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25 pages

English

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American author Henry James often grappled with weighty topics in his work, and the story "The Madonna of the Future" -- longer than a typical short story, but shorter than a novella -- is no exception. Framed as an anecdote related among a group of men engaged in post-dinner chitchat, the story deals with an artist whose outsize ambitions and perfectionism have frozen him in a kind of creative paralysis. It's a profoundly thought-provoking tale that prompts important questions about the role of art in the world.

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Short story

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 mai 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776533916
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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THE MADONNA OF THE FUTURE
* * *
HENRY JAMES

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The Madonna of the Future First published in 1873 Epub ISBN 978-1-77653-391-6 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77653-392-3 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
The Madonna of the Future
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We had been talking about the masters who had achieved but a singlemasterpiece—the artists and poets who but once in their lives had knownthe divine afflatus and touched the high level of perfection. Our hosthad been showing us a charming little cabinet picture by a painter whosename we had never heard, and who, after this single spasmodic bid forfame, had apparently relapsed into obscurity and mediocrity. There wassome discussion as to the frequency of this phenomenon; during which, Iobserved, H— sat silent, finishing his cigar with a meditative air, andlooking at the picture which was being handed round the table. "I don'tknow how common a case it is," he said at last, "but I have seen it. Ihave known a poor fellow who painted his one masterpiece, and"—he addedwith a smile—"he didn't even paint that. He made his bid for fame andmissed it." We all knew H— for a clever man who had seen much of menand manners, and had a great stock of reminiscences. Some oneimmediately questioned him further, and while I was engrossed with theraptures of my neighbour over the little picture, he was induced to tellhis tale. If I were to doubt whether it would bear repeating, I shouldonly have to remember how that charming woman, our hostess, who had leftthe table, ventured back in rustling rose-colour to pronounce ourlingering a want of gallantry, and, finding us a listening circle, sankinto her chair in spite of our cigars, and heard the story out sograciously that, when the catastrophe was reached, she glanced across atme and showed me a tear in each of her beautiful eyes.
*
It relates to my youth, and to Italy: two fine things! (H— began). Ihad arrived late in the evening at Florence, and while I finished mybottle of wine at supper, had fancied that, tired traveller though I was,I might pay the city a finer compliment than by going vulgarly to bed. Anarrow passage wandered darkly away out of the little square before myhotel, and looked as if it bored into the heart of Florence. I followedit, and at the end of ten minutes emerged upon a great piazza, filledonly with the mild autumn moonlight. Opposite rose the Palazzo Vecchio,like some huge civic fortress, with the great bell-tower springing fromits embattled verge as a mountain-pine from the edge of a cliff. At itsbase, in its projected shadow, gleamed certain dim sculptures which Iwonderingly approached. One of the images, on the left of the palacedoor, was a magnificent colossus, shining through the dusky air like asentinel who has taken the alarm. In a moment I recognised him asMichael Angelo's David . I turned with a certain relief from hissinister strength to a slender figure in bronze, stationed beneath thehigh light loggia, which opposes the free and elegant span of its archesto the dead masonry of the palace; a figure supremely shapely andgraceful; gentle, almost, in spite of his holding out with his lightnervous arm the snaky head of the slaughtered Gorgon. His name isPerseus, and you may read his story, not in the Greek mythology, but inthe memoirs of Benvenuto Cellini. Glancing from one of these finefellows to the other, I probably uttered some irrepressible commonplaceof praise, for, as if provoked by my voice, a man rose from the steps ofthe loggia, where he had been sitting in the shadow, and addressed me ingood English—a small, slim personage, clad in a sort of black velvettunic (as it seemed), and with a mass of auburn hair, which gleamed inthe moonlight, escaping from a little mediaeval birretta. In a tone ofthe most insinuating deference he asked me for my "impressions." Heseemed picturesque, fantastic, slightly unreal. Hovering there in thisconsecrated neighbourhood, he might have passed for the genius ofaesthetic hospitality—if the genius of aesthetic hospitality were notcommonly some shabby little custode, flourishing a calicopocket-handkerchief and openly resentful of the divided franc. Thisanalogy was made none the less complete by the brilliant tirade withwhich he greeted my embarrassed silence.
"I have known Florence long, sir, but I have never known her so lovely astonight. It's as if the ghosts of her past were abroad in the emptystreets. The present is sleeping; the past hovers about us like a dreammade visible. Fancy the old Florentines strolling up in couples to passjudgment on the last performance of Michael, of Benvenuto! We shouldcome in for a precious lesson if we might overhear what they say. Theplainest burgher of them, in his cap and gown, had a taste in the matter!That was the prime of art, sir. The sun stood high in heaven, and hisbroad and equal blaze made the darkest places bright and the dullest eyesclear. We live in the evening of time! We grope in the gray dusk,carrying each our poor little taper of selfish and painful wisdom,holding it up to the great models and to the dim idea, and seeing nothingbut overwhelming greatness and dimness. The days of illumination aregone! But do you know I fancy—I fancy"—and he grew suddenly almostfamiliar in this visionary fervour—"I fancy the light of that time restsupon us here for an hour! I have never seen the David so grand, thePerseus so fair! Even the inferior productions of John of Bologna and ofBaccio Bandinelli seem to realise the artist's dream. I feel as if themoonlit air were charged with the secrets of the masters, and as if,standing here in religious attention, we might—we might witness arevelation!" Perceiving at this moment, I suppose, my haltingcomprehension reflected in my puzzled face, this interesting rhapsodistpaused and blushed. Then with a melancholy smile, "You think me amoonstruck charlatan, I suppose. It's not my habit to bang about thepiazza and pounce upon innocent tourists. But tonight, I confess, I amunder the charm. And then, somehow, I fancied you too were an artist!"
"I am not an artist, I am sorry to say, as you must understand the term.But pray make no apologies. I am also under the charm; your eloquentremarks have only deepened it."
"If you are not an artist you are worthy to be one!" he rejoined, with anexpressive smile. "A young man who arrives at Florence late in theevening, and, instead of going prosaically to bed, or hanging over thetraveller's book at his hotel, walks forth without loss of time to payhis devoirs to the beautiful, is a young man after my own heart!"
The mystery was suddenly solved; my friend was an American! He must havebeen, to take the picturesque so prodigiously to heart. "None the lessso, I trust," I answered, "if the young man is a sordid New Yorker."
"New Yorkers have been munificent patrons of art!" he answered, urbanely.
For a moment I was alarmed. Was this midnight reverie mere Yankeeenterprise, and was he simply a desperate brother of the brush who hadposted himself here to extort an "order" from a sauntering tourist? ButI was not called to defend myself. A great brazen note broke suddenlyfrom the far-off summit of the bell-tower above us, and sounded the firststroke of midnight. My companion started, apologised for detaining me,and prepared to retire. But he seemed to offer so lively a promise offurther entertainment that I was indisposed to part with him, andsuggested that we should stroll homeward together. He cordiallyassented; so we turned out of the Piazza, passed down before the statuedarcade of the Uffizi, and came out upon the Arno. What course we took Ihardly remember, but we roamed slowly about for an hour, my companiondelivering by snatches a sort of moon-touched aesthetic lecture. Ilistened in puzzled fascination, and wondered who the deuce he was. Heconfessed with a melancholy but all-respectful head-shake to his Americanorigin.
"We are the disinherited of Art!" he cried. "We are condemned to besuperficial! We are excluded from the magic circle. The soil ofAmerican perception is a poor little barren artificial deposit. Yes! weare wedded to imperfection. An American, to excel, has just ten times asmuch to learn as a European. We lack the deeper sense. We have neithertaste, nor tact, nor power. How should we have them? Our crude andgarish climate, our silent past, our deafening present, the constantpressure about us of unlovely circumstance, are as void of all thatnourishes and prompts and inspires the artist, as my sad heart is void ofbitterness in saying so! We poor aspirants must live in perpetualexile."
"You seem fairly at home in exile," I answered, "and Florence seems to mea very pretty Siberia. But do you know my own thought? Nothing is soidle as to talk about our want of a nutritive soil, of opportunity, ofinspiration, and all the rest of it. The worthy part is to do somethingfine! There is no law in our glorious Constitution against that. Invent,create, achieve! No matter if you have to study fifty times as much asone of these! What else are you an artist for? Be you our Moses," Iadded, laughing, and laying my hand on his shoulder, "and lead us out ofthe house of bondage!"
"Golden words—golden words, young man!" he cried, with a tender smile."'Invent, create, achieve!' Yes, that's our business; I know it well.Don't take me, in Heaven's name, for one of your barrencomplainers—impotent cynics who have neither talent