Yet it was to little purpose that she approached the edge of the voiceless gulf5 between herself and them. Standing6 on the utmost verge7 of that dark chasm8, she might stretch out her hand, and never clasp a hand of theirs; she might strive to call out, “Help, friends! help!” but, as with dreamers when they shout, her voice would perish inaudibly in the remoteness that seemed such a little way. This perception of an infinite, shivering solitude9, amid which we cannot come close enough to human beings to be warmed by them, and where they turn to cold, chilly10 shapes of mist, is one of the most forlorn results of any accident, misfortune, crime, or peculiarity11 of character, that puts an individual ajar with the world. Very often, as in Miriam’s case, there is an insatiable instinct that demands friendship, love, and intimate communion, but is forced to pine in empty forms; a hunger of the heart, which finds only shadows to feed upon.
Kenyon’s studio was in a cross-street, or, rather, an ugly and dirty little lane, between the Corso and the Via della Ripetta; and though chill, narrow, gloomy, and bordered with tall and shabby structures, the lane was not a whit2 more disagreeable than nine tenths of the Roman streets. Over the door of one of the houses was a marble tablet, bearing an inscription12, to the purport13 that the sculpture-rooms within had formerly14 been occupied by the illustrious artist Canova. In these precincts (which Canova’s genius was not quite of a character to render sacred, though it certainly made them interesting) the young American sculptor had now established himself.
The studio of a sculptor is generally but a rough and dreary-looking place, with a good deal the aspect, indeed, of a stone-mason’s workshop. Bare floors of brick or plank15, and plastered walls,—an old chair or two, or perhaps only a block of marble (containing, however, the possibility of ideal grace within it) to sit down upon; some hastily scrawled16 sketches17 of nude18 figures on the whitewash19 of the wall. These last are probably the sculptor’s earliest glimpses of ideas that may hereafter be solidified20 into imperishable stone, or perhaps may remain as impalpable as a dream. Next there are a few very roughly modelled little figures in clay or plaster, exhibiting the second stage of the idea as it advances towards a marble immortality21; and then is seen the exquisitely22 designed shape of clay, more interesting than even the final marble, as being the intimate production of the sculptor himself, moulded throughout with his loving hands, and nearest to his imagination and heart. In the plaster-cast, from this clay model, the beauty of the statue strangely disappears, to shine forth24 again with pure white radiance, in the precious marble of Carrara. Works in all these stages of advancement25, and some with the final touch upon them, might be found in Kenyon’s studio.
Here might be witnessed the process of actually chiselling26 the marble, with which (as it is not quite satisfactory to think) a sculptor in these days has very little to do. In Italy, there is a class of men whose merely mechanical skill is perhaps more exquisite23 than was possessed28 by the ancient artificers, who wrought29 out the designs of Praxiteles; or, very possibly, by Praxiteles himself. Whatever of illusive30 representation can be effected in marble, they are capable of achieving, if the object be before their eyes. The sculptor has but to present these men with a plaster-cast of his design, and a sufficient block of marble, and tell them that the figure is imbedded in the stone, and must be freed from its encumbering31 superfluities; and, in due time, without the necessity of his touching32 the work with his own finger, he will see before him the statue that is to make him renowned33. His creative power has wrought it with a word.
In no other art, surely, does genius find such effective instruments, and so happily relieve itself of the drudgery34, of actual performance; doing wonderfully nice things by the hands of other people, when it may be suspected they could not always be done by the sculptor’s own. And how much of the admiration35 which our artists get for their buttons and buttonholes, their shoe-ties, their neckcloths,—and these, at our present epoch36 of taste, make a large share of the renown,—would be abated37, if we were generally aware that the sculptor can claim no credit for such pretty performances, as immortalized in marble! They are not his work, but that of some nameless machine in human shape.
Miriam stopped an instant in an antechamber, to look at a half-finished bust38, the features of which seemed to be struggling out of the stone; and, as it were, scattering39 and dissolving its hard substance by the glow of feeling and intelligence. As the skilful40 workman gave stroke after stroke of the chisel27 with apparent carelessness, but sure effect, it was impossible not to think that the outer marble was merely an extraneous41 environment; the human countenance42 within its embrace must have existed there since the limestone43 ledges44 of Carrara were first made. Another bust was nearly completed, though still one of Kenyon’s most trustworthy assistants was at work, giving delicate touches, shaving off an impalpable something, and leaving little heaps of marble dust to attest46 it.
“As these busts47 in the block of marble,” thought Miriam, “so does our individual fate exist in the limestone of time. We fancy that we carve it out; but its ultimate shape is prior to all our action.”
Kenyon was in the inner room, but, hearing a step in the antechamber, he threw a veil over what he was at work upon, and came out to receive his visitor. He was dressed in a gray blouse, with a little cap on the top of his head; a costume which became him better than the formal garments which he wore whenever he passed out of his own domains48. The sculptor had a face which, when time had done a little more for it, would offer a worthy45 subject for as good an artist as himself: features finely cut, as if already marble; an ideal forehead, deeply set eyes, and a mouth much hidden in a light-brown beard, but apparently49 sensitive and delicate.
“I will not offer you my hand,” said he; “it is grimy with Cleopatra’s clay.”
“No; I will not touch clay; it is earthy and human,” answered Miriam. “I have come to try whether there is any calm and coolness among your marbles. My own art is too nervous, too passionate50, too full of agitation51, for me to work at it whole days together, without intervals52 of repose53. So, what have you to show me?”
“Pray look at everything here,” said Kenyon. “I love to have painters see my work. Their judgment54 is unprejudiced, and more valuable than that of the world generally, from the light which their own art throws on mine. More valuable, too, than that of my brother sculptors55, who never judge me fairly,—nor I them, perhaps.”
To gratify him, Miriam looked round at the specimens56 in marble or plaster, of which there were several in the room, comprising originals or casts of most of the designs that Kenyon had thus far produced. He was still too young to have accumulated a large gallery of such things. What he had to show were chiefly the attempts and experiments, in various directions, of a beginner in art, acting57 as a stern tutor to himself, and profiting more by his failures than by any successes of which he was yet capable. Some of them, however, had great merit; and in the pure, fine glow of the new marble, it may be, they dazzled the judgment into awarding them higher praise than they deserved. Miriam admired the statue of a beautiful youth, a pearlfisher; who had got entangled58 in the weeds at the bottom of the sea, and lay dead among the pearl-oysters, the rich shells, and the seaweeds, all of like value to him now.
“The poor young man has perished among the prizes that he sought,” remarked she. “But what a strange efficacy there is in death! If we cannot all win pearls, it causes an empty shell to satisfy us just as well. I like this statue, though it is too cold and stern in its moral lesson; and, physically59, the form has not settled itself into sufficient repose.”
In another style, there was a grand, calm head of Milton, not copied from any one bust or picture, yet more authentic60 than any of them, because all known representations of the poet had been profoundly studied, and solved in the artist’s mind. The bust over the tomb in Grey Friars Church, the original miniatures and pictures, wherever to be found, had mingled61 each its special truth in this one work; wherein, likewise, by long perusal62 and deep love of the Paradise Lost, the Comus, the Lycidas, and L’Allegro, the sculptor had succeeded, even better than he knew, in spiritualizing his marble with the poet’s mighty63 genius. And this was a great thing to have achieved, such a length of time after the dry bones and dust of Milton were like those of any other dead man.
There were also several portrait-busts, comprising those of two or three of the illustrious men of our own country, whom Kenyon, before he left America, had asked permission to model. He had done so, because he sincerely believed that, whether he wrought the busts in marble or bronze, the one would corrode64 and the other crumble65 in the long lapse66 of time, beneath these great men’s immortality. Possibly, however, the young artist may have underestimated the durability67 of his material. Other faces there were, too, of men who (if the brevity of their remembrance, after death, can be augured68 from their little value in life) should have been represented in snow rather than marble. Posterity69 will be puzzled what to do with busts like these, the concretions and petrifactions of a vain self-estimate; but will find, no doubt, that they serve to build into stone walls, or burn into quicklime, as well as if the marble had never been blocked into the guise70 of human heads.
But it is an awful thing, indeed, this endless endurance, this almost indestructibility, of a marble bust! Whether in our own case, or that of other men, it bids us sadly measure the little, little time during which our lineaments are likely to be of interest to any human being. It is especially singular that Americans should care about perpetuating71 themselves in this mode. The brief duration of our families, as a hereditary72 household, renders it next to a certainty that the great-grandchildren will not know their father’s grandfather, and that half a century hence at furthest, the hammer of the auctioneer will thump73 its knock-down blow against his blockhead, sold at so much for the pound of stone! And it ought to make us shiver, the idea of leaving our features to be a dusty-white ghost among strangers of another generation, who will take our nose between their thumb and fingers (as we have seen men do by Caesar’s), and infallibly break it off if they can do so without detection!
“Yes,” said Miriam, who had been revolving74 some such thoughts as the above, “it is a good state of mind for mortal man, when he is content to leave no more definite memorial than the grass, which will sprout75 kindly76 and speedily over his grave, if we do not make the spot barren with marble. Methinks, too, it will be a fresher and better world, when it flings off this great burden of stony77 memories, which the ages have deemed it a piety78 to heap upon its back.”
“What you say,” remarked Kenyon, “goes against my whole art. Sculpture, and the delight which men naturally take in it, appear to me a proof that it is good to work with all time before our view.”
“Well, well,” answered Miriam, “I must not quarrel with you for flinging your heavy stones at poor Posterity; and, to say the truth, I think you are as likely to hit the mark as anybody. These busts, now, much as I seem to scorn them, make me feel as if you were a magician.. You turn feverish79 men into cool, quiet marble. What a blessed change for them! Would you could do as much for me!”
“O, gladly!” cried Kenyon, who had long wished to model that beautiful and most expressive80 face. “When will you begin to sit?”
“Poh! that was not what I meant,” said Miriam. “Come, show me something else.”
“Do you recognize this?” asked the sculptor.
He took out of his desk a little old-fashioned ivory coffer, yellow with age; it was richly carved with antique figures and foliage81; and had Kenyon thought fit to say that Benvenuto Cellini wrought this precious box, the skill and elaborate fancy of the work would by no means have discredited82 his word, nor the old artist’s fame. At least, it was evidently a production of Benvenuto’s school and century, and might once have been the jewel-case of some grand lady at the court of the De’ Medici.
Lifting the lid, however, no blaze of diamonds was disclosed, but only, lapped in fleecy cotton, a small, beautifully shaped hand, most delicately sculptured in marble. Such loving care and nicest art had been lavished83 here, that the palm really seemed to have a tenderness in its very substance. Touching those lovely fingers,—had the jealous sculptor allowed you to touch,—you could hardly believe that a virgin84 warmth would not steal from them into your heart.
“Ah, this is very beautiful!” exclaimed Miriam, with a genial85 smile. “It is as good in its way as Loulie’s hand with its baby-dimples, which Powers showed me at Florence, evidently valuing it as much as if he had wrought it out of a piece of his great heart. As good as Harriet Hosmer’s clasped hands of Browning and his wife, symbolizing86 the individuality and heroic union of two high, poetic87 lives! Nay88, I do not question that it is better than either of those, because you must have wrought it passionately89, in spite of its maiden90 palm and dainty fingertips.”
“Then you do recognize it?” asked Kenyon.
“There is but one right hand on earth that could have supplied the model,” answered Miriam; “so small and slender, so perfectly91 symmetrical, and yet with a character of delicate energy. I have watched it a hundred times at its work; but I did not dream that you had won Hilda so far! How have you persuaded that shy maiden to let you take her hand in marble?”
“Never! She never knew it!” hastily replied Kenyon, anxious to vindicate92 his mistress’s maidenly93 reserve. “I stole it from her. The hand is a reminiscence. After gazing at it so often, and even holding it once for an instant, when Hilda was not thinking of me, I should be a bungler94 indeed, if I could not now reproduce it to something like the life.”
“May you win the original one day!” said Miriam kindly.
“I have little ground to hope it,” answered the sculptor despondingly; “Hilda does not dwell in our mortal atmosphere; and gentle and soft as she appears, it will be as difficult to win her heart as to entice95 down a white bird from its sunny freedom in the sky. It is strange, with all her delicacy96 and fragility, the impression she makes of being utterly97 sufficient to herself. No; I shall never win her. She is abundantly capable of sympathy, and delights to receive it, but she has no need of love.”
“I partly agree with you,” said Miriam. “It is a mistaken idea, which men generally entertain, that nature has made women especially prone98 to throw their whole being into what is technically99 called love. We have, to say the least, no more necessity for it than yourselves; only we have nothing else to do with our hearts. When women have other objects in life, they are not apt to fall in love. I can think of many women distinguished100 in art, literature, and science,—and multitudes whose hearts and minds find good employment in less ostentatious ways,—who lead high, lonely lives, and are conscious of no sacrifice so far as your sex is concerned.”
“And Hilda will be one of these!” said Kenyon sadly; “the thought makes me shiver for myself, and and for her, too.”
“Well,” said Miriam, smiling, “perhaps she may sprain101 the delicate wrist which you have sculptured to such perfection. In that case you may hope. These old masters to whom she has vowed102 herself, and whom her slender hand and woman’s heart serve so faithfully, are your only rivals.”
The sculptor sighed as he put away the treasure of Hilda’s marble hand into the ivory coffer, and thought how slight was the possibility that he should ever feel responsive to his own the tender clasp of the original. He dared not even kiss the image that he himself had made: it had assumed its share of Hilda’s remote and shy divinity.
“And now,” said Miriam, “show me the new statue which you asked me hither to see.”
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1
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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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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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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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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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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nude
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| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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whitewash
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| v.粉刷，掩饰；n.石灰水，粉刷，掩饰 | |
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solidified
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| （使）成为固体，（使）变硬，（使）变得坚固( solidify的过去式和过去分词 )； 使团结一致； 充实，巩固； 具体化 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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chiselling
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| n.錾v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的现在分词 ) | |
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chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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illusive
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| adj.迷惑人的，错觉的 | |
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encumbering
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的现在分词 ) | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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40
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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extraneous
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| adj.体外的；外来的；外部的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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limestone
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| n.石灰石 | |
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ledges
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| n.（墙壁，悬崖等）突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 )；（平窄的）壁架；横档；（尤指）窗台 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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attest
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| vt.证明，证实；表明 | |
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busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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domains
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| n.范围( domain的名词复数 )；领域；版图；地产 | |
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49
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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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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51
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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52
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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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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54
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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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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56
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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57
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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60
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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61
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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62
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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64
corrode
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| v.使腐蚀，侵蚀，破害；v.腐蚀，被侵蚀 | |
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65
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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66
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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67
durability
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| n.经久性，耐用性 | |
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68
augured
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| v.预示，预兆，预言( augur的过去式和过去分词 )；成为预兆；占卜 | |
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posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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70
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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71
perpetuating
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| perpetuate的现在进行式 | |
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72
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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73
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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74
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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75
sprout
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| n.芽，萌芽；vt.使发芽，摘去芽；vi.长芽，抽条 | |
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76
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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77
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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78
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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79
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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80
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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81
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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82
discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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83
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
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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85
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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symbolizing
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的现在分词 ) | |
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87
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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88
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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89
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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90
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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92
vindicate
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| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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94
Bungler
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| n.笨拙者，经验不够的人 | |
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entice
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| v.诱骗，引诱，怂恿 | |
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96
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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97
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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98
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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99
technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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100
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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101
sprain
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| n.扭伤,扭筋 | |
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102
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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