twice-told tales- the prophetic pictures-第3节

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costume；　and　all　such　picturesque　vagaries　of　an　artist's　idle

moments。　Turning　them　over；　with　seeming　carelessness；　a　crayon　sketch

of　two　figures　was　disclosed。

　　　〃If　I　have　failed；〃　continued　he；　〃if　your　heart　does　not　see

itself　reflected　in　your　own　portrait…　if　you　have　no　secret　cause

to　trust　my　delineation　of　the　other…　it　is　not　yet　too　late　to

alter　them。　I　might　change　the　action　of　these　figures　too。　But

would　it　influence　the　event？〃

　　　He　directed　her　notice　to　the　sketch。　A　thrill　ran　through　Elinor's

frame；　a　shriek　was　upon　her　lips；　but　she　stifled　it；　with　the

self…command　that　becomes　habitual　to　all　who　hide　thoughts　of　fear

and　anguish　within　their　bosoms。　Turning　from　the　table；　she　perceived

that　Walter　had　advanced　near　enough　to　have　seen　the　sketch；　though

she　could　not　determine　whether　it　had　caught　his　eye。

　　　〃We　will　not　have　the　pictures　altered；〃　said　she；　hastily。　〃If

mine　is　sad；　I　shall　but　look　the　gayer　for　the　contrast。〃

　　　〃Be　it　so；〃　answered　the　painter；　bowing。　〃May　your　griefs　be

such　fanciful　ones　that　only　your　picture　may　mourn　for　them！　For　your

joys…　may　they　be　true　and　deep；　and　paint　themselves　upon　this　lovely

face　till　it　quite　belie　my　art！〃

　　　After　the　marriage　of　Walter　and　Elinor；　the　pictures　formed　the

two　most　splendid　ornaments　of　their　abode。　They　hung　side　by　side；

separated　by　a　narrow　panel；　appearing　to　eye　each　other　constantly；

yet　always　returning　the　gaze　of　the　spectator。　Travelled　gentlemen；

who　professed　a　knowledge　of　such　subjects；　reckoned　these　among　the

most　admirable　specimens　of　modern　portraiture；　while　common　observers

compared　them　with　the　originals；　feature　by　feature；　and　were

rapturous　in　praise　of　the　likeness。　But　it　was　on　a　third　class…

neither　travelled　connoisseurs　nor　common　observers；　but　people　of

natural　sensibility…　that　the　pictures　wrought　their　strongest　effect。

Such　persons　might　gaze　carelessly　at　first；　but；　becoming　interested；

would　return　day　after　day；　and　study　these　painted　faces　like　the

pages　of　a　mystic　volume。　Walter　Ludlow's　portrait　attracted　their

earliest　notice。　In　the　absence　of　himself　and　his　bride；　they

sometimes　disputed　as　to　the　expression　which　the　painter　had　intended

to　throw　upon　the　features；　all　agreeing　that　there　was　a　look　of

earnest　import；　though　no　two　explained　it　alike。　There　was　less

diversity　of　opinion　in　regard　to　Elinor's　picture。　They　differed；

indeed；　in　their　attempts　to　estimate　the　nature　and　depth　of　the

gloom　that　dwelt　upon　her　face；　but　agreed　that　it　was　gloom；　and

alien　from　the　natural　temperament　of　their　youthful　friend。　A　certain

fanciful　person　announced；　as　the　result　of　much　scrutiny；　that　both

these　pictures　were　parts　of　one　design；　and　that　the　melancholy

strength　of　feeling；　in　Elinor's　countenance；　bore　reference　to　the

more　vivid　emotion；　or；　as　he　termed　it；　the　wild　passion；　in　that

of　Walter。　Though　unskilled　in　the　art；　he　even　began　a　sketch；　in

which　the　action　of　the　two　figures　was　to　correspond　with　their

mutual　expression。

　　　It　was　whispered　among　friends　that；　day　by　day；　Elinor's　face

was　assuming　a　deeper　shade　of　pensiveness；　which　threatened　soon　to

render　her　too　true　a　counterpart　of　her　melancholy　picture。　Walter；

on　the　other　hand；　instead　of　acquiring　the　vivid　look　which　the

painter　had　given　him　on　the　canvas；　became　reserved　and　downcast；

with　no　outward　flashes　of　emotion；　however　it　might　be　smouldering

within。　In　course　of　time；　Elinor　hung　a　gorgeous　curtain　of　purple

silk；　wrought　with　flowers　and　fringed　with　heavy　golden　tassels；

before　the　pictures；　under　pretence　that　the　dust　would　tarnish

their　hues；　or　the　light　dim　them。　It　was　enough。　Her　visitors　felt；

that　the　massive　folds　of　the　silk　must　never　be　withdrawn；　nor　the

portraits　mentioned　in　her　presence。

　　　Time　wore　on；　and　the　painter　came　again。　He　had　been　far　enough　to

the　north　to　see　the　silver　cascade　of　the　Crystal　Hills；　and　to

look　over　the　vast　round　of　cloud　and　forest　from　the　summit　of　New

England's　loftiest　mountain。　But　he　did　not　profane　that　scene　by

the　mockery　of　his　art。　He　had　also　lain　in　a　canoe　on　the　bosom　of

Lake　George；　making　his　soul　the　mirror　of　its　loveliness　and

grandeur；　till　not　a　picture　in　the　Vatican　was　more　vivid　than　his

recollection。　He　had　gone　with　the　Indian　hunters　to　Niagara；　and

there；　again；　had　flung　his　hopeless　pencil　down　the　precipice；

feeling　that　he　could　as　soon　paint　the　roar；　as　aught　else　that

goes　to　make　up　the　wondrous　cataract。　In　truth；　it　was　seldom　his

impulse　to　copy　natural　scenery；　except　as　a　framework　for　the

delineations　of　the　human　form　and　face；　instinct　with　thought；

passion；　or　suffering。　With　store　of　such　his　adventurous　ramble　had

enriched　him：　the　stern　dignity　of　Indian　chiefs；　the　dusky　loveliness

of　Indian　girls；　the　domestic　life　of　wigwams；　the　stealthy　march；　the

battle　beneath　gloomy　pine…trees；　the　frontier　fortress　with　its

garrison；　the　anomaly　of　the　old　French　partisan；　bred　in　courts；

but　grown　gray　in　shaggy　deserts；　such　were　the　scenes　and　portraits

that　he　had　sketched。　The　glow　of　perilous　moments；　flashes　of　wild

feeling；　struggles　of　fierce　power…　love；　hate；　grief；　frenzy；　in　a

word；　all　the　worn…out　heart　of　the　old　earth　had　been　revealed　to　him

under　a　new　form。　His　portfolio　was　filled　with　graphic

illustrations　of　the　volume　of　his　memory；　which　genius　would

transmute　into　its　own　substance；　and　imbue　with　immortality。　He

felt　that　the　deep　wisdom　in　his　art；　which　he　had　sought　so　far；

was　found。

　　　But　amid　stern　or　lovely　nature；　in　the　perils　of　the　forest　or　its

overwhelming　peacefulness；　still　there　had　been　two　phantoms；　the

companions　of　his　way。　Like　all　other　men　around　whom　an　engrossing

purpose　wreathes　itself；　he　was　insulated　from　the　mass　of　human　kind。

He　had　no　aim…　no　pleasure…　no　sympathies…　but　what　were　ultimately

connected　with　his　art。　Though　gentle　in　manner　and　upright　in

intent　and　action；　he　did　not　possess　kindly　feelings；　his　heart　was

cold；　no　living　creature　could　be　brought　near　enough　to　keep　him

warm。　For　these　two　beings；　however；　he　had　felt；　in　its　greatest

intensity；　the　sort　of　interest　which　always　allied　him　to　the

subjects　of　his　pencil。　He　had　pried　into　their　souls　with　his　keenest

insight；　and　pictured　the　result　upon　their　features　with　his　utmost

skill；　so　as　barely　to　fall　short　of　that　standard　which　no　genius

ever　reached；　his　own　severe　conception。　He　had　caught　from　the

duskiness　of　the　future…　at　least；　so　he　fancied…　a　fearful　secret；

and　had　obscurely　revealed　it　on　the　portraits。　So　much　of　himself…　of

his　imagination　and　all　other　powers…　had　been　lavished　on　the　study

of　Walter　and　Elinor；　that　he　almost　regarded　them　as　creations　of　his

own；　like　the　thousands　with　which　he　had　peopled　the　realms　of

Picture。　Therefore　did　they　flit　through　the　twilight　of　the　woods；

hover　on　the　mist　of　waterfalls；　look　forth　from　the　mirror　of　the

lake；　nor　melt　away　in　the　noontide　sun。　They　haunted　his　pictorial

fancy；　not　as　mockeries　of　life；　nor　pale　goblins　of　the　dead；　but

in　the　guise　of　portraits；　each　with　the　unalterable　expression

which　his　magic　had　evoked　from　the　caverns　of　the　soul。　He　could

not　recross　the　Atlantic　till　he　had　again　beheld　the　originals　of

those　airy　pictures。

　　　〃O　glorious　Art！〃　thus　mused　the　enthusiastic　painter　as　he　trod

the　street；　thou　art　the　image　of　the　Creator's　own。　The　innumerable

forms；　that　wander　in　nothingness；　start　into　being　at　thy　beck。　The

dead　live　again。　Thou　recallest　them　to　their　old　scenes；　and　givest

their　gray　shadows　the　lustre　of　a　better　life；　at　once　earthly　and

immortal。　Thou　snatchest　back　the　fleeting　moments　of　History。　With

thee　there　is　no　Past；　for；　at　thy　touch；　all　that　is　great　becomes

forever　present；　and　illustrious　men　live　through　long　ages；　in　the

visible　performance　of　the　very　deeds　which　made　them　what　they　are。　O

potent　Art！　as　thou　bringest　the　faintly　revealed　Past　to　stand　in

that　narrow　strip　of　sunlight；　which　we　call　Now；　canst　thou　summon

the　shrouded　Future　to　meet　her　there？　Have　I　not　achieved　it？　Am　I

not　thy　Prophet？〃

　　　Thus；　with　a　proud；　yet　melancholy　fervor；　did　he　almost　cry　aloud；

as　he　passed　through　the　toilsome　street；　among　people　that　knew　not

of　his　reveries；　nor　could　understand　nor　care　for　them。　It　is　not

good　for　man　to　cherish　a　solitary　ambition。　Unless　there　be　those

around　him　by　whose　example　he　may　regulate　himself；　his　thoughts；

desires；　and　hopes　will　become　extravagant；　and　he　the　semblance；

perhaps　the　reality；　of　a　madman。　Reading　other　bosoms　with　an

acuteness　almost　preternatural；　the　painter　failed　to　see　the　disorder

of　his　own。

　　　〃And　this　should　be　the　house；〃　said　he；　looking　up　and　down　the

front；　before　he　knocked。　〃Heaven　help　my　brains！　That　picture！

Methinks　it　will　never　vanish。　Whether　I　look　at　the　windows　or　the

door；　there　it　is　framed　within　them；　painted　strongly；　and　glowing　in

the　richest　tints…　the　faces