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LESSON 9
It ma y no t be k no w n to a l l t he a d mi r er s o f t he geniu s o f A l b er t Dü r er, t ha t t ha t fa mou s engraver was endowed with a “better half,” so peevish in temper, that she was the torment not only of his own life, but also of his pupils and domestics. Some of the former were cunning enough to purchase peace for themselves by conciliating the common tyrant, but woe to those unwilling or unable to offer aught in propitiation. Even the wiser ones were spared only by having their offenses visited upon a scapegoat.
Thi s un fo r tuna te in divi dua l wa s Sa mue l Du ho b re t, a di s ci p le w ho m Dü r er ha d a d mi t te d into his school out of charity. He was employed in painting signs and the coarser tapestry then used in Germany. He was about forty years of age, little, ugly, and humpbacked; he was the butt of every ill joke among his fellow disciples, and was picked out as an object of especial di s li ke b y Ma da me Dü r er. Bu t he bo re a l l wi t h pa tien ce, an d a te, wi t hou t co m p lain t, t he scanty crusts given him every day for dinner, while his companions often fared sumptuously.
Poor Samuel had not a spice of envy or malice in his heart. He would, at any time, have toiled half the night to assist or serve those who were wont oftenest to laugh at him, or abuse him loudest for his stupidity. True, he had not the qualities of social humor or wit, but he was an example of indefatigable industry. He came to his studies every morning at daybreak, and remained at work until sunset. Then he retired into his lonely chamber, and wrought for his own amusement.
Duhobret labored three years in this way, giving himself no time for exercise or recreation. He said nothing to a single human being of the paintings he had produced in the solitude of his cell, by the light of his lamp. But his bodily energies wasted and declined under incessant toil. There was none sufficiently interested in the poor artist, to mark the feverish hue of his wrinkled cheek, or the increasing attenuation of his misshapen frame.
None observed that the uninviting pittance set aside for his midday repast, remained for several days untouched. Samuel made his appearance regularly as ever, and bore with the same meekness the gibes of his fellow-pupils, or the taunts of Madame Durer, and worked with the same untiring assiduity, though his hands would sometimes tremble, and his eyes become suffused, a weakness probably owing to the excessive use he had made of them.
One morning, Duhobret was missing at the scene of his daily labors. His absence created much remark, and many were the jokes passed upon the occasion. One surmised this, and another that, as the cause of the phenomenon; and it was finally agreed that the poor fellow must have worked himself into an absolute skeleton, and taken his final stand in the glassframe of some apothecary, or been blown away by a puff of wind, while his door happened to stand open. No one thought of going to his lodgings to look after him or his remains.
Meanwhile, the object of their mirth was tossing on a bed of sickness. Disease, which had been slowly sapping the foundations of his strength, burned in every vein; his eyes rolled and flashed in delirium; his lips, usually so silent, muttered wild and incoherent words. In his daysof health, poor Duhobret had his dreams, as all artists, rich or poor, will sometimes have. He had thought that the fruit of many years’ labor, disposed of to advantage, might procure him enough to live, in an economical way, for the rest of his life. He never anticipated fame or fortune; the height of his ambition or hope was, to possess a tenement large enough to shelter him from the inclemencies of the weather, with means enough to purchase one comfortable meal per day.
Now, alas! however, even that one hope had deserted him. He thought himself dying, and thought it hard to die without one to look kindly upon him, without the words of comfort that might soothe his passage to another world. He fancied his bed surrounded by fiendish faces,grinning at his sufferings, and taunting his inability to summon power to disperse them. At length the apparition faded away, and the patient sunk into an exhausted slumber.
He awoke unrefreshed; it was the fifth day he had lain there neglected. His mouth wasparched; he turned over, and feebly stretched out his hand toward the earthen pitcher, from which, since the first day of his illness, he had quenched his thirst. Alas! it was empty! Samuel lay for a few moments thinking what he should do. He knew he must die of want if he remained there alone; but to whom could he apply for aid?
An idea seemed, at last, to strike him. He arose slowly, and with difficulty, from the bed,went to the other side of the room, and took up the picture he had painted last. He resolved to carry it to the shop of a salesman, and hoped to obtain for it sufficient to furnish him withthe necessaries of life for a week longer. Despair lent him strength to walk, and to carry his burden. On his way, he passed a house, about which there was a crowd. He drew nigh, asked what was going on, and received for an answer, that there was to be a sale of many specimens of art, collected by an amateur in the course of thirty years. It has often happened that collections made with infinite pains by the proprietor, have been sold without mercy ordiscrimination after his death.
Something whispered to the weary Duhobret, that here would be the market for his picture. It was a long way yet to the house of the picture dealer, and he made up his mind at once. He worked his way through the crowd, dragged himself up the steps, and, after many inquiries, found the auctioneer. That personage was a busy man, with a handful of papers; he was inclined to notice somewhat roughly the interruption of the lean, sallow hunchback, imploring as were his gesture and language.
“What do you call your picture?” at length, said he, carefully looking at it.
“It is a view of the Abbey of Newburg, with its village and the surrounding landscape,” replied the eager and trembling artist.
The auctioneer again scanned it contemptuously, and asked what it was worth. “Oh, that is what you please; whatever it will bring,” answered Duhobret.
“Hem! it is too odd to please, I should think; I can promise you no more than three thalers.”
Poor Samuel sighed deeply. He had spent on that piece the nights of many months. But he was starving now; and the pitiful sum offered would give bread for a few days. He nodded his head to the auctioneer, and retiring took his seat in a corner.
The sale began. After some paintings and engravings had been disposed of, Samuel’s was exhibited. “Who bids at three thalers? Who bids?” was the cry. Duhobret listened eagerly, but none answered. “Will it find a purchaser?” said he despondingly, to himself. Still there was
a dead silence. He dared not look up; for it seemed to him that all the people were laughing at the folly of the artist, who could be insane enough to offer so worthless a piece at a public sale.
“What will become of me?” was his mental inquiry. “That work is certainly my best;” and he ventured to steal another glance. “Does it not seem that the wind actually stirs those boughs and moves those leaves! How transparent is the water! What life breathes in the animals that quench their thirst at that spring! How that steeple shines! How beautiful are those clustering trees!” This was the last expiring throb of an artist’s vanity. The ominous silence continued, and Samuel, sick at heart, buried his face in his hands.
“Twenty-one thalers!” murmured a faint voice, just as the auctioneer was about to knock down the picture. The stupefied painter gave a start of joy. He raised his head and looked tosee from whose lips those blessed words had come. It was the picture dealer, to whom he had first thought of applying.
“Fifty thalers,” cried a sonorous voice. This time a tall man in black was the speaker. There was a silence of hushed expectation. “One hundred thalers,” at length thundered the picture dealer.
“Three hundred!” “Five hundred!” “One thousand!”
Another profound silence, and the crowd pressed around the two opponents, who stood opposite each other with eager and angry looks.
“Two thousand thalers!” cried the picture dealer, and glanced around him triumphantly, when he saw his adversary hesitate. “Ten thousand!” vociferated the tall man, his face crimson with rage, and his hands clinched convulsively. The dealer grew paler; his frame shook with agitation; he made two or three efforts, and at last cried out “Twenty thousand!”
His tall opponent was not to be vanquished. He bid forty thousand. The dealer stopped; the other laughed a low laugh of insolent triumph, and a murmur of admiration was heard in the crowd. It was too much for the dealer; he felt his peace was at stake. “Fifty thousand!” exclaimed he in desperation. It was the tall man’s turn to hesitate. Again the whole crowd were breathless. At length, tossing his arms in defiance, he shouted “One hundred thousand!”The crestfallen picture dealer withdrew; the tall man victoriously bore away the prize.
How was it, meanwhile, with Duhobret, while this exciting scene was going on? He was hardly master of his senses. He rubbed his eyes repeatedly, and murmured to himself, “After such a dream, my misery will seem more cruel!” When the contest ceased, he rose up bewildered, and went about asking first one, then another, the price of the picture just sold. Itseemed that his apprehension could not at once be enlarged to so vast a conception.
The possessor was proceeding homeward, when a decrepit, lame, and humpbacked invalid, tottering along by the aid of a stick, presented himself before him. He threw him a piece of money, and waved his hand as dispensing with his thanks. “May it please your honor,” said the supposed beggar, “I am the painter of that picture!” and again he rubbed his eyes.
The tall mall was Count Dunkelsback, one of the richest noblemen in Germany. He stopped, took out his pocketbook, took out a leaf, and wrote on it a few lines. “Take it, friend,” said he; “it is a check for your money. Adieu.”
Duhobret finally persuaded himself that it was not a dream. He became the master of acastle, sold it, and resolved to live luxuriously for the rest of his life, and to cultivate painting as a pastime. But, alas, for the vanity of human expectation! He had borne privation and toil; prosperity was too much for him, as was proved soon after, when an indigestion carried him off. His picture remained long in the cabinet of Count Dunkelsback, and afterward passed into the possession of the King of Bavaria.
【中文阅读】
对所有崇拜阿尔伯特·丢勒艺术天才的人来说他们也许不晓得的是，那位著名雕刻家有“贤内助”，由于他脾气乖戾，因此她不但在他自己的生活中饱受折磨，而且累及他的学生和家庭。他从前的学生都非常狡猾，通过取悦这位共同的暴君来达到相安无事的目的，可是对那些倒霉蛋来说，他们不愿意或者说无法提供任何让他满意的东西。甚至更明智的人也只有通过惩罚替罪羊，来发泄心中的不快。
这位不幸的家伙叫萨缪尔·杜霍布赖特，丢勒出于慈悲心肠才允许忝列门下。他受雇于在标牌上在粗制挂毯上涂色，然后将这些产品运往德国。他大约四十岁上下的样子，身材矮小，相貌丑陋，而且背驼得厉害。在丢勒的这些学徒中间，杜霍布赖特是大家恶作剧的对象，每个恶毒的笑话都离不开他，尤其不受丢勒夫人喜欢，是她的眼中钉。杜霍布赖特耐心地忍受着这一切，毫无怨言地承受下来，每天晚餐只给他很少的圆面包，而他的同伴则吃得很丰盛。
可怜的萨缪尔在心里竟然没有一丝妒忌和怨恨。在任何时候，他都埋头干到半夜三更，来协助或为那些经常嘲笑他、高声骂他笨蛋的人打下手。实际上，他天生没有幽默感，也不会说俏皮话，可他是这一行业不辞辛苦劳作的典范。每天天刚亮，他就来到画室，一直干到日落西山。然后，他孤独地回到自己的小屋休息，苦中作乐。
杜霍布赖特以这种方式受了三年的苦，既没有机会练习，也没有时间使自己绷紧的神经得到放松。他没有对任何人讲过他在孤独中借助幽幽的灯光揣摩绘画这件事情，不过这种经年不息的劳作浪费了他的精力，身体也垮了。没有人对这位可怜的画家给予过足够的关注，也没有谁留意到他皱纹堆垒的脸颊上泛起的病态的红晕，以及那佝偻的身体愈发瘦削。
甚至没有谁注意到他那微薄的薪水连吃午餐都不够，一连好几天他都不吃午餐。萨缪尔习惯了，同过去一样温顺地忍受着同伴的讥讽，或丢勒夫人的奚落，同样不知疲倦地干活，尽管他的手有时会颤抖，他的眼睛布满血丝，他身体的孱弱也许是由于替他们付出了太多的辛劳所致。
一天早晨，杜霍布赖特没有来画室上工。他的旷工掀起轩然大波，大家议论纷纷，拿他取笑。有的乱加猜测，有的则深究起导致这一现象的原因，最后大家一致认为这个可怜的家伙准是变成骷髅了，正在某药店的玻璃橱窗理展示呢，或者他住处的门刚一开，他就被一阵风给吹走了。没有谁想到应该去他的住处看看他到底怎么了。
就在他们七嘴八舌地议论时，他们取笑的对象正因为生病在床上挣扎呢。疾病已经慢慢地蛀蚀了他身体这幢大厦的地基，每一根血管都淤塞了，在神智昏迷中他的眼珠转动着，一闪一闪的。他那平常很少翕张的嘴唇，此时胡乱迸出不连贯的谵语来。在他身体健康那段日子，可怜的杜霍布赖特做过各种各样的梦，都是梦想做大艺术家，有时梦到自己是腰缠万贯的人，有时又梦到自己穷困潦倒。他本想凭借自己多年的辛劳，只要精打细算应该足以解决生计，他的余生不会在为生计发愁的。他从来不敢奢望名满天下或者腰缠万贯。他最大的报抱负或者希望就是，能有一幢足以遮风避雨的房子，每天能够买到可口的饭菜，仅此而已。
现在，一切皆成泡影！这是他孤苦伶仃地躺在病榻上第五天了。他的嘴干得难受，翻了一下身，无力地伸手去够盛水的瓦罐，从生病第一天起他就用水罐里的水来止渴。天啊，瓦罐里已经没有水了！萨缪尔躺在那儿愣怔了好一会儿，琢磨怎样才能止渴。他清楚自己要是再一个人躺下去的话，必然死于饥渴。但是，谁会来搭救他呢？
最后，他想到一个主意。他费了好大力气，慢慢爬起身，挪到房间的另一侧，举起他最后画完的那幅画。他下定决心要把这幅画拿到画商的店里，盼望能换回足以维持他一周生计的生活必需品。幸好他还有踯躅着走路的力气。在路上，他路过一幢房子，只见一群人在那儿围观。他气喘吁吁地问出了什么事情，有人告诉他说，里面售卖许多艺术品，是一位藏家历经三十年收集之大成。经常有这种事情，藏家付出很大心血收集的藏品，在他身故后被无情地拍卖，其中的精品也被不加区分地贱卖了。
有人对虚弱不堪的杜霍布赖特小声说，他的这幅画会碰到识货的买家的。这儿离那位画商的店还有长长的一段路，听别人这么讲他马上鼓足勇气。他穿过人群，拖着沉重的双腿上了台阶，多方打听后才找到那位拍卖商。那人很忙，手里拿着好几张画，他高兴地注意到这位消瘦、略微有些驼背说话吞吞吐吐，于是用手势和言语来试探他。
“你怎么看你的画？”他终于开口道，仔细打量这幅画。
“画的是纽伯格修道院，背景是所在的村庄和周围的景色。”这位急切的艺术家连忙说，声音有些颤抖。
这位拍卖商又轻蔑地瞥了一眼画作，试探着问他打算卖多少钱。“哦，您看着给个价吧。”杜霍布赖特答道。
“哼！太差劲了，真不好给价呢；我向你保证，绝对不会超过3个泰勒
。”
可怜的杜霍布赖特深深叹了口气。要知道，为了画这幅画，他度过了许多不眠之夜，长达数个月之久。可是，他现在饥肠辘辘。对方出的这笔少的不可怜的钱只够他吃几天面包。于是，他冲拍卖商点点头，一屁股坐到角落里的椅子上。
拍卖开始了。在展示了几幅画和雕刻作品后，萨缪尔的这幅画挂了出来。“谁出3泰勒？谁出？”杜霍布赖特急切地听着，可是没有人应答。“会有买家吗？”他沮丧地自语道。仍然没有人出价。见此情景，他都不敢抬头看了。在她看来，仿佛所有人都在嘲弄他的愚蠢。毕竟，在公开拍卖会上谁会发疯到出钱买一文不值的东西呢。
“我会落到什么结果呢？”他在心里诘问道。“那幅画作肯定是我最优秀的作品，”想到这儿，他壮起胆子瞥了一眼。“大风当然先折断大树枝，才刮走树叶的！瞧，画上那水多清澈啊！在清泉旁饮水的动物生活得多惬意啊！教堂的尖塔熠熠生辉！那些树丛画得多漂亮啊！”这就是一位艺术家虚荣心最后濒临消亡前的悸动。漫长的沉默还在继续，而萨缪尔一阵心悸，连忙用手捂住脸颊。
“ 21泰勒！”就在拍卖员正要落槌表示流拍之际，一个软弱无力的声音轻声开价道，这位惊呆了的画家转忧为喜。他抬起头，想看看到底是从谁的嘴里说出这么神圣
的字眼。是一位画商，他本来就认为这个人会率先开价的。
“ 50泰勒！”一个洪亮的声音喊道。这次是一位身着黑衣服的高个子男人，他用喇叭喊价。在一阵平静的期待中，拍卖会场陷于平静。“100泰勒，”终于，那位画商高声喊道。
“ 300泰勒！”
“ 500泰勒！”
“ 1000泰勒！”
又陷入意味深长的沉默。人们簇拥在两位竞争对手周围，这两人面对面站着，都是一副热切又志在必得的神情，满脸怒气。
“ 2000泰勒！”这位画商喊道，他见对手略一踌躇，便盛气凌人地打量着对方。 “ 10000泰勒！”这位高个子男人高声喝道，因为愤怒脸上泛出紫红色，双手痉挛般地紧攥着。那位画商脸色更显苍白了，身体激动地战栗着。他试着张着嘴，最后喊出 “ 20000泰勒！”
他的对手没有被吓倒。他出价40000泰勒。画商没有接着出价，对方的笑声中夹杂着低沉的胜利者的侮慢，人群发出较低的赞叹声。对画商来说，这种声音太刺耳了，他觉得自己再也无法保持平和了。“50000泰勒！”他孤注一掷地喊道。这次轮到高个子男人犹豫了。人们再次屏住呼吸。最后，他用力挥动手臂，做出决战的架势，他用尽力气高喊“100000泰勒！”画商在这幅画面前退却了，高个子男人以胜利者的姿态将奖品揽入怀中。
这番情景对杜霍布赖特来说恍若隔梦，这个激动人心的场面是怎么进行的？他几乎无法自制了。他一个劲地揉眼睛小声自语道，“这场梦过后，我的悲惨生活似乎更甚了！”当竞争终于停下来后，他困惑地站起来，先向第一个人打听，接下来又问另一个人这幅画最后卖了多少钱。仿佛他的理解力无法马上领会100000是个什么概念似的。
当身体衰朽、一瘸一拐并且弯腰驼背的杜霍布赖特拄着一根棍子，踟蹰地朝前走时，拍下这幅画的高个子男人正往家走呢。杜霍布赖特走到他面前，刚要做自我介绍。那人递给他一块钱，未及他说些感谢的话，连忙摆了摆手。“感谢您的慷慨，”被当做乞丐的杜霍布赖特说，“我就是画那幅画的画家啊！”说着，他又揉揉眼睛。
这位高个子男人就是敦克尔巴克伯爵，德国最富有的人之一。他停下脚步，伸手从衣袋里掏出支票簿，然后在上面写了几行字。“给你，朋友，”他说，“这是你的支票。再见。”
到现在杜霍布赖特才说服自己，这一切不是梦。他成了城堡的主人，卖了城堡后，他决定在自己的余生要过奢侈的生活，把绘画作为消遣。真令人唏嘘，人类的希望竟是这样虚妄！他生来贫困和辛勤劳作，对他来说富足竟然是不可承受之重，正如不久后所验证变得那样，奢侈的生活要了他的命。他的那幅画一直以来躺在敦克尔巴克勋爵的壁橱里，后来辗转为巴伐利亚国王所有。