Serena himself was a middle-aged5 man, with a high, bald forehead, long apostolic beard, and large brown dreamy eyes. He was a good soul, with the kindest disposition6, and the affectations of his profession did not extend to his personal character. The fault lay more in his stars than himself that he had become an eccentric painter. He began merrily, in Bohemian fashion, with a clay pipe in his mouth, painting real landscapes from nature and human beings from the life, and producing compositions noteworthy for fine colour and honest effect. But he discovered early, as many another prophet has discovered, that it did not pay. In an angry moment, one day, disgusted with a picture which he had just completed, he took up his brush and deliberately8 reversed all the colours of his composition. Where water was blue, he made it vermilion; where boughs9 were green and golden, he made them purple and cerulean; a white human figure standing10 by water became an Ethiop, through excess of shadow; and finally, out of sheer devilry, he covered the daffodil sky with layers of pea-green cloud. He had just completed his work, and was scowling11 at it grimly, when there entered Ponto, the new art critic from Camford. No sooner did Ponto see the mutilated picture than he clasped his hands and raised his eyes rapturously to heaven. ‘At last!’ he cried, and wrung12 Serena by the hand. ‘Only paint like this, and your fame is sure.’ The ‘Megatherium’ of the following Saturday contained an article by Ponto, entitled, ‘Mr. Blanco Serena’s new painting—a Reverie in Vermilion and Pea-green,’ in which article it was clearly demonstrated, not merely that the painting was one of the masterpieces of the world, but that the painter was the first ‘modern man’ who had dared ‘to give prominence13 on canvas to evanescent cosmic moods.’ From that day forth14 the epithets15 cosmic, august, titanic16, supersensuous, sublime18, and other adjectives of equal meaning were the especial property of Serena and his imitators; for that imitators came soon goes perhaps without saying, seeing that imitation is so easy. ‘Reveries’ on canvas became the rage; to be non-natural was the fashion. Artists who had once in their innocence19 strained every nerve to study great models and to copy nature, now tortured ingenuity20 to represent ‘evanescent cosmic moods’—out of colour, out of drawing, and out of all harmony with anything but the diseased invention of bad painters and the bad critics who urged them on.
Serena, as we have said, was a good fellow, and took his success sensibly. Only to one man in the world did he secretly confess the facts of the case. ‘I know I am a humbug21,’ he said to Forster, ‘and that those who praise me are humbugs22. I know that I paint worse than I did at twenty, and that, when I die, and my school dies with me, posterity23 will find me out. This is why, now and then, I follow the true lights of my soul, and paint a true picture; just to keep my work from utterly24 perishing in Limbo25, just to enable some poor soul in the far future to say, “After all, Blanco Serena might, had he chosen, have escaped from being the ?sthetic Prig of his period.” But what I am the scribblers and the public have made me. If another man painted a bony woman in yellow gauze, with red hair and pale green eyes, and impossible arms and legs, he would be found out directly: but only let me paint such a figure, and call it “Persephone musing26 by the waters of Lethe,” or “Memory kneeling by the grave of Hope,” or “Fading away: a Sonata27 in Sunset tints28,” and I am sure at least of Ponto’s praise and the public approval. Well, of all humbugs Art humbug is the worst, though, after all, worse saints have been canonised than Blanco Serena.’
To the studio of Serena, a few days after Madeline’s visit, came Ponto, the art critic, bringing with him a thin, middle-aged. Frenchman, with a coarse mouth and a sinister29 expression of countenance30. The painter, with deft31 and careless hand, was adding a few touches to the picture of Ophelia.
‘Serena,’ cried Ponto, ‘let me introduce you to M. Auguste de Gavrolles, from Paris—the friend and pupil of the supreme32 and impeccable Gautier. He is a poet, an ardent33 worshipper of your genius, and in all matters of art completely sane34 a cosmic.’
Serena smiled and held out his hand, which the Frenchman took rapturously, and raised it to his lips.
‘Ah, Monsieur,’ he exclaimed, ‘this is the proudest moment of my life!’
Ponto threw himself into a chair, and looked around him with a smile of feline35 insipidity36.
‘What’s that you have there, my dear Serena?’ he asked, blinking at the picture. ‘Ah, I see, another superbly musical meditation37 in the minor38 key of flake39 white!’
‘It is a portrait,’ said Serena, quietly.
‘An ideal portrait—quite so. How wonderfully in that floating drapery you have conveyed the serene40 insouciance41 of trances of languor42 crescending into aberration43 of supersensual dream!’
‘It is neither more nor less than a careful likeness44 of the original,’ returned Serena, modestly. ‘In the arrangement of the colours I wish to convey——’
‘The spirituality of a superb and life-consuming dream, fired with the arid45 flame of incipient46 passion—ethereal, almost epicene—conscious of throbbing48 vistas49 of asexual retrospection and chromatic50 wastes of fruitless future fantasy, interspersed51 with forlorn gulfs of irremediable darkness and despair. Added to this, and seen in the pose of the limp hand and the melancholy52 texture53 of the flesh tints, is the Lethean consciousness of a drowned and devastated54 ideal, unlightened by one star of promise and irredeemed by one flower of celestial ruth. Am I right? Do I take your meaning?’
‘Just so,’ said Serena, dryly, and turned to look at the Frenchman.
The latter, with shoulders elevated, and pince-nez in position, was gazing eagerly at the portrait. He now turned with a bow to Serena.
‘A portrait, did you say, Monsieur?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I ask of whom?’
‘Of the new actress, Miss Diana Vere.’
‘It is curious,’ said Gavrolles; ‘but pardon, the face seems familiar to me. I have seen it somewhere before.’
‘Indeed! Well, such a face, once seen, is not likely to be forgotten.’
‘Is it not beautiful!’ cried the Frenchman, with elevated shoulders and extended hands; ‘and seen upon your canvas, how sublime! How shall I express to you—to you, great artist, great genius, what at this moment I feel? But tell me, Monsieur, this—is she a friend of yours? No? Yes?’
41 know her slightly, that is all.’
‘What would I not give to see her, to have the honour of her acquaintance!’
‘If you wish to see her,’ said Serena, ‘you have only to go to the Parthenon Theatre, where she appears nightly.’
‘I will go; but stay, I return this night to Paris—but I shall return, and then, perhaps, you will introduce me?’ Serena shook his head.
‘I’m afraid not,’ he answered. ‘The lady sees no one, and is quite a recluse55. What is still more peculiar56 is the fact that she has a particular aversion to gentlemen of your nation—to France and to Frenchmen without exception.’
‘You amaze me, Monsieur! Ah, this insular57 prejudice, how bête! But perhaps she has reason—perhaps she has lived in my country.’
‘Can’t say,’ returned Serena, as if tired of the subject; and he commenced again to work at the picture.
Ponto looked over his shoulder as he worked with admiring eyes.
‘You must know Gavrolles better,’ he observed; ‘I like him; we all like him. He is a man of ideas.’
Gavrolles placed his hand upon his heart and bowed.
‘I have learned of my master, the immortal58 Théophile, to worship what is beautiful, to adore what is superb.’
‘In France, at the present moment,’ continued Ponto, patronisingly, ‘Gavrolles represents the school of supersensuous personal yearning59. In his last book of poems, “Parfums de la Chair,” and particularly in that superb fragment, “Cameo Satanique,” he has supplied the connecting link between the celestial appetite of Gautier and the divine nausea60 of Baudelaire. Till Gavrolles came, the calendar of imperial passion was incomplete. What Smith, Jones, and Keats are to our august poetry, that is he to the poetry of modern France.’
‘Ah, Monsieur, forbear!’ cried the Frenchman. ‘You overwhelm me with shame. Such praise—before the master!’
‘I will go further,’ cried Ponto, recklessly, ‘and I will fearlessly assert, that in the golden roll of the fearless and fecund61 Parisian Parnassus, there is no more affluent62 name than that of my friend Gavrolles. His “Chant Aromatique” to the Venus of Dahomey would alone entitle him to a place in that Pantheon where the names of Victor Hugo and Achille de Ganville shine effulgent63, while his masterly management of the Sestina, in his great address to myself, is only to be compared with the Titanic sculpture cf Michael Angelo, or the colossal64 imagery of Potts.’
Serena smiled gloomily. He was familiar with that sort of praise, as addressed to himself, but, with all his cynicism, he scarcely approved of its lavish65 application to an obscure Frenchman. The fact was, that the whole speech formed part and parcel of an eulogistic66 article, in Ponto’s best manner, then in type for the ‘Megatherium,’ a widely circulated literary journal in which nepotism67 and malignity68 formed equal parts.
‘By the way,’ observed Serena, still quietly at work, ‘I see that MacAlpine has been falling foul70 of our friend Potts in the “North British.”’
MacAlpine was a cantankerous71 critic, hailing from beyond the Border, and with a Highland72 disregard of consequences in the expression of his literary opinions. Ponto turned livid.
‘MacAlpine,’ he exclaims, ‘bears to the immortal Potts the relation that a leper does to Paian Apollo. It is well known that MacAlpine has been guilty of murder, bigamy, rapine, incest, and larceny73, but all these are nothing compared to his fiendish and futile74 statement that Potts is not the most stupendous, wonderful, awe-inspiring, celestial, and cosmic creature existing on this planet. Mac Alpine69, it is notorious, left his grandmother to starve in the workhouse, and kicked his little brother to death, but these crimes are venial75 by the side of his hateful and hellish assertion that your divine and spirit-compelling picture of “Psyche watching the Sleep of Eros” is out of proportion.’
Serena sighed, then smiled.
‘Do you know, my dear Ponto, I sometimes think that a little hostile criticism is refreshing76. I really find it so, when it comes in my way.’
Ponto shuddered78.
‘The only true attitude of criticism is that of worship,’ he exclaimed. ‘The man who, in contemplating79 your consummate80 masterpiece, could be conscious of any feeling save of the surging forces of cosmic yearning, flowering into the form of perfect idealisation, and shining with the reflected light of coruscating81 eternities of sterile82 pain—such a man, I say, is capable of any social crime, and incapable83 of any aesthetic84 perception.’
‘Pardon me,’ returned Serena. ‘What you say is doubtless very flattering, but if criticism is pure worship, how do you account for your own attacks on the literary productions of the enemies of the aesthetic school?’
‘All modern schools but one are execrable,’ returned Ponto, with a grinding of the teeth and a waving of the hand. ‘It is enough for us to pronounce that they are not—Art! In approaching them we do not criticise—we simply obliterate85; we crush, as we crush a reptile86 or an unclean thing. The man who denies absolute perfection to Potts, or universal mastery to Blanco Serena, at once proclaims, not merely his incompetence87 to speak on any artistic88 subject whatever, but by inference his moral degradation89 as a human being. We wave him from our vision—we wipe him out. He is a loathsome90 Philistine91, an outcast, physically92 and intellectually abominable93. Such a man once said, in my hearing, that “Mademoiselle de Maupin” was not the purest, wholesomest, most supremely94 sane and salutary book produced since the Divine Comedy, and that, on the whole, he preferred Wordsworth to Gautier as a moral teacher. My whole soul revolted. I shrank from that man with a shudder77, and I am convinced that the wretch95 is ethically96 lost and intellectually paralytic97.’
The Frenchman shook his head dolefully, as over some sad chronicle of human wickedness or sorrow. Serena laughed and turned with twinkling eyes to the excited critic.
‘Confess between ourselves that “Mademoiselle de Maupin” is not virile98. For my own part, I never read it without feeling as if I had been slobbered over by a dirty baby.’
‘For God’s sake, Serena,’ cried Ponto, ‘don’t talk like that. I know you don’t mean it, but the very expression is worthy7 that infernal scoundrel MacAlpine. Not virile? Certainly not, and Heaven forbid! Virility99, dear master, is coarseness, ugliness, rudeness, and hideousness100. Is a rose-leaf virile? Are sweet shawms, exquisite101 scents102, forlorn pulsations, and cadences103 of sexless and impotent desire, are these virile? The book of which we speak has been exquisitely104 called by a contemporary the Golden Book of spirit and sense; nay105 more, “The Holy Writ106 of Beauty!” In every page of it we feel the swooning consciousness, the stinging and slaying107 scourge108, of fruitless and rootless passion, and the divine dew of incommunicable and luminous109 lust110 watering the spent fibres of a parched111 and palpitating aesthetic dream. We feel more! We feel that in realising this swoon of sensuous17 yet despairing pain, sharp as tears, bitter as brine, and sinuous112 as the serpent, and in falling back like a fountain to the ground from the heaven of eternally unsatisfied longing113 and delight, we penetrate114 to the central mystery of life, and see the white heart of the great rose of being pulsating115 with one melodious116 throb47 of self-satiating and non-virile bliss117!’
Serena yawned, for he had heard all this before, and he was not particularly interested. As for the Frenchman, he listened and applauded, with many shrugs118 and smiles, but there was a lurking119 expression in his cat-like eye which showed that he was not altogether blind to the absurdity120 of the fatuous121 Ponto.
It is not our intention further to place on record the lucubrations of this typical critic of the period. The reader is doubtless familiar with the kind of criticism of which he and such as he are the mouthpieces. It has, perhaps, one redeeming122 merit—that of earnestness and thoroughness—and even its characteristic nepotism should not blind us to the fact that it reveals the existence of a real aspiration123.
Arm-in-arm, Ponto and Gavrolles presently sallied forth, leaving Serena to enjoy his quiet meerschaum alone. As they went, the Frenchman was loud in praise of the painter, of his mighty124 genius and unassuming ways.
‘But this “Ophelia” whom he has painted,’ he cried presently, ‘is she so fair as that?’
Ponto confessed that he seldom went to the theatre, and he had not seen the original.
‘Ah, I am interested much,’ cried the other. ‘I must see her, I must know her, when I return to London.’
They hailed a hansom and got into it together. As they drove along the crowded streets in eager conversation, a young man, passing along on foot, glanced at their faces, started, and gazed eagerly at Gavrolles. The gaze only occupied a moment, then the vehicle was gone.
The young man was Edgar Sutherland, strolling along to his club.
‘That face!’ he muttered to himself, standing and looking after the hansom. ‘Where have I seen it before? Is it possible? Good heavens, now I remember! Can it be indeed the same?’
Lost in thought, with set lips and knitted brow, he walked on to his destination.
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1
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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embellished
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| v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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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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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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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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scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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16
titanic
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| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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17
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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18
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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19
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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20
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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21
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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22
humbugs
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| 欺骗( humbug的名词复数 )； 虚伪； 骗子； 薄荷硬糖 | |
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23
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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limbo
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| n.地狱的边缘；监狱 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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sonata
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| n.奏鸣曲 | |
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28
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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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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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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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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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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feline
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| adj.猫科的 | |
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insipidity
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| n.枯燥无味，清淡，无精神；无生气状 | |
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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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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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39
flake
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| v.使成薄片；雪片般落下；n.薄片 | |
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40
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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41
insouciance
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| n.漠不关心 | |
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42
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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43
aberration
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| n.离开正路，脱离常规，色差 | |
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44
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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45
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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46
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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47
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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48
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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49
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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50
chromatic
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| adj.色彩的，颜色的 | |
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51
interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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52
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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53
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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54
devastated
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| v.彻底破坏( devastate的过去式和过去分词)；摧毁；毁灭；在感情上（精神上、财务上等）压垮adj.毁坏的；极为震惊的 | |
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55
recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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56
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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57
insular
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| adj.岛屿的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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58
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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59
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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60
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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61
fecund
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| adj.多产的，丰饶的，肥沃的 | |
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62
affluent
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| adj.富裕的，富有的，丰富的，富饶的 | |
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63
effulgent
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| adj.光辉的；灿烂的 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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65
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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66
eulogistic
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| adj.颂扬的，颂词的 | |
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67
nepotism
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| n.任人唯亲；裙带关系 | |
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malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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cantankerous
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| adj.爱争吵的，脾气不好的 | |
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highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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larceny
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| n.盗窃（罪） | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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venial
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| adj.可宽恕的；轻微的 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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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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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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coruscating
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| v.闪光，闪烁( coruscate的现在分词 ) | |
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sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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reptile
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| n.爬行动物；两栖动物 | |
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incompetence
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| n.不胜任，不称职 | |
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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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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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philistine
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| n.庸俗的人；adj.市侩的，庸俗的 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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ethically
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| adv.在伦理上，道德上 | |
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paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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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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virility
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| n.雄劲，丈夫气 | |
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hideousness
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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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scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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103
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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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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106
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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107
slaying
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| 杀戮。 | |
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scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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111
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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sinuous
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| adj.蜿蜒的，迂回的 | |
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113
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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114
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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pulsating
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| adj.搏动的，脉冲的v.有节奏地舒张及收缩( pulsate的现在分词 )；跳动；脉动；受（激情）震动 | |
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116
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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117
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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118
shrugs
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| n.耸肩（以表示冷淡，怀疑等）( shrug的名词复数 ) | |
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119
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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120
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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121
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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122
redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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123
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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