《未来千年文学备忘录》第27章

ndts　portraits　might　have　stepped　down　from　its　frame　to　walk　in　an　appropriate　atmosphere　of　gloom；　such　as　the　great　painter　loved。　the　older　man　gave　the　younger　a　shrewd　glance；　and　knocked　thrice　at　the　door。　it　was　opened　by　a　man　of　forty　or　thereabout；　who　seemed　to　be　an　invalid。
〃good　day；　master。〃
porbus　bowed　respectfully；　and　held　the　door　open　for　the　younger　man　to　enter；　thinking　that　the　latter　acpanied　his　visitor；　and　when　he　saw　that　the　neophyte　stood　a　while　as　if　spellbound；　feeling；　as　every　artist…nature　must　feel；　the　fascinating　influence　of　the　first　sight　of　a　studio　in　which　the　material　processes　of　art　are　revealed；　porbus　troubled　himself　no　more　about　this　second　er。
all　the　light　in　the　studio　came　from　a　window　in　the　roof；　and　was　concentrated　upon　an　easel；　where　a　canvas　stood　untouched　as　yet　save　for　three　or　four　outlines　in　chalk。　the　daylight　scarcely　reached　the　remoter　angles　and　corners　of　the　vast　room；　they　were　as　dark　as　night；　but　the　silver　ornamented　breastplate　of　a　reiters　corselet；　that　hung　upon　the　wall；　attracted　a　stray　gleam　to　its　dim　abiding…place　among　the　brown　shadows；　or　a　shaft　of　light　shot　across　the　carved　and　glistening　surface　of　an　antique　sideboard　covered　with　curious　silver…plate；　or　struck　out　a　line　of　glittering　dots　among　the　raised　threads　of　the　golden　warp　of　some　old　brocaded　curtains；　where　the　lines　of　the　stiff；　heavy　folds　were　broken；　as　the　stuff　had　been　flung　carelessly　down　to　serve　as　a　model。
plaster　_écorchés_　stood　about　the　room；　and　here　and　there；　on　shelves　and　tables；　lay　fragments　of　classical　sculpture…torsos　of　antique　goddesses；　worn　smooth　as　though　all　the　years　of　the　centuries　that　had　passed　over　them　had　been　lovers　kisses。　the　walls　were　covered；　from　floor　to　ceiling；　with　countless　sketches　in　charcoal；　red　chalk；　or　pen　and　ink。　amid　the　litter　and　confusion　of　color　boxes；　overturned　stools；　flasks　of　oil；　and　essences；　there　was　just　room　to　move　so　as　to　reach　the　illuminated　circular　space　where　the　easel　stood。　the　light　from　the　window　in　the　roof　fell　full　upon　por…buss　pale　face　and　on　the　ivory…tinted　forehead　of　his　strange　visitor。　but　in　another　moment　the　younger　man　heeded　nothing　but　a　picture　that　had　already　bee　famous　even　in　those　stormy　days　of　political　and　religious　revolution；　a　picture　that　a　few　of　the　zealous　worshipers；　who　have　so　often　kept　the　sacred　fire　of　art　alive　in　evil　days；　were　wont　to　go　on　pilgrimage　to　see。　the　beautiful　panel　represented　a　saint　mary　of　egypt　about　to　pay　her　passage　across　the　seas。　it　was　a　masterpiece　destined　for　mary　de　medici；　who　sold　it　in　later　years　of　poverty。
〃i　like　your　saint；〃　the　old　man　remarked；　addressing　porbus。　〃i　would　give　you　ten　golden　crowns　for　her　over　and　above　the　price　the　queen　is　paying；　but　as　for　putting　a　spoke　in　that　wheel；……the　devil　take　it！〃
〃it　is　good　then？〃
〃hey！　hey！〃　said　the　old　man；　〃good；　say　you？……yes　and　no。　your　good　woman　is　not　badly　done；　but　she　is　not　alive。　you　artists　fancy　that　when　a　figure　is　correctly　drawn；　and　everything　in　its　place　according　to　the　rules　of　anatomy；　there　is　nothing　more　to　be　done。　you　make　up　the　flesh　tints　beforehand　on　your　palettes　according　to　your　formulae；　and　fill　in　the　outlines　with　due　care　that　one　side　of　the　face　shall　be　darker　than　the　other；　and　because　you　look　from　time　to　time　at　a　naked　woman　who　stands　on　the　platform　before　you；　you　fondly　imagine　that　you　have　copied　nature；　think　yourselves　to　be　painters；　believe　that　you　have　wrested　his　secret　from　god。　pshaw！　you　may　know　your　syntax　thoroughly　and　make　no　blunders　in　your　grammar；　but　it　takes　that　and　something　more　to　make　a　great　poet。　look　at　your　saint；　porbus！　at　a　first　glance　she　is　admirable；　look　at　her　again；　and　you　see　at　once　that　she　is　glued　to　the　background；　and　that　you　could　not　walk　round　her。　she　is　a　silhouette　that　turns　but　one　side　of　her　face　to　all　beholders；　a　figure　cut　out　of　canvas；　an　image　with　no　power　to　move　nor　change　her　position。　i　feel　as　if　there　were　no　air　between　that　arm　and　the　background；　no　space；　no　sense　of　distance　in　your　canvas。　the　perspective　is　perfectly　correct；　the　strength　of　the　coloring　is　accurately　diminished　with　the　distance；　but；　in　spite　of　these　praiseworthy　efforts；　i　could　never　bring　myself　to　believe　that　the　warm　breath　of　life　es　and　goes　in　that　beautiful　body。　it　seems　to　me　that　if　i　laid　my　hand　on　the　firm；　rounded　throat；　it　would　be　cold　as　marble　to　the　touch。　no；　my　friend；　the　blood　does　not　flow　beneath　that　ivory　skin；　the　tide　of　life　does　not　flush　those　delicate　fibres；　the　purple　veins　that　trace　a　network　beneath　the　transparent　amber　of　her　brow　and　breast。　here　the　pulse　seems　to　beat；　there　it　is　motionless；　life　and　death　are　at　strife　in　every　detail；　here　you　see　a　woman；　there　a　statue；　there　again　a　corpse。　your　creation　is　inplete。　you　had　only　power　to　breathe　a　portion　of　your　soul　into　your　beloved　work。　the　fire　of　prometheus　died　out　again　and　again　in　your　hands；　many　a　spot　in　your　picture　has　not　been　touched　by　the　divine　flame。〃
〃but　how　is　it；　dear　master？〃　porbus　asked　respectfully；　while　the　young　man　with　difficulty　repressed　his　strong　desire　to　beat　the　critic。
〃ah！〃　said　the　old　man；　〃it　is　this！　you　have　halted　between　two　manners。　you　have　hesitated　between　drawing　and　color；　between　the　dogged　attention　to　detail；　the　stiff　precision　of　the　german　masters　and　the　dazzling　glow；　the　joyous　exuberance　of　italian　painters。　you　have　set　yourself　to　imitate　hans　holbein　and　titian；　albrecht　durer　and　paul　veronese　in　a　single　picture。　a　magnificent　ambition　truly；　but　what　has　e　of　it？　your　work　has　neither　the　severe　charm　of　a　dry　execution　nor　the　magical　illusion　of　italian　_chiaroscuro_。　titians　rich　golden　coloring　poured　into　albrecht　dureras　austere　outlines　has　shattered　them；　like　molten　bronze　bursting　through　the　mold　that　is　not　strong　enough　to　hold　it。　in　other　places　the　outlines　have　held　firm；　imprisoning　and　obscuring　the　magnificent；　glowing　flood　of　venetian　color。　the　drawing　of　the　face　is　not　perfect；　the　coloring　is　not　p