章节正文
light? Why, she breathes! That bosom,--see! Ah! who would not worship
it on bended knee? The flesh palpitates! Wait, she is about to rise;
wait!"
"Can you see anything?" whispered Poussin to Porbus.
"Nothing. Can you?"
"No."
The two painters drew back, leaving the old man absorbed in ecstasy,
and tried to see if the light, falling plumb upon the canvas at which
he pointed, had neutralized all effects. They examined the picture,
moving from right to left, standing directly before it, bending,
swaying, rising by turns.
"Yes, yes; it is really a canvas," cried Frenhofer, mistaking the
purpose of their examination. "See, here is the frame, the easel;
these are my colors, my brushes." And he caught up a brush which he
held out to them with a naive motion.
"The old rogue is making game of us," said Poussin, coming close to
the pretended picture. "I can see nothing here but a mass of confused
color, crossed by a multitude of eccentric lines, making a sort of
painted wall."
"We are mistaken. See!" returned Porbus.
Coming nearer, they perceived in a corner of the canvas the point of a
naked foot, which came forth from the chaos of colors, tones, shadows
hazy and undefined, misty and without form,--an enchanting foot, a
living foot. They stood lost in admiration before this glorious
fragment breaking forth from the incredible, slow, progressive
destruction around it. The foot seemed to them like the torso of some
Grecian Venus, brought to light amid the ruins of a burned city.
"There is a woman beneath it all!" cried Porbus, calling Poussin's
attention to the layers of color which the old painter had
successively laid on, believing that he thus brought his work to
perfection. The two men turned towards him with one accord, beginning
to comprehend, though vaguely, the ecstasy in which he lived.
"He means it in good faith," said Porbus.
"Yes, my friend," answered the old man, rousing from his abstraction,
"we need faith; faith in art. We must live with our work for years
before we can produce a creation like that. Some of these shadows have
cost me endless toil. See, there on her cheek, below the eyes, a faint
half-shadow; if you observed it in Nature you might think it could
hardly be rendered. Well, believe me, I took unheard-of pains to
reproduce that effect. My dear Porbus, look attentively at my work,
and you will comprehend what I have told you about the manner of
treating form and outline. Look at the light on the bosom, and see how
by a series of touches and higher lights firmly laid on I have managed
to grasp light itself, and combine it with the dazzling whiteness of
the clearer tones; and then see how, by an opposite method,--smoothing
off the sharp contrasts and the texture of the color,--I have been
able, by caressing the outline of my figure and veiling it with cloudy
half-tints, to do away with the very idea of drawing and all other
artificial means, and give to the form the aspect and roundness of
Nature itself. Come nearer, and you will see the work more distinctly;
if too far off it disappears. See! there, at that point, it is, I
think, most remarkable." And with the end of his brush he pointed to a
spot of clear light color.
Porbus struck the old man on the shoulder, turning to Poussin as he
did so, and said, "Do you know that he is one of our greatest
painters?"
"He is a poet even more than he is a painter," answered Poussin
gravely.
"There," returned Porbus, touching the canvas, "is the ultimate end of
our art on earth."
"And from thence," added Poussin, "it rises, to enter heaven."
"How much happiness is there!--upon that canvas," said Porbus.
The absorbed old man gave no heed to their words; he was smiling at
his visionary woman.
"But sooner or later, he will perceive that there is nothing there,"
cried Poussin.
"Nothing there!--upon my canvas?" said Frenhofer, looking first at the
two painters, and then at his imaginary picture.
"What have you done?" cried Porbus, addressing Poussin.
The old man seized the arm of the young man violently, and said to
him, "You see nothing?--clown, infidel, scoundrel, dolt! Why did you
come here? My good Porbus," he added, turning to his friend, "is it
possible that you, too, are jesting with me? Answer; I am your friend.
Tell me, can it be that I have spoiled my picture?"
Porbus hesitated, and feared to speak; but the anxiety painted on the
white face of the old man was so cruel that he was constrained to
point to the canvas and utter the word, "See!"
Frenhofer looked at his picture for a space of a moment, and
staggered.
"Nothing! nothing! after toiling ten years!"
He sat down and wept.
"Am I then a fool, an idiot? Have I neither talent nor capacity? Am I
no better than a rich man who walks, and can only walk? Have I indeed
produced nothing?"
He gazed at the canvas through tears. Suddenly he raised himself
proudly and flung a lightning glance upon the two painters.
"By the blood, by the body, by the head of Christ, you are envious men
who seek to make me think she is spoiled, that you may steal her from
me. I--I see her!" he cried. "She is wondrously beautiful!"
At this moment Poussin heard the weeping of Gillette as she stood,
forgotten, in a corner.
"What troubles thee, my darling?" asked the painter, becoming once
more a lover.
"Kill me!" she answered. "I should be infamous if I still loved thee,
for I despise thee. I admire thee; but thou hast filled me with
horror. I love, and yet already I hate thee."
While Poussin listened to Gillette, Frenhofer drew a green curtain
before his Catherine, with the grave composure of a jeweller locking
his drawers when he thinks that thieves are near him. He cast at the
two painters a look which was profoundly dissimulating, full of
contempt and suspicion; then, with convulsive haste, he silently
pushed them through the door of his atelier. When they reached the
threshold of his house he said to them, "Adieu, my little friends."
The tone of this farewell chilled the two painters with fear.
*****
On the morrow Porbus, alarmed, went again to visit Frenhofer, and
found that he had died during the night, after having burned his
paintings.
End
it on bended knee? The flesh palpitates! Wait, she is about to rise;
wait!"
"Can you see anything?" whispered Poussin to Porbus.
"Nothing. Can you?"
"No."
The two painters drew back, leaving the old man absorbed in ecstasy,
and tried to see if the light, falling plumb upon the canvas at which
he pointed, had neutralized all effects. They examined the picture,
moving from right to left, standing directly before it, bending,
swaying, rising by turns.
"Yes, yes; it is really a canvas," cried Frenhofer, mistaking the
purpose of their examination. "See, here is the frame, the easel;
these are my colors, my brushes." And he caught up a brush which he
held out to them with a naive motion.
"The old rogue is making game of us," said Poussin, coming close to
the pretended picture. "I can see nothing here but a mass of confused
color, crossed by a multitude of eccentric lines, making a sort of
painted wall."
"We are mistaken. See!" returned Porbus.
Coming nearer, they perceived in a corner of the canvas the point of a
naked foot, which came forth from the chaos of colors, tones, shadows
hazy and undefined, misty and without form,--an enchanting foot, a
living foot. They stood lost in admiration before this glorious
fragment breaking forth from the incredible, slow, progressive
destruction around it. The foot seemed to them like the torso of some
Grecian Venus, brought to light amid the ruins of a burned city.
"There is a woman beneath it all!" cried Porbus, calling Poussin's
attention to the layers of color which the old painter had
successively laid on, believing that he thus brought his work to
perfection. The two men turned towards him with one accord, beginning
to comprehend, though vaguely, the ecstasy in which he lived.
"He means it in good faith," said Porbus.
"Yes, my friend," answered the old man, rousing from his abstraction,
"we need faith; faith in art. We must live with our work for years
before we can produce a creation like that. Some of these shadows have
cost me endless toil. See, there on her cheek, below the eyes, a faint
half-shadow; if you observed it in Nature you might think it could
hardly be rendered. Well, believe me, I took unheard-of pains to
reproduce that effect. My dear Porbus, look attentively at my work,
and you will comprehend what I have told you about the manner of
treating form and outline. Look at the light on the bosom, and see how
by a series of touches and higher lights firmly laid on I have managed
to grasp light itself, and combine it with the dazzling whiteness of
the clearer tones; and then see how, by an opposite method,--smoothing
off the sharp contrasts and the texture of the color,--I have been
able, by caressing the outline of my figure and veiling it with cloudy
half-tints, to do away with the very idea of drawing and all other
artificial means, and give to the form the aspect and roundness of
Nature itself. Come nearer, and you will see the work more distinctly;
if too far off it disappears. See! there, at that point, it is, I
think, most remarkable." And with the end of his brush he pointed to a
spot of clear light color.
Porbus struck the old man on the shoulder, turning to Poussin as he
did so, and said, "Do you know that he is one of our greatest
painters?"
"He is a poet even more than he is a painter," answered Poussin
gravely.
"There," returned Porbus, touching the canvas, "is the ultimate end of
our art on earth."
"And from thence," added Poussin, "it rises, to enter heaven."
"How much happiness is there!--upon that canvas," said Porbus.
The absorbed old man gave no heed to their words; he was smiling at
his visionary woman.
"But sooner or later, he will perceive that there is nothing there,"
cried Poussin.
"Nothing there!--upon my canvas?" said Frenhofer, looking first at the
two painters, and then at his imaginary picture.
"What have you done?" cried Porbus, addressing Poussin.
The old man seized the arm of the young man violently, and said to
him, "You see nothing?--clown, infidel, scoundrel, dolt! Why did you
come here? My good Porbus," he added, turning to his friend, "is it
possible that you, too, are jesting with me? Answer; I am your friend.
Tell me, can it be that I have spoiled my picture?"
Porbus hesitated, and feared to speak; but the anxiety painted on the
white face of the old man was so cruel that he was constrained to
point to the canvas and utter the word, "See!"
Frenhofer looked at his picture for a space of a moment, and
staggered.
"Nothing! nothing! after toiling ten years!"
He sat down and wept.
"Am I then a fool, an idiot? Have I neither talent nor capacity? Am I
no better than a rich man who walks, and can only walk? Have I indeed
produced nothing?"
He gazed at the canvas through tears. Suddenly he raised himself
proudly and flung a lightning glance upon the two painters.
"By the blood, by the body, by the head of Christ, you are envious men
who seek to make me think she is spoiled, that you may steal her from
me. I--I see her!" he cried. "She is wondrously beautiful!"
At this moment Poussin heard the weeping of Gillette as she stood,
forgotten, in a corner.
"What troubles thee, my darling?" asked the painter, becoming once
more a lover.
"Kill me!" she answered. "I should be infamous if I still loved thee,
for I despise thee. I admire thee; but thou hast filled me with
horror. I love, and yet already I hate thee."
While Poussin listened to Gillette, Frenhofer drew a green curtain
before his Catherine, with the grave composure of a jeweller locking
his drawers when he thinks that thieves are near him. He cast at the
two painters a look which was profoundly dissimulating, full of
contempt and suspicion; then, with convulsive haste, he silently
pushed them through the door of his atelier. When they reached the
threshold of his house he said to them, "Adieu, my little friends."
The tone of this farewell chilled the two painters with fear.
*****
On the morrow Porbus, alarmed, went again to visit Frenhofer, and
found that he had died during the night, after having burned his
paintings.
End
- canvas [´kænvəs]
n.帆布；油画(布) (初中英语单词) - pointed [´pɔintid] a.尖(锐)的；中肯的 (初中英语单词)
- standing [´stændiŋ] n.持续 a.直立的 (初中英语单词)
- examination [ig,zæmi´neiʃən] n.检查；考试；检验 (初中英语单词)
- multitude [´mʌltitju:d] n.大群(批)；众多 (初中英语单词)
- admiration [,ædmə´reiʃən] n.赞赏，钦佩 (初中英语单词)
- painter [´peintə] n.画家；(油)漆工 (初中英语单词)
- accord [ə´kɔ:d] n.&vi.符合 vt.给与 (初中英语单词)
- creation [kri´eiʃən] n.创作；作品；创造 (初中英语单词)
- outline [´autlain] n.外形 vt.画出...轮廓 (初中英语单词)
- series [´siəri:z] n.连续；系列；丛书 (初中英语单词)
- firmly [´fə:mli] ad.坚固地，稳定地 (初中英语单词)
- combine [kəm´bain] v.(使)结合；联合企业 (初中英语单词)
- aspect [´æspekt] n.面貌；神色；方向 (初中英语单词)
- perceive [pə´si:v] vt.察觉；看出；领悟 (初中英语单词)
- anxiety [æŋ´zaiəti] n.挂念；渴望；焦虑的事 (初中英语单词)
- talent [´tælənt] n.天才；才干；天资 (初中英语单词)
- capacity [kə´pæsiti] n.容量；智能；能力 (初中英语单词)
- lightning [´laitniŋ] n.闪电 a.突然的 (初中英语单词)
- christ [kraist] n.基督 int.天啊! (初中英语单词)
- despise [di´spaiz] vt.轻视，藐视 (初中英语单词)
- suspicion [sə´spiʃən] n.怀(猜)疑；嫌疑 (初中英语单词)
- farewell [feə´wel] int.再见 n.&a.告别 (初中英语单词)
- mistaken [mis´teikən] mistake的过去分词 (高中英语单词)
- incredible [in´kredəbəl] a.不能相信的；惊人的 (高中英语单词)
- comprehend [,kɔmpri´hend] vt.了解；领会；包含 (高中英语单词)
- ecstasy [´ekstəsi] n.狂喜；出神，入迷 (高中英语单词)
- ultimate [´ʌltimit] a.最终的 n.终极；顶点 (高中英语单词)
- imaginary [i´mædʒinəri] a.想象的；虚构的 (高中英语单词)
- violently [´vaiələntli] ad.强暴地；猛烈地 (高中英语单词)
- vaguely [´veigli] ad.含糊地，暖昧地 (英语四级单词)
- texture [´tekstʃə] n.(织物等的)质地 (英语四级单词)
- drawing [´drɔ:iŋ] n.画图；制图；图样 (英语四级单词)
- touching [´tʌtʃiŋ] a.动人的 prep.提到 (英语四级单词)
- envious [´enviəs] a.妒忌的，羡慕的 (英语四级单词)
- composure [kəm´pəuʒə] n.镇静，沉着 (英语四级单词)
- thieves [θi:vz] thief的复数 (英语四级单词)
- profoundly [prə´faundli] ad.深深地 (英语四级单词)
- morrow [´mɔrəu] n.翌日 (英语四级单词)
- eccentric [ik´sentrik] a.古怪的；离心的 (英语六级单词)
- calling [´kɔ:liŋ] n.点名；职业；欲望 (英语六级单词)
- scoundrel [´skaundrəl] n.&a.无赖(的) (英语六级单词)
- weeping [´wi:piŋ] a.&n.哭泣(的) (英语六级单词)
- infamous [´infəməs] a.声名狼藉的 (英语六级单词)
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章节正文
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