the magic skin(驴皮记)-第5章

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a　suit　of　Milanese　armor；　brightly　polished　and　richly　wrought；　a
paladin's　eyes　seemed　to　sparkle　yet　under　the　visor。

This　sea　of　inventions；　fashions；　furniture；　works　of　art　and　fiascos；
made　for　him　a　poem　without　end。　Shapes　and　colors　and　projects　all
lived　again　for　him；　but　his　mind　received　no　clear　and　perfect
conception。　It　was　the　poet's　task　to　complete　the　sketches　of　the
great　master；　who　had　scornfully　mingled　on　his　palette　the　hues　of
the　numberless　vicissitudes　of　human　life。　When　the　world　at　large　at
last　released　him；　when　he　had　pondered　over　many　lands；　many　epochs；
and　various　empires；　the　young　man　came　back　to　the　life　of　the
individual。　He　impersonated　fresh　characters；　and　turned　his　mind　to
details；　rejecting　the　life　of　nations　as　a　burden　too　overwhelming
for　a　single　soul。

Yonder　was　a　sleeping　child　modeled　in　wax；　a　relic　of　Ruysch's
collection；　an　enchanting　creation　which　brought　back　the　happiness　of
his　own　childhood。　The　cotton　garment　of　a　Tahitian　maid　next
fascinated　him；　he　beheld　the　primitive　life　of　nature；　the　real
modesty　of　naked　chastity；　the　joys　of　an　idleness　natural　to　mankind；
a　peaceful　fate　by　a　slow　river　of　sweet　water　under　a　plantain　tree
that　bears　its　pleasant　manna　without　the　toil　of　man。　Then　all　at
once　he　became　a　corsair；　investing　himself　with　the　terrible　poetry
that　Lara　has　given　to　the　part：　the　thought　came　at　the　sight　of　the
mother…of…pearl　tints　of　a　myriad　sea…shells；　and　grew　as　he　saw
madrepores　redolent　of　the　sea…weeds　and　the　storms　of　the　Atlantic。

The　sea　was　forgotten　again　at　a　distant　view　of　exquisite　miniatures；
he　admired　a　precious　missal　in　manuscript；　adorned　with　arabesques　in
gold　and　blue。　Thoughts　of　peaceful　life　swayed　him；　he　devoted
himself　afresh　to　study　and　research；　longing　for　the　easy　life　of　the
monk；　devoid　alike　of　cares　and　pleasures；　and　from　the　depths　of　his
cell　he　looked　out　upon　the　meadows；　woods；　and　vineyards　of　his
convent。　Pausing　before　some　work　of　Teniers；　he　took　for　his　own　the
helmet　of　the　soldier　or　the　poverty　of　the　artisan；　he　wished　to　wear
a　smoke…begrimed　cap　with　these　Flemings；　to　drink　their　beer　and　join
their　game　at　cards；　and　smiled　upon　the　comely　plumpness　of　a　peasant
woman。　He　shivered　at　a　snowstorm　by　Mieris；　he　seemed　to　take　part　in
Salvator　Rosa's　battle…piece；　he　ran　his　fingers　over　a　tomahawk　form
Illinois；　and　felt　his　own　hair　rise　as　he　touched　a　Cherokee
scalping…knife。　He　marveled　over　the　rebec　that　he　set　in　the　hands　of
some　lady　of　the　land；　drank　in　the　musical　notes　of　her　ballad；　and
in　the　twilight　by　the　gothic　arch　above　the　hearth　he　told　his　love
in　a　gloom　so　deep　that　he　could　not　read　his　answer　in　her　eyes。

He　caught　at　all　delights；　at　all　sorrows；　grasped　at　existence　in
every　form；　and　endowed　the　phantoms　conjured　up　from　that　inert　and
plastic　material　so　liberally　with　his　own　life　and　feelings；　that　the
sound　of　his　own　footsteps　reached　him　as　if　from　another　world；　or　as
the　hum　of　Paris　reaches　the　towers　of　Notre　Dame。

He　ascended　the　inner　staircase　which　led　to　the　first　floor；　with　its
votive　shields；　panoplies；　carved　shrines；　and　figures　on　the　wall　at
every　step。　Haunted　by　the　strangest　shapes；　by　marvelous　creations
belonging　to　the　borderland　betwixt　life　and　death；　he　walked　as　if
under　the　spell　of　a　dream。　His　own　existence　became　a　matter　of　doubt
to　him；　he　was　neither　wholly　alive　nor　dead；　like　the　curious　objects
about　him。　The　light　began　to　fade　as　he　reached　the　show…rooms；　but
the　treasures　of　gold　and　silver　heaped　up　there　scarcely　seemed　to
need　illumination　from　without。　The　most　extravagant　whims　of
prodigals；　who　have　run　through　millions　to　perish　in　garrets；　had
left　their　traces　here　in　this　vast　bazar　of　human　follies。　Here；
beside　a　writing　desk；　made　at　the　cost　of　100；000　francs；　and　sold
for　a　hundred　pence；　lay　a　lock　with　a　secret　worth　a　king's　ransom。
The　human　race　was　revealed　in　all　the　grandeur　of　its　wretchedness；
in　all　the　splendor　of　its　infinite　littleness。　An　ebony　table　that　an
artist　might　worship；　carved　after　Jean　Goujon's　designs；　in　years　of
toil；　had　been　purchased　perhaps　at　the　price　of　firewood。　Precious
caskets；　and　things　that　fairy　hands　might　have　fashioned；　lay　there
in　heaps　like　rubbish。

〃You　must　have　the　worth　of　millions　here！〃　cried　the　young　man　as　he
entered　the　last　of　an　immense　suite　of　rooms；　all　decorated　and　gilt
by　eighteenth　century　artists。

〃Thousands　of　millions；　you　might　say；〃　said　the　florid　shopman；　〃but
you　have　seen　nothing　as　yet。　Go　up　to　the　third　floor；　and　you　shall
see！〃

The　stranger　followed　his　guide　to　a　fourth　gallery；　where　one　by　one
there　passed　before　his　wearied　eyes　several　pictures　by　Poussin；　a
magnificent　statue　by　Michael　Angelo；　enchanting　landscapes　by　Claude
Lorraine；　a　Gerard　Dow　（like　a　stray　page　from　Sterne）；　Rembrandts；
Murillos；　and　pictures　by　Velasquez；　as　dark　and　full　of　color　as　a
poem　of　Byron's；　then　came　classic　bas…reliefs；　finely…cut　agates；
wonderful　cameos！　Works　of　art　upon　works　of　art；　till　the　craftsman's
skill　palled　on　the　mind；　masterpiece　after　masterpiece　till　art
itself　became　hateful　at　last　and　enthusiasm　died。　He　came　upon　a
Madonna　by　Raphael；　but　he　was　tired　of　Raphael；　a　figure　by　Correggio
never　received　the　glance　it　demanded　of　him。　A　priceless　vase　of
antique　porphyry　carved　round　about　with　pictures　of　the　most
grotesquely　wanton　of　Roman　divinities；　the　pride　of　some　Corinna；
scarcely　drew　a　smile　from　him。

The　ruins　of　fifteen　hundred　vanished　years　oppressed　him；　he　sickened
under　all　this　human　thought；　felt　bored　by　all　this　luxury　and　art。
He　struggled　in　vain　against　the　constantly　renewed　fantastic　shapes
that　sprang　up　from　under　his　feet；　like　children　of　some　sportive
demon。

Are　not　fearful　poisons　set　up　in　the　soul　by　a　swift　concentration　of
all　her　energies；　her　enjoyments；　or　ideas；　as　modern　chemistry；　in
its　caprice；　repeats　the　action　of　creation　by　some　gas　or　other？　Do
not　many　men　perish　under　the　shock　of　the　sudden　expansion　of　some
moral　acid　within　them？

〃What　is　there　in　that　box？〃　he　inquired；　as　he　reached　a　large　closet
final　triumph　of　human　skill；　originality；　wealth；　and　splendor；　in
which　there　hung　a　large；　square　mahogany　coffer；　suspended　from　a
nail　by　a　silver　chain。

〃Ah；　monsieur　keeps　the　key　of　it；〃　said　the　stout　assistant
mysteriously。　〃If　you　wish　to　see　the　portrait；　I　will　gladly　venture
to　tell　him。〃

〃Venture！〃　said　the　young　man；　〃then　is　your　master　a　prince？〃

〃I　don't　know　what　he　is；〃　the　other　answered。　Equally　astonished；
each　looked　for　a　moment　at　the　other。　Then　construing　the　stranger's
silence　as　an　order；　the　apprentice　left　him　alone　in　the　closet。

Have　you　never　launched　into　the　immensity　of　time　and　space　as　you
read　the　geological　writings　of　Cuvier？　Carried　by　his　fancy；　have　you
hung　as　if　suspended　by　a　magician's　wand　over　the　illimitable　abyss
of　the　past？　When　the　fossil　bones　of　animals　belonging　to
civilizations　before　the　Flood　are　turned　up　in　bed　after　bed　and
layer　upon　layer　of　the　quarries　of　Montmartre　or　among　the　schists　of
the　Ural　range；　the　soul　receives　with　dismay　a　glimpse　of　millions　of
peoples　forgotten　by　feeble　human　memory　and　unrecognized　by　permanent
divine　tradition；　peoples　whose　ashes　cover　our　globe　with　two　feet　of
earth　that　yields　bread　to　us　and　flowers。

Is　not　Cuvier　the　great　poet　of　our　era？　Byron　has　given　admirable
expression　to　certain　moral　conflicts；　but　our　immortal　naturalist　has
reconstructed　past　worlds　from　a　few　bleached　bones；　has　rebuilt
cities；　like　Cadmus；　with　monsters'　teeth；　has　animated　forests　with
all　the　secrets　of　zoology　gleaned　from　a　piece　of　coal；　has
discovered　a　giant　population　from　the　footprints　of　a　mammoth。　These
forms　stand　erect；　grow　large；　and　fill　regions　commensurate　with
their　giant　size。　He　treats　figures　like　a　poet；　a　naught　set　beside　a
seven　by　him　produces　awe。

He　can　call　up　nothingness　before　you　without　the　phrases　of　a
charlatan。　He　searches　a　lump　of　gypsum；　finds　an　impression　in　it；
s