“You are severe upon the professors of my art,” said Kenyon, half smiling, half seriously; “not that you are wholly wrong, either. We are bound to accept drapery of some kind, and make the best of it. But what are we to do? Must we adopt the costume of to-day, and carve, for example, a Venus in a hoop-petticoat?”
“That would be a boulder11, indeed!” rejoined Miriam, laughing. “But the difficulty goes to confirm me in my belief that, except for portrait-busts, sculpture has no longer a right to claim any place among living arts. It has wrought12 itself out, and come fairly to an end. There is never a new group nowadays; never even so much as a new attitude. Greenough (I take my examples among men of merit) imagined nothing new; nor Crawford either, except in the tailoring line. There are not, as you will own, more than half a dozen positively original statues or groups in the world, and these few are of immemorial antiquity. A person familiar with the Vatican, the Uffizzi Gallery, the Naples Gallery, and the Louvre, will at once refer any modern production to its antique prototype; which, moreover, had begun to get out of fashion, even in old Roman days.”
“Fairly own to me, then, my friend,” rejoined Miriam, whose disturbed mind found a certain relief in this declamation14, “that you sculptors15 are, of necessity, the greatest plagiarists in the world.”
“I do not own it,” said Kenyon, “yet cannot utterly16 contradict you, as regards the actual state of the art. But as long as the Carrara quarries17 still yield pure blocks, and while my own country has marble mountains, probably as fine in quality, I shall steadfastly18 believe that future sculptors will revive this noblest of the beautiful arts, and people the world with new shapes of delicate grace and massive grandeur19. Perhaps,” he added, smiling, “mankind will consent to wear a more manageable costume; or, at worst, we sculptors shall get the skill to make broadcloth transparent20, and render a majestic21 human character visible through the coats and trousers of the present day.”
“Be it so!” said Miriam; “you are past my counsel. Show me the veiled figure, which, I am afraid, I have criticised beforehand. To make amends22, I am in the mood to praise it now.”
But, as Kenyon was about to take the cloth off the clay model, she laid her hand on his arm.
“Tell me first what is the subject,” said she, “for I have sometimes incurred23 great displeasure from members of your brotherhood24 by being too obtuse25 to puzzle out the purport26 of their productions. It is so difficult, you know, to compress and define a character or story, and make it patent at a glance, within the narrow scope attainable27 by sculpture! Indeed, I fancy it is still the ordinary habit with sculptors, first to finish their group of statuary,—in such development as the particular block of marble will allow,—and then to choose the subject; as John of Bologna did with his Rape10 of the Sabines. Have you followed that good example?”
“No; my statue is intended for Cleopatra,” replied Kenyon, a little disturbed by Miriam’s raillery. “The special epoch28 of her history you must make out for yourself.”
He drew away the cloth that had served to keep the moisture of the clay model from being exhaled29. The sitting figure of a woman was seen. She was draped from head to foot in a costume minutely and scrupulously30 studied from that of ancient Egypt, as revealed by the strange sculpture of that country, its coins, drawings, painted mummy-cases, and whatever other tokens have been dug out of its pyramids, graves, and catacombs. Even the stiff Egyptian head-dress was adhered to, but had been softened31 into a rich feminine adornment32, without losing a particle of its truth. Difficulties that might well have seemed insurmountable had been courageously33 encountered and made flexible to purposes of grace and dignity; so that Cleopatra sat attired34 in a garb35 proper to her historic and queenly state, as a daughter of the Ptolemies, and yet such as the beautiful woman would have put on as best adapted to heighten the magnificence of her charms, and kindle36 a tropic fire in the cold eyes of Octavius.
A marvellous repose38—that rare merit in statuary, except it be the lumpish repose native to the block of stone—was diffused39 throughout the figure. The spectator felt that Cleopatra had sunk down out of the fever and turmoil40 of her life, and for one instant—as it were, between two pulse throbs—had relinquished41 all activity, and was resting throughout every vein42 and muscle. It was the repose of despair, indeed; for Octavius had seen her, and remained insensible to her enchantments43. But still there was a great smouldering furnace deep down in the woman’s heart. The repose, no doubt, was as complete as if she were never to stir hand or foot again; and yet, such was the creature’s latent energy and fierceness, she might spring upon you like a tigress, and stop the very breath that you were now drawing midway in your throat.
The face was a miraculous44 success. The sculptor had not shunned45 to give the full Nubian lips, and other characteristics of the Egyptian physiognomy. His courage and integrity had been abundantly rewarded; for Cleopatra’s beauty shone out richer, warmer, more triumphantly46 beyond comparison, than if, shrinking timidly from the truth, he had chosen the tame Grecian type. The expression was of profound, gloomy, heavily revolving47 thought; a glance into her past life and present emergencies, while her spirit gathered itself up for some new struggle, or was getting sternly reconciled to impending48 doom49. In one view, there was a certain softness and tenderness,—how breathed into the statue, among so many strong and passionate50 elements, it is impossible to say. Catching51 another glimpse, you beheld52 her as implacable as a stone and cruel as fire.
In a word, all Cleopatra—fierce, voluptuous53, passionate, tender, wicked, terrible, and full of poisonous and rapturous enchantment—was kneaded into what, only a week or two before, had been a lump of wet clay from the Tiber. Soon, apotheosized in an indestructible material, she would be one of the images that men keep forever, finding a heat in them which does not cool down, throughout the centuries?
“What a woman is this!” exclaimed Miriam, after a long pause. “Tell me, did she ever try, even while you were creating her, to overcome you with her fury or her love? Were you not afraid to touch her, as she grew more and more towards hot life beneath your hand? My dear friend, it is a great work! How have you learned to do it?”
“It is the concretion of a good deal of thought, emotion, and toil54 of brain and hand,” said Kenyon, not without a perception that his work was good; “but I know not how it came about at last. I kindled55 a great fire within my mind, and threw in the material,—as Aaron threw the gold of the Israelites into the furnace,—and in the midmost heat uprose Cleopatra, as you see her.”
“What I most marvel37 at,” said Miriam, “is the womanhood that you have so thoroughly56 mixed up with all those seemingly discordant57 elements. Where did you get that secret? You never found it in your gentle Hilda, yet I recognize its truth.”
“No, surely, it was not in Hilda,” said Kenyon. “Her womanhood is of the ethereal type, and incompatible58 with any shadow of darkness or evil.”
“You are right,” rejoined Miriam; “there are women of that ethereal type, as you term it, and Hilda is one of them. She would die of her first wrong-doing,—supposing for a moment that she could be capable of doing wrong. Of sorrow, slender as she seems, Hilda might bear a great burden; of sin, not a feather’s weight. Methinks now, were it my doom, I could bear either, or both at once; but my conscience is still as white as Hilda’s. Do you question it?”
“Heaven forbid, Miriam!” exclaimed the sculptor.
He was startled at the strange turn which she had so suddenly given to the conversation. Her voice, too,—so much emotion was stifled59 rather than expressed in it, sounded unnatural60.
“O, my friend,” cried she, with sudden passion, “will you be my friend indeed? I am lonely, lonely, lonely! There is a secret in my heart that burns me,—that tortures me! Sometimes I fear to go mad of it; sometimes I hope to die of it; but neither of the two happens. Ah, if I could but whisper it to only one human soul! And you—you see far into womanhood; you receive it widely into your large view. Perhaps—perhaps, but Heaven only knows, you might understand me! O, let me speak!”
“Miriam, dear friend,” replied the sculptor, “if I can help you, speak freely, as to a brother.”
“Help me? No!” said Miriam.
Kenyon’s response had been perfectly61 frank and kind; and yet the subtlety62 of Miriam’s emotion detected a certain reserve and alarm in his warmly expressed readiness to hear her story. In his secret soul, to say the truth, the sculptor doubted whether it were well for this poor, suffering girl to speak what she so yearned63 to say, or for him to listen. If there were any active duty of friendship to be performed, then, indeed, he would joyfully64 have come forward to do his best. But if it were only a pent-up heart that sought an outlet65? in that case it was by no means so certain that a confession66 would do good. The more her secret struggled and fought to be told, the more certain would it be to change all former relations that had subsisted67 between herself and the friend to whom she might reveal it. Unless he could give her all the sympathy, and just the kind of sympathy that the occasion required, Miriam would hate him by and by, and herself still more, if he let her speak.
This was what Kenyon said to himself; but his reluctance68, after all, and whether he were conscious of it or no, resulted from a suspicion that had crept into his heart and lay there in a dark corner. Obscure as it was, when Miriam looked into his eyes, she detected it at once.
“Ah, I shall hate you!” cried she, echoing the thought which he had not spoken; she was half choked with the gush69 of passion that was thus turned back upon her. “You are as cold and pitiless as your own marble.”
“No; but full of sympathy, God knows!” replied he.
In truth, his suspicions, however warranted by the mystery in which Miriam was enveloped70, had vanished in the earnestness of his kindly71 and sorrowful emotion. He was now ready to receive her trust.
“Keep your sympathy, then, for sorrows that admit of such solace72,” said she, making a strong effort to compose herself. “As for my griefs, I know how to manage them. It was all a mistake: you can do nothing for me, unless you petrify73 me into a marble companion for your Cleopatra there; and I am not of her sisterhood, I do assure you. Forget this foolish scene, my friend, and never let me see a reference to it in your eyes when they meet mine hereafter.”
“Since you desire it, all shall be forgotten,” answered the sculptor, pressing her hand as she departed; “or, if ever I can serve you, let my readiness to do so be remembered. Meanwhile, dear Miriam, let us meet in the same clear, friendly light as heretofore.”
“You are less sincere than I thought you,” said Miriam, “if you try to make me think that there will be no change.”
After Kenyon had closed the door, she went wearily down the staircase, but paused midway, as if debating with herself whether to return.
“The mischief76 was done,” thought she; “and I might as well have had the solace that ought to come with it. I have lost,—by staggering a little way beyond the mark, in the blindness of my distress77, I have lost, as we shall hereafter find, the genuine friendship of this clear-minded, honorable, true-hearted young man, and all for nothing. What if I should go back this moment and compel him to listen?”
She ascended78 two or three of the stairs, but again paused, murmured to herself, and shook her head.
“No, no, no,” she thought; “and I wonder how I ever came to dream of it. Unless I had his heart for my own,—and that is Hilda’s, nor would I steal it from her,—it should never be the treasure Place of my secret. It is no precious pearl, as I just now told him; but my dark-red carbuncle—red as blood—is too rich a gem79 to put into a stranger’s casket.”
She went down the stairs, and found her shadow waiting for her in the street.
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1
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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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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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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rape
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| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
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boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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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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chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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declamation
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| n. 雄辩，高调 | |
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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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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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quarries
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| n.（采）石场( quarry的名词复数 )；猎物（指鸟，兽等）；方形石；（格窗等的）方形玻璃v.从采石场采得( quarry的第三人称单数 )；从（书本等中）努力发掘（资料等）；在采石场采石 | |
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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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obtuse
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| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
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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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attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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courageously
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| ad.勇敢地，无畏地 | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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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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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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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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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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enchantments
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| n.魅力( enchantment的名词复数 )；迷人之处；施魔法；着魔 | |
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44
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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45
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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47
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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48
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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50
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
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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52
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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53
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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54
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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55
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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56
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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57
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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58
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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59
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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60
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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61
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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62
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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63
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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65
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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66
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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67
subsisted
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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69
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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70
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
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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72
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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73
petrify
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| vt.使发呆；使…变成化石 | |
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74
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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75
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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76
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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77
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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78
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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