Nothing but time could cure it, and it ran its course to the dismay, amusement, or edification of the beholders, for its victims did all manner of queer things in their delirium5. They begged potteries6 for clay, drove Italian plaster-corkers out of their wits with unexecutable orders got neuralgia and rheumatism7 sketching8 perched on fences and trees like artistic9 hens, and caused a rise in the price of bread, paper, and charcoal10, by their ardor11 in crayoning. They covered canvas with the expedition of scene-painters, had classes, lectures, receptions, and exhibitions, made models of each other, and rendered their walls hideous12 with bad likenesses of all their friends. Their conversation ceased to be intelligible13 to the uninitiated, and they prattled14 prettily15 of "chiaro oscuro, French sauce, refraction of the angle of the eye, seventh spinus process, depth and juiciness of color, tender touch, and a good tone." Even in dress the artistic disorder16 was visible; some cast aside crinoline altogether, and stalked about with a severe simplicity17 of outline worthy18 of Flaxman. Others flushed themselves with scarlet19, that no landscape which they adorned20 should be without some touch of Turner's favorite tint21. Some were blue in every sense of the word, and the heads of all were adorned with classic braids, curls tied Hebe-wise, or hair dressed a la hurricane.
It was found impossible to keep them safe at home, and, as the fever grew, these harmless maniacs22 invaded the sacred retreats where artists of the other sex did congregate23, startling those anchorites with visions of large-eyed damsels bearing portfolios24 in hands delicately begrimed with crayon, chalk, and clay, gliding26 through the corridors hitherto haunted only by shabby paletots, shadowy hats, and cigar smoke. This irruption was borne with manly27 fortitude28, not to say cheerfulness, for studio doors stood hospitably29 open as the fair invaders30 passed, and studies from life were generously offered them in glimpses of picturesque31 gentlemen posed before easels, brooding over master-pieces in "a divine despair," or attitudinizing upon couches as if exhausted32 by the soarings of genius.
An atmosphere of romance began to pervade33 the old buildings when the girls came, and nature and art took turns. There were peepings and whisperings, much stifled34 laughter and whisking in and out; not to mention the accidental rencontres, small services, and eye telegrams, which somewhat lightened the severe studies of all parties.
Half a dozen young victims of this malady met daily in one of the cells of a great art beehive called "Raphael's Rooms," and devoted35 their shining hours to modelling fancy heads, gossiping the while; for the poor things found the road to fame rather dull and dusty without such verbal sprinklings.
"Psyche36 Dean, you've had an adventure! I see it in your face; so tell it at once, for we are stupid as owls37 here to-day," cried one of the sisterhood, as a bright-eyed girl entered with some precipitation.
"That won't do; I know something interesting happened, for you've been blushing, and you look brisker than usual this morning," said the first speaker, polishing off the massive nose of her Homer.
"It wasn't anything," began Psyche a little reluctantly. "I was coming up in a hurry when I ran against a man coming down in a hurry. My portfolio slipped, and my papers went flying all about the landing. Of course we both laughed and begged pardon, and I began to pick them up, but he wouldn't let me; so I held the book while he collected the sketches39. I saw him glance at them as he did so, and that made me blush, for they are wretched things, you know."
"Not a bit of it; they are capital, and you are a regular genius, as we all agree," cut in the Homeric Miss Cutter.
"Never tell people they are geniuses unless you wish to spoil them," returned Psyche severely40. "Well, when the portfolio was put to rights I was going on, but he fell to picking up a little bunch of violets I had dropped; you know I always wear a posy into town to give me inspiration. I didn't care for the dusty flowers, and told him so, and hurried away before any one came. At the top of the stairs I peeped over the railing, and there he was, gathering41 up every one of those half-dead violets as carefully as if they had been tea-roses."
"Psyche Dean, you have met your fate this day!" exclaimed a third damsel, with straw-colored tresses, and a good deal of weedy shrubbery in her hat, which gave an Ophelia-like expression to her sentimental42 countenance43.
Psyche frowned and shook her head, as if half sorry she had told her little story.
"Was he handsome?" asked Miss Larkins, the believer in fate.
"I didn't particularly observe."
"It was the red-headed man, whom we call Titian: he's always on the stairs."
"No, it wasn't; his hair was brown and curly," cried Psyche, innocently falling into the trap.
"Like Peerybingle's baby when its cap was taken off," quoted Miss
Dickenson, who pined to drop the last two letters of her name.
"Was it Murillo, the black-eyed one?" asked the fair Cutter, for the girls had a name for all the attitudinizers and promenaders whom they oftenest met.
"No, he had gray eyes, and very fine ones they were too," answered
Psyche, adding, as if to herself, "he looked as I imagine Michael
Angelo might have looked when young."
"Had he a broken nose, like the great Mike?" asked an irreverent damsel.
"If he had, no one would mind it, for his head is splendid; he took his hat off, so I had a fine view. He isn't handsome, but he'll do something," said Psyche, prophetically, as she recalled the strong, ambitious face which she had often observed, but never mentioned before.
"Well, dear, considering that you didn't 'particularly look' at the man, you've given us a very good idea of his appearance. We'll call him Michael Angelo, and he shall be your idol44. I prefer stout45 old Rembrandt myself, and Larkie adores that dandified Raphael," said the lively Cutter, slapping away at Homer's bald pate46 energetically, as she spoke47.
"Raphael is a dear, but Rubens is more to my taste now," returned Miss Larkins. "He was in the hall yesterday talking with Sir Joshua, who had his inevitable48 umbrella, like a true Englishman. Just as I came up, the umbrella fell right before me. I started back; Sir Joshua laughed, but Rubens said, 'Deuce take it!' and caught up the umbrella, giving me a never-to-be-forgotten look. It was perfectly49 thrilling."
"Which,—the umbrella, the speech, or the look?" asked Psyche, who was not sentimental.
"Ah, you have no soul for art in nature, and nature in art," sighed the amber-tressed Larkins. "I have, for I feed upon a glance, a tint, a curve, with exquisite50 delight. Rubens is adorable (as a study); that lustrous51 eye, that night of hair, that sumptuous52 cheek, are perfect. He only needs a cloak, lace collar, and slouching hat to be the genuine thing."
"This isn't the genuine thing by any means. What does it need?" said
Psyche, looking with a despondent53 air at the head on her stand.
Many would have pronounced it a clever thing; the nose was strictly54 Greek, the chin curved upward gracefully55, the mouth was sweetly haughty56, the brow classically smooth and low, and the breezy hair well done. But something was wanting; Psyche felt that, and could have taken her Venus by the dimpled shoulders, and given her a hearty57 shake, if that would have put strength and spirit into the lifeless face.
"Now I am perfectly satisfied with my Apollo, though you all insist that it is the image of Theodore Smythe. He says so himself, and assures me it will make a sensation when we exhibit," remarked Miss Larkins, complacently58 caressing59 the ambrosial60 locks of her Smythified Phebus.
"I shall feel that I have mistaken my sphere, shall drop my tools, veil my bust62, and cast myself into the arms of Nature, since Art rejects me;" replied Miss Larkins, with a tragic63 gesture and an expression which strongly suggested that in her eyes nature meant Theodore.
"She must have capacious arms if she is to receive all Art's rejected admirers. Shall I be one of them?"
Psyche put the question to herself as she turned to work, but somehow ambitious aspirations64 were not in a flourishing condition that morning; her heart was not in tune65, and head and hands sympathized. Nothing went well, for certain neglected home-duties had dogged her into town, and now worried her more than dust, or heat, or the ceaseless clatter66 of tongues. Tom, Dick, and Harry's unmended hose persisted in dancing a spectral67 jig68 before her mental eye, mother's querulous complaints spoilt the song she hummed to cheer herself, and little May's wistful face put the goddess of beauty entirely69 out of countenance.
"It's no use; I can't work till the clay is wet again. Where is Giovanni?" she asked, throwing down her tools with a petulant70 gesture and a dejected air.
"He is probably playing truant71 in the empty upper rooms, as usual. I can't wait for him any longer, so I'm doing his work myself," answered Miss Dickenson, who was tenderly winding72 a wet bandage round her Juno's face, one side of which was so much plumper than the other that it looked as if the Queen of Olympus was being hydropathically treated for a severe fit of ague.
"I'll go and find the little scamp; a run will do me good; so will a breath of air and a view of the park from the upper windows."
Doffing73 her apron74, Psyche strolled away up an unfrequented staircase to the empty apartments, which seemed to be too high even for the lovers of High Art. On the western side they were shady and cool, and, leaning from one of the windows, Psyche watched the feathery tree-tops ruffled75 by the balmy wind, that brought spring odors from the hills, lying green and sunny far away. Silence and solitude76 were such pleasant companions that the girl forgot herself, till a shrill77 whistle disturbed her day-dreams, and reminded her what she came for. Following the sound she found the little Italian errand-boy busily uncovering a clay model which stood in the middle of a scantily78 furnished room near by.
"He is not here; come and look; it is greatly beautiful," cried
Psyche did look and speedily forgot both her errand and herself. It was the figure of a man, standing80 erect81, and looking straight before him with a wonderfully lifelike expression. It was neither a mythological82 nor a historical character, Psyche thought, and was glad of it, being tired to death of gods and heroes. She soon ceased to wonder what it was, feeling only the indescribable charm of something higher than beauty. Small as her knowledge was, she could see and enjoy the power visible in every part of it; the accurate anatomy83 of the vigorous limbs, the grace of the pose, the strength and spirit in the countenance, clay though it was. A majestic84 figure, but the spell lay in the face, which, while it suggested the divine, was full of human truth and tenderness, for pain and passion seemed to have passed over it, and a humility85 half pathetic, a courage half heroic seemed to have been born from some great loss or woe86.
How long she stood there Psyche did not know. Giovanni went away unseen, to fill his water-pail, and in the silence she just stood and looked. Her eyes kindled87, her color rose, despondency and discontent vanished, and her soul was in her face, for she loved beauty passionately88, and all that was best and truest in her did honor to the genius of the unknown worker.
"If I could do a thing like that, I'd die happy!" she exclaimed impetuously, as a feeling of despair came over her at the thought of her own poor attempts.
"Who did it, Giovanni?" she asked, still looking up at the grand face with unsatisfied eyes.
It was not the boy's voice, and, with a start, Psyche turned to see her Michael Angelo, standing in the doorway90, attentively91 observing her. Being too full of artless admiration92 to think of herself just yet, she neither blushed nor apologized, but looked straight at him, saying heartily,—
"You have done a wonderful piece of work, and I envy you more than I can tell!"
The enthusiasm in her face, the frankness of her manner, seemed to please him, for there was no affectation about either. He gave her a keen, kind glance out of the "fine gray eyes," a little bow, and a grateful smile, saying quietly,—"Then my Adam is not a failure in spite of his fall?"
Psyche turned from the sculptor93 to his model with increased admiration in her face, and earnestness in her voice, as she exclaimed delighted,—
"Adam! I might have known it was he. O sir, you have indeed succeeded, for you have given that figure the power and pathos94 of the first man who sinned and suffered, and began again."
"Then I am satisfied." That was all he said, but the look he gave his work was a very eloquent95 one, for it betrayed that he had paid the price of success in patience and privation, labor96 and hope.
"What can one do to learn your secret?" asked the girl wistfully, for there was nothing in the man's manner to disturb her self-forgetful mood, but much to foster it, because to the solitary97 worker this confiding98 guest was as welcome as the doves who often hopped99 in at his window.
"Work and wait, and meantime feed heart, soul, and imagination with the best food one can get," he answered slowly, finding it impossible to give a receipt for genius.
"I can work and wait a long time to gain my end; but I don't know where to find the food you speak of?" she answered, looking at him like a hungry child.
"I wish I could tell you, but each needs different fare, and each must look for it in different places."
The kindly100 tone and the sympathizing look, as well as the lines in his forehead, and a few gray hairs among the brown, gave Psyche courage to say more.
"I love beauty so much that I not only want to possess it myself, but to gain the power of seeing it in all things, and the art of reproducing it with truth. I have tried very hard to do it, but something is wanting; and in spite of my intense desire I never get on."
As she spoke the girl's eyes filled and fell in spite of herself, and turning a little with sudden shamefacedness she saw, lying on the table beside her among other scraps101 in manuscript and print, the well-known lines,—
"I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty;
I woke, and found that life was duty.
Was thy dream then a shadowy lie?
And thou shall find thy dream to be
A noonday light and truth to thee."
She knew them at a glance, had read them many times, but now they came home to her with sudden force, and, seeing that his eye had followed hers, she said in her impulsive104 fashion.—
"Is doing one's duty a good way to feed heart, soul, and imagination?"
As if he had caught a glimpse of what was going on in her mind, Paul answered emphatically,—
"Excellent; for if one is good, one is happy, and if happy, one can work well. Moulding character is the highest sort of sculpture, and all of us should learn that art before we touch clay or marble."
He spoke with the energy of a man who believed what he said, and did his best to be worthy of the rich gift bestowed105 upon him. The sight of her violets in a glass of water, and Giovanni staring at her with round eyes, suddenly recalled Psyche to a sense of the proprieties106 which she had been innocently outraging107 for the last ten minutes. A sort of panic seized her; she blushed deeply, retreated precipitately108 to the door, and vanished, murmuring thanks and apologies as she went.
"Did you find him? I thought you had forgotten," said Miss Dickenson, now hard at work.
"Yes, I found him. No, I shall not forget," returned Psyche, thinking of Gage, not Giovanni.
She stood before her work eying it intently for several minutes; then, with an expression of great contempt for the whole thing, she suddenly tilted109 her cherished Venus on to the floor, gave the classical face a finishing crunch110, and put on her hat in a decisive manner, saying briefly111 to the dismayed damsels,—
"Good-by, girls; I shan't come any more, for I'm going to work at home hereafter."
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1
epidemics
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| n．流行病 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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influenza
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| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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potteries
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| n.陶器( pottery的名词复数 )；陶器厂；陶土；陶器制造（术） | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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prattled
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的过去式和过去分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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maniacs
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| n.疯子（maniac的复数形式） | |
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congregate
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| v.(使)集合，聚集 | |
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portfolios
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| n.投资组合( portfolio的名词复数 )；（保险）业务量；（公司或机构提供的）系列产品；纸夹 | |
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portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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invaders
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| 入侵者，侵略者，侵入物( invader的名词复数 ) | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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psyche
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| n.精神；灵魂 | |
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owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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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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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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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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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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59
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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ambrosial
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| adj.美味的 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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62
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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64
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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66
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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68
jig
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| n.快步舞（曲）；v.上下晃动；用夹具辅助加工；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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69
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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70
petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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71
truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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72
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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73
doffing
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| n.下筒，落纱v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的现在分词 ) | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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76
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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77
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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78
scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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79
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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80
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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81
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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82
mythological
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| adj.神话的 | |
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83
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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84
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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85
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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86
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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87
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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88
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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89
gage
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| n.标准尺寸，规格；量规，量表 [=gauge] | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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93
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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95
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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96
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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97
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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98
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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99
hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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100
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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101
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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102
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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103
courageously
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| ad.勇敢地，无畏地 | |
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104
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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105
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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107
outraging
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的现在分词 ) | |
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108
precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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109
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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110
crunch
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| n.关键时刻；艰难局面；v.发出碎裂声 | |
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111
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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