酷兔英语
    当前位置:
  1. 首页
  2. 文章
  3. 娱乐英语
  4. 原版小说
  5. 正文

The Arrow of Gold-Part6_JOSEPH CONRAD (1857-1924)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

0 收藏 0 分享 0 赞

章节正文
文章总共2页
were 'I am an old sculptor. . . Of course there is that habit. . .

But I can see you through all that. . . '



He put his hat on very much on one side. 'I am a great sculptor of

women,' he declared. 'I gave up my life to them, poor unfortunate



creatures, the most beautiful, the wealthiest, the most loved. . .

Two generations of them. . . Just look at me full in the eyes, mon



enfant.'

"They stared at each other. Dona Rita confessed to me that the old



fellow made her heart beat with such force that she couldn't manage

to smile at him. And she saw his eyes run full of tears. He wiped



them simply with the back of his hand and went on booming faintly.

'Thought so. You are enough to make one cry. I thought my



artist's life was finished, and here you come along from devil

knows where with this young friend of mine, who isn't a bad smearer



of canvases - but it's marble and bronze that you want. . . I shall

finish my artist's life with your face; but I shall want a bit of



those shoulders, too. . . You hear, Allegre, I must have a bit of

her shoulders, too. I can see through the cloth that they are



divine. If they aren't divine I will eat my hat. Yes, I will do

your head and then - nunc dimittis.'



"These were the first words with which the world greeted her, or

should I say civilization did; already both her native mountains



and the cavern of oranges belonged to a prehistoric age. 'Why

don't you ask him to come this afternoon?' Allegre's voice



suggested gently. 'He knows the way to the house.'

"The old man said with extraordinary fervour, 'Oh, yes I will,'



pulled up his horse and they went on. She told me that she could

feel her heart-beats for a long time. The remote power of that



voice, those old eyes full of tears, that noble and ruined face,

had affected her extraordinarily she said. But perhaps what



affected her was the shadow, the still living shadow of a great

passion in the man's heart.



"Allegre remarked to her calmly: 'He has been a little mad all his

life.'"



CHAPTER III

Mills lowered the hands holding the extinct and even cold pipe



before his big face.

"H'm, shoot an arrow into that old man's heart like this? But was



there anything done?"

"A terra-cotta bust, I believe. Good? I don't know. I rather



think it's in this house. A lot of things have been sent down from

Paris here, when she gave up the Pavilion. When she goes up now



she stays in hotels, you know. I imagine it is locked up in one of

these things," went on Blunt, pointing towards the end of the



studio where amongst the monumental presses of dark oak lurked the

shy dummy which had worn the stiff robes of the Byzantine Empress



and the amazing hat of the "Girl," rakishly. I wondered whether

that dummy had travelled from Paris, too, and whether with or



without its head. Perhaps that head had been left behind, having

rolled into a corner of some empty room in the dismantled Pavilion.



I represented it to myself very lonely, without features, like a

turnip, with a mere peg sticking out where the neck should have



been. And Mr. Blunt was talking on.

"There are treasures behind these locked doors, brocades, old



jewels, unframed pictures, bronzes, chinoiseries, Japoneries."

He growled as much as a man of his accomplished manner and voice



could growl. "I don't suppose she gave away all that to her

sister, but I shouldn't be surprised if that timid rustic didn't



lay a claim to the lot for the love of God and the good of the

Church. . .



"And held on with her teeth, too," he added graphically.

Mills' face remained grave. Very grave. I was amused at those



little venomous outbreaks of the fatal Mr. Blunt. Again I knew

myself utterly forgotten. But I didn't feel dull and I didn't even



feel sleepy. That last strikes me as strange at this distance of

time, in regard of my tender years and of the depressing hour which



precedes the dawn. We had been drinking that straw-coloured wine,

too, I won't say like water (nobody would have drunk water like



that) but, well . . . and the haze of tobacco smoke was like the




文章总共2页
文章标签:名著  

章节正文
Copyright © 2023 Qeto All rights reserved.
商务合作 | 联系我们 | 关于我们 | 版权声明 | 隐私条款 | 如果智培

京ICP备05059198号-1 京公网安备 11011202003401号