There was an ambiguity4 about this young lady, which, though it did not necessarily imply anything wrong, would have operated unfavorably as regarded her reception in society, anywhere but in Rome. The truth was, that nobody knew anything about Miriam, either for good or evil. She had made her appearance without introduction, had taken a studio, put her card upon the door, and showed very considerable talent as a painter in oils. Her fellow professors of the brush, it is true, showered abundant criticisms upon her pictures, allowing them to be well enough for the idle half-efforts of an amateur, but lacking both the trained skill and the practice that distinguish the works of a true artist.
Nevertheless, be their faults what they might, Miriam’s pictures met with good acceptance among the patrons of modern art. Whatever technical merit they lacked, its absence was more than supplied by a warmth and passionateness5, which she had the faculty6 of putting into her productions, and which all the world could feel. Her nature had a great deal of color, and, in accordance with it, so likewise had her pictures.
Miriam had great apparent freedom of intercourse7; her manners were so far from evincing shyness, that it seemed easy to become acquainted with her, and not difficult to develop a casual acquaintance into intimacy8. Such, at least, was the impression which she made, upon brief contact, but not such the ultimate conclusion of those who really sought to know her. So airy, free, and affable was Miriam’s deportment towards all who came within her sphere, that possibly they might never be conscious of the fact, but so it was, that they did not get on, and were seldom any further advanced into her good graces to-day than yesterday. By some subtile quality, she kept people at a distance, without so much as letting them know that they were excluded from her inner circle. She resembled one of those images of light, which conjurers evoke10 and cause to shine before us, in apparent tangibility11, only an arm’s length beyond our grasp: we make a step in advance, expecting to seize the illusion, but find it still precisely12 so far out of our reach. Finally, society began to recognize the impossibility of getting nearer to Miriam, and gruffly acquiesced13.
There were two persons, however, whom she appeared to acknowledge as friends in the closer and truer sense of the word; and both of these more favored individuals did credit to Miriam’s selection. One was a young American sculptor14, of high promise and rapidly increasing celebrity15; the other, a girl of the same country, a painter like Miriam herself, but in a widely different sphere of art. Her heart flowed out towards these two; she requited16 herself by their society and friendship (and especially by Hilda’s) for all the loneliness with which, as regarded the rest of the world, she chose to be surrounded. Her two friends were conscious of the strong, yearning17 grasp which Miriam laid upon them, and gave her their affection in full measure; Hilda, indeed, responding with the fervency18 of a girl’s first friendship, and Kenyon with a manly19 regard, in which there was nothing akin20 to what is distinctively21 called love.
A sort of intimacy subsequently grew up between these three friends and a fourth individual; it was a young Italian, who, casually22 visiting Rome, had been attracted by the beauty which Miriam possessed23 in a remarkable24 degree. He had sought her, followed her, and insisted, with simple perseverance25, upon being admitted at least to her acquaintance; a boon26 which had been granted, when a more artful character, seeking it by a more subtle mode of pursuit, would probably have failed to obtain it. This young man, though anything but intellectually brilliant, had many agreeable characteristics which won him the kindly27 and half-contemptuous regard of Miriam and her two friends. It was he whom they called Donatello, and whose wonderful resemblance to the Faun of Praxiteles forms the keynote of our narrative28.
Such was the position in which we find Miriam some few months after her establishment at Rome. It must be added, however, that the world did not permit her to hide her antecedents without making her the subject of a good deal of conjecture29; as was natural enough, considering the abundance of her personal charms, and the degree of notice that she attracted as an artist. There were many stories about Miriam’s origin and previous life, some of which had a very probable air, while others were evidently wild and romantic fables30. We cite a few, leaving the reader to designate them either under the probable or the romantic head.
It was said, for example, that Miriam was the daughter and heiress of a great Jewish banker (an idea perhaps suggested by a certain rich Oriental character in her face), and had fled from her paternal31 home to escape a union with a cousin, the heir of another of that golden brotherhood32; the object being to retain their vast accumulation of wealth within the family. Another story hinted that she was a German princess, whom, for reasons of state, it was proposed to give in marriage either to a decrepit33 sovereign, or a prince still in his cradle. According to a third statement, she was the off-spring of a Southern American planter, who had given her an elaborate education and endowed her with his wealth; but the one burning drop of African blood in her veins34 so affected35 her with a sense of ignominy, that she relinquished36 all and fled her country. By still another account she was the lady of an English nobleman; and, out of mere37 love and honor of art, had thrown aside the splendor38 of her rank, and come to seek a subsistence by her pencil in a Roman studio.
In all the above cases, the fable9 seemed to be instigated39 by the large and bounteous40 impression which Miriam invariably made, as if necessity and she could have nothing to do with one another. Whatever deprivations41 she underwent must needs be voluntary. But there were other surmises42, taking such a commonplace view as that Miriam was the daughter of a merchant or financier, who had been ruined in a great commercial crisis; and, possessing a taste for art, she had attempted to support herself by the pencil, in preference to the alternative of going out as governess.
Be these things how they might, Miriam, fair as she looked, was plucked up out of a mystery, and had its roots still clinging to her. She was a beautiful and attractive woman, but based, as it were, upon a cloud, and all surrounded with misty43 substance; so that the result was to render her sprite-like in her most ordinary manifestations44. This was the case even in respect to Kenyon and Hilda, her especial friends. But such was the effect of Miriam’s natural language, her generosity45, kindliness46, and native truth of character, that these two received her as a dear friend into their hearts, taking her good qualities as evident and genuine, and never imagining that what was hidden must be therefore evil.
We now proceed with our narrative.
The same party of friends, whom we have seen at the sculpture-gallery of the Capitol, chanced to have gone together, some months before, to the catacomb of St. Calixtus. They went joyously47 down into that vast tomb, and wandered by torchlight through a sort of dream, in which reminiscences of church aisles48 and grimy cellars—and chiefly the latter—seemed to be broken into fragments, and hopelessly intermingled. The intricate passages along which they followed their guide had been hewn, in some forgotten age, out of a dark-red, crumbly stone. On either side were horizontal niches50, where, if they held their torches closely, the shape of a human body was discernible in white ashes, into which the entire mortality of a man or woman had resolved itself. Among all this extinct dust, there might perchance be a thigh-bone, which crumbled51 at a touch; or possibly a skull52, grinning at its own wretched plight54, as is the ugly and empty habit of the thing.
Sometimes their gloomy pathway tended upward, so that, through a crevice55, a little daylight glimmered56 down upon them, or even a streak58 of sunshine peeped into a burial niche49; then again, they went downward by gradual descent, or by abrupt59, rudely hewn steps, into deeper and deeper recesses60 of the earth. Here and there the narrow and tortuous61 passages widened somewhat, developing themselves into small chapels;—which once, no doubt, had been adorned63 with marble-work and lighted with ever-burning lamps and tapers64. All such illumination and ornament65, however, had long since been extinguished and stript away; except, indeed, that the low roofs of a few of these ancient sites of worship were covered with dingy66 stucco, and frescoed67 with scriptural scenes and subjects, in the dreariest68 stage of ruin.
In one such chapel62, the guide showed them a low arch, beneath which the body of St. Cecilia had been buried after her martyrdom, and where it lay till a sculptor saw it, and rendered it forever beautiful in marble.
In a similar spot they found two sarcophagi, one containing a skeleton, and the other a shrivelled body, which still wore the garments of its former lifetime.
“How dismal69 all this is!” said Hilda, shuddering70. “I do not know why we came here, nor why we should stay a moment longer.”
“I hate it all!” cried Donatello with peculiar3 energy. “Dear friends, let us hasten back into the blessed daylight!”
From the first, Donatello had shown little fancy for the expedition; for, like most Italians, and in especial accordance with the law of his own simple and physically71 happy nature, this young man had an infinite repugnance72 to graves and skulls73, and to all that ghastliness which the Gothic mind loves to associate with the idea of death. He shuddered74, and looked fearfully round, drawing nearer to Miriam, whose attractive influence alone had enticed75 him into that gloomy region.
“What a child you are, poor Donatello!” she observed, with the freedom which she always used towards him. “You are afraid of ghosts!”
“I also believe in ghosts,” answered Miriam, “and could tremble at them, in a suitable place. But these sepulchres are so old, and these skulls and white ashes so very dry, that methinks they have ceased to be haunted. The most awful idea connected with the catacombs is their interminable extent, and the possibility of going astray into this labyrinth77 of darkness, which broods around the little glimmer57 of our tapers.”
“Has any one ever been lost here?” asked Kenyon of the guide.
“Surely, signor; one, no longer ago than my father’s time,” said the guide; and he added, with the air of a man who believed what he was telling, “but the first that went astray here was a pagan of old Rome, who hid himself in order to spy out and betray the blessed saints, who then dwelt and worshipped in these dismal places. You have heard the story, signor? A miracle was wrought78 upon the accursed one; and, ever since (for fifteen centuries at least), he has been groping in the darkness, seeking his way out of the catacomb.”
“These eyes of mine never beheld80 him, signorina; the saints forbid!” answered the guide. “But it is well known that he watches near parties that come into the catacomb, especially if they be heretics, hoping to lead some straggler astray. What this lost wretch53 pines for, almost as much as for the blessed sunshine, is a companion to be miserable81 with him.”
“Such an intense desire for sympathy indicates something amiable82 in the poor fellow, at all events,” observed Kenyon.
They had now reached a larger chapel than those heretofore seen; it was of a circular shape, and, though hewn out of the solid mass of red sandstone, had pillars, and a carved roof, and other tokens of a regular architectural design. Nevertheless, considered as a church, it was exceedingly minute, being scarcely twice a man’s stature83 in height, and only two or three paces from wall to wall; and while their collected torches illuminated84 this one small, consecrated85 spot, the great darkness spread all round it, like that immenser mystery which envelops86 our little life, and into which friends vanish from us, one by one. “Why, where is Miriam?” cried Hilda. The party gazed hurriedly from face to face, and became aware that one of their party had vanished into the great darkness, even while they were shuddering at the remote possibility of such a misfortune.
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1
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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2
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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passionateness
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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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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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tangibility
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| n.确切性 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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16
requited
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| v.报答( requite的过去式和过去分词 )；酬谢；回报；报复 | |
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17
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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18
fervency
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| n.热情的；强烈的；热烈 | |
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19
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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20
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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distinctively
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| adv.特殊地，区别地 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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23
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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24
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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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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28
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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29
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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30
fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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31
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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32
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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33
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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34
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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35
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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instigated
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| v.使（某事物）开始或发生，鼓动( instigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
bounteous
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| adj.丰富的 | |
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deprivations
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| 剥夺( deprivation的名词复数 )； 被夺去； 缺乏； 匮乏 | |
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42
surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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43
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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44
manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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45
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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46
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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47
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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48
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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49
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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50
niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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51
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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52
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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53
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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54
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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55
crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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56
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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58
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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59
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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60
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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61
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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62
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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64
tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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65
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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66
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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67
frescoed
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| 壁画( fresco的名词复数 )； 温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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68
dreariest
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的最高级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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70
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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71
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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73
skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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75
enticed
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| 诱惑，怂恿( entice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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77
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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78
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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79
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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80
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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81
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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85
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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envelops
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的第三人称单数 ) | |
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