived myself in some of the details. I shall have no peace until I clear up my doubts. I am about to travel; I go to Turkey, Asia, Greece, in search of models. I must compare my picture with various types of Nature. It may be that I have up there," he added, letting a smile of satisfaction flicker on his lip, "Nature herself. 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. Well, the work which I keep hidden behind bolts and bars is an exception to all other art. It is not a canvas; it is a woman,—a woman with whom I weep and laugh and think and talk.

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Would you have me resign the joy of ten years, as I might throw away a worn-out doublet?

Shall I, in a moment, cease to be father, lover, creator?—this woman is not a creature; she is my creation. Bring your young man; I will give him my treasures,—paintings of Correggio, Michael-Angelo, Titian; I will kiss the print of his feet in the dust,—but make him my rival?

Shame upon me! Ha! I am more a lover than I am a painter. I shall have the strength to burn my Nut-girl ere I render my last sigh; but suffer her to endure the glance of a man, a young man, a painter?—No, no! I would kill on the morrow the man who polluted her with a look! I would kill you,—you, my friend,—if you did not worship her on your knees; and think you I would submit my idol to the cold eyes and stupid criticisms of fools? Ah, love is a mystery! its life is in the depths of the soul; it dies when a man says, even to his friend, Here is she whom I love."

The old man seemed to renew his youth; his eyes had the brilliancy and fire of life, his pale cheeks blushed a vivid red, his hands trembled. Porbus, amazed by the passionate violence with which he uttered these words, knew not how to answer a feeling so novel and yet so profound. Was the old man under the thraldom of an artist's fancy? Or did these ideas flow from the unspeakable fanaticism produced at times in every mind by the long gestation of a noble work? Was it possible to bargain with this strange and whimsical being?

Filled with such thoughts, Porbus said to the old man, "Is it not woman for woman? Poussin lends his mistress to your eyes."

"What sort of mistress is that?" cried Frenhofer. "She will betray him sooner or later. Mine will be to me forever faithful."

"Well," returned Porbus, "then let us say no more. But before you find, even in Asia, a woman as beautiful, as perfect, as the one I speak of, you may be dead, and your picture forever unfinished."

"Oh, it is finished!" said Frenhofer. "Whoever sees it will find a woman lying on a velvet bed, beneath curtains; perfumes are exhaling from a golden tripod by her side: he will be tempted to take the tassels of the cord that holds back the curtain; he will think he sees the bosom of Catherine Lescaut,—a model called the Beautiful Nut-girl; he will see it rise and fall with the movement of her breathing. Yet—I wish I could be sure—" "Go to Asia, then," said Porbus hastily, fancying he saw some hesitation in the old man's eye.

Porbus made a few steps towards the door of the room. At this moment Gillette and Nicolas Poussin reached the entrance of the house. As the young girl was about to enter, she dropped the arm of her lover and shrank back as if overcome by a presentiment. "What am I doing here?" she said to Poussin, in a deep voice, looking at him fixedly.

"Gillette, I leave you mistress of your actions; I will obey your will. You are my conscience, my glory. Come home; I shall be happy, perhaps, if you, yourself—" "Have I a self when you speak thus to me? Oh, no! I am but a child. Come," she continued, seeming to make a violent effort. "If our love perishes, if I put into my heart a long regret, thy fame shall be the guerdon of my obedience to thy will. Let us enter. I may yet live again,—a memory on thy palette."

Opening the door of the house the two lovers met Porbus coming out. Astonished at the beauty of the young girl, whose eyes were still wet with tears, he caught her all trembling by the hand and led her to the old master.

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"There!" he cried; "is she not worth all the masterpieces in the world?"

Frenhofer quivered. Gillette stood before him in the ingenuous, simple attitude of a young Georgian, innocent and timid, captured by brigands and offered to a slave-merchant. A modest blush suffused her cheeks, her eyes were lowered, her hands hung at her sides, strength seemed to abandon her, and her tears protested against the violence done to her purity. Poussin cursed himself, and repented of his folly in bringing this treasure from their peaceful garret. Once more he became a lover rather than an artist; scruples convulsed his heart as he saw the eye of the old painter regain its youth and, with the artist's habit, disrobe as it were the beauteous form of the young girl. He was seized with the jealous frenzy of a true lover.

"Gillette!" he cried; "let us go."

At this cry, with its accent of love, his mistress raised her eyes joyfully and looked at him; then she ran into his arms.

"Ah! you love me still?" she whispered, bursting into tears.

Though she had had strength to hide her suffering, she had none to hide her joy.

"Let me have her for one moment," exclaimed the old master, "and you shall compare her with my Catherine. Yes, yes; I consent!"

There was love in the cry of Frenhofer as in that of Poussin, mingled with jealous coquetry on behalf of his semblance of a woman; he seemed to revel in the triumph which the beauty of his virgin was about to win over the beauty of the living woman.

"Do not let him retract," cried Porbus, striking Poussin on the shoulder. "The fruits of love wither in a day; those of art are immortal."

"Can it be," said Gillette, looking steadily at Poussin and at Porbus, "that I am nothing more than a woman to him?"

She raised her head proudly; and as she glanced at Frenhofer with flashing eyes she saw her lover gazing once more at the picture he had formerly taken for a Giorgione.

"Ah!" she cried, "let us go in; he never looked at me like that!"

"Old man!" said Poussin, roused from his meditation by Gillette's voice, "see this sword. I will plunge it into your heart at the first cry of that young girl. I will set fire to your house, and no one shall escape from it. Do you understand me?"

His look was gloomy and the tones of his voice were terrible. His attitude, and above all the gesture with which he laid his hand upon the weapon, comforted the poor girl, who half forgave him for thus sacrificing her to his art and to his hopes of a glorious future.

Porbus and Poussin remained outside the closed door of the atelier, looking at one another in silence. At first the painter of the Egyptian Mary uttered a few exclamations: "Ah, she unclothes herself!"—"He tells her to stand in the light!"—"He compares them!" but he grew silent as he watched the mournful face of the young man; for though old painters have none of such petty scruples in presence of their art, yet they admire them in others, when they are fresh and pleasing. The young man held his hand on his sword, and his ear seemed glued to the panel of the door. Both men, standing darkly in the shadow, looked like conspirators waiting the hour to strike a tyrant.

"Come in! come in!" cried the old man, beaming with happiness. "My work is perfect; I can show it now with pride. Never shall painter, brushes, colors, canvas, light, produce the rival of Catherine Lescaut, the Beautiful Nut-girl."

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Porbus and Poussin, seized with wild curiosity, rushed into the middle of a vast atelier filled with dust, where everything lay in disorder, and where they saw a few paintings hanging here and there upon the walls. They stopped before the figure of a woman, life-sized and half nude, which filled them with eager admiration.

"Do not look at that," said Frenhofer, "it is only a daub which I made to study a pose; it is worth nothing. Those are my errors," he added, waving his hand towards the enchanting compositions on the walls around them.

At these words Porbus and Poussin, amazed at the disdain which the master showed for such marvels of art, looked about them for the secret treasure, but could see it nowhere.

"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.

"Yes, yes; it is really a canvas," cried Frenhofer, mistaking the purpose of their examination.

"See, here is the frame, the easel; these are my colors, my brushes." And he caught up a brush which he held out to them with a naive motion.

"The old rogue is making game of us," said Poussin, coming close to the pretended picture.

"I can see nothing here but a mass of confused color, crossed by a multitude of eccentric lines, making a sort of painted wall."

"We are mistaken. See!" returned Porbus.

Coming nearer, they perceived in a corner of the canvas the point of a naked foot, which came forth from the chaos of colors, tones, shadows hazy and undefined, misty and without form,—an enchanting foot, a living foot. They stood lost in admiration before this glorious fragment breaking forth from the incredible, slow, progressive destruction around it. The foot seemed to them like the torso of some Grecian Venus, brought to light amid the ruins of a burned city.

"There is a woman beneath it all!" cried Porbus, calling Poussin's attention to the layers of color which the old painter had successively laid on, believing that he thus brought his work to perfection. The two men turned towards him with one accord, beginning to comprehend, though vaguely, the ecstasy in which he lived.

"He means it in good faith," said Porbus.

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"Yes, my friend," answered the old man, rousing from his abstraction, "we need faith; faith in art. We must live with our work for years before we can produce a creation like that. Some of these shadows have cost me endless toil. See, there on her cheek, below the eyes, a faint half-shadow; if you observed it in Nature you might think it could hardly be rendered.

Well, believe me, I took unheard-of pains to reproduce that effect. My dear Porbus, look attentively at my work, and you will comprehend what I have told you about the manner of treating form and outline. Look at the light on the bosom, and see how by a series of touches and higher lights firmly laid on I have managed to grasp light itself, and combine it with the dazzling whiteness of the clearer tones; and then see how, by an opposite method,— smoothing off the sharp contrasts and the texture of the color,—I have been able, by caressing the outline of my figure and veiling it with cloudy half-tints, to do away with the very idea of drawing and all other artificial means, and give to the form the aspect and roundness of Nature itself. Come nearer, and you will see the work more distinctly; if too far off it disappears. See! there, at that point, it is, I think, most remarkable." And with the end of his brush he pointed to a spot of clear light color.

Porbus struck the old man on the shoulder, turning to Poussin as he did so, and said, "Do you know that he is one of our greatest painters?"

"He is a poet even more than he is a painter," answered Poussin gravely.

"There," returned Porbus, touching the canvas, "is the ultimate end of our art on earth."

"And from thence," added Poussin, "it rises, to enter heaven."

"How much happiness is there!—upon that canvas," said Porbus.

The absorbed old man gave no heed to their words; he was smiling at his visionary woman.

"But sooner or later, he will perceive that there is nothing there," cried Poussin.

"Nothing there!—upon my canvas?" said Frenhofer, looking first at the two painters, and then at his imaginary picture.

"What have you done?" cried Porbus, addressing Poussin.

The old man seized the arm of the young man violently, and said to him, "You see nothing?—clown, infidel, scoundrel, dolt! Why did you come here? My good Porbus," he added, turning to his friend, "is it possible that you, too, are jesting with me? Answer; I am your friend. Tell me, can it be that I have spoiled my picture?"

Porbus hesitated, and feared to speak; but the anxiety painted on the white face of the old man was so cruel that he was constrained to point to the canvas and utter the word, "See!" Frenhofer looked at his picture for a space of a moment, and staggered.

"Nothing! nothing! after toiling ten years!"

He sat down and wept.

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"Am I then a fool, an idiot? Have I neither talent nor capacity? Am I no better than a rich man who walks, and can only walk? Have I indeed produced nothing?"

He gazed at the canvas through tears. Suddenly he raised himself proudly and flung a lightning glance upon the two painters.

"By the blood, by the body, by the head of Christ, you are envious men who seek to make me think she is spoiled, that you may steal her from me. I—I see her!" he cried. "She is wondrously beautiful!"

At this moment Poussin heard the weeping of Gillette as she stood, forgotten, in a corner.

"What troubles thee, my darling?" asked the painter, becoming once more a lover.

"Kill me!" she answered. "I should be infamous if I still loved thee, for I despise thee. I admire thee; but thou hast filled me with horror. I love, and yet already I hate thee."

While Poussin listened to Gillette, Frenhofer drew a green curtain before his Catherine, with the grave composure of a jeweller locking his drawers when he thinks that thieves are near him. He cast at the two painters a look which was profoundly dissimulating, full of contempt and suspicion; then, with convulsive haste, he silently pushed them through the door of his atelier. When they reached the threshold of his house he said to them, "Adieu, my little friends."

The tone of this farewell chilled the two painters with fear.

On the morrow Porbus, alarmed, went again to visit Frenhofer, and found that he had died during the night, after having burned his paintings. ***

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