第 1 节
作者:爱之冰点      更新:2021-02-19 20:34      字数:9322
  The Madonna of the Future
  by Henry James
  We had been talking about the masters who had achieved but a single
  masterpiecethe artists and poets who but once in their lives had
  known the divine afflatus and touched the high level of perfection。
  Our host had been showing us a charming little cabinet picture by a
  painter whose name we had never heard; and who; after this single
  spasmodic bid for fame; had apparently relapsed into obscurity and
  mediocrity。  There was some discussion as to the frequency of this
  phenomenon; during which; I observed; H… sat silent; finishing his
  cigar with a meditative air; and looking at the picture which was
  being handed round the table。  〃I don't know how common a case it
  is;〃 he said at last; 〃but I have seen it。  I have known a poor
  fellow who painted his one masterpiece; and〃he added with a smile
  〃he didn't even paint that。  He made his bid for fame and missed it。〃
  We all knew H… for a clever man who had seen much of men and manners;
  and had a great stock of reminiscences。  Some one immediately
  questioned him further; and while I was engrossed with the raptures
  of my neighbour over the little picture; he was induced to tell his
  tale。  If I were to doubt whether it would bear repeating; I should
  only have to remember how that charming woman; our hostess; who had
  left the table; ventured back in rustling rose…colour to pronounce
  our lingering a want of gallantry; and; finding us a listening
  circle; sank into her chair in spite of our cigars; and heard the
  story out so graciously that; when the catastrophe was reached; she
  glanced across at me and showed me a tear in each of her beautiful
  eyes。
  It relates to my youth; and to Italy:  two fine things!  (H… began)。
  I had arrived late in the evening at Florence; and while I finished
  my bottle of wine at supper; had fancied that; tired traveller though
  I was; I might pay the city a finer compliment than by going vulgarly
  to bed。  A narrow passage wandered darkly away out of the little
  square before my hotel; and looked as if it bored into the heart of
  Florence。  I followed it; and at the end of ten minutes emerged upon
  a great piazza; filled only with the mild autumn moonlight。  Opposite
  rose the Palazzo Vecchio; like some huge civic fortress; with the
  great bell…tower springing from its embattled verge as a mountain…
  pine from the edge of a cliff。  At its base; in its projected shadow;
  gleamed certain dim sculptures which I wonderingly approached。  One
  of the images; on the left of the palace door; was a magnificent
  colossus; shining through the dusky air like a sentinel who has taken
  the alarm。  In a moment I recognised him as Michael Angelo's David。
  I turned with a certain relief from his sinister strength to a
  slender figure in bronze; stationed beneath the high light loggia;
  which opposes the free and elegant span of its arches to the dead
  masonry of the palace; a figure supremely shapely and graceful;
  gentle; almost; in spite of his holding out with his light nervous
  arm the snaky head of the slaughtered Gorgon。  His name is Perseus;
  and you may read his story; not in the Greek mythology; but in the
  memoirs of Benvenuto Cellini。  Glancing from one of these fine
  fellows to the other; I probably uttered some irrepressible
  commonplace of praise; for; as if provoked by my voice; a man rose
  from the steps of the loggia; where he had been sitting in the
  shadow; and addressed me in good Englisha small; slim personage;
  clad in a sort of black velvet tunic (as it seemed); and with a mass
  of auburn hair; which gleamed in the moonlight; escaping from a
  little mediaeval birretta。  In a tone of the most insinuating
  deference he asked me for my 〃impressions。〃  He seemed picturesque;
  fantastic; slightly unreal。  Hovering there in this consecrated
  neighbourhood; he might have passed for the genius of aesthetic
  hospitalityif the genius of aesthetic hospitality were not commonly
  some shabby little custode; flourishing a calico pocket…handkerchief
  and openly resentful of the divided franc。  This analogy was made
  none the less complete by the brilliant tirade with which he greeted
  my embarrassed silence。
  〃I have known Florence long; sir; but I have never known her so
  lovely as tonight。  It's as if the ghosts of her past were abroad in
  the empty streets。  The present is sleeping; the past hovers about us
  like a dream made visible。  Fancy the old Florentines strolling up in
  couples to pass judgment on the last performance of Michael; of
  Benvenuto!  We should come in for a precious lesson if we might
  overhear what they say。  The plainest burgher of them; in his cap and
  gown; had a taste in the matter!  That was the prime of art; sir。
  The sun stood high in heaven; and his broad and equal blaze made the
  darkest places bright and the dullest eyes clear。  We live in the
  evening of time!  We grope in the gray dusk; carrying each our poor
  little taper of selfish and painful wisdom; holding it up to the
  great models and to the dim idea; and seeing nothing but overwhelming
  greatness and dimness。  The days of illumination are gone!  But do
  you know I fancyI fancy〃and he grew suddenly almost familiar in
  this visionary fervour〃I fancy the light of that time rests upon us
  here for an hour!  I have never seen the David so grand; the Perseus
  so fair!  Even the inferior productions of John of Bologna and of
  Baccio Bandinelli seem to realise the artist's dream。  I feel as if
  the moonlit air were charged with the secrets of the masters; and as
  if; standing here in religious attention; we mightwe might witness
  a revelation!〃  Perceiving at this moment; I suppose; my halting
  comprehension reflected in my puzzled face; this interesting
  rhapsodist paused and blushed。  Then with a melancholy smile; 〃You
  think me a moonstruck charlatan; I suppose。  It's not my habit to
  bang about the piazza and pounce upon innocent tourists。  But
  tonight; I confess; I am under the charm。  And then; somehow; I
  fancied you too were an artist!〃
  〃I am not an artist; I am sorry to say; as you must understand the
  term。  But pray make no apologies。  I am also under the charm; your
  eloquent remarks have only deepened it。〃
  〃If you are not an artist you are worthy to be one!〃 he rejoined;
  with an expressive smile。  〃A young man who arrives at Florence late
  in the evening; and; instead of going prosaically to bed; or hanging
  over the traveller's book at his hotel; walks forth without loss of
  time to pay his devoirs to the beautiful; is a young man after my own
  heart!〃
  The mystery was suddenly solved; my friend was an American!  He must
  have been; to take the picturesque so prodigiously to heart。  〃None
  the less so; I trust;〃 I answered; 〃if the young man is a sordid New
  Yorker。〃
  〃New Yorkers have been munificent patrons of art!〃 he answered;
  urbanely。
  For a moment I was alarmed。  Was this midnight reverie mere Yankee
  enterprise; and was he simply a desperate brother of the brush who
  had posted himself here to extort an 〃order〃 from a sauntering
  tourist?  But I was not called to defend myself。  A great brazen note
  broke suddenly from the far…off summit of the bell…tower above us;
  and sounded the first stroke of midnight。  My companion started;
  apologised for detaining me; and prepared to retire。  But he seemed
  to offer so lively a promise of further entertainment that I was
  indisposed to part with him; and suggested that we should stroll
  homeward together。  He cordially assented; so we turned out of the
  Piazza; passed down before the statued arcade of the Uffizi; and came
  out upon the Arno。  What course we took I hardly remember; but we
  roamed slowly about for an hour; my companion delivering by snatches
  a sort of moon…touched aesthetic lecture。  I listened in puzzled
  fascination; and wondered who the deuce he was。  He confessed with a
  melancholy but all…respectful head…shake to his American origin。
  〃We are the disinherited of Art!〃 he cried。  〃We are condemned to be
  superficial!  We are excluded from the magic circle。  The soil of
  American perception is a poor little barren artificial deposit。  Yes!
  we are wedded to imperfection。  An American; to excel; has just ten
  times as much to learn as a European。  We lack the deeper sense。  We
  have neither taste; nor tact; nor power。  How should we have them?
  Our crude and garish climate; our silent past; our deafening present;
  the constant pressure about us of unlovely circumstance; are as void
  of all that nourishes and prompts and inspires the artist; as my sad
  heart is void of bitterness in saying so!  We poor aspirants must
  live in perpetual exile。〃
  〃You seem fairly at home in exile;〃 I answered; 〃and Florence seems
  to me a very pretty Siberia。  But do you know my own thought?
  Nothing is so idle as to talk about our want of a nutritive soil; of
  opportunity; of inspiration; and all the rest of it。  The worthy part
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