未来千年文学备忘录_卡尔维诺-第21章

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r　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　es　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　inplete。　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　e　of　it？　your　work　has　neither　the　severe　charm　of　a　dry　execution　nor　the　magical　illusion　of　italian　_chiaroscuro_。　titians　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　mistresss　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　pelled　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　natures　secrets　from　her！　you　are　reproducing　mechanically　the　model　that　you　copied　in　your　masters　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　ing　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；　pelled；　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　municating　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　drawingthe　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