CHAPTER XL
HILDA AND A FRIEND
When Hilda knelt to receive the priest's benediction, the act waswitnessed by a person who stood leaning against the marble balustradethat surrounds the hundred golden lights, before the high altar. He hadstood there, indeed, from the moment of the girl's entrance into theconfessional. His start of surprise, at first beholding her, andthe anxious gloom that afterwards settled on his face, sufficientlybetokened that he felt a deep and sad interest in what was goingforward.
After Hilda had bidden the priest farewell, she came slowly towards thehigh altar. The individual to whom we have alluded seemed irresolutewhether to advance or retire. His hesitation lasted so long that themaiden, straying through a happy reverie, had crossed the wide extentof the pavement between the confessional and the altar, before he haddecided whether to meet her. At last, when within a pace or two, sheraised her eyes and recognized Kenyon.
"It is you!" she exclaimed, with joyful surprise. "I am so happy."
In truth, the sculptor had never before seen, nor hardly imagined, sucha figure of peaceful beatitude as Hilda now presented. While comingtowards him in the solemn radiance which, at that period of the day, isdiffused through the transept, and showered down beneath the dome, sheseemed of the same substance as the atmosphere that enveloped her. Hecould scarcely tell whether she was imbued with sunshine, or whether itwas a glow of happiness that shone out of her.
At all events, it was a marvellous change from the sad girl, who hadentered the confessional bewildered with anguish, to this bright, yetsoftened image of religious consolation that emerged from it. It wasas if one of the throng of angelic people, who might be hovering in thesunny depths of the dome, had alighted on the pavement. Indeed, thiscapability of transfiguration, which we often see wrought by inwarddelight on persons far less capable of it than Hilda, suggests howangels come by their beauty, it grows out of their happiness, and lastsforever only because that is immortal.
She held out her hand, and Kenyon was glad to take it in his own, ifonly to assure himself that she was made of earthly material.
"Yes, Hilda, I see that you are very happy," he replied gloomily, andwithdrawing his hand after a single pressure. "For me, I never was lessso than at this moment."
"Has any misfortune befallen you?" asked Hilda with earnestness. "Praytell me, and you shall have my sympathy, though I must still be veryhappy. Now I know how it is that the saints above are touched by thesorrows of distressed people on earth, and yet are never made wretchedby them. Not that I profess to be a saint, you know," she added, smilingradiantly. "But the heart grows so large, and so rich, and so variouslyendowed, when it has a great sense of bliss, that it can give smiles tosome, and tears to others, with equal sincerity, and enjoy its own peacethroughout all."
"Do not say you are no saint!" answered Kenyon with a smile, though hefelt that the tears stood in his eves. "You will still be Saint Hilda,whatever church may canonize you."
"Ah! you would not have said so, had you seen me but an hour ago!"murmured she. "I was so wretched, that there seemed a grievous sin init."
"And what has made you so suddenly happy?" inquired the sculptor. "Butfirst, Hilda, will you not tell me why you were so wretched?"
"Had I met you yesterday, I might have told you that," she replied."To-day, there is no need."
"Your happiness, then?" said the sculptor, as sadly as before. "Whencecomes it?"
"A great burden has been lifted from my heart--from my conscience, I hadalmost said,"--answered Hilda, without shunning the glance that he fixedupon her. "I am a new creature, since this morning, Heaven be praisedfor it! It was a blessed hour--a blessed impulse--that brought meto this beautiful and glorious cathedral. I shall hold it in lovingremembrance while I live, as the spot where I found infinite peace afterinfinite trouble."
Her heart seemed so full, that it spilt its new gush of happiness, asit were, like rich and sunny wine out of an over-brimming goblet. Kenyonsaw that she was in one of those moods of elevated feeling, when thesoul is upheld by a strange tranquility, which is really more passionateand less controllable than emotions far exceeding it in violence. Hefelt that there would be indelicacy, if he ought not rather to call itimpiety, in his stealing upon Hilda, while she was thus beyond herown guardianship, and surprising her out of secrets which she mightafterwards bitterly regret betraying to him. Therefore, though yearningto know what had happened, he resolved to forbear further question.
Simple and earnest people, however, being accustomed to speak from theirgenuine impulses, cannot easily, as craftier men do, avoid the subjectwhich they have at heart. As often as the sculptor unclosed his lips,such words as these were ready to burst out:--"Hilda, have you flungyour angelic purity into that mass of unspeakable corruption, the RomanChurch?"
"What were you saying?" she asked, as Kenyon forced back an almostuttered exclamation of this kind.
"I was thinking of what you have just remarked about the cathedral,"said he, looking up into the mighty hollow of the dome. "It is indeeda magnificent structure, and an adequate expression of the Faith whichbuilt it. When I behold it in a proper mood,--that is to say, when Ibring my mind into a fair relation with the minds and purposes of itsspiritual and material architects,--I see but one or two criticisms tomake. One is, that it needs painted windows."
"O, no!" said Hilda. "They would be quite inconsistent with so muchrichness of color in the interior of the church. Besides, it is a Gothicornament, and only suited to that style of architecture, which requiresa gorgeous dimness."
"Nevertheless," continued the sculptor, "yonder square apertures,filled with ordinary panes of glass, are quite out of keeping with thesuperabundant splendor of everything about them. They remind me of thatportion of Aladdin's palace which he left unfinished, in order thathis royal father-in-law might put the finishing touch. Daylight, in itsnatural state, ought not to be admitted here. It should stream through abrilliant illusion of saints and hierarchies, and old scriptural images,and symbolized dogmas, purple, blue, golden, and a broad flame ofscarlet. Then, it would be just such an illumination as the Catholicfaith allows to its believers. But, give me--to live and die in--thepure, white light of heaven!"
"Why do you look so sorrowfully at me?" asked Hilda, quietly meeting hisdisturbed gaze. "What would you say to me? I love the white light too!"
"I fancied so," answered Kenyon. "Forgive me, Hilda; but I must needsspeak. You seemed to me a rare mixture of impressibility, sympathy,sensitiveness to many influences, with a certain quality of commonsense;--no, not that, but a higher and finer attribute, for which I findno better word. However tremulously you might vibrate, this quality,I supposed, would always bring you back to the equipoise. You were acreature of imagination, and yet as truly a New England girl as any withwhom you grew up in your native village. If there were one person inthe world whose native rectitude of thought, and something deeper, morereliable, than thought, I would have trusted against all the arts of apriesthood,--whose taste alone, so exquisite and sincere that it roseto be a moral virtue, I would have rested upon as a sufficientsafeguard,--it was yourself!"
"I am conscious of no such high and delicate qualities as you allow me,"answered Hilda. "But what have I done that a girl of New England birthand culture, with the right sense that her mother taught her, and theconscience that she developed in her, should not do?"
"Hilda, I saw you at the confessional!" said Kenyon.
"Ah well, my dear friend," replied Hilda, casting down her eyes, andlooking somewhat confused, yet not ashamed, "you must try to forgive mefor that,--if you deem it wrong, because it has saved my reason, andmade me very happy. Had you been here yesterday, I would have confessedto you."
"Would to Heaven I had!" ejaculated Kenyon.
"I think," Hilda resumed, "I shall never go to the confessional again;for there can scarcely come such a sore trial twice in my life. If I hadbeen a wiser girl, a stronger, and a more sensible, very likely I mightnot have gone to t
he confessional at all. It was the sin of others thatdrove me thither; not my own, though it almost seemed so. Being whatI am, I must either have done what you saw me doing, or have gone mad.Would that have been better?"
"Then you are not a Catholic?" asked the sculptor earnestly.
"Really, I do not quite know what I am," replied Hilda, encountering hiseyes with a frank and simple gaze. "I have a great deal of faith, andCatholicism seems to have a great deal of good. Why should not I be aCatholic, if I find there what I need, and what I cannot find elsewhere?The more I see of this worship, the more I wonder at the exuberance withwhich it adapts itself to all the demands of human infirmity. If itsministers were but a little more than human, above all error, pure fromall iniquity, what a religion would it be!"
"I need not fear your conversion to the Catholic faith," remarkedKenyon, "if you are at all aware of the bitter sarcasm implied in yourlast observation. It is very just. Only the exceeding ingenuity of thesystem stamps it as the contrivance of man, or some worse author; not anemanation of the broad and simple wisdom from on high."
"It may be so," said Hilda; "but I meant no sarcasm."
Thus conversing, the two friends went together down the grand extentof the nave. Before leaving the church, they turned to admire again itsmighty breadth, the remoteness of the glory behind the altar, and theeffect of visionary splendor and magnificence imparted by the long barsof smoky sunshine, which travelled so far before arriving at a place ofrest.
"Thank Heaven for having brought me hither!" said Hilda fervently.
Kenyon's mind was deeply disturbed by his idea of her Catholicpropensities; and now what he deemed her disproportionate and misappliedveneration for the sublime edifice stung him into irreverence.
"The best thing I know of St. Peter's," observed he, "is its equabletemperature. We are now enjoying the coolness of last winter, which, afew months hence, will be the warmth of the present summer. It has nocure, I suspect, in all its length and breadth, for a sick soul, butit would make an admirable atmospheric hospital for sick bodies. Whata delightful shelter would it be for the invalids who throng to Rome,where the sirocco steals away their strength, and the tramontana stabsthem through and through, like cold steel with a poisoned point! Butwithin these walls, the thermometer never varies. Winter and summer aremarried at the high altar, and dwell together in perfect harmony."
"Yes," said Hilda; "and I have always felt this soft, unchanging climateof St. Peter's to be another manifestation of its sanctity."
"That is not precisely my idea," replied Kenyon. "But what a deliciouslife it would be, if a colony of people with delicate lungs or merelywith delicate fancies--could take up their abode in this ever-mild andtranquil air. These architectural tombs of the popes might serve fordwellings, and each brazen sepulchral doorway would become a domesticthreshold. Then the lover, if he dared, might say to his mistress,'Will you share my tomb with me?' and, winning her soft consent, hewould lead her to the altar, and thence to yonder sepulchre of PopeGregory, which should be their nuptial home. What a life would betheirs, Hilda, in their marble Eden!"
"It is not kind, nor like yourself," said Hilda gently, "to throwridicule on emotions which are genuine. I revere this glorious churchfor itself and its purposes; and love it, moreover, because here I havefound sweet peace, after' a great anguish."
"Forgive me," answered the sculptor, "and I will do so no more. My heartis not so irreverent as my words."
They went through the piazza of St. Peter's and the adjacent streets,silently at first; but, before reaching the bridge of St. Angelo,Hilda's flow of spirits began to bubble forth, like the gush of astreamlet that has been shut up by frost, or by a heavy stone over itssource. Kenyon had never found her so delightful as now; so softenedout of the chillness of her virgin pride; so full of fresh thoughts,at which he was often moved to smile, although, on turning them overa little more, he sometimes discovered that they looked fanciful onlybecause so absolutely true.
But, indeed, she was not quite in a normal state. Emerging from gloominto sudden cheerfulness, the effect upon Hilda was as if she werejust now created. After long torpor, receiving back her intellectualactivity, she derived an exquisite pleasure from the use of herfaculties, which were set in motion by causes that seemed inadequate.She continually brought to Kenyon's mind the image of a child, makingits plaything of every object, but sporting in good faith, and witha kind of seriousness. Looking up, for example, at the statue of St.Michael, on the top of Hadrian's castellated tomb, Hilda fancied aninterview between the Archangel and the old emperor's ghost, who wasnaturally displeased at finding his mausoleum, which he had ordainedfor the stately and solemn repose of his ashes, converted to its presentpurposes.
"But St. Michael, no doubt," she thoughtfully remarked, "would finallyconvince the Emperor Hadrian that where a warlike despot is sown as theseed, a fortress and a prison are the only possible crop."
They stopped on the bridge to look into the swift eddying flow of theyellow Tiber, a mud puddle in strenuous motion; and Hilda wonderedwhether the seven-branched golden candlestick,--the holy candlestick ofthe Jews, which was lost at the Ponte Molle, in Constantine's time, hadyet been swept as far down the river as this.
"It probably stuck where it fell," said the sculptor; "and, by thistime, is imbedded thirty feet deep in the mud of the Tiber. Nothing willever bring it to light again."
"I fancy you are mistaken," replied Hilda, smiling. "There was a meaningand purpose in each of its seven branches, and such a candlestick cannotbe lost forever. When it is found again, and seven lights are kindledand burning in it, the whole world will gain the illumination whichit needs. Would not this be an admirable idea for a mystic story orparable, or seven-branched allegory, full of poetry, art, philosophy,and religion? It shall be called 'The Recovery of the SacredCandlestick.' As each branch is lighted, it shall have a differentlycolored lustre from the other six; and when all the seven are kindled,their radiance shall combine into the intense white light of truth."
"Positively, Hilda, this is a magnificent conception," cried Kenyon."The more I look at it, the brighter it burns."
"I think so too," said Hilda, enjoying a childlike pleasure in her ownidea. "The theme is better suited for verse than prose; and when I gohome to America, I will suggest it to one of our poets. Or seven poetsmight write the poem together, each lighting a separate branch of theSacred Candlestick."
"Then you think of going home?" Kenyon asked.
"Only yesterday," she replied, "I longed to flee away. Now, all ischanged, and, being happy again, I should feel deep regret at leavingthe Pictorial Land. But I cannot tell. In Rome, there is somethingdreary and awful, which we can never quite escape. At least, I thoughtso yesterday."
When they reached the Via Portoghese, and approached Hilda's tower, thedoves, who were waiting aloft, flung themselves upon the air, and camefloating down about her head. The girl caressed them, and responded totheir cooings with similar sounds from her own lips, and with wordsof endearment; and their joyful flutterings and airy little flights,evidently impelled by pure exuberance of spirits, seemed to show thatthe doves had a real sympathy with their mistress's state of mind. Forpeace had descended upon her like a dove.
Bidding the sculptor farewell, Hilda climbed her tower, and came forthupon its summit to trim the Virgin's lamp. The doves, well knowing hercustom, had flown up thither to meet her, and again hovered about herhead; and very lovely was her aspect, in the evening Sunlight, which hadlittle further to do with the world just then, save to fling a goldenglory on Hilda's hair, and vanish.
Turning her eyes down into the dusky street which she had just quitted,Hilda saw the sculptor still there, and waved her hand to him.
"How sad and dim he looks, down there in that dreary street!" she saidto herself. "Something weighs upon his spirits. Would I could comforthim!"
"How like a spirit she looks, aloft there, with the evening glory roundher head, and those winged creatures claiming her as ak
in to them!"thought Kenyon, on his part. "How far above me! how unattainable! Ah,if I could lift myself to her region! Or--if it be not a sin to wishit--would that I might draw her down to an earthly fireside!"
What a sweet reverence is that, when a young man deems his mistress alittle more than mortal, and almost chides himself for longing to bringher close to his heart! A trifling circumstance, but such as loversmake much of, gave him hope. One of the doves, which had been resting onHilda's shoulder, suddenly flew downward, as if recognizing him as itsmistress's dear friend; and, perhaps commissioned with an errand ofregard, brushed his upturned face with its wings, and again soaredaloft.
The sculptor watched the bird's return, and saw Hilda greet it with asmile.
The Marble Faun; Or, The Romance of Monte Beni - Volume 2 Page 17