repeated the voice of a young man leaning from an upper window, and looking down upon the antique streets of famous Rome.
"I think you have more taste for poetry than painting, Carl," said a second voice.
The scene is an artist's studio, up four flights of stairs, and very near the sky. A large skylight gives admission to the clear and radiant light, and the windows are open for the soft breeze to enter the room, though it is the month of December in that fair Italian clime, where it is always summer. Pictures and palettes, statuettes and bronzes adorn2 the walls, and somewhat litter the room, and its only two occupants wear artists' blouses, though one of the wearers sits idly at the window gazing down into the street. He is blonde and stout3, with gay blue eyes, and is unmistakably German, while his darker companion, who is busily painting away at a picture, is just as certainly an American. They both bear their nationalities plainly in their faces.
"Poetry and painting are sister arts, I think," said Carl Muller, laughing. "The poets paint with words as we do with colors. They have the advantage of us poor devils, for their word-paintings remain beautiful forever, while our ochres crack and our crimsons4 fade."
"You should turn poet, then, Carl."
"I had some thought of it once," said the mercurial5 Carl, laughing, "but upon making trial of my powers, I found that I lacked the divine afflatus6."
"Say rather that you lacked the more prosaic7 attribute that you lack in painting—industry," said the American.
"Whatever failing I may have in this respect is fully8 atoned9 for by you, Leslie. Never saw I a poor dauber so deeply wedded10 to his art. Your perseverance11 is simply marvelous."
"It is the only way to conquer fame, Carl. There is no royal road to success," said the artist, painting busily away as he talked.
Carl yawned lazily and repeated Beattie's well-known lines:
"'Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar; Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime,[Pg 38] Has felt the influence of malignant12 star, And waged with fortune an eternal war!'"
"The 'malignant star' in your case means idleness, Carl. You have talent enough if you would but apply yourself. Up, up, man, and get to your work."
"It is impossible to conquer my constitutional inertia13 this evening, Leslie. To-morrow I will vie with you in perseverance and labor14 like a galley-slave," laughed the German, stretching his lazy length out of the window.
There was silence a few moments. Carl was absorbed in something going on in the street below—perhaps a street fight between two fiery15 Italians, or perhaps the more interesting sight of some pretty woman going to mass or confession—while Leslie Dane's brush moved on unweariedly over his task. Evidently it was a labor of love.
"I should like to know where you get your models, Leslie," said Carl Muller, looking back into the room. "You do not have the Italian type of women in your faces. What do you copy from?"
"Memory," said the artist, laconically16.
"Do you mean to say that you know a woman anywhere half as beautiful as the women you put on your canvas?"
"I know one so transcendently lovely that the half of her beauty can never be transferred to canvas," said Leslie Dane, while a flush of pride rose over his features.
"In America?" asked Carl.
"In America," answered Leslie.
"Whew!" said the German, comprehensively. "I thought you did not care for women, Mr. Dane."
"I never said so, Carl," said Leslie Dane, smiling.
"I know—but actions speak louder than words. You avoid them, you decline invitations where you are likely to meet them, and the handsome models vote you a perfect bear."
"Because there is but one woman in the whole world to me," answered Leslie Dane, and he paused a moment in his painting, and looked away with a world of tenderness in his large, dark eyes.
Carl Muller began to look interested.
"Ah! now I see why you work so hard," he said. "There is a woman at the bottom of it. There is always a woman at the bottom of everything that goes on in this world whether it be good or evil."
"Yes, I suppose so," said Leslie, resuming his work with a sigh to the memory of the absent girl he loved.
"Love rules the court, the camp, the grove17, For love is heaven, and heaven is love,"
hummed Carl in his rich tenor18 voice.
"Leslie, you will accompany me to the fete to-night?" said he, presently.
"Thank you. I do not care to go," said Leslie.
"Heavens, what a selfish fellow!" said Carl, turning back to the window.
[Pg 39]
Silence fell between them again. The soft breeze came sighing in at the window ruffling19 Carl's sunny curls and caressing20 Leslie Dane's cheek with viewless fingers.
A pot of violets on the window ledge21 filled the air with delicate perfume. After that evening the scent22 of violets always came to Leslie Dane wedded to a painful memory.
There was a heavy step at the door. Their portly landlady23 pushed her head into the room.
"Letters, gentlemen," she said.
Carl Muller sprang up with alacrity24.
"All for me, of course," he said. "Nobody ever writes to Dane."
He took the packet and went back to his seat, while his companion, with a smothered25 sigh, went on with his work. It was quite true that no one ever wrote to him, yet he still kept waiting and hoping for one dear letter that never—never came.
"Ah, by Jove! but I was mistaken," Carl broke out suddenly. "Hurrah26, Leslie, here's a love letter from the girl you left behind you."
He held up a little creamy-hued envelope, smooth and thick as satin, addressed in a lady's elegant hand, and Leslie Dane caught it almost rudely from him. Carl gave a significant whistle and returned to his own correspondence.
Leslie Dane tore open the letter so long waited and hoped for, and devoured27 its contents with passionate28 impatience29. It was very brief. Let us glance over his shoulder and read what was written there:
"Leslie," she wrote, "your letters have kept coming and coming, and every one has been like a stab to my heart. I pray you never to write to me again, for I have repented30 in bitterness of spirit the blind folly31 into which you led me that night. Oh, how could you do it? I was but a child. I did not know what love meant, and I was bewildered and carried away by your handsome face, and the romance of that moonlight flitting. It was wicked, it was cruel, Leslie, to bind32 me so, for, oh, God, I love another now, and I never can be his! But at least I will never be yours. I have burned your letters, and I shall hate your memory as long I live for the cruel wrong you did me. God forgive you, for I never can!
"Bonnibel."
Leslie Dane threw that dreadful letter down and ground it beneath his heel as though it had been a deadly serpent. It was, for it had stung him to the heart.
Carl Muller looked up at the strange sound of that grinding boot-heel, and saw his friend standing33 fixedly34 staring, into vacancy35, his dark eyes blazing like coals of fire, his handsome face pallid36 as death, and set in a tense look of awful despair and bitterness terrible to behold37.
Carl Muller sprang up and shook him violently by the arm.
"My God! Leslie," he cried, "what is it? What has happened to move you so? Is there anyone dead?"
The handsome artist did not seem to hear him. He stood immovable[Pg 40] save for the horrid38 crunching39 of his boot-heel as it ground that fatal letter into fragments.
"Leslie," exclaimed Carl, "speak, for mercy's sake! You cannot imagine how horrible you look!"
Thus adjured40 Leslie Dane shook off his friend's clasp roughly, and strode across the room to a recess41 where a veiled picture hung against the wall.
He had always refused to show it to his brother artist, but now he pushed the covering aside, disclosing a female head surrounded by silvery clouds like that of an angel. The face, framed in waving masses of golden hair, was lighted by eyes of tender violet, and radiantly beautiful.
"Look Carl," said the artist in a changed and hollow voice, "is not that the face of an angel?"
Carl Muller looked at the lovely face in wonder and delight.
"Beautiful, beautiful!" he exclaimed, "it is the face of a seraph42!"
"Yes, it is the face of a seraph," repeated Leslie Dane. "The face of a seraph, but oh, God, she is fickle43, faithless, false!"
He stood still a moment looking at the fair young face smiling on him in its radiant beauty, then caught up his brush and swept it across the canvas.
One touch, the tender blue eyes were obliterated44, another, and the curved red lips were gone with their loving smile, another and another, and the whole angelic vision was blotted45 from the canvas forever.
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收听单词发音
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1
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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2
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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crimsons
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| 变为深红色（crimson的第三人称单数形式） | |
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5
mercurial
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| adj.善变的，活泼的 | |
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afflatus
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| n.灵感，神感 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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8
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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9
atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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10
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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11
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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12
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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13
inertia
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| adj.惰性，惯性，懒惰，迟钝 | |
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14
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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15
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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16
laconically
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| adv.简短地，简洁地 | |
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17
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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18
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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19
ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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20
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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21
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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22
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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23
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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24
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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25
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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26
hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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27
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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28
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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29
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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30
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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32
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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33
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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34
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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35
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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36
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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37
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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38
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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39
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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40
adjured
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| v.（以起誓或诅咒等形式）命令要求( adjure的过去式和过去分词 )；祈求；恳求 | |
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41
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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42
seraph
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| n.六翼天使 | |
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43
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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44
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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45
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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