Two Painters
- Kelvin Sandigo
- Aug 17
- 7 min read
A short version of this story appears at the end of the chapter “The Proud Choirmaster” from Sunday Morning Storyland: Sermons for the Children’s Mass (1945) by Rev. Wilfrid J. Diamond.
The longer version below comes from the German newspaper Der Landbote, No. 11, 24 Januar 1867 having the title “Zwei Maler.” It was sourced using Grok and translated with Google Translate.
During his stay in Madrid, Peter Paul Rubens visited all the ecclesiastical buildings; thus, accompanied by his most distinguished pupils, he once entered the chapel of a shabby-looking monastery whose name is unknown to us.
This chapel, too, had a meager, bare appearance, and the artist was on the point of leaving when his gaze fell upon a painting hanging half-hidden in the shadows—he quickly stepped closer, and a cry of admiration escaped his lips.
“What is it, Master?” his pupils cried.
“Look, look here!” Rubens replied; soon the young men, too, stood before the painting, captivated by admiration.
It depicted the death of a young monk of such wondrous beauty that neither acts of penance nor the struggle of death had been able to mar it. He lay stretched out on the floor of his cell, his eyes already clouded by approaching death; one hand rested upon a skull, while the other pressed a crucifix to his heart.
In the background of the painting, another picture could be seen hanging on the cell wall above the bed—a bed the monk had left in order to die, in all humility, upon the hard floor.
The second picture showed a beautiful young woman lying dead on a bier, surrounded by rich black draperies and burning wax candles.
No one could have contemplated these two scenes without immediately declaring that they complemented each other. Unhappy love, a dead lover, weariness of life, an eternal yearning for the world—this was the content of the secretly enigmatic drama that emerged from these two interconnected paintings, whose colors, drawing, and composition moreover betrayed a master's hand.
“Master, who painted this magnificent picture?” asked Rubens' pupils, who had taken it down from the wall.
“The name seems to have been inscribed in this corner, but it has recently been wiped away,” replied Rubens. “The painting is no more than thirty years old and no less than twenty.”
“But the painter?”
“The painter? Judging by the mastery displayed, it could be Velázquez, Zurbarán, Ribera, or Murillo; yet Velázquez did not paint with such profound emotion, nor would Zurbarán have treated such a subject in this manner—Murillo painted more delicately, and Ribera used darker hues—indeed, this genre belongs to none of their schools. I do not know the artist, and I would swear that I have never seen another painting of his. I would even maintain that he belonged to no school at all; perhaps he painted only this single picture—perhaps, indeed, he could not have painted a second one like it—though it reveals a sublime genius. It is a work of inspiration, a reflection of the soul, a revelation of life. Do you wish to know who painted this picture? That dead man you see lying there.”
“Master, surely you are joking?”
“No, I am serious; the painter has depicted himself here as dying, and that beautiful, lifeless woman over there was the soul—the light of life—of the monk who is even now breathing his last. I believe that when she ceased to live, he felt he too must die, just as he had already died to the world. Perhaps this painting merely represents the wish of a young man weary of life, rather than his final hour itself—who knows if he might not still be alive? In any case, I am convinced that the painter is the subject of this picture. — We must discover the unknown artist and try to find out whether he has produced any other works.”
Speaking thus, Rubens turned to a monk kneeling at the high altar and said:
“Reverend Father, please inform the Prior that I wish to speak with him on behalf of the King.”
The elderly monk rose with difficulty and replied in a low voice:
“What is it you wish? I am the Prior.”
“Forgive me, Father, for interrupting your prayer,” Rubens answered. “Could you perhaps tell me the name of the painter who created this picture?”
“That painting?” repeated the monk. “I had forgotten it.”
“What? You knew about it and yet could forget it?”
“Yes, my son—forgotten it completely.”
“My, Reverend Father, you have a poor memory!” said Rubens, speaking mockingly yet with great disappointment.
The prior knelt down and resumed his prayers, but Rubens called out to him: “I come from the King!”
“What else do you wish, my brother?” asked the monk, raising his head.
“To buy this painting from you!”
“It is not for sale.”
“Then I must know where I can find the painter.”
“That, too, is impossible; he is no longer of this world.”
"Dead?" cried Rubens, as if in despair. "Dead! And no one knew him; even his name is forgotten. And yet that name would have become immortal—and would have eclipsed mine—yes, mine! Father,” he added with a noble, solemn pride, “I am Peter Paul Rubens!”
At the mention of this illustrious name—already on everyone’s lips and echoing through every monastery thanks to the artist’s religious paintings—a deep flush suddenly suffused the Prior’s pale face, and he raised his eyes to the painter with a look of admiration and reverence.
“Oh, you know me!” cried Rubens with childlike delight. “I am so glad! Perhaps now you will be less reticent with me. Will you sell me the painting now?”
“That is impossible,” replied the Prior.
“Do you know of any other works by this genius so early taken from art? Can you tell me when he died?”
“You misunderstood me,” replied the monk. “I didn't say that the painter of this picture was dead, but only that he was no longer of this world.”
“Oh, he's alive! He's still alive!” cried everyone as one. “Please, tell us about him!”
“To what? The unfortunate man renounced all earthly things long ago and has nothing more to do with the world, nothing at all!”
“Oh,” said Rubens excitedly, “that is impossible, Father! When God has kindled the sacred fire of genius in a soul, He does not do so that the soul may bury itself in the shadows, but rather that it may fulfill the sublime mission of enlightening other souls. Tell me the name of the monastery where the great artist has hidden himself; I will seek him out there myself and restore him to the world. Oh, what glory awaits him!”
“And if he refuses?” asked the Prior.
“Then I shall turn to the Pope, who honors me with his friendship, and His Holiness will surely succeed where I might fail.”
“In that case, I shall withhold the painter's name from you—even if I knew it—and you shall likewise not learn the name of the monastery where he has taken refuge.”
“Very well, Father Prior; the King and the Pope will compel you to tell me all this,” Rubens replied angrily.
“Oh, do not do that—it would be wrong, Señor Rubens! Take the painting with you if you wish, but do not disturb the peace of the man who created it. I beg you, in God’s name! Yes, I once honored, loved, and comforted that great man—as you call him; that poor, deluded mortal—as I call him—and saved him from the storms of the world where he had nearly foundered. Now he is calm, content, and close to supreme happiness! Fame! Do you know of any greater fame than that for which he strives? By what right would you reignite the will-o'-the-wisp of earthly vanity in his soul, when his heart now knows only the holy fire of love for God and mankind? Do you think this man did not wage a fierce battle against all earthly temptations before he left the world and renounced wealth, reputation, power, youth, and love? And now you would rob him of the victory he won at such cost? Do you not sense how much sorrow, disappointment, and bitterness it must have taken to teach him to despise earthly possessions?”
“But that means renouncing immortality.”
“No, that means striving for it.”
“And by what right do you place yourself between this man and the world, Father Prior? Let him speak for himself.”
“With the right of an eldest brother, a teacher, a father, for that is what I was to him. And then, shall I repeat it again? In the name of God; honor him if you value the salvation of your soul.” — With that, the monk drew his hood over his head and departed.
“Let us go,” said Rubens, “I know what remains for me to do.”
“Master,” cried one of the students, who had been staring intently at the prior, “don't you also think that this old monk bears a striking resemblance to the dying young man in the painting?”
“That's true!” exclaimed all the students at once. If one mentally strips away the wrinkles and the beard and imagines the face thirty years younger, one realizes that the Master was right when he said that the dead man might still be alive.
Meanwhile, Rubens gazed silently—chastened and deeply moved—after the old man, who turned back once more as he disappeared and greeted him with dignity. “It's him!” stammered the painter. “Let's go. This man is right; his fame is far greater than mine. Let's let him die in peace.”
Then he cast one last glance at the much-admired painting and left the church in a reverie, heading to the Escorial to see the king, by whom he had been summoned. Three days later, he returned to the monastery to ask for permission to copy the painting—but it had vanished.
Before the high altar, the “De profundis” was being sung before a catafalque; as he drew near, he recognized the deceased as the prior.
“Peace be with him! He was a great man!” Rubens said silently, “and how he resembles the painting now!”
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