Chapter 1

Opposite the chapel of Saint Sebalt in Nuremberg, at the corner of
Trabaus Street, there stands a little tavern, tall and narrow, with a
toothed gable and dusty windows, whose roof is surmounted by a plaster
Virgin. It was there that I spent the unhappiest days of my life. I had
gone to Nuremberg to study the old German masters; but in default of
ready money, I had to paint portraits--and such portraits! Fat old women
with their cats on their laps, big-wigged aldermen, burgomasters in
three-cornered hats--all horribly bright with ochre and vermilion. From
portraits I descended to sketches, and from sketches to silhouettes.

Nothing is more annoying than to have your landlord come to you every
day with pinched lips, shrill voice, and impudent manner to say: "Well,
sir, how soon are you going to pay me? Do you know how much your bill
is? No; that doesn't worry you! You eat, drink, and sleep calmly enough.
God feeds the sparrows. Your bill now amounts to two hundred florins and
ten kreutzers--it is not worth talking about."

Those who have not heard any one talk in this way can form no idea of
it; love of art, imagination, and the sacred enthusiasm for the
beautiful are blasted by the breath of such an attack. You become
awkward and timid; all your energy evaporates, as well as your feeling
of personal dignity, and you bow respectfully at a distance to the
burgomaster Schneegans.

One night, not having a sou, as usual, and threatened with imprisonment
by this worthy Mister Rap, I determined to make him a bankrupt by
cutting my throat. Seated on my narrow bed, opposite the window, in this
agreeable mood, I gave myself up to a thousand philosophical
reflections, more or less comforting.

"What is man?" I asked myself. "An omnivorous animal; his jaws, provided
with canines, incisors, and molars, prove it. The canines are made to
tear meat; the incisors to bite fruits; and the molars to masticate,
grind, and triturate animal and vegetable substances that are pleasant
to smell and to taste. But when he has nothing to masticate, this being
is an absurdity in Nature, a superfluity, a fifth wheel to the coach."

Such were my reflections. I dared not open my razor for fear that the
invincible force of my logic would inspire me with the courage to make
an end of it all. After having argued so finely, I blew out my candle,
postponing the sequel till the morrow.

That abominable Rap had completely stupefied me. I could do nothing but
silhouettes, and my sole desire was to have some money to rid myself of
his odious presence. But on this night a singular change came over my
mind. I awoke about one o'clock--I lit my lamp, and, enveloping myself
in my grey gabardine, I drew upon the paper a rapid sketch after the
Dutch school--something strange and bizarre, which had not the slightest
resemblance to my ordinary conceptions.

Imagine a dreary courtyard enclosed by high dilapidated walls. These
walls are furnished with hooks, seven or eight feet from the ground. You
see, at a glance, that it is a butchery.

On the left, there extends a lattice structure; you perceive through it
a quartered beef suspended from the roof by enormous pulleys. Great
pools of blood run over the flagstones and unite in a ditch full of
refuse.

The light falls from above, between the chimneys where the weathercocks
stand out from a bit of the sky the size of your hand, and the roofs of
the neighbouring houses throw bold shadows from story to story.

At the back of this place is a shed, beneath the shed a pile of wood,
and upon the pile of wood some ladders, a few bundles of straw, some
coils of rope, a chicken-coop, and an old dilapidated rabbit-hutch.

How did these heterogeneous details suggest themselves to my
imagination? I don't know; I had no reminiscences, and yet every stroke
of the pencil seemed the result of observation, and strange because it
was all so true. Nothing was lacking.

But on the right, one corner of the sketch remained a blank. I did not
know what to put there.... Something suddenly seemed to writhe there, to
move! Then I saw a foot, the sole of a foot. Notwithstanding this
improbable position, I followed my inspiration without reference to my
own criticism. This foot was joined to a leg--over this leg, stretched
out with effort, there soon floated the skirt of a dress. In short,
there appeared by degrees an old woman, pale, dishevelled, and wasted,
thrown down at the side of a well, and struggling to free herself from a
hand that clutched her throat.

It was a murder scene that I was drawing. The pencil fell from my hand.

This woman, in the boldest attitude, with her thighs bent on the curb of
the well, her face contracted by terror, and her two hands grasping the
murderer's arm, frightened me. I could not look at her. But the man--he,
the person to whom that arm belonged--I could not see him. It was
impossible for me to finish the sketch.

"I am tired," I said, my forehead dripping with perspiration; "there is
only this figure to do; I will finish it tomorrow. It will be easy
then."

And again I went to bed, thoroughly frightened by my vision.

The next morning, I got up very early. I was dressing in order to resume
my interrupted work, when two little knocks were heard on my door.

"Come in!"

The door opened. An old man, tall, thin, and dressed in black, appeared
on the threshold. This man's face, his eyes set close together and his
large nose like the beak of an eagle, surmounted by a high bony
forehead, had something severe about it. He bowed to me gravely.

"Mister Christian Vénius, the painter?" said he.

"That is my name, sir."

He bowed again, adding:

"The Baron Frederick Van Spreckdal."

The appearance of the rich amateur, Van Spreckdal, judge of the criminal
court, in my poor lodging, greatly disturbed me. I could not help
throwing a stealthy glance at my old worm-eaten furniture, my damp
hangings and my dusty floor. I felt humiliated by such dilapidation; but
Van Spreckdal did not seem to take any account of these details; and
sitting down at my little table:

"Mister Vénius," he resumed, "I come----" But at this instant his glance
fell upon the unfinished sketch--he did not finish his phrase.

I was sitting on the edge of my little bed; and the sudden attention
that this personage bestowed upon one of my productions made my heart
beat with an indefinable apprehension.

At the end of a minute, Van Spreckdal lifted his head:

"Are you the author of that sketch?" he asked me with an intent look.

"Yes, sir."

"What is the price of it?"

"I never sell my sketches. It is the plan for a picture."

"Ah!" said he, picking up the paper with the tips of his long yellow
fingers.

He took a lens from his waistcoat pocket and began to study the design
in silence.

The sun was now shining obliquely into the garret. Van Spreckdal never
said a word; the hook of his immense nose increased, his heavy eyebrows
contracted, and his long pointed chin took a turn upward, making a
thousand little wrinkles in his long, thin cheeks. The silence was so
profound that I could distinctly hear the plaintive buzzing of a fly
that had been caught in a spider's web.

"And the dimensions of this picture, Mister Vénius?" he said without
looking at me.

"Three feet by four."

"The price?"

"Fifty ducats."

Van Spreckdal laid the sketch on the table, and drew from his pocket a
large purse of green silk shaped like a pear; he drew the rings of
it----

"Fifty ducats," said he, "here they are."

I was simply dazzled.

The Baron rose and bowed to me, and I heard his big ivory-headed cane
resounding on each step until he reached the bottom of the stairs. Then
recovering from my stupour, I suddenly remembered that I had not thanked
him, and I flew down the five flights like lightning; but when I reached
the bottom, I looked to the right and left; the street was deserted.

"Well," I said, "this is strange."

And I went upstairs again all out of breath.