CHAPTER XIV
CLEOPATRA
"My new statue!" said Kenyon, who had positively forgotten it in thethought of Hilda; "here it is, under this veil." "Not a nude figure,I hope," observed Miriam. "Every young sculptor seems to think that hemust give the world some specimen of indecorous womanhood, and call itEve, Venus, a Nymph, or any name that may apologize for a lack ofdecent clothing. I am weary, even more than I am ashamed, of seeing suchthings. Nowadays people are as good as born in their clothes, andthere is practically not a nude human being in existence. An artist,therefore, as you must candidly confess, cannot sculpture nudity with apure heart, if only because he is compelled to steal guilty glimpsesat hired models. The marble inevitably loses its chastity under suchcircumstances. An old Greek sculptor, no doubt, found his models in theopen sunshine, and among pure and princely maidens, and thus the nudestatues of antiquity are as modest as violets, and sufficiently drapedin their own beauty. But as for Mr. Gibson's colored Venuses (stained, Ibelieve, with tobacco juice), and all other nudities of to-day, I reallydo not understand what they have to say to this generation, and would beglad to see as many heaps of quicklime in their stead."
"You are severe upon the professors of my art," said Kenyon, halfsmiling, half seriously; "not that you are wholly wrong, either. We arebound to accept drapery of some kind, and make the best of it. Butwhat are we to do? Must we adopt the costume of to-day, and carve, forexample, a Venus in a hoop-petticoat?"
"That would be a boulder, indeed!" rejoined Miriam, laughing. "Butthe difficulty goes to confirm me in my belief that, except forportrait-busts, sculpture has no longer a right to claim any place amongliving arts. It has wrought itself out, and come fairly to an end. Thereis never a new group nowadays; never even so much as a new attitude.Greenough (I take my examples among men of merit) imagined nothing new;nor Crawford either, except in the tailoring line. There are not, as youwill own, more than half a dozen positively original statues or groupsin the world, and these few are of immemorial antiquity. A personfamiliar with the Vatican, the Uffizzi Gallery, the Naples Gallery,and the Louvre, will at once refer any modern production to its antiqueprototype; which, moreover, had begun to get out of fashion, even in oldRoman days."
"Pray stop, Miriam," cried Kenyon, "or I shall fling away the chiselforever!"
"Fairly own to me, then, my friend," rejoined Miriam, whose disturbedmind found a certain relief in this declamation, "that you sculptorsare, of necessity, the greatest plagiarists in the world."
"I do not own it," said Kenyon, "yet cannot utterly contradict you, asregards the actual state of the art. But as long as the Carrara quarriesstill yield pure blocks, and while my own country has marble mountains,probably as fine in quality, I shall steadfastly believe that futuresculptors will revive this noblest of the beautiful arts, and people theworld with new shapes of delicate grace and massive grandeur. Perhaps,"he added, smiling, "mankind will consent to wear a more manageablecostume; or, at worst, we sculptors shall get the skill to makebroadcloth transparent, and render a majestic human character visiblethrough the coats and trousers of the present day."
"Be it so!" said Miriam; "you are past my counsel. Show me the veiledfigure, which, I am afraid, I have criticised beforehand. To makeamends, I am in the mood to praise it now."
But, as Kenyon was about to take the cloth off the clay model, she laidher hand on his arm.
"Tell me first what is the subject," said she, "for I have sometimesincurred great displeasure from members of your brotherhood by beingtoo obtuse to puzzle out the purport of their productions. It is sodifficult, you know, to compress and define a character or story,and make it patent at a glance, within the narrow scope attainableby sculpture! Indeed, I fancy it is still the ordinary habit withsculptors, first to finish their group of statuary,--in such developmentas the particular block of marble will allow,--and then to choose thesubject; as John of Bologna did with his Rape of the Sabines. Have youfollowed that good example?"
"No; my statue is intended for Cleopatra," replied Kenyon, a littledisturbed by Miriam's raillery. "The special epoch of her history youmust make out for yourself."
He drew away the cloth that had served to keep the moisture of the claymodel from being exhaled. The sitting figure of a woman was seen. Shewas draped from head to foot in a costume minutely and scrupulouslystudied from that of ancient Egypt, as revealed by the strange sculptureof that country, its coins, drawings, painted mummy-cases, and whateverother tokens have been dug out of its pyramids, graves, and catacombs.Even the stiff Egyptian head-dress was adhered to, but had been softenedinto a rich feminine adornment, without losing a particle of itstruth. Difficulties that might well have seemed insurmountable had beencourageously encountered and made flexible to purposes of grace anddignity; so that Cleopatra sat attired in a garb proper to her historicand queenly state, as a daughter of the Ptolemies, and yet such asthe beautiful woman would have put on as best adapted to heighten themagnificence of her charms, and kindle a tropic fire in the cold eyes ofOctavius.
A marvellous repose--that rare merit in statuary, except it be thelumpish repose native to the block of stone--was diffused throughout thefigure. The spectator felt that Cleopatra had sunk down out of the feverand turmoil of her life, and for one instant--as it were, between twopulse throbs--had relinquished all activity, and was resting throughoutevery vein and muscle. It was the repose of despair, indeed; forOctavius had seen her, and remained insensible to her enchantments. Butstill there was a great smouldering furnace deep down in the woman'sheart. The repose, no doubt, was as complete as if she were never tostir hand or foot again; and yet, such was the creature's latent energyand fierceness, she might spring upon you like a tigress, and stop thevery breath that you were now drawing midway in your throat.
The face was a miraculous success. The sculptor had not shunned togive the full Nubian lips, and other characteristics of the Egyptianphysiognomy. His courage and integrity had been abundantly rewarded; forCleopatra's beauty shone out richer, warmer, more triumphantly beyondcomparison, than if, shrinking timidly from the truth, he had chosenthe tame Grecian type. The expression was of profound, gloomy, heavilyrevolving thought; a glance into her past life and present emergencies,while her spirit gathered itself up for some new struggle, or wasgetting sternly reconciled to impending doom. In one view, there was acertain softness and tenderness,--how breathed into the statue, among somany strong and passionate elements, it is impossible to say. Catchinganother glimpse, you beheld her as implacable as a stone and cruel asfire.
In a word, all Cleopatra--fierce, voluptuous, passionate, tender,wicked, terrible, and full of poisonous and rapturous enchantment--waskneaded into what, only a week or two before, had been a lump of wetclay from the Tiber. Soon, apotheosized in an indestructible material,she would be one of the images that men keep forever, finding a heat inthem which does not cool down, throughout the centuries?
"What a woman is this!" exclaimed Miriam, after a long pause. "Tell me,did she ever try, even while you were creating her, to overcome you withher fury or her love? Were you not afraid to touch her, as she grew moreand more towards hot life beneath your hand? My dear friend, it is agreat work! How have you learned to do it?"
"It is the concretion of a good deal of thought, emotion, and toil ofbrain and hand," said Kenyon, not without a perception that his work wasgood; "but I know not how it came about at last. I kindled a great firewithin my mind, and threw in the material,--as Aaron threw the goldof the Israelites into the furnace,--and in the midmost heat uproseCleopatra, as you see her."
"What I most marvel at," said Miriam, "is the womanhood that you have sothoroughly mixed up with all those seemingly discordant elements. Wheredid you get that secret? You never found it in your gentle Hilda, yet Irecognize its truth."
"No, surely, it was not in Hilda," said Kenyon. "Her womanhood is of theethereal type, and incompatible with any shadow of darkness or evil."
"You are right," rejoined Miriam; "there are wo
men of that etherealtype, as you term it, and Hilda is one of them. She would die of herfirst wrong-doing,--supposing for a moment that she could be capable ofdoing wrong. Of sorrow, slender as she seems, Hilda might bear a greatburden; of sin, not a feather's weight. Methinks now, were it my doom, Icould bear either, or both at once; but my conscience is still as whiteas Hilda's. Do you question it?"
"Heaven forbid, Miriam!" exclaimed the sculptor.
He was startled at the strange turn which she had so suddenly given tothe conversation. Her voice, too,--so much emotion was stifled ratherthan expressed in it, sounded unnatural.
"O, my friend," cried she, with sudden passion, "will you be my friendindeed? I am lonely, lonely, lonely! There is a secret in my heart thatburns me,--that tortures me! Sometimes I fear to go mad of it; sometimesI hope to die of it; but neither of the two happens. Ah, if I could butwhisper it to only one human soul! And you--you see far into womanhood;you receive it widely into your large view. Perhaps--perhaps, but Heavenonly knows, you might understand me! O, let me speak!"
"Miriam, dear friend," replied the sculptor, "if I can help you, speakfreely, as to a brother."
"Help me? No!" said Miriam.
Kenyon's response had been perfectly frank and kind; and yet thesubtlety of Miriam's emotion detected a certain reserve and alarm in hiswarmly expressed readiness to hear her story. In his secret soul, tosay the truth, the sculptor doubted whether it were well for thispoor, suffering girl to speak what she so yearned to say, or for himto listen. If there were any active duty of friendship to be performed,then, indeed, he would joyfully have come forward to do his best. But ifit were only a pent-up heart that sought an outlet? in that case it wasby no means so certain that a confession would do good. The more hersecret struggled and fought to be told, the more certain would it be tochange all former relations that had subsisted between herself and thefriend to whom she might reveal it. Unless he could give her all thesympathy, and just the kind of sympathy that the occasion required,Miriam would hate him by and by, and herself still more, if he let herspeak.
This was what Kenyon said to himself; but his reluctance, after all, andwhether he were conscious of it or no, resulted from a suspicion thathad crept into his heart and lay there in a dark corner. Obscure as itwas, when Miriam looked into his eyes, she detected it at once.
"Ah, I shall hate you!" cried she, echoing the thought which he hadnot spoken; she was half choked with the gush of passion that was thusturned back upon her. "You are as cold and pitiless as your own marble."
"No; but full of sympathy, God knows!" replied he.
In truth, his suspicions, however warranted by the mystery in whichMiriam was enveloped, had vanished in the earnestness of his kindly andsorrowful emotion. He was now ready to receive her trust.
"Keep your sympathy, then, for sorrows that admit of such solace," saidshe, making a strong effort to compose herself. "As for my griefs, Iknow how to manage them. It was all a mistake: you can do nothing forme, unless you petrify me into a marble companion for your Cleopatrathere; and I am not of her sisterhood, I do assure you. Forget thisfoolish scene, my friend, and never let me see a reference to it in youreyes when they meet mine hereafter."
"Since you desire it, all shall be forgotten," answered the sculptor,pressing her hand as she departed; "or, if ever I can serve you, let myreadiness to do so be remembered. Meanwhile, dear Miriam, let us meet inthe same clear, friendly light as heretofore."
"You are less sincere than I thought you," said Miriam, "if you try tomake me think that there will be no change."
As he attended her through the antechamber, she pointed to the statue ofthe pearl-diver.
"My secret is not a pearl," said she; "yet a man might drown himself inplunging after it."
After Kenyon had closed the door, she went wearily down the staircase,but paused midway, as if debating with herself whether to return.
"The mischief was done," thought she; "and I might as well have had thesolace that ought to come with it. I have lost,--by staggering a littleway beyond the mark, in the blindness of my distress, I have lost, aswe shall hereafter find, the genuine friendship of this clear-minded,honorable, true-hearted young man, and all for nothing. What if I shouldgo back this moment and compel him to listen?"
She ascended two or three of the stairs, but again paused, murmured toherself, and shook her head.
"No, no, no," she thought; "and I wonder how I ever came to dream ofit. Unless I had his heart for my own,--and that is Hilda's, nor would Isteal it from her,--it should never be the treasure Place of my secret.It is no precious pearl, as I just now told him; but my dark-redcarbuncle--red as blood--is too rich a gem to put into a stranger'scasket."
She went down the stairs, and found her shadow waiting for her in thestreet.
The Marble Faun; Or, The Romance of Monte Beni - Volume 1 Page 14