CHAPTER XXXIII
PICTURED WINDOWS
After wide wanderings through the valley, the two travellers directedtheir course towards its boundary of hills. Here, the natural sceneryand men's modifications of it immediately took a different aspect fromthat of the fertile and smiling plain. Not unfrequently there was aconvent on the hillside; or, on some insulated promontory, a minedcastle, once the den of a robber chieftain, who was accustomed to dashdown from his commanding height upon the road that wound below. For agesback, the old fortress had been flinging down its crumbling ramparts,stone by stone, towards the grimy village at its foot.
Their road wound onward among the hills, which rose steep and lofty fromthe scanty level space that lay between them. They continually thrusttheir great bulks before the wayfarers, as if grimly resolute to forbidtheir passage, or closed abruptly behind them, when they still dared toproceed. A gigantic hill would set its foot right down before them, andonly at the last moment would grudgingly withdraw it, just far enough tolet them creep towards another obstacle. Adown these rough heights werevisible the dry tracks of many a mountain torrent that had lived a lifetoo fierce and passionate to be a long one. Or, perhaps, a stream wasyet hurrying shyly along the edge of a far wider bed of pebbles andshelving rock than it seemed to need, though not too wide for theswollen rage of which this shy rivulet was capable. A stone bridgebestrode it, the ponderous arches of which were upheld and renderedindestructible by the weight of the very stones that threatened to crushthem down. Old Roman toil was perceptible in the foundations of thatmassive bridge; the first weight that it ever bore was that of an armyof the Republic.
Threading these defiles, they would arrive at some immemorial city,crowning the high summit of a hill with its cathedral, its manychurches, and public edifices, all of Gothic architecture. With no morelevel ground than a single piazza in the midst, the ancient town tumbledits crooked and narrow streets down the mountainside, through archedpassages and by steps of stone. The aspect of everything was awfullyold; older, indeed, in its effect on the imagination than Rome itself,because history does not lay its finger on these forgotten edifices andtell us all about their origin. Etruscan princes may have dwelt in them.A thousand years, at all events, would seem but a middle age for thesestructures. They are built of such huge, square stones, that theirappearance of ponderous durability distresses the beholder with the ideathat they can never fall,--never crumble away,--never be less fit thannow for human habitation. Many of them may once have been palaces, andstill retain a squalid grandeur. But, gazing at them, we recognize howundesirable it is to build the tabernacle of our brief lifetime out ofpermanent materials, and with a view to their being occupied by future'generations.
All towns should be made capable of purification by fire, or of decay,within each half-century. Otherwise, they become the hereditary hauntsof vermin and noisomeness, besides standing apart from the possibilityof such improvements as are constantly introduced into the rest ofman's contrivances and accommodations. It is beautiful, no doubt, andexceedingly satisfactory to some of our natural instincts, to imagineour far posterity dwelling under the same roof-tree as ourselves. Still,when people insist on building indestructible houses, they incur, ortheir children do, a misfortune analogous to that of the Sibyl, whenshe obtained the grievous boon of immortality. So we may build almostimmortal habitations, it is true; but we cannot keep them from growingold, musty, unwholesome, dreary,--full of death scents, ghosts, andmurder stains; in short, such habitations as one sees everywhere inItaly, be they hovels or palaces.
"You should go with me to my native country," observed the sculptor toDonatello. "In that fortunate land, each generation has only its ownsins and sorrows to bear. Here, it seems as if all the weary and drearyPast were piled upon the back of the Present. If I were to lose myspirits in this country,--if I were to suffer any heavy misfortunehere,--methinks it would be impossible to stand up against it, undersuch adverse influences."
"The sky itself is an old roof, now," answered the Count; "and, nodoubt, the sins of mankind have made it gloomier than it used to be.""O, my poor Faun," thought Kenyon to himself, "how art thou changed!"
A city, like this of which we speak, seems a sort of stony growth outof the hillside, or a fossilized town; so ancient and strange it looks,without enough of life and juiciness in it to be any longer susceptibleof decay. An earthquake would afford it the only chance of being ruined,beyond its present ruin.
Yet, though dead to all the purposes for which we live to-day, the placehas its glorious recollections, and not merely rude and warlike ones,but those of brighter and milder triumphs, the fruits of which we stillenjoy. Italy can count several of these lifeless towns which, four orfive hundred years ago, were each the birthplace of its own school ofart; nor have they yet forgotten to be proud of the dark old pictures,and the faded frescos, the pristine beauty of which was a light andgladness to the world. But now, unless one happens to be a painter,these famous works make us miserably desperate. They are poor, dimghosts of what, when Giotto or Cimabue first created them, threw asplendor along the stately aisles; so far gone towards nothingness,in our day, that scarcely a hint of design or expression can glimmerthrough the dusk. Those early artists did well to paint their frescos.Glowing on the church-walls, they might be looked upon as symbols of theliving spirit that made Catholicism a true religion, and that glorifiedit as long as it retained a genuine life; they filled the transepts witha radiant throng of saints and angels, and threw around the high altara faint reflection--as much as mortals could see, or bear--of a DivinerPresence. But now that the colors are so wretchedly bedimmed,--now thatblotches of plastered wall dot the frescos all over, like a mean realitythrusting itself through life's brightest illusions,--the next bestartist to Cimabue or Giotto or Ghirlandaio or Pinturicchio will be hethat shall reverently cover their ruined masterpieces with whitewash!
Kenyon, however, being an earnest student and critic of Art, lingeredlong before these pathetic relics; and Donatello, in his present phaseof penitence, thought no time spent amiss while he could be kneelingbefore an altar. Whenever they found a cathedral, therefore, or a Gothicchurch, the two travellers were of one mind to enter it. In some ofthese holy edifices they saw pictures that time had not dimmed norinjured in the least, though they perhaps belonged to as old a schoolof Art as any that were perishing around them. These were the paintedwindows; and as often as he gazed at them the sculptor blessed themedieval time, and its gorgeous contrivances of splendor; for surely theskill of man has never accomplished, nor his mind imagined, any otherbeauty or glory worthy to be compared with these.
It is the special excellence of pictured glass, that the light, whichfalls merely on the outside of other pictures, is here interfusedthroughout the work; it illuminates the design, and invests it witha living radiance; and in requital the unfading colors transmute thecommon daylight into a miracle of richness and glory in its passagethrough the heavenly substance of the blessed and angelic shapes whichthrong the high-arched window.
"It is a woeful thing," cried Kenyon, while one of these frail yetenduring and fadeless pictures threw its hues on his face, and on thepavement of the church around him,--"a sad necessity that any Christiansoul should pass from earth without once seeing an antique paintedwindow, with the bright Italian sunshine glowing through it! There isno other such true symbol of the glories of the better world, wherea celestial radiance will be inherent in all things and persons, andrender each continually transparent to the sight of all."
"But what a horror it would be," said Donatello sadly, "if there were asoul among them through which the light could not be transfused!"
"Yes; and perhaps this is to be the punishment of sin," replied thesculptor; "not that it shall be made evident to the universe, which canprofit nothing by such knowledge, but that it shall insulate the sinnerfrom all sweet society by rendering him impermeable to light, and,therefore, unrecognizable in the abode of heavenly simplicity and truth.Then, what remain
s for him, but the dreariness of infinite and eternalsolitude?"
"That would be a horrible destiny, indeed!" said Donatello.
His voice as he spoke the words had a hollow and dreary cadence, as ifhe anticipated some such frozen solitude for himself. A figure in a darkrobe was lurking in the obscurity of a side chapel close by, and made animpulsive movement forward, but hesitated as Donatello spoke again.
"But there might be a more miserable torture than to be solitaryforever," said he. "Think of having a single companion in eternity, andinstead of finding any consolation, or at all events variety of torture,to see your own weary, weary sin repeated in that inseparable soul."
"I think, my dear Count, you have never read Dante," observed Kenyon."That idea is somewhat in his style, but I cannot help regretting thatit came into your mind just then."
The dark-robed figure had shrunk back, and was quite lost to sight amongthe shadows of the chapel.
"There was an English poet," resumed Kenyon, turning again towards thewindow, "who speaks of the 'dim, religious light,' transmitted throughpainted glass. I always admired this richly descriptive phrase; but,though he was once in Italy, I question whether Milton ever saw anybut the dingy pictures in the dusty windows of English cathedrals,imperfectly shown by the gray English daylight. He would else haveilluminated that word 'dim' with some epithet that should not chaseaway the dimness, yet should make it glow like a million of rubies,sapphires, emeralds, and topazes. Is it not so with yonder window? Thepictures are most brilliant in themselves, yet dim with tenderness andreverence, because God himself is shining through them."
"The pictures fill me with emotion, but not such as you seem toexperience," said Donatello. "I tremble at those awful saints; and, mostof all, at the figure above them. He glows with Divine wrath!"
"My dear friend," said Kenyon, "how strangely your eyes have transmutedthe expression of the figure! It is divine love, not wrath!"
"To my eyes," said Donatello stubbornly, "it is wrath, not love! Eachmust interpret for himself."
The friends left the church, and looking up, from the exterior, atthe window which they had just been contemplating within, nothing; wasvisible but the merest outline of dusky shapes, Neither the individuallikeness of saint, angel, nor Saviour, and far less the combined schemeand purport of the picture, could anywise be made out. That miracle ofradiant art, thus viewed, was nothing better than an incomprehensibleobscurity, without a gleam of beauty to induce the beholder to attemptunravelling it.
"All this," thought the sculptor, "is a most forcible emblem of thedifferent aspect of religious truth and sacred story, as viewed from thewarm interior of belief, or from its cold and dreary outside. Christianfaith is a grand cathedral, with divinely pictured windows. Standingwithout, you see no glory, nor can possibly imagine any; standingwithin, every ray of light reveals a harmony of unspeakable splendors."
After Kenyon and Donatello emerged from the church, however, they hadbetter opportunity for acts of charity and mercy than for religiouscontemplation; being immediately surrounded by a swarm of beggars, whoare the present possessors of Italy, and share the spoil of the strangerwith the fleas and mosquitoes, their formidable allies. These pests--thehuman ones--had hunted the two travellers at every stage of theirjourney. From village to village, ragged boys and girls kept almostunder the horses' feet; hoary grandsires and grandames caught glimpsesof their approach, and hobbled to intercept them at some point ofvantage; blind men stared them out of countenance with their sightlessorbs; women held up their unwashed babies; cripples displayed theirwooden legs, their grievous scars, their dangling, boneless arms, theirbroken backs, their burden of a hump, or whatever infirmity or deformityProvidence had assigned them for an inheritance. On the highest mountainsummit--in the most shadowy ravine--there was a beggar waiting for them.In one small village, Kenyon had the curiosity to count merely how manychildren were crying, whining, and bellowing all at once for alms. Theyproved to be more than forty of as ragged and dirty little imps as anyin the world; besides whom, all the wrinkled matrons, and most of thevillage maids, and not a few stalwart men, held out their hands grimly,piteously, or smilingly in the forlorn hope of whatever trifle ofcoin might remain in pockets already so fearfully taxed. Had theybeen permitted, they would gladly have knelt down and worshipped thetravellers, and have cursed them, without rising from their knees, ifthe expected boon failed to be awarded.
Yet they were not so miserably poor but that the grown people kepthouses over their heads.
In the way of food, they had, at least, vegetables in their littlegardens, pigs and chickens to kill, eggs to fry into omelets with oil,wine to drink, and many other things to make life comfortable. As forthe children, when no more small coin appeared to be forthcoming, theybegan to laugh and play, and turn heels over head, showing themselvesjolly and vivacious brats, and evidently as well fed as needs be. Thetruth is, the Italian peasantry look upon strangers as the almoners ofProvidence, and therefore feel no more shame in asking and receivingalms, than in availing themselves of providential bounties in whateverother form.
In accordance with his nature, Donatello was always exceedinglycharitable to these ragged battalions, and appeared to derive a certainconsolation from the prayers which many of them put up in his behalf. InItaly a copper coin of minute value will often make all the differencebetween a vindictive curse--death by apoplexy being the favoriteone-mumbled in an old witch's toothless jaws, and a prayer from the samelips, so earnest that it would seem to reward the charitable soul withat least a puff of grateful breath to help him heavenward. Good wishesbeing so cheap, though possibly not very efficacious, and anathemas soexceedingly bitter,--even if the greater portion of their poison remainin the mouth that utters them,--it may be wise to expend some reasonableamount in the purchase of the former. Donatello invariably did so; andas he distributed his alms under the pictured window, of which we havebeen speaking, no less than seven ancient women lifted their hands andbesought blessings on his head.
"Come," said the sculptor, rejoicing at the happier expression which hesaw in his friend's face. "I think your steed will not stumble with youto-day. Each of these old dames looks as much like Horace's Atra Curaas can well be conceived; but, though there are seven of them, they willmake your burden on horseback lighter instead of heavier."
"Are we to ride far?" asked the Count.
"A tolerable journey betwixt now and to-morrow noon," Kenyon replied;"for, at that hour, I purpose to be standing by the Pope's statue in thegreat square of Perugia."
The Marble Faun; Or, The Romance of Monte Beni - Volume 2 Page 10