British -- China -- Fiction; English fiction -- 20th century; Fantasy fiction
Now that she had found him it did not seem right to watch him. She
paced the open rooms and balconies of that airy summer-house, like a
slim fly caught in a scarlet cage; going out to feast her heart on the
Lake, now a garden of lilies, white, rose, and golden; returning to the
instrument to see if Yuan was still at work. She opened a cabinet of
drawers, found it full of paintings on silk, and idly inspected them.
There was a portrait of a young boy. It was so perfect a work of art,
a unity composed of an infinite number of rhythms, that its effect on
the mind was hypnotic. The tone was a variety of rich browns touched
with a lotus flush of almost unbelievable precision. The young boy was
kneeling on a lotus daïs with his hands joined in prayer. The eyebrows
were delicate as small painted moths. The tiny mouth was like a flower
that will never open and wither, beautiful and small and calm. The eyes
were purer than the deep and velvet pansy. Was it a boy, after all,
or a girl? She saw in the face a certain severity of saintliness, the
signs of a state of mind that she could remember, when she had been,
as it were, both boy and girl, with a desire for heaven. But what was
solemn and beautiful in the face was a shadow, a foreknowledge, of some
predestined renunciation, of some experience circled round with burning
flames, seen from afar off, before the thought of pain had meaning.
Pondering thus, she realized with a shock that the features were the
features of Yuan.
She looked at the image in the long-sight instrument, saw that Yuan was
still at work, and returned to the portrait.
Could Hsiao have painted it? Could he have received that sublime
inspiration in the stupor of wine? If he could paint a melon, when he
was drunk, in a way to disclose cosmical secrets, why not the portrait
of a saintly young boy? There was no signature. That was like Hsiao.
For him not the painting, but the contemplation in which he conceived
it. She understood that. The painting was a mere discharge, the symbol
of an experience fully grasped.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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