"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.