2004年暮春时分仔细研读这篇艰涩的英语文章至深夜，
终于读懂了一些，写下了对原作的一点体会。

　　不禁感叹过去的学习精神，如今似乎再难找回。

　　《飘》这本小说在书房尘封多年，一直不敢读。今天细观昔
日的学习精神，一种“我自横刀立马”的豪情充塞胸臆，如果
肯这样花时间去查字典，去认真理解和思考，我想一定至少可以
读懂一些的。

　　呵呵，可是我们一生要做的事情那么多，哪能为了读懂一本
小说而花费太多时间呢？

　　此刻，书房外暖阳融融，天空也变得明丽了许多。在书房枯坐
大半日了，也该出去活动活动筋骨。要不然，如何对得起这难得的
暖阳呢？

 　　无意间找到下面这篇名作，差点吓得不敢继续读完。耐着
性子，查了几百个字（呵呵，有点夸张），囫囵吞枣也不太明白。
我发上来先，准备再次细细研读。
　　我不是搞文学的，不过今晚与它卯上了，就不信读不懂！！

THE CHATEAU into which my valet had ventured to make
forcible entrance, rather than permit me, in my
desperately wounded condition, to pass a night in the
open air, was one of those piles of commingled gloom and
grandeur which have so long frowned among the Appennines,
not less in fact than in the fancy of Mrs. Radcliffe. To
all appearance it had been temporarily and very lately
abandoned. We established ourselves in one of the
smallest and least sumptuously furnished apartments. It
lay in a remote turret of the building. Its decorations
were rich, yet tattered and antique. Its walls were hung
with tapestry and bedecked with manifold and multiform
armorial trophies, together with an unusually great
number of very spirited modern paintings in frames of
rich golden arabesque. In these paintings, which
depended from the walls not only in their main surfaces,
but in very many nooks which the bizarre architecture of
the chateau rendered necessary- in these paintings my
incipient delirium, perhaps, had caused me to take deep
interest; so that I bade Pedro to close the heavy
shutters of the room- since it was already night- to
light the tongues of a tall candelabrum which stood by
the head of my bed- and to throw open far and wide the
fringed curtains of black velvet which enveloped the bed
itself. I wished all this done that I might resign myself,
if not to sleep, at least alternately to the
contemplation of these pictures, and the perusal of a
small volume which had been found upon the pillow, and
which purported to criticise and describe them.

Long- long I read- and devoutly, devotedly I gazed.
Rapidly and gloriously the hours flew by and the deep
midnight came. The position of the candelabrum
displeased me, and outreaching my hand with difficulty,
rather than disturb my slumbering valet, I
placed it so as to throw its rays more fully upon the
book.

But the action produced an effect altogether
unanticipated. The rays of the numerous candles (for
there were many) now fell within a niche of the room
which had hitherto been thrown into deep shade by one of
the bed-posts. I thus saw in vivid light a picture all
unnoticed before. It was the portrait of a young girl
just ripening into womanhood. I glanced at the painting
hurriedly, and then closed my eyes. Why I did this was
not at first apparent even to my own perception. But
while my lids remained thus shut, I ran over in my mind
my reason for so shutting them. It was an impulsive
movement to gain time for thought- to make sure that my
vision had not deceived me- to calm and subdue my fancy
for a more sober and more certain gaze. In a very few
moments I again looked fixedly at the painting.

That I now saw aright I could not and would not doubt;
for the first flashing of the candles upon that canvas
had seemed to dissipate the dreamy stupor which was
stealing over my senses, and to startle me at once into
waking life.

The portrait, I have already said, was that of a young
girl. It was a mere head and shoulders, done in what is
technically termed a vignette manner; much in the style
of the favorite heads of Sully. The arms, the bosom, and
even the ends of the radiant hair melted imperceptibly
into the vague yet deep shadow which formed the
back-ground of the whole. The frame was oval, richly
gilded and filigreed in Moresque. As a thing of art
nothing could be more admirable than the painting itself.
But it could have been neither the execution of the work,
nor the immortal beauty of the countenance, which had so
suddenly and so vehemently moved me. Least of all, could
it have been that my fancy, shaken from its half slumber,
had mistaken the head for that of a living person. I saw
at once that the peculiarities of the design, of the
vignetting, and of the frame, must have instantly
dispelled such idea- must have prevented even its
momentary entertainment. Thinking earnestly upon these
points, I remained, for an hour perhaps, half sitting,
half reclining, with my vision riveted upon the portrait.
At length, satisfied with the true secret of its effect,
I fell back within the bed. I had found the spell of the
picture in an absolute life-likeliness of expression,
which, at first startling, finally confounded, subdued,
and appalled me. With deep and reverent awe I replaced
the candelabrum in its former position. The cause of my
deep agitation being thus shut from view, I sought
eagerly the volume which discussed the paintings and
their histories. Turning to the number which designated
the oval portrait, I there read the vague and quaint
words which follow:

"She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely
than full of glee. And evil was the hour when she saw,
and loved, and wedded the painter. He, passionate,
studious, austere, and having already a bride in his Art;
she a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than
full of glee; all light and smiles, and frolicsome as
the young fawn; loving and cherishing all things; hating
only the Art which was her rival; dreading only the
pallet and brushes and other untoward instruments which
deprived her of the countenance of her lover. It was
thus a terrible thing for this lady to hear the painter
speak of his desire to portray even his young bride. But
she was humble and obedient, and sat meekly for many
weeks in the dark, high turret-chamber where the light
dripped upon the pale canvas only from overhead. But he,
the painter, took glory in his work, which went on from
hour to hour, and from day to day. And be was a
passionate, and wild, and moody man, who became lost in
reveries; so that he would not see that the light which
fell so ghastly in that lone turret withered the health
and the spirits of his bride, who pined visibly to all
but him. Yet she smiled on and still on, uncomplainingly,
because she saw that the painter (who had high renown)
took a fervid and burning pleasure in his task, and
wrought day and night to depict her who so loved him,
yet who grew daily more dispirited and weak. And in
sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of its
resemblance in low words, as of a mighty marvel, and a
proof not less of the power of the painter than of his
deep love for her whom he depicted so surpassingly well.
But at length, as the labor drew nearer to its conclusion,
there were admitted none into the turret; for the
painter had grown wild with the ardor of his work, and
turned his eyes from canvas merely, even to regard the
countenance of his wife. And he would not see that the
tints which he spread upon the canvas were drawn from
the cheeks of her who sat beside him. And when many
weeks bad passed, and but little remained to do, save
one brush upon the mouth and one tint upon the eye, the
spirit of the lady again flickered up as the flame
within the socket of the lamp. And then the brush was
given, and then the tint was placed; and, for one moment,
the painter stood entranced before the work which he had
wrought; but in the next, while he yet gazed, he grew
tremulous and very pallid, and aghast, and crying with a
loud voice, 'This is indeed Life itself!' turned
suddenly to regard his beloved:- She was dead!

　　哈哈，又读了2遍，查了不少字。作者爱德加●阿伦●坡
（1809-1849美国作家）大概描写了这样一个故事：

　　【在一个漆黑的夜晚，作者和仆人行走在荒凉的旷野，鞍马
劳顿，疲惫不堪，正在绝望之际发现了一座废弃的城堡，于是进
去借宿一宿。城堡的阁楼陈设极尽奢华，却显得古色古香，异常
破败。主仆二人来到一间挂满油画和军功章的小房间，油画全是
些近现代作品，嵌在镶有金色阿拉伯式图案的像框里，看上去非
常漂亮。作者被油画深深吸引，仔细端详好一会儿后，准备上床
睡觉。在枕边发现一本书，于是就着烛光读了起来。

　　烛台离床头太远，他探出身子把烛台移进了些。坐回床上时
无意识地向前看了一下，突然发现了一直没有注意到的一幅画，
在调整了位置的烛光的照耀下显得格外引人注目－－那是一位美
丽的少女，即将变成成熟的女人。像框是椭圆形的，镶有精致的
金边和各种豪华的花纹。作者凝视画中的少女良久，陷入了沉思。
他觉得美丽的画中女郎简直活灵活现，好象随时可以走出橡框。

　　在枕边那本书里面，作者发现了画中女孩的秘密：

　　她是一位非常少见的绝美丽人，当她快乐时是最美丽的。她
一直生活在无忧无虑之中，直到遇到才华横溢的画家。她爱上了
他，并很快与他结婚。然而婚后画家一门心思作画，冷落了她。
她感到很不幸，讨厌画家的作画工具，因为它们夺去她宝贵的爱
情。不过，她生性温顺并且深深地爱着他，因此忍受了冷遇。一
天他提出要好好地画画她，于是噩梦开始了，他非常执着地画着，
日子一天天地飞逝，她就这样坐在他身旁，让丈夫画着自己。阴
冷的阁楼上几乎没有生气。几缕苍白的阳光从天窗照射进来，照
在苍白的画布上，映在女孩娇好的面庞上，她的脸色也苍白得吓
人，因为没有沐浴阳光，在阴暗的阁楼，她一天天地苍白、消瘦
下去。
　　沉浸在艺术的狂热之中的画家完全没有察觉妻子的身体每况
愈下，他充满激情地构思画像的每一个细节，并用他天才的手和
惊人的灵感画出了妻子的形象。他细心地检查每一处着色，狂热
地恋着心中的艺术，为自己非凡的作品痴迷。女孩静静地坐着，
虽日渐憔悴，却从无怨言。一天，终于大功告成，他站在画像前
久久地凝视。带着颤栗的狂喜，他大声欢呼：”这就是生活的全
部啊“，转过头来瞧他的妻子，可是，美丽善良的女孩早已香消
玉殒。】

　　怎么像是金大侠笔下的无涯子，他为爱妻雕塑玉像，最后竟
然爱上了冷冰冰的玉像而不能自拨。气得妻子愤然离去，并与她
作对，研究专门克制无涯子这一派武功的神奇招数，她行事果断，
绝不妥协或者退而求其次。敢爱敢恨的性格与“坡”笔下的美丽
少女迵然不同。呵呵，是不是外国女子都不如我中华儿女泼辣啊？

　　★　读文学作品好累啊，不得不佩服搞文学的大虾们，这么
艰涩的文字也读得很顺。我讨厌文学，喜欢简单的生活语言！！