The Marble Faun; Or, The Romance of Monte Beni - Volume 1

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

  CHAPTER VII

  BEATRICE

  Miriam was glad to find the Dove in her turret-home; for being endowedwith an infinite activity, and taking exquisite delight in the sweetlabor of which her life was full, it was Hilda's practice to flee abroadbetimes, and haunt the galleries till dusk. Happy were those (but theywere very few) whom she ever chose to be the companions of her day; theysaw the art treasures of Rome, under her guidance, as they had neverseen them before. Not that Hilda could dissertate, or talk learnedlyabout pictures; she would probably have been puzzled by the technicalterms of her own art. Not that she had much to say about what she mostprofoundly admired; but even her silent sympathy was so powerful thatit drew your own along with it, endowing you with a second-sight thatenabled you to see excellences with almost the depth and delicacy of herown perceptions.

  All the Anglo-Saxon denizens of Rome, by this time, knew Hilda by sight.Unconsciously, the poor child had become one of the spectacles of theEternal City, and was often pointed out to strangers, sitting at hereasel among the wild-bearded young men, the white-haired old ones, andthe shabbily dressed, painfully plain women, who make up the throng ofcopyists. The old custodes knew her well, and watched over her as theirown child. Sometimes a young artist, instead of going on with a copyof the picture before which he had placed his easel, would enrichhis canvas with an original portrait of Hilda at her work. A loveliersubject could not have been selected, nor one which required nicer skilland insight in doing it anything like justice. She was pretty at alltimes, in our native New England style, with her light-brown ringlets,her delicately tinged, but healthful cheek, her sensitive, intelligent,yet most feminine and kindly face. But, every few moments, this prettyand girlish face grew beautiful and striking, as some inward thought andfeeling brightened, rose to the surface, and then, as it were, passedout of sight again; so that, taking into view this constantly recurringchange, it really seemed as if Hilda were only visible by the sunshineof her soul.

  In other respects, she was a good subject for a portrait, beingdistinguished by a gentle picturesqueness, which was perhapsunconsciously bestowed by some minute peculiarity of dress, such asartists seldom fail to assume. The effect was to make her appear like aninhabitant of pictureland, a partly ideal creature, not to be handled,nor even approached too closely. In her feminine self, Hilda wasnatural, and of pleasant deportment, endowed with a mild cheerfulness oftemper, not overflowing with animal spirits, but never long despondent.There was a certain simplicity that made every one her friend, but itwas combined with a subtile attribute of reserve, that insensibly keptthose at a distance who were not suited to her sphere.

  Miriam was the dearest friend whom she had ever known. Being a year ortwo the elder, of longer acquaintance with Italy, and better fitted todeal with its crafty and selfish inhabitants, she had helped Hilda toarrange her way of life, and had encouraged her through those firstweeks, when Rome is so dreary to every newcomer.

  "But how lucky that you are at home today," said Miriam, continuing theconversation which was begun, many pages back. "I hardly hoped to findyou, though I had a favor to ask,--a commission to put into your charge.But what picture is this?"

  "See!" said Hilda, taking her friend's hand, and leading her in front ofthe easel. "I wanted your opinion of it."

  "If you have really succeeded," observed Miriam, recognizing the pictureat the first glance, "it will be the greatest miracle you have yetachieved."

  The picture represented simply a female head; a very youthful, girlish,perfectly beautiful face, enveloped in white drapery, from beneath whichstrayed a lock or two of what seemed a rich, though hidden luxurianceof auburn hair. The eyes were large and brown, and met those of thespectator, but evidently with a strange, ineffectual effort to escape.There was a little redness about the eyes, very slightly indicated, sothat you would question whether or no the girl had been weeping. Thewhole face was quiet; there was no distortion or disturbance of anysingle feature; nor was it easy to see why the expression was notcheerful, or why a single touch of the artist's pencil should notbrighten it into joyousness. But, in fact, it was the very saddestpicture ever painted or conceived; it involved an unfathomable depth ofsorrow, the sense of which came to the observer by a sort of intuition.It was a sorrow that removed this beautiful girl out of the sphereof humanity, and set her in a far-off region, the remoteness ofwhich--while yet her face is so close before us--makes us shiver as at aspectre.

  "Yes, Hilda," said her friend, after closely examining the picture,"you have done nothing else so wonderful as this. But by what unheard-ofsolicitations or secret interest have you obtained leave to copy Guido'sBeatrice Cenci? It is an unexampled favor; and the impossibilityof getting a genuine copy has filled the Roman picture shops withBeatrices, gay, grievous, or coquettish, but never a true one amongthem."

  "There has been one exquisite copy, I have heard," said Hilda, "byan artist capable of appreciating the spirit of the picture. It wasThompson, who brought it away piecemeal, being forbidden (like therest of us) to set up his easel before it. As for me, I knew the PrinceBarberini would be deaf to all entreaties; so I had no resource butto sit down before the picture, day after day, and let it sink into myheart. I do believe it is now photographed there. It is a sad face tokeep so close to one's heart; only what is so very beautiful can neverbe quite a pain. Well; after studying it in this way, I know not howmany times, I came home, and have done my best to transfer the image tocanvas."

  "Here it is, then," said Miriam, contemplating Hilda's work with greatinterest and delight, mixed with the painful sympathy that the pictureexcited. "Everywhere we see oil-paintings, crayon sketches, cameos,engravings, lithographs, pretending to be Beatrice, and representing thepoor girl with blubbered eyes, a leer of coquetry, a merry look as ifshe were dancing, a piteous look as if she were beaten, and twenty othermodes of fantastic mistake. But here is Guido's very Beatrice; she thatslept in the dungeon, and awoke, betimes, to ascend the scaffold, Andnow that you have done it, Hilda, can you interpret what the feelingis, that gives this picture such a mysterious force? For my part, thoughdeeply sensible of its influence, I cannot seize it."

  "Nor can I, in words," replied her friend. "But while I was paintingher, I felt all the time as if she were trying to escape from my gaze.She knows that her sorrow is so strange and so immense, that she oughtto be solitary forever, both for the world's sake and her own; and thisis the reason we feel such a distance between Beatrice and ourselves,even when our eyes meet hers. It is infinitely heart-breaking to meether glance, and to feel that nothing can be done to help or comfort her;neither does she ask help or comfort, knowing the hopelessness of hercase better than we do. She is a fallen angel,--fallen, and yet sinless;and it is only this depth of sorrow, with its weight and darkness, thatkeeps her down upon earth, and brings her within our view even while itsets her beyond our reach."

  "You deem her sinless?" asked Miriam; "that is not so plain to me. IfI can pretend to see at all into that dim region, whence she gazes sostrangely and sadly at us, Beatrice's own conscience does not acquit herof something evil, and never to be forgiven!"

  "Sorrow so black as hers oppresses her very nearly as sin would," saidHilda.

  "Then," inquired Miriam, "do you think that there was no sin in the deedfor which she suffered?"

  "Ah!" replied Hilda, shuddering, "I really had quite forgottenBeatrice's history, and was thinking of her only as the picture seemsto reveal her character. Yes, yes; it was terrible guilt, an inexpiablecrime, and she feels it to be so. Therefore it is that the forlorncreature so longs to elude our eyes, and forever vanish away intonothingness! Her doom is just!"

  "O Hilda, your innocence is like a sharp steel sword!" exclaimed herfriend. "Your judgments are often terribly severe, though you seem allmade up of gentleness and mercy. Beatrice's sin may not have been sogreat: perhaps it was no sin at all, but the best virtue possible in thecircumstances. If she viewed it as a sin, it may have been because hernature was too feeble for t
he fate imposed upon her. Ah!" continuedMiriam passionately, "if I could only get within her consciousness!--ifI could but clasp Beatrice Cenci's ghost, and draw it into myself! Iwould give my life to know whether she thought herself innocent, or theone great criminal since time began."

  As Miriam gave utterance to these words, Hilda looked from the pictureinto her face, and was startled to observe that her friend's expressionhad become almost exactly that of the portrait; as if her passionatewish and struggle to penetrate poor Beatrice's mystery had beensuccessful.

  "O, for Heaven's sake, Miriam, do not look so!" she cried. "What anactress you are! And I never guessed it before. Ah! now you are yourselfagain!" she added, kissing her. "Leave Beatrice to me in future."

  "Cover up your magical picture, then," replied her friend, "else Inever can look away from it. It is strange, dear Hilda, how an innocent,delicate, white soul like yours has been able to seize the subtlemystery of this portrait; as you surely must, in order to reproduce itso perfectly. Well; we will not talk of it any more. Do you know, Ihave come to you this morning on a small matter of business. Will youundertake it for me?"

  "O, certainly," said Hilda, laughing; "if you choose to trust me withbusiness."

  "Nay, it is not a matter of any difficulty," answered Miriam; "merely totake charge of this packet, and keep it for me awhile."

  "But why not keep it yourself?" asked Hilda.

  "Partly because it will be safer in your charge," said her friend. "Iam a careless sort of person in ordinary things; while you, for all youdwell so high above the world, have certain little housewifely ways ofaccuracy and order. The packet is of some slight importance; and yet, itmay be, I shall not ask you for it again. In a week or two, you know,I am leaving Rome. You, setting at defiance the malarial fever, mean tostay here and haunt your beloved galleries through the summer. Now, fourmonths hence, unless you hear more from me, I would have you deliver thepacket according to its address."

  Hilda read the direction it was to Signore Luca Barboni, at the PlazzoCenci, third piano.

  "I will deliver it with my own hand," said she, "precisely four monthsfrom to-day, unless you bid me to the contrary. Perhaps I shall meet theghost of Beatrice in that grim old palace of her forefathers."

  "In that case," rejoined Miriam, "do not fail to speak to her, andtry to win her confidence. Poor thing! she would be all the better forpouring her heart out freely, and would be glad to do it, if she weresure of sympathy. It irks my brain and heart to think of her, all shutup within herself." She withdrew the cloth that Hilda had drawn over thepicture, and took another long look at it. "Poor sister Beatrice! forshe was still a woman, Hilda, still a sister, be her sin or sorrow whatthey might. How well you have done it, Hilda! I knot not whether Guidowill thank you, or be jealous of your rivalship."

  "Jealous, indeed!" exclaimed Hilda. "If Guido had not wrought throughme, my pains would have been thrown away."

  "After all," resumed Miriam, "if a woman had painted the originalpicture, there might have been something in it which we miss now. Ihave a great mind to undertake a copy myself; and try to give it whatit lacks. Well; goodby. But, stay! I am going for a little airing tothe grounds of the Villa Borghese this afternoon. You will think it veryfoolish, but I always feel the safer in your company, Hilda, slenderlittle maiden as you are. Will you come?"

  "Ah, not to-day, dearest Miriam," she replied; "I have set my heart ongiving another touch or two to this picture, and shall not stir abroadtill nearly sunset."

  "Farewell, then," said her visitor. "I leave you in your dove-cote. Whata sweet, strange life you lead here; conversing with the souls of theold masters, feeding and fondling your sister doves, and trimming theVirgin's lamp! Hilda, do you ever pray to the Virgin while you tend hershrine?"

  "Sometimes I have been moved to do so," replied the Dove, blushing,and lowering her eyes; "she was a woman once. Do you think it would bewrong?"

  "Nay, that is for you to judge," said Miriam; "but when you pray next,dear friend, remember me!"

  She went down the long descent of the lower staircase, and just as shereached the street the flock of doves again took their hurried flightfrom the pavement to the topmost window. She threw her eyes upwardand beheld them hovering about Hilda's head; for, after her friend'sdeparture, the girl had been more impressed than before by somethingvery sad and troubled in her manner. She was, therefore, leaning forthfrom her airy abode, and flinging down a kind, maidenly kiss, and agesture of farewell, in the hope that these might alight upon Miriam'sheart, and comfort its unknown sorrow a little. Kenyon the sculptor, whochanced to be passing the head of the street, took note of that etherealkiss, and wished that he could have caught it in the air and got Hilda'sleave to keep it.