幻灭

One day early in May， 1821， David and Lucien were standing together by the window that looked into the yard. It was nearly two o'clock， and the four or five men were going out to dinner. David waited until the apprentice had shut the street door with the bell fastened to it； then he drew Lucien out into the yard as if the smell of paper， ink， and presses and old woodwork had grown intolerable to him， and together they sat down under the vines， keeping the office and the door in view. The sunbeams， playing among the trellised vine-shoots， hovered over the two'poets， making， as it were， an aureole about their heads， bringing the contrast between their faces and their characters into a vigorous relief that would have tempted the brush of some great painter.
　　David's physique was of the kind that Nature gives to the fighter， the man born to struggle in obscurity， or with the eyes of all men turned upon him. The strong shoulders， rising above the broad chest， were in keeping with the full development ofhis whole frame. With his thick crop of black hair， his fleshy， highcolored， swarthy face， supported by a thick neck， he looked at first sight like one of Boileau's canons： but on a second glance there was that in the lines about the thick lips， in the dimple of the chin， in the turn of the square nostrils， with the broad irregular line of central cleavage， and， above all， in the eyes， with the steady light of an all-absorbing love that burned in them， which revealed the real character of the manthe wisdom of the thinker， the strenuous melancholy of a spirit that discerns the horizon on either side， and sees clearly to the end of winding ways， turning the clear light of analysis upon the joys of fruition， known as yet in idea alone， and quick to turn from them in disgust. You might look for the fiash of genius from such a face； you could not miss the ashes of the volcano； hopes extinguished beneath a profound sense ofthe social annihilation to which lowly birth and lack of fortune condemns so many a loftier mind. And by the side of the poor printer， who loathed a handicraft so closely allied to intellectual work， close to this Silenus，joyless， self-sustained， drinking deep draughts from the cup of knfowledge and ofpoetry that he might forget the cares of his narrow lot in the intoxication of soul and brain， stood Lucien， graceful as some sculptured Indian Bacchus.
　　For in Lucien's face there was the distinction of line which stamps the beauty of the antique； the Greek profile， with the velvet whiteness of women's faces， and eyes full of love， eyes so blue that they looked dark against a pearly setting， and dewy and fresh as those of a child. Those beautiful eyes looked out from under their long chestnut lashes， beneath eyebrows that might have been traced by a Chinese pencil. The silken down on his cheeks， like his bright curling hair， shone golden in the sunlight. A divine graciousness transfused the white temples that caught that golden gleam； a matchless nobleness had set its seal in the short chin raised， but not abruptly. The smile that hovered about the coral lips， yet redder as they seemed by force of contrast with the even teeth， was the smile ofsome sorrowing angel. Lucien's hands denoted race； they were shapely hands； hands that men obey at a sign， and women love to kiss. Lucien was slender and of middle height. From a glance at his feet， he might have been taken for a girl in disguise， and this so much the more easily from the feminine contour of the hips， a characteristic of keen-witted， not to say， astute， men. This is a trait which seldom misleads， and in
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