I was in the Italian mountains when I fell from my horse and hurt myself. I needed to rest but in that wild, lonely place there was only one house. It was a fine old building, very big, but dark and empty. My servant, Pedro, broke the lock on a door and helped me inside.
I looked around at the furniture, the carpets, the paintings.'The people who lived here,' I thought, 'left only a short time ago.'
We used one of the smaller rooms in a far corner of the building. There were a great many modern paintings on the walls, and more in the dark corners of the room. It was getting dark and Pedro lit the tall candles on the table by my bed. There was a book on the table, and I began reading it. It described and told the story of each of the pictures on the walls.
Midnight came and went, and I moved the candles closer to me, to give a better light for reading. But the light also fell on one of the darker corners of the room – and there I saw for the first time an oval portrait of a beautiful young woman, just her head and shoulders. It was a very fine painting, but there was also something different about it, something strange, something... I did not know what it was, but I could not take my eyes away from that portrait. For about an hour I sat in the bed, staring at it.
It was a very fine painting, but there was also something strange about it.
And at last I found its secret. It was in her face, in her eyes.'She could easily be... alive,' I thought. 'She looks alive. Those eyes...'
Suddenly I felt cold, and a great fear filled me. My hands began to shake, and I had to look away.
Carefully, I moved the candles again until the light no longer fell in that corner, and the portrait went back into darkness. I found the place in the book which told the story of the oval portrait, and began to read.
She was a young woman of great beauty, and even more beautiful when she was smiling and laughing.
It was a dark day when she saw, and loved, and married the painter. He was already famous for his art, and was always studying and working. The great love of his life was his work, his painting.
His beautiful young wife was playful, full of life and light and smiles, as happy and as loving as a child. But she learned to fear and then to hate everything about painting. Her husband's work was her enemy, because it kept him away from her, hour after hour.
So it was a terrible thing for her when he said he wanted to paint her portrait. But she agreed because she loved him and wanted to please him.
For many weeks she sat in a dark high room where the light from above fell onto the painting and onto her. Day after day, she sat still and silent, not moving, not speaking. But she went on smiling and smiling because she saw that the painter loved his work so much.
He painted hour after hour, not speaking a word, thinking only of his work. Those who saw the portrait looked and said softly, 'It is your finest work. Oh, you do love her dearly! We can see this in the portrait.'
And it was true. But he did not look at her now. He went on working, more and more wildly, thinking and dreaming only of the portrait and never of his wife. Day by day she looked more and more unhappy, but he did not see it. Her face and body were now thin, but he did not see it. He took the warm colour from her face, and painted it into the face in his portrait – but he could not, he would not see it.
He painted hour after hour, not speaking a word, thinking only of his work.
After many weeks, he finished. One last touch of paint on the mouth, a last touch to the eye...
The painter stood back and looked at the portrait of his wife. How wonderful it was! But while he stared, he began to shake and his face went white. Then he cried out with a loud voice, 'This is LIFE itself! She LIVES in this portrait!' and he turned suddenly to look at the woman he loved. She was dead!
playful adj. very active, happy, and wanting to have fun 活潑的
touch n. a small detail that improves or completes something (畫筆等的)輕觸,一筆
我身處意大利的群山之中,卻從馬上掉下來,受了傷。我需要休息,可是在那人跡罕至的蠻荒之地只有一座房子。那是一座頗為精美的老房子,房子很大,但是陰暗且空蕩蕩的。我的仆人佩德羅把門鎖撬開,扶我走了進(jìn)去。
我打量著四周的家具、地毯和畫作。“住在這里的人,”我想,“是不久前才離開的。”
我們占用了房子偏遠(yuǎn)角落的一個小房間。墻上掛著很多現(xiàn)代畫作,房間黑暗的角落里還有更多的畫。天色漸暗,佩德羅點亮了我床邊桌子上高高的蠟燭。桌上擺著一本書,我開始讀了起來。書里描述的都是墻上一幅幅畫作的故事。
午夜來而復(fù)去,我把蠟燭向自己這邊挪了挪,好讓光線更亮一些,便于讀書。而燭光也落在了房間一個比較黑暗的角落里——在那兒,我初次看見了一幅年輕美人的橢圓形畫像,畫像上只有她的頭部和肩膀。那幅畫筆觸精細(xì),但與此同時也讓人感覺有些不一樣,有些奇怪,有些……我不知道是哪里不對勁,但我無法把目光從畫像上移開。我坐在床上盯著畫像,看了大概有一個小時。
最后我終于發(fā)現(xiàn)了它的秘密。秘密就在她的臉上,在她的眼睛里?!八喼本拖瘛畹囊粯??!蔽蚁耄八瓷先ヨ蜩蛉缟?。那雙眼睛……”
突然我感到渾身發(fā)冷,心里充滿了巨大的恐懼。我的雙手開始發(fā)抖,我趕緊把目光移開。
小心翼翼地,我再次挪動蠟燭,直到燭光再也照不到那個角落,那幅肖像又回到黑暗之中。我在書中翻到了講述這幅橢圓形畫像的故事之處,便開始讀了起來。
她是位美若天仙的年輕女子,她一笑,那種美麗就更增添幾分。
一個黑暗的日子里,她與一位畫家相遇、相愛,并結(jié)為了夫妻。這位畫家當(dāng)時已因畫作聞名,他總是在學(xué)習(xí)和作畫。他生命中的至愛就是他的工作,他的畫。
他年輕美麗的妻子天性活潑,充滿朝氣,開朗愛笑,像孩子一樣快樂,對一切都充滿了愛。可是她學(xué)會了害怕,學(xué)會了憎恨一切跟畫畫有關(guān)的事。她丈夫的工作是她的敵人,因為工作使他連續(xù)好幾個小時不能與她在一起。
所以,那個提議——他說他想給她畫幅肖像——對她來說實在是件可怕的事。但是她同意了,因為她愛他,想要讓他高興。
長達(dá)好幾周的時間里,她坐在一個高頂?shù)陌凳依?,燈光從頂上照射到畫作和她的身上。日?fù)一日,她靜靜地坐著,一動不動,一聲不吭。但她一直微笑著,因為她看到畫家是如此熱愛他的工作。
他連續(xù)幾個小時畫著畫,一句話也不說,心里想的只有他的畫。那些看到肖像的人都邊觀賞邊輕聲說:“這是你最好的作品。噢,你是那么愛她!我們能從肖像上看出來?!?/p>
的確如此??涩F(xiàn)在他不再看她了。他繼續(xù)畫著,越來越癡狂,心里想的、晚上夢的只有那幅肖像,沒有他的妻子。日復(fù)一日,她看上去越來越不開心,可是他沒有看出來。她的臉龐和身體變得瘦削,可是他沒有看出來。他從她臉上取走了溫暖的色彩,把它畫到了肖像里的那張臉龐上——可是他沒有看出來,也不想看出來。
數(shù)周之后,他完成了畫作。最后給嘴唇點上一抹顏色,給眼睛涂上一抹顏色……
畫家后退幾步,看著他妻子的肖像。它是多么美妙呀!可就在他凝視肖像時,他開始渾身發(fā)抖,臉色也變得蒼白。然后,他大聲喊了起來:“這就是生命!她活在這幅肖像里!”然后,他突然轉(zhuǎn)身去看他愛的那個女人。她已經(jīng)死了!
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