the madonna of the future-第5部分
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！
conspiracy formed to nip his glory in the buda bud that has taken
twenty years to blossom。 Ask him if he knows me； and he will tell
you I am a horribly ugly old woman； who has vowed his destruction
because he won't paint her portrait as a pendant to Titian's Flora。
I fancy that since then he has had none but chance followers；
innocent strangers like yourself； who have taken him at his word。
The mountain is still in labour； I have not heard that the mouse has
been born。 I pass him once in a while in the galleries； and he fixes
his great dark eyes on me with a sublimity of indifference； as if I
were a bad copy of a Sassoferrato！ It is a long time ago now that I
heard that he was making studies for a Madonna who was to be a resume
of all the other Madonnas of the Italian schoollike that antique
Venus who borrowed a nose from one great image and an ankle from
another。 It's certainly a masterly idea。 The parts may be fine； but
when I think of my unhappy portrait I tremble for the whole。 He has
communicated this striking idea under the pledge of solemn secrecy to
fifty chosen spirits； to every one he has ever been able to button…
hole for five minutes。 I suppose he wants to get an order for it；
and he is not to blame； for Heaven knows how he lives。 I see by your
blush；〃 my hostess frankly continued； 〃that you have been honoured
with his confidence。 You needn't be ashamed； my dear young man； a
man of your age is none the worse for a certain generous credulity。
Only allow me to give you a word of advice： keep your credulity out
of your pockets！ Don't pay for the picture till it's delivered。 You
have not been treated to a peep at it； I imagine！ No more have your
fifty predecessors in the faith。 There are people who doubt whether
there is any picture to be seen。 I fancy； myself； that if one were
to get into his studio； one would find something very like the
picture in that tale of Balzac'sa mere mass of incoherent scratches
and daubs； a jumble of dead paint！〃
I listened to this pungent recital in silent wonder。 It had a
painfully plausible sound； and was not inconsistent with certain shy
suspicions of my own。 My hostess was not only a clever woman； but
presumably a generous one。 I determined to let my judgment wait upon
events。 Possibly she was right； but if she was wrong； she was
cruelly wrong！ Her version of my friend's eccentricities made me
impatient to see him again and examine him in the light of public
opinion。 On our next meeting I immediately asked him if he knew Mrs。
Coventry。 He laid his hand on my arm and gave me a sad smile。 〃Has
she taxed YOUR gallantry at last？〃 he asked。 〃She's a foolish woman。
She's frivolous and heartless； and she pretends to be serious and
kind。 She prattles about Giotto's second manner and Vittoria
Colonna's liaison with 'Michael'one would think that Michael lived
across the way and was expected in to take a hand at whistbut she
knows as little about art； and about the conditions of production； as
I know about Buddhism。 She profanes sacred words；〃 he added more
vehemently； after a pause。 〃She cares for you only as some one to
band teacups in that horrible mendacious little parlour of hers； with
its trumpery Peruginos！ If you can't dash off a new picture every
three days； and let her hand it round among her guests； she tells
them in plain English that you are an impostor！〃
This attempt of mine to test Mrs。 Coventry's accuracy was made in the
course of a late afternoon walk to the quiet old church of San
Miniato； on one of the hill…tops which directly overlook the city；
from whose gates you are guided to it by a stony and cypress…bordered
walk； which seems a very fitting avenue to a shrine。 No spot is more
propitious to lingering repose than the broad terrace in front of the
church； where； lounging against the parapet； you may glance in slow
alternation from the black and yellow marbles of the church facade；
seamed and cracked with time and wind…sown with a tender flora of its
own； down to the full domes and slender towers of Florence and over
to the blue sweep of the wide…mouthed cup of mountains into whose
hollow the little treasure city has been dropped。 I had proposed； as
a diversion from the painful memories evoked by Mrs。 Coventry's name；
that Theobald should go with me the next evening to the opera； where
some rarely…played work was to be given。 He declined； as I half
expected； for I observed that he regularly kept his evenings in
reserve； and never alluded to his manner of passing them。 〃You have
reminded me before；〃 I said； smiling； 〃of that charming speech of the
Florentine painter in Alfred de Musset's 'Lorenzaccio'： 'I do no
harm to anyone。 I pass my days in my studio； On Sunday I go to the
Annunziata or to Santa Mario； the monks think I have a voice； they
dress me in a white gown and a red cap； and I take a share in the
choruses； sometimes I do a little solo： these are the only times I
go into public。 In the evening； I visit my sweetheart； when the
night is fine； we pass it on her balcony。' I don't know whether you
have a sweetheart； or whether she has a balcony。 But if you are so
happy； it's certainly better than trying to find a charm in a third…
rate prima donna。〃
He made no immediate response； but at last he turned to me solemnly。
〃Can you look upon a beautiful woman with reverent eyes？〃
〃Really；〃 I said； 〃I don't pretend to be sheepish； but I should be
sorry to think I was impudent。〃 And I asked him what in the world he
meant。 When at last I had assured him that I could undertake to
temper admiration with respect； he informed me； with an air of
religious mystery； that it was in his power to introduce me to the
most beautiful woman in Italy〃A beauty with a soul！〃
〃Upon my word；〃 I cried； 〃you are extremely fortunate； and that is a
most attractive description。〃
〃This woman's beauty；〃 he went on； 〃is a lesson； a morality； a poem！
It's my daily study。〃
Of course； after this； I lost no time in reminding him of what；
before we parted； had taken the shape of a promise。 〃I feel
somehow；〃 he had said； 〃as if it were a sort of violation of that
privacy in which I have always contemplated her beauty。 This is
friendship； my friend。 No hint of her existence has ever fallen from
my lips。 But with too great a familiarity we are apt to lose a sense
of the real value of things； and you perhaps will throw some new
light upon it and offer a fresher interpretation。〃
We went accordingly by appointment to a certain ancient house in the
heart of Florencethe precinct of the Mercato Vecchioand climbed a
dark； steep staircase； to the very summit of the edifice。 Theobald's
beauty seemed as loftily exalted above the line of common vision as
his artistic ideal was lifted above the usual practice of men。 He
passed without knocking into the dark vestibule of a small apartment；
and； flinging open an inner door； ushered me into a small saloon。
The room seemed mean and sombre； though I caught a glimpse of white
curtains swaying gently at an open window。 At a table； near a lamp；
sat a woman dressed in black； working at a piece of embroidery。 As
Theobald entered she looked up calmly； with a smile； but seeing me
she made a movement of surprise； and rose with a kind of stately
grace。 Theobald stepped forward； took her hand and kissed it； with
an indescribable air of immemorial usage。 As he bent his head she
looked at me askance； and I thought she blushed。
〃Behold the Serafina！〃 said Theobald； frankly； waving me forward。
〃This is a friend； and a lover of the arts；〃 he added； introducing
me。 I received a smile； a curtsey； and a request to be seated。
The most beautiful woman in Italy was a person of a generous Italian
type and of a great simplicity of demeanour。 Seated again at her
lamp； with her embroidery； she seemed to have nothing whatever to
say。 Theobald； bending towards her in a sort of Platonic ecstasy；
asked her a dozen paternally tender questions as to her health； her
state of mind； her occupations； and the progress of her embroidery；
which he examined minutely and summoned me to admire。 It was some
portion of an ecclesiastical vestmentyellow satin wrought with an
elaborate design of silver and gold。 She made answer in a full rich
voice； but with a brevity which I hesitated whether to attribute to
native reserve or to the profane constraint of my presence。 She had
been that morning to confession； she had also been to market； and had
bought a chicken for dinner。 She felt very happy； she had nothing to
complain of except that the people for whom she was making her
vestment； and who furnished her materials； should be willing to put
such rotten silver thread into the garment； as one might say； of the
Lord。 From time to time； as she took her slow stitches； she raised
her eyes and covered me with a glance which seemed at first to denote
