Vergina era
D’ alta belta, ma sua belta non cura:
....
Di natura, d’ amor, de’ cieli amici
Le negligenze sue sono artifici.
“Gerusal. Lib.,” canto1 ii. xiv.-xviii.
(She was a virgin2 of a glorious beauty, but regarded not her beauty...Negligence3 itself is art in those favoured by Nature, by love, and by the heavens.)
At Naples, in the latter half of the last century, a worthy4 artist named Gaetano Pisani lived and flourished. He was a musician of great genius, but not of popular reputation; there was in all his compositions something capricious and fantastic which did not please the taste of the Dilettanti of Naples. He was fond of unfamiliar5 subjects into which he introduced airs and symphonies that excited a kind of terror in those who listened. The names of his pieces will probably suggest their nature. I find, for instance, among his MSS., these titles: “The Feast of the Harpies,” “The Witches at Benevento,” “The Descent of Orpheus into Hades,” “The Evil Eye,” “The Eumenides,” and many others that evince a powerful imagination delighting in the fearful and supernatural, but often relieved by an airy and delicate fancy with passages of exquisite6 grace and beauty. It is true that in the selection of his subjects from ancient fable7, Gaetano Pisani was much more faithful than his contemporaries to the remote origin and the early genius of Italian Opera.
That descendant, however effeminate, of the ancient union between Song and Drama, when, after long obscurity and dethronement, it regained8 a punier9 sceptre, though a gaudier10 purple, by the banks of the Etrurian Arno, or amidst the lagunes of Venice, had chosen all its primary inspirations from the unfamiliar and classic sources of heathen legend; and Pisani’s “Descent of Orpheus” was but a bolder, darker, and more scientific repetition of the “Euridice” which Jacopi Peri set to music at the august nuptials11 of Henry of Navarre and Mary of Medicis.* Still, as I have said, the style of the Neapolitan musician was not on the whole pleasing to ears grown nice and euphuistic in the more dulcet12 melodies of the day; and faults and extravagances easily discernible, and often to appearance wilful13, served the critics for an excuse for their distaste. Fortunately, or the poor musician might have starved, he was not only a composer, but also an excellent practical performer, especially on the violin, and by that instrument he earned a decent subsistence as one of the orchestra at the Great Theatre of San Carlo. Here formal and appointed tasks necessarily kept his eccentric fancies in tolerable check, though it is recorded that no less than five times he had been deposed14 from his desk for having shocked the conoscenti, and thrown the whole band into confusion, by impromptu15 variations of so frantic16 and startling a nature that one might well have imagined that the harpies or witches who inspired his compositions had clawed hold of his instrument.
* Orpheus was the favourite hero of early Italian Opera, or Lyrical Drama. The Orfeo of Angelo Politiano was produced in 1475. The Orfeo of Monteverde was performed at Venice in 1667.
The impossibility, however, to find any one of equal excellence18 as a performer (that is to say, in his more lucid19 and orderly moments) had forced his reinstalment, and he had now, for the most part, reconciled himself to the narrow sphere of his appointed adagios20 or allegros21. The audience, too, aware of his propensity22, were quick to perceive the least deviation23 from the text; and if he wandered for a moment, which might also be detected by the eye as well as the ear, in some strange contortion24 of visage, and some ominous25 flourish of his bow, a gentle and admonitory murmur26 recalled the musician from his Elysium or his Tartarus to the sober regions of his desk. Then he would start as if from a dream, cast a hurried, frightened, apologetic glance around, and, with a crestfallen27, humbled28 air, draw his rebellious29 instrument back to the beaten track of the glib30 monotony. But at home he would make himself amends31 for this reluctant drudgery32. And there, grasping the unhappy violin with ferocious33 fingers, he would pour forth34, often till the morning rose, strange, wild measures that would startle the early fisherman on the shore below with a superstitious35 awe17, and make him cross himself as if mermaid36 or sprite had wailed37 no earthly music in his ear.
This man’s appearance was in keeping with the characteristics of his art. The features were noble and striking, but worn and haggard, with black, careless locks tangled38 into a maze39 of curls, and a fixed40, speculative41, dreamy stare in his large and hollow eyes. All his movements were peculiar42, sudden, and abrupt43, as the impulse seized him; and in gliding44 through the streets, or along the beach, he was heard laughing and talking to himself. Withal, he was a harmless, guileless, gentle creature, and would share his mite45 with any idle lazzaroni, whom he often paused to contemplate46 as they lay lazily basking47 in the sun. Yet was he thoroughly48 unsocial. He formed no friends, flattered no patrons, resorted to none of the merry-makings so dear to the children of music and the South. He and his art seemed alone suited to each other,— both quaint49, primitive50, unworldly, irregular. You could not separate the man from his music; it was himself. Without it he was nothing, a mere51 machine! WITH it, he was king over worlds of his own. Poor man, he had little enough in this! At a manufacturing town in England there is a gravestone on which the epitaph records “one Claudius Phillips, whose absolute contempt for riches, and inimitable performance on the violin, made him the admiration52 of all that knew him!” Logical conjunction of opposite eulogies53! In proportion, O Genius, to thy contempt for riches will be thy performance on thy violin!
Gaetano Pisani’s talents as a composer had been chiefly exhibited in music appropriate to this his favourite instrument, of all unquestionably the most various and royal in its resources and power over the passions. As Shakespeare among poets is the Cremona among instruments. Nevertheless, he had composed other pieces of larger ambition and wider accomplishment54, and chief of these, his precious, his unpurchased, his unpublished, his unpublishable and imperishable opera of the “Siren.” This great work had been the dream of his boyhood, the mistress of his manhood; in advancing age “it stood beside him like his youth.” Vainly had he struggled to place it before the world. Even bland55, unjealous Paisiello, Maestro di Capella, shook his gentle head when the musician favoured him with a specimen56 of one of his most thrilling scenas. And yet, Paisiello, though that music differs from all Durante taught thee to emulate57, there may — but patience, Gaetano Pisani! bide58 thy time, and keep thy violin in tune59!
Strange as it may appear to the fairer reader, this grotesque60 personage had yet formed those ties which ordinary mortals are apt to consider their especial monopoly,— he was married, and had one child. What is more strange yet, his wife was a daughter of quiet, sober, unfantastic England: she was much younger than himself; she was fair and gentle, with a sweet English face; she had married him from choice, and (will you believe it?) she yet loved him. How she came to marry him, or how this shy, unsocial, wayward creature ever ventured to propose, I can only explain by asking you to look round and explain first to ME how half the husbands and half the wives you meet ever found a mate! Yet, on reflection, this union was not so extraordinary after all. The girl was a natural child of parents too noble ever to own and claim her. She was brought into Italy to learn the art by which she was to live, for she had taste and voice; she was a dependant61 and harshly treated, and poor Pisani was her master, and his voice the only one she had heard from her cradle that seemed without one tone that could scorn or chide62. And so — well, is the rest natural? Natural or not, they married. This young wife loved her husband; and young and gentle as she was, she might almost be said to be the protector of the two. From how many disgraces with the despots of San Carlo and the Conservatorio had her unknown officious mediation63 saved him! In how many ailments64 — for his frame was weak — had she nursed and tended him! Often, in the dark nights, she would wait at the theatre with her lantern to light him and her steady arm to lean on; otherwise, in his abstract reveries, who knows but the musician would have walked after his “Siren” into the sea! And then she would so patiently, perhaps (for in true love there is not always the finest taste) so DELIGHTEDLY, listen to those storms of eccentric and fitful melody, and steal him — whispering praises all the way — from the unwholesome night-watch to rest and sleep!
I said his music was a part of the man, and this gentle creature seemed a part of the music; it was, in fact, when she sat beside him that whatever was tender or fairy-like in his motley fantasia crept into the harmony as by stealth. Doubtless her presence acted on the music, and shaped and softened65 it; but, he, who never examined how or what his inspiration, knew it not. All that he knew was, that he loved and blessed her. He fancied he told her so twenty times a day; but he never did, for he was not of many words, even to his wife. His language was his music,— as hers, her cares! He was more communicative to his barbiton, as the learned Mersennus teaches us to call all the varieties of the great viol family. Certainly barbiton sounds better than fiddle66; and barbiton let it be. He would talk to THAT by the hour together,— praise it, scold it, coax67 it, nay68 (for such is man, even the most guileless), he had been known to swear at it; but for that excess he was always penitentially remorseful69. And the barbiton had a tongue of his own, could take his own part, and when HE also scolded, had much the best of it. He was a noble fellow, this Violin!— a Tyrolese, the handiwork of the illustrious Steiner. There was something mysterious in his great age. How many hands, now dust, had awakened70 his strings71 ere he became the Robin72 Goodfellow and Familiar of Gaetano Pisani! His very case was venerable,— beautifully painted, it was said, by Caracci. An English collector had offered more for the case than Pisani had ever made by the violin. But Pisani, who cared not if he had inhabited a cabin himself, was proud of a palace for the barbiton. His barbiton, it was his elder child! He had another child, and now we must turn to her.
How shall I describe thee, Viola? Certainly the music had something to answer for in the advent73 of that young stranger. For both in her form and her character you might have traced a family likeness74 to that singular and spirit-like life of sound which night after night threw itself in airy and goblin sport over the starry75 seas...Beautiful she was, but of a very uncommon76 beauty,— a combination, a harmony of opposite attributes. Her hair of a gold richer and purer than that which is seen even in the North; but the eyes, of all the dark, tender, subduing77 light of more than Italian — almost of Oriental — splendour. The complexion78 exquisitely79 fair, but never the same,— vivid in one moment, pale the next. And with the complexion, the expression also varied80; nothing now so sad, and nothing now so joyous81.
I grieve to say that what we rightly entitle education was much neglected for their daughter by this singular pair. To be sure, neither of them had much knowledge to bestow82; and knowledge was not then the fashion, as it is now. But accident or nature favoured young Viola. She learned, as of course, her mother’s language with her father’s. And she contrived83 soon to read and to write; and her mother, who, by the way, was a Roman Catholic, taught her betimes to pray. But then, to counteract84 all these acquisitions, the strange habits of Pisani, and the incessant85 watch and care which he required from his wife, often left the child alone with an old nurse, who, to be sure, loved her dearly, but who was in no way calculated to instruct her.
Dame86 Gionetta was every inch Italian and Neapolitan. Her youth had been all love, and her age was all superstition87. She was garrulous88, fond,— a gossip. Now she would prattle89 to the girl of cavaliers and princes at her feet, and now she would freeze her blood with tales and legends, perhaps as old as Greek or Etrurian fable, of demon90 and vampire,— of the dances round the great walnut-tree at Benevento, and the haunting spell of the Evil Eye. All this helped silently to weave charmed webs over Viola’s imagination that afterthought and later years might labour vainly to dispel91. And all this especially fitted her to hang, with a fearful joy, upon her father’s music. Those visionary strains, ever struggling to translate into wild and broken sounds the language of unearthly beings, breathed around her from her birth. Thus you might have said that her whole mind was full of music; associations, memories, sensations of pleasure or pain,— all were mixed up inexplicably92 with those sounds that now delighted and now terrified; that greeted her when her eyes opened to the sun, and woke her trembling on her lonely couch in the darkness of the night. The legends and tales of Gionetta only served to make the child better understand the signification of those mysterious tones; they furnished her with words to the music. It was natural that the daughter of such a parent should soon evince some taste in his art. But this developed itself chiefly in the ear and the voice. She was yet a child when she sang divinely. A great Cardinal93 — great alike in the State and the Conservatorio — heard of her gifts, and sent for her. From that moment her fate was decided94: she was to be the future glory of Naples, the prima donna of San Carlo.
The Cardinal insisted upon the accomplishment of his own predictions, and provided her with the most renowned95 masters. To inspire her with emulation96, his Eminence97 took her one evening to his own box: it would be something to see the performance, something more to hear the applause lavished98 upon the glittering signoras she was hereafter to excel! Oh, how gloriously that life of the stage, that fairy world of music and song, dawned upon her! It was the only world that seemed to correspond with her strange childish thoughts. It appeared to her as if, cast hitherto on a foreign shore, she was brought at last to see the forms and hear the language of her native land. Beautiful and true enthusiasm, rich with the promise of genius! Boy or man, thou wilt99 never be a poet, if thou hast not felt the ideal, the romance, the Calypso’s isle100 that opened to thee when for the first time the magic curtain was drawn101 aside, and let in the world of poetry on the world of prose!
And now the initiation102 was begun. She was to read, to study, to depict103 by a gesture, a look, the passions she was to delineate on the boards; lessons dangerous, in truth, to some, but not to the pure enthusiasm that comes from art; for the mind that rightly conceives art is but a mirror which gives back what is cast on its surface faithfully only — while unsullied. She seized on nature and truth intuitively. Her recitations became full of unconscious power; her voice moved the heart to tears, or warmed it into generous rage. But this arose from that sympathy which genius ever has, even in its earliest innocence104, with whatever feels, or aspires105, or suffers.
It was no premature106 woman comprehending the love or the jealousy107 that the words expressed; her art was one of those strange secrets which the psychologists may unriddle to us if they please, and tell us why children of the simplest minds and the purest hearts are often so acute to distinguish, in the tales you tell them, or the songs you sing, the difference between the true art and the false, passion and jargon108, Homer and Racine,— echoing back, from hearts that have not yet felt what they repeat, the melodious109 accents of the natural pathos110. Apart from her studies, Viola was a simple, affectionate, but somewhat wayward child,— wayward, not in temper, for that was sweet and docile111; but in her moods, which, as I before hinted, changed from sad to gay and gay to sad without an apparent cause. If cause there were, it must be traced to the early and mysterious influences I have referred to, when seeking to explain the effect produced on her imagination by those restless streams of sound that constantly played around it; for it is noticeable that to those who are much alive to the effects of music, airs and tunes112 often come back, in the commonest pursuits of life, to vex113, as it were, and haunt them. The music, once admitted to the soul, becomes also a sort of spirit, and never dies. It wanders perturbedly through the halls and galleries of the memory, and is often heard again, distinct and living as when it first displaced the wavelets of the air. Now at times, then, these phantoms114 of sound floated back upon her fancy; if gay, to call a smile from every dimple; if mournful, to throw a shade upon her brow,— to make her cease from her childishmirth, and sit apart and muse115.
Rightly, then, in a typical sense, might this fair creature, so airy in her shape, so harmonious116 in her beauty, so unfamiliar in her ways and thoughts,— rightly might she be called a daughter, less of the musician than the music, a being for whom you could imagine that some fate was reserved, less of actual life than the romance which, to eyes that can see, and hearts that can feel, glides117 ever along WITH the actual life, stream by stream, to the Dark Ocean.
And therefore it seemed not strange that Viola herself, even in childhood, and yet more as she bloomed into the sweet seriousness of virgin youth, should fancy her life ordained118 for a lot, whether of bliss119 or woe120, that should accord with the romance and reverie which made the atmosphere she breathed. Frequently she would climb through the thickets121 that clothed the neighbouring grotto122 of Posilipo,— the mighty123 work of the old Cimmerians,— and, seated by the haunted Tomb of Virgil, indulge those visions, the subtle vagueness of which no poetry can render palpable and defined; for the Poet that surpasses all who ever sang, is the heart of dreaming youth! Frequently there, too, beside the threshold over which the vine-leaves clung, and facing that dark-blue, waveless sea, she would sit in the autumn noon or summer twilight124, and build her castles in the air. Who doth not do the same,— not in youth alone, but with the dimmed hopes of age! It is man’s prerogative125 to dream, the common royalty126 of peasant and of king. But those day-dreams of hers were more habitual127, distinct, and solemn than the greater part of us indulge. They seemed like the Orama of the Greeks,— prophets while phantasma.
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canto
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| n.长篇诗的章 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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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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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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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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fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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punier
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| adj.小于一般尺寸的( puny的比较级 )；微不足道的；弱小的；微弱的 | |
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gaudier
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| adj.花哨的，俗气的( gaudy的比较级 ) | |
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nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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dulcet
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| adj.悦耳的 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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deposed
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| v.罢免( depose的过去式和过去分词 )；（在法庭上）宣誓作证 | |
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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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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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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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adagios
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| n.柔板( adagio的名词复数 )；慢板；柔板乐章；（男女二人或三人舞时女角保持高难度平衡的）缓慢动作 | |
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allegros
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propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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deviation
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contortion
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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murmur
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crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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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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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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mermaid
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| n.美人鱼 | |
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wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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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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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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eulogies
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| n.颂词，颂文( eulogy的名词复数 ) | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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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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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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dependant
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| n.依靠的，依赖的，依赖他人生活者 | |
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chide
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| v.叱责；谴责 | |
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mediation
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| n.调解 | |
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ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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68
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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72
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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subduing
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| 征服( subdue的现在分词 )； 克制； 制服； 色变暗 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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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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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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101
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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103
depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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104
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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aspires
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的第三人称单数 ) | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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107
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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108
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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109
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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112
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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113
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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114
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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115
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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116
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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117
glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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118
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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119
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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120
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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121
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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122
grotto
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| n.洞穴 | |
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123
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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124
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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125
prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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126
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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127
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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