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The Hidden Masterpiece-Part1_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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young man could hardly restrain a strong desire to strike the critic.



"Ah! that is the question," said the little old man. "You are floating

between two systems,--between drawing and color, between the patient



phlegm and honest stiffness of the old Dutch masters and the dazzling

warmth and abounding joy of the Italians. You have tried to follow, at



one and the same time, Hans Holbein and Titian; Albrecht Durier and

Paul Veronese. Well, well! it was a gloriousambition, but what is the



result? You have neither the stern attraction of severity nor the

deceptive magic of the chiaroscuro. See! at this place the rich, clear



color of Titian has forced out the skeletonoutline of Albrecht

Durier, as moltenbronze might burst and overflow a slender mould.



Here and there the outline has resisted the flood, and holds back the

magnificent torrent of Venetian color. Your figure is neither



perfectly well painted nor perfectly well drawn; it bears throughout

the signs of this unfortunate indecision. If you did not feel that the



fire of your genius was hot enough to weld into one the rival methods,

you ought to have chosen honestly the one or the other, and thus



attained the unity which conveys one aspect, at least, of life. As it

is, you are true only on your middle plane. Your outlines are false;



they do not round upon themselves; they suggest nothing behind them.

There is truth here," said the old man, pointing to the bosom of the



saint; "and here," showing the spot where the shoulder ended against

the background; "but there," he added, returning to the throat, "it is



all false. Do not inquire into the why and wherefore. I should fill

you with despair."



The old man sat down on a stool and held his head in his hands for

some minutes in silence.



"Master," said Porbus at length, "I studied that throat from the nude;

but, to our sorrow, there are effects in nature which become false or



impossible when placed on canvas."

"The mission of art is not to copy nature, but to represent it. You



are not an abject copyist, but a poet," cried the old man, hastily

interrupting Porbus with a despotic gesture. "If it were not so, a



sculptor could reach the height of his art by merely moulding a woman.

Try to mould the hand of your mistress, and see what you will get,--



ghastly articulations, without the slightest resemblance to her living

hand; you must have recourse to the chisel of a man who, without



servilely copying that hand, can give it movement and life. It is our

mission to seize the mind, soul, countenance of things and beings.



Effects! effects! what are they? the mere accidents of the life, and

not the life itself. A hand,--since I have taken that as an example,--



a hand is not merely a part of the body, it is far more; it expresses

and carries on a thought which we must seize and render. Neither the



painter nor the poet nor the sculptor should separate the effect from

the cause, for they are indissolubly one. The true struggle of art



lies there. Many a painter has triumphed through instinct without

knowing this theory of art as a theory.



"Yes," continued the old man vehemently, "you draw a woman, but you do

not SEE her. That is not the way to force an entrance into the arcana



of Nature. Your hand reproduces, without an action of your mind, the

model you copied under a master. You do not search out the secrets of



form, nor follow its windings and evolutions with enough love and

perseverance. Beauty is solemn and severe, and cannot be attained in



that way; we must wait and watch its times and seasons, and clasp it

firmly ere it yields to us. Form is a Proteus less easily captured,






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