这一期我们很荣誉地刊载孙敏棠先生译的波斯大诗人奥默·克耶的《鲁拜集》。我们本来的意思是同时介绍一篇西方权威批评这集的论文，但是在我所认识的公私图馆中，四处遍寻，找不到一篇适当的东西，于是只得自己写。参考书既缺乏，对这位大诗人也未曾花过工夫；波斯历史既不曾读过，波斯宗教也一无所知，而历史宗教乃是通达诗人灵魂最深处的路径。有了这许多不足，写出的批评当然很难中肯透切，因陋就简，也是在所不免的事。所幸读者们看了汉英对照的《鲁拜集》后，一定会有自己的领会，欣赏， 批评；倘若我能绘出真面的一部分，已不虚此“写”了。

（一）

这里所谓《鲁拜集》的译者，乃是指英译本的译者，Edward FitzGerald而言。《鲁拜集》译本全世界都有，加上孙敏棠先生的译本，诚可以说是译本最多的作品之一；但是单论英译本一种，已是不可能的事；波斯文不懂，译者的技术无从研究，但是一点是明显的：FitzGerald无疑问可以列入世界最佳译者内去。好译作是指数得出的，Chapman译的《荷马》，可说是首屈一指的，蒲柏译的《荷马》虽然不失为佳作，仍不免有缺陷；英译圣经始终是英国文学的高水准，但是还有谁？FitzGerald当然也能占中一位。近代译中国诗的Arthur Waley也是一位翻译圣手，他译的白居易和《诗经》简直有超出原作之势，但是他能不能同Chapman，FitzGerald并列还很难说。在《鲁拜集》的英译本中，除了内容的丰实，影象之活泼外，音韵之美，节拍之匀，形式之整齐，都使这《集》成为英国文学史最值得骄傲作品之一。毫无疑的，只有诗人才能翻译诗；在种种方法看来，FitzGerald虽不曾给后原作诗歌[*原文如此]，但是他的译本——其神气，其骨格，其风采——都显出他是一个不凡诗人。但尼生说得好，他的译文是像“A planet equal to the Sun that cast it”。

在FitzGerald译的希腊名剧《爱斯基理》[*]序内他说倘若没有一个完美的诗人译者能将原作的灵肉抓住的话，我们还是采用能够保持原作精神的paraphrase来得好。这话很不错。格格不入过于忠实的译文是最难接受的东西，况且没有二国文字相近得可以逐字翻译。FitzGerald有许多地方确已替奥姆的原作化饰过，但是他已抓住奥姆的精神，他的译文可以说一定较任何忠实的译文近于奥姆的庐山真面目。“翻译者的自由”，像一切自由一样，只能在某种界限内施行，否则便有危险，但是FitzGerald却能好好的利用它。有许多地方他一定曾加重或减轻原作的语气，不妥的影像他一定斟酌修改过，以期适合所谓西方decency。他自己也说过：“我翻译波斯人时的自由的确很有趣，但是他们确真需要一点艺术来装饰他们——我想很少人像我那样在翻译上花苦功，虽然并不很忠实。”这一切都不是随便的工作；换一个资才消浅的人决会将原作弄得一团糟，但是FitzGerald懂他的工作；他在英国灿烂的十九世坛[*原文如此]文坛上，插上一朵永不凋零的鲜花。让我学这里引一段C. E. Norton教授的话：“我们称他为‘翻译家’因为我们找不到一个比较再好的字，一个能解释诗灵从一个文字到另一个文的转变，能表白原作的意思、影像的字，用的方法不完全和原作不同，但是完全适合新的时代，地方，习惯，思想——这是一个诗人受到另一诗人的灵感后的作品；不是其副本，而是其复本；不是翻译，而是诗人灵感的二次表现。”[#]（见Hugh Walker: The Literature of the Victorian Period, P. 483）

FitzGerald的生平是很平静的。生于一八〇九年，幼时即显出不爱动的天性，及长入剑桥大学攻读，在学校里结识当代大作家大诗人等[*原文如此]Thackeray，Tennyson，Kemble等。一到晚上便是他们高谈阔论的时候，但是不像他的朋友，他似乎毫无工作计划，学校生活完后便是不断的闲散。到了三十岁的时候他退居乡下，只有一个老妇服侍他，一个子过活，看书，吸烟，摇船，听音乐。到四十岁的时候娶妻，但是不久便离婚，他有几个知音，这在他看来或许已足够。大概在一八五三年他开始读东方文学，在碰到《鲁拜集》的时候他一定曾有笔墨难以描写之情，他或许觉得他的青年已如流水般消逝，或许他觉得幽静的生活仍旧不能给他们以前期望的安慰。他曾说：“奥姆给我一种安慰。”

翻译《鲁拜集》的经过是很有趣的。一八五九年三月FitzGerald私人印二百五十本，在生意上说来，这本书是失败的，但是当时几个渐露头角的文人如Dante Gabriel Rossetti和Swinburne等，却已注意它。一八六八二版，在美国博得大众的欢迎；此后数次再版，洛阳纸贵，风行一时。FitzGerald每版一次，必苦心修删，现在通行的是第五版。

（二）

在Hugh Walker的《维多利亚文学》内，论FitzGerald的第一段便这样说：“他虽然不是一个反应怀疑的诗人，却最完美地表现造成这反应的精灵和思想，这是仗了一篇八百年前的波斯作品的翻译。”奥姆给后人的影响，是不可否认的；我们既不能研究他原作的文字形式，只能在这里略论他给后人影响的所在点——人生哲学。

《鲁拜集》（《鲁拜》原名Rubaiyat，意“四行诗”[+]）不是一首分成一百零一节的长诗；每一首都有独立存在的价值，彼此却没有分不开的关系，但是在一点上它们都是一样的：Epicurean人生哲学。他们都歌颂“今日有酒今日醉，明日愁来明日愁”的观念，同时命运，死亡，不朽，宗教等问题分别点缀了每一段落。

FitzGerald好像将这一百零一节诗编排过，因为第一部的语气较中部有不同，而末部的口气则又较不同。《鲁拜集》大概不是短期内的工作，尤其是我们读FitzGerald译本时，似乎看得见奥姆的改变。初起奥姆还有些蓬勃的朝气在内，你在[*原文如此]这里：

醒来罢！太阳从夜的莽原头
已经驱散了亿万颗星斗，
黑夜逃离了天庭；看阳光的
金箭高射上莎丹的角楼。
（这里用的译文都用孙敏棠先生的。）

就是他想到企求逸乐的时候，多少也带些幽静温柔的成份在内：

绿树的浓荫下放一卷诗章，
一壶美酒，和一点食粮——
有你[*原文误作“有像”，据孙译本改]在这荒原上傍我唱歌——
啊，此时荒原便是天堂。

像这样的话，李后主已经说过：

一壶酒，一竿纶，
世上如侬有几人？

奥姆这二句话也是像李后主那种人说得出的：

说蔷薇每早开千万朵美，
但那儿能留得住昨日的蔷薇？

诚然，后主同奥姆同属于冬季；在他们的胸中没有希望的萌芽，只有在闷熏着的绝望悲观的火，他们觉得生命之短促，他们都好像说：“天命苟如此，且进杯中物。”但是他们有不同之处。后主是柔性的，但是奥姆却没有半分柔气；后主只能在哭泣中蜷缩，奥姆却在强笑中向外伸展；后主饮酒想遗忘自己，奥姆固然也想遗忘自己，但是还想仗了酒兴做些清醒不敢做的事。所以他在上面所引的二行后，加上如此二句：

这开给我们蔷薇的初夏月，
将带走蒋牟西和凯科白敌。

奥姆是一个研究科学的人，但是经过多年思索后，他的问题好像是：浮生若梦，为欢几何？但是生命为什么是梦？梦中可有真实的东西？梦后的经历则是怎样的！[*原文如此]这些都是他的问题。他的宗教（回教）相信上帝阿拉（Allah），于是他便要解释阿拉的意思。他运用他的理智，他的逻辑，但是他可曾得到满意的答覆？

我时想，天下有二种人，一种人能感受宗教的潜力，一种人只能接受五官或理智的所能证明的东西。第一种人能在幻觉中看见头上围了一圈白光的上帝，在静默中听见上帝的呼声，第二种人却时时运用科学的定律和理智来判衡一切。奥姆就属于第二种人。他要用理智逻辑来解释他的生存，他的希望，他的将来，他只肯接受现实的，他要

To look into the laws
Of life and death, and things that seem
And things that be, and compare
All creeds till we have found one,
If one there be.
——但尼生

非但关于自己他不能解释，别人的事为什么也是如此？伏尔泰曾说倘若宇宙中有上帝的话，他一定只是一个恶的上帝，因为他创造的宇宙是充满了卑鄙，奸诈，黑暗；奥姆的反叛精神不如伏尔泰那般明显，他不否认上帝的存在，但是他要问：“他是怎样的一个人？”他要明白所谓“天之道”究竟是怎样的一回事，于是他怀疑上帝的万能。为恶既无报应，为善也无报答，身后之事，更不可解。

有些人好安排今天的想望
有些爱翘待明日的天堂，
摩伊森从黑暗的钟楼上喊道：
“痴人啊！你两处都寻不着报偿。”

                *        *        *        *        *

朋友，你要追究这秘密，
便快些！你不惜时光是珍贵的！
真假的分歧不过是一丝发，
人生还依靠[*原文误作“何靠”，据孙译本改]什么呢？我问你。

于是他悲悼人类知识的浅狭：

不知为什么，也不知从那里，
像悠悠的流水流入了人门；
又离开了，也不知到那儿去，
像无主的清风吹拂过荒原。

他觉得自己匆匆的到这世界来，匆匆的走开，没有机会选择，没有力量决定他自己的命运，没有时间实现他的希望计划。一方面他不否认上帝，另一面他又怀疑上帝的意思。这乃是他痛苦的起源。

这扇门我找不到一把锁钥；
这帘帷我永远没法子看过；
暂时谈一阵子我和你，但是
转眼间又听不见了你和我。

他开始不满意这世界，这生活，但是他不知道创造者的伟大岂是他的作品所能了解的？不论是什么教，天主上帝总是Infinite的，人类总是Finite的，其间距离不是科学，理智，逻辑所能征跨的。奥姆不能阻止自己发问不能解答的题目，乃是因为他的头脑比他的命运来得强的缘故。

我年青时也好热心去访拜
贤圣和宏儒，一回又一回
听他们的伟论；但我从那座门
进去，总还从那座门出来。

人类知识每日在前进，科学家能发现进化论，四度空间，湾曲空间[*原文如此]，但是他们可曾解释宇宙开始的玄妙？人类的创造？坟墓后的生命？灵魂的归宿？能感受宗教的人，不难找出满足的答案，但是奥姆不肯接受这种答案，他情愿将这种怀疑不了了之：

或许再不会有人神的辨弄，
明朝的忧虑都交付与东风。

只要个人能找到快乐，别的可以在所不顾；远的事情顾不到，手头的事最要紧：

虽说那规绳能辨明“非”与“是”，
拿逻辑给“上”与“下”划定个区分，
但一切该深究的一切里，我想
只有酒才值得追究到最深。

就是在基督教内，有许多人也如奥姆般以为天堂乐园乃是在人的心中，连清教徒米尔敦都如此着想：

The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.
（《失乐园》）

在《鲁拜集》的末了一小部分，奥姆的激烈似乎已衰落下去，叛变的精神已沉静些了，乐天安命的观念也开始占住了他。他知道用头撞石墙的无用；一切都是排定的，谁都不能改，所以反抗有什么用？

啊拿美酒温润我将逝的余生，
再洗涤这生命完结后的尸体，
葬我在蓊郁的绿荫遮绕中，
常常有游人来往的花园里。

在最后，怀疑，讽讥，叛抗，嘲笑都隐没，所剩的只是虚心的愿望：

但愿这荒沙上真能够显现
那不朦胧一闪光的流泉，
教疲困的旅行人喜欢得跳起，
像田间跳起被践踏的草尖。

                *        *        *        *        *

但愿有带翅的仙人早飞来
按住这未展开的运命之书稿，
好教严肃的记录者再重写
一回，或是全篇一笔给涂掉！[*原文误作“重写一日”、“一笔给涂悼”，据孙译本改]

在我没有结束这段之前，抄录一段解释奥姆最透澈中肯的话：

“我们谈不到认识奥姆，倘若我们不知道奥姆所追求的乃是智慧——他所渴望的智慧，将人类同上帝直接相交的智慧——但是奥姆企图得到那不可能的东西。他出外寻求智慧，但是他心中仍怀藏着愚笨——他企图倚靠知识，而不倚靠精神了解，他不知道

‘知识之树不是生命。’

对上帝正当的概念并不是从Intellect来的，Finite也不能妄想了解Infinite，当它自己还得用有限的标准来衡量一切的时候。启示乃是灵魂的事，只有心灵纯洁的人才能看得见上帝，“他”的自显完全看我们个人的性格如何。奥姆的地位，所以，开始就是错的，因为他一只手紧抓住这世界，另一只手向“永常”伸出。他的天性是倾向虔诚的，他知道操纵他、威胁他热诚的仇视影响只能给他精神衰减的黑暗，但是他不求别的辅助，只用理智的官能，上帝别的授赋都放弃。但是智能的力量必须为精神的谅解所净洗……”（见H. M. Batson: 《鲁拜集注》Pp.275-276）

（三）

我将奥姆列入冬季，乃是指他的同生活逗情而言。“他们的问题是，在精神与肉体的死亡间，怎样同生活的逗情，怎样支撑他们的兴致。这问题只同肉体有关，肉体便运用理智——因为它是一个伟大的逻辑家——如此着想：

生活的环轮，
在崎岖光滑的路上都不停留：
既然它终是前进，
还是选令人高兴的旋转好。”
（唐诗之四季：冬）

生活短促的感觉乃是任何好诗的骨子，吴德生先生[%]说。奥姆既觉得生活短促，又不能解释宇宙种种问题。他非但怀疑上帝的万能，并且还怀疑他自己的理智。

你知道，朋友，为行两次婚礼，
我家中摆了场狂乐的筵席；
我休了衰老又不生育的理智
娶了葡萄的小姐作了新妻。

这欢笑是悲惨的，这嘲笑也是针对着他自己的。起初他还珍视他自己，但是后来发现自己业不过是一个frail, little thing而已。于是他要忘记自己，忘记的方法便是找寻目前的欢乐：

饮罢！你不知因何故从何而来；
饮罢！你不知向何处因何而往。

这句话使我想起李白，我们的酒皇。他要吃酒，非但希望忘记自己，并且要逃出这人间世；他要“乘化入无穷”，他说：“三杯通大道，一斗合自然。”我们一定要记住李白和奥姆喝酒的不同。奥姆说了“且进杯中物”，并没有说起什么“通大道”和“合自然”这种话；这种仙境只有谪仙李白才想像得到，奥姆不是谪仙，他只是“深觉自己无用的无用愤怒”而已，他唯一的希望是借酒的力量来麻醉自己的理智，遗忘自己，李白却较他进一步，要借酒的力量“乘化入无穷”。春季与冬季之不同就在这里。可是他们可曾达到目的？这种事可是酒所能做到的？李白承认过：“举杯消愁愁更愁。”李白尚不能仗酒消愁，何况奥姆？

关于奥姆和酒的问题，Chesterton批评得最精彩。与其根据他的理论来许[*原文如此，似当作“评”]，倒不如将原文摘译在下面，还可以避免抄袭——有时是不觉得的，无意的——之罪。原文名“Omar and the Sacred Vine”见Heretics[$]。

……最危险，最不道德的饮酒法便是将酒当药用。倘若一个人饮酒寻找快乐的话，他乃是寻求不凡的东西，他不能每天每时得到的，不会每天每时渴望的东西。除非他发疯……

三十年来，一个伟大的东方人物的阴影和荣耀罩压在英国文学上。FitzGerald翻译的奥姆·克耶将我们这时代一切黑暗飘浮的享乐主义凝成不朽的辛辣。它的文学光辉是不必怀疑的，很少别的书能如此渗淆讽刺短诗的愉快激战力和歌的晦涩忧愁。但是讲到它极大的哲学，伦理，和宗教影响，我要说一句极端反对的话。有许多话可以驳《鲁拜集》的精神，斥责它广泛的影响，但是这一件斥责已驾乎别的以上——这首诗给生活快乐和交谊重大的打击。有人叫奥姆“那个忧愁，快乐的老波斯人”。忧愁，是的；快乐，他不是，不论怎样解释法。他是较清教徒更大的快乐之敌……他的纵饮是不好的，因为这不是纵饮。这是一个不快活的饮酒。[^]他的酒关闭这世界，并不开启它。它并不是快活自然、有诗意的饮酒，而是理智的饮酒，像投资一样平庸，像甘菊一样无味……

奥姆给这世界[*整理者注：Chesterton原文作"the other world", 彼世]的影响我们可以不论，他在这世上的手却是呆重麻醉的。清教徒，我已说过，都比他快活些。跟从扫罗（Thoreau）和托尔斯泰的修苦行的人都比他快活些，因为虽然禁酒戒俗在我们看来是有些无用的克制，它到底能给我们无数天然的逸乐，人类自然的快乐能力。扫罗能不吃咖啡而欣赏日出。倘若托尔斯泰不能欣赏婚姻的话，他只少[*原文如此]能欣赏泥土。我们仍能欣赏大自然，就是没有最自然的奢华的话。一座好的矮林不需要酒。倘若我们对快乐的观念错了的话，大自然和酒也无所有补裨了，可是奥姆对快乐的观念是错的。他和受到他影响的人不知道除非我们相信各物的本性中都有永久的快乐，我们不能有真正的快乐。只有严肃的人才有真正的快乐。“酒”，《圣经》说，“使人心快乐，”注意，只能使有“心”的人快乐。所谓兴高彩烈只有精神灵魂才能觉得。结果，除了各物的本性，一个人不能享受别的；除了宗教，一个人不能欢颂别的……Dionysus[*整理者注：原文屡作Dionysins，擅改]和他教堂，像Walt Whitman的一样是树立在生之快乐上的。Dionysus不将酒当做药，而当做圣餐，耶稣也将酒当做圣餐而非药。但是奥姆将酒当做药，不是圣餐。他吃酒因为生活并不是充满了快乐；他狂饮因为他不快活……

“饮酖止渴”，这或许是Chesterton要加上的评语。奥姆说：“饮罢，因为你不知因何故从何而来，向何处因何而往。饮罢，没有东西值得信托，值得奋斗。”但是Chesterton（一个夏季灵魂）说：“饮罢，因为整个世界都是像这酒一样红，有上帝爱怒之红在内。饮罢，战争的号筒已在吹了，这是奋兴杯。饮罢，因为这是我（基督）替你流的血。饮罢！我知道你因何故从何而来，饮罢！我知道你向何处因何处[*原文如此]而往。”[&]

一月十七日写完

[*] 整理者注：遍搜网路，兼及枯肠，终不知“爱斯基理”为何剧。良久乃悟，当是剧作家“Aeschulus”，今通译“埃斯库罗斯”者是也。菲氏尝译埃氏名剧《阿迦门农》（Agamemnon）为英文，译序中果有类似文字，而徐氏之转述则未尽合原意。遂亦将该篇序文整理上网（http://www.ruanyifeng.com/calvino/2008/07/preface_to_agamemnon.html），以便参核。

[#] 整理者注：Professor Norton原文作："He is to be called a 'translator' only in default of a better word, one which should express the poetic transfusion of a poetic spirit from one language to another, and the re-presentation of the ideas and images of the original in a form not altogether diverse from their own, but perfectly adapted to the new conditions of time, place, custom, and habit of mind in which they reappear. It has all the merit of a remarkable original production, and its excellence is the highest testimony that could be given to the essential impressiveness and worth of the Persian poet. It is the work of a poet inspired by the work of a poet; not a copy, but a reproduction, not a translation, but the re-delivery of a poetic inspiration ... in its English dress it reads like the latest and freshest expression of the perplexity and of the doubt of the generation to which we ourselves belong. There is probably nothing in the mass of English translations or reproductions of the poetry of the East to be compared with this little volume in point of value as English poetry. In the strength of rhythmical structure, in force of expression, in musical modulation, and in mastery of language, the external character of the verse corresponds with the still rarer interior qualities of imagination and of spiritual discernment which it displays."

[+] 整理者注：Rubai意为“四行诗”，Rubaiyat则是“四行诗集”。

[%] 整理者注：即法学家吴经熊，德生为其字。前述《唐诗四季》亦其作品。

[$] 整理者注：可参看G. K. Chesterton原文（http://www.pagebypagebooks.com/Gilbert_K_Chesterton/Heretics/Omar_and_the_Sacred_Vine_p1.html）。

[^] 整理者注：稽核原文，前二句当作“他这种纵饮之弊，不在于其纵饮本身，而在于其饮酒的因由乃是不快乐”。

[&] 整理者注：末段中除“饮酖止渴”及“夏季灵魂”两处外皆译自Chesterton原文。末句在原文中出自基督之口。

PREFACE

[This Version -- or Per-version -- of Aeschylus was originally printed to be given away among Friends, who either knew nothing of the Original, or would be disposed to excuse the liberties taken with it by an unworthy hand.

I can add little more to the Apology prefixed to the private Edition.]

I SUPPOSE that a literal version of this play, if possible, would scarce be intelligible. Even were the dialogue always clear, the lyric Choruses, which make up so large a part, are so dark and abrupt in themselves, and therefore so much the more mangled and tormented by copyist and commentator, that the most conscientious translator must not only jump at a meaning, but must bridge over a chasm; especially if he determine to complete the antiphony of Strophe and Antistrophe in English verse.

Thus, encumbered with forms which sometimes, I think, hang heavy on Aeschylus himself; [note: For instance, the long antiphonal dialogue of the Chorus debating what to do -- or whether do anything -- after hearing their master twice cry out (in pure Iambics also) that he is murdered.] struggling with indistinct meanings, obscure allusions, and even with puns which some have tried to reproduce in English; this grand play, which to the scholar and the poet, lives, breathes, and moves in the dead language, has hitherto seemed to me to drag and stifle under conscientious translation into the living; that is to say, to have lost that which I think the drama can least afford to lose all the world over. And so it was that, hopeless of succeeding where as good versifiers, and better scholars, seem to me to have failed, I came first to break the bounds of Greek Tragedy; then to swerve from the Master's footsteps; and so, one license drawing on another to make all of a piece, arrived at the present anomalous conclusion. If it has succeeded in shaping itself into a distinct, consistent, and animated Whole, through which the reader can follow without halting, and not without accelerating interest from beginning to end, he will perhaps excuse my acknowledged transgressions, unless as well or better satisfied by some more faithful Interpreter, or by one more entitled than myself to make free with the Original.

But to re-create the Tragedy, body and soul, into English, and make the Poet free of the language which reigns over that half of the world never dreamt of in his philosophy, must be reserved -- especially the Lyric part -- for some Poet, worthy of that name, and of congenial Genius with the Greek. Would that every one such would devote himself to one such work! whether by Translation, Paraphrase, or Metaphrase, to use Dryden's definition, whose Alexander's Feast, and some fragments of whose Plays, indicate that he, perhaps, might have rendered such a service to Aeschylus and to us. Or, to go further back in our own Drama, one thinks what Marlowe might have done; himself a translator from the Greek; something akin to Aeschylus in his genius; still more in his grandiose, and sometimes authadostomous verse; of which some lines relating to this very play fall so little short of Greek, that I shall but shame my own by quoting them before hand;

"Is this the face that launched a thousand ships,
And burnt the topless towers of Iliam?
Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss!"

「我伸長了手，握住淋浴龍頭，慢慢往左轉。

剛起床的我仍滿眼睡意，不過對自己果斷、慎重其事以開展一天的動作卻意識楚 ，讓我同時接觸到文化與自然，接觸人類千年文明及造就了地球的神時代的掙扎。淋浴，是為了確認我是水的主宰，確認我也擁有人類代代相傳的對水的特權，只須扭開龍頭水就來，活在可以隨時揮霍水的時代和地。我知道這樣的奇蹟每天重演並非易事，所以開水龍頭時，不應該慢不經心、不以為意，需要全神貫注，發自內定。

-應我召喚，水自管道上升，虹吸設備受壓，抬高或放下浮球以調節水箱水位，壓力一旦改變，小奔流向前，透過管道將指令傳遞出去，通知所有集管，將儲水槽的水排掉再裝滿，延著陡坡滲 流而下的冰川水、從地下抽取的水、岩壁間滴落的小珠、裂縫吸收的水氣、天空降下的雨水雪花冰雹，週而復始地匯集累積，然後施壓於集水水庫，過淨水池的過系統，沿著輪水管被送到城裡去。

右邊調冷熱，左邊龍頭則大開以便潑些水在臉上讓自己完全清醒，我感覺到戕千里外清透、沁涼、微弱的水流越過山嶺河谷草原經過綿延數公里的引水渠向我湧來，感覺到寧芙女神正輕移蓮步朝我走來，即將現身輕撫擁抱我。

可是在從蓮蓬頭噴灑出來之前水滴滴答答延遲了一下，然後才精神飽滿地傾洩而下，得等上整整一秒鐘，令人心慌的一秒鐘，沒人能保證這個世界不會像我們周圍的星球變得乾涸、沙塵化，也沒人能保證水不虞匱乏，讓遠在水泥、柏油城堡中，離水源或水庫千萬里的我還能在手心掬一瓢水。

去年夏天嚴重的乾旱襲擊北歐，電視螢幕上看到的是廣袤的荒漠，原本滔滔的江河羞赧露出乾巴巴的河床，牛群伸長了鼻子在泥巴堆中尋找一絲清涼，人們帶著鍋碗瓢盆在一座小噴泉前面排隊。腦中閃過一個念頭，難道我今天為止所擁有的豐沛水源只是一場幻夢，水有可能再度成為稀有資源，得花力氣運送，小販年著水桶沿街叫賣，鼓勵口渴的人買一杯珍貴的甘泉。

儘管此刻我有一股強烈慾望想要操控水龍頭，但立時回過神來，意識到自己對大權在握的狂熱是多麼愚昧和空洞，然後提心吊膽、謙卑地等待水龍頭微顫宣佈水的到來。萬一只是空氣通過空管所以顫動呢？我想到撒哈拉沙漠不留情擴張它勢力範圍，看到熱浪中海市蜃樓的綠洲，想到波斯那塊旱土，藉地下渠道將水引向灰的圓頂城市，渠道路徑跟當年駕著篷車由裏海下到波斯灣、黑色帳棚下蹲著以鮮豔面紗遮臉的女人從皮囊中倒水煮茶的諾曼地人的路線一樣。

仰著臉等待一秒後水珠從水垢的鍍鉻蓮蓬頭奔流而下撒在眼皮上解放我惺忪的眼睛，蓮蓬頭在我看來像是火山口滿佈千瘡百孔的月球表面，不，像在飛機上下望伊朗沙漠看到一個個規則排列的白色環形口，那是三千年來水的行徑路線：地底的「瓊漿」每隔五十公尺便經由這些井得見天日，還可以用繩索吊人下去進行管道維修。我也假想在那幽暗的環洞裡，頭上腳下掉入蓮蓬頭的出水孔中，亦即瓊漿井裡，探尋只聞其聲不見其的水源。

僅幾分之幾秒的時間我又重新分辦出高與低；水在曲折、蜿蜒的攀升路經結束後，從高處躍下。將水導入乾渴的人類文明的人工路線，不管是地下或地面，與自然的水徑並無軒輊，只是人類對待這生命之泉的奢侈在於讓水抵抗地心引力，先升後降：水舞噴泉，還有水簾。古羅馬引水渠雄偉的連拱支撐的是懸在空中的輕盈水流，十分弔詭：笨重的千年建物承載的是流動、稍縱即逝、抓不住的透明液體。

我豎起耳朵聽在上方盤旋的凝置水流，層層傳遞的水管震動。感覺到被微傾的連拱渠道、還有更高處與奔竄的水流競跑的雲朵劃出犁溝的羅馬郊外的天空就在我頭上。

渠道的終點永遠是城市，尼尼微和它的花園，羅馬和它的公共浴池，巨大的吸水海綿。那是一個透明的城市，在石縫間不停遊走，阡陌縱模的水紋織成牆壁與道路。以地表的隱喻來看城市，那是一塊磐石、未經切割的鑽石或黝黑的煤，但每一個大都會也可以被看成一個巨大的流體結構，由水平垂直的水線界定的空間，一層層如汪洋如潮水如浪花，人類就在這裡實現了他們夢寐以求的理想的兩棲生活。

或許城市實踐的是對水深切的渴望：上升、噴灑、由低處往高處爬。每個城市在居高臨下中得到滿足：曼哈頓將水塔抬至摩天大樓頂，托雷多幾世紀以來都得到泰葛河下游用騾子馲回一桶一桶的水，直到多愁善感的菲利浦二世突然奇想興建一座「人造汲水塔」沿著峭壁將阿卡紮河河水搖搖晃晃地一桶桶打上來，奇蹟僅曇花一現。

所以我並非以理所當然的態度看待水，而是抱著歷經千辛萬苦終於爭取到自早、幸福，與情人會面的心情迎接水的到來。為了與水建立親密係，羅馬人將公共浴池設在他們公共生活的中心；今天這份親密關係則是我們私人生活的核心，在蓮蓬頭下面我看過多少次涓涓水流沿著你的玉肌徐徐滑落，水神水仙水精，而今水再度應我的召喚而來，在綿密的水簾中看你再一次出現消失。（完）

So, if the Fish you Steal—the Cream you drink—
Ends in what all begins and ends in, Think,
Unless the Stern Recorder points to Nine[*],
Tho’ They would drown you—still you shall not sink.

[* 整理者注：传说中猫有九命。]

Project Gutenberg版：http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/24258

“Old Fashioned American Humor”网站：
http://www.oldfashionedamericanhumor.com/the-rubaiyat-of-a-persian-kitten.html

(F5:26)
用智慧串起哲理珍珠的人们，
对胡达[1]的本质曾详加论述；
但却无人揭示这根本的妙谛：
他们空论一番继而长眠入土。
[注1] 胡达，即真主，是波斯语音译。

(F5:22?)
无论年长者，还是年轻人——
都会退出这个世界，无一例外。
世界王国不会使任何人永存，
前人走，我们随，后人也跟着离开。

(--)
倘若那赐予美女以微笑的娇唇，
使满怀忧伤者心肝欲裂的人，
未曾给我们欢乐，这并非不幸，
使我们欣慰的是千万人同遭厄运。

(--)
尽管我有美丽的容颜和黑发，
貌似郁金香，体态如松柏挺拔；
不知何故，在这岁月的花坛，
远古的画家竟把我如此地描画。

(F5:96)
可叹呵，韶华的书卷结束，
生命的早春销声匿迹。
象征青春的欢乐鸟呵，
不知何时到来又何时飞离。

(F5:99?)
一旦我主宰命运的牌匾，
我将书写下自己的心愿。
把悲伤从世界全部驱走，
满怀欢乐昂首仰望苍天。

(F5:4?)
冬日流逝春日临，
生活的书卷把旧篇章撕了去；
开怀畅饮莫悲伤，圣人自有训：
世间忧愁如毒液，美酒便是抗毒剂。

(F2:86?)
苍天呵，为何赐给卑贱者福分，
赐给他浴室、磨房和宫殿；
而高尚者仅以黑面包充饥？
唾弃吧！唾弃这样的苍天！

(F5:41?)
莫为不公道的岁月忧伤，
莫把已逝者的不幸回忆。
你的心像情人的鬈发，别抛弃，
要以美酒相伴，把生命珍惜。

(--)
当今的世道下朋友越少越好，
同今人交往你可要千万谨慎。
你若睁开慧眼就会发现，
你赖以生存的人原来是你的敌人。

(F5:64)
多么遗憾，生命的资本已经耗尽，
死神魔爪下众人的心鲜血淋淋。
无人从另一世界带来点滴信息，——
讲述这人世的旅行者们的命运。

(F5:59?)
酒会使头脑的狂傲减退，
酒会使紧扎的绳结松开。
恶魔若是饮下一滴葡萄酒，
会在亚当面前下跪两千回。

(--)
萨吉[1]啊！你的容颜胜过加穆[2]酒杯，
为你献出生命胜过长命百岁。
你双脚的骨灰使我的眼睛明亮，
颗颗土粒胜过千万个太阳的光辉。
[注1] 萨吉，波斯文音译，意为上酒人。波斯诗人常在诗中以同萨吉对话的方式表达自己的思想感情。
[注2] 加穆，即加穆希德，古代伊朗民间传说中的国王，相传他的酒杯能映出整个世界。

(F5:29?)
把我带到世间对苍天有何好处？
我离去又岂能增加它的空间和荣耀？
我从未得到任何人的答复：
为何让我降生，继而又把我毁掉。

(--)
我决不畅饮纯正的美酒，——
当我未让忧愁的苦酒入口。
我的面包决不沾他人的食盐，——
当我未吃下自己心肝做的肉串。

(F5:77?)
酒罐颈上的碎片也胜过加穆王国，
一滴酒比玛丽亚姆佳肴[1]美味得多。
酩酊醉汉胸中发出的清晨叹息，
胜过赛义德和阿德哈姆[2]的圣歌。
[注1] 玛丽亚姆佳肴，圣餐的象征。
[注2] 阿布•赛义德（967—1049）和阿德哈姆（约逝世于776至783间）均为著名的苏菲派领袖，他们的歌被称为"圣歌"。

(F5:9?)
萨吉啊！这鲜花和绿草曾是何等迷人，
看哪，一周间就已化为灰烬。
饮酒吧，采花吧！就在你观赏的一瞬，
鲜花化作土，绿草变灰尘。

(F5:43?)
对离开世间我并不心怀恐惧，
来世比今生更令我舒畅欢欣；
我的生命仅仅是真主暂时供我所有，
我将托付给他，一旦时刻来临。

(--)
我们涉足这个世界好处在哪里？
我们自身存在的经线中纬线在哪里？
上苍的火焰燃烧着世上圣洁者的眼睛，
它们一旦变灰土，烟又消失在哪里？

(F5:32)
永恒的秘密你我都不知，
奥妙的书卷你我均未看。
惟有帷幔后你我的倾谈，——
帷幔一落地，你我皆不见。

(--)
莫图欢乐！生命的结局无比短暂，
每块泥土都是库巴德和加穆的尸骨。
世界的现状，环宇间的一切——
都是迷梦、空幻、欺骗、昙花一现。

(F5:97?)
呵！假如有安逸的休憩地，
或是把这漫长道路走到底；
假如十万年后希望像绿草
滋生在大地——该有多欢喜！

(--)
纵有宝石秀口的情人偎依在怀，
即便哈扎尔[1]圣水把葡萄汁替代；
即令佐哈拉[2]弹奏，耶稣伴谈，
如果心儿愁苦，哪有欢乐的空间！
[注1] 哈扎尔，先知，传说他饮下了活命水而长生不老。
[注2] 佐哈拉，传说中的人间美女，为天使所爱，她利用天使对自己的钟情，探听到升天国之术，于是变成了金星，成为给群星合唱伴奏的"天府乐师"。

(F5:70)
犹如马球任凭命运的曲棍摆弄，
忽东忽西，唯命是从。
就是他使你疲于奔命，
个中缘由只有他懂，他懂，他懂。

(F5:62?)
美酒敬高山，高山会婆娑起舞，
只有愚蠢的人才对美酒不敬。
我决不会为饮葡萄酒而忏悔，
因为正是它在陶冶人的心灵。

(--)
快把永恒的甘露痛饮！
快把世上快乐的源泉痛饮！
它像火一样把悲愁浇尽，
它如同生命之水，快来痛饮！

(--)
切莫以悲伤折磨你快乐的心，
以灾难的巨石消磨你的光阴；
到底有谁知道未来的秘密？
尽情快乐吧，给我美酒和佳人！

(F2:44?)
把尸土撒向世界苍天，
饮酒吧！把深情献给美人。
不必怨天尤人，不必忧心忡忡，
那些已逝者再也不会返回世间。

(F5:43?)
同胜过园中蔷薇的美女一起，
把酒杯和花束握在手中，——
直到死亡的风暴骤然间
把蔷薇似的生命衣衫卷入太空。

(F5:10?)
蔷薇面颊上新春的露珠令人陶醉，
原野上情人的皎容丰姿使人心碎，
忆往昔，一切的一切都令人悲哀，
欢乐吧，何必去谈昨日，今朝无限美。

(--)
假如我心中的血流能把百家房舍吞没，
我两眼的泪水就会带来百倍的灾难。
那每一根睫毛都是一条溢血的渠道，
假如我把睫毛合拢必将洪水泛滥。

(F5:65)
那些获得智慧和学问的人们，
成了他人探索科学的明灯。
他们无力摆脱黑夜沉沉，
讲完了神话也就陷入梦境。

(--)
大地、苍天和宇宙的创造者，
在忧伤的心灵上投下多少苦难；
多少朱唇秀口，明月似的面颊，
被装入木盒，埋在黄泉。

(--)
一滴水注入大海，
一块土合进大地；
你为何在尘世来去匆匆，
像一只苍蝇出现又飞离。

(F5:55)
用一个曼[1]的巨杯把悲伤砸烂，
用两拉特[2]葡萄酒把胸中填满。
再三宣布同理智和信仰绝缘，
并与葡萄蔓的女儿[3]结伴。
[注1] 曼，古时重量单位，一曼在不同地区分别为三至十二公斤，此处指巨杯重量。
[注2] 拉特，重量单位，一拉特约为二公斤五百克。
[注3] 葡萄蔓的女儿，指葡萄酒。

(F5:48)
生命的商队在奇异地通过，
美好的时刻在欢乐中逝去。
萨吉啊！为何替明日的复活焦虑？
拿酒来吧！——黑夜已经隐匿。

(F5:1)
太阳把晨曦的套索投向云空，
白昼的霍斯劳[1]把小球抛入杯中。
畅饮吧！黎明时分爱情的呼唤，
"饮酒吧！"的回声响彻宇寰。
[注1] 霍斯劳，即开•霍斯劳，波斯诗人菲尔多西的史诗《列王纪》中理想化的贤明国王。

(--)
何日结束这生命的欺诈与伪善，
生命的萨吉要折磨我到哪一年？
我将把余生如同酒滴撒向大地，
只因它无比奸诈与凶残。

(--)
使我为之心碎的情人
也遭受着痛苦的折磨；
我如何为自己去寻医，
当我的医生身缠病魔？

(F5:77?)
每一口酒浆都胜过卡乌斯[1]王国，
胜过库巴德[2]的皇冠、突斯[3]的宝座。
每天清晨情人发出的声声叹息，
都远胜过伪善的教徒祈祷的圣歌。
[注1、2、3] 卡乌斯、库巴德、突斯，均为波斯诗人菲尔多西的史诗《列王纪》中的国王。

(--)
别想活过六十岁，
无论到哪里，切记人常醉。
骨制酒罐前，
莫丢弃肩上罐、手中杯。

(F2:44?)
我们将饱受命运折磨，
让我们今朝先把美酒痛饮。
苍天旋转无止无休，
连喝口水的权利也将剥夺。

(--)
我曾披荆斩棘走在山地、平原，
奔波未使人间事改观。
我的生命饱经风霜，充满辛酸，
但时而也尝到生命的甘甜。

(--)
我来自虚无，心底纯洁，如今被玷污，
我们高兴地降临人间，如今满怀愁苦。
心儿在眼泪的烈火中燃烧，
生命随风而去，自己入了土。

(--)
我若没有了醇厚的葡萄酒浆，
嘴里的鸦片会像毒液一样。
世道的悲愁是毒液，酒浆便是抗愁剂，
我饮下了芳醇，毒液又有何妨！

(F5:91)
朋友，用酒把我灌醉吧！
把我的琥珀面孔变成酡颜！
我死的时候用酒给我沐浴，
用葡萄藤为我做棺木。

(F5:96)
蔷薇已在晨风中开放，
黄莺在为她的娇媚歌唱。
快坐在花丛下吧！花儿纷飞，
而我们也已接近死亡。

(F5:93?)
海亚姆！命运会感到羞辱，——
谁因岁月的波折忧伤满腹。
只要酒杯未击石而碎，
就请伴着琴声痛饮甘露！

(--)
假如苍天没有在大地上培植蔷薇，
那是为了不被人采集去变成尸灰。
假如乌云收集的是尘土，不是水珠，
复活日它将把心爱的人的血液倾注。

(--)
情人呵，把酒杯和酒坛举起，
沿着这草原和小溪走上一遭！
苍天之下诸多婀娜妩媚的人儿，
成百次地为酒杯和酒坛倾倒。

(F5:99?)
假如今朝你有这般能力，
快把重负从情人心头搬去；
美的王国岂能永恒存在，
有朝一日也会离你而去。

(--)
酒是红宝石，酒罐是宝石矿井，
高脚杯是躯体，而酒则是心灵。
荡漾着美酒微笑的水晶杯，
是隐藏葡萄蔓血液的眼泪。

(--)
闪烁甜蜜红玉嘴唇的萨吉啊！
对你的思念是心的力量，精神的食粮。
没有葬身在痛苦的风暴中的人啊，
犹如进了棺材，残喘在挪亚方舟上。

(--)
莫玷污纯洁的葡萄蔓新娘的声誉，
只让伪善的忏悔者的心流血。
只让两千个卑劣的伪君子鲜血流淌，
千万不可把一滴美酒洒在地上。

(F5:92?)
葡萄酒啊，你是我狂恋的情人挚友，
与你为伴，就不怕蒙受耻辱。
我要如此痛饮，让目击者个个发问：
"喂，大酒坛哟，你来自何处？"

(--)
享有盛名意味着耻辱，
任苍天欺凌也是丑行；
沉醉于美酒芳香，
它胜过以苦修为荣。

(F5:67)
苍天啊！你仅是我们衰老躯体上的腰带一条，
吉洪[1]啊！你仅是我们泪水滚滚的遗痕一道。
地狱啊！你仅是我们虚妄叹息的一闪，
天堂啊！你仅是我们安宁时刻的一瞬。
[注1] 吉洪，指吉洪河。

(F2:14?)
常常有人出现并宣称："这是我！"
他一派荣华富贵，且有金银财宝，说道："这是我！"
当他的卑微的生活刚有起色，
死神突然从埋伏中出现并高喊："这是我！"

(F5:10?)
当骨头、血管、脉络还附着你的躯体，
就万万不要跨出命运的门槛一步。
即使你的敌人是鲁斯塔姆[1]也不要屈服，
即使你的朋友是哈塔姆[2]也别欠债务。
[注1] 查尔•鲁斯塔姆，伊朗民间传说中著名的勇士，菲尔多西的史诗《列王纪》的主人公。
[注2] 哈塔姆•泰，传说中东方有名的贵族。

(F5:20)
溪旁的每株青草，
都像天仙的美发；
它从郁金香美女的尸土生出，
切莫残忍地用脚把它践踏。

(--)
当我清醒时欢乐回避我，
当我沉醉时理智远离我。
沉醉和清醒原本如此，
我是他的奴隶，此乃生活。

(F5:35)
我的嘴唇贪婪地贴在酒罐的唇上，
为的是寻找长生不老的灵丹妙方。
酒罐贴在我的唇边，悄悄对我说道：
"你我同病相怜，快来共度片刻时光。"

(F5:54?)
端着红色美酒，抚摩情人青丝，
幸福地坐在绿草地上。
乘那欢乐甘露尚未将人醉倒，
畅饮吧！莫把苍天的旋转冥想。

(F5:98?)
上天呵，你只给世人增添苦难，
你造就一个是为了把他人掠夺。
未至世间者绝不会再降生，
如果知道我们在受命运折磨。

(--)
心儿怎样围绕别人飞翔？
如何写新的爱情的篇章？
泪水的涌流一刻不停，
我无法向他人投去目光。

(F5:40?)
这苍天妄图把你我断送，
垂涎你我的纯洁生命。
欢乐吧！坐在草地上畅饮，
草儿将在我们的尸骨中萌生。

(F5:73)
挚友呵！你在哪里，让我告诉你，——
人类的本源来自哪里。
它在不幸中诞生，由悲伤的泥土混成，
匆匆游历人世，便永远离去。

(F5:28?)
我们出现和离去的天地，
既不见起点也不见终极。
至今也无人明确告诉我：
我们从哪里来又到哪里去。

(F5:40?)
当春雨冲洗郁金香的面颊，
起来吧！快把酒杯端上！
今日你所观赏的葱郁小草，
明朝将从你的尸土里生长。

(F5:42?)
朋友，如果你已把一切秘密看穿，
却又为何如此徒劳地伤感？
既然尘世的一切都有违你的心愿，
欢乐吧！生命仅是短暂的瞬间。

(F5:13)
人们说："仙女的天堂无限好。"
我却说："葡萄的汁液赛仙境。"
要现金，不要债券！[1]
远处的鼓声仅仅动听。
[注1] 此句意指寻求现实的欢乐，别去追求虚无缥缈的未来。

(F5:23?)
欢乐吧！悲愁无边无际，
天上的星群将久久悬起。
那用你尸骨制成的砖坯，
将把他人的墙壁垒砌。

(F2:86?)
天命呵，你供认自己残暴无情，
你居住在欺凌和压迫的庙宇。
你赐福于恶棍，赐苦于贤良，
是糊涂，是蠢驴，二者必居其一。

(F5:30?)
我们把新酒陈酒一起买来，
为两颗麦粒再把世界出卖。
君问："死后你将去何处？"
给我拿酒来，然后快走开！

(--)
和你分离，我心如焚，
无论你到哪里，我都和你形影不离。
你走了，千颗心悲伤至死，
你回来了，万颗心将作祭品献你。

(--)
每一颗被她俘获的心——都很幸福，
每一个变成她街头尘埃的头颅——都很幸福。
切莫为一点委屈把情人责备抱怨，
高兴吧！来自情人的一切都是幸福。

(F5:81?)
可叹呵！生命无谓地溜走，
食物被禁忌，呼吸被玷污。
未实现你的叮嘱使我蒙辱，
违你的指令倍感痛心疾首。

(F5:12)
假如我能得到一块面包心，
两曼葡萄酒和一条羊大腿；
再有个情人在废墟上做伴，—
我的享乐将胜过国王百倍！

(F2:65)
人们说醉汉将入地狱，
这是欺人的弥天大谎。
假如恋人和酒徒下地狱，
明日的天堂岂非空如手掌！

(--)
上天啊，一切破坏源自你的凶残，
暴虐无道是你的传统习惯。
大地啊，如果把你的心胸剖开，
多少珍贵的宝石埋在其间。

(--)
追求理智的声音是枉费心机，
——犹如在公牛身上把奶挤。
宁愿穿起无知的衣衫，——
提起当今的智慧，分文不值。

(F5:89)
当死神的脚掌踏在我的头顶上，
我如同鸟儿，羽毛将被它的魔爪拔光。
怜悯吧，请把我的骨头制成酒杯，——
或许我会复苏，一旦闻到酒的芳香。

(F5:91)
我死时请用酒为我洗礼，
用纯美的芳醇为我祈祷；
假如想在复活日看到我，
酒店的灰烬上把我寻找。

(F5:69)
我们是木偶，苍天是玩弄者，
这是事实而非讽喻。
我们在生存的地毯上嬉戏，
终将进入死亡的木盒里。

(--)
苍天啊！你总是把我的心灵折磨，
幸福的衣衫被你撕破。
你把我的饮水变成口中灰，
你把我迎面的风变成烈火。

(F5:20?)
你我前面是白昼和夜晚，
苍穹运转，按部就班。
小心啊，留神你脚下的泥土，
那可是美女的两棵水仙！

(F5:93)
心儿，来吧！让我们把琵琶弹起，
我们将开怀畅饮，宁把名誉毁弃。
为了一杯酒卖掉这祈祷的跪毯，
以石击碎这荣誉和耻辱的酒器。

(F5:21?)
朋友，莫为人世的蹉跎而感伤，
莫为这陈腐的世界无谓惆怅。
往事已成过去，未来虚幻渺茫，
欢乐吧，莫为有这无那思断肠。

(F5:94?)
对你钟情，不以他人责难为耻，
同无知的人们无需为此争执。
爱情的美酒是大丈夫的良药，
这酒杯对于卑贱者毫无价值。

(--)
在我的眼中，世上的一切事情，
宇宙的万物，对我全都无用。
无论把视线投向何处，——
只有自身的苦难与不幸。

(F5:72)
人类固有的善良和邪恶，
命中注定的欢乐和苦痛，
莫怪罪苍天！以理智之见
苍天比你千倍地不幸。

(F5:72)
请看一看这倾覆的苍穹，
一切智者都蒙受它的欺凌。
请看这酒碗和酒杯的友谊，
它们唇与唇相连，中间鲜血辉映。

(F5:16)
心啊，快把世间的珍品采集，
在你的乐园里铺上草地。
如同露珠洒落在芳草地上，
夜晚席地而坐，迎来朝阳升起。

(--)
在灵魂的世界里应该清醒，
对尘世的事情应该沉默。
要做个瞎子、哑巴和聋子——
当你还有眼睛、舌头和耳朵。

(F2:65)
畅饮美酒和追逐风流，
总比虚伪的禁欲主义要强；
假如嗜酒者该下地狱，
请告诉我谁进天堂？

(--)
你对颜色和香气的迷恋要到何时？
你对美丽与丑陋的追求要到哪年？
你即便是扎姆加米源泉或活命水，
最终也还是要隐埋在大地的心间。

(F5:40?)
当清晨的郁金香落满露珠，
田野里的紫罗兰把头低垂；
那撩起了衣襟的簇簇花蕾，
当真叫我心花怒放神欲醉。

(F5:60?)
饮酒吧，它会使你把自身遗忘，
能使险恶的敌人鲜血流淌。
清醒有何益？只能把你那颗
苦思生命终结的心儿刺伤。

(F1:45)
我的故友啊请听，
别为莫测的苍天担忧，
坐在惬意的小天地里
静观命运戏弄。

(F5:76?)
我们以苦修者的僧衣堵上酒杯，
以酒店废墟的尘土把自身洗净。
或许在那废墟的土地上复苏，——
正是在那里我们失掉了生命。

(--)
我卷帙中阐述的世界奥秘，
怎能对人披露——那样会人头落地。
既然博学者中难寻忠良，
就不可道破我心中隐语。

(--)
我将向你倾吐深藏的秘密，
言简意赅只需两句：
心怀对你的爱慕离开人世，
寄托对你的钟情再来大地。

(F5:67)
世事既违我意，
思想追求又有何益？
一腔愁绪缠结在心，
迟迟降世又匆匆离去。

(F5:6)
美好的日子：既不冷又不热，
雨水冲洗着百花脸上的灰尘；
夜莺以它神秘的语言
对黄玫瑰啼啭："把美酒痛饮！"

(F5:81?)
胡达！你宽宏大量。宽宏大量就是善良。
你为何把作乱者逐出埃拉姆[1]？
你若宽恕我，一个屈从者——那不是善良，
你若宽恕我，一个造反者——那才是善良。
[注1] 埃拉姆，沙达德王所建的名园，有"人间天堂"之称。

(F5:80)
造物者你把我如此造就，
让我爱上美酒和爱情小曲；
既然当初你让我来到人世，
为何今朝把我抛向地狱。

(--)
既然苍天违背贤者的愿望旋转，
何须去数它是七重天还是八重天。
既然死亡已注定，理想要埋葬，
何须再问是被蚁食于坟墓抑或狼吞在草原。

(--)
萨吉呵，我的心比死者的更腐烂，
他长眠九泉下比我更安详。
我的血泪把衣襟污染，
比双眼更模糊是湿透的衣衫。

(F5:58?)
一个未被灰尘玷污的灵魂
从圣洁的世界到你身边作客，
用晨酒的杯子来帮助他吧，
莫等他说："愿真主保佑你康乐！"

(F5:23)
当乌云聚集，在草地的上空哭泣，
鲜红的美酒啊，怎能没有你！
这青青小草今日供我们观赏，
谁将观赏我们尸骨上的草地？

(F5:99)
若能如造物主主宰世界，
我将把苍天彻底推翻；
创造一个崭新的世界，
让善良人们实现夙愿。

(F5:91?)
我的心无时不渴望纯美的酒浆，
耳朵盼望着笛子和弦琴的音响。
如果我死后尸土将制成酒罐，
但愿它永远装满玉液琼浆。

(--)
既然智慧在这个时代毫无价值，
那就只有无知者享受命运的果实。
把智慧从我身上夺走的东西还我！
或许命运的目光会向我们注视。

(F5:14)
蔷薇说："我是草原上埃及的优素福，
我的嘴是镶金的宝玉。"
我说："既然你是优素福，请出示标记。"
花儿答道："请看我衣衫上的斑斑血迹。"

(F2:28?)
可知道，为何公鸡在黎明
不时地发出凄婉啼鸣？
那是晨光的明镜宣布：
生命溜走一夜，你却无动于衷。

(F5:36)
这酒罐和我一样曾是不幸的恋人，
那美人鬈曲的头发曾俘虏你的心灵。
你眼前酒罐颈口上的那个小把手，
正是它啊，曾抚摩过情人的脖颈。

(F2:28?)
睡梦中一位智者对我良言相劝：
"欢乐的蔷薇梦中不对人展示笑颜，
为何你的作为竟与死亡相伴？
起来饮酒吧，须知你也将长眠。"

(F5:53?)
忧愁到何时——为了"有"和"无"？
你的生命是否欢乐地度过？
快斟满酒吧！你并不知道，
你的生命的呼吸还有多少。

(F5:19)
玫瑰郁金香无论开何方，
都用国王的鲜血来染红；
亭亭紫罗兰无论长何方，
都是仙女们美痣的投影。

(--)
当淡青色的早晨降临，
应把透明的美酒畅饮！
人们都说酒味苦涩，——
因而酒应是真理的化身。

(F2:44?)
莫在心上留下悲伤的标记，
永远阅读令人欢乐的书籍。
要饮酒并实现自己的宿愿，
岁月难测，谁知多少属于你。

(--)
千万要警惕，命运残忍无比，
别掉以轻心，时代之剑犀利无比；
假如命运把糖食投入你嘴里，
万万别吞下，是毒物裹上糖衣。

(F5:98?)
人们为寻找上天和入地之门，
谁不落得心肝碎裂，亡命丧身。
可庆幸的是那些尚未入世者，
无忧无虑是母亲没有生下的人。

(--)
真主啊！可怜我这颗被奴役的心，
可怜我这备受折磨的灵魂。
宽恕我这踏进过酒店的双脚，
把我迷恋酒杯的双手怜悯！

(F5:63?)
切莫倾听懦夫的谰言，
去寻求美丽和娇颜。
来过人世的接踵而去，
哪会有人重返人间。

(F5:20?)
大地上的每一颗土粒是位少女，
容貌似太阳，眉如佐哈拉，
把灰尘从可爱的面颊上轻轻抹下，——
那也是姑娘的面孔和鬈发。

(F5:82?)
被奴役者用来饮水的罐子，
是用国王的眼睛和大臣的心脏制成。
饮酒人手中端着的酒杯，
是醉汉的面颊和姑娘的秀口塑成。

(--)
既然人类只有短暂一瞬合你心意，
欢乐地生活吧！尽管你忍辱受欺。
同智者在一起！因为你躯体之本
不过是灰尘、微风、星火和水滴。

(--)
智者心中的任何秘密，
都比安卡[1]藏匿得更加隐蔽；
因为贝壳中珍珠的形成，
是深藏的水滴——大海心脏的秘密。
[注1] 安卡，神话中的神鸟，隐居在卡福山中。

(F5:28?)
我的心从未放弃对科学的追求，
世间的奥秘很少我不知晓；
七十二个春秋日夜苦思冥想，
终于明白了：我一切都不知道。

(--)
希望的种子留在了打谷场，
花园和房舍也丢弃了你和我。
把你的金银财物——从迪尔汗[1]到一粒燕麦
和朋友一起分享，否则将为敌人所获。
[注1] 迪尔汗，中世纪阿拉伯银币名。

(--)
敌人误称我为哲人，
真主知道，我并非那种人，
我既然来到这痛苦的人世，
我终于明白我是个什么人。

(--)
不曾一日摆脱人间的枷锁，
没有一刻品尝自身的欢乐；
我曾向尘世久久求救，
世间的一切仍未掌握。

(--)
我不能以泥土遮住太阳的光焰，
我不能把命运的秘密侃侃叙说。
智慧从思维的大海中获得珍珠，
恐惧之心使我不能把它穿成一串。

(--)
我并非贫穷而不饮酒，
也不怕蒙受耻辱担心喝过头。
我痛饮只为欢乐，
如今何必再饮，当你贴在我心头。

(--)
我走了，逗留在这横暴的世上，
只是无谓虚度，犹如一阵疾风。
让人们为我们的死亡幸灾乐祸，
也许他们自己会摆脱死亡。

(F5:37?)
我曾从陶工那里买过一个酒罐，
它把一切秘密都对我细谈：
"我曾是国王，手拿金碗，
如今却成了酒徒们的酒坛。"

(F5:44?)
我若从希望之树摘到硕果，
我便找到了命运的线索。
生存牢狱的窒息何日方休？
找到黄泉大门才会令我快活。

(F5:78?)
假如上天之事全都符合公理，
上天的秩序会被世人赞许；
如果苍天之事果真遵循正义，
崇高的心灵为何如此悲戚。

(--)
依我之见你不会获得存在的奥秘，
你也不能把智者的思维方法洞悉。
来吧！用这芳草和美酒把天堂建立，
也许来世你也会进入极乐境地。

(F5:33?)
生存的海洋来自玄奥之乡，
无人把揭示这个秘密的珍珠钻透。
人人都从自身利益出发高谈阔论，
这个秘密究竟是什么，有谁了然！

(F5:91?)
美人啊，为了安抚我们的心快拿来酒坛！
以你的美貌消除我们心头的磨难。
让我们共同举杯畅饮，——
直到我们的尸骨被做成酒罐。

(--)
我长期忍受悲痛和煎熬，
你却因享乐和欢快而自豪。
苍天旋转，幕后隐藏千种偶然，
两者均不可放心依靠。

(F5:44?)
人在饱经折磨后获得自由，
犹如水滴摆脱蚌壳变成珍珠。
财产用尽会再现，
美酒饮完会斟满。

(F5:31)
从黑色大地深处到土星极点，
我解决了万物间的一切困难。
以敏锐的智慧把紧扎的绳结解开，——
每个绳结都已解开，只有死亡例外。

(F5:45?)
如果永恒的树枝从你命运的根基长出，
如果生命对于你的身体是窄小的衣服；
那么在供你乘凉的帐篷下面，
千万别倚靠——四根木柱都不牢固。

(--)
若能得到供两天充饥的面包，
从打碎的酒坛得到几滴凉水，
为何要屈从低贱的人？
为何要向自己的同类谄媚？

(--)
眼睛啊，如果你不是盲人，请朝坟墓里看一眼，
环顾这大千世界吧，它充满灾祸与动乱。
国王、宦官、统帅们都已埋葬地下，
看那明月似的面颊！——嘴里蚂蚁密密麻麻。

(--)
你为卑贱者效劳要到何时？
切莫像苍蝇似的贪婪觅食。
拒绝他人的恩惠，宁愿两天吃一块面包。
饮自己的心血，也比吃他人的面包要好。

(--)
宁肯像兀鹰满足于一块骨头，
也不当乞丐向卑劣者乞怜。
甘心吃自己的一块黑面包，
也不让坏人的食物把灵魂污染。

(F5:25)
一些人冥想着信仰之路，
一些人追求着真理之路。
或许有朝一日响起一个声音：
糊涂虫！两者都不是真正的道路。

(F5:38?)
这精致美丽的酒杯呀，
被打成碎片抛在大路。
当心啊！莫残忍地践踏，
因为那本是我们的尸骨。

(--)
噢！你日夜为世界忧心忡忡，
却从不把终审日放在心中。
你终于觉醒，请细看片刻，
岁月如何把他人捉弄。

(F2:20)
只见突斯的城堡上落着一只鸟，
开-卡乌斯的颅骨就在它眼前。
鸟儿对颅骨说："遗憾啊遗憾！
钟的轰鸣，鼓的擂响为何听不见？"

_The Rubaiyat of Ohow Dryyam_

I

Wail! for the Law has scattered into flight
Those Drinks that were our sometime dear Delight;
And still the Morals-tinkers plot and plan
New, sterner, stricter Statutes to indite.

II

After the phantom of our Freedom died
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried:
"Drink coffee, Lads, for that is all that's left
Since our Land of the Free is washed--and dried."

[Illustration:

_And still the Morals-tinkers plot and plan
New, sterner, stricter Statutes to indite._]

III

The Haigs indeed are gone, and on the Nose
That bourgeoned once with color of the rose
A deathly Pallor sits, while down the lane
Where once strode Johnny Walker--Water goes.

IV

Come, fill the Cup, and in the Coffee-house
We'll learn a new and temperate Carouse--
The Bird of Time flies with a steadier wing
But roosts with sleepless Eye--a Coffee Souse!

V

Each morn a thousand Recipes, you say--
Yes, but where match the beer of Yesterday?
And those Spring Months that used to bring the Bock
Seem very long ago and far away.

[Illustration:

_The Bird of Time flies with a steadier wing
But roosts with sleepless Eye--a Coffee Souse!_]

VI

A Book of Blue Laws underneath the Bough,
A pot of Tea, a piece of Toast,--and Thou
Beside me sighing in the Wilderness--
Wilderness? It's Desert, Sister, now.

VII

Some for a Sunday without Taint, and Some
Sigh for Inebriate Paradise to come,
While Moonshine takes the Cash (no Credit goes)
And real old Stuff demands a Premium.

[Illustration:

_A Book of Blue Laws underneath the Bough,
A pot of Tea, a piece of Toast,--and Thou ..._]

VIII

The Scanty Stock we set our hearts upon
Still dwindles and declines until anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
It lights us for an hour and then--is gone.

IX

Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
TODAY of past Regrets and future Fears--
Tomorrow!--Why, Tomorrow I may be
In Canada or Scotland or Algiers!

X

Yes, make the most of what we still may spend;
The last Drop's lingering Taste may yet transcend
Anticipation's Bliss--though we are left
Sans Wine, Sans Song, Sans Singer, and--Sans End.

[Illustration:

_The Scanty Stock we set our hearts upon ..._]

XI

Alike for those who for the Drouth prepared
And those who, like myself, more poorly fared,
Fond Memory weaves Roseate Shrouds to dress
Departed Spirits we have loved--and shared.

XII

Myself when young did eagerly frequent
The gilded Bar, and all my Lucre spent
For bottled Joyousness, but evermore
Came out less steadily than in I went.

XIII

The legal Finger writes; and having writ,
Moves on--and neither Thirst nor Wit
Has lured it back to cancel half a line
To give a Man excuse for being lit.

[Illustration:

_Myself when young did eagerly frequent
The gilded Bar ..._]

XIV

And Bill the Bootlegger--the Infidel!--
When He takes my last Cent for just a Smell
Of Hooch, I wonder what Bootleggers buy
One half so precious as the Stuff they sell.

XV

Oh Bill, Who dost with White Mule and with Gin
Beset the Road I am to Wander in,
If I am garnered of the Law, wilt Thou,
All piously, Impute my Fall to Sin?

[Illustration:

_And Bill the Bootlegger--the Infidel!--_]

XVI

Yon rising Moon that looks for us again--
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
But, Oh, how oft before we have beheld
_Six_ Moons arise--who now seek _Two_ in vain.

XVII

And when Thyself at last shall come to trip
Down that dim Dock where Charon loads his Ship,
I'll meet Thee on the other Wharf if Thou
Wilt promise to have Something on thy Hip.

[Illustration:

_But, Oh, how oft before we have beheld
Six Moons arise ..._]

THE UNKNOWN MASTERPIECE

By Honoré De Balzac

TO A LORD

1845

I--GILLETTE

On a cold December morning in the year 1612, a young man, whose clothing was somewhat of the thinnest, was walking to and fro before a gateway in the Rue des Grands-Augustins in Paris. He went up and down the street before this house with the irresolution of a gallant who dares not venture into the presence of the mistress whom he loves for the first time, easy of access though she may be; but after a sufficiently long interval of hesitation, he at last crossed the threshold and inquired of an old woman, who was sweeping out a large room on the ground floor, whether Master Porbus was within. Receiving a reply in the affirmative, the young man went slowly up the staircase, like a gentleman but newly come to court, and doubtful as to his reception by the king. He came to a stand once more on the landing at the head of the stairs, and again he hesitated before raising his hand to the grotesque knocker on the door of the studio, where doubtless the painter was at work--Master Porbus, sometime painter in ordinary to Henri IV till Mary de' Medici took Rubens into favor.

The young man felt deeply stirred by an emotion that must thrill the hearts of all great artists when, in the pride of their youth and their first love of art, they come into the presence of a master or stand before a masterpiece. For all human sentiments there is a time of early blossoming, a day of generous enthusiasm that gradually fades until nothing is left of happiness but a memory, and glory is known for a delusion. Of all these delicate and short-lived emotions, none so resemble love as the passion of a young artist for his art, as he is about to enter on the blissful martyrdom of his career of glory and disaster, of vague expectations and real disappointments.

Those who have missed this experience in the early days of light purses; who have not, in the dawn of their genius, stood in the presence of a master and felt the throbbing of their hearts, will always carry in their inmost souls a chord that has never been touched, and in their work an indefinable quality will be lacking, a something in the stroke of the brush, a mysterious element that we call poetry. The swaggerers, so puffed up by self-conceit that they are confident over-soon of their success, can never be taken for men of talent save by fools. From this point of view, if youthful modesty is the measure of youthful genius, the stranger on the staircase might be allowed to have something in him; for he seemed to possess the indescribable diffidence, the early timidity that artists are bound to lose in the course of a great career, even as pretty women lose it as they make progress in the arts of coquetry. Self-distrust vanishes as triumph succeeds to triumph, and modesty is, perhaps, distrust of itself.

The poor neophyte was so overcome by the consciousness of his own presumption and insignificance, that it began to look as if he was hardly likely to penetrate into the studio of the painter, to whom we owe the wonderful portrait of Henri IV. But fate was propitious; an old man came up the staircase. From the quaint costume of this newcomer, his collar of magnificent lace, and a certain serene gravity in his bearing, the first arrival thought that this personage must be either a patron or a friend of the court painter. He stood aside therefore upon the landing to allow the visitor to pass, scrutinizing him curiously the while. Perhaps he might hope to find the good nature of an artist or to receive the good offices of an amateur not unfriendly to the arts; but besides an almost diabolical expression in the face that met his gaze, there was that indescribable something which has an irresistible attraction for artists.

Picture that face. A bald high forehead and rugged jutting brows above a small flat nose turned up at the end, as in the portraits of Socrates and Rabelais; deep lines about the mocking mouth; a short chin, carried proudly, covered with a grizzled pointed beard; sea-green eyes that age might seem to have dimmed were it not for the contrast between the iris and the surrounding mother-of-pearl tints, so that it seemed as if under the stress of anger or enthusiasm there would be a magnetic power to quell or kindle in their glances. The face was withered beyond wont by the fatigue of years, yet it seemed aged still more by the thoughts that had worn away both soul and body. There were no lashes to the deep-set eyes, and scarcely a trace of the arching lines of the eyebrows above them. Set this head on a spare and feeble frame, place it in a frame of lace wrought like an engraved silver fish-slice, imagine a heavy gold chain over the old man's black doublet, and you will have some dim idea of this strange personage, who seemed still more fantastic in the sombre twilight of the staircase. One of Rembrandt's portraits might have stepped down from its frame to walk in an appropriate atmosphere of gloom, such as the great painter loved. The older man gave the younger a shrewd glance, and knocked thrice at the door. It was opened by a man of forty or thereabout, who seemed to be an invalid.

"Good day, Master."

Porbus bowed respectfully, and held the door open for the younger man to enter, thinking that the latter accompanied his visitor; and when he saw that the neophyte stood a while as if spellbound, feeling, as every artist-nature must feel, the fascinating influence of the first sight of a studio in which the material processes of art are revealed, Porbus troubled himself no more about this second comer.

All the light in the studio came from a window in the roof, and was concentrated upon an easel, where a canvas stood untouched as yet save for three or four outlines in chalk. The daylight scarcely reached the remoter angles and corners of the vast room; they were as dark as night, but the silver ornamented breastplate of a Reiter's corselet, that hung upon the wall, attracted a stray gleam to its dim abiding-place among the brown shadows; or a shaft of light shot across the carved and glistening surface of an antique sideboard covered with curious silver-plate, or struck out a line of glittering dots among the raised threads of the golden warp of some old brocaded curtains, where the lines of the stiff, heavy folds were broken, as the stuff had been flung carelessly down to serve as a model.

Plaster _écorchés_ stood about the room; and here and there, on shelves and tables, lay fragments of classical sculpture-torsos of antique goddesses, worn smooth as though all the years of the centuries that had passed over them had been lovers' kisses. The walls were covered, from floor to ceiling, with countless sketches in charcoal, red chalk, or pen and ink. Amid the litter and confusion of color boxes, overturned stools, flasks of oil, and essences, there was just room to move so as to reach the illuminated circular space where the easel stood. The light from the window in the roof fell full upon Por-bus's pale face and on the ivory-tinted forehead of his strange visitor. But in another moment the younger man heeded nothing but a picture that had already become famous even in those stormy days of political and religious revolution, a picture that a few of the zealous worshipers, who have so often kept the sacred fire of art alive in evil days, were wont to go on pilgrimage to see. The beautiful panel represented a Saint Mary of Egypt about to pay her passage across the seas. It was a masterpiece destined for Mary de' Medici, who sold it in later years of poverty.

"I like your saint," the old man remarked, addressing Porbus. "I would give you ten golden crowns for her over and above the price the Queen is paying; but as for putting a spoke in that wheel,--the devil take it!"

"It is good then?"

"Hey! hey!" said the old man; "good, say you?--Yes and no. Your good woman is not badly done, but she is not alive. You artists fancy that when a figure is correctly drawn, and everything in its place according to the rules of anatomy, there is nothing more to be done. You make up the flesh tints beforehand on your palettes according to your formulae, and fill in the outlines with due care that one side of the face shall be darker than the other; and because you look from time to time at a naked woman who stands on the platform before you, you fondly imagine that you have copied nature, think yourselves to be painters, believe that you have wrested His secret from God. Pshaw! You may know your syntax thoroughly and make no blunders in your grammar, but it takes that and something more to make a great poet. Look at your saint, Porbus! At a first glance she is admirable; look at her again, and you see at once that she is glued to the background, and that you could not walk round her. She is a silhouette that turns but one side of her face to all beholders, a figure cut out of canvas, an image with no power to move nor change her position. I feel as if there were no air between that arm and the background, no space, no sense of distance in your canvas. The perspective is perfectly correct, the strength of the coloring is accurately diminished with the distance; but, in spite of these praiseworthy efforts, I could never bring myself to believe that the warm breath of life comes and goes in that beautiful body. It seems to me that if I laid my hand on the firm, rounded throat, it would be cold as marble to the touch. No, my friend, the blood does not flow beneath that ivory skin, the tide of life does not flush those delicate fibres, the purple veins that trace a network beneath the transparent amber of her brow and breast. Here the pulse seems to beat, there it is motionless, life and death are at strife in every detail; here you see a woman, there a statue, there again a corpse. Your creation is incomplete. You had only power to breathe a portion of your soul into your beloved work. The fire of Prometheus died out again and again in your hands; many a spot in your picture has not been touched by the divine flame."

"But how is it, dear master?" Porbus asked respectfully, while the young man with difficulty repressed his strong desire to beat the critic.

"Ah!" said the old man, "it is this! You have halted between two manners. You have hesitated between drawing and color, between the dogged attention to detail, the stiff precision of the German masters and the dazzling glow, the joyous exuberance of Italian painters. You have set yourself to imitate Hans Holbein and Titian, Albrecht Durer and Paul Veronese in a single picture. A magnificent ambition truly, but what has come of it? Your work has neither the severe charm of a dry execution nor the magical illusion of Italian _chiaroscuro_. Titian's rich golden coloring poured into Albrecht Dureras austere outlines has shattered them, like molten bronze bursting through the mold that is not strong enough to hold it. In other places the outlines have held firm, imprisoning and obscuring the magnificent, glowing flood of Venetian color. The drawing of the face is not perfect, the coloring is not perfect; traces of that unlucky indecision are to be seen everywhere. Unless you felt strong enough to fuse the two opposed manners in the fire of your own genius, you should have cast in your lot boldly with the one or the other, and so have obtained the unity which simulates one of the conditions of life itself. Your work is only true in the centres; your outlines are false, they project nothing, there is no hint of anything behind them. There is truth here," said the old man, pointing to the breast of the Saint, "and again here," he went on, indicating the rounded shoulder. "But there," once more returning to the column of the throat, "everything is false. Let us go no further into detail, you would be disheartened."

The old man sat down on a stool, and remained a while without speaking, with his face buried in his hands.

"Yet I studied that throat from the life, dear master," Porbus began; "it happens sometimes, for our misfortune, that real effects in nature look improbable when transferred to canvas--"

"The aim of art is not to copy nature, but to express it. You are not a servile copyist, but a poet!" cried the old man sharply, cutting Porbus short with an imperious gesture. "Otherwise a sculptor might make a plaster cast of a living woman and save himself all further trouble. Well, try to make a cast of your mistress's hand, and set up the thing before you. You will see a monstrosity, a dead mass, bearing no resemblance to the living hand; you would be compelled to have recourse to the chisel of a sculptor who, without making an exact copy, would represent for you its movement and its life. We must detect the spirit, the informing soul in the appearances of things and beings. Effects! What are effects but the accidents of life, not life itself? A hand, since I have taken that example, is not only a part of a body, it is the expression and extension of a thought that must be grasped and rendered. Neither painter nor poet nor sculptor may separate the effect from the cause, which are inevitably contained the one in the other. There begins the real struggle! Many a painter achieves success instinctively, unconscious of the task that is set before art. You draw a woman, yet you do not see her! Not so do you succeed in wresting Nature's secrets from her! You are reproducing mechanically the model that you copied in your master's studio. You do not penetrate far enough into the inmost secrets of the mystery of form; you do not seek with love enough and perseverance enough after the form that baffles and eludes you. Beauty is a thing severe and unapproachable, never to be won by a languid lover. You must lie in wait for her coming and take her unawares, press her hard and clasp her in a tight embrace, and force her to yield. Form is a Proteus more intangible and more manifold than the Proteus of the legend; compelled, only after long wrestling, to stand forth manifest in his true aspect. Some of you are satisfied with the first shape, or at most by the second or the third that appears. Not thus wrestle the victors, the unvanquished painters who never suffer themselves to be deluded by all those treacherous shadow-shapes; they persevere till Nature at the last stands bare to their gaze, and her very soul is revealed.

"In this manner worked Rafael," said the old man, taking off his cap to express his reverence for the King of Art. "His transcendent greatness came of the intimate sense that, in him, seems as if it would shatter external form. Form in his figures (as with us) is a symbol, a means of communicating sensations, ideas, the vast imaginings of a poet. Every face is a whole world. The subject of the portrait appeared for him bathed in the light of a divine vision; it was revealed by an inner voice, the finger of God laid bare the sources of expression in the past of a whole life.

"You clothe your women in fair raiment of flesh, in gracious veiling of hair; but where is the blood, the source of passion and of calm, the cause of the particular effect? Why, this brown Egyptian of yours, my good Porbus, is a colorless creature! These figures that you set before us are painted bloodless fantoms; and you call that painting, you call that art!

"Because you have made something more like a woman than a house, you think that you have set your fingers on the goal; you are quite proud that you need not to write _currus venustus_ or _pulcher homo_ beside your figures, as early painters were wont to do and you fancy that you have done wonders. Ah! my good friend, there is still something more to learn, and you will use up a great deal of chalk and cover many a canvas before you will learn it. Yes, truly, a woman carries her head in just such a way, so she holds her garments gathered into her hand; her eyes grow dreamy and soft with that expression of meek sweetness, and even so the quivering shadow of the lashes hovers upon her cheeks. It is all there, and yet it is not there. What is lacking? A nothing, but that nothing is everything.

"There you have the semblance of life, but you do not express its fulness and effluence, that indescribable something, perhaps the soul itself, that envelopes the outlines of the body like a haze; that flower of life, in short, that Titian and Rafael caught. Your utmost achievement hitherto has only brought you to the starting-point. You might now perhaps begin to do excellent work, but you grow weary all too soon; and the crowd admires, and those who know smile.

"Oh, Mabuse! oh, my master!" cried the strange speaker, "thou art a thief! Thou hast carried away the secret of life with thee!"

"Nevertheless," he began again, "this picture of yours is worth more than all the paintings of that rascal Rubens, with his mountains of Flemish flesh raddled with vermilion, his torrents of red hair, his riot of color. You, at least have color there, and feeling and drawing--the three essentials in art."

The young man roused himself from his deep musings.

"Why, my good man, the Saint is sublime!" he cried. "There is a subtlety of imagination about those two figures, the Saint Mary and the Shipman, that can not be found among Italian masters; I do not know a single one of them capable of imagining the Shipman's hesitation."

"Did that little malapert come with you?" asked Porbus of the older man.

"Alas! master, pardon my boldness," cried the neophyte, and the color mounted to his face. "I am unknown--a dauber by instinct, and but lately come to this city--the fountain-head of all learning."

"Set to work," said Porbus, handing him a bit of red chalk and a sheet of paper.

The new-comer quickly sketched the Saint Mary line for line.

"Aha!" exclaimed the old man. "Your name?" he added.

The young man wrote "Nicolas Poussin" below the sketch.

"Not bad that for a beginning," said the strange speaker, who had discoursed so wildly. "I see that we can talk of art in your presence. I do not blame you for admiring Porbus's saint. In the eyes of the world she is a masterpiece, and those alone who have been initiated into the inmost mysteries of art can discover her shortcomings. But it is worth while to give you the lesson, for you are able to understand it, so I will show you how little it needs to complete this picture. You must be all eyes, all attention, for it may be that such a chance of learning will never come in your way again--Porbus! your palette."

Porbus went in search of palette and brushes. The little old man turned back his sleeves with impatient energy, seized the palette, covered with many hues, that Porbus handed to him, and snatched rather than took a handful of brushes of various sizes from the hands of his acquaintance. His pointed beard suddenly bristled--a menacing movement that expressed the prick of a lover's fancy. As he loaded his brush, he muttered between his teeth, "These paints are only fit to fling out of the window, together with the fellow who ground them, their crudeness and falseness are disgusting! How can one paint with this?"

He dipped the tip of the brush with feverish eagerness in the different pigments, making the circuit of the palette several times more quickly than the organist of a cathedral sweeps the octaves on the keyboard of his clavier for the "O Filii" at Easter.

Porbus and Poussin, on either side of the easel, stood stock-still, watching with intense interest.

"Look, young man," he began again, "see how three or four strokes of the brush and a thin glaze of blue let in the free air to play about the head of the poor Saint, who must have felt stifled and oppressed by the close atmosphere! See how the drapery begins to flutter; you feel that it is lifted by the breeze! A moment ago it hung as heavily and stiffly as if it were held out by pins. Do you see how the satin sheen that I have just given to the breast rends the pliant, silken softness of a young girl's skin, and how the brown-red, blended with burnt ochre, brings warmth into the cold gray of the deep shadow where the blood lay congealed instead of coursing through the veins? Young man, young man, no master could teach you how to do this that I am doing before your eyes. Mabuse alone possessed the secret of giving life to his figures; Mabuse had but one pupil--that was I. I have had none, and I am old. You have sufficient intelligence to imagine the rest from the glimpses that I am giving you."

While the old man was speaking, he gave a touch here and there; sometimes two strokes of the brush, sometimes a single one; but every stroke told so well, that the whole picture seemed transfigured--the painting was flooded with light. He worked with such passionate fervor that beads of sweat gathered upon his bare forehead; he worked so quickly, in brief, impatient jerks, that it seemed to young Poussin as if some familiar spirit inhabiting the body of this strange being took a grotesque pleasure in making use of the man's hands against his own will. The unearthly glitter of his eyes, the convulsive movements that seemed like struggles, gave to this fancy a semblance of truth which could not but stir a young imagination. The old man continued, saying as he did so--

"Paf! paf! that is how to lay it on, young man!--Little touches! come and bring a glow into those icy cold tones for me! Just so! Pon! pon! pon!" and those parts of the picture that he had pointed out as cold and lifeless flushed with warmer hues, a few bold strokes of color brought all the tones of the picture into the required harmony with the glowing tints of the Egyptian, and the differences in temperament vanished.

"Look you, youngster, the last touches make the picture. Porbus has given it a hundred strokes for every one of mine. No one thanks us for what lies beneath. Bear that in mind."

At last the restless spirit stopped, and turning to Porbus and Poussin, who were speechless with admiration, he spoke--

"This is not as good as my 'Belle Noiseuse'; still one might put one's name to such a thing as this.--Yes, I would put my name to it," he added, rising to reach for a mirror, in which he looked at the picture.--"And now," he said, "will you both come and breakfast with me? I have a smoked ham and some very fair wine!... Eh! eh! the times may be bad, but we can still have some talk about art! We can talk like equals.... Here is a little fellow who has aptitude," he added, laying a hand on Nicolas Poussin's shoulder.

In this way the stranger became aware of the threadbare condition of the Norman's doublet. He drew a leather purse from his girdle, felt in it, found two gold coins, and held them out.

"I will buy your sketch," he said.

"Take it," said Porbus, as he saw the other start and flush with embarrassment, for Poussin had the pride of poverty. "Pray, take it; he has a couple of king's ransoms in his pouch!"

The three came down together from the studio, and, talking of art by the way, reached a picturesque wooden house hard by the Pont Saint-Michel. Poussin wondered a moment at its ornament, at the knocker, at the frames of the casements, at the scroll-work designs, and in the next he stood in a vast low-ceiled room. A table, covered with tempting dishes, stood near the blazing fire, and (luck unhoped for) he was in the company of two great artists full of genial good humor.

"Do not look too long at that canvas, young man," said Porbus, when he saw that Poussin was standing, struck with wonder, before a painting. "You would fall a victim to despair."

It was the "Adam" painted by Mabuse to purchase his release from the prison, where his creditors had so long kept him. And, as a matter of fact, the figure stood out so boldly and convincingly, that Nicolas Poussin began to understand the real meaning of the words poured out by the old artist, who was himself looking at the picture with apparent satisfaction, but without enthusiasm. "I have done better than that!" he seemed to be saying to himself.

"There is life in it," he said aloud; "in that respect my poor master here surpassed himself, but there is some lack of truth in the background. The man lives indeed; he is rising, and will come toward us; but the atmosphere, the sky, the air, the breath of the breeze--you look and feel for them, but they are not there. And then the man himself is, after all, only a man! Ah! but the one man in the world who came direct from the hands of God must have had a something divine about him that is wanting here. Mabuse himself would grind his teeth and say so when he was not drunk."

Poussin looked from the speaker to Porbus, and from Porbus to the speaker, with restless curiosity. He went up to the latter to ask for the name of their host; but the painter laid a finger on his lips with an air of mystery. The young man's interest was excited; he kept silence, but hoped that sooner or later some word might be let fall that would reveal the name of his entertainer. It was evident that he was a man of talent and very wealthy, for Porbus listened to him respectfully, and the vast room was crowded with marvels of art.

A magnificent portrait of a woman, hung against the dark oak panels of the wall, next caught Poussin's attention.

"What a glorious Giorgione!" he cried.

"No," said his host, "it is an early daub of mine--"

"Gramercy! I am in the abode of the god of painting, it seems!" cried Poussin ingenuously.

The old man smiled as if he had long grown familiar with such praise.

"Master Frenhofer!" said Porbus, "do you think you could spare me a little of your capital Rhine wine?"

"A couple of pipes!" answered his host; "one to discharge a debt, for the pleasure of seeing your pretty sinner, the other as a present from a friend."

"Ah! if I had my health," returned Porbus, "and if you would but let me see your 'Belle Noiseuse,' I would paint some great picture, with breadth in it and depth; the figures should be life-size."

"Let you see my work!" cried the painter in agitation. "No, no! it is not perfect yet; something still remains for me to do. Yesterday, in the dusk," he said, "I thought I had reached the end. Her eyes seemed moist, the flesh quivered, something stirred the tresses of her hair. She breathed! But though I have succeeded in reproducing Nature's roundness and relief on the flat surface of the canvas, this morning, by daylight, I found out my mistake. Ah! to achieve that glorious result I have studied the works of the great masters of color, stripping off coat after coat of color from Titian's canvas, analyzing the pigments of the king of light. Like that sovereign painter, I began the face in a slight tone with a supple and fat paste--for shadow is but an accident; bear that in mind, youngster!--Then I began afresh, and by half-tones and thin glazes of color less and less transparent, I gradually deepened the tints to the deepest black of the strongest shadows. An ordinary painter makes his shadows something entirely different in nature from the high lights; they are wood or brass, or what you will, anything but flesh in shadow. You feel that even if those figures were to alter their position, those shadow stains would never be cleansed away, those parts of the picture would never glow with light.

"I have escaped one mistake, into which the most famous painters have sometimes fallen; in my canvas the whiteness shines through the densest and most persistent shadow. I have not marked out the limits of my figure in hard, dry outlines, and brought every least anatomical detail into prominence (like a host of dunces, who fancy that they can draw because they can trace a line elaborately smooth and clean), for the human body is not contained within the limits of line. In this the sculptor can approach the truth more nearly than we painters. Nature's way is a complicated succession of curve within curve. Strictly speaking, there is no such thing as drawing.--Do not laugh, young man; strange as that speech may seem to you, you will understand the truth in it some day.--A line is a method of expressing the effect of light upon an object; but there are no lines in Nature, everything is solid. We draw by modeling, that is to say, that we disengage an object from its setting; the distribution of the light alone gives to a body the appearance by which we know it. So I have not defined the outlines; I have suffused them with a haze of half-tints warm or golden, in such a sort that you can not lay your finger on the exact spot where background and contours meet. Seen from near, the picture looks a blur; it seems to lack definition; but step back two paces, and the whole thing becomes clear, distinct, and solid; the body stands out; the rounded form comes into relief; you feel that the air plays round it. And yet--I am not satisfied; I have misgivings. Perhaps one ought not to draw a single line; perhaps it would be better to attack the face from the centre, taking the highest prominences first, proceeding from them through the whole range of shadows to the heaviest of all. Is not this the method of the sun, the divine painter of the world? Oh, Nature, Nature! who has surprised thee, fugitive? But, after all, too much knowledge, like ignorance, brings you to a negation. I have doubts about my work."

There was a pause. Then the old man spoke again. "I have been at work upon it for ten years, young man; but what are ten short years in a struggle with Nature? Do we know how long Sir Pygmalion wrought at the one statue that came to life?" The old man fell into deep musings, and gazed before him with unseeing eyes, while he played unheedingly with his knife.

"Look, he is in conversation with his _domon!_" murmured Porbus.

At the word, Nicolas Poussin felt himself carried away by an unaccountable accession of artist's curiosity. For him the old man, at once intent and inert, the seer with the unseeing eyes, became something more than a man--a fantastic spirit living in a mysterious world, and countless vague thoughts awoke within his soul. The effect of this species of fascination upon his mind can no more be described in words than the passionate longing awakened in an exile's heart by the song that recalls his home. He thought of the scorn that the old man affected to display for the noblest efforts of art, of his wealth, his manners, of the deference paid to him by Porbus. The mysterious picture, the work of patience on which he had wrought so long in secret, was doubtless a work of genius, for the head of the Virgin which young Poussin had admired so frankly was beautiful even beside Mabuse's "Adam"--there was no mistaking the imperial manner of one of the princes of art. Everything combined to set the old man beyond the limits of human nature.

Out of the wealth of fancies in Nicolas Poussin's brain an idea grew, and gathered shape and clearness. He saw in this supernatural being a complete type of the artist nature, a nature mocking and kindly, barren and prolific, an erratic spirit intrusted with great and manifold powers which she too often abuses, leading sober reason, the Philistine, and sometimes even the amateur forth into a stony wilderness where they see nothing; but the white-winged maiden herself, wild as her fancies may be, finds epics there and castles and works of art. For Poussin, the enthusiast, the old man, was suddenly transfigured, and became Art incarnate, Art with its mysteries, its vehement passion and its dreams.

"Yes, my dear Porbus," Frenhofer continued, "hitherto I have never found a flawless model, a body with outlines of perfect beauty, the carnations--Ah! where does she live?" he cried, breaking in upon himself, "the undiscoverable Venus of the older time, for whom we have sought so often, only to find the scattered gleams of her beauty here and there? Oh! to behold once and for one moment, Nature grown perfect and divine, the Ideal at last, I would give all that I possess.... Nay, Beauty divine, I would go to seek thee in the dim land of the dead; like Orpheus, I would go down into the Hades of Art to bring back the life of art from among the shadows of death."

"We can go now," said Porbus to Poussin. "He neither hears nor sees us any longer."

"Let us go to his studio," said young Poussin, wondering greatly.

"Oh! the old fox takes care that no one shall enter it. His treasures are so carefully guarded that it is impossible for us to come at them. I have not waited for your suggestion and your fancy to attempt to lay hands on this mystery by force."

"So there is a mystery?" "Yes," answered Porbus. "Old Frenhofer is the only pupil Mabuse would take. Frenhofer became the painter's friend, deliverer, and father; he sacrificed the greater part of his fortune to enable Mabuse to indulge in riotous extravagance, and in return Mabuse bequeathed to him the secret of relief, the power of giving to his figures the wonderful life, the flower of Nature, the eternal despair of art, the secret which Ma-buse knew so well that one day when he had sold the flowered brocade suit in which he should have appeared at the Entry of Charles V, he accompanied his master in a suit of paper painted to resemble the brocade. The peculiar richness and splendor of the stuff struck the Emperor; he complimented the old drunkard's patron on the artist's appearance, and so the trick was brought to light. Frenhofer is a passionate enthusiast, who sees above and beyond other painters. He has meditated profoundly on color, and the absolute truth of line; but by the way of much research he has come to doubt the very existence of the objects of his search. He says, in moments of despondency, that there is no such thing as drawing, and that by means of lines we can only reproduce geometrical figures; but that is overshooting the mark, for by outline and shadow you can reproduce form without any color at all, which shows that our art, like Nature, is composed of an infinite number of elements. Drawing gives you the skeleton, the anatomical frame-' work, and color puts the life into it; but life without the skeleton is even more incomplete than a skeleton without life. But there is something else truer still, and it is this--f or painters, practise and observation are everything; and when theories and poetical ideas begin to quarrel with the brushes, the end is doubt, as has happened with our good friend, who is half crack-brained enthusiast, half painter. A sublime painter! but unlucky for him, he was born to riches, and so he has leisure to follow his fancies. Do not you follow his example! Work! painters have no business to think, except brush in hand."

"We will find a way into his studio!" cried Poussin confidently. He had ceased to heed Porbus's remarks. The other smiled at the young painter's enthusiasm, asked him to come to see him again, and they parted. Nicolas Poussin went slowly back to the Rue de la Harpe, and passed the modest hostelry where he was lodging without noticing it. A feeling of uneasiness prompted him to hurry up the crazy staircase till he reached a room at the top, a quaint, airy recess under the steep, high-pitched roof common among houses in old Paris. In the one dingy window of the place sat a young girl, who sprang up at once when she heard some one at the door; it was the prompting of love; she had recognized the painter's touch on the latch.

"What is the matter with you?" she asked.

"The matter is... is... Oh! I have felt that I am a painter! Until to-day I have had doubts, but now I believe in myself! There is the making of a great man in me! Never mind, Gillette, we shall be rich and happy! There is gold at the tips of those brushes--"

He broke off suddenly. The joy faded from his powerful and earnest face as he compared his vast hopes with his slender resources. The walls were covered with sketches in chalk on sheets of common paper. There were but four canvases in the room. Colors were very costly, and the young painter's palette was almost bare. Yet in the midst of his poverty he possessed and was conscious of the possession of inexhaustible treasures of the heart, of a devouring genius equal to all the tasks that lay before him.

He had been brought to Paris by a nobleman among his friends, or perchance by the consciousness of his powers; and in Paris he had found a mistress, one of those noble and generous souls who choose to suffer by a great man's side, who share his struggles and strive to understand his fancies, accepting their lot of poverty and love as bravely and dauntlessly as other women will set themselves to bear the burden of riches and make a parade of their insensibility. The smile that stole over Gillette's lips filled the garret with golden light, and rivaled the brightness of the sun in heaven. The sun, moreover, does not always shine in heaven, whereas Gillette was always in the garret, absorbed in her passion, occupied by Poussin's happiness and sorrow, consoling the genius which found an outlet in love before art engrossed it.

"Listen, Gillette. Come here."

The girl obeyed joyously, and sprang upon the painter's knee. Hers was perfect grace and beauty, and the loveliness of spring; she was adorned with all luxuriant fairness of outward form, lighted up by the glow of a fair soul within.

"Oh! God," he cried; "I shall never dare to tell her--"

"A secret?" she cried; "I must know it!"

Poussin was absorbed in his dreams.

"Do tell it me!"

"Gillette... poor beloved heart!..."

"Oh! do you want something of me?"

"Yes."

"If you wish me to sit once more for you as I did the other day," she continued with playful petulance, "I will never consent to do such a thing again, for your eyes say nothing all the while. You do not think of me at all, and yet you look at me--"

"Would you rather have me draw another woman?"

"Perhaps--if she were very ugly," she said.

"Well," said Poussin gravely, "and if, for the sake of my fame to come, if to make me a great painter, you must sit to some one else?"

"You may try me," she said; "you know quite well that I would not."

Poussin's head sank on her breast; he seemed to be overpowered by some intolerable joy or sorrow.

"Listen," she cried, plucking at the sleeve of Poussin's threadbare doublet, "I told you, Nick, that I would lay down my life for you; but I never promised you that I in my lifetime would lay down my love."

"Your love?" cried the young artist.

"If I showed myself thus to another, you would love me no longer, and I should feel myself unworthy of you. Obedience to your fancies was a natural and simple thing, was it not? Even against my own will, I am glad and even proud to do thy dear will. But for another, out upon it!"

"Forgive me, my Gillette," said the painter, falling upon his knees; "I would rather be beloved than famous. You are fairer than success and honors. There, fling the pencils away, and burn these sketches! I have made a mistake. I was meant to love and not to paint. Perish art and all its secrets!"

Gillette looked admiringly at him, in an ecstasy of happiness! She was triumphant; she felt instinctively that art was laid aside for her sake, and flung like a grain of incense at her feet.

"Yet he is only an old man," Poussin continued; "for him you would be a woman, and nothing more. You--so perfect!"

"I must love you indeed!" she cried, ready to sacrifice even love's scruples to the lover who had given up so much for her sake; "but I should bring about my own ruin. Ah! to ruin myself, to lose everything for you!... It is a very glorious thought! Ah! but you will forget me. Oh I what evil thought is this that has come to you?"

"I love you, and yet I thought of it," he said, with something like remorse, "Am I so base a wretch?"

"Let us consult Père Hardouin," she said.

"No, no! Let it be a secret between us."

"Very well; I will do it. But you must not be there," she said. "Stay at the door with your dagger in your hand; and if I call, rush in and kill the painter."

Poussin forgot everything but art. He held Gillette tightly in his arms.

"He loves me no longer!" thought Gillette when she was alone. She repented of her resolution already.

But to these misgivings there soon succeeded a sharper pain, and she strove to banish a hideous thought that arose in her own heart. It seemed to her that her own love had grown less already, with a vague suspicion that the painter had fallen somewhat in her eyes.

II--CATHERINE LESCAULT

Three months after Poussin and Porbus met, the latter went to see Master Frenhofer. The old man had fallen a victim to one of those profound and spontaneous fits of discouragement that are caused, according to medical logicians, by indigestion, flatulence, fever, or enlargement of the spleen; or, if you take the opinion of the Spiritualists, by the imperfections of our mortal nature. The good man had simply overworked himself in putting the finishing touches to his mysterious picture. He was lounging in a huge carved oak chair, covered with black leather, and did not change his listless attitude, but glanced at Porbus like a man who has settled down into low spirits.

"Well, master," said Porbus, "was the ultramarine bad that you sent for to Bruges? Is the new white difficult to grind? Is the oil poor, or are the brushes recalcitrant?"

"Alas!" cried the old man, "for a moment I thought that my work was finished, but I am sure that I am mistaken in certain details, and I can not rest until I have cleared my doubts. I am thinking of traveling. I am going to Turkey, to Greece, to Asia, in quest of a model, so as to compare my picture with the different living forms of Nature. Perhaps," and a smile of contentment stole over his face, "perhaps I have Nature herself up there. At times I am half afraid that a breath may waken her, and that she will escape me."

He rose to his feet as if to set out at once.

"Aha!" said Porbus, "I have come just in time to save you the trouble and expense of a journey."

"What?" asked Frenhofer in amazement.

"Young Poussin is loved by a woman of incomparable and flawless beauty. But, dear master, if he consents to lend her to you, at the least you ought to let us see your work."

The old man stood motionless and completely dazed.

"What!" he cried piteously at last, "show you my creation, my bride? Rend the veil that has kept my happiness sacred? It would be an infamous profanation. For ten years I have lived with her; she is mine, mine alone; she loves me. Has she not smiled at me, at each stroke of the brush upon the canvas? She has a soul--the soul that I have given her. She would blush if any eyes but mine should rest on her. To exhibit her! Where is the husband, the lover so vile as to bring the woman he loves to dishonor? When you paint a picture for the court, you do not put your whole soul into it; to courtiers you sell lay figures duly colored. My painting is no painting, it is a sentiment, a passion. She was born in my studio, there she must dwell in maiden solitude, and only when clad can she issue thence. Poetry and women only lay the last veil aside for their lovers Have we Rafael's model, Ariosto's Angelica, Dante's Beatrice? Nay, only their form and semblance. But this picture, locked away above in my studio, is an exception in our art. It is not a canvas, it is a woman--a woman with whom I talk. I share her thoughts, her tears, her laughter. Would you have me fling aside these ten years of happiness like a cloak? Would you have me cease at once to be father, lover, and creator? She is not a creature, but a creation.

"Bring your young painter here. I will give him my treasures; I will give him pictures by Correggio and Michelangelo and Titian; I will kiss his footprints in the dust; but make him my rival! Shame on me. Ah! ah! I am a lover first, and then a painter. Yes, with my latest sigh I could find strength to burn my 'Belle Noiseuse'; but--compel her to endure the gaze of a stranger, a young man and a painter!--Ah! no, no! I would kill him on the morrow who should sully her with a glance! Nay, you, my friend, I would kill you with my own hands in a moment if you did not kneel in reverence before her! Now, will you have me submit my idol to the careless eyes and senseless criticisms of fools? Ah! love is a mystery; it can only live hidden in the depths of the heart. You say, even to your friend, 'Behold her whom I love,' and there is an end of love."

The old man seemed to have grown young again; there was light and life in his eyes, and a faint flush of red in his pale face. His hands shook. Porbus was so amazed by the passionate vehemence of Frenhofer's words that he knew not what to reply to this utterance of an emotion as strange as it was profound. Was Frenhofer sane or mad? Had he fallen a victim to some freak of the artist's fancy? or were these ideas of his produced by the strange lightheadedness which comes over us during the long travail of a work of art. Would it be possible to come to terms with this singular passion?

Harassed by all these doubts, Porbus spoke--"Is it not woman for woman?" he said. "Does not Poussin submit his mistress to your gaze?"

"What is she?" retorted the other. "A mistress who will be false to him sooner or later. Mine will be faithful to me forever."

"Well, well," said Porbus, "let us say no more about it. But you may die before you will find such a flawless beauty as hers, even in Asia, and then your picture will be left unfinished.

"Oh! it is finished," said Frenhof er. "Standing before it you would think that it was a living woman lying on the velvet couch beneath the shadow of the curtains. Perfumes are burning on a golden tripod by her side. You would be tempted to lay your hand upon the tassel of the cord that holds back the curtains; it would seem to you that you saw her breast rise and fall as she breathed; that you beheld the living Catherine Lescault, the beautiful courtezan whom men called 'La Belle Noiseuse.' And yet--if I could but be sure--"

"Then go to Asia," returned Porbus, noticing a certain indecision in Frenhofer's face. And with that Porbus made a few steps toward the door. By that time Gillette and Nicolas Poussin had reached Frenhofer's house. The girl drew away her arm from her lover's as she stood on the threshold, and shrank back as if some presentiment flashed through her mind.

"Oh! what have I come to do here?" she asked of her lover in low vibrating tones, with her eyes fixed on his.

"Gillette, I have left you to decide; I am ready to obey you in everything. You are my conscience and my glory. Go home again; I shall be happier, perhaps, if you do not--"

"Am I my own when you speak to me like that? No, no; I am a child.--Come," she added, seemingly with a violent effort; "if our love dies, if I plant a long regret in my heart, your fame will be the reward of my obedience to your wishes, will it not? Let us go in. I shall still live on as a memory on your palette; that shall be life for me afterward."

The door opened, and the two lovers encountered Porbus, who was surprised by the beauty of Gillette, whose eyes were full of tears. He hurried her, trembling from head to foot, into the presence of the old painter.

"Here!" he cried, "is she not worth all the masterpieces in the world!"

Frenhofer trembled. There stood Gillette in the artless and childlike attitude of some timid and innocent Georgian, carried off by brigands, and confronted with a slave merchant. A shamefaced red flushed her face, her eyes drooped, her hands hung by her side, her strength seemed to have failed her, her tears protested against this outrage. Poussin cursed himself in despair that he should have brought his fair treasure from its hiding-place. The lover overcame the artist, and countless doubts assailed Poussin's heart when he saw youth dawn in the old man's eyes, as, like a painter, he discerned every line of the form hidden beneath the young girl's vesture. Then the lover's savage jealousy awoke.

"Gillette!" he cried, "let us go."

The girl turned joyously at the cry and the tone in which it was uttered, raised her eyes to his, looked at him, and fled to his arms.

"Ah! then you love me," she cried; "you love me!" and she burst into tears.

She had spirit enough to suffer in silence, but she had no strength to hide her joy.

"Oh! leave her with me for one moment," said the old painter, "and you shall compare her with my Catherine... yes--I consent."

Frenhofer's words likewise came from him like a lover's cry. His vanity seemed to be engaged for his semblance of womanhood; he anticipated the triumph of the beauty of his own creation over the beauty of the living girl.

"Do not give him time to change his mind!" cried Porbus, striking Poussin on the shoulder. "The flower of love soon fades, but the flower of art is immortal."

"Then am I only a woman now for him?" said Gillette. She was watching Poussin and Porbus closely.

She raised her head proudly; she glanced at Frenhofer, and her eyes flashed; then as she saw how her lover had fallen again to gazing at the portrait which he had taken at first for a Giorgione--

"Ah!" she cried; "let us go up to the studio. He never gave me such a look."

The sound of her voice recalled Poussin from his dreams.

"Old man," he said, "do you see this blade? I will plunge it into your heart at the first cry from this young girl; I will set fire to your house, and no one shall leave it alive. Do you understand?"

Nicolas Poussin scowled; every word was a menace. Gillette took comfort from the young painter's bearing, and yet more from that gesture, and almost forgave him for sacrificing her to his art and his glorious future.

Porbus and Poussin stood at the door of the studio and looked at each other in silence. At first the painter of the Saint Mary of Egypt hazarded some exclamations: "Ah! she has taken off her clothes; he told her to come into the light--he is comparing the two!" but the sight of the deep distress in Poussin's face suddenly silenced him; and though old painters no longer feel these scruples, so petty in the presence of art, he admired them because they were so natural and gracious in the lover. The young man kept his hand on the hilt of his dagger, and his ear was almost glued to the door. The two men standing in the shadow might have been conspirators waiting for the hour when they might strike down a tyrant.

"Come in, come in," cried the old man. He was radiant with delight. "My work is perfect. I can show her now with pride. Never shall painter, brushes, colors, light, and canvas produce a rival for 'Catherine Lescault,' the beautiful courtezan!"

Porbus and Poussin, burning with eager curiosity, hurried into a vast studio. Everything was in disorder and covered with dust, but they saw a few pictures here and there upon the wall. They stopped first of all in admiration before the life-size figure of a woman partially draped.

"Oh! never mind that," said Frenhofer; "that is a rough daub that I made, a study, a pose, it is nothing. These are my failures," he went on, indicating the enchanting compositions upon the walls of the studio.

This scorn for such works of art struck Porbus and Poussin dumb with amazement. They looked round for the picture of which he had spoken, and could not discover it.

"Look here!" said the old man. His hair was disordered, his face aglow with a more than human exaltation, his eyes glittered, he breathed hard like a young lover frenzied by love.

"Aha!" he cried, "you did not expect to see such perfection! You are looking for a picture, and you see a woman before you. There is such depth in that canvas, the atmosphere is so true that you can not distinguish it from the air that surrounds us. Where is art? Art has vanished, it is invisible! It is the form of a living girl that you see before you. Have I not caught the very hues of life, the spirit of the living line that defines the figure? Is there not the effect produced there like that which all natural objects present in the atmosphere about them, or fishes in the water? Do you see how the figure stands out against the background? Does it not seem to you that you pass your hand along the back? But then for seven years I studied and watched how the daylight blends with the objects on which it falls. And the hair, the light pours over it like a flood, does it not?... Ah! she breathed, I am sure that she breathed! Her breast--ah, see! Who would not fall on his knees before her? Her pulses throb. She will rise to her feet. Wait!"

"Do you see anything?" Poussin asked of Porbus.

"No... do you?"

"I see nothing."

The two painters left the old man to his ecstasy, and tried to ascertain whether the