twice-told tales- the prophetic pictures-第3章

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hours　before　a　mirror；　she　could　not　have　caught　the　look　so

successfully。　Had　the　picture　itself　been　a　mirror；　it　could　not

have　thrown　back　her　present　aspect　with　stronger　and　more

melancholy　truth。　She　appeared　quite　unconscious　of　the　dialogue

between　the　artist　and　her　lover。

　　　〃Elinor；〃　exclaimed　Walter；　in　amazement；　〃what　change　has　come

over　you？〃

　　　She　did　not　hear　him；　nor　desist　from　her　fixed　gaze；　till　he

seized　her　hand；　and　thus　attracted　her　notice；　then；　with　a　sudden

tremor；　she　looked　from　the　picture　to　the　face　of　the　original。

　　　〃Do　you　see　no　change　in　your　portrait？〃　asked　she。

　　　〃In　mine？　None！〃　replied　Walter；　examining　it。　〃But　let　me　see！

Yes；　there　is　a　slight　change…　an　improvement；　I　think；　in　the

picture；　though　none　in　the　likeness。　It　has　a　livelier　expression

than　yesterday；　as　if　some　bright　thought　were　flashing　from　the　eyes；

and　about　to　be　uttered　from　the　lips。　Now　that　I　have　caught　the

look；　it　becomes　very　decided。〃

　　　While　he　was　intent　on　these　observations；　Elinor　turned　to　the

painter。　She　regarded　him　with　grief　and　awe；　and　felt　that　he

repaid　her　with　sympathy　and　commiseration；　though　wherefore；　she

could　but　vaguely　guess。

　　　〃That　look！〃　whispered　she；　and　shuddered。　〃How　came　it　there？〃

　　　〃Madam；〃　said　the　painter；　sadly；　taking　her　hand；　and　leading

her　apart；　〃in　both　these　pictures；　I　have　painted　what　I　saw。　The

artist…　the　true　artist…　must　look　beneath　the　exterior。　It　is　his

gift…　his　proudest；　but　often　a　melancholy　one…　to　see　the　inmost

soul；　and；　by　a　power　indefinable　even　to　himself；　to　make　it　glow

or　darken　upon　the　canvas；　in　glances　that　express　the　thought　and

sentiment　of　years。　Would　that　I　might　convince　myself　of　error　in　the

present　instance！〃

　　　They　had　now　approached　the　table；　on　which　were　heads　in　chalk；

hands　almost　as　expressive　as　ordinary　faces；　ivied　church　towers；

thatched　cottages；　old　thunder…stricken　trees；　Oriental　and　antique

costume；　and　all　such　picturesque　vagaries　of　an　artist's　idle

moments。　Turning　them　over；　with　seeming　carelessness；　a　crayon　sketch

of　two　figures　was　disclosed。

　　　〃If　I　have　failed；〃　continued　he；　〃if　your　heart　does　not　see

itself　reflected　in　your　own　portrait…　if　you　have　no　secret　cause

to　trust　my　delineation　of　the　other…　it　is　not　yet　too　late　to

alter　them。　I　might　change　the　action　of　these　figures　too。　But

would　it　influence　the　event？〃

　　　He　directed　her　notice　to　the　sketch。　A　thrill　ran　through　Elinor's

frame；　a　shriek　was　upon　her　lips；　but　she　stifled　it；　with　the

self…command　that　becomes　habitual　to　all　who　hide　thoughts　of　fear

and　anguish　within　their　bosoms。　Turning　from　the　table；　she　perceived

that　Walter　had　advanced　near　enough　to　have　seen　the　sketch；　though

she　could　not　determine　whether　it　had　caught　his　eye。

　　　〃We　will　not　have　the　pictures　altered；〃　said　she；　hastily。　〃If

mine　is　sad；　I　shall　but　look　the　gayer　for　the　contrast。〃

　　　〃Be　it　so；〃　answered　the　painter；　bowing。　〃May　your　griefs　be

such　fanciful　ones　that　only　your　picture　may　mourn　for　them！　For　your

joys…　may　they　be　true　and　deep；　and　paint　themselves　upon　this　lovely

face　till　it　quite　belie　my　art！〃

　　　After　the　marriage　of　Walter　and　Elinor；　the　pictures　formed　the

two　most　splendid　ornaments　of　their　abode。　They　hung　side　by　side；

separated　by　a　narrow　panel；　appearing　to　eye　each　other　constantly；

yet　always　returning　the　gaze　of　the　spectator。　Travelled　gentlemen；

who　professed　a　knowledge　of　such　subjects；　reckoned　these　among　the

most　admirable　specimens　of　modern　portraiture；　while　common　observers

compared　them　with　the　originals；　feature　by　feature；　and　were

rapturous　in　praise　of　the　likeness。　But　it　was　on　a　third　class…

neither　travelled　connoisseurs　nor　common　observers；　but　people　of

natural　sensibility…　that　the　pictures　wrought　their　strongest　effect。

Such　persons　might　gaze　carelessly　at　first；　but；　becoming　interested；

would　return　day　after　day；　and　study　these　painted　faces　like　the

pages　of　a　mystic　volume。　Walter　Ludlow's　portrait　attracted　their

earliest　notice。　In　the　absence　of　himself　and　his　bride；　they

sometimes　disputed　as　to　the　expression　which　the　painter　had　intended

to　throw　upon　the　features；　all　agreeing　that　there　was　a　look　of

earnest　import；　though　no　two　explained　it　alike。　There　was　less

diversity　of　opinion　in　regard　to　Elinor's　picture。　They　differed；

indeed；　in　their　attempts　to　estimate　the　nature　and　depth　of　the

gloom　that　dwelt　upon　her　face；　but　agreed　that　it　was　gloom；　and

alien　from　the　natural　temperament　of　their　youthful　friend。　A　certain

fanciful　person　announced；　as　the　result　of　much　scrutiny；　that　both

these　pictures　were　parts　of　one　design；　and　that　the　melancholy

strength　of　feeling；　in　Elinor's　countenance；　bore　reference　to　the

more　vivid　emotion；　or；　as　he　termed　it；　the　wild　passion；　in　that

of　Walter。　Though　unskilled　in　the　art；　he　even　began　a　sketch；　in

which　the　action　of　the　two　figures　was　to　correspond　with　their

mutual　expression。

　　　It　was　whispered　among　friends　that；　day　by　day；　Elinor's　face

was　assuming　a　deeper　shade　of　pensiveness；　which　threatened　soon　to

render　her　too　true　a　counterpart　of　her　melancholy　picture。　Walter；

on　the　other　hand；　instead　of　acquiring　the　vivid　look　which　the

painter　had　given　him　on　the　canvas；　became　reserved　and　downcast；

with　no　outward　flashes　of　emotion；　however　it　might　be　smouldering

within。　In　course　of　time；　Elinor　hung　a　gorgeous　curtain　of　purple

silk；　wrought　with　flowers　and　fringed　with　heavy　golden　tassels；

before　the　pictures；　under　pretence　that　the　dust　would　tarnish

their　hues；　or　the　light　dim　them。　It　was　enough。　Her　visitors　felt；

that　the　massive　folds　of　the　silk　must　never　be　withdrawn；　nor　the

portraits　mentioned　in　her　presence。

　　　Time　wore　on；　and　the　painter　came　again。　He　had　been　far　enough　to

the　north　to　see　the　silver　cascade　of　the　Crystal　Hills；　and　to

look　over　the　vast　round　of　cloud　and　forest　from　the　summit　of　New

England's　loftiest　mountain。　But　he　did　not　profane　that　scene　by

the　mockery　of　his　art。　He　had　also　lain　in　a　canoe　on　the　bosom　of

Lake　George；　making　his　soul　the　mirror　of　its　loveliness　and

grandeur；　till　not　a　picture　in　the　Vatican　was　more　vivid　than　his

recollection。　He　had　gone　with　the　Indian　hunters　to　Niagara；　and

there；　again；　had　flung　his　hopeless　pencil　down　the　precipice；

feeling　that　he　could　as　soon　paint　the　roar；　as　aught　else　that

goes　to　make　up　the　wondrous　cataract。　In　truth；　it　was　seldom　his

impulse　to　copy　natural　scenery；　except　as　a　framework　for　the

delineations　of　the　human　form　and　face；　instinct　with　thought；

passion；　or　suffering。　With　store　of　such　his　adventurous　ramble　had

enriched　him：　the　stern　dignity　of　Indian　chiefs；　the　dusky　loveliness

of　Indian　girls；　the　domestic　life　of　wigwams；　the　stealthy　march；　the

battle　beneath　gloomy　pine…trees；　the　frontier　fortress　with　its

garrison；　the　anomaly　of　the　old　French　partisan；　bred　in　courts；

but　grown　gray　in　shaggy　deserts；　such　were　the　scenes　and　portraits

that　he　had　sketched。　The　glow　of　perilous　moments；　flashes　of　wild

feeling；　struggles　of　fierce　power…　love；　hate；　grief；　frenzy；　in　a

word；　all　the　worn…out　heart　of　the　old　earth　had　been　revealed　to　him

under　a　new　form。　His　portfolio　was　filled　with　graphic

illustrations　of　the　volume　of　his　memory；　which　genius　would

transmute　into　its　own　substance；　and　imbue　with　immortality。　He

felt　that　the　deep　wisdom　in　his　art；　which　he　had　sought　so　far；

was　found。

　　　But　amid　stern　or　lovely　nature；　in　the　perils　of　the　forest　or　its

overwhelming　peacefulness；　still　there　had　been　two　phantoms；　the

companions　of　his　way。　Like　all　other　men　around　whom　an　engrossing

purpose　wreathes　itself；　he　was　insulated　from　the　mass　of　human　kind。

He　had　no　aim…　no　pleasure…　no　sympathies…　but　what　were　ultimately

connected　with　his　art。　Though　gentle　in　manner　and　upright　in

intent　and　action；　he　did　not　possess　kindly　feelings；　his　heart　was

cold；　no　living　creature　cou