the madonna of the future-第1节

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The　Madonna　of　the　Future



by　Henry　James









We　had　been　talking　about　the　masters　who　had　achieved　but　a　single

masterpiecethe　artists　and　poets　who　but　once　in　their　lives　had

known　the　divine　afflatus　and　touched　the　high　level　of　perfection。

Our　host　had　been　showing　us　a　charming　little　cabinet　picture　by　a

painter　whose　name　we　had　never　heard；　and　who；　after　this　single

spasmodic　bid　for　fame；　had　apparently　relapsed　into　obscurity　and

mediocrity。　　There　was　some　discussion　as　to　the　frequency　of　this

phenomenon；　during　which；　I　observed；　H…　sat　silent；　finishing　his

cigar　with　a　meditative　air；　and　looking　at　the　picture　which　was

being　handed　round　the　table。　　〃I　don't　know　how　common　a　case　it

is；〃　he　said　at　last；　〃but　I　have　seen　it。　　I　have　known　a　poor

fellow　who　painted　his　one　masterpiece；　and〃he　added　with　a　smile

〃he　didn't　even　paint　that。　　He　made　his　bid　for　fame　and　missed　it。〃

We　all　knew　H…　for　a　clever　man　who　had　seen　much　of　men　and　manners；

and　had　a　great　stock　of　reminiscences。　　Some　one　immediately

questioned　him　further；　and　while　I　was　engrossed　with　the　raptures

of　my　neighbour　over　the　little　picture；　he　was　induced　to　tell　his

tale。　　If　I　were　to　doubt　whether　it　would　bear　repeating；　I　should

only　have　to　remember　how　that　charming　woman；　our　hostess；　who　had

left　the　table；　ventured　back　in　rustling　rose…colour　to　pronounce

our　lingering　a　want　of　gallantry；　and；　finding　us　a　listening

circle；　sank　into　her　chair　in　spite　of　our　cigars；　and　heard　the

story　out　so　graciously　that；　when　the　catastrophe　was　reached；　she

glanced　across　at　me　and　showed　me　a　tear　in　each　of　her　beautiful

eyes。





It　relates　to　my　youth；　and　to　Italy：　　two　fine　things！　　（H…　began）。

I　had　arrived　late　in　the　evening　at　Florence；　and　while　I　finished

my　bottle　of　wine　at　supper；　had　fancied　that；　tired　traveller　though

I　was；　I　might　pay　the　city　a　finer　compliment　than　by　going　vulgarly

to　bed。　　A　narrow　passage　wandered　darkly　away　out　of　the　little

square　before　my　hotel；　and　looked　as　if　it　bored　into　the　heart　of

Florence。　　I　followed　it；　and　at　the　end　of　ten　minutes　emerged　upon

a　great　piazza；　filled　only　with　the　mild　autumn　moonlight。　　Opposite

rose　the　Palazzo　Vecchio；　like　some　huge　civic　fortress；　with　the

great　bell…tower　springing　from　its　embattled　verge　as　a　mountain…

pine　from　the　edge　of　a　cliff。　　At　its　base；　in　its　projected　shadow；

gleamed　certain　dim　sculptures　which　I　wonderingly　approached。　　One

of　the　images；　on　the　left　of　the　palace　door；　was　a　magnificent

colossus；　shining　through　the　dusky　air　like　a　sentinel　who　has　taken

the　alarm。　　In　a　moment　I　recognised　him　as　Michael　Angelo's　David。

I　turned　with　a　certain　relief　from　his　sinister　strength　to　a

slender　figure　in　bronze；　stationed　beneath　the　high　light　loggia；

which　opposes　the　free　and　elegant　span　of　its　arches　to　the　dead

masonry　of　the　palace；　a　figure　supremely　shapely　and　graceful；

gentle；　almost；　in　spite　of　his　holding　out　with　his　light　nervous

arm　the　snaky　head　of　the　slaughtered　Gorgon。　　His　name　is　Perseus；

and　you　may　read　his　story；　not　in　the　Greek　mythology；　but　in　the

memoirs　of　Benvenuto　Cellini。　　Glancing　from　one　of　these　fine

fellows　to　the　other；　I　probably　uttered　some　irrepressible

commonplace　of　praise；　for；　as　if　provoked　by　my　voice；　a　man　rose

from　the　steps　of　the　loggia；　where　he　had　been　sitting　in　the

shadow；　and　addressed　me　in　good　Englisha　small；　slim　personage；

clad　in　a　sort　of　black　velvet　tunic　（as　it　seemed）；　and　with　a　mass

of　auburn　hair；　which　gleamed　in　the　moonlight；　escaping　from　a

little　mediaeval　birretta。　　In　a　tone　of　the　most　insinuating

deference　he　asked　me　for　my　〃impressions。〃　　He　seemed　picturesque；

fantastic；　slightly　unreal。　　Hovering　there　in　this　consecrated

neighbourhood；　he　might　have　passed　for　the　genius　of　aesthetic

hospitalityif　the　genius　of　aesthetic　hospitality　were　not　commonly

some　shabby　little　custode；　flourishing　a　calico　pocket…handkerchief

and　openly　resentful　of　the　divided　franc。　　This　analogy　was　made

none　the　less　complete　by　the　brilliant　tirade　with　which　he　greeted

my　embarrassed　silence。



〃I　have　known　Florence　long；　sir；　but　I　have　never　known　her　so

lovely　as　tonight。　　It's　as　if　the　ghosts　of　her　past　were　abroad　in

the　empty　streets。　　The　present　is　sleeping；　the　past　hovers　about　us

like　a　dream　made　visible。　　Fancy　the　old　Florentines　strolling　up　in

couples　to　pass　judgment　on　the　last　performance　of　Michael；　of

Benvenuto！　　We　should　come　in　for　a　precious　lesson　if　we　might

overhear　what　they　say。　　The　plainest　burgher　of　them；　in　his　cap　and

gown；　had　a　taste　in　the　matter！　　That　was　the　prime　of　art；　sir。

The　sun　stood　high　in　heaven；　and　his　broad　and　equal　blaze　made　the

darkest　places　bright　and　the　dullest　eyes　clear。　　We　live　in　the

evening　of　time！　　We　grope　in　the　gray　dusk；　carrying　each　our　poor

little　taper　of　selfish　and　painful　wisdom；　holding　it　up　to　the

great　models　and　to　the　dim　idea；　and　seeing　nothing　but　overwhelming

greatness　and　dimness。　　The　days　of　illumination　are　gone！　　But　do

you　know　I　fancyI　fancy〃and　he　grew　suddenly　almost　familiar　in

this　visionary　fervour〃I　fancy　the　light　of　that　time　rests　upon　us

here　for　an　hour！　　I　have　never　seen　the　David　so　grand；　the　Perseus

so　fair！　　Even　the　inferior　productions　of　John　of　Bologna　and　of

Baccio　Bandinelli　seem　to　realise　the　artist's　dream。　　I　feel　as　if

the　moonlit　air　were　charged　with　the　secrets　of　the　masters；　and　as

if；　standing　here　in　religious　attention；　we　mightwe　might　witness

a　revelation！〃　　Perceiving　at　this　moment；　I　suppose；　my　halting

comprehension　reflected　in　my　puzzled　face；　this　interesting

rhapsodist　paused　and　blushed。　　Then　with　a　melancholy　smile；　〃You

think　me　a　moonstruck　charlatan；　I　suppose。　　It's　not　my　habit　to

bang　about　the　piazza　and　pounce　upon　innocent　tourists。　　But

tonight；　I　confess；　I　am　under　the　charm。　　And　then；　somehow；　I

fancied　you　too　were　an　artist！〃



〃I　am　not　an　artist；　I　am　sorry　to　say；　as　you　must　understand　the

term。　　But　pray　make　no　apologies。　　I　am　also　under　the　charm；　your

eloquent　remarks　have　only　deepened　it。〃



〃If　you　are　not　an　artist　you　are　worthy　to　be　one！〃　he　rejoined；

with　an　expressive　smile。　　〃A　young　man　who　arrives　at　Florence　late

in　the　evening；　and；　instead　of　going　prosaically　to　bed；　or　hanging

over　the　traveller's　book　at　his　hotel；　walks　forth　without　loss　of

time　to　pay　his　devoirs　to　the　beautiful；　is　a　young　man　after　my　own

heart！〃



The　mystery　was　suddenly　solved；　my　friend　was　an　American！　　He　must

have　been；　to　take　the　picturesque　so　prodigiously　to　heart。　　〃None

the　less　so；　I　trust；〃　I　answered；　〃if　the　young　man　is　a　sordid　New

Yorker。〃



〃New　Yorkers　have　been　munificent　patrons　of　art！〃　he　answered；

urbanely。



For　a　moment　I　was　alarmed。　　Was　this　midnight　reverie　mere　Yankee

enterprise；　and　was　he　simply　a　desperate　brother　of　the　brush　who

had　posted　himself　here　to　extort　an　〃order〃　from　a　sauntering

tourist？　　But　I　was　not　called　to　defend　myself。　　A　great　brazen　note

broke　suddenly　from　the　far…off　summit　of　the　bell…tower　above　us；

and　sounded　the　first　stroke　of　midnight。　　My　companion　started；

apologised　for　detaining　me；　and　prepared　to　retire。　　But　he　seemed

to　offer　so　lively　a　promise　of　further　entertainment　that　I　was

indisposed　to　part　with　him；　and　suggested　that　we　should　stroll

homeward　together。　　He　cordially　assented；　so　we　turned　out　of　the

Piazza；　passed　down　before　the　statued　arcade　of　the　Uffizi；　and　came

out　upon　the　Arno。　　What　course　we　took　I　hardly　remember；　but　we

roamed　slowly　about　for　an　hour；　my　companion　delivering　by　snatches

a　sort　of　moon…touched　aesthetic　lecture。　　I　listened　in　puzzled

fascination；　and　wondered　who　the　deuce　he　was。　　He　confessed　with　a

melancholy　but　all…respectful　head…shake　to　his　American　origin。



〃We　are　the　disinherited　of　Art！〃　he　cried。　　〃We　are　condemned　to　be

superficial！　　We　are　excluded　from　the　magic　circle。　　The　soil　of

American　perception　is　a　poor　little　barren　artificial　deposit。　　Yes！

we　are　wedded　to　imperfection。　　An　American；　to　excel；　has　just　ten

times　as　much　to　learn　as　a　European。　　We　lack　the　deeper　sense。　　We

have　neither　taste；　nor　tact；　nor　power。　　How　should　we　have　them？

Our　crude　and　garish　climate；　our　silent　past；　our　deafening　present；

the　constant　pressure　about　us　of　unlovely　circumstance；　are　as　void

of　all　that　nourishes　and　prompts　and　inspires　the　artist；　as　my　sad

heart　is　void　of　bitterness　in　saying　so！　　We　poor　aspirants　must

live　in　perpetual　exile。〃



〃You　seem　fairly　at　home　in　exile；〃　I　answered；　〃and　Florence　seems

to　me　a　very　pretty　Siberia。　　But　do　you　know　my　own　thought？

Nothing　is　so　idle　as　to　talk　about　our　want　of　a　nutritive　soil；　of

opportunity；　of　inspiration；　and　all　the　rest　of　it。　　The　worthy　part

i