“No, no!” said Hilda, in great alarm. “She was behind us all; and it is a long while since we have heard her voice!”
“Torches! torches!” cried Donatello desperately1. “I will seek her, be the darkness ever so dismal2!”
But the guide held him back, and assured them all that there was no possibility of assisting their lost companion, unless by shouting at the very top of their voices. As the sound would go very far along these close and narrow passages, there was a fair probability that Miriam might hear the call, and be able to retrace3 her steps.
Accordingly, they all—Kenyon with his bass4 voice; Donatello with his tenor5; the guide with that high and hard Italian cry, which makes the streets of Rome so resonant6; and Hilda with her slender scream, piercing farther than the united uproar7 of the rest—began to shriek8, halloo, and bellow9, with the utmost force of their lungs. And, not to prolong the reader’s suspense10 (for we do not particularly seek to interest him in this scene, telling it only on account of the trouble and strange entanglement11 which followed), they soon heard a responsive call, in a female voice.
“Yes; it was certainly dear Miriam’s voice,” said Hilda. “And here she comes! Thank Heaven! Thank Heaven!”
The figure of their friend was now discernible by her own torchlight, approaching out of one of the cavernous passages. Miriam came forward, but not with the eagerness and tremulous joy of a fearful girl, just rescued from a labyrinth14 of gloomy mystery. She made no immediate15 response to their inquiries16 and tumultuous congratulations; and, as they afterwards remembered, there was something absorbed, thoughtful, and self-concentrated in her deportment. She looked pale, as well she might, and held her torch with a nervous grasp, the tremor17 of which was seen in the irregular twinkling of the flame. This last was the chief perceptible sign of any recent agitation18 or alarm.
“Dearest, dearest Miriam,” exclaimed Hilda, throwing her arms about her friend, “where have you been straying from us? Blessed be Providence19, which has rescued you out of that miserable20 darkness!”
“Hush, dear Hilda!” whispered Miriam, with a strange little laugh. “Are you quite sure that it was Heaven’s guidance which brought me back? If so, it was by an odd messenger, as you will confess. See; there he stands.”
Startled at Miriam’s words and manner, Hilda gazed into the duskiness whither she pointed21, and there beheld22 a figure standing23 just on the doubtful limit of obscurity, at the threshold of the small, illuminated24 chapel25. Kenyon discerned him at the same instant, and drew nearer with his torch; although the guide attempted to dissuade26 him, averring27 that, once beyond the consecrated28 precincts of the chapel, the apparition29 would have power to tear him limb from limb. It struck the sculptor30, however, when he afterwards recurred31 to these circumstances, that the guide manifested no such apprehension32 on his own account as he professed33 on behalf of others; for he kept pace with Kenyon as the latter approached the figure, though still endeavoring to restrain ‘him.
In fine, they both drew near enough to get as good a view of the spectre as the smoky light of their torches, struggling with the massive gloom, could supply.
The stranger was of exceedingly picturesque34, and even melodramatic aspect. He was clad in a voluminous cloak, that seemed to be made of a buffalo’s hide, and a pair of those goat-skin breeches, with the hair outward, which are still commonly worn by the peasants of the Roman Campagna. In this garb35, they look like antique Satyrs; and, in truth, the Spectre of the Catacomb might have represented the last survivor36 of that vanished race, hiding himself in sepulchral37 gloom, and mourning over his lost life of woods and streams.
Furthermore, he had on a broad-brimmed, conical hat, beneath the shadow of which a wild visage was indistinctly seen, floating away, as it were, into a dusky wilderness38 of mustache and beard. His eyes winked39, and turned uneasily from the torches, like a creature to whom midnight would be more congenial than noonday.
On the whole, the spectre might have made a considerable impression on the sculptor’s nerves, only that he was in the habit of observing similar figures, almost every day, reclining on the Spanish steps, and waiting for some artist to invite them within the magic realm of picture. Nor, even thus familiarized with the stranger’s peculiarities41 of appearance, could Kenyon help wondering to see such a personage, shaping himself so suddenly out of the void darkness of the catacomb.
“What are you?” said the sculptor, advancing his torch nearer. “And how long have you been wandering here?”
“A thousand and five hundred years!” muttered the guide, loud enough to be heard by all the party. “It is the old pagan phantom42 that I told you of, who sought to betray the blessed saints!”
“Yes; it is a phantom!” cried Donatello, with a shudder43. “Ah, dearest signorina, what a fearful thing has beset44 you in those dark corridors!”
“Nonsense, Donatello,” said the sculptor. “The man is no more a phantom than yourself. The only marvel45 is, how he comes to be hiding himself in the catacomb. Possibly our guide might solve the riddle46.”
The spectre himself here settled the point of his tangibility47, at all events, and physical substance, by approaching a step nearer, and laying his hand on Kenyon’s arm.
“Inquire not what I am, nor wherefore I abide48 in the darkness,” said he, in a hoarse49, harsh voice, as if a great deal of damp were clustering in his throat. “Henceforth, I am nothing but a shadow behind her footsteps. She came to me when I sought her not. She has called me forth50, and must abide the consequences of my reappearance in the world.”
“Holy Virgin51! I wish the signorina joy of her prize,” said the guide, half to himself. “And in any case, the catacomb is well rid of him.”
We need follow the scene no further. So much is essential to the subsequent narrative52, that, during the short period while astray in those tortuous53 passages, Miriam had encountered an unknown man, and led him forth with her, or was guided back by him, first into the torchlight, thence into the sunshine.
It was the further singularity of this affair, that the connection, thus briefly54 and casually55 formed, did not terminate with the incident that gave it birth. As if her service to him, or his service to her, whichever it might be, had given him an indefeasible claim on Miriam’s regard and protection, the Spectre of the Catacomb never long allowed her to lose sight of him, from that day forward. He haunted her footsteps with more than the customary persistency56 of Italian mendicants, when once they have recognized a benefactor57. For days together, it is true, he occasionally vanished, but always reappeared, gliding58 after her through the narrow streets, or climbing the hundred steps of her staircase and sitting at her threshold.
Being often admitted to her studio, he left his features, or some shadow or reminiscence of them, in many of her sketches59 and pictures. The moral atmosphere of these productions was thereby60 so influenced, that rival painters pronounced it a case of hopeless mannerism61, which would destroy all Miriam’s prospects62 of true excellence63 in art.
The story of this adventure spread abroad, and made its way beyond the usual gossip of the Forestieri, even into Italian circles, where, enhanced by a still potent64 spirit of superstition65, it grew far more wonderful than as above recounted. Thence, it came back among the Anglo-Saxons, and was communicated to the German artists, who so richly supplied it with romantic ornaments66 and excrescences, after their fashion, that it became a fantasy worthy67 of Tieck or Hoffmann. For nobody has any conscience about adding to the improbabilities of a marvellous tale.
The most reasonable version of the incident, that could anywise be rendered acceptable to the auditors68, was substantially the one suggested by the guide of the catacomb, in his allusion69 to the legend of Memmius. This man, or demon70, or man-demon, was a spy during the persecutions of the early Christians71, probably under the Emperor Diocletian, and penetrated73 into the catacomb of St. Calixtus, with the malignant74 purpose of tracing out the hiding-places of the refugees. But, while he stole craftily75 through those dark corridors, he chanced to come upon a little chapel, where tapers76 were burning before an altar and a crucifix, and a priest was in the performance of his sacred office. By divine indulgence, there was a single moment’s grace allowed to Memmius, during which, had he been capable of Christian72 faith and love, he might have knelt before the cross, and received the holy light into his soul, and so have been blest forever. But he resisted the sacred impulse. As soon, therefore, as that one moment had glided77 by, the light of the consecrated tapers, which represent all truth, bewildered the wretched man with everlasting78 error, and the blessed cross itself was stamped as a seal upon his heart, so that it should never open to receive conviction.
Thenceforth, this heathen Memmius has haunted the wide and dreary79 precincts of the catacomb, seeking, as some say, to beguile80 new victims into his own misery81; but, according to other statements, endeavoring to prevail on any unwary visitor to take him by the hand, and guide him out into the daylight. Should his wiles82 and entreaties83 take effect, however, the man-demon would remain only a little while above ground. He would gratify his fiendish malignity84 by perpetrating signal mischief85 on his benefactor, and perhaps bringing some old pestilence86 or other forgotten and long-buried evil on society; or, possibly, teaching the modern world some decayed and dusty kind of crime, which the antique Romans knew,—and then would hasten back to the catacomb, which, after so long haunting it, has grown his most congenial home.
Miriam herself, with her chosen friends, the sculptor and the gentle Hilda, often laughed at the monstrous87 fictions that had gone abroad in reference to her adventure. Her two confidants (for such they were, on all ordinary subjects) had not failed to ask an explanation of the mystery, since undeniably a mystery there was, and one sufficiently88 perplexing in itself, without any help from the imaginative faculty89. And, sometimes responding to their inquiries with a melancholy90 sort of playfulness, Miriam let her fancy run off into wilder fables91 than any which German ingenuity92 or Italian superstition had contrived93.
For example, with a strange air of seriousness over all her face, only belied94 by a laughing gleam in her dark eyes, she would aver13 that the spectre (who had been an artist in his mortal lifetime) had promised to teach her a long-lost, but invaluable95 secret of old Roman fresco96 painting. The knowledge of this process would place Miriam at the head of modern art; the sole condition being agreed upon, that she should return with him into his sightless gloom, after enriching a certain extent of stuccoed wall with the most brilliant and lovely designs. And what true votary97 of art would not purchase unrivalled excellence, even at so vast a sacrifice!
Or, if her friends still solicited98 a soberer account, Miriam replied, that, meeting the old infidel in one of the dismal passages of the catacomb, she had entered into controversy99 with him, hoping to achieve the glory and satisfaction of converting him to the Christian faith. For the sake of so excellent a result; she had even staked her own salvation100 against his, binding101 herself to accompany him back into his penal102 gloom, if, within a twelvemonth’s space, she should not have convinced him of the errors through which he had so long groped and stumbled. But, alas103! up to the present time, the controversy had gone direfully in favor of the man-demon; and Miriam (as she whispered in Hilda’s ear) had awful forebodings, that, in a few more months, she must take an eternal farewell of the sun!
It was somewhat remarkable104 that all her romantic fantasies arrived at this self-same dreary termination,—it appeared impossible for her even to imagine any other than a disastrous105 result from her connection with her ill-omened attendant.
This singularity might have meant nothing, however, had it not suggested a despondent106 state of mind, which was likewise indicated by many other tokens. Miriam’s friends had no difficulty in perceiving that, in one way or another, her happiness was very seriously compromised. Her spirits were often depressed107 into deep melancholy. If ever she was gay, it was seldom with a healthy cheerfulness. She grew moody108, moreover, and subject to fits of passionate109 ill temper; which usually wreaked110 itself on the heads of those who loved her best. Not that Miriam’s indifferent acquaintances were safe from similar outbreaks of her displeasure, especially if they ventured upon any allusion to the model. In such cases, they were left with little disposition111 to renew the subject, but inclined, on the other hand, to interpret the whole matter as much to her discredit112 as the least favorable coloring of the facts would allow.
It may occur to the reader, that there was really no demand for so much rumor113 and speculation114 in regard to an incident, Which might well enough have been explained without going many steps beyond the limits of probability. The spectre might have been merely a Roman beggar, whose fraternity often harbor in stranger shelters than the catacombs; or one of those pilgrims, who still journey from remote countries to kneel and worship at the holy sites, among which these haunts of the early Christians are esteemed115 especially sacred. Or, as was perhaps a more plausible116 theory, he might be a thief of the city, a robber of the Campagna, a political offender117, or an assassin, with blood upon his hand; whom the negligence118 or connivance119 of the police allowed to take refuge in those subterranean120 fastnesses, where such outlaws121 have been accustomed to hide themselves from a far antiquity122 downward. Or he might have been a lunatic, fleeing instinctively124 from man, and making it his dark pleasure to dwell among the tombs, like him whose awful cry echoes afar to us from Scripture125 times.
And, as for the stranger’s attaching himself so devotedly126 to Miriam, her personal magnetism127 might be allowed a certain weight in the explanation. For what remains128, his pertinacity129 need not seem so very singular to those who consider how slight a link serves to connect these vagabonds of idle Italy with any person that may have the ill-hap to bestow130 charity, or be otherwise serviceable to them, or betray the slightest interest in their fortunes.
Thus little would remain to be accounted for, except the deportment of Miriam herself; her reserve, her brooding melancholy, her petulance131, and moody passion. If generously interpreted, even these morbid132 symptoms might have sufficient cause in the stimulating133 and exhaustive influences of imaginative art, exercised by a delicate young woman, in the nervous and unwholesome atmosphere of Rome. Such, at least, was the view of the case which Hilda and Kenyon endeavored to impress on their own minds, and impart to those whom their opinions might influence.
One of Miriam’s friends took the matter sadly to heart. This was the young Italian. Donatello, as we have seen, had been an eyewitness134 of the stranger’s first appearance, and had ever since nourished a singular prejudice against the mysterious, dusky, death-scented apparition. It resembled not so much a human dislike or hatred135, as one of those instinctive123, unreasoning antipathies136 which the lower animals sometimes display, and which generally prove more trustworthy than the acutest insight into character. The shadow of the model, always flung into the light which Miriam diffused137 around her, caused no slight trouble to Donatello. Yet he was of a nature so remarkably138 genial40 and joyous139, so simply happy, that he might well afford to have something subtracted from his comfort, and make tolerable shift to live upon what remained.
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1
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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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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3
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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4
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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6
resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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7
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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8
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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9
bellow
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| v.吼叫，怒吼；大声发出，大声喝道 | |
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10
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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11
entanglement
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| n.纠缠，牵累 | |
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joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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13
aver
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| v.极力声明；断言；确证 | |
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14
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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15
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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16
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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17
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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20
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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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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23
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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24
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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averring
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| v.断言( aver的现在分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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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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29
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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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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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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43
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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45
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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46
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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47
tangibility
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| n.确切性 | |
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48
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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49
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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50
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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51
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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52
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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53
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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54
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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55
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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56
persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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57
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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58
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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59
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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60
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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61
mannerism
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| n.特殊习惯，怪癖 | |
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62
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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64
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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66
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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67
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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68
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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69
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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70
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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71
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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72
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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73
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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craftily
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| 狡猾地，狡诈地 | |
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76
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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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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82
wiles
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| n.（旨在欺骗或吸引人的）诡计，花招；欺骗，欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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83
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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84
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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86
pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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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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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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fresco
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| n.壁画；vt.作壁画于 | |
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votary
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| n.崇拜者；爱好者；adj.誓约的，立誓任圣职的 | |
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solicited
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| v.恳求( solicit的过去式和过去分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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99
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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100
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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102
penal
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| adj.刑罚的；刑法上的 | |
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103
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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109
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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110
wreaked
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| 诉诸（武力），施行（暴力），发（脾气）( wreak的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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112
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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113
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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114
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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115
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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116
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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117
offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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118
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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119
connivance
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| n.纵容；默许 | |
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120
subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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121
outlaws
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| 歹徒，亡命之徒( outlaw的名词复数 )； 逃犯 | |
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122
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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123
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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124
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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125
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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126
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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127
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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128
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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129
pertinacity
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| n.执拗，顽固 | |
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130
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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131
petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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132
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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133
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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134
eyewitness
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| n.目击者，见证人 | |
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135
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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136
antipathies
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| 反感( antipathy的名词复数 )； 引起反感的事物； 憎恶的对象； （在本性、倾向等方面的）不相容 | |
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137
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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138
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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139
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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