按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
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
i