CHAPTER XXXV
THE BRONZE PONTIFF'S BENEDICTION
When the last of the twelve strokes had fallen from the cathedral clock,Kenyon threw his eyes over the busy scene of the market place, expectingto discern Miriam somewhere in the 'crowd. He looked next towards thecathedral itself, where it was reasonable to imagine that she might havetaken shelter, while awaiting her appointed time. Seeing no trace ofher in either direction, his eyes came back from their quest somewhatdisappointed, and rested on a figure which was leaning, like Donatelloand himself, on the iron balustrade that surrounded the statue. Only amoment before, they two had been alone.
It was the figure of a woman, with her head bowed on her hands, as ifshe deeply felt--what we have been endeavoring to convey into our feebledescription--the benign and awe-inspiring influence which the pontiff'sstatue exercises upon a sensitive spectator. No matter though it weremodelled for a Catholic chief priest, the desolate heart, whatever beits religion, recognizes in that image the likeness of a father.
"Miriam," said the sculptor, with a tremor in his voice, "is ityourself?"
"It is I," she replied; "I am faithful to my engagement, though withmany fears." She lifted her head, and revealed to Kenyon--revealed toDonatello likewise--the well-remembered features of Miriam. They werepale and worn, but distinguished even now, though less gorgeously, bya beauty that might be imagined bright enough to glimmer with its ownlight in a dim cathedral aisle, and had no need to shrink from theseverer test of the mid-day sun. But she seemed tremulous, and hardlyable to go through with a scene which at a distance she had foundcourage to undertake.
"You are most welcome, Miriam!" said the sculptor, seeking to affordher the encouragement which he saw she so greatly required. "I havea hopeful trust that the result of this interview will be propitious.Come; let me lead you to Donatello."
"No, Kenyon, no!" whispered Miriam, shrinking back; "unless of his ownaccord he speaks my name,--unless he bids me stay,--no word shall everpass between him and me. It is not that I take upon me to be proud atthis late hour. Among other feminine qualities, I threw away my pridewhen Hilda cast me off."
"If not pride, what else restrains you?" Kenyon asked, a little angry ather unseasonable scruples, and also at this half-complaining referenceto Hilda's just severity. "After daring so much, it is no time for fear!If we let him part from you without a word, your opportunity of doinghim inestimable good is lost forever."
"True; it will be lost forever!" repeated Miriam sadly. "But, dearfriend, will it be my fault? I willingly fling my woman's pride at hisfeet. But--do you not see?--his heart must be left freely to its owndecision whether to recognize me, because on his voluntary choicedepends the whole question whether my devotion will do him good orharm. Except he feel an infinite need of me, I am a burden and fatalobstruction to him!"
"Take your own course, then, Miriam," said Kenyon; "and, doubtless,the crisis being what it is, your spirit is better instructed for itsemergencies than mine."
While the foregoing words passed between them they had withdrawn alittle from the immediate vicinity of the statue, so as to be out ofDonatello's hearing. Still, however, they were beneath the pontiff'soutstretched hand; and Miriam, with her beauty and her sorrow, looked upinto his benignant face, as if she had come thither for his pardon andpaternal affection, and despaired of so vast a boon.
Meanwhile, she had not stood thus long in the public square of Perugia,without attracting the observation of many eyes. With their quick senseof beauty, these Italians had recognized her loveliness, and spared notto take their fill of gazing at it; though their native gentleness andcourtesy made their homage far less obtrusive than that of Germans,French, or Anglo-Saxons might have been. It is not improbable thatMiriam had planned this momentous interview, on so public a spot and athigh noon, with an eye to the sort of protection that would be thrownover it by a multitude of eye-witnesses. In circumstances of profoundfeeling and passion, there is often a sense that too great a seclusioncannot be endured; there is an indefinite dread of being quite alonewith the object of our deepest interest. The species of solitude thata crowd harbors within itself is felt to be preferable, in certainconditions of the heart, to the remoteness of a desert or the depthsof an untrodden wood. Hatred, love, or whatever kind of toointense emotion, or even indifference, where emotion has once been,instinctively seeks to interpose some barrier between itself and thecorresponding passion in another breast. This, we suspect, was whatMiriam had thought of, in coming to the thronged piazza; partly this,and partly, as she said, her superstition that the benign statue heldgood influences in store.
But Donatello remained leaning against the balustrade. She dared notglance towards him, to see whether he were pale and agitated, or calm asice. Only, she knew that the moments were fleetly lapsing away, and thathis heart must call her soon, or the voice would never reach her. Sheturned quite away from him and spoke again to the sculptor.
"I have wished to meet you," said she, "for more than one reason. Newshas come to me respecting a dear friend of ours. Nay, not of mine! Idare not call her a friend of mine, though once the dearest."
"Do you speak of Hilda?" exclaimed Kenyon, with quick alarm. "Hasanything befallen her? When I last heard of her, she was still in Rome,and well."
"Hilda remains in Rome," replied Miriam, "nor is she ill as regardsphysical health, though much depressed in spirits. She lives quite alonein her dove-cote; not a friend near her, not one in Rome, which, youknow, is deserted by all but its native inhabitants. I fear for herhealth, if she continue long in such solitude, with despondency preyingon her mind. I tell you this, knowing the interest which the rare beautyof her character has awakened in you."
"I will go to Rome!" said the sculptor, in great emotion. "Hilda hasnever allowed me to manifest more than a friendly regard; but, at least,she cannot prevent my watching over her at a humble distance. I will setout this very hour."
"Do not leave us now!" whispered Miriam imploringly, and laying her handon his arm. "One moment more! Ah; he has no word for me!"
"Miriam!" said Donatello.
Though but a single word, and the first that he had spoken, its tone wasa warrant of the sad and tender depth from which it came. It told Miriamthings of infinite importance, and, first of all, that he still lovedher. The sense of their mutual crime had stunned, but not destroyed, thevitality of his affection; it was therefore indestructible. That tone,too, bespoke an altered and deepened character; it told of a vivifiedintellect, and of spiritual instruction that had come through sorrow andremorse; so that instead of the wild boy, the thing of sportive,animal nature, the sylvan Faun, here was now the man of feeling andintelligence.
She turned towards him, while his voice still reverberated in the depthsof her soul.
"You have called me!" said she.
"Because my deepest heart has need of you!" he replied. "Forgive,Miriam, the coldness, the hardness with which I parted from you! I wasbewildered with strange horror and gloom."
"Alas! and it was I that brought it on you," said she. "What repentance,what self-sacrifice, can atone for that infinite wrong? There wassomething so sacred in the innocent and joyous life which you wereleading! A happy person is such an unaccustomed and holy creature inthis sad world! And, encountering so rare a being, and gifted with thepower of sympathy with his sunny life, it was my doom, mine, to bringhim within the limits of sinful, sorrowful mortality! Bid me depart,Donatello! Fling me off! No good, through my agency, can follow uponsuch a mighty evil!"
"Miriam," said he, "our lot lies together. Is it not so? Tell me, inHeaven's name, if it be otherwise."
Donatello's conscience was evidently perplexed with doubt, whether thecommunion of a crime, such as they two were jointly stained with, oughtnot to stifle all the instinctive motions of their hearts, impellingthem one towards the other. Miriam, on the other hand, remorsefullyquestioned with herself whether the misery, already accruing fromher influence, should not warn her to withdraw from his path. In
thismomentous interview, therefore, two souls were groping for each other inthe darkness of guilt and sorrow, and hardly were bold enough to graspthe cold hands that they found.
The sculptor stood watching the scene with earnest sympathy.
"It seems irreverent," said he, at length; "intrusive, if notirreverent, for a third person to thrust himself between the two solelyconcerned in a crisis like the present. Yet, possibly as a bystander,though a deeply interested one, I may discern somewhat of truth thatis hidden from you both; nay, at least interpret or suggest some ideaswhich you might not so readily convey to each other."
"Speak!" said Miriam. "We confide in you." "Speak!" said Donatello. "Youare true and upright."
"I well know," rejoined Kenyon, "that I shall not succeed in utteringthe few, deep words which, in this matter, as in all others, include theabsolute truth. But here, Miriam, is one whom a terrible misfortune hasbegun to educate; it has taken him, and through your agency, out of awild and happy state, which, within circumscribed limits, gave him joysthat he cannot elsewhere find on earth. On his behalf, you have incurreda responsibility which you cannot fling aside. And here, Donatello, isone whom Providence marks out as intimately connected with your destiny.The mysterious process, by which our earthly life instructs us foranother state of being, was begun for you by her. She has rich gifts ofheart and mind, a suggestive power, a magnetic influence, a sympatheticknowledge, which, wisely and religiously exercised, are what yourcondition needs. She possesses what you require, and, with utter selfdevotion, will use it for your good. The bond betwixt you, therefore,is a true one, and never--except by Heaven's own act--should be rentasunder."
"Ah; he has spoken the truth!" cried Donatello, grasping Miriam's hand.
"The very truth, dear friend," cried Miriam.
"But take heed," resumed the sculptor, anxious not to violate theintegrity of his own conscience, "take heed; for you love one another,and yet your bond is twined with such black threads that you must neverlook upon it as identical with the ties that unite other loving souls.It is for mutual support; it is for one another's final good; it is foreffort, for sacrifice, but not for earthly happiness. If such be yourmotive, believe me, friends, it were better to relinquish each other'shands at this sad moment. There would be no holy sanction on your weddedlife."
"None," said Donatello, shuddering. "We know it well."
"None," repeated Miriam, also shuddering. "United--miserably entangledwith me, rather--by a bond of guilt, our union might be for eternity,indeed, and most intimate;--but, through all that endless duration, Ishould be conscious of his horror."
"Not for earthly bliss, therefore," said Kenyon, "but for mutualelevation, and encouragement towards a severe and painful life, you takeeach other's hands. And if, out of toil, sacrifice, prayer, penitence,and earnest effort towards right things, there comes at length a sombreand thoughtful, happiness, taste it, and thank Heaven! So that you livenot for it,--so that it be a wayside flower, springing along a path thatleads to higher ends,--it will be Heaven's gracious gift, and a tokenthat it recognizes your union here below."
"Have you no more to say?" asked Miriam earnestly. "There is matter ofsorrow and lofty consolation strangely mingled in your words."
"Only this, dear Miriam," said the sculptor; "if ever in your livesthe highest duty should require from either of you the sacrifice of theother, meet the occasion without shrinking. This is all."
While Kenyon spoke, Donatello had evidently taken in the ideas which hepropounded, and had ennobled them by the sincerity of his reception.His aspect unconsciously assumed a dignity, which, elevating his formerbeauty, accorded with the change that had long been taking place in hisinterior self. He was a man, revolving grave and deep thoughts in hisbreast. He still held Miriam's hand; and there they stood, the beautifulman, the beautiful woman, united forever, as they felt, in thepresence of these thousand eye-witnesses, who gazed so curiously at theunintelligible scene. Doubtless the crowd recognized them as lovers,and fancied this a betrothal that was destined to result in lifelonghappiness. And possibly it might be so. Who can tell where happiness maycome; or where, though an expected guest, it may never show its face?Perhaps--shy, subtle thing--it had crept into this sad marriage bond,when the partners would have trembled at its presence as a crime.
"Farewell!" said Kenyon; "I go to Rome."
"Farewell, true friend!" said Miriam.
"Farewell!" said Donatello too. "May you be happy. You have no guilt tomake you shrink from happiness."
At this moment it so chanced that all the three friends by one impulseglanced upward at the statue of Pope Julius; and there was the majesticfigure stretching out the hand of benediction over them, and bendingdown upon this guilty and repentant pair its visage of grand benignity.There is a singular effect oftentimes when, out of the midst ofengrossing thought and deep absorption, we suddenly look up, and catch aglimpse of external objects. We seem at such moments to look farther anddeeper into them, than by any premeditated observation; it is as if theymet our eyes alive, and with all their hidden meaning on the surface,but grew again inanimate and inscrutable the instant that they becameaware of our glances. So now, at that unexpected glimpse, Miriam,Donatello, and the sculptor, all three imagined that they beheld thebronze pontiff endowed with spiritual life. A blessing was feltdescending upon them from his outstretched hand; he approved by look andgesture the pledge of a deep union that had passed under his auspices.
The Marble Faun; Or, The Romance of Monte Beni - Volume 2 Page 12