CHAPTER XXXI
THE MARBLE SALOON
In an old Tuscan villa, a chapel ordinarily makes one among the numerousapartments; though it often happens that the door is permanently closed,the key lost, and the place left to itself, in dusty sanctity, like thatchamber in man's heart where he hides his religious awe. This was verymuch the case with the chapel of Monte Beni. One rainy day, however,in his wanderings through the great, intricate house, Kenyon hadunexpectedly found his way into it, and been impressed by its solemnaspect. The arched windows, high upward in the wall, and darkened withdust and cobweb, threw down a dim light that showed the altar, with apicture of a martyrdom above, and some tall tapers ranged before it.They had apparently been lighted, and burned an hour or two, and beenextinguished perhaps half a century before. The marble vase at theentrance held some hardened mud at the bottom, accruing from the dustthat had settled in it during the gradual evaporation of the holy water;and a spider (being an insect that delights in pointing the moral ofdesolation and neglect) had taken pains to weave a prodigiously thicktissue across the circular brim. An old family banner, tattered bythe moths, drooped from the vaulted roof. In niches there were somemediaeval busts of Donatello's forgotten ancestry; and among them, itmight be, the forlorn visage of that hapless knight between whom and thefountain-nymph had occurred such tender love passages.
Throughout all the jovial prosperity of Monte Beni, this one spot withinthe domestic walls had kept itself silent, stern, and sad. When theindividual or the family retired from song and mirth, they here soughtthose realities which men do not invite their festive associates toshare. And here, on the occasion above referred to, the sculptor haddiscovered--accidentally, so far as he was concerned, though with apurpose on her part--that there was a guest under Donatello's roof,whose presence the Count did not suspect. An interview had since takenplace, and he was now summoned to another.
He crossed the chapel, in compliance with Tomaso's instructions, and,passing through the side entrance, found himself in a saloon, of nogreat size, but more magnificent than he had supposed the villa tocontain. As it was vacant, Kenyon had leisure to pace it once or twice,and examine it with a careless sort of scrutiny, before any personappeared.
This beautiful hall was floored with rich marbles, in artisticallyarranged figures and compartments. The walls, likewise, were almostentirely cased in marble of various kinds, the prevalent, varietybeing giallo antico, intermixed with verd-antique, and others equallyprecious. The splendor of the giallo antico, however, was what gavecharacter to the saloon; and the large and deep niches, apparentlyintended for full length statues, along the walls, were lined with thesame costly material. Without visiting Italy, one can have no idea ofthe beauty and magnificence that are produced by these fittings-up ofpolished marble. Without such experience, indeed, we do not even knowwhat marble means, in any sense, save as the white limestone of whichwe carve our mantelpieces. This rich hall of Monte Beni, moreover, wasadorned, at its upper end, with two pillars that seemed to consist ofOriental alabaster; and wherever there was a space vacant of preciousand variegated marble, it was frescoed with ornaments in arabesque.Above, there was a coved and vaulted ceiling, glowing with picturedscenes, which affected Kenyon with a vague sense of splendor, withouthis twisting his neck to gaze at them.
It is one of the special excellences of such a saloon of polished andrichly colored marble, that decay can never tarnish it. Until the housecrumbles down upon it, it shines indestructibly, and, with a littledusting, looks just as brilliant in its three hundredth year as the dayafter the final slab of giallo antico was fitted into the wall. To thesculptor, at this first View of it, it seemed a hall where the sun wasmagically imprisoned, and must always shine. He anticipated Miriam'sentrance, arrayed in queenly robes, and beaming with even more than thesingular beauty that had heretofore distinguished her.
While this thought was passing through his mind, the pillared door, atthe upper end of the saloon, was partly opened, and Miriam appeared. Shewas very pale, and dressed in deep mourning. As she advanced towards thesculptor, the feebleness of her step was so apparent that he made hasteto meet her, apprehending that she might sink down on the marble floor,without the instant support of his arm.
But, with a gleam of her natural self-reliance, she declined his aid,and, after touching her cold hand to his, went and sat down on one ofthe cushioned divans that were ranged against the wall.
"You are very ill, Miriam!" said Kenyon, much shocked at her appearance."I had not thought of this."
"No; not so ill as I seem to you," she answered; adding despondently,"yet I am ill enough, I believe, to die, unless some change speedilyoccurs."
"What, then, is your disorder?" asked the sculptor; "and what theremedy?"
"The disorder!" repeated Miriam. "There is none that I know of save toomuch life and strength, without a purpose for one or the other. It ismy too redundant energy that is slowly--or perhaps rapidly--wearing meaway, because I can apply it to no use. The object, which I am bound toconsider my only one on earth, fails me utterly. The sacrifice which Iyearn to make of myself, my hopes, my everything, is coldly put aside.Nothing is left for me but to brood, brood, brood, all day, all night,in unprofitable longings and repinings."
"This is very sad, Miriam," said Kenyon.
"Ay, indeed; I fancy so," she replied, with a short, unnatural laugh.
"With all your activity of mind," resumed he, "so fertile in plans asI have known you, can you imagine no method of bringing your resourcesinto play?"
"My mind is not active any longer," answered Miriam, in a cold,indifferent tone. "It deals with one thought and no more. Onerecollection paralyzes it. It is not remorse; do not think it! I putmyself out of the question, and feel neither regret nor penitence onmy own behalf. But what benumbs me, what robs me of all power,-it isno secret for a woman to tell a man, yet I care not though you know it,--is the certainty that I am, and must ever be, an object of horror inDonatello's sight."
The sculptor--a young man, and cherishing a love which insulatedhim from the wild experiences which some men gather--was startled toperceive how Miriam's rich, ill-regulated nature impelled her tofling herself, conscience and all, on one passion, the object of whichintellectually seemed far beneath her.
"How have you obtained the certainty of which you speak?" asked he,after a pause.
"O, by a sure token," said Miriam; "a gesture, merely; a shudder, a coldshiver, that ran through him one sunny morning when his hand happened totouch mine! But it was enough."
"I firmly believe, Miriam," said the sculptor, "that he loves youstill."
She started, and a flush of color came tremulously over the paleness ofher cheek.
"Yes," repeated Kenyon, "if my interest in Donatello--and in yourself,Miriam--endows me with any true insight, he not only loves you still,but with a force and depth proportioned to the stronger grasp of hisfaculties, in their new development."
"Do not deceive me," said Miriam, growing pale again.
"Not for the world!" replied Kenyon. "Here is what I take to bethe truth. There was an interval, no doubt, when the horror of somecalamity, which I need not shape out in my conjectures, threw Donatellointo a stupor of misery. Connected with the first shock there was anintolerable pain and shuddering repugnance attaching themselves toall the circumstances and surroundings of the event that so terriblyaffected him. Was his dearest friend involved within the horror of thatmoment? He would shrink from her as he shrank most of all from himself.But as his mind roused itself,--as it rose to a higher life than he hadhitherto experienced,--whatever had been true and permanent within himrevived by the selfsame impulse. So has it been with his love."
"But, surely," said Miriam, "he knows that I am here! Why, then, exceptthat I am odious to him, does he not bid me welcome?"
"He is, I believe, aware of your presence here," answered the sculptor."Your song, a night or two ago, must have revealed it to him, and, intruth, I had fancied that there was already a
consciousness of it inhis mind. But, the more passionately he longs for your society, the morereligiously he deems himself bound to avoid it. The idea of a lifelongpenance has taken strong possession of Donatello. He gropes blindlyabout him for some method of sharp self-torture, and finds, of course,no other so efficacious as this."
"But he loves me," repeated Miriam, in a low voice, to herself. "Yes; heloves me!"
It was strange to observe the womanly softness that came over her,as she admitted that comfort into her bosom. The cold, unnaturalindifference of her manner, a kind of frozen passionateness which hadshocked and chilled the sculptor, disappeared. She blushed, and turnedaway her eyes, knowing that there was more surprise and joy in theirdewy glances than any man save one ought to detect there.
"In other respects," she inquired at length, "is he much changed?"
"A wonderful process is going forward in Donatello's mind," answered thesculptor. "The germs of faculties that have heretofore slept are fastspringing into activity. The world of thought is disclosing itself tohis inward sight. He startles me, at times, with his perception of deeptruths; and, quite as often, it must be owned, he compels me to smile bythe intermixture of his former simplicity with a new intelligence. Buthe is bewildered with the revelations that each day brings. Out ofhis bitter agony, a soul and intellect, I could almost say, have beeninspired into him."
"Ah, I could help him here!" cried Miriam, clasping her hands. "Andhow sweet a toil to bend and adapt my whole nature to do him good! Toinstruct, to elevate, to enrich his mind with the wealth that would flowin upon me, had I such a motive for acquiring it! Who else can performthe task? Who else has the tender sympathy which he requires? Who else,save only me,--a woman, a sharer in the same dread secret, a partaker inone identical guilt,--could meet him on such terms of intimate equalityas the case demands? With this object before me, I might feel a right tolive! Without it, it is a shame for me to have lived so long."
"I fully agree with you," said Kenyon, "that your true place is by hisside."
"Surely it is," replied Miriam. "If Donatello is entitled to aught onearth, it is to my complete self-sacrifice for his sake. It does notweaken his claim, methinks, that my only prospect of happiness afearful word, however lies in the good that may accrue to him from ourintercourse. But he rejects me! He will not listen to the whisper of hisheart, telling him that she, most wretched, who beguiled him into evil,might guide him to a higher innocence than that from which he fell. Howis this first great difficulty to be obviated?"
"It lies at your own option, Miriam, to do away the obstacle, at anymoment," remarked the sculptor. "It is but to ascend Donatello's tower,and you will meet him there, under the eye of God."
"I dare not," answered Miriam. "No; I dare not!"
"Do you fear," asked the sculptor, "the dread eye-witness whom I havenamed?"
"No; for, as far as I can see into that cloudy and inscrutable thing, myheart, it has none but pure motives," replied Miriam. "But, my friend,you little know what a weak or what a strong creature a woman is! Ifear not Heaven, in this case, at least, but--shall I confess it? Iam greatly in dread of Donatello. Once he shuddered at my touch. If heshudder once again, or frown, I die!"
Kenyon could not but marvel at the subjection into which this proud andself-dependent woman had willfully flung herself, hanging her life uponthe chance of an angry or favorable regard from a person who, a littlewhile before, had seemed the plaything of a moment. But, in Miriam'seyes, Donatello was always, thenceforth, invested with the tragicdignity of their hour of crime; and, furthermore, the keen and deepinsight, with which her love endowed her, enabled her to know himfar better than he could be known by ordinary observation. Beyond allquestion, since she loved him so, there was a force in Donatello worthyof her respect and love.
"You see my weakness," said Miriam, flinging out her hands, as a persondoes when a defect is acknowledged, and beyond remedy. "What I need,now, is an opportunity to show my strength."
"It has occurred to me," Kenyon remarked, "that the time is come whenit may be desirable to remove Donatello from the complete seclusion inwhich he buries himself. He has struggled long enough with one idea.He now needs a variety of thought, which cannot be otherwise so readilysupplied to him, as through the medium of a variety of scenes. His mindis awakened, now; his heart, though full of pain, is no longer benumbed.They should have food and solace. If he linger here much longer, I fearthat he may sink back into a lethargy. The extreme excitability, whichcircumstances have imparted to his moral system, has its dangers andits advantages; it being one of the dangers, that an obdurate scar maysupervene upon its very tenderness. Solitude has done what it could forhim; now, for a while, let him be enticed into the outer world."
"What is your plan, then?" asked Miriam.
"Simply," replied Kenyon, "to persuade Donatello to be my companion ina ramble among these hills and valleys. The little adventures andvicissitudes of travel will do him infinite good. After his recentprofound experience, he will re-create the world by the new eyes withwhich he will regard it. He will escape, I hope, out of a morbid life,and find his way into a healthy one."
"And what is to be my part in this process?" inquired Miriam sadly, andnot without jealousy. "You are taking him from me, and putting yourself,and all manner of living interests, into the place which I ought tofill!"
"It would rejoice me, Miriam, to yield the entire responsibility of thisoffice to yourself," answered the sculptor. "I do not pretend to bethe guide and counsellor whom Donatello needs; for, to mention noother obstacle, I am a man, and between man and man there is always aninsuperable gulf. They can never quite grasp each other's hands; andtherefore man never derives any intimate help, any heart sustenance,from his brother man, but from woman--his mother, his sister, or hiswife. Be Donatello's friend at need, therefore, and most gladly will Iresign him!"
"It is not kind to taunt me thus," said Miriam. "I have told you that Icannot do what you suggest, because I dare not."
"Well, then," rejoined the sculptor, "see if there is any possibility ofadapting yourself to my scheme. The incidents of a journey often flingpeople together in the oddest and therefore the most natural way.Supposing you were to find yourself on the same route, a reunion withDonatello might ensue, and Providence have a larger hand in it thaneither of us."
"It is not a hopeful plan," said Miriam, shaking her head, after amoment's thought; "yet I will not reject it without a trial. Only incase it fail, here is a resolution to which I bind myself, come whatcome may! You know the bronze statue of Pope Julius in the great squareof Perugia? I remember standing in the shadow of that statue one sunnynoontime, and being impressed by its paternal aspect, and fancying thata blessing fell upon me from its outstretched hand. Ever since, I havehad a superstition, you will call it foolish, but sad and ill-fatedpersons always dream such things,--that, if I waited long enough inthat same spot, some good event would come to pass. Well, my friend,precisely a fortnight after you begin your tour,--unless we soonermeet,--bring Donatello, at noon, to the base of the statue. You willfind me there!"
Kenyon assented to the proposed arrangement, and, after someconversation respecting his contemplated line of travel, prepared totake his leave. As he met Miriam's eyes, in bidding farewell, he wassurprised at the new, tender gladness that beamed out of them, and atthe appearance of health and bloom, which, in this little while, hadoverspread her face.'
"May I tell you, Miriam," said he, smiling, "that you are still asbeautiful as ever?"
"You have a right to notice it," she replied, "for, if it be so, myfaded bloom has been revived by the hopes you give me. Do you, then,think me beautiful? I rejoice, most truly. Beauty--if I possessit--shall be one of the instruments by which I will try to educate andelevate him, to whose good I solely dedicate myself."
The sculptor had nearly reached the door, when, hearing her call him, heturned back, and beheld Miriam still standing where he had left her, inthe magnificent hall which seemed only a fit setti
ng for her beauty. Shebeckoned him to return.
"You are a man of refined taste," said she; "more than that,--a man ofdelicate sensibility. Now tell me frankly, and on your honor! Have I notshocked you many times during this interview by my betrayal of woman'scause, my lack of feminine modesty, my reckless, passionate, mostindecorous avowal, that I live only in the life of one who, perhaps,scorns and shudders at me?"
Thus adjured, however difficult the point to which she brought him, thesculptor was not a man to swerve aside from the simple truth.
"Miriam," replied he, "you exaggerate the impression made upon mymind; but it has been painful, and somewhat of the character which yousuppose."
"I knew it," said Miriam, mournfully, and with no resentment. "Whatremains of my finer nature would have told me so, even if it had notbeen perceptible in all your manner. Well, my dear friend, when yougo back to Rome, tell Hilda what her severity has done! She was allwomanhood to me; and when she cast me off, I had no longer any terms tokeep with the reserves and decorums of my sex. Hilda has set me free!Pray tell her so, from Miriam, and thank her!"
"I shall tell Hilda nothing that will give her pain," answered Kenyon."But, Miriam, though I know not what passed between her and yourself, Ifeel,--and let the noble frankness of your disposition forgive me ifI say so,--I feel that she was right. You have a thousand admirablequalities. Whatever mass of evil may have fallen into your life,--pardon me, but your own words suggest it,--you are still as capableas ever of many high and heroic virtues. But the white shining purityof Hilda's nature is a thing apart; and she is bound, by the undefiledmaterial of which God moulded her, to keep that severity which I, aswell as you, have recognized."
"O, you are right!" said Miriam; "I never questioned it; though, asI told you, when she cast me off, it severed some few remaining bondsbetween me and decorous womanhood. But were there anything to forgive, Ido forgive her. May you win her virgin heart; for methinks there canbe few men in this evil world who are not more unworthy of her thanyourself."
The Marble Faun; Or, The Romance of Monte Beni - Volume 2 Page 8