The Marble Faun; Or, The Romance of Monte Beni - Volume 2

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

  CHAPTER XLIX

  A FROLIC OF THE CARNIVAL

  The crowd and confusion, just at that moment, hindered the sculptor frompursuing these figures,--the peasant and contadina,--who, indeed, werebut two of a numerous tribe that thronged the Corso, in similar costume.As soon as he could squeeze a passage, Kenyon tried to follow in theirfootsteps, but quickly lost sight of them, and was thrown off the trackby stopping to examine various groups of masqueraders, in which hefancied the objects of his search to be included. He found many a sallowpeasant or herdsman of the Campagna, in such a dress as Donatellowore; many a contadina, too, brown, broad, and sturdy, in her fineryof scarlet, and decked out with gold or coral beads, a pair of heavyearrings, a curiously wrought cameo or mosaic brooch, and a silver combor long stiletto among her glossy hair. But those shapes of grace andbeauty which he sought had vanished.

  As soon as the procession of the Senator had passed, the merry-makersresumed their antics with fresh spirit, and the artillery of bouquetsand sugar plums, suspended for a moment, began anew. The sculptorhimself, being probably the most anxious and unquiet spectator there,was especially a mark for missiles from all quarters, and for thepractical jokes which the license of the Carnival permits. In fact,his sad and contracted brow so ill accorded with the scene, that therevellers might be pardoned for thus using him as the butt of their idlemirth, since he evidently could not otherwise contribute to it.

  Fantastic figures, with bulbous heads, the circumference of a bushel,grinned enormously in his face. Harlequins struck him with their woodenswords, and appeared to expect his immediate transformation into somejollier shape. A little, long-tailed, horned fiend sidled up to him andsuddenly blew at him through a tube, enveloping our poor friend in awhole harvest of winged seeds. A biped, with an ass's snout, brayedclose to his ear, ending his discordant uproar with a peal of humanlaughter. Five strapping damsels--so, at least, their petticoats bespokethem, in spite of an awful freedom in the flourish of their legs--joinedhands, and danced around him, inviting him by their gestures to performa hornpipe in the midst. Released from these gay persecutors, a clown inmotley rapped him on the back with a blown bladder, in which a handfulof dried peas rattled horribly.

  Unquestionably, a care-stricken mortal has no business abroad, whenthe rest of mankind are at high carnival; they must either pelt himand absolutely martyr him with jests, and finally bury him beneath theaggregate heap; or else the potency of his darker mood, because thetissue of human life takes a sad dye more readily than a gay one, willquell their holiday humors, like the aspect of a death's-head at abanquet. Only that we know Kenyon's errand, we could hardly forgive himfor venturing into the Corso with that troubled face.

  Even yet, his merry martyrdom was not half over. There came along agigantic female figure, seven feet high, at least, and taking up a thirdof the street's breadth with the preposterously swelling sphere ofher crinoline skirts. Singling out the sculptor, she began to make aponderous assault upon his heart, throwing amorous glances at him outof her great goggle eyes, offering him a vast bouquet of sunflowers andnettles, and soliciting his pity by all sorts of pathetic and passionatedumb-show. Her suit meeting no favor, the rejected Titaness made agesture of despair and rage; then suddenly drawing a huge pistol,she took aim right at the obdurate sculptor's breast, and pulled thetrigger. The shot took effect, for the abominable plaything went offby a spring, like a boy's popgun, covering Kenyon with a cloud of limedust, under shelter of which the revengeful damsel strode away.

  Hereupon, a whole host of absurd figures surrounded him, pretendingto sympathize in his mishap. Clowns and party-colored harlequins;orang-outangs; bear-headed, bull-headed, and dog-headed individuals;faces that would have been human, but for their enormous noses; oneterrific creature, with a visage right in the centre of his breast;and all other imaginable kinds of monstrosity and exaggeration. Theseapparitions appeared to be investigating the case, after the fashionof a coroner's jury, poking their pasteboard countenances close to thesculptor's with an unchangeable grin, that gave still more ludicrouseffect to the comic alarm and sorrow of their gestures. Just then, afigure came by, in a gray wig and rusty gown, with an inkhorn at hisbuttonhole and a pen behind his ear; he announced himself as a notary,and offered to make the last will and testament of the assassinated man.This solemn duty, however, was interrupted by a surgeon, who brandisheda lancet, three feet long, and proposed to him to let him take blood.

  The affair was so like a feverish dream, that Kenyon resigned himself tolet it take its course. Fortunately the humors of the Carnival pass fromone absurdity to another, without lingering long enough on any, to wearout even the slightest of them. The passiveness of his demeanor affordedtoo little scope for such broad merriment as the masqueraders sought. Ina few moments they vanished from him, as dreams and spectres do, leavinghim at liberty to pursue his quest, with no impediment except the crowdthat blocked up the footway.

  He had not gone far when the peasant and the contadina met him. Theywere still hand in hand, and appeared to be straying through thegrotesque and animated scene, taking as little part in it as himself. Itmight be because he recognized them, and knew their solemn secret, thatthe sculptor fancied a melancholy emotion to be expressed by the verymovement and attitudes of these two figures; and even the grasp of theirhands, uniting them so closely, seemed to set them in a sad remotenessfrom the world at which they gazed.

  "I rejoice to meet you," said Kenyon. But they looked at him through theeye-holes of their black masks, without answering a word.

  "Pray give me a little light on the matter which I have so much atheart," said he; "if you know anything of Hilda, for Heaven's sake,speak!"

  Still they were silent; and the sculptor began to imagine that hemust have mistaken the identity of these figures, there being such amultitude in similar costume. Yet there was no other Donatello, no otherMiriam. He felt, too, that spiritual certainty which impresses us withthe presence of our friends, apart from any testimony of the senses.

  "You are unkind," resumed he,--"knowing the anxiety which oppresses me,--not to relieve it, if in your power."

  The reproach evidently had its effect; for the contadina now spoke, andit was Miriam's voice.

  "We gave you all the light we could," said she. "You are yourselfunkind, though you little think how much so, to come between us at thishour. There may be a sacred hour, even in carnival time."

  In another state of mind, Kenyon could have been amused by theimpulsiveness of this response, and a sort of vivacity that he hadoften noted in Miriam's conversation. But he was conscious of a profoundsadness in her tone, overpowering its momentary irritation, and assuringhim that a pale, tear-stained face was hidden behind her mask.

  "Forgive me!" said he.

  Donatello here extended his hand,--not that which was claspingMiriam's,--and she, too, put her free one into the sculptor's left; sothat they were a linked circle of three, with many reminiscences andforebodings flashing through their hearts. Kenyon knew intuitively thatthese once familiar friends were parting with him now.

  "Farewell!" they all three said, in the same breath.

  No sooner was the word spoken, than they loosed their hands; and theuproar of the Carnival swept like a tempestuous sea over the spot whichthey had included within their small circle of isolated feeling.

  By this interview, the sculptor had learned nothing in reference toHilda; but he understood that he was to adhere to the instructionsalready received, and await a solution of the mystery in some modethat he could not yet anticipate. Passing his hands over his eyes, andlooking about him,--for the event just described had made the scene evenmore dreamlike than before,--he now found himself approaching that broadpiazza bordering on the Corso, which has for its central object thesculptured column of Antoninus. It was not far from this vicinitythat Miriam had bid him wait. Struggling onward as fast as the tide ofmerrymakers, setting strong against him, would permit, he was now beyondthe Palazzo Colonna, and began to count the houses.
The fifth was apalace, with a long front upon the Corso, and of stately height, butsomewhat grim with age.

  Over its arched and pillared entrance there was a balcony, richly hungwith tapestry and damask, and tenanted, for the time, by a gentleman ofvenerable aspect and a group of ladies. The white hair and whiskers ofthe former, and the winter roses in his cheeks, had an English look; theladies, too, showed a fair-haired Saxon bloom, and seemed to taste themirth of the Carnival with the freshness of spectators to whom the scenewas new. All the party, the old gentleman with grave earnestness, as ifhe were defending a rampart, and his young companions with exuberance offrolic, showered confetti inexhaustibly upon the passers-by.

  In the rear of the balcony, a broad-brimmed, ecclesiastical beaver wasvisible. An abbate, probably an acquaintance and cicerone of the Englishfamily, was sitting there, and enjoying the scene, though partiallywithdrawn from view, as the decorum for his order dictated.

  There seemed no better nor other course for Kenyon than to keep watch atthis appointed spot, waiting for whatever should happen next. Claspinghis arm round a lamp-post, to prevent being carried away by theturbulent stream of wayfarers, he scrutinized every face, with the ideathat some one of them might meet his eyes with a glance of intelligence.He looked at each mask,--harlequin, ape, bulbous-headed monster, oranything that was absurdest,--not knowing but that the messenger mightcome, even in such fantastic guise. Or perhaps one of those quaintfigures, in the stately ruff, the cloak, tunic, and trunk-hose of threecenturies ago, might bring him tidings of Hilda, out of that long-pastage. At times his disquietude took a hopeful aspect; and he fancied thatHilda might come by, her own sweet self, in some shy disguise which theinstinct Of his love would be sure to penetrate. Or, she might beborne past on a triumphal car, like the one just now approaching, itsslow-moving wheels encircled and spoked with foliage, and drawn byhorses, that were harnessed and wreathed with flowers. Being, at best,so far beyond the bounds of reasonable conjecture, he might anticipatethe wildest event, or find either his hopes or fears disappointed inwhat appeared most probable.

  The old Englishman and his daughters, in the opposite balcony, must haveseen something unutterably absurd in the sculptor's deportment, poringinto this whirlpool of nonsense so earnestly, in quest of what was tomake his life dark or bright. Earnest people, who try to get a realityout of human existence, are necessarily absurd in the view of therevellers and masqueraders. At all events, after a good deal of mirth atthe expense of his melancholy visage, the fair occupants of the balconyfavored Kenyon with a salvo of confetti, which came rattling about himlike a hailstorm. Looking up instinctively, he was surprised to seethe abbate in the background lean forward and give a courteous sign ofrecognition.

  It was the same old priest with whom he had seen Hilda, at theconfessional; the same with whom he had talked of her disappearance onmeeting him in the street.

  Yet, whatever might be the reason, Kenyon did not now associate thisecclesiastical personage with the idea of Hilda. His eyes lighted on theold man, just for an instant, and then returned to the eddying throng ofthe Corso, on his minute scrutiny of which depended, for aught he knew,the sole chance of ever finding any trace of her. There was, about thismoment, a bustle on the other side of the street, the cause of whichKenyon did not see, nor exert himself to discover. A small party ofsoldiers or gendarmes appeared to be concerned in it; they were perhapsarresting some disorderly character, who, under the influence of anextra flask of wine, might have reeled across the mystic limitation ofcarnival proprieties.

  The sculptor heard some people near him talking of the incident.

  "That contadina, in a black mask, was a fine figure of a woman."

  "She was not amiss," replied a female voice; "but her companion was farthe handsomer figure of the two. Could they be really a peasant and acontadina, do you imagine?"

  "No, no," said the other. "It is some frolic of the Carnival, carried alittle too far."

  This conversation might have excited Kenyon's interest; only that, justas the last words were spoken, he was hit by two missiles, both of akind that were flying abundantly on that gay battlefield. One, we areashamed to say, was a cauliflower, which, flung by a young man from apassing carriage, came with a prodigious thump against his shoulder;the other was a single rosebud, so fresh that it seemed that momentgathered. It flew from the opposite balcony, smote gently on his lips,and fell into his hand. He looked upward, and beheld the face of hislost Hilda!

  She was dressed in a white domino, and looked pale and bewildered,and yet full of tender joy. Moreover, there was a gleam of delicatemirthfulness in her eyes, which the sculptor had seen there only two orthree times in the course of their acquaintance, but thought it the mostbewitching and fairylike of all Hilda's expressions. That soft, mirthfulsmile caused her to melt, as it were, into the wild frolic of theCarnival, and become not so strange and alien to the scene, as herunexpected apparition must otherwise have made her.

  Meanwhile, the venerable Englishman and his daughters were staring atpoor Hilda in a way that proved them altogether astonished, as wellas inexpressibly shocked, by her sudden intrusion into their privatebalcony. They looked,--as, indeed, English people of respectabilitywould, if an angel were to alight in their circle, without dueintroduction from somebody whom they knew, in the court above,--theylooked as if an unpardonable liberty had been taken, and a suitableapology must be made; after which, the intruder would be expected towithdraw.

  The abbate, however, drew the old gentleman aside, and whispered a fewwords that served to mollify him; he bestowed on Hilda a sufficientlybenignant, though still a perplexed and questioning regard, and invitedher, in dumb-show, to put herself at her ease.

  But, whoever was in fault, our shy and gentle Hilda had dreamed of nointrusion. Whence she had come, or where she had been hidden, duringthis mysterious interval, we can but imperfectly surmise, and do notmean, at present, to make it a matter of formal explanation with thereader. It is better, perhaps, to fancy that she had been snatched awayto a land of picture; that she had been straying with Claude in thegolden light which he used to shed over his landscapes, but which hecould never have beheld with his waking eyes till he awoke in the betterclime. We will imagine that, for the sake of the true simplicitywith which she loved them, Hilda had been permitted, for a season, toconverse with the great, departed masters of the pencil, and beholdthe diviner works which they have painted in heavenly colors. Guido hadshown her another portrait of Beatrice Cenci, done from the celestiallife, in which that forlorn mystery of the earthly countenance wasexchanged for a radiant joy. Perugino had allowed her a glimpse at hiseasel, on which she discerned what seemed a woman's face, but so divine,by the very depth and softness of its womanhood, that a gush of happytears blinded the maiden's eyes before she had time to look. Raphaelhad taken Hilda by the hand, that fine, forcible hand which Kenyonsculptured,--and drawn aside the curtain of gold-fringed cloud thathung before his latest masterpiece. On earth, Raphael painted theTransfiguration. What higher scene may he have since depicted, not fromimagination, but as revealed to his actual sight!

  Neither will we retrace the steps by which she returned to the actualworld. For the present, be it enough to say that Hilda had been summonedforth from a secret place, and led we know not through what mysteriouspassages, to a point where the tumult of life burst suddenly upon herears. She heard the tramp of footsteps, the rattle of wheels, and themingled hum of a multitude of voices, with strains of music and loudlaughter breaking through. Emerging into a great, gloomy hall, acurtain was drawn aside; she found herself gently propelled into anopen balcony, whence she looked out upon the festal street, with gaytapestries flaunting over all the palace fronts, the windows throngedwith merry faces, and a crowd of maskers rioting upon the pavementbelow.

  Immediately she seemed to become a portion of the scene. Her pale,large-eyed, fragile beauty, her wondering aspect and bewildered grace,attracted the gaze of many; and there fell around her a shower ofbouquets and bonb
ons--freshest blossoms and sweetest sugar plums, sweetsto the sweet--such as the revellers of the Carnival reserve as tributesto especial loveliness. Hilda pressed her hand across her brow; she lether eyelids fall, and, lifting them again, looked through the grotesqueand gorgeous show, the chaos of mad jollity, in quest of some objectby which she might assure herself that the whole spectacle was not anillusion.

  Beneath the balcony, she recognized a familiar and fondly rememberedface. The spirit of the hour and the scene exercised its influence overher quick and sensitive nature; she caught up one of the rosebuds thathad been showered upon her, and aimed it at the sculptor; It hit themark; he turned his sad eyes upward, and there was Hilda, in whosegentle presence his own secret sorrow and the obtrusive uproar of theCarnival alike died away from his perception.

  That night, the lamp beneath the Virgin's shrine burned as brightly asif it had never been extinguished; and though the one faithful dove hadgone to her melancholy perch, she greeted Hilda rapturously the nextmorning, and summoned her less constant companions, whithersoever theyhad flown, to renew their homage.