There was once a talented painter, one of the best artists of his time, the great Rubens. He had a great love for art, which he shared with those men who came to him to learn for themselves how to paint as well as he did.

One day, this talented artist went with several of his pupils to visit a monastery. Entering the monastery's little church, he was very surprised to see a certain image on the wall of the sanctuary. It was a painting, representing the death of a monk. But this simple subject was so well illustrated, that the famed artist thought it to be the greatest work of art he'd ever seen.

He pointed it out to his students, and they also expressed admiration for the image.

"Who could have been the painter of this picture?" said the artist's favorite student.

"His name had been written at the foot of the painting," said another, "but it is now entirely erased."

Rubens then sent for the Prior, and asked him who was the artist that had painted such a magnificent picture.

"The painter is no longer of this world." replied the Prior.

"Dead!" exclaimed the artist, "Dead, and till now no one has ever heard of him; no one has handed down his name, which ought to be immortal - his name, which might have even greater renown than my own!"

Then the artist, with gleaming pride, revealed his own famed name to the Prior.

When the Prior learned that this man who stood before him was the great Rubens, his face brightened; his eyes sparkled, and he stared at the artist, not just with curiosity, but with a feeling of natural pride. And in his enthusiasm, the monk raised his arms to Heaven.

But this was only for a moment. The monk then cast his eyes to the ground, crossed his arms on his breast, and repeated the words he had formerly used:

"The artist is no longer of this world."

But Rubens insisted: "His name, his name, my Father what is his name? I must make it known to the world, and give honor to whom honor is due."

And all the others united their voices to his, asking him to tell them who was the painter of the picture.

The monk was troubled. A cold sweat trickled from his forehead, down his thin cheeks; his lips were tightly pressed together, as he was tempted to reveal the mystery.

"His name, his name!" repeated Rubens.

The monk made a solemn gesture with his hand.

"Hear me." he said, "You have not properly understood me. I said to you that the author of this painting was no longer of the world, but I did not say that he was dead."

"He lives, then he lives!" exclaimed the artist, "Oh, tell us where he is, that we may go and find him."

"He has renounced all worldly things." replied the Prior, "He dwells in the cloister; he is a monk."

"A monk, my Father, a monk! Oh, tell me in what monastery he lives, for he must leave it. When God marks a man with the seal of genius, that man must not go and hide himself from the world. God has given such a one a sublime mission on earth, and it is his duty to accomplish it. Tell me the name of the cloister where he has hid himself, and I myself will go and take him from there, and I will show him what glory awaits him. If he refuses to accompany me, I will tell him that I will go to our Holy Father the Pope, and ask him to order him to go back again into the world. Yes, my Father, I will go to the Pope himself, and the Pope will grant my request."

The monk answered in a determined tone: "I will not tell you his name, nor the place where he is to be found."

"But the Pope will order you to do this." said the artist.

"Hear me!" said the monk, "Hear me! Do you imagine that this man, before leaving the world, before renouncing the fortune and the glory he could so easily have gained, did not have to fight bravely against a great temptation? Do you believe that he had not been pressed by bitter suggestions and by a cruel agony of mind, before he was able to throw off all this human glory, and acknowledge that all was vanity? Leave him, then, to die in the home he has chosen for his life in this deceitful world. Besides this, all your efforts would be useless. It is a temptation which he would overcome." and making the sign of the Cross, the monk added, "For God will not deprive him of His assistance in his day of need. God, Who in His goodness has called this man to serve Him alone, will not cast him away from His presence."

"But, my Father," continued the poor artist, "it is an immortal name he sacrifices."

"An immortal name is nothing," answered the monk, "when compared with eternity."

And the monk, pulling his hood over his head to hide his face, immediately changed the conversation, so that the artist could not return to the subject.

The reknowned Rubens left the monastery along with his pupils, and returned to Madrid, silent and sorrowful. The Prior went back to his cell, and, kneeling on the mat which served as his bed, raised up a fervent prayer to God. Then he gathered together all his painting materials and his easel, and threw them into the river which ran beneath the window of his cell. Now there would be no chance of anyone coming to learn who he was and seize him from the monastery.

For a little time he watched sadly, as he saw his beloved art materials sink in the water or carried away by the stream. But when they had all disappeared, he returned to his prayer on the mat of straw before his Crucifix.

His sadness was soon replaced by peace. For he knew that in giving up the art he loved so much, he was proving to God that he loved Him much more - and in making such a sacrifice in this short life on earth, he would be incredibly happier in the unending life to come.