Mrs. Everard was delighted.
“If you do not recover your health here,” she said half laughingly to me on the second morning after our arrival, “I am afraid your case is hopeless. What sunshine! What a balmy wind! It is enough to make a cripple cast away his crutches26 and forget he was ever lame10. Don’t you think so?”
I smiled in answer, but inwardly I sighed. Beautiful as the scenery, the air, and the general surroundings were, I could not disguise from myself that the temporary exhilaration of my feelings, caused by the novelty and excitement of my journey to Cannes, was slowly but surely passing away. The terrible apathy27, against which I had fought for so many months, was again creeping over me with its cruel and resistless force. I did my best to struggle against it; I walked, I rode, I laughed and chatted with Mrs. Everard and her husband, and forced myself into sociability28 with some of the visitors at the hotel, who were disposed to show us friendly attention. I summoned all my stock of will-power to beat back the insidious29 physical and mental misery30 that threatened to sap the very spring of my life; and in some of these efforts I partially31 succeeded. But it was at night that the terrors of my condition manifested themselves. Then sleep forsook32 my eyes; a dull throbbing33 weight of pain encircled my head like a crown of thorns; nervous terrors shook me from head to foot; fragments of my own musical compositions hummed in my ears with wearying persistence34 — fragments that always left me in a state of distressed35 conjecture36; for I never could remember how they ended, and I puzzled myself vainly over crotchets and quavers that never would consent to arrange themselves in any sort of finale. So the days went on; for Colonel Everard and his wife, those days were full of merriment, sight-seeing, and enjoyment37. For me, though outwardly I appeared to share in the universal gaiety, they were laden38 with increasing despair and wretchedness; for I began to lose hope of ever recovering my once buoyant health and strength, and, what was even worse, I seemed to have utterly39 parted with all working ability. I was young, and up to within a few months life had stretched brightly before me, with the prospect40 of a brilliant career. And now what was I? A wretched invalid41 — a burden to myself and to others — a broken spar flung with other fragments of ship wrecked42 lives on the great ocean of Time, there to be whirled away and forgotten. But a rescue was approaching; a rescue sudden and marvellous, of which, in my wildest fancies, I had never dreamed.
Staying in the same hotel with us was a young Italian artist, Raffaello Cellini by name. His pictures were beginning to attract a great deal of notice, both in Paris and Rome: not only for their faultless drawing, but for their wonderfully exquisite43 colouring. So deep and warm and rich were the hues44 he transferred to his canvases, that others of his art, less fortunate in the management of the palette, declared he must have invented some foreign compound whereby he was enabled to deepen and brighten his colours for the time being; but that the effect was only temporary, and that his pictures, exposed to the air for some eight or ten years, would fade away rapidly, leaving only the traces of an indistinct blur45. Others, more generous, congratulated him on having discovered the secrets of the old masters. In short, he was admired, condemned46, envied, and flattered, all in a breath; while he himself, being of a singularly serene47 and unruffled disposition48, worked away incessantly49, caring little or nothing for the world’s praise or blame.
Cellini had a pretty suite50 of rooms in the Hotel de L—— and my friends Colonel and Mrs. Everard fraternized with him very warmly. He was by no means slow to respond to their overtures51 of friendship, and so it happened that his studio became a sort of lounge for us, where we would meet to have tea, to chat, to look at the pictures, or to discuss our plans for future enjoyment. These visits to Cellini’s studio, strange to say, had a remarkably52 soothing and calming effect upon my suffering nerves. The lofty and elegant room, furnished with that “admired disorder” and mixed luxuriousness53 peculiar54 to artists, with its heavily drooping55 velvet56 curtains, its glimpses of white marble busts57 and broken columns, its flash and fragrance of flowers that bloomed in a tiny conservatory58 opening out from the studio and leading to the garden, where a fountain bubbled melodiously59 — all this pleased me and gave me a curious, yet most welcome, sense of absolute rest. Cellini himself had a fascination60 for me, for exactly the same reason. As an example of this, I remember escaping from Mrs. Everard on one occasion, and hurrying to the most secluded61 part of the garden, in order to walk up and down alone in an endeavour to calm an attack of nervous agitation62 which had suddenly seized me. While thus pacing about in feverish63 restlessness, I saw Cellini approaching, his head bent64 as if in thought, and his hands clasped behind his back. As he drew near me, he raised his eyes — they were clear and darkly brilliant — he regarded me steadfastly65 with a kindly66 smile. Then lifting his hat with the graceful67 reverence68 peculiar to an Italian, he passed on, saying no word. But the effect of his momentary69 presence upon me was remarkable70 — it was ELECTRIC. I was no longer agitated71. Calmed, soothed72 and almost happy, I returned to Mrs. Everard, and entered into her plans for the day with so much alacrity73 that she was surprised and delighted.
“If you go on like this,” she said, “you will be perfectly74 well in a month.”
I was utterly unable to account for the remedial influence Raffaello Cellini’s presence had upon me; but such as it was I could not but be grateful for the respite75 it gave me from nervous suffering, and my now daily visits to the artist’s studio were a pleasure and a privilege not to be foregone. Moreover, I was never tired of looking at his pictures. His subjects were all original, and some of them were very weird76 and fantastic. One large picture particularly attracted me. It was entitled “Lords of our Life and Death.” Surrounded by rolling masses of cloud, some silver-crested, some shot through with red flame, was depicted77 the World, as a globe half in light, half in shade. Poised78 above it was a great Angel, upon whose calm and noble face rested a mingled79 expression of deep sorrow, yearning80 pity, and infinite regret. Tears seemed to glitter on the drooping lashes81 of this sweet yet stern Spirit; and in his strong right hand he held a drawn82 sword — the sword of destruction — pointed83 forever downwards84 to the fated globe at his feet. Beneath this Angel and the world he dominated was darkness — utter illimitable darkness. But above him the clouds were torn asunder85, and through a transparent86 veil of light golden mist, a face of surpassing beauty was seen — a face on which youth, health, hope, love, and ecstatic joy all shone with ineffable87 radiance. It was the personification of Life — not life as we know it, brief and full of care — but Life Immortal88 and Love Triumphant89. Often and often I found myself standing90 before this masterpiece of Cellini’s genius, gazing at it, not only with admiration91, but with a sense of actual comfort. One afternoon, while resting in my favourite low chair opposite the picture, I roused myself from a reverie, and turning to the artist, who was showing some water-colour sketches92 to Mrs. Everard, I said abruptly93:
“Did you imagine that face of the Angel of Life, Signor Cellini, or had you a model to copy from?”
He looked at me and smiled.
“It is a moderately good portrait of an existing original,” he said.
“A woman’s face then, I suppose? How very beautiful she must be!”
“Actual beauty is sexless,” he replied, and was silent. The expression of his face had become abstracted and dreamy, and he turned over the sketches for Mrs. Everard with an air which showed his thoughts to be far away from his occupation.
“And the Death Angel?” I went on. “Had you a model for that also?”
This time a look of relief, almost of gladness, passed over his features.
“No indeed,” he answered with ready frankness; “that is entirely94 my own creation.”
I was about to compliment him on the grandeur95 and force of his poetical96 fancy, when he stopped me by a slight gesture of his hand.
“If you really admire the picture,” he said, “pray do not say so. If it is in truth a work of art, let it speak to you as art only, and spare the poor workman who has called it into existence the shame of having to confess that it is not above human praise. The only true criticism of high art is silence — silence as grand as heaven itself.”
He spoke97 with energy, and his dark eyes flashed. Amy (Mrs. Everard) looked at him curiously98.
“Say now!” she exclaimed, with a ringing laugh, “aren’t you a little bit eccentric, signor? You talk like a long-haired prophet! I never met an artist before who couldn’t stand praise; it is generally a matter of wonder to me to notice how much of that intoxicating99 sweet they can swallow without reeling. But you’re an exception, I must admit. I congratulate you!”
Cellini bowed gaily100 in response to the half-friendly, half-mocking curtsey she gave him, and, turning to me again, said:
“I have a favour to ask of you, mademoiselle. Will you sit to me for your portrait?”
“I!” I exclaimed, with astonishment101. “Signor Cellini, I cannot imagine why you should wish so to waste your valuable time. There is nothing in my poor physiognomy worthy102 of your briefest attention.”
“You must pardon me, mademoiselle,” he replied gravely, “if I presume to differ from you. I am exceedingly anxious to transfer your features to my canvas. I am aware that you are not in strong health, and that your face has not that roundness and colour formerly103 habitual104 to it. But I am not an admirer of the milkmaid type of beauty. Everywhere I seek for intelligence, for thought, for inward refinement105 — in short, mademoiselle, you have the face of one whom the inner soul consumes, and, as such, may I plead again with you to give me a little of your spare time? YOU WILL NOT REGRET IT, I ASSURE YOU.”
These last words were uttered in a lower tone and with singular impressiveness. I rose from my seat and looked at him steadily106; he returned me glance for glance, A strange thrill ran through me, followed by that inexplicable107 sensation of absolute calm that I had before experienced. I smiled — I could, not help smiling.
“I will come to-morrow,” I said.
“A thousand thanks, mademoiselle! Can you be here at noon?”
I looked inquiringly at Amy, who clapped her hands with delighted enthusiasm.
“Of course! Any time you like, signor. We will arrange our excursions so that they shall not interfere108 with the sittings. It will be most interesting to watch the picture growing day by day. What will you call it, signor? By some fancy title?”
“It will depend on its appearance when completed,” he replied, as he threw open the doors of the studio and bowed us out with his usual ceremonious politeness.
“Au revoir, madame! A demain, mademoiselle!” and the violet velvet curtains of the portiere fell softly behind us as we made our exit.
“Is there not something strange about that young man?” said Mrs. Everard, as we walked through the long gallery of the Hotel de L—— back to our own rooms. “Something fiendish or angelic, or a little of both qualities mixed up?”
“I think he is what people term PECULIAR, when they fail to understand the poetical vagaries109 of genius,” I replied. “He is certainly very uncommon110.”
“Well!” continued my friend meditatively111, as she contemplated112 her pretty mignonne face and graceful figure in a long mirror placed attractively in a corner of the hall through which we were passing; “all I can say is that I wouldn’t let him paint MY portrait if he were to ask ever so! I should be scared to death. I wonder you, being so nervous, were not afraid of him.”
“I thought you liked him,” I said.
“So I do. So does my husband. He’s awfully113 handsome and clever, and all that — but his conversation! There now, my dear, you must own he is slightly QUEER. Why, who but a lunatic would say that the only criticism of art is silence? Isn’t that utter rubbish?”
“The only TRUE criticism,” I corrected her gently.
“Well, it’s all the same. How can there be any criticism at all in silence? According to his idea when we admire anything very much we ought to go round with long faces and gags on our mouths. That would be entirely ridiculous! And what was that dreadful thing he said to you?”
“I don’t quite understand you,” I answered; “I cannot remember his saying anything dreadful.”
“Oh, I have it now,” continued Amy with rapidity; “it was awful! He said you had the FACE OF ONE WHOM THE SOUL CONSUMES. You know that was most horribly mystical! And when he said it he looked — ghastly! What did he mean by it, I wonder?”
I made no answer; but I thought I knew. I changed the conversation as soon as possible, and my volatile114 American friend was soon absorbed in a discussion on dress and jewellery. That night was a blessed one for me; I was free from all suffering, and slept as calmly as a child, while in my dreams the face of Cellini’s “Angel of life” smiled at me, and seemed to suggest peace.
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1
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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insomnia
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| n.失眠，失眠症 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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lottery
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| n.抽彩；碰运气的事，难于算计的事 | |
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hampers
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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sociability
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| n.好交际，社交性，善于交际 | |
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insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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43
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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44
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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45
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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46
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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47
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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48
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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49
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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50
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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51
overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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52
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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53
luxuriousness
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54
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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55
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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56
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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57
busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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58
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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59
melodiously
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60
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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61
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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62
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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64
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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66
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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68
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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69
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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72
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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92
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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102
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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108
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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112
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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114
volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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