CHAPTER I 第一章1

On a cold morning in December, towards the close of the year 1612, a young man, whose clothing betrayed his poverty, was standing before the door of a house in the Rue des Grands—Augustine, in Paris. After walking to and fro for some time with the hesitation of a lover who fears to approach his mistress, however complying she may be, he ended by crossing the threshold and asking if Maitre Francois Porbus were within. At the affirmative answer of an old woman who was sweeping out one of the lower rooms the young man slowly mounted the stairway, stopping from time to time and hesitating, like a newly fledged courier doubtful as to what sort of reception the king might grant him.

岁末将至。一六一二年十二月，在一个寒冷的清晨，一位衣着寒酸的年轻人站在巴黎大奥古斯丁街的一座房子门前。就像害怕接近情人一般——不管那情人是多么温顺——他徘徊良久，才跨进门槛，询问弗朗索瓦•波尔比斯先生是否在家。从一位正在打扫一间矮屋的老妇人那里得到肯定回答之后，年轻人就慢慢地走上楼梯。他犹犹豫豫，走走停停，就像一个初入朝廷，疑惑着国王将如何接待自己的臣子一样。

When he reached the upper landing of the spiral ascent, he paused a moment before laying hold of a grotesque knocker which ornamented the door of the atelier where the famous painter of Henry IV—neglected by Marie de Medicis for Rubens—was probably at work. The young man felt the strong sensation which vibrates in the soul of great artists when, in the flush of youth and of their ardor for art, they approach a man of genius or a masterpiece. In all human sentiments there are, as it were, primeval flowers bred of noble enthusiasms, which droop and fade from year to year, till joy is but a memory and glory a lie. Amid such fleeting emotions nothing so resembles love as the young passion of an artist who tastes the first delicious anguish of his destined fame and woe, —a passion daring yet timid, full of vague confidence and sure discouragement. Is there a man, slender in fortune, rich in his spring—time of genius, whose heart has not beaten loudly as he approached a master of his art? If there be, that man will forever lack some heart—string, some touch, I know not what, of his brush, some fibre in his creations, some sentiment in his poetry. When braggarts, self—satisfied and in love with themselves, step early into the fame which belongs rightly to their future achievements, they are men of genius only in the eyes of fools. If talent is to be measured by youthful shyness, by that indefinable modesty which men born to glory lose in the practice of their art, as a pretty woman loses hers among the artifices of coquetry, then this unknown young man might claim to be possessed of genuine merit. The habit of success lessens doubt; and modesty, perhaps, is doubt.

他到了旋梯上侧的平台，犹豫了片刻，才握住装饰着画室大门的奇特门环。在这里，创作《亨利四世》的著名画家可能正在工作。这位画家因为吕本斯的缘故而被玛丽•德美第奇所冷落（注：吕本斯是17世纪著名的比利时画家；玛丽•德美第奇是法国国王亨利四世的王后）。这位年轻人深深地体会到那些风华正茂、钟情于艺术的伟大艺术家走近一位天才人物或者一幅杰作时的震撼心情。可以说，崇高的热情存在于人的一切情感中，这种热情所孕育的宛若初生的花朵。可是这花朵却会年复一年地凋零、褪色，直到快乐成为回忆，荣耀成为泡影。在这些转瞬即逝的情感当中，没有什么比得上艺术家年轻的激情。这些艺术家刚刚开始体验命中注定的荣耀和苦难，他们的激情大胆又羞怯，充满了懵懂的信心和必然的失落。哪一个财力微薄、才华初显的人在走近艺术大师时不会心跳加速？如果有这样一个人，那么这个人的画笔下将永远缺少某种扣人心弦、感人肺腑的，某种我无可名状的力量，他的创作里将永远缺少某种特质，诗作里将永远缺乏某种情感。当那些自鸣得意、自我欣赏的吹牛者预支着本属于未来成就的荣誉时，只有蠢人才把他们看作天才。如果才能是用涉世未深的羞怯，用难以描状的谦逊来衡量的话，这个不知名的青年应该算是具备了真正的价值。那些为荣耀而生的人在他们的艺术实践里失去了这种羞怯和谦逊，就像漂亮女人在卖弄风情的伎俩里失去了这些一样。习惯成功会增加信心，而谦逊或许就意味着信心不足。

Worn down with poverty and discouragement, and dismayed at this moment by his own presumption, the young neophyte might not have dared to enter the presence of the master to whom we owe our admirable portrait of Henry IV, if chance had not thrown an unexpected assistance in his way. An old man mounted the spiral stairway. The oddity of his dress, the magnificence of his lace ruffles, the solid assurance of his deliberate step, led the youth to assume that this remarkable personage must be the patron, or at least the intimate friend, of the painter. He drew back into a corner of the landing and made room for the new—comer; looking at him attentively and hoping to find either the frank good—nature of the artistic temperament, or the serviceable disposition of those who promote the arts. But on the contrary he fancied he saw something diabolical in the expression of the old man's face, —something, I know not what, which has the quality of alluring the artistic mind.

这位被贫穷和挫折折腾得精疲力竭的年轻人此刻正为自己的鲁莽而焦虑不安。如果他没有得到命运的意外帮助，这位新手或许还不敢走进我们景仰的《亨利四世》肖像画作者的画室。这时，一位老人走上了旋梯。老人那奇特的服装，华丽的褶裥蕾丝花边和那坚实的、从容不迫的步伐使年轻人猜想这个不同寻常的人必定是画家的顾客，或者至少也是那个画家的密友。他退回到楼梯平台的一角，给这位后来者让路，并专注地看着他，希望从他身上看到直率的优秀艺术品质，或者看到艺术推崇者乐善好施的性情。可正相反，他从这位老人的脸上看到的是某种邪恶的表情——这种表情难以言状，其特征对艺术家很有诱惑力。

Imagine a bald head, the brow full and prominent and falling with deep projection over a little flattened nose turned up at the end like the noses of Rabelais and Socrates; a laughing, wrinkled mouth; a short chin boldly chiselled and garnished with a gray beard cut into a point; sea—green eyes, faded perhaps by age, but whose pupils, contrasting with the pearl—white balls on which they floated, cast at times magnetic glances of anger or enthusiasm. The face in other respects was singularly withered and worn by the weariness of old age, and still more, it would seem, by the action of thoughts which had undermined both soul and body. The eyes had lost their lashes, and the eyebrows were scarcely traced along the projecting arches where they belonged. Imagine such a head upon a lean and feeble body, surround it with lace of dazzling whiteness worked in meshes like a fish—slice, festoon the black velvet doublet of the old man with a heavy gold chain, and you will have a faint idea of the exterior of this strange individual, to whose appearance the dusky light of the landing lent fantastic coloring. You might have thought that a canvas of Rembrandt without its frame had walked silently up the stairway, bringing with it the dark atmosphere which was the sign—manual of the great master. The old man cast a look upon the youth which was full of sagacity; then he rapped three times upon the door, and said, when it was opened by a man in feeble health, apparently about forty years of age, "Good—morning, maitre. "

想象一下：一个秃头，饱满、前突的额头在扁平的小鼻子上投下深深的影子，鼻尖还像拉伯雷和苏格拉底的鼻尖那样向上翘着；皱巴巴的嘴巴带着笑容；短短的下巴上显眼地蓄着尖尖的灰白胡子；或许是因为年迈，海绿色的眼睛已经暗淡，可是在珍珠般洁白的眼球的衬托下，两只瞳孔却不时地射出很吸引人的目光，时而带着怒火，时而带着激情。他脸上其他部位因为年迈，或许更是因为劳神伤身的苦思冥想而显得格外干瘪、憔悴。他的睫毛已经掉光了，眉毛稀疏地分布在突出的眉骨上。想象一下，这样一个脑袋长在如此单薄而虚弱的身体上，嵌在雪白耀眼的煎鱼锅铲状的大翻领里，黑绒上衣上还挂着一条粗大的金链子。这样你对这个怪人的外形就有了模糊的印象。楼梯平台上昏暗的光线更给这个人物涂上了一层奇异的色彩。你可能会以为静静走上楼来的是伦布兰特创作的一幅没有边框的油画，周身带着一种诡秘的气氛，而这种诡秘的气氛正是这位大师的特色所在。老人用锐利的目光扫了一眼年轻人，然后在门上叩了三下。开门的是一个看似已过不惑之年、身体虚弱的男人。老人说道： “早上好，先生。”

Porbus bowed respectfully, and made way for his guest, allowing the youth to pass in at the same time, under the impression that he came with the old man, and taking no further notice of him; all the less perhaps because the neophyte stood still beneath the spell which holds a heaven—born painter as he sees for the first time an atelier filled with the materials and instruments of his art. Daylight came from a casement in the roof and fell, focused as it were, upon a canvas which rested on an easel in the middle of the room, and which bore, as yet, only three or four chalk lines. The light thus concentrated did not reach the dark angles of the vast atelier; but a few wandering reflections gleamed through the russet shadows on the silvered breastplate of a horseman's cuirass of the fourteenth century as it hung from the wall, or sent sharp lines of light upon the carved and polished cornice of a dresser which held specimens of rare pottery and porcelains, or touched with sparkling points the rough—grained texture of ancient gold—brocaded curtains, flung in broad folds about the room to serve the painter as models for his drapery. Anatomical casts in plaster, fragments and torsos of antique goddesses amorously polished by the kisses of centuries, jostled each other upon shelves and brackets. Innumerable sketches, studies in the three crayons, in ink, and in red chalk covered the walls from floor to ceiling; color—boxes, bottles of oil and turpentine, easels and stools upset or standing at right angles, left but a narrow pathway to the circle of light thrown from the window in the roof, which fell full on the pale face of Porbus and on the ivory skull of his singular visitor.

波尔比斯恭敬鞠了一躬，并为来客让路。他觉得年轻人是随老人来的，便将他也让进画室，就没再多留意。而这位天赋异禀的新手平生第一次置身于堆满绘画材料和工具的画室，就像着了魔似的定住了，这更让主人不再留意他了。日光从屋顶的天窗泻进来，仿佛聚焦在屋子中央一台画架的画布上，上面还只画了三四根白色的线条。聚焦的光线没有照到大画室那昏暗的角落。但是，几缕散开的反射光线还是透过褐色的阴影，照在挂在墙上的十四世纪银色骑士胸甲上，清晰地照亮了摆放着珍奇瓷器的古式上蜡雕花碗橱的顶沿，又星星点点地洒在几条老式的、质地粗糙的金丝锦缎大褶窗帘上，窗帘散放在屋子里，作画画时的衣饰用。人体石膏模型和古代女神完整或残缺的裸身雕像一起拥挤地堆放在隔板和架子上，几个世纪的风吹雨打已经将它们打磨得十分光滑。从地板到天花板的墙面上到处是三色铅笔、油墨和红粉笔画的画稿和习作，多得数不胜数；遍地是颜料盒、油画颜料瓶和松节油瓶，画架和凳子有的颠三倒四，有的互相垂直，只留下一条狭窄的通道通向天窗下的亮处，光线刚好投在波尔比斯苍白的面孔和古怪来访者象牙色的脑壳上。

The attention of the young man was taken exclusively by a picture destined to become famous after those days of tumult and revolution, and which even then was precious in the sight of certain opinionated individuals to whom we owe the preservation of the divine afflatus through the dark days when the life of art was in jeopardy. This noble picture represents the Mary of Egypt as she prepares to pay for her passage by the ship. It is a masterpiece, painted for Marie de Medicis, and afterwards sold by her in the days of her distress.

年轻人全神贯注地盯着一幅画，这幅画在经历过那段动荡和革命的日子后，注定要闻名于世。而且即便在那时，某些顽固分子也认为它很珍贵。在那黑暗的日子里，艺术处于危险之中。多亏这些顽固分子的保存，这张神圣的灵感之作才得以流传至今。这幅珍贵的油画描绘了正准备付船费的埃及的玛利亚。这是一幅杰作，为玛丽•德美第奇而画，后来她在困难时期把它卖给了别人。

"I like your saint, " said the old man to Porbus, "and I will give you ten golden crowns over and above the queen's offer; but as to entering into competition with her—the devil! "

“我喜欢你画的圣女像。” 老人对波尔比斯说道， “我出的价比王后出的高出十个金克朗，但是要和她去竞争——去死吧！”

"You do like her, then? "

“那么，你真的喜欢这幅画？”

"As for that, " said the old man, "yes, and no. The good woman is well set—up, but—she is not living. You young men think you have done all when you have drawn the form correctly, and put everything in place according to the laws of anatomy. You color the features with flesh—tones, mixed beforehand on your palette, —taking very good care to shade one side of the face darker than the other; and because you draw now and then from a nude woman standing on a table, you think you can copy nature; you fancy yourselves painters, and imagine that you have got at the secret of God's creations! Pr—r—r—r! —To be a great poet it is not enough to know the rules of syntax and write faultless grammar. Look at your saint, Porbus. At first sight she is admirable; but at the very next glance we perceive that she is glued to the canvas, and that we cannot walk round her. She is a silhouette with only one side, a semblance cut in outline, an image that can't turn nor change her position. I feel no air between this arm and the background of the picture; space and depth are wanting. All is in good perspective; the atmospheric gradations are carefully observed, and yet in spite of your conscientious labor I cannot believe that this beautiful body has the warm breath of life. If I put my hand on that firm, round throat I shall find it cold as marble. No, no, my friend, blood does not run beneath that ivory skin; the purple tide of life does not swell those veins, nor stir those fibres which interlace like network below the translucent amber of the brow and breast. This part palpitates with life, but that other part is not living; life and death jostle each other in every detail. Here, you have a woman; there, a statue; here again, a dead body. Your creation is incomplete. You have breathed only a part of your soul into the well—beloved work. The torch of Prometheus went out in your hands over and over again; there are several parts of your painting on which the celestial flame never shone. "

“至于那个嘛，” 老人说， “可以说喜欢，也可以说不喜欢。” 这个好女人画得不错，但是——她不逼真。你们这些年轻人以为自己完全按照人的形体画，什么都符合解剖学原理就算好了。你们以为先在调色板上调好肌肤的颜色，小心翼翼地为脸部一侧打上阴影，时不时地看一下站在桌上的裸体模特，就算复制实物了，幻想自己就是画家了，就以为自己已经获得上帝造物的秘密了！不！——要成为一位伟大的诗人，仅知道句法规则、不犯语法错误是远远不够的。波尔比斯，看看你画的圣女。第一眼看上去令人赞叹，但紧接着再看一眼，我们就发现她是被粘在画布上的，没有立体感。她只是个剪影，只有一面和一个粗略的轮廓，既无法转动也无法移动位置。我感觉不到这条手臂和画面背景之间的空气。距离和景深也不够。只有远景不错，充分注意到了景色的渐变。可是，虽然你用心良苦，我还是不能从这美丽的身体上感受到温热的气息。如果我把手放在那坚实圆润的颈部，我只会觉得它如大理石般冰凉！不，不，我的朋友，那象牙色的皮肤下面没有血液在流动，也没有紫红色的血浆来把血管膨胀起来，像琥珀一样半透明的两鬓和胸脯下也没有网状的毛细血管在颤动。这部分鲜活，那部分却没有生气，处处都是生死交结。这儿看起来像个女人，那儿像座雕塑，再看这儿，又像具死尸。你的创作是不完整的。在你这部受人喜爱的作品里，你并没有倾注全部心力。普罗米修斯的火炬在你手中一次又一次地熄灭。你画中有几个部分从没有受过天火的照耀。

"But why is it so, my dear master? " said Porbus humbly, while the young man could hardly restrain a strong desire to strike the critic.

“但是为什么会这样呢，我亲爱的大师？” 波尔比斯恭敬地问道。然而，年轻人却难以抑制住一阵强烈的冲动，想揍这位批评者一顿。

"Ah! that is the question, " said the little old man. "You are floating between two systems, —between drawing and color, between the patient phlegm and honest stiffness of the old Dutch masters and the dazzling warmth and abounding joy of the Italians. You have tried to follow, at one and the same time, Hans Holbein and Titian; Albrecht Durier and Paul Veronese. Well, well! it was a glorious ambition, but what is the result? You have neither the stern attraction of severity nor the deceptive magic of the chiaroscuro. See! at this place the rich, clear color of Titian has forced out the skeleton outline of Albrecht Durier, as molten bronze might burst and overflow a slender mould. Here and there the outline has resisted the flood, and holds back the magnificent torrent of Venetian color. Your figure is neither perfectly well painted nor perfectly well drawn; it bears throughout the signs of this unfortunate indecision. If you did not feel that the fire of your genius was hot enough to weld into one the rival methods, you ought to have chosen honestly the one or the other, and thus attained the unity which conveys one aspect, at least, of life. As it is, you are true only on your middle plane. Your outlines are false; they do not round upon themselves; they suggest nothing behind them. There is truth here, " said the old man, pointing to the bosom of the saint; "and here, " showing the spot where the shoulder ended against the background; "but there, " he added, returning to the throat, "it is all false. Do not inquire into the why and wherefore. I should fill you with despair. "

“啊！就是这个问题。” 这个小个子老人答道， “你在两种方法之间犹豫不决——是素描还是色彩？是荷兰古典大师们的恬淡细腻、真实刚劲，还是意大利画家的热情洋溢、欢欣喜悦？你一边想模仿汉斯•霍尔拜因和提香，同时又想模仿阿尔布雷希特•丢勒和保罗•韦罗内兹。好的，好的！你有雄心壮志！但是，结果又怎么样呢？你既没有写实手法那不苟言笑的魅力，也没有明暗法那以假乱真的魔法。看吧！在这部分，提香那丰富、清晰的色彩冲淡了阿尔布雷希特•丢勒的头骨轮廓，这就像铜水会在脆弱的铸模里爆裂，溢出一样。在画面各处，轮廓都在阻挡着色彩的狂潮，抑制着威尼斯色调的滔天洪流。你这幅画像的颜色和线条都不完美，充满了不该有的犹豫不决的痕迹。只要你没有感觉自己的天赋之火足够炽热，足以把两种对立的绘画技巧融为一体，你就应该老实地选择其中一种让风格保持一致，这样至少可以从一个方面描绘出生机。就现在这样而言，你的画只有中间面比较真实。你画的轮廓不真实。它们不会表达自我，也没有体现任何深意。这里比较真实。” 老人说道，并指指圣女的胸部， “还有这里。” 他指着肩端和背景相接处的一点。 “但是那儿，” 他又指回颈部， “完全没有真实感。不要追问为什么或怎么了。否则我会让你沮丧不已的。”

The old man sat down on a stool and held his head in his hands for some minutes in silence.

老人坐在凳子上，两手托腮，沉默了一会儿。

"Master, " said Porbus at length, "I studied that throat from the nude; but, to our sorrow, there are effects in nature which become false or impossible when placed on canvas. "

“大师，” 波尔比斯终于说道， “我研究过裸体模特的颈部，但是很遗憾，自然中的某些效果放到画布上就变得不真实了，有的根本无法画出来。”

"The mission of art is not to copy nature, but to represent it. You are not an abject copyist, but a poet, " cried the old man, hastily interrupting Porbus with a despotic gesture. "If it were not so, a sculptor could reach the height of his art by merely moulding a woman. Try to mould the hand of your mistress, and see what you will get, —ghastly articulations, without the slightest resemblance to her living hand; you must have recourse to the chisel of a man who, without servilely copying that hand, can give it movement and life. It is our mission to seize the mind, soul, countenance of things and beings. Effects! Effects! what are they? the mere accidents of the life, and not the life itself. A hand, —since I have taken that as an example, —a hand is not merely a part of the body, it is far more; it expresses and carries on a thought which we must seize and render. Neither the painter nor the poet nor the sculptor should separate the effect from the cause, for they are indissolubly one. The true struggle of art lies there. Many a painter has triumphed through instinct without knowing this theory of art as a theory.

“艺术的使命不是复制自然而是再现自然。你不是一个可悲的复制者，而是一位诗人。” 老人吼道，急忙做了个手势，打断了波尔比斯的话。 “假若不是这样，雕塑家仅仅通过铸模女人就可以达到艺术的巅峰了。试着为你的情人铸一个手模，然后看看做出来的是什么？——是可怕的指节，跟她鲜活的手没有一点相似之处。你必须求助于这样一位雕塑家的雕刀，他不用刻意照搬手的样式就能赋予雕像动感和生气。抓住事物和人物的思想、灵魂和表情，是我们的使命。” 效果！效果！效果是什么？只不过是生命的表现，而不是生命本身。一只手——我继续用它举例——一只手不仅仅是躯体的一部分，远远不是。它表达和承载了我们必须抓住和体现的思想。画家不能，诗人和雕塑家也不能把因果分开，因为因和果是不可分割的。艺术真正追求的也就是这一点。许多画家凭借天赋取得了成功，并未将这种艺术理论当作一种理论。

"Yes, " continued the old man vehemently, "you draw a woman, but you do not SEE her. That is not the way to force an entrance into the arcana of Nature. Your hand reproduces, without an action of your mind, the model you copied under a master. You do not search out the secrets of form, nor follow its windings and evolutions with enough love and perseverance. Beauty is solemn and severe, and cannot be attained in that way; we must wait and watch its times and seasons, and clasp it firmly ere it yields to us. Form is a Proteus less easily captured, more skilful to double and escape, than the Proteus of fable; it is only at the cost of struggle that we compel it to come forth in its true aspects. You young men are content with the first glimpse you get of it; or, at any rate, with the second or the third. This is not the spirit of the great warriors of art, —invincible powers, not misled by will—o '—the—wisps, but advancing always until they force Nature to lie bare in her divine integrity. That was Raphael's method, " said the old man, lifting his velvet cap in homage to the sovereign of art; his superiority came from the inward essence which seems to break from the inner to the outer of his figures. Form with him was what it is with us, —a medium by which to communicate ideas, sensations, feelings; in short, the infinite poesy of being. Every figure is a world; a portrait, whose original stands forth like a sublime vision, colored with the rainbow tints of light, drawn by the monitions of an inward voice, laid bare by a divine finger which points to the past of its whole existence as the source of its given expression. You clothe your women with delicate skins and glorious draperies of hair, but where is the blood which begets the passion or the peace of their souls, and is the cause of what you call' effects' ? Your saint is a dark woman; but this, my poor Porbus, belongs to a fair one. Your figures are pale, colored phantoms, which you present to our eyes; and you call that painting! art! Because you make something which looks more like a woman than a house, you think you have touched the goal; proud of not being obliged to write "currus venustus" or "pulcher homo" on the frame of your picture, you think yourselves majestic artists like our great forefathers. Ha, ha! you have not got there yet, my little men; you will use up many a crayon and spoil many a canvas before you reach that height. Undoubtedly a woman carries her head this way and her petticoats that way; her eyes soften and droop with just that look of resigned gentleness; the throbbing shadow of the eyelashes falls exactly thus upon her cheek. That is it, and—that is NOT IT. What lacks? A mere nothing; but that mere nothing is ALL. You have given the shadow of life, but you have not given its fulness, its being, its—I know not what—soul, perhaps, which floats vaporously about the tabernacle of flesh; in short, that flower of life which Raphael and Titian culled. Start from the point you have now attained, and perhaps you may yet paint a worthy picture; you grew weary too soon. Mediocrity will extol your work; but the true artist smiles. O Mabuse! O my master! "added this singular person, " you were a thief; you have robbed us of your life, your knowledge, your art! But at least, "he resumed after a pause, " this picture is better than the paintings of that rascally Rubens, with his mountains of Flemish flesh daubed with vermilion, his cascades of red hair, and his hurly—burly of color. At any rate, you have got the elements of color, drawing, and sentiment, —the three essential parts of art. "

“是的，” 老人激动地继续说道， “你画了一个女人，但却没有 ‘洞悉’ 她。这样是没法了解大自然的奥秘的。你们没有经过大脑思考，就下笔复制着大师的作品。你们既没有找到形式的奥妙，也没有投入足够的热情和毅力来遵循形体的发展和变化的规律。美是庄重而严肃的，而用那种方法是无法实现美的。在美屈服于我们之前，我们必须等待、留心时机并紧紧地把握它。形体比普罗蒂厄斯更加难以捕捉，比寓言中的普罗蒂厄斯更善于两面三刀，更善于逃避。只有付出艰苦的斗争，我们才能迫使它露出原形。你们年轻人只满足于获得的第一印象，或者，至多满足于第二或第三印象。这可不是杰出的艺术勇士的精神——他们拥有不可战胜的力量，不会被那些虚无的东西所误导，而是一如既往地前进，直到迫使大自然露出赤裸、真实的一面。那是拉斐尔的方法。” 老人边说边伸手摘下他的丝绒帽以示对艺术之尊的敬意。拉斐尔之所以高超是因为画中人物的内涵似乎要打破它们外在的形态。形体之于我们就像形体之于他一样——是一种思想交流、情感交流、感受交流的媒介。简而言之，形体是生命的无尽诗篇。每个人物都是一个世界。对于一幅肖像画来说，画的原型就像高大的幻象浮现在我们面前，七彩的光线为它着色，内在的心声用告诫为它勾画形状，一只神圣的手指基于既定的形象指出这原型全部的经历，让它一览无遗。你们给画中的女人披上娇嫩的肌肤和漂亮的头发，但是，能让心灵激动或宁静的血液在哪儿？你们称之为 ‘效果’ 的原因又在哪儿？你画的圣女是位皮肤黝黑的女人。但是这幅画，我可怜的波尔比斯，却描绘了一位肤色白皙的女人。你呈现出来的人物苍白无力，就如上了颜色的幽灵。这就是你们所谓的绘画！就是你们所谓的艺术！由于你们画的东西看起来更像女人而不是房屋，你们就以为达到了绘画的顶峰。你们为不必在画框上标注 “美丽的马车” 或 “漂亮的男子” 而自豪，以为自己也是杰出的画家，可以和我们伟大的前辈比肩了。哈哈！你们还差得远呢，年轻人，你们还需要用掉许多画笔，画烂许多画布才能达到那个高度。毋庸置疑，女人的头是这种姿态，裙子也是那个样子。她眼睛低垂，流露出温顺的柔情，睫毛的阴影恰好落在脸颊上。是那样，但又不是那样。究竟缺了什么？就缺一丁点，但这缺的一丁点就是全部。你们画出了生命的影像，却没有画出生命的饱满、生命的存在、生命的——我不知道是什么——也许是灵魂，它虚幻地漂浮在肉体这个皮囊之上。简而言之，它就是提香和拉斐尔采摘的生命之花。从你们现在的高度出发，或许你们也能画出一幅有价值的画来，但是你们很快就会厌倦。平庸之人会赞美你们的画，真正的艺术家却只会付之一笑。哦，玛比斯！我的绘画大师！这个怪人接着说： “你是贼，你的生命、你的知识、你的艺术都是从我们这儿偷走的！但至少，” 他停顿了一下又说： “这幅画比那个无赖吕本斯的画好得多。他画里尽是一群群佛兰德人的朱红色肉体，尽是瀑布般的红发，尽是乱糟糟的颜色。不管怎样，你的画拥有构图、色彩和情感——这是艺术的三个基本要素。”

"But the saint is sublime, good sir! " cried the young man in a loud voice, waking from a deep reverie. "These figures, the saint and the boatman, have a subtile meaning which the Italian painters cannot give. I do not know one of them who could have invented that hesitation of the boatman. "

“可是先生，这幅圣女像真是令人赞叹！” 年轻人从沉思中回过神来，大声说道， “这些人物，这个圣女和这个船夫具有意大利画家所没有的精妙。我从未发现他们当中有谁能创作出船夫这种迟疑的神情。”

"Does the young fellow belong to you? " asked Porbus of the old man.

“这年轻小伙子是和您一起的吗？” 波尔比斯问老人。

"Alas, maitre, forgive my boldness, " said the neophyte, blushing. "I am all unknown; only a dauber by instinct. I have just come to Paris, that fountain of art and science. "

“哎呀，大师，请原谅我的冒失。” 这个新手红着脸说， “我是个无名小卒，只是天生爱好涂涂画画。我刚来到巴黎这个艺术和科学的源泉。”

"Let us see what you can do, " said Porbus, giving him a red crayon and a piece of paper.

“让我们看看你会些什么。” 说着，波尔比斯递给他一张纸和一支红蜡笔。

The unknown copied the saint with an easy turn of his hand.

这位不知名的画家用他娴熟的手法把圣女像临摹了下来。

"Oh! oh! " exclaimed the old man, "what is your name? "

“噢！” 老人惊叫道， “你叫什么名字？”

The youth signed the drawing: Nicolas Poussin.

这个年轻人在画上写下自己的名字：尼古拉斯•普桑。

"Not bad for a beginner, " said the strange being who had discoursed so wildly. "I see that it is worth while to talk art before you. I don't blame you for admiring Porbus's saint. It is a masterpiece for the world at large; only those who are behind the veil of the holy of holies can perceive its errors. But you are worthy of a lesson, and capable of understanding it. I will show you how little is needed to turn that picture into a true masterpiece. Give all your eyes and all your attention; such a chance of instruction may never fall in your way again. Your palette, Porbus. "

“对于一个初学者来说这算不错了。” 这个刚发表了一番狂烈批评的怪人说， “我看在你面前谈论艺术是值得的。我不怪你赞美波尔比斯的圣女画。一般而言，世人会认为它是一幅杰作，但只有那些揭开了至圣奥秘的面纱的人才能发觉它的不足之处。你值得我进行一番教诲，也有领悟的能力。我来给你演示怎么添上寥寥几笔就能使这幅画成为真正的杰作。你要目不转睛、全神贯注，得到我的指导可是千载难逢的好机会。波尔比斯，把你的调色板拿来。”

Porbus fetched his palette and brushes. The little old man turned up his cuffs with convulsive haste, slipped his thumb through the palette charged with prismatic colors, and snatched, rather than took, the handful of brushes which Porbus held out to him. As he did so his beard, cut to a point, seemed to quiver with the eagerness of an incontinent fancy; and while he filled his brush he muttered between his teeth: —

波尔比斯取来他的调色板和画笔。这个老人猛地卷起袖子，大拇指滑过五颜六色的调色板，拿过，不，是夺过波尔比斯递给他的一大把画笔。这么一来，他尖尖的山羊胡子仿佛随着他那无法抑制的激情颤动起来。他一边把画笔蘸满颜料，一边小声咕哝：——

"Colors fit to fling out of the window with the man who ground them, —crude, false, revolting! who can paint with them? "

“这些颜料粗糙、伪劣、让人恶心，应该同研磨它们的人一块儿从窗户给扔出去！这怎么能用来画画！”

Then he dipped the point of his brush with feverish haste into the various tints, running through the whole scale with more rapidity than the organist of a cathedral runs up the gamut of the "O Filii" at Easter.

然后他飞快地把笔尖在各种颜料里蘸了一下，速度比复活节时大教堂里演奏整首《圣子颂》的风琴师的速度还要快。

Porbus and Poussin stood motionless on either side of the easel, plunged in passionate contemplation.

波尔比斯和普桑一动不动地站在画架两边，陷入了沉思。

"See, young man, " said the old man without turning round, "see how with three or four touches and a faint bluish glaze you can make the air circulate round the head of the poor saint, who was suffocating in that thick atmosphere. Look how the drapery now floats, and you see that the breeze lifts it; just now it looked like heavy linen held out by pins. Observe that the satiny lustre I am putting on the bosom gives it the plump suppleness of the flesh of a young girl. See how this tone of mingled reddish—brown and ochre warms up the cold grayness of that large shadow where the blood seemed to stagnate rather than flow. Young man, young man! what I am showing you now no other master in the world can teach you. Mabuse alone knew the secret of giving life to form. Mabuse had but one pupil, and I am he. I never took a pupil, and I am an old man now. You are intelligent enough to guess at what should follow from the little that I shall show you today. "

“看，年轻人，” 老人背对他们说道， “看我怎么用三四笔，再上点浅蓝色，就能使可怜的圣女头部周围的空气流动起来，她在这厚重的空气里一定闷坏了。看！她的衣服布料现在飘起来了，就像是微风在轻拂一样。而刚才它看起来还像是被大头针别着的厚亚麻布。注意看，我加在胸部的柔光，这让胸部变得像少女的肌肤那样丰满、柔软。原先这一大片阴影让血液看起来凝滞不动，看看红棕色和赭色混合起来是怎样让那种冷灰的色调变得热烈活泼的。年轻人啊，年轻人！我现在对你的指点是世界上其他任何大师都教不了你的。只有玛比斯才知道给形体赋予生命的秘密。但玛比斯只有一个学生，那就是我。我从来没有教过学生，而我现在已经是个老头了！你挺聪明，会知道在我今天给你少许指点之后应该怎么做。”

While he was speaking, the extraordinary old man was giving touches here and there to all parts of the picture. Here two strokes of the brush, there one, but each so telling that together they brought out a new painting, —a painting steeped, as it were, in light. He worked with such passionate ardor that the sweat rolled in great drops from his bald brow; and his motions seemed to be jerked out of him with such rapidity and impatience that the young Poussin fancied a demon, encased with the body of this singular being, was working his hands fantastically like those of a puppet without, or even against, the will of their owner. The unnatural brightness of his eyes, the convulsive movements which seemed the result of some mental resistance, gave to this fancy of the youth a semblance of truth which reacted upon his lively imagination. The old man worked on, muttering half to himself, half to his neophyte: —