“No, no, dearest signorina,” answered Donatello, laughing, but with a certain earnestness. “I entreat2 you to take the tips of my ears for granted.” As he spoke3, the young Italian made a skip and jump, light enough for a veritable faun; so as to place himself quite beyond the reach of the fair hand that was outstretched, as if to settle the matter by actual examination. “I shall be like a wolf of the Apennines,” he continued, taking his stand on the other side of the Dying Gladiator, “if you touch my ears ever so softly. None of my race could endure it. It has always been a tender point with my forefathers4 and me.”
He spoke in Italian, with the Tuscan rusticity5 of accent, and an unshaped sort of utterance6, betokening7 that he must heretofore have been chiefly conversant8 with rural people.
“Well, well,” said Miriam, “your tender point—your two tender points, if you have them—shall be safe, so far as I am concerned. But how strange this likeness9 is, after all! and how delightful10, if it really includes the pointed11 ears! O, it is impossible, of course,” she continued, in English, “with a real and commonplace young man like Donatello; but you see how this peculiarity12 defines the position of the Faun; and, while putting him where he cannot exactly assert his brotherhood13, still disposes us kindly14 towards the kindred creature. He is not supernatural, but just on the verge15 of nature, and yet within it. What is the nameless charm of this idea, Hilda? You can feel it more delicately than I.”
“It perplexes me,” said Hilda thoughtfully, and shrinking a little; “neither do I quite like to think about it.”
“But, surely,” said Kenyon, “you agree with Miriam and me that there is something very touching16 and impressive in this statue of the Faun. In some long-past age, he must really have existed. Nature needed, and still needs, this beautiful creature; standing17 betwixt man and animal, sympathizing with each, comprehending the speech of either race, and interpreting the whole existence of one to the other. What a pity that he has forever vanished from the hard and dusty paths of life,—unless,” added the sculptor18, in a sportive whisper, “Donatello be actually he!”
“You cannot conceive how this fantasy takes hold of me,” responded Miriam, between jest and earnest. “Imagine, now, a real being, similar to this mythic Faun; how happy, how genial19, how satisfactory would be his life, enjoying the warm, sensuous20, earthy side of nature; revelling21 in the merriment of woods and streams; living as our four-footed kindred do,—as mankind did in its innocent childhood; before sin, sorrow or morality itself had ever been thought of! Ah! Kenyon, if Hilda and you and I—if I, at least—had pointed ears! For I suppose the Faun had no conscience, no remorse22, no burden on the heart, no troublesome recollections of any sort; no dark future either.”
“What a tragic23 tone was that last, Miriam!” said the sculptor; and, looking into her face, he was startled to behold24 it pale and tear-stained. “How suddenly this mood has come over you!”
“Let it go as it came,” said Miriam, “like a thunder-shower in this Roman sky. All is sunshine again, you see!”
Donatello’s refractoriness25 as regarded his ears had evidently cost him something, and he now came close to Miriam’s side, gazing at her with an appealing air, as if to solicit26 forgiveness. His mute, helpless gesture of entreaty27 had something pathetic in it, and yet might well enough excite a laugh, so like it was to what you may see in the aspect of a hound when he thinks himself in fault or disgrace. It was difficult to make out the character of this young man. So full of animal life as he was, so joyous28 in his deportment, so handsome, so physically29 well-developed, he made no impression of incompleteness, of maimed or stinted30 nature. And yet, in social intercourse31, these familiar friends of his habitually32 and instinctively33 allowed for him, as for a child or some other lawless thing, exacting34 no strict obedience35 to conventional rules, and hardly noticing his eccentricities36 enough to pardon them. There was an indefinable characteristic about Donatello that set him outside of rules.
He caught Miriam’s hand, kissed it, and gazed into her eyes without saying a word. She smiled, and bestowed37 on him a little careless caress38, singularly like what one would give to a pet dog when he puts himself in the way to receive it. Not that it was so decided39 a caress either, but only the merest touch, somewhere between a pat and a tap of the finger; it might be a mark of fondness, or perhaps a playful pretence40 of punishment. At all events, it appeared to afford Donatello exquisite41 pleasure; insomuch that he danced quite round the wooden railing that fences in the Dying Gladiator.
“It is the very step of the Dancing Faun,” said Miriam, apart, to Hilda. “What a child, or what a simpleton, he is! I continually find myself treating Donatello as if he were the merest unfledged chicken; and yet he can claim no such privileges in the right of his tender age, for he is at least—how old should you think him, Hilda?”
“Twenty years, perhaps,” replied Hilda, glancing at Donatello; “but, indeed, I cannot tell; hardly so old, on second thoughts, or possibly older. He has nothing to do with time, but has a look of eternal youth in his face.”
“All underwitted people have that look,” said Miriam scornfully.
“Donatello has certainly the gift of eternal youth, as Hilda suggests,” observed Kenyon, laughing; “for, judging by the date of this statue, which, I am more and more convinced, Praxiteles carved on purpose for him, he must be at least twenty-five centuries old, and he still looks as young as ever.”
“What age have you, Donatello?” asked Miriam.
“Signorina, I do not know,” he answered; “no great age, however; for I have only lived since I met you.”
“Now, what old man of society could have turned a silly compliment more smartly than that!” exclaimed Miriam. “Nature and art are just at one sometimes. But what a happy ignorance is this of our friend Donatello! Not to know his own age! It is equivalent to being immortal42 on earth. If I could only forget mine!”
“It is too soon to wish that,” observed the sculptor; “you are scarcely older than Donatello looks.”
“I shall be content, then,” rejoined Miriam, “if I could only forget one day of all my life.” Then she seemed to repent43 of this allusion44, and hastily added, “A woman’s days are so tedious that it is a boon45 to leave even one of them out of the account.”
The foregoing conversation had been carried on in a mood in which all imaginative people, whether artists or poets, love to indulge. In this frame of mind, they sometimes find their profoundest truths side by side with the idlest jest, and utter one or the other, apparently46 without distinguishing which is the most valuable, or assigning any considerable value to either. The resemblance between the marble Faun and their living companion had made a deep, half-serious, half-mirthful impression on these three friends, and had taken them into a certain airy region, lifting up, as it is so pleasant to feel them lifted, their heavy earthly feet from the actual soil of life. The world had been set afloat, as it were, for a moment, and relieved them, for just so long, of all customary responsibility for what they thought and said.
It might be under this influence—or, perhaps, because sculptors47 always abuse one another’s works—that Kenyon threw in a criticism upon the Dying Gladiator.
“I used to admire this statue exceedingly,” he remarked, “but, latterly, I find myself getting weary and annoyed that the man should be such a length of time leaning on his arm in the very act of death. If he is so terribly hurt, why does he not sink down and die without further ado? Flitting moments, imminent48 emergencies, imperceptible intervals49 between two breaths, ought not to be incrusted with the eternal repose50 of marble; in any sculptural subject, there should be a moral standstill, since there must of necessity be a physical one. Otherwise, it is like flinging a block of marble up into the air, and, by some trick of enchantment51, causing it to stick there. You feel that it ought to come down, and are dissatisfied that it does not obey the natural law.”
“I see,” said Miriam mischievously52, “you think that sculpture should be a sort of fossilizing process. But, in truth, your frozen art has nothing like the scope and freedom of Hilda’s and mine. In painting there is no similar objection to the representation of brief snatches of time,—perhaps because a story can be so much more fully1 told in picture, and buttressed53 about with circumstances that give it an epoch54. For instance, a painter never would have sent down yonder Faun out of his far antiquity55, lonely and desolate56, with no companion to keep his simple heart warm.”
“Ah, the Faun!” cried Hilda, with a little gesture of impatience57; “I have been looking at him too long; and now, instead of a beautiful statue, immortally58 young, I see only a corroded59 and discolored stone. This change is very apt to occur in statues.”
“And a similar one in pictures, surely,” retorted the sculptor. “It is the spectator’s mood that transfigures the Transfiguration itself. I defy any painter to move and elevate me without my own consent and assistance.”
The party now strayed onward61 from hall to hall of that rich gallery, pausing here and there, to look at the multitude of noble and lovely shapes, which have been dug up out of the deep grave in which old Rome lies buried. And still, the realization62 of the antique Faun, in the person of Donatello, gave a more vivid character to all these marble ghosts. Why should not each statue grow warm with life! Antinous might lift his brow, and tell us why he is forever sad. The Lycian Apollo might strike his lyre; and, at the first vibration63, that other Faun in red marble, who keeps up a motionless dance, should frisk gayly forth64, leading yonder Satyrs, with shaggy goat-shanks, to clatter65 their little hoofs66 upon the floor, and all join hands with Donatello! Bacchus, too, a rosy67 flush diffusing68 itself over his time-stained surface, could come down from his pedestal, and offer a cluster of purple grapes to Donatello’s lips; because the god recognizes him as the woodland elf who so often shared his revels69. And here, in this sarcophagus, the exquisitely70 carved figures might assume life, and chase one another round its verge with that wild merriment which is so strangely represented on those old burial coffers: though still with some subtile allusion to death, carefully veiled, but forever peeping forth amid emblems71 of mirth and riot.
As the four friends descended72 the stairs, however, their play of fancy subsided73 into a much more sombre mood; a result apt to follow upon such exhilaration as that which had so recently taken possession of them.
“Do you know,” said Miriam confidentially74 to Hilda, “I doubt the reality of this likeness of Donatello to the Faun, which we have been talking so much about? To say the truth, it never struck me so forcibly as it did Kenyon and yourself, though I gave in to whatever you were pleased to fancy, for the sake of a moment’s mirth and wonder.” “I was certainly in earnest, and you seemed equally so,” replied Hilda, glancing back at Donatello, as if to reassure75 herself of the resemblance. “But faces change so much, from hour to hour, that the same set of features has often no keeping with itself; to an eye, at least, which looks at expression more than outline. How sad and sombre he has grown all of a sudden!” “Angry too, methinks! nay76, it is anger much more than sadness,” said Miriam. “I have seen Donatello in this mood once or twice before. If you consider him well, you will observe an odd mixture of the bulldog, or some other equally fierce brute77, in our friend’s composition; a trait of savageness78 hardly to be expected in such a gentle creature as he usually is. Donatello is a very strange young man. I wish he would not haunt my footsteps so continually.”
“You have bewitched the poor lad,” said the sculptor, laughing. “You have a faculty79 of bewitching people, and it is providing you with a singular train of followers80. I see another of them behind yonder pillar; and it is his presence that has aroused Donatello’s wrath81.”
They had now emerged from the gateway82 of the palace; and partly concealed83 by one of the pillars of the portico84 stood a figure such as may often be encountered in the streets and piazzas85 of Rome, and nowhere else. He looked as if he might just have stepped out of a picture, and, in truth, was likely enough to find his way into a dozen pictures; being no other than one of those living models, dark, bushy bearded, wild of aspect and attire86, whom artists convert into saints or assassins, according as their pictorial87 purposes demand.
“Miriam,” whispered Hilda, a little startled, “it is your model!”
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1
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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rusticity
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| n.乡村的特点、风格或气息 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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betokening
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的现在分词 ) | |
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conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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15
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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revelling
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| v.作乐( revel的现在分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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refractoriness
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| 耐火性；耐热度；耐熔度；耐熔性 | |
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solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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stinted
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| v.限制，节省（stint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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47
sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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48
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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49
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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50
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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51
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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52
mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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53
buttressed
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| v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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55
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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56
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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57
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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immortally
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| 不朽地，永世地，无限地 | |
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corroded
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| 已被腐蚀的 | |
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60
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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62
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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63
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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64
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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66
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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67
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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68
diffusing
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| （使光）模糊，漫射，漫散( diffuse的现在分词 )； （使）扩散； （使）弥漫； （使）传播 | |
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69
revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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70
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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71
emblems
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| n.象征，标记( emblem的名词复数 ) | |
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72
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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73
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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74
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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75
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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76
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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77
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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78
savageness
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| 天然，野蛮 | |
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79
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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81
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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82
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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83
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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84
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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85
piazzas
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| n.广场，市场( piazza的名词复数 ) | |
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86
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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87
pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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