A new grace seemed born within her. She became more cheerful, spoke2 more gently, walked softly about the house dressed in quiet colors, veiling her beautiful eyes with the deep shadow of her lashes3, because she dared not look at her friend. The fear of tiring him, of displeasing4 or boring him, gave her the wings of divination5. Her ever watchful6 sensibility listened at the inaccessible7 door of his dreams.
Her spirit, determined8 to create a new feeling capable of conquering the violence of instinct, revealed in her face with marvelous signs the difficulty of her task. Never before had her supreme9 art found expressions so singular. Looking at her one day, Stelio spoke to her of the infinite power concentrated in the shadow produced by the helmet on the face of Il Pensieroso.
"Michelangelo," he said, "has, in a small cavity in the marble, concentrated all the effort of human meditation10. Just as the stream fills a hollowed palm, so the eternal mystery that surrounds us fills the small space made by the Titan's chisel11 in the material from the mountains; and there it has remained, growing denser12 through all the centuries. I know only the mobile shadow of your face, Fosca, that equals that shadow in intensity13, and sometimes even surpasses it."
Eager for poetry and knowledge, she yearned14 for the Inspirer's presence. She became for him the ideal figure of one that listens and understands. The strange, unique arrangement of her hair suggested fluttering, impatient wings round her pure forehead.
She read aloud to him pages from the sovereign poets. The august form of the Book seemed magnified by the attitude she assumed in holding it, by her way of turning the pages, by her religious gravity of attention, and the harmony of the voice that changed the printed symbols into vocal15 cadences16. While reading Dante, she was as severe and noble as the sibyls in the dome17 of the Sistine Chapel18, sustaining the weight of the sacred volumes with all the heroism19 of their bodies moved by the breath of prophecy.
When the last syllable20 had been spoken, she saw Stelio rise impetuously, feverishly21, and roam about the rooms, stirred by the dart22 of the god, panting in the excitement roused by the confused tumult23 of his own creative force. Sometimes he approached her with glowing eyes transfigured by a sudden beatitude, kindled24 by an inner flame, as if an immortal26 truth had just been revealed. With a shudder27 that drove away from her heart the memory of every caress28, she saw him lay his head upon her knees, overwhelmed by the tremendous struggle he carried on within himself, by the shock that accompanied some hidden metamorphosis. She suffered, yet she was happy, though she knew not whether he too suffered or was happy; her heart was filled with pity, fear, and reverence29 to feel that vigorous form laboring30 thus in the genesis of the idea. She kept silence; she waited, adoring that head that lay upon her knees, filled with thoughts unrevealed.
But she comprehended his great emotion better when one day, after she had been reading to him, he spoke of the exile of Dante.
"Imagine, Fosca, if you can without bewilderment, the transport and ardor32 of that great soul, when uniting itself with elementary energies in order to conceive his words! Imagine Alighieri, his mind already filled with his incomparable vision, on the way to exile, an implacable pilgrim, driven by his passion and his poverty from country to country, from refuge to refuge, across plains, over mountains, beside rivers and seas, in all seasons, suffocated33 by the sweetness of spring, shivering under the harshness of winter, always alert, attentive34, with wide, voracious35 eyes, anxious with the inner travail36 whereby his gigantic work was formed. Imagine the fulness of that soul in the contrast between common necessities and the flaming apparitions37 that rose suddenly before him at a turn in the road, on the bank of a stream, from a hollow in the rocks, on the slope of a hill, in the depths of the forest, or in a meadow where the larks38 were singing. By means of his senses, life multiform and multiplex poured into his spirit, transfiguring into living images the abstract ideas that filled his brain. The sound, the appearance, and the essence of the very elements themselves entered into his occult labor31, developing it with voices, lines, color, movement, and with innumerable mysteries. Fire, air, earth, and water worked in collaboration39 at the sacred poem, penetrated40 the sum of its doctrine41, warmed it, a?rated it, watered it, covered it with leaves and flowers. Open this Christian42 book, and imagine at the same time the face of a Greek god. Do you not see, springing from both, shadows and light, the flashes or the wind from the heavens?"
She began to feel that her own life was becoming one with the all-absorbing work, that her own personal self was entering, drop by drop, into the personage of the drama, that her look, her poses, her gestures and voice were going to the composing of the figure of the heroine "living beyond life." She fancied that she was dissolving into her elements in the fire of that other intellect, only to be re-formed by the necessity of a heroism that should dominate Fate.
Sometimes it seemed to her that she was losing her human sincerity43, and that she would always remain in the state of fictitious44 excitement into which she threw herself while studying a tragic45 r?le she was to create. Thus she experienced a new torment46. She tried to shut and contract her soul under his keen glance, as if to prevent his intellect from penetrating47 her mind and robbing her of her secret life. She grew afraid of the seer.—He will read in my soul the silent words that he will put in the mouth of his creation, and I shall only speak them on the stage, under my mask.—Sometimes she felt a sudden need to break the spell, to withdraw from the image that was to be like her, to spoil those lines of beauty, which forced her to a determined sacrifice. Was there not also in the tragedy a maiden48 thirsting for love and eager for joy, a maiden in whom a great mind recognized the living incarnation of his most exquisite49 dream, the Victory that was to crown his life? And was there not also an impassioned woman no longer young, who had one foot already in the dark shadow, and who had but a few steps more to take in order to disappear? More than once she was tempted50 to contradict her seeming resignation by some violent act. Then, like a penitent51, she redoubled her fervor52 to ward53 off the peril54, hardened herself to discipline, sharpened her vigilance, repeating with a sort of intoxication55 the act of supreme renunciation that had risen from the depths of her sadness at the aspect of the purifying flame.—You must have all; I shall be content with seeing you live, seeing your joy. And do with me as you will!—
Then Stelio loved her for the unexpected visions she brought him. He trembled and turned pale one day when she entered the room with her soft step, her face fixed56 in calm sorrow, as if she were emerging from depths of wisdom whence all human agitations58 seem but a puff59 of wind on a dusty road.
"Ah, at last! I have created you! I have created you!" he cried, thinking he saw his heroine herself standing60 on a threshold of the distant chamber61 filled with treasure taken from the tombs of the Atrides. "Stand still a moment! Do not move your eyelids—keep your eyes motionless, as if they were petrified62! Now you are blind. But you can see things that others do not see, and nothing can be hidden from you. Here in this place the man you love has declared his love to another, who trembles at the revelation. They are still here, they have just let go each other's hands, and their love quivers in the air. The room is full of funeral treasure, and on two tables are laid out the riches that covered the bodies of Agamemnon and Cassandra. There are the coffers filled with necklaces, and there are the urns63 full of ashes. The balcony looks out upon the plain of Argos and on the distant mountains. It is twilight64, and all that terrible gold glitters in the creeping shadows. Do you understand? And you are there, on the threshold, led by the nurse. You are blind, yet nothing is hidden from you. Stop a moment!"
He spoke in the sudden fever of invention. The scene appeared before him, then disappeared, submerged in a flood of poetry.
"What shall you do? What shall you say?"
The actress felt a chill at the roots of her hair. Her very soul vibrated. She became blind and prophetic. The cloud of Tragedy descended65 and hung over her head.
"What shall you say? You will call them. You will call both of them by name in that silence where the great royal spoils repose66."
The actress felt the coursing of her blood; her voice was to resound67 through the silence of thousands of years, to revive the ancient suffering of men and heroes.
"You will take their hands; you will feel their two lives stretching toward each other."
The blindness of the immortal statues was in her eyes. She could see herself sculptured in the great silence, and feel the thrill of the mute throng68, seized with awe69 at the sublime70 power of her attitude.
"And then? And then?"
The Inspirer rushed impetuously toward the actress, as if he wished to strike her in order to draw sparks from her.
"You must awake Cassandra from her sleep; you must feel her ashes revive in your hands; she must be present in your mental vision. Will you? Do you understand? Your living soul must touch her ancient soul, and blend into one soul and one grief, so that the flight of time seems annihilated71. Cassandra is in you, and you are in her. Have you not loved her, and do you not love Priam's daughter also? Who that once shall hear it can ever forget, who can ever forget the deep notes of your voice and the convulsion of your lips at the first cry of fatalistic fury: 'O Earth! O Apollo!' I see you once more, deaf and dumb, on your chariot with the look of a wild beast just captured. But among so many terrible cries, some were infinitely72 sweet and sad. The old men compared you to the nightingale. What were the words you used when you spoke of your beautiful river? And when the old men questioned you about the love of the god—do you remember your answer?"
The Tragic Muse73 palpitated as if the breath of the god again invaded her. She had become ardent74, ductile75 material, subject to all the inspirations of the poet.
"Do you remember your answer?"
"O espousals, espousals of Paris, fatal to the beloved! O you, paternal76 waters of the Scamandros! Once, on your shores, my youth was nourished by you!"
"Ah, divine woman, your melody does not make one regret the syllables77 of ?schylus! I remember. The soul of the multitude, seized by the lamentation78 'of discordant79 sounds,' relaxed and was soothed80 by that melodious81 sigh, and each of us received the vision of years long past and our innocent happiness. You can say: 'I was Cassandra.' In speaking of her, you will remember a former life. Her mask of gold will be in your hands."
He seized both her hands; both were intent on the flashes generated by their blended forces; the same electric spark ran through their nerves.
"You are there, near the spoil of the slave-princess, and you feel the mask. What shall you say?"
In the pause that followed, both seemed to be waiting for a flash. The actress's eyes again became fixed and blind, her face became like marble. The Inspirer let go her hands, and they made the gesture of feeling the sepulchral82 golden mask. In a voice that created the tangible83 form, she said:
"How large her mouth is!"
"You see her, then?"
"Yes, I too can see her. The mouth is large; the terrible effort of prophecy dilated84 it; she cried aloud, cursed, and lamented85 without ceasing. Can you imagine her mouth in silence?"
"What profundity87 in her wonderful silence!"
She seemed to be repeating words suggested to her by mysterious genii, and, while the poet listened to her, he fancied that he himself had been about to speak them. A profound tremor88 shook him, as if he were witnessing a miracle.
She made no reply.
The marble lines of her face changed slightly, as if under a wave of suffering. A furrow90 appeared between her eyes.
"Her eyes," continued the revealer, "were as sweet and sad as two violets."
She paused again, panting, as one who suffers in a dream. Her lips were dry, her temples moist.
"Thus they were before they closed forever!"
Sometimes Stelio came to his friend's house breathless and excited, as if pursued by an Erinni. La Foscarina never questioned him, but her personality soothed that restless spirit.
"Sometimes I am afraid of the vastness of my conceptions," he said. "I am afraid of being suffocated by them. You believe me to be a little mad, do you not? Do you remember that stormy evening when I returned from the Lido? How sweet you were that evening! A short time before that, standing on the Bridge of the Rialto, I found a Motive91. I had translated the words of the Elements into notes. Do you know what a Motive is? It is a small spring, from which may be born many other springs, a tiny seed that may give birth to a crown of forests; a little spark that may kindle25 an endless chain of conflagration—a nucleus92 that produces infinite force. A few days ago I began to develop the Motive of that stormy evening, which I shall call the Pipes of ?olus. Listen to it."
He went to the piano, and struck a few notes with one hand.
"It contains no more than that, but you cannot imagine the generating force of those few notes. A tempest, a whirlwind of music has been born of them, but I have not yet been able to master it. I am almost vanquished93, suffocated, constrained94 to fly."
He laughed a little; but his soul was swaying like the sea.
"The Pipes of Prince ?olus, opened by the companions of Ulysses. Do you remember it? The imprisoned95 winds arise and push back their vessel96, and the men tremble with terror."
His spirit could not rest long, and nothing could divert him from his mental work. He kissed his friend's hand, paced to and fro, stopping before the piano that Donatella had played when she sang Claudio's melody. He wandered to the window, and gazed upon the leafless garden. His aspiration97 reached out toward the musical creature, toward her that must chant his hymns98 at the summit of his tragic symphonies.
In a low, clear voice the woman said:
"If Donatella were here with us!"
He turned, approached her, and gazed at her fixedly99, silently. She smiled her slight, mask-like smile at seeing him so near her, yet so far removed. She felt that he loved no one at that moment—not herself, not Donatella, but that he regarded both simply as instruments of his art, forces to employ, bows to bend. He was on fire with poetry, and she, with her poor wounded heart, her secret torture, her mute plea—she was there, intent on nothing but her sacrifice, ready to pass beyond love and life, as the heroine of the future drama. Meanwhile, each day must make its mark on her face, discolor her lips, fade her hair; each day, in the service of old age, would hasten the work of destruction in her miserable100 flesh. And then?
She recognized that it was love, after all, unquenchable passion, that created all the illusions and all the hopes which seemed to aid her in accomplishing "what love alone cannot do."
She realized that the torturing restraint of those days had not succeeded in creating in her even a symptom of the new feeling whereby love was to be made sublime. Her secret task, therefore, meant simply continual dissimulation101. Was it worth while to live for this?
If once the young man's madness and ardor had caused her to suffer, she now suffered far more in seeing that that ardor had grown calm, and that a sort of reserve had taken its place—a reserve that sometimes repelled102 the gentlest caress. She felt shame at her regret, knowing that he was possessed103 by his great idea, and was concentrating all his energies upon it. But a dark rancor104 often mastered her in the evening, after he had departed, and blind suspicions nightly tortured her sleepless105 soul.
—To go away!—The necessity to do this came suddenly, urgently. She had said to her beloved once, on a memorable106 day: "There is only one thing I can do—go away, and leave you free with your fate. This thing I can do, which love alone could not do." Henceforth, delay was no longer possible; she must break off with all hesitation107, and emerge finally from that kind of fatal suspension of movement, in which she had lived so long in agitation57.
Since that October dawn, their outward life had been unchanged. Nevertheless, she felt that it was impossible for her to continue to live in that way any longer. She felt a consciousness of something fully108 accomplished109, as in the tree that has yielded all its fruit, as in the river that has reached the sea.
Her courage revived; her soul grew stronger, her energies awoke once more, and the virile110 qualities of the leader again came to life. In a few days she had arranged her professional route, reassembled her dramatic company, and fixed the date of departure.—You must go and work over there among the barbarians111 across the ocean. You must wander still from town to town, from hotel to hotel, from theater to theater, and every night you will draw howls from the crowd that pays you. You will gain much money; you will return laden112 with gold and with wisdom, unless it happens that you are crushed by a wheel some misty113 day on a crowded street. Who knows? From whom have you received the order to depart? From some one within yourself—deep, deep within you—who sees that which you cannot see, like the blind woman in the tragedy. Who knows whether over there, on one of those wide, peaceful rivers, your soul will not find its harmony and your lips will not learn that smile they have attempted so many times in vain! Perhaps you will discover a few white hairs and that smile in your mirror at the same time!—
And she went on preparing for her journey.
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1
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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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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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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displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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divination
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| n.占卜，预测 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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denser
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| adj. 不易看透的, 密集的, 浓厚的, 愚钝的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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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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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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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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laboring
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| n.劳动，操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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31
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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voracious
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| adj.狼吞虎咽的，贪婪的 | |
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travail
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| n.阵痛；努力 | |
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apparitions
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| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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collaboration
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| n.合作，协作；勾结 | |
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40
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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41
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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43
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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45
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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46
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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47
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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48
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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49
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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50
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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51
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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52
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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53
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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54
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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55
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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agitations
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| （液体等的）摇动( agitation的名词复数 )； 鼓动； 激烈争论； （情绪等的）纷乱 | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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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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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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urns
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| n.壶( urn的名词复数 )；瓮；缸；骨灰瓮 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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resound
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| v.回响 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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ductile
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| adj.易延展的，柔软的 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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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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melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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rancor
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| n.深仇，积怨 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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108
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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111
barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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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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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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